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cheeriecherrymain · 1 year

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papa!Viktor blurb, anyone?

A/N: slowly, slowly, recovering from the creative drought ive been in

it's nowhere near a waterfall again, more like a frustrating dribble, BUT. It's something. But anyways, here is a Papa Viktor Thought Blurb (listen, my sister is almost three months old now, and I am so besotted with her, she's my favourite tiny person, and i am full of Caretaker Feelings)

Content Warning: 18+ MDNI (not explicit, but very very suggestive), afab!Reader, pregnancy, labour and birth (again, not explicit, but still with some depth), papa!Viktor, no beta no editing we simply die

Imagine Viktor, and him believing he'll be alone for his entire life - working so hard to make some kind of legacy for himself, putting everything he has into his creations and his machines. Every calculation, every experiment a labour of love.

This is how the world will remember his name.

At least, he hopes.

But then he meets you.

You're charming, he has to admit. You make friends wherever you go, and you have a weird habit of bringing people out of their shells. There's just...something about you that makes others want to bare their souls to you. Something that draws people in.

Like you have a tangible sort of gravity, and wherever you go, someone ends up in your orbit.

He won't mean much to you, he thinks, after conversing with you a couple times. You're creative, like he is, and you're enjoyable to talk to. But nothing more. Sooner or later, you'll continue on somewhere else, making waves and drawing attention. And in your wake, he will be left to sink. It's what expects.

Except...

You don't leave.

Your chats start out small. Short and sweet, a How are you today? wondered whenever you pass each other in the halls a couple times a month, curious about the goings-on of his life.

He never has anything interesting to tell you about. No adventures or tales to tell, nothing beyond the walls of a cramped and cluttered office.

You must be bored, he thinks.

But then you start seeking him out. Instead of just catching up for a couple minutes whenever you happen to walk past each other, you hunt him down in his office - and god, he wasn't lying when he'd told you it was cramped.

You're amazed he even has the space to think in there, with how tight it is. Yet you still shimmy yourself into the tiny room, careful not to disturb any piles of papers, and find a careful seat on a spot of open floor beside his desk. There's no room for a second chair, and you've always made it clear that you dislike standing when you're having a long conversation.

It's nice to sit down and rest somewhere together, you'd told him one time.

You grow closer after that. From seeing him a couple times a month, to a couple times a week, to literally every day. You don't seem to care that he never has anything 'exciting' to share with you, even going so far as to chastise him for calling himself uninteresting.

Your experiments are cool, you'd insisted, while leafing through one of his old journals. It's incredible to get to see how your mind works, and how creative and inventive you are. You have so many ideas, Viktor, and I really believe that they could help people.

Something changes in him, after that. He'd always been quieter around you, listening to your stories, and dutifully answering your questions: never quite letting you in.

Now he looks forward to seeing you.

His heart skips a beat every time he hears you knocking on his office door, a chipper little pattern reserved only for him. You know that he doesn't always like dealing with students after hours, so you'd come up with a way to let him know that it was you who was greeting him.

Things progress...surprisingly natural.

He's not subtle by any means, even if he thinks he is. The moment he realizes that he has feelings for you, all bets are off. His cheeks dust pink whenever you're around, his palms get sweaty and he fidgets, and the staring.

Looking at you with ill-contained admiration and affection.

You can't not kiss him.

You spend the next couple years having the time of your lives. Moving from classes and overbearing internships, to actively working on experiments. Collaborating with each other, drawing up ideas and debating functionality and form. The two of you get so heated when you're creating things together.

Neither of you are surprised when it devolves. Wide gestures and hasty chalkboard sketches, impassioned explanations and wild eyes - you bite your lip as you let your gaze trail over him, in all his dishevelled beauty. Hair a mess, tie crooked and loose, shirt partially unbuttoned, and sleeves rolled up to his elbows.

Many nights are spent like that, cooped up in his little laboratory, surrounded by sketches and blueprints and scribbles and stray notes. His fingertips digging into the soft of your skin as he kisses the breath out of you. The rhythmic clunking of his crooked desk most telling, as he draws forth your little squeaks and sighs of delight.

Absolutely ruining you, filling you, stretching you open. Feeling the way you tremble in his hands, held tight to his slender body as he reaches so deep into you that you'll feel him for days.

Sinking his teeth into the side of your neck when he finds his own release - to stay quiet, he tells you. But you both know it's his way of marking you.

Claiming you.

You're his. You're his person, his love, his partner. Your eyes only ever shine the way they do when you look at him.

Your body, splayed out and spread before him, quivering and gasping and covered in a thin sheen of sweat - his.

Your taste, sweet on his tongue - your mouth, your skin, your arousal that drips out of you whenever he so much as looks at you.

His.

And he knows, without a single atom of doubt, that he's also yours. So entirely entangled with each other, neither of you knowing how you'd managed to exist separately before now.

How had you possibly found beauty in every day, when you'd never heard his voice? Never caught a whiff of his sweet shampoo as he ambled past you? Never felt the warmth of his touch, or the puff of his sighs on your cheek? Never known the tickle of his hair on your bare skin as you slowly woke every morning to find him curled around you, his face smashed into your back and soft snores emanating from him?

No matter, you think. You have him now, and that's what's important.

...until everything changes.

You miss a period.

You tell him about it.

You're both on edge, but he tries to remain optimistic. Cycles can be upset sometimes, he tells you, as if you don't already know. (You're certain he's really just trying to reassure himself.)

But deep down, you know.

You can feel it in the all-encompassing tiredness you wake with every morning. In the random bouts of nausea, and the sudden food aversions. The back aches, and all the sudden new smells you can detect.

You know something is amiss.

And he knows, too, when he finds you one time in the middle of the night. Standing in your shared little kitchen, in the dark, illuminated only by the light of the open refrigerator.

Pulling pickles straight out of the jar, dipping them in mayonnaise, and sinking your teeth into them. Like they were to most delectable thing you'd ever ingested.

You're both terrified, of course.

You're not really surprised that you've managed to fall pregnant - not with the way you two lust after each other practically every night, and sometimes in the morning. Maybe even once or twice in between meetings, when you're both squished together in his compact office.

Neither of you ever thought you'd become parents.

And certainly not right now.

But...you want this, you realize. You want this with him. You want a family with him, you want the evidence of your love - you want a future with him, and you want to see what beautiful little person you'll make together.

Would they have his eyes? Yours? He hopes they have your smile, he tells you, eventually.

It takes you by surprise, his words, what with how quiet he'd been since you'd both figured everything out. You'd been worrying that he wasn't really on board with keeping the baby - with being a father. And you hadn't blamed him, really.

You'd been beyond stressed at the idea of raising a child alone. The thought of him leaving you, leaving behind something so intrinsically tied to him, had been slowly breaking your heart. You hadn't wanted him to stay simply out of obligation - you know you wouldn't be able to cope with the eventual resentment that such an action would breed.

But to know for certain now that he'd only been anxious?

That he wanted this with you, and was excited?

You're so happy that you immediately burst into tears, squeaking and sniffling and snotting uncontrollably while Viktor bites back a laugh and herds you into his embrace. Stroking your back and murmuring the sweetest things to you while you try to catch your breath, leaving gentle kisses all over your face.

Telling you all about what kind of person he hoped your little one would be.

Your smile, most certainly, he said, resolute. You have the most beautiful smile. You light up the room wherever you go. Maybe your sense of humour, too. And certainly your compassion.

Your tears slowly began to lessen, as you let yourself be lulled by the comfort of his arms around you.

Your hair, though, you insist, smushing your face into his shirt. You look so pretty in the mornings, all fluffed up and in disarray. It's the cutest shit I've ever seen.

That garners a laugh from him.

I want them to have your eyes, as well, you admit, albeit somewhat shyly. I've never seen a colour like yours, so intense and complex. Way back when we first met, and you looked at me for the very first time? I almost lost the ability to breathe. It was...it was like I knew, right then. That you were the person I wanted to spend my life with.

He squeezes you a little bit tighter, stooping down to tenderly slot your lips together. Slow, lazy, intimate. Sharing breath and warmth and love and-

He takes you again.

Right there, in the dim quiet of his office, not seeming to care if anyone passing by in the hallway might hear you. Spoiling you absolutely rotten, speaking praises against your skin as he brings you over the edge again and again and again.

Pupils blown wide as he sinks his fingers into you, crooking them perfectly as to reach the spots he knows will drive you mad. The papers strewn around the room don't matter - they don't even cross his mind, as you wriggle and squirm and quiver and cry out for him.

How could they, when all he can focus on is the way you look when your body tenses up, another wave of ecstasy coursing through your veins, culminating in your lovely little noises, and the addicting feeling of your pleasure dripping down his fingers and over his palm, soaking him thoroughly.

He would be happy to have you like this, as frequently as you would let him.

He knows how sensitive you must be by now, not only from his ministrations, but also from the way your body is changing. He's done his fair amount of reading since discovering your pregnancy - he's aware of all the ways you might be feeling.

The hunger, the exhaustion, the aches and pains.

The all-encompassing, single-minded lust you might go through.

He's ready to please you, however you might want - his fingers, his mouth. And whenever you might want. You could wake him up in the middle of the night, for all he cares. You could nudge him from the sleep that he so desperately needs, and he'd ask not a single question besides What do you need, darling? How would you like me?

What he doesn't expect is his own desire.

You're beautiful. You always have been beautiful. Even as things change, he was absolutely certain that you would never stop being beautiful.

It's you, so of course he's going to want you.

But seeing you now, whining and looking at him like he's hung the moon in the sky, specifically for you? Your tummy already growing round with the life that you've made together, visible proof of your love? Desperate whimpers falling past your lips, begging him for more, for him to fill you up again and again and again?

He can't resist you.

Even when he starts to ache, and his arms start shaking, and his throat is raw and dry from breathing hard and calling out for you.

He can't resist you.

You're insatiable.

So is he.

He's a little more careful as the months progress. Manhandling you less, digging his fingers into the soft fat of your hips a little gentler. He's cognizant of how you're most comfortable, watching in awe as you tremble on top of him, grinding down on him and taking his entire length into you like you were made specifically for him.

Nearly every day, you beg for him.

He loves you.

And when the time eventually comes for you to waddle carefully into the labour centre, meeting your midwife along the way, Viktor tries to keep his worrying quiet. Tries to stay by your side as a supportive pillar, regardless of how well or not he might actually be able to hold you up.

Holding your hand, kissing your knuckles. Trading his fingers for a stress ball when you squeeze a little too hard (and then another stress ball, stronger this time, when the first one explodes in your fist after a couple minutes. It shocks both of you, but to his surprise, you start laughing).

He tenderly dabs the sweat off your forehead as the hours go by, keeping your hairs from pasting themselves to your face and neck. Staying nearby as a source of comfort, but not so close that you feel smothered by him - allowing you the space you need to wiggle around as you see fit.

Telling you stories to distract you, listening to your complaints and observations as his words become unable to mask the pain of your contractions. Doing his absolute best to bite back a fond grin as you breathlessly curse him for doing this to you.

I didn't mean it, you tell him, as soon as the words leave your mouth, your eyes wide and tearful with sorrow.

I know, he promises, leaning forward to press his lips to your dewy skin.

You sigh happily.

It's not for another couple hours that your baby finally decides to enter the world.

You're beyond exhausted, and Viktor is starting to get fidgety with his worry. Is it supposed to be taking this long? he wonders internally, keeping his questions to himself so as not to stress you out even more.

The midwives, to their credit, are incredibly skilled. Staying by your side throughout the whole process, carefully monitoring everything they need to in order to make sure you're healthy. That the baby is healthy. He knows that they would say something, if anything was truly wrong.

And when the little one finally arrives, she does so kicking and screaming, making an absolute ruckus in the quiet room. The door is shut tight, keeping the sounds of the busy establishment at bay, and the curtain is drawn for your privacy so no one can see in when the staff come and go.

But when your girl begins shouting her absolute displeasure into the air, Viktor swears he can hear some quiet clapping and cheering from the hallway. He doesn't know if it's for your success, or for something and someone else entirely - but for a moment, he likes to believe that there are some strangers out there who are happy for him.

They don't know his story, and they don't know yours - but they've heard a great cry from somewhere hidden and full of struggle. An all-encompassing wail that confirms the presence of life, shouting to the world I am here, I am alive, and I have absolutely no idea what's going on!

He doesn't know when the tears start trailing down his cheeks.

Perhaps it's when he first lays eyes on your girl, pink and cranky and a little bit squished. Putting up a fuss on your base chest, scrunching her little face up as you speak softly and tenderly to her.

Perhaps it's when one of the midwives hands him a very soft towel, instructing him on how to carefully pat away the blood and fluid still clinging to your child. His eyes growing wide when he oh so gently cleans her off to reveal more of her tiny features.

She's still new, and needs time to decompress (so to speak), but he stares at her with such rapture. Taking in every inch of her, burning her face into his mind so that he might never forget her. Ever.

She's still new, and yet he can already tell that she has your nose. And your lips. Your smile, he realizes, with a palpable joy spreading through his chest.

His tears eventually dry, if only so he's able to better see you and the newest member of your family. Laying kiss after kiss to whatever part of your skin he can reach. Stroking the tips of his fingers over your girl's hair - her tiny arms and shoulders, her chubby cheeks, the bridge of her nose and over her brows.

But some two hours later, when you're finally allowed to rest in your comfortable hospital bed: when your baby is now dry and fed and swaddled up happily in Viktor's arms?

The tears begin again.

Privately, in the dim of the room, while you snooze a couple feet away from him, he weeps. Silently, and without so much as a sniffle. He cannot stop the wetness that rolls down his face, even if he wanted to.

Your girl is finally relaxed, after her grand, dramatic entrance. On the edge of sleep, warm and with a full tummy, making funny little expression while she dozes.

Much to Viktor's delight, she has a head of fuzzy brown hair - dishevelled and sticking in every direction, not matter how the midwives had tried to tame it. It'll settle down in a few days, they'd promised. But he didn't care.

The wild mop on top of her head rivalled the chaos of his own. The same shade of chestnut, though perhaps less coarse in texture. Maybe it will grow to the same thickness eventually, he thinks, a fond smile pulling at the corners of his mouth as he imagines how much he's going to have to help her with it as she grows.

Brushing the inevitable tangles out with a soft brush. Pulling the strands back into braids so she can run around and play easier - or maybe little buns on the top of her head, he realizes, the image conjuring up in his mind.

All at once, pictures pop through his head, so vivid and bright that he can almost see them appearing in front of him.

Watching your daughter grow. Sleepless nights of taking care of her, catering to her every whim. Making sure she's fed, and comfortable - entertaining her with silly little toys that make silly little noises, bright colours painted across them. Reading her books with bright, enticing visuals for her to stare at, despite the fact that she doesn't know what words are.

Making trinkets for her as she gets a little older. Things that help her learn, but that also keep her excited and enticed, encouraging her exploration of the world around her. Teaching her to walk, by helping her strengthen her little legs. Sitting on a footstool, a wide smile on his face, as you hold her by her arms and support her as she figures out how to use her legs while upright. Leading her right over into his waiting arms.

Until she's able to balance on her own, after a number of weeks of practising together. Pushing herself up into a wobbly stance, doing her absolute best to try and balance. Maybe she stumbles a couple of times, but she's persistent -stubborn, like he is- and continuously rises back up until she's able to make it over to him on her own. Giggling and wiggling when he scoops her up and praises her and showers he in affection.

Teaching her about anything and everything, the bigger she gets. Answering every question she has, no matter how confusing or senseless - encouraging with his own suggestions, and prompting her to discover some answers for herself. Putting together little experiments for her, so they can learn together and so he can watch her eyes widen with the joy of new information.

Fixing her toys for her whenever they break, as she brings them to him with misty eyes and a wobbly bottom lip. Papa, it fell apart, she says sadly. To which he pulls her onto his lap, regardless of what work he was doing, and helps her repair the damage. Letting her watch and observe when she's still too small to hold a screwdriver, and carefully explaining things to her when her motor skills start to develop more.

And then helping her figure out in what way her toy broke, when she's a little bigger. Asking specific questions, so she can work to connect all the dots herself. Helping her gather the materials that she needs in order to fix things herself, and praising her to the high heavens when she presents the finished product to him.

The little thing is slightly lopsided, but he fully believes that it adds to its charm - tells her as such, when she sighs about it not being the same as before.

It's a little uneven, just like me, he says, with a laugh.

And, much to his complete shock, she wraps her little arms around him, and gives him her strongest possible squeeze.

It adds to your charm, she parrots back to him with complete honesty. I like you, Papa.

And once again, for the umpteenth time throughout his daughter's life, his eyes well with tears and he presses a kiss to the top of her head.

She could go anywhere she wanted, once she grew up. Learn anything, do anything, be anything. Perhaps she'd enjoy the sciences, like he does - machinery, and building, and designing, and inventing. Maybe she'd get into art, and spend her days painting or sketching, or writing, or making music - inspiring other people with the things she makes.

It doesn't matter, though. Because no matter what she ends up enjoying, or where she goes in her life, Viktor will support her with his entirety. Even when she grows all the way up, and inevitably leaves home to begin her own life, whatever that may be.

He knows he's going to cry then, too. So many years together, and yet it will still never be enough.

But for now, he sighs, staring adoringly down at the tiny infant in his arms. For now, they have time. He vows silently to never waste a single moment with her, and never pass up the opportunity to spend time with her. No matter how busy or frustrated or tired he gets, he won't let her grow up feeling unwanted or unloved or unimportant.

He'll give her a better life than he grew up with, and that is both a promise and a threat.

After all, he would do anything, for her.

His greatest creation.

#viktor x reader #viktor arcane x reader #arcane x reader #viktor headcanons #viktor blurb #viktor reader insert #arcane reader insert #i am slowly rising from the dead whoops

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humanpurposes · 1 year

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Sweet Dream

The Sandman AU

Her father means to summon and capture Death, but ends up with the wrong sibling. She becomes fascinated with their prisoner // Main Masterlist

Dream!Aemond x unnamed female character

Warnings: 18+, spells n shit, mild gore, death, lowkey Lima syndrome, smut

Words: 8000

A/n: For my fellow Morpheus and Aemond lovers. Also available to read on AO3.

Roderick Burgess had always been a terrifying man. In grief he has only become more irritable and less predictable.

The telegram came in the early days of July. She delivered the news to Roderick herself, while he was in his study. Her father did not like to be disturbed and he might have beaten her to remind her of the fact, until those fateful words slipped from her mouth. “Randall’s dead.” Shot down by a German machine gun at the Somme. In the end he had been one of thousands, his body buried in a neat line of tombstones somewhere in France, his name engraved on a plaque in the church at Wych Cross, ultimately unremarkable and indistinguishable from the other men and boys who had lost their lives.

But it was not so for Roderick. He let out a sudden groan and clutched his chest as though his pain was tangible and terrible. He shed no tears– of course he didn’t, but he gritted his teeth, crying out in fury as he dashed his hands over his desk, sending papers, books, fountain pens and empty whisky glasses tumbling to the floor.

She stood frozen, waiting for his hand to descend on her for being the one to tell him, but it didn’t.

When they held a memorial service for him, Roderick handed her a piece of paper, to read before the crowd of faces she didn’t recognise.

“Randall was our family’s happiness. He was the bravest, the wisest, and kindest older brother I could possibly dream of having.” Her hands and voice trembled as she read because she knew it was all a lie. In truth, Randall was like their father. They had the same short temper, the same stubbornness and the same cruelty.

But Randall being dead meant she could reinvent him.

Lately, she dreams of happier memories and looks back on them fondly, knowing they can never be contradicted or disproved.

While her father has dreamt of Death ever since.

It’s a brisk afternoon in October when a man in a suit, bow tie and bowler hat arrives at Fawny Rig. He clutches a leather briefcase in front of him and introduces himself as Dr John Hathaway, a curator from the Royal Museum, travelled all the way from London to this quiet corner of East Sussex. She leads him through the panelled halls of the manor, to her father’s study.

Roderick barges in behind them, in a shirt and waistcoat, already smelling faintly of whisky and waving his cane in her general direction. “Tea for our guest,” he orders.

She has the pot ready and strains the dark, reddish liquid into two delicate china cups while her father and Dr Hathaway settle on opposing leather sofas in the centre of the room.

“I take it you have reconsidered?” Roderick says.

“After our meeting at the museum… I know what I said, but–” Dr Hathaway takes an unsure breath. “I received a telegram this morning. My son, Edmund, his destroyer was sunk last week off Jutland.”

It’s a loss Roderick can share, even if he doesn’t really understand how other than a few quick words of condolence. “I lost my son, Randall last year. He was my greatest joy.”

She pauses as she reaches for the sugar bowl. She has never been under the illusion that her own existence has given her father any joy, but then what sort of person would she have to be to earn his respect? She places the sugar on a tray, along with the small jug of milk and the cups, and brings them to the small table between the sofas. The pair don’t spare her a word of thanks or even a brief glance.

Dr Hathaway’s hand lingers on the clasp of his case. “If I give you this, could you truly do it? Could you really–”

“Capture the angel of Death?” Roderick says. “I believe I could.”

She shudders unexpectedly. The old groundskeeper used to say a sudden chill meant someone was walking over your grave.

Dr Hathaway clicks open the clasp and takes out an aged, leather bound book. It has no title on the cover, just gold markings in square, geometric patterns.

“The Magdalene Grimoire,” her father mutters, his eyes wide in an ominous sort of wonder. “With the spells recorded in the book, we will see our sons returned to us.”

The next night is a full moon. She stands by the door with Sykes, welcoming men and women dressed in midnight blue robes to the manor and directing them towards the door that leads to the cellar. They’re all part of Roderick’s ‘Order of Ancient Mysteries’ which as far as she can tell is a cult of fanatics who still believe in witchcraft. They come to Fawny Rig once a month, to listen to her father read from so-called ‘spell books’ as though he is a preacher.

The fanatics pull hoods over their heads and descend the narrow stone steps into the cellar with lit candles grasped in their hands. Roderick leads the way, the book Dr Hathaway gave him tucked under his arm.

She shoots Sykes a concerned frown but he just shrugs. He’s paid to organise the household and guard Burgess’ collection of relics, not to ask questions. Questions are a dangerous game with Roderick.

She trails after them and shuts the iron lock on the door behind her.

The cellar is more like a crypt, an expansive room sprawling under the house, held up by pillars and arches. In the low candlelight she makes out a set of markings on the floor in the heart of the room and this is where the Order of Ancient Mysteries gathers.

The shapes and symbols are unfamiliar to her, painted onto the flagstones, twisting and curling over each other to form a circle. Roderick stands at the very edge of it by a brass lectern.

She watches, half hidden behind a pillar as they stand around the circle and Roderick opens the book, his desired page already marked and studied in the hours since it has been in his possession.

“Tonight,” her father says to his congregation, “we will achieve what no one before us has attempted. We will summon and imprison Death.”

His eyes meet hers through the shadowy space, heavy and sunken with age, grief and months worth of sleepless nights. They glisten slightly too.

He holds his hands out and looks down at the markings on the floor. “Here, in the darkness.”

The others echo his words, softly and melodically at first. Here in the darkness. Here in the darkness.

And so the ritual begins.

“I give you a coin made from a stone,” Roderick says, presenting the object to the ceiling as though the eyes of God are looking down from the heavens, through the house and the earth, and drops it to the floor, inside the circle of markings.

“I give you a knife from under the hills.” He holds up a thin blade and lifts his other arm so the sleeve of his robe drops to his elbow. “I give you the blood from out of my vein.”

She winces but does not look away as he draws the knife along the skin of his forearm, until dark droplets begin to fall and stain the markings.

“I give you a song I stole from the dirt and I give you a feather,” he says, raising a white feather that almost seems to glow through the gloom, “pulled from an angel’s wing.”

And all the while the voices persist. Here in the darkness. Here in the darkness.

He drops the feather and it drifts gently down, landing in the very heart of the circle.

The room is still and she holds her breath.

The feather starts to move. It twists in a circle and floats up, lurching and turning as though it’s being blown about by a breeze she cannot feel or hear.

The voices raise to an urgent chant. Here in the darkness. Here in the darkness.

She clenches her fingertips against the stone of the pillar. She tries to meet her father’s eye again but he is fixated on the feather flying above their heads.

He calls over the chanting, “I summon you with poison,” and the moment he does the feather flickers like the striking of a match. “I summon you with pain! I open the way! I open the gates! I summon you in the name of the old Lords, we summon you together! Come!”

A noise, like a cracking whip splits her ears. The feather bursts into white and golden flames like the flash of a camera. The heat of it rushes over her face and burns her eyes.

And from the flames a body falls to the floor.

It thuds as it hits the ground, silencing the voices save for a few gasps and murmurs. She feels the flagstones rumble under her feet, sees the edges of a black cloak spilling across the floor and a head of long silver hair trailing from its head.

This isn’t an illusion. Roderick Burgess has brought forth a tangible entity, plucked from God-knows-where, lying motionless on the floor. For a moment she wonders if he is dead, until she sees a slight movement in his chest, but even then she fears she could be imagining it.

She takes a few unsure steps to where Roderick stands and the man– he is a man as far as she can tell– is further revealed to her. She can see his face now, his pale skin, the angles of his jaw and cheeks, the curve of his lips, but beyond that she finds herself unable to look away from the jewel that sits where his left eye should be. It is a bright, deep shade of blue and dotted with silver specs, like the vast expanse of twilight when the stars are out but the sky is not quite black. The eye is framed by twisted, red flesh and a scar, slicing from his brow to his cheek. It takes her a moment to realise his other eye, closer to the ground, is closed.

The only other parts of him she can see are the tips of his fingers, clasped around a small pouch.

“Is this… Death?” she utters.

“That remains to be seen,” Roderick says. He points to the pouch. “Get that for me.”

She stares back at her father. How he can speak so flippantly when a man has been conjured, seemingly from thin air, is beyond her. But he glares back, his dark expression only more formidable with his aged frown.

So she steps forward and begins to lower herself beside the man.

“Careful, girl!” Roderick barks, “don’t break the binding circle.”

She stops and looks down, where her skirt is inches from brushing over the markings on the floor. She shuffles back and, with trembling fingers, reaches for the pouch. It’s not hard to take, the man hardly resists, twitching his fingers to keep it in his grasp. It feels wrong, stealing from someone too weak to hold onto what is his.

She looks into the jewel-like eye. Can he see through it? Perhaps it has something to do with the scar? Did he place it there himself, or was he simply made this way?

Someone snatches the pouch from her. She looks up at her father as he undoes the strings and peers inside. “Sand,” he mutters, and stows it away inside his robes.

“And the jewel,” he says to her.

She means to protest, but finds she cannot.

She avoids the markings as she leans forwards. She presses her fingertips beside the man’s eye. His skin is cold and firm.

She swallows her guilt and the nauseous feeling in her throat, nudging her fingertips into the socket. It takes her a few attempts, but she pries the jewel free, wincing when she feels it come loose. If he feels any pain he hardly shows it. His brow furrows but his other eye remains closed, and he makes no sound.

She stands and offers the jewel to her father.

Roderick holds it to the light of one of the candles, giving a curious hum before he pockets that too.

“Move,” he mutters to her, pushing her out of his way as he stands over the man. He tugs on the black cloak and it falls into fragments that fade away, like dust on a breeze. The man’s body is bare, pale skin running over details of muscle and bone. He shivers and twitches like he has a fever, but still he does not speak, or even let out a breath.

“We’ll let our guest recover,” Roderick says, “and then we shall make our demands.

They leave him there for days. He does not move, or ask for food or water.

She doesn’t dream in the nights since they captured their ‘guest’. In fact she hardly sleeps at all. Each morning she wakes, already exhausted, having felt like she’s only closed her eyes for a few brief moments.

Then come the stories in the newspapers. They call it ‘the sleeping sickness’. People all over the country, and in fact the world, have been plagued, either to not sleep at all or never wake up.

On a cold, drizzly morning, a stranger appears at the door to the manor.

She listens and watches from the top of the stairs, crouching by the bannister to stay out of sight as a man with choppy silver hair and pale skin strides into the entrance hall, with Roderick following closely behind.

“Do I know you?” her father asks, furiously.

“No.” The stranger’s voice is low and almost seductive. “But I know all about you, Roderick Burgess, and the being trapped in your basement.”

“You mean to intimidate me?”

She sees a flash of a grin and a pair of pale purple eyes through the wooden balusters.

“I am here to help you,” the stranger says. “There are benefits to keeping one of the Targaryens in your confinement.”

“Targaryens?” her father echoes.

“Did you think Death was the only one of her kind? Death has family. Destiny, Despair, Desire…”

“And who have I got?”

“Dream,” the stranger says with a smile that bares his teeth.

A shiver runs over her shoulders. She keeps her jaw tight to stop herself from reacting to it.

Roderick scoffs. “What good is a God who governs dreams?”

The stranger's voice darkens. “There was a saying in the ancient times of humanity, that said the Targaryens are closer to Gods than men. But they are not Gods. They are more than Gods. They are Endless.”

He tells Roderick of Dream’s vestments, the pouch of sand and his sapphire, both of which he says Roderick may manipulate for his own influences. He says the binding circle will not be enough to contain their prisoner, that they must construct a sphere of glass within the circle.

Most crucially of all, he says no one must be allowed to fall asleep in Dream’s presence.

“Why are you helping me?” Roderick finally asks.

The stranger runs his tongue over his teeth and smiles to himself. “Little family dispute, I shan’t bore you with the details. But for your sake, and for mine, he must not escape.”

He offers his hand to Roderick, who returns the gesture after a moment of hesitation.

Before he heads for the door, the stranger’s eyes trail up to where she hides. Her heart leaps with a sense of dread, like she’s seen something she wasn’t meant to.

She doesn’t trust him, not by the look or sound of him, but her father does. He follows the stranger’s instructions, ordering the construction of the glass sphere, to be welded around their prisoner as it is made. Finally, he arranges a rota of guards to keep watch over him, under strict orders to never fall asleep, lest their prisoner escape into their dreams.

The details of his face are etched into her memory, even after months, the angle of his jaw, the curve of his upper lip, the silver falling over his shoulders. If she could dream, she is sure she would dream of him. Instead she holds onto the flashes of images that appear before her waking eyes, the pale skin of his bare body against the floor, the stars in his sapphire eye, now kept locked away in her father’s study.

She knows Roderick has tried to bargain with him, and each time he returns from the cellar more furious than when he entered it. “He will not speak a word!” his voice bellows through the quiet halls of the manor. “He will not even look at me!”

When she dares to ask questions, Roderick glares at her and tightens the grip on his cane.

The stranger with silver hair was right about something, wealth and admiration have come to Roderick Burgess in droves since he acquired the Lord of Dreams. It’s something about the sapphire, or the sand, something she doesn’t understand, but their family comes across good fortunes, which is almost entirely spent on lavish parties to entertain Roderick’s ever expanding crowd of admirers.

She wakes with the sunrise, from a void and dreamless sleep. The manor is littered with empty bottles, full ashtrays, plates of half-eaten food, odd shoes and playing cards. Her father must still be asleep, which is odd. He is usually an early riser, even after a night of drinking.

A rumbling in her stomach has her heading through the entrance hall towards the kitchen, but she stops when she sees two men waiting by the door to the cellar– two of the guards her father has hired to watch the prisoner, dressed in smart suits with service revolvers just poking out of their jackets. They look restless, peering their heads round corners, shifting their weight on their legs, not wanting to step too far from the door.

“We can’t just leave,” one mutters to the other.

“I’m not staying down there with that… thing one second longer than I have to–”

“Good morning,” she calls.

They look at her in unison, and frown.

“Have you seen Noel and Mauirce?” one of the men asks. “They’re nearly half an hour late.”

The rotation of the guards. They take eight hour shifts in pairs.

Her eyes glance to the cellar door, opened only a fraction. “I could watch him until they get here,” she says, “if you want to leave.”

It doesn’t take them long to agree.

They leave through the front door. When she hears it shut, she finally lets herself reach for the handle to the cellar door. The handle is cold, untouched for hours at a time, and a little stiff. She pushes on it slowly, carefully, making as little noise as possible.

With the cellar door closed, she shuts out the light and warmth of the morning. A silent, icy draft drifts through the narrow stairway. She follows it down, all the way to the dull, eerie light of the main chamber.

The sight takes her breath away, the glass sphere, suspended above the ground, still within the circle of markings that keep his power contained.

He sits in the centre, still bare, his knees tucked into his chest and his hair falling around his face like a veil.

As far she knows, no food or water ever passes the threshold to the cellar, and the cage is never opened. How does he breathe? How does he eat? How does he not wither away? He just sits there, stoic, his face frozen in time like a statue, like the image of a god cut from marble, to be preserved and admired.

A man like that cannot be real, and yet there he is.

“Hello,” she says.

He does not react to her voice or the sound of her footsteps as she walks further into the chamber.

If he can even hear her. She wonders how thick the glass is, if sound can permeate it, or does he just hear the sound of his own breath echoed back to him, endlessly.

She comes to lean against one of the pillars, tracing her fingertips down the cold, rough surface of the stone.

“Are you really the Lord of dreams?” she says.

His gaze lifts and turns to her, just enough that she can see his chin, his nose, and a single violet eye. It is not like the stranger’s, it is far more vibrate, burning with with a silent fury that makes her heart flutter and her skin feel tight.

“I have not dreamt since that night.”

She knows it isn’t just her. It’s the sleeping sickness, the war, the cloud of darkness looming over the rest of the world.

“The groundskeeper has a son, he’s only ten years old. He’s been asleep for months now. He can’t even eat. If he doesn’t wake up, he’ll die.”

He does not react, but his eye follows her as she takes a single step away from the pillar, towards the sphere.

“This is my father’s– our doing, yes?”

Her eyes dip to his chest, to the movement of his lungs underneath skin and muscle, a steady rise and fall with a deep, patient breath.

“My father is a reasonable man, if you could give him something, anything, I am sure he would let you out.”

He tilts his head, until she can just see the point of his scar on his cheek and the edge of his empty eye socket.

He is simultaneously the most terrifying and most beautiful thing she has ever laid eyes upon. The low light only accentuates the harsh angles in his face, the ridges and lines in the muscles and tendons of his neck, torso, arms and legs.

She takes another step closer. “I would let you out, if I could,” she says quietly, like a secret.

He blinks softly, and when her eyes flicker to his lips she sees them curled into something almost like a smile, but not quite.

“Oh you would, would you?”

Her blood runs cold at the sound of her father’s voice. She whips her head around just in time to see Roderick marching towards her with his hand reaching out. His fist grips at her hair, and when she yelps in pain he hisses at her to be quiet. He drags her back up the steps, away from the cold cellar, to the warmth and the light, to the world without dreams.

She bathes before dinner, wincing as she runs her hands over the fresh bruises that mark her skin. Most of them are red, others are set deep and already turning a greyish purple.

Her father’s fury still rings in her ears. “Stupid girl! If he escapes he will slaughter us all!”

Leaning on her back is especially painful, it’s where her body took the brunt of his cane. She brings her knees into her chest, hunching over herself.

She hasn’t cried over her father’s cruelty in years, not since she was a small child. He’d always call her weak for it. Randall never cried when he was disciplined, because he knew, deep down, it was good for him. Perhaps she is simply not as strong as Randall was.

Her tears are hot and stinging in her eyes. She blinks and lets them fall onto her knees, to become the dew that lingers on her skin.

“Do you want to die, girl? Because it can be easily remedied!”

She doesn’t wear anything special, a white satin dress, with long, billowy sleeves, and applies some rouge to her cheeks, to make her seem more awake, more alive.

She reaches the bottom of the staircase as the clock in the entrance hall starts to chime. Five times. Marking the start of another shift rotation.

Two men appear from the hall that leads from the cellar, vaguely nodding as they pass her.

She can see into the dining room from the stairs, an enormous table set with silver cutlery and china plates, for just two of them.

The door to her father’s study is closed, obstructing the voices within. He’s arguing with someone.

Before she can stop herself, she’s walking towards the cellar. She tries the handle to find it unlocked. With one final look to the door to the study, she descends back into the darkness.

Two guards sit on wooden chairs by the entrance from the stairway, and immediately stand to attention as she walks into the chamber.

“Miss,” one of them calls, “you cannot be here.”

And she seems to have caught his attention too. He looks up from where he sits in the sphere, his forearm resting on his knee. His hair is pushed from his face, and his violet eye is wide, curious.

“This is my father’s house, I will go where I please,” she says, shakily, continuing until she comes face to face with the glass.

He stares at her, somewhat furious, but in a way she knows it is not meant for her.

The men behind her are muttering to each other, she doesn’t hear their words, but she hears their panic.

“It isn’t right for him to keep you here,” she says. “It isn’t right for him to think he can play with mortality. And I am as bad as he is for letting this happen.”

The tendons of his hand flex as he clenches his fist, his fingers restless as he stares at her, intently.

“If I let you out,” she whispers, “would you harm me?”

His face softens as his eye moves over her face.

He’s studying her, she realises. She imagines him noting the curves of her cheeks and chin, the shape of her mouth, perhaps the faint teartracks and the dark circles under her eyes.

What does he make of her, the daughter of his captor, the one who pried the sapphire from his eye? Roderick could be right, he might slaughter her the moment he is free from his cage.

“I would like to believe that you wouldn’t,” she says.

His expression gives nothing away.

Suddenly he shifts. His muscles tense as he comes to his feet and uncurls his spine to stand before her. Something about his movements are distinctly inhuman.

The guards behind her are shouting now, telling her to step away, calling for Mr Burgess. Their voices are inconsequential to her, muffled as though spoken behind a closed door. Her heart pounds in her ears. All she sees is him, the intense gaze of his eye, a wide palm reaching out and pressing against the glass.

She reaches up slowly, his eye growing wider with every inch she comes closer to touching the glass that separates them, but not quite meeting it.

His brow furrows as if to question her. Why are you hesitating? What are you afraid of?

She won’t be dragged upstairs again. She won’t be thrown to the floor with nowhere else to go. She will not suffer at the hands of Roderick Burgess any longer.

So she presses her hand to the glass.

Her skin is feverishly cold, her arms weightless. She can almost feel the shape of his palm through the glass, but not quite, like she is reaching for something she will never touch, clawing to the memory of a dream.

She can feel herself slipping into numbness, her eyes and her limbs becoming heavy. She presses her fingernails against the glass, silently pleading though she doesn’t know what for. An escape? An end? Anything.

His face is strangely gentle as he pouts his lips, hushing her, lulling her panic. She can feel her breathing and her heartbeat slowing, but it does not frighten her.

The glass shatters, her knees give way. She is awake enough to know she is falling, but too far gone to stop herself.

But she does not need to.

The world around her is silent– no, a gentle breeze drifts over her skin and whispers in her ear. Sunlight beams onto one side of her face and the other rests against bare skin. She feels a weight around her waist, something propping her body upright.

She tries to steady herself but the ground shifts beneath her. The arms around her only tighten their grip when she stumbles.

Finally she lets her eyes flutter open. They are in a desert, a vast expanse of dry sand, reaching as far as the eye can see.

Her head is moving with his breath, against his chest.

She tilts her gaze up, close enough that her lips barely brush over the base of his throat.

His eye is already fixed on her, holding her firmly in his arms, pulling her into him.

Wordlessly, he releases one arm from her waist, and reaches down, keeping his eye on her face. When he brings himself back up, she looks at his closed fist, where sand slips from between his fingers.

Her confusion must be visible on her face because he smiles softly at her, letting out a low “hmm” as he does.

She means to blink, but when she opens her eyes the world has changed again.

She lies face down against the ground of the cellar, dust and dirt pressing into her cheek, broken glass littering the floor around her.

She blinks again through the haze of sleep still clouding her vision. She makes out a figure in a long black coat with silver hair falling down his back. He stands over two bodies, lying lifeless on the ground, and stalks towards another.

Roderick is at the base of the stairs. He raises his cane and cries out as the prisoner reaches into his coat.

Her father’s voice fades into a spluttering, retching sound. Then he is silent. His body slumps to the floor with a gut-wrenching thud. When the stranger walks away, she sees her father sprawled out on the floor, blood spurting from his throat, seeping into his shirt, pooling on the floor around him.

She pushes herself up, leaning on her hands as her vision is blocked once again by a black coat. He stands over her, blood dripping from a knife he holds in his hand, his eye a brighter shade of violet than it was before.

He kneels beside her, taking her chin in his fingertips.

“Are you hurt?” he says. His voice is a hypnotic blend of soft and harsh, low and light, chilling in a way that sends a wave of warmth through her stomach.

She looks past his shoulder, where Roderick’s skin is turning from white to grey. “What did you do to my father?” she utters.

He jerks her head back to him. His expression is dark, lips upturned into a sneer.

Does he expect her to be grateful?

“My tools,” he says.

“You’re… what?”

“My tools. The sapphire and the pouch.”

The items that were stolen from him, that her father has now paid for with blood.

“Are you going to kill me too?” she says, digging her fingertips into the stone and the shards of glass beneath her.

He tilts his head and his lips twitch in a flicker of movement. His voice is barely above a whisper. “Tell me where they are. I will not harm you.”

Three men lay dead mere feet from them, and yet she finds herself wanting to trust him.

He offers her his arm as she stands, gripping at the thick, leather sleeve. Her palms are covered in small cuts from the glass, droplets of bright red blood pearling at the edges. He takes her wrists in his hands to have a look and tuts to himself.

“Quickly,” he says, moving towards the steps, leading her along with him, past the bodies of the guards, and the body of her father.

She brings him to the study, her hands shaking, bloody and outstretched before her. The door is wide open, a stack of papers thrown carelessly to the floor.

Roderick’s safe sits in a black cabinet in the corner of the room. She uses her fingertips to open it, wincing at the pieces of glass still stuck in her skin, but she swallows down the pain.

She guesses the combination on the first try. 1895– Randall’s birth year.

There, in the centre shelf, above the Grimoire, below a stack of banknotes, is the pouch of sand and the sapphire.

He reaches for the gem first. She turns away as he fixes it back into his socket, remembering the weight of it in her palm when she took it from him. She sees him reach forward again, but not for the pouch. He takes a hold of her wrists.

With no magic words or spells, he waves a hand over her palms. For a moment she sees a glow in his sapphire eye. The pain vanishes, so does the blood, the glass and the dirt.

She blinks a few effortless tears from her eyes. Tears for her father, tears of relief, she cannot place a cause.

Cold fingertips meet her skin once more, as the Lord of Dreams wipes her tears away, bringing her gaze to meet his.

He leans in closer, until his forehead meets hers. “Sleep,” he whispers.

She falls into him, to find herself wide awake, clinging onto him as she had done in the desert.

But they are somewhere else entirely. The sky above them is a pale yellow, like daybreak, painted with swirling grey clouds. The land here is… dead. Dead trees, barren mountains and hills, and in the distance, beyond a dried lake, is a castle of red brick, decrepit, falling into ruin.

“You see the damage that has been done to my realm?” he says. With her ear pressed against his chest, his voice is cavernous and she feels everything, the way his words drag through his throat. She feels his pain at being confined, the loss of his home and his creations.

“I’m sorry,” she says.

“I do not forgive easily, that is why Roderick Burgess had to die. But you…” he pulls away from her so he might look at her properly, cupping the sides of her face and swiping his thumbs over her cheeks. “I do not need an apology from you. We are free of him now.”

“Is that what you think I wanted?”

He hums with tight lips. “I have seen your dreams, as I see the dreams of every mortal. I see them as clearly as you perceive the waking world. It just so happened that our dreams coincided.”

She had never dreamt of her father’s death and she had certainly never imagined that she might have played a part in it. But she cannot deny the weight now lifted from her shoulders. She will never have to earn his approval, she will never have to endure him again. She is free of him.

“Go now,” he says, “I am sure you have your own business to resolve.”

He releases his hold of her and brings his hands behind his back. As he walks towards the castle the world around her starts to fade. She can smell the musk of the manor, the lingering smoke of her father’s cigars, the distinct scent of a winter evening.

“Wait!” she calls.

The ends of his coat swish around his legs as he turns back to face her. “Yes?” he says, the corners of his mouth curling up into a small smile.

“I want to know your name.”

“I have had many names,” he says.

“And how would you have me know you?”

“Aemond,” he says.

She echoes his name, letting her mouth linger on the final syllable. “Will I see you again?”

He draws the tip of his tongue between his lips. “Perhaps,” he says.

When she wakes she is laid out on one of the leather sofas of her father’s study. She looks down at her hands, traces her fingertips down her face, now free of the dirt and dust.

She wonders if she might have dreamt all of it, the beautiful man in the sphere, the glass breaking, her father’s blood on the floor…

Her life is never the same after that. With her father dead, his estate passes to her. For the first time, her life is hers to do with as she pleases.

And yet she feels an absence, a hollow longing in her chest.

Her dreams come back to her since she set him free, and each night she dreams of him.

He only appears in brief moments, like lighting, bright and brilliant, but gone in a heartbeat, before she can truly see him. She sees the movement of a leather coat, flashes of silver, violet and sapphire blue. Sometimes she is met with darkness as a pair of lips ghosts over her neck with a contented sigh and a warm breath.

She cannot bear it.

As she lies in the empty manor house, she traces her fingers over her body, her lips, down her neck and her chest, underneath her cotton nightgown, to her navel and the pool of wanting wetness between her legs, trying to imagine they are his.

She pictures the way his hair fell around his face, the coldness of his skin, the curve of his lips. She imagines them parting in a small sigh, the sound of his breath, the way his chest hummed as she circles over her bundle of nerves. Pleasure sparks at first but it keeps slipping from her grasp.

She circles faster, harder, searching for a spot that will finally give her the release she craves.

She feels heat and a sheen of sweat settling on the surface of her skin, her breathing hitches, her hips twitch under her touches. The pleasure heightens, then fades.

With her eyes tightly shut, she spurs herself on with thoughts of him, breathlessly chanting his name into the empty space and cold air of her bedroom.

“Aemond… Aemond…”

Something changes.

The mattress shifts beneath her and a weight presses against her body, her legs, her stomach, her chest.

A hand clasps around hers, ceasing her movements, and bringing it to rest by her side.

She laments the loss of the friction against her bud, her pleasure pulled away from her, but in its place anticipation blooms within her.

When she opens her eyes he is above her, against her, hovering his face over hers so that all she sees are his eyes, one violet, one sapphire.

“You have my attention,” he says in a soft but unsettling voice.

A thrill ripples through her body.

She whispers his name on an exhale of breath, running her fingertips over his arms, tense and toned as his props himself over her.

But she is somewhat dazed, her senses numbed by fatigue and the echo of the pleasure she had been chasing.

“Is this real?” she utters.

Aemond leans further into her. She feels a weight between her hips and an unmistakable hardness prodding at her centre as he brings his lips to her neck, pressing a slow, teasing kiss against a sensitive spot of skin that has her body tensing and her fingers digging into his shoulders.

“Does if feel real?” he whispers against her skin.

How much has he truly seen of her dreams, her desires, she wonders? Perhaps she should feel some kind of shame, but she cannot, not when she is on the precipice of something bright, beautiful and damning. She can hardly stand being on the edge of it, having him so close but not close enough.

She wraps her arms around his neck as he teases her with his lips, crosses her legs around his hips, meeting his movements as he torturously grinds his hardening cock against her cunt, dripping with arousal, twitching and clenching around nothing at the anticipation.

“Needy little thing,” he mutters, dragging his nose along her neck as he comes to kiss the hollow of her throat.

His voice sends a shockwave through her body. Her hips buck against his, determined for relief as her fingers thread through the soft strands of his hair, and tug.

He lets out a quiet growl against her skin. A hand rests upon her thigh and trails up, bunching the hem of her nightgown to her waist and adjusting the other side.

He sits back, watching her with the same darkness and intensity as when he was trapped inside the cage, intrigued at the least, fascinated if she is presumptive.

The irony of being laid half bare before him and at his mercy does not escape her.

“I’ve heard you crying out for me, little mortal,” he says.

“You said you can see my dreams,” she says, “how?”

“Your dreams exist in my realm,” he says, “in The Dreaming. I see your dreams as I see the dreams of every other being. I feel them, as clearly as you perceive the waking world. But you…” he muses, settling his hands on either side of her waist. “You are incessant.”

She shivers and writhes under his touch, a pulsing heat settling within her.

She traces her hands over his, where they grip at her waist, along his smooth skin, the tendons and veins. His fingers are long and lithe. She knows they would feel so perfect, wrapped around her throat, stroking over her skin, pushing inside of her wet heat to coax her pleasure.

Aemond smiles to himself as though he can hear her thoughts.

He grips harder into her flesh and pulls his hips back, only to let his cock slide over her slick folds with teasingly gentle thrusts.

Every stroke pushes her closer and closer to the edge, but not enough to find release. She feels the frustrating want pulsing through her body, the coil getting tighter and tighter, her cunt clenching over nothing.

“Aemond…” she says with a breathless mewl, “please…”

“You really want it, don’t you?” Aemond growls, resting his forehead against hers. “Just feel how wet that empty little cunt is for me.”

Her eyes trail along the angles of his face, the line of his scar, the night sky in his eyes as he stares down at her, the gentle curve of his lips and how they settle into a soft expression.

Her gaze slips further down, over his throat, his collar, his pale, bare chest, the ridges of the muscles on his abdomen, the slight dip in his waist, the trail of silver hair to his cock, long, hard and flushed with need, transfixed by the way it moves against her.

She holds her breath each time he withdraws, stifling her whines into his mouth when he only keeps teasing her.

“I want it,” she groans, “I want you. I’ve wanted you since the moment I saw you.”

He lets out a contented hum as he leans down to kiss her. The movements of his mouth are slow and consuming, claiming her with lips, tongue and teeth, wetness and warmth.

She holds him close by the sides of his face. In his violet eye she sees his hunger, his rage, his lust. In his sapphire, she sees oblivion.

And finally, he eases himself into her.

He fucks her delicately, dragging his cock through her gently, slowly, deeply. His lips ghost over her skin, her temple, her cheek, back to her mouth with light kisses and strained but soft breaths.

With a few deft circles over her bud she feels herself come undone around him. Her climax burns through her and she holds him closer for purchase, digging her fingertips into his skin as her resolve melts and her legs tremble around his hips.

Aemond doesn’t stop. He holds her against the mattress with a determined grip, fucking her through her peak until her pleasure settles and simmers once more.

Being kissed by him, held by him, fucked by him feels light a dream, that weightless, numb feeling of being between consciousness and sleep coursing through her limbs. It feels good, it feels deep, it feels perfect.

She cannot be sure how many climaxes he draws from her, she just feels him, his heat, his hands and his skin as he repositions her legs, guides her onto her front, brings her up to her knees, pushes her back down again, until she is a blissful, mindless mess.

He meets his own end when he has her face down on the bed, her face turned to the side against the pillow, his mouth on the underside of her jaw as he pounds into her.

“You’re doing so well,” she hears him rasp, “you’ve been so good to me… fuck, I don’t think I’ll ever get enough of you.”

Her mind is beyond words and coherent thoughts. She utters the only thing she feels, the only thing she can think of, “Aemond… Aemond… Aemond…”

He stills his hips against her rear with a guttural moan, pressing his face against hers, squeezing her waist under his hands. He allows himself a few more shallow thrusts until he is spent. She feels his cock pulse within her, a warmth pooling, his spend dripping from her cunt once he has pulled away.

The weight dissipates from her back and for a moment she lies there, basking in the afterglow, feeling her chest rise and fall against the bed, the softness of her sheets under her fingertips.

She wakes to a gentle breeze running over her skin and slipping down her spine.

She allows her eyes to flutter open and recoils at the pale sunlight beaming through the spaces in the curtains.

She holds her breath.

She hears no sound or sign of life other than her own pulse.

She twists herself to sit up, noting that her bedsheets are neat and the hem of her nightgown is where it should be.

Is it possible that she dreamed it? She remembers it so vividly, but the mind has a way of playing tricks. Perhaps it was only a dream.

“Your dreams exist in my realm,” he had said. “I feel them, as clearly as you perceive the waking world.”

How do we determine what is real? she wonders as she pulls on a robe and goes to open the curtains. The morning floods her bedroom. It brings no warmth, but it brings light and life back into the room.

To dream is to live beyond ourselves, why should that be any less true than the world around me?

She seats herself before her vanity, reaching for the drawer for her hairbrush.

But something catches her eye, a glint of colour against mahogany wood, a small gem catching the sunlight.

She takes it between her thumb and index finger and brings it before her eyes; a sapphire, the size of a pearl, a deep and vibrant blue. Its edges are uneven and dull, uncut, as though plucked straight from the earth.

She turns it about between her fingers. It could be a trick of the light, but there is depth to it, a vastness within. The sapphire seems to capture the night sky, dotted with glimmering stars.

His was the same.

As the dazed state of sleep wears off, she feels the satisfied ache between her legs, the spots on her skin marked by him. She smiles to herself and holds the gem in her palm, this precious gift, this reminder, this promise from the Lord of Dreams.

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smuttysabina · 10 months

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COMM: A Question of Leadership

(Everglow x Fans, x Reader; 2.4k words) Tags: Creampies, Urination, Urine-Danger, Anal Sex, Multiple-Penetration, Corporate Sabotage, Some Forceful Sex, Some Wholesome Sex, Too Much Math, Inspirational Leadership, Perverse Leadership, These Girls Should Hydrate Less

A cloud of despair hangs over the room, as Everglow stare mournfully at the open tablet on the table. Lounging about on couches, they all shoot glares at their erstwhile leader, EU; whose usually bratty demeanor is much subdued by the judging looks of her group-mates. Immature Onda, haughty Yiren, kindly Sihyeon, obscene Mia, Sultry Aisha; all of them scowling at the cringing form of their leader. Onda is the first to break the silence, soon followed by the others as they berate EU,

"You pissed on the CFO?" "Oh we are so fucked..." "How did you even manage to do that?" "Did you forget to go beforehand, again?" "I'm starting to see why Onda is getting sent to the top office more often..." "Okay, it uh, it was an accident okay? It could happen to any of us!" "Liar! We all saw the video!" "Well um... He did seem to enjoy it...?" "Our next three comebacks got cancelled!" "It's not my fault he had the worst case of post-nut depression ever! He told me to make it kinky!" "Oh god oh god how do we fix this?" "Fuck if I know, our dear leader just treated an executive like a toilet." "Okay, so what if... we chose a new leader! Then she could go make things right!" "We already sent Mia to make amends, that's why we might even continue to have comebacks" "Yeah I had three dicks shoved up my ass!" "Don't... don't you like that sort of thing?" "Well, yeah, but it still was a little much after the fifth group of guys tried it..." "..." "So... a new leader then?"

Everglow spend the next hour squabbling amongst themselves, trying to figure out who should be their next leader; if they even need one. Unfortunately, the position was hotly contested, in large part due to its tangible perks: the first pick of partners at any fan event. After all, while getting worshipped by fans could be quite enjoyable, it was even more intoxicating when their adoring lovers were attractive themselves. And of course, all of the girls had their own... tastes, and would generally prefer to have their own needs satisfied before worrying about the others. Thus, the arguing, the yelling, the screaming, the slapping, the fingering, the mental breakdowns, the tossing of various small objects (including EU), the memorable fisting session. So it was finally agreed upon that the best battlefield to determine who would fill the august role of leader, would be fought in the bedchamber; what was the point of a leader if she could not fuck so exquisitely that she inspired her groupmates? The girls decided that their fans would be the ones to choose the lucky girl, by voting with their cocks! 667 fans would be gathered for the event, with 600 of them used in a general free-for-all, 66 of them used for more... exotic tests, and the final wildcard serving as a potential tiebreaker. Everglows fans did not disappoint in their appointed task.

Scattered over three days, the 600 fans were fed into the ravenous sexual machine that is the heart of any idol group; led into a large room they were free to pick any of the girls to unload their seed into. Of course, the girls pulled out all the stops to attractive potential fans. EU engaged in all manner of perverse and depraved acts, a thin veneer of contempt barely disguising her pleasure from cavorting with perverts. Onda meanwhile turned up her virginal charm to eleven, her mincing squeals and moans driving many a fan wild with breeding lust. Yiren by contrast was at her icy best, haughtily milking her fans with a callous disregard for their safety; just how they liked it. Sihyeon was as warm and loving as Yiren was cold and bitchy, wholesomely welcoming her lovers into her tight holes. Mia was of course, Mia; no orifice was left unviolated, as her charismatic lovemaking drained multiple fans at a time until she was literally soaked in fluids. And finally Aisha served as a mature counterpoint to Mia, receiving such fierce poundings that it was often difficult to tell who exactly was doing the fucking; and the screaming.

Then the girls' more... personal skills were tested on 66 of the 67 remaining fans. Since the leader was often favored to deal with VIPs, it would be best if her sexual skills could handle quality as well as quantity. So after several rounds of rather intimate blowjobs and displays of sexual prowess, Everglow has something approaching a leaderboard of sorts. Who is at the top... well that's a bit of irrelevant information for you, since poor little you have been stuck in a room for the past week; and positively stuffed full of slow-acting aphrodisiacs. Since what's the point of having a tie-breaker, if the deciding dick is unable to get it up? Thus, by the time you are dragged out of your temporary prison, you are more than eager to meet Everglow; and to say your manhood was as well would be an understatement. You are then shoved into a room, only to find yourself facing the idols you have already spilled much seed for; except now they are naked in fact as well as imagination. Everglow coo and nod in approval at the sight of you, your cock so rigid it is nearly vertical.

Eager to begin, EU quickly explains the rules to you, one minute inside of each girl, then after that you can fuck who you please, but you have to switch to another girl after another minute. The idol who claimed your seed would be the winner, and would get a sizable number of points added to their score. Then with a sleazy smile she announces that she would get to go first, since she was still the leader after all. Ignoring the annoyed groans of her group-members, EU welcomes you inside of her with a smile; every inch of your cock somehow fitting inside of her petite frame. She pulls you on top of her, pressing you down as she whispers absolutely filthy things in your ear, promising all sorts of depraved rewards if you would only just cum... But you do not, and you leave EU pouting as you move on to Onda. Who is the complete opposite of EU, simpering adorably as you she urges you to be gentle with her, saccharine sweet as she urges you to relax and creampie her 'virgin' cunt. But Onda is unable to make you finish, so you get passed onto Yiren. Who is as uninterested in you as Onda was over-attentive, blandly ignoring the fact that your manhood was currently pushing past her belly-button as she examines her fingers. Perhaps her bored attitude would have drained you on some other day, but instead she is left with an unfiled pussy.

You then get to enjoy the untender treatment of Aisha, who insists that you fuck her ass as hard as you can. Spanking your ass to spur you on, she cheerfully informs you in sultry tones over the loud slap of your balls against her asshole, that you could be as rough with her as you'd like... Unfortunately for Aisha however, your load remains unmilked, allowing Mia to take over next. Who is fairly calm and composed as you thrust away between her thighs, cupping your cheek with encouragement. Mia will gladly let you do anything to her, no matter how kinky, so long as you just relax and... Switch to Sihyeon, who if anything seems a bit flustered to find a stranger balls deep inside of her pussy. Her endearing squeaks heighten your lust to a surprising degree, her genuine excitement of your coupling scratching an urge you didn't even know you had. With a mighty groan, you empty your balls inside of Sihyeon, her legs instinctively wrapping tight around you as she squeals in surprise. She holds you tight against her, as the heat of your orgasm fades and your member shrinks out into the stuffy air with a wet pop.

It's difficult to hear what the other members of Everglow are saying over the pounding of blood in your ears, but judging by their tone they are not entirely pleased with this outcome. Sihyeon lets out a startled moan as squelching noises come from behind you as the girls examine the scene.

"Wait, so that's it?" "Ugh, he came so fast!" "Did he like, cum cum though or just leak a lot?" "No he finished, holy fuck that's a fat load" "I'm kind of happy he didn't jizz inside of me now..."

You are distracted by Everglow's chatter by the gentle pushing from Sihyeon, still getting squished by your body weight. You stagger up off of her, helped along by the unkind hauling of the other girls. Beaming with barely contained joy, Sihyeon wiggles to her feet, her pussy belching your load down her thighs as she hurriedly throws a shift over her nude form. EU glares daggers at you as she pokes the tablet, updating the scores; a cheerful celebratory noise sounds from it as it announces the winner. Doing a little dance, Sihyeon hurries out of the room after giving you a quick peck on the cheek; as the new leader, it's her job to make nice with the VIPs. Meanwhile, you... get shoved onto the floor by an irate Yiren, who pins you easily with a leg on your chest. Her lips curl into a snarl as she drags her foot down your torso before toeing your still obvious erection. Yiren's eyes glimmer as you shudder from her prodding, evidently you are still extremely sensitive from your recent orgasm; so, punishment then.

"I sincerely hope you don't enjoy this, because your worthless meat caused me to lose," Yiren calmly explains as she orients your twitching cock skywards before sitting on it. You writhe at the over-stimulation, your manhood burning with sensations as Yiren's premium cunt abuses it, "Useless scum, you could have spent yourself inside of me, but no, instead you busted inside of fucking Sihyeon. Those VIPs would have been slobbering over a well-bred lady like myself, I would have had them eating out of my hand..." Yiren continues her monotonous riding, uncaring about your own pleasure as she adroitly grinds on it to maximize the pressure on her g-spot. Her eyes narrow as she notices your building excitement however, and she reacts accordingly, contemptuously slapping your balls to halt their rise, "No. you don't get to finish until I say so, evidently you are in need of training if you can barely last a minute inside of a woman." Yiren's calculated abuse only serves to arouse you even more though, and soon she is forced to hold on to your balls as pre-cum starts leak inside of her. Now thoroughly annoyed, she stops trying to contain your growing orgasm and simply seeks to ruin it. Yiren plants herself firmly against your crotch, unmoving as your balls finally empty themselves inside of that imperious bitch's pussy. You moan piteously though at the lack of pleasure, your member greedy for more stimulation yet unable to find it as Yiren makes sure that your cock is unable to move an inch. She wears a triumphant smirk as she slowly unmounts you, allowing your surprisingly rigid dick to flop out of her as she rises, "Disgusting, I feel bloated from all of your worthless semen; allow me to return it." With that, Yiren stoops slightly, straining as she does her best to force out every last drop of your cum. Your load leaks out onto your crotch, splattering messily across your cock as she rhythmically cleans herself out to the best of her abilities. With all that pushing however, is it any wonder that Yiren accidentally begins to piss on you? She lets out a disbelieving chuckle at first, but soon warms to the idea and smugly empties her bladder onto you as a gesture of disdain. Know your place, worm.

EU observes all this with barely disguised arousal, indiscreetly fingering herself as Yiren stalks away with her head held high. EU slithers over to you, arresting your attempt to get up by throwing herself atop of you; writhing in the puddle Yiren left. She is of course, vocal about her disgust at you forcing her to engage in such a deviant act, "You filthy pervert, how dare you haul me over your piss-covered body! I bet you're going to force me to clean off and ride your disgusting dick too!" With her lame excuse proclaimed, she confidently wiggles down your body and begins slurping on your manhood, forcing it to arise once more under her distressing attentions. After cleaning Yiren's piss and juices off of your cock, she scrambles to line it up with the damp lips of her pussy. But this pervert still has a trick up her sleeve, as she starts to squat on you, her hips suddenly rock forward, and you find your dick forcing its way into her barely lubricated asshole before you can stop her. EU Shrieks with pain, "Oh you brute! You forced your fat cock into my poor asshole, how could you!" Whereupon she squirts messily all over your crotch, her fingers going into overdrive as they churn the cum out of her. And this was just the start... EU rides you for what seems like an hour, haphazardly bouncing about as she squirts and squeals; even pausing to add her own piss to the messy puddle drenching your torso. Getting slathered with her stinking piss is the final straw for you however, your dick giving into the foul sensations enveloping you and rewarding EU with your seed. She howls as she feels your cum spew into your asshole, spasming as she sticks her tongue out and drools like some cheap hentai character; gurgling disgusting comments about how your semen feels inside of her guts.

Evidently not too put out by her loss of position, EU then retires from the room, leaving a stinking trail of liquid behind her as she hobbles out. Onda and Mia soon follow, grumbling between themselves as they leave; evidently searching for fresher meat to work their frustrations out upon. Which just leaves Aisha, who helps you to your feet before casually rubbing your still attentive manhood, "My offer still stands you know," she informs you with a sultry growl. Aisha bends over, spreading her cheeks in welcome as you grasp her hips.

"Don't hold back, I want this to hurt..."

#everglow smut #smut #kpop smut #yiren smut #e:u smut #Aisha smut #Sihyeon smut #Onda smut #mia smut

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hexhomos · 1 month

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Can I ask...what actually happens with Viktor in S2?? I keep hearing people being really vague about it being Bad but I haven't seen the leaks and now cannot find out anything that isn't just someone saying they won't say anything;; I just want to temper my expectations bc I was only excited for S2 for his storyline (+ Jayce interactions) and I'm getting the impression they don't do.....much?? with it?

spoiling stuff for real under the cut

As of ep5, Viktor:

-Doesn't have his mask or armor

-Has no outspoken ideological drive

-Has never once expressed interest in the traditional venues of transhumanism ocurring all around him

-Never made blitzcrank, never did shit ONSCREEN

-The only tangible reference we get to the machine herald is this shot of cards back on s1:

I genuinely dont know if he has even 5 full minutes of actual footage across all of these episodes lmfao...

His contributions to the story are, in sequence:

-stuck in stasis. jayce waits by his bedside for over an episode

-emerges from coma, immediately rebuffs all of jayce’s warm affectionate advances to the point its a little comical. looks like a dried grape, barely any bigger. declares that he's mad over not being left to DIE; he has to go away now. he hears... her voice! oh! that girl who spoke one time in s1 and that he ignored in every scene!

-left the lab buttnaked and barefoot with a blanket jayce wrapped around him to explore the streets on zaun. a bunch of sick homeless guys (who are, of course, shimmer addicts, see my note about war on terror) think he must be augmented so they want to kill him for scraps and parts. But they dont know that viktor is jesus now. he turns his stigmata palm to that guy who sold out caitlyn in s1 and proceeds to magically cure the lepers.

-this is his last scene for a little while. we Hear Of Him when one of the disabled councilors is looking for ways to deal with his pain from the accident. arcane loves looking over the shoulder of the rich and powerful like they are the main drivers and movers of the story

-like an hour of footage later, jayce reemerges (from a nexus-type of situation) and he finds one of Viktor’s servants -- its that councilor guy-- doing something unspecified. He's surprised to see jayce and tells him that he may speak to viktor; viktor says he misses him and wants to see him and basically "my bad man i was tripping when i said that shit to you the writers needed some lazy disagreement point," but he sounds really cult-leader sleazy and jayce is really mad over being left behind. Jayce is having some flashbacks to void monsters in the other side and tells servant guy he's not allowed to let him go. Servant councilor guy says well too bad! Im going! So jayce pulverizes him with his hammer. based jayce. he looks like brown bearded dante from devil may cry

That's the ep5 clifhanger. i think you can tell how i feel.

My predictions are as follows: jayce tracks him down to his lair and we get a showdown that is a vague reference to their original character bios battle; the one where viktor sics a bunch of brainwashed people on him and the building falls over everyone from the impact. It's possible that viktor is still not wearing his armor, and in this altercation jayce beats him up so bad or dismembers him enough that in act 3 he will have built one. That feels insulting to me but they legitimately have been very lazy.

oh and jayce also has a magical stigmata now. i hope they get to scissor those things together

#hexposts #arcane spoilers #arcane leaks

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not-terezi-pyrope · 8 months

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Ok. It's pretty clear you are more welcoming of AI, and it does have enough merits to not be given a knee jerk reaction outright.

And how the current anti-ai stealing programs could be misused.

But isn't so much of the models built on stolen art? That is one of the big thing keeping me from freely enjoying it.

The stolen art is a thing that needs to be addressed.

Though i agree that the ways that such addressing are being done in are not ideal. Counterproductive even.

I could make a quip here and be like "stolen art??? But the art is all still there, and it looks fine to me!" And that would be a salient point about the silliness of digital theft as a concept, but I know that wouldn't actually address your point because what you're actually talking about is art appropriation by generative AI models.

But the thing is that generative AI models don't really do that, either. They train on publicly posted images and derive a sort of metadata - more specifically, they build a feature space mapping out different visual concepts together with text that refers to them. This is then used at the generative stage in order to produce new images based on the denoising predictions of that abstract feature model. No output is created that hasn't gone through that multi-stage level of abstraction from the training data, and none of the original training images are directly used at all.

Due to various flaws in the process, you can sometimes get a model to output images extremely similar to particular training images, and it is also possible to get a model to pastiche a particular artist's work or style, but this is something that humans can also do and is a problem with the individual image that has been created, rather than the process in general.

Training an AI model is pretty clearly fair use, because you're not even really re-using the training images - you're deriving metadata that describes them, and using them to build new images. This is far more comparable to the process by which human artists learn concepts than the weird sort of "theft collage" that people seem to be convinced is going on. In many cases, the much larger training corpus of generative AI models means that an output will be far more abstracted from any identifiable source data (source data in fact is usually not identifiable) than a human being drawing from a reference, something we all agree is perfectly fine!

The only difference is that the AI process is happening in a computer with tangible data, and is therefore quantifiable. This seems to convince people that it is in some way more ontologically derivative than any other artistic process, because computers are assumed to be copying whereas the human brain can impart its own mystical juju of originality.

I'm a materialist and think this is very silly. The valid concerns around AI are to do with how society is unprepared for increased automation, but that's an entirely different conversation from the art theft one, and the latter actively distracts from the former. The complete refusal from some people to even engage with AI's existence out of disgust also makes it harder to solve the real problem around its implementation.

This sucks, because for a lot of people it's not really about copyright or intellectual property anyway. It's about that automation threat, and a sort of human condition anxiety about being supplanted and replaced by automation. That's a whole mess of emotions and genuine labour concerns that we need to work through and break down and resolve, but reactionary egg-throwing at all things related to machine learning is counterproductive to that, as is reading out legal mantras paraphrasing megacorps looking to expand copyright law to over shit like "art style".

I've spoken about this more elsewhere if you look at my blog's AI tag.

#not-terezi-speaks #asks #anonymous #ai

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sleeplesssmoll · 9 months

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Reverse 1999 Theory: What is "Perception" and how does it work in arcanists?

Vertin canonically has uncanny perception and a deep understanding for arcanum even amongst arcanists, despite her lack of skill. Arcanists are very sensitive, or rather, vulnerable to emotions. There is another arcanist known for her perception we can look at for more clues.

Mesmer Jr. also has a "acute perception", much like Vertin.

In Reverse 1999, Perception functions like a 6th sense in arcanists. But how does it work? I looked up to see if there is a connection between magnetic fields and emotions. Turns out there is A LOT. Specifically the magnetic field radiated by the heart.

Biomagnetic Communication Between People (source).

We have found there is a direct relationship between the heart-rhythm patterns and the spectral information encoded in the frequency spectra of the magnetic field radiated by the heart. Thus, information about a person’s emotional state is encoded in the heart’s magnetic field and is communicated throughout the body and into the external environment.

There is so much cool information in this article I'd love to gush about, but we're here for lore. Remember my psychube post that I never shut up about? It's actually missing very important information that I didn't add at the time because I could not figure out how it worked.

Polarization:

The different frequencies are triggered by different kinds of emotions and we can see the heart being affected by the electromagnetic fields. My theory is that this is the key to arcanist perception. This is how they "sense" emotions. They are picking up on these frequencies. For a real life example from the same article, look at these graphs showing how the influence of emotions:

Most people tend to think of communication solely in terms of overt signals expressed through facial movements, voice qualities, gestures and body movements. However, evidence now supports the perspective that a subtle yet influential electromagnetic or "energetic" communication system operates just below our conscious level of awareness. The following section will discuss data that suggests this energetic system contributes to the "magnetic" attractions or repulsions that occur between individuals.

Arcanists sense these waves and it can cause distress in them. Mesmer Jr. is a prime example of this. Other people's emotions get to her.

Now how does this tie into our beloved Timekeeper?

What if the reason Vertin has to stay "stoic" is because her emotions can influence the others around her and because she is extra susceptible to other people's incoming emotions. She needs to stay calm even in mental distress. Mesmer Jr. is also like this. She may come off as abrasive and snappy at times but she is described as a "an indifferent and refined machine" (Chapter 3: An Opened Sandwich). These two share a lot in common. They are both victims of trauma yet must operate in many emotionally taxing positions.

They even say "engraved in the heart" (although this could simply be word choice it really fits)!

Both Vertin and Mesmer Jr. struggle everyday to keep the their feelings at bay. Neither of them is "used" to this life but they have to keep up the facade for their sake and possibly for those around them.

The main story doesn't give us as much insight into Vertin's head but the traces do. She is always holding back, just like Mesmer.

Side note, do you remember the heartbeat we heard as Schneider was reversed? It raced. Interesting how later Schneider shows up in one of her dreams during Artificial Somnambulism. This could be an example of HF Polarization which generates strong and temporary mental images with very powerful emotions.

This also adds an extra layer to Vertin's interactions with others. She tried to get through to Druvis and Schneider, but as for Forget-me-not and Arcana, she didn't bother. Maybe their feelings of revenge and hatred are so tangible she knew it was lost cause. However, Druvis was laden with grief and loss. She was not a malicious person. Schneider was desperate and motivated by love for her family. Vertin even mentions she knew Madam Z was not part of Constantine's game by the "look in her eyes" and never blamed her for the loss of her friends.

If anything seems wrong or if I missed something, please let me know! I'd be happy if I could refine it further.

#reverse 1999 #vertin #mesmer jr #reverse 1999 lore #character analysis #psychube #i think i got something big here #but its still theory lol #i also learned cool science stuff #reverse 1999 theory

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raven-at-the-writing-desk · 10 days

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Hey there, hi there, ho there! It’s your friendly neighborhood tailor! Pleasure to meet you Fellow! I’m quite the seamstress, and I always love to have people to practice styles on! I have, here with me, an entire wardrobe for you and your little brother there! I’ve got winter coats, summer shorts, formal wear for any kind of stuffy event, and a line of loungewear for any kind of casual affair! Hehehehehe. These are a little more experimental outfits, but a charismatic, distinguished gentleman such as yourself would be able to pull it off seamlessly, I’m sure. *Pushes the enormous mountain of clothing to Fellow to try on* Don’t worry about any cost, I just want you to be ready for any occasion. Everyone deserves to look and feel their best. Clothes make the man and all that. I…sincerely hope you and Gidel find something out there worth doing. Take these around for a spin and see how they work. I’ll make any adjustments necessary.

So tell me, do you wanna go?

The dressing room curtain wasn't red nor velvet, but pushing them aside felt like the opening night to a grand show anyway. Fellow and Gidel stepped out, dressed in brand new outfits--similar in construction to the originals, without the holes or the mismatched fabrics. They had been trying on various threads provided by the town's local tailor for the last few hours--and, at the end of the day, this was what felt most comfortable to the duo.

A full-length mirror had been propped up against the wall, allowing them to inspect their figures in full dress. Gidel twirled and twirled until he got dizzy and had to take a seat. Fellow adjusted his lapels many times over, admiring the look and feel of brand new fabrics and buttons.

"Hmph. Not bad. Not bad at all," he said to his smug reflection.

"You're both so handsome," the tailor gushed. "The clothes suit you well."

"You sure we can have all of this for free? No strings attached?" Fellow asked warily.

His eyes darted to wheeled rack that displayed many more items. He almost breathed a sigh of relief to see it still there. Not a figment of his imagination, not a reward to be yanked away at a moment's notice. Something tangible and real.

"Yes, really! I'd appreciate it if you took them off of my hands. They're some of the season's old fashions--they've been hard to move--and some experimental pieces I made in my off-time that don't have mass appeal. It'd be a waste to not let them be worn and shown off." They chuckled to themselves. "Besides, free advertising for the shop, am I right?"

His eyes lit up, mouth breaking out into a smile that showed all of his teeth. "Hot dog! Didja hear that, Giddie? We’re set!”

The two scrambled to gather their new things. Left uncollected for too long, and they feared the clothes would vanish.

The tailor peered into their changing stall and, upon spotting their old discarded outfits strewn on the floor, tutted. They bent, retrieving them.

“You forgot to pick up your…”

They stopped.

The dark green trousers they had picked up bore large diamond shapes along one pant leg, a design most unusual. Textiles with red, green, and golden patterns pilled in the diamond holes, sealed in place with neat, tight lines of stitching. Saddle, passing back and forth—the sign of hand, not machine, stitch.

There’s talent here, they realized. Untapped potential.

The tailor cleared their throat.

“Excuse me, but have you ever considered taking up the needle and thread for a career…? If so, I might just have the apprenticeship for you.”

#twisted wonderland #twst #Fellow Honest #Gidel #twsr interactions #twisted wonderland interactions #disney twisted wonderland #disney twst #Reader #self insert #a fellow in need is a friend indeed #twst imagines #twisted wonderland imagines #twst scenarios #twisted wonderland scenarios

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neppy-34 · 3 months

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Puzzle pieces

3900 words/lee Lyla ler Miguel/romantic relationship

The orange lights of Miguel’s office illuminated his facial structure, highlighting his cheekbones and extenuating the contours of his face.

Tapping away at numerous screens, watching and cataloginging, almost as if it was Miguel's second nature.

His efforts were tireless, consistently observing different encounters between anomalies and spidermen alike, outsourcing locations and listing the number of captives that needed to be sent to their original dimensions.

His posture was a rigid Miguel‘s shoulders hunched as he put all focus and energy into the screens in front of him. Steady breaths were the only thing that could be heard beyond the whirrs and hums of the machines surrounding him. Totally engrossed in his work,Miguel was unable to register the gentle, yellow hue that materialized itself next to him.

The yellow contrasted with the orange light, yet miguel still was unaware of the presence next to him.

“Hey, big guy”

Miguel had to force himself to refrain from jumping at the newly noticed noise, simply bristling for a moment then smoothly looking over to the source of the noise.

Miguel's eyes landed on a pair of bright pink glasses, much too large for the face they were resting on. The yellow light shone like an angelic presence. Illuminating the dark room with soft, hopeful hues.

“Lyla, don't sneak up on me like that”

Miguel's voice sounded more disinterested than he had hoped, the cold tone seeping into his now shared environment with venomous vigor. Red eyes glowed in the darkness, the velvet colored spheres seeming almost to float, the rest of Miguel's body fading in the background.

Both of them glowed, watching each other.

Miguel opened his mouth, fangs falling on his bottom lip. He tried to conjure up some type of an apology, he hadnt meant to be so cold. The tone of his reprimand now creating an uncomfortable, awkward silence.

Before he could speak, lyla glitched closer to him, her hologram standing at what would be her regular human height. Still so much smaller compared to the monument Miguel's physique had become after all these years.

“I want to be in my body today.”

Lyla blinked a few times, and Miguel had to suppress a smile at how unneeded blinking was for her. Finding a sense of amusement in the undeniably human behavior that she had picked up.

Lyla’s physical body was finicky to say the least it often disconnected her from its metal casing. It often ran out of battery prematurely. It often felt strange for lyla to walk.

Her body was still a glorified prototype, but Lyla loved it all the same. Finally to interact with her world, with Miguel. To cling to him, to finally connect with him in a tangible sense.

“Okay”

Miguel blinked, realizing how sterilized his answer had sounded.

“Yes of course, we can do that Lyla.”

Still awkward, but at least he sounded more enthusiastic. Lyla only smiled, her thick eyelashes clumping together behind her glasses.

“It will get me away from these screens anyway.”

Miguel chuckled, glancing at lyla as he took a step from the abstract orange inner workings of his technology.

“Just like how you've been asking me to do all day”

Sass seeped out of Miguel’s words, his hips swinging to the side as he fully turned away from his tech. A smug smile appeared on his face before he smoothly jumped off his platform. Looking back at lyla, waiting for her to follow.

Lyla’s glitching form cascaded down, jumping from place to place, before settling herself next to miguel.

“Margo, please see to it that all the channels are being monitored, Lyla and I have some matters to attend to”

Miguel spoke gently, yet confidently into his watch. His long legs allowing him to stride across his office with ease.

Lyla giggled, wondering if Miguel had noticed that he had used what lyla proclaimed as the “Miguel customer service voice”

Miguel turned his head to the source of the giggling, his eyes half lidded. While his mouth remained in a neutral line, his brows had remained unfurrowed.

He was sufficiently amused.

——————-

The doors to the “special lab” as Miguel liked to call it, opened with a woosh, closing right behind Lyla and her companion.

Despite its flaws, lylas body was beautiful.

Silicone casing that mimicked human skin so perfectly, near flawless wiring, and implanted synthetic hairs. Ignoring the seams, and the mechanical core of the body, she would look fully human.

The yellow cast of lylas body glitching around the room brought a small smile to Miguel’s face, slowly striding to follow Lylas excited glitches

Finally reaching the table her body rested upon, Miguel sat beside the husk, reaching to support the back of its head with his hand. Holding it gently, like a glass sculpture.

“Go on then”

Miguel encouraged motioning for lyla to connect with her physical form.

A bit surprised at her lack of hesitation, Miguel chuckled to himself when Lyla immediately began to synchronize with the husk, her holoform slowly fading away.

After a few moments, the machine wirled to life, the hydraulics began to generate noise as Miguel helped lyla slowly sit up. Still acclimating to her physical form.

Her body hummed with life, electric fields resonating inside of her.

Deeming Lyla able to properly sit up by herself, Miguel slowly got up, padding over to retrieve her coat from the hook it was hung upon. Acquiring an exact replica of Lyla’s fur coat had not been easy, Miguel had to scout multiple tailors before finding one who was willing to embed such an intricate design onto the soft, near fuzzy material of the coat.

Yet he didn't regret any of it. Miguel would do anything for his Lyla.

Miguel slipped the coat around lylas shoulders, taking extra care to make sure the garment wouldn't fall off. Fastening the lapels firmly around her chest.

Lylas giggles caught Miguel by surprise, rearing his head to the side to look at her. Yet Lyla, absolutely loss in a haze of giddiness, puzzled him slightly.

“Lyla?”

Miguel's inquisition was nearly cut off by Lylas exclamation.

“It tickles!”

Puzzled, Miguel looked down at his hands, unbenounced to him, he had begun to rub and massage the base of lylas neck. Subconsciously trying to sooth the AI, not realizing her sensory settings had still yet to be fully developed.

“Oh- sorry Lyla I didn't mean-”

“It’s fine”

Lylas interruption utterly perturbed miguel, such an adament statement with such a large smile on her face.

Miguel knew lyla, he knew her quirks and the way lylas eyebrows would knit when she was being serious.

But the expression on lylas face was far from serious. A wide, toothy grin was plastered on her face. Her glasses slightly crooked from lylas hyper giggling.

“Don't be sorry Miguel”

Lyla leaned into Miguel's frame, nuzzling her cheek into his wide chest.

“It feels nice… I like it when you tickle me”

Miguel's face burned a deep shade of red. Something about lylas casual confession embarrassed Miguel to his very core. Perhaps it provided an unwanted looking glass into his own desires.

Miguel shook away the thought with a series of blinks, noting to himself to never indulge in such a thought again.

Rather Miguel chose to focus on Lyla, the culprit of his newfound confusion. He watched as Lyla’s grin held steadfast, looking up at Miguel expectantly. As if Lyla had hoped her confession would be rewarded with more of the sensations she enjoyed so thoroughly.

Miguel only stared back at her, feeling more than compelled to provide her with all she desired.

He waited a Moment, averting his gaze. Unsheathed claws began to pick at one another before Miguel raised his wrist towards his chin.

“Unexpected obligations have come up, please excuse my absence.”

Miguel didn't think he could register a portal fast enough. The omni colored hues of the gateway illuminating both him and his Lyla.

————————-

His bedroom was dim, just how Miguel liked it. Lyla felt nearly weightless in his arms, despite the metals she was composed of.

Despite Miguel's ornate urge to playfully throw Lyla onto the large bed the two often slept together on, He simply laid Lyla down gently. Taking great care as to not jostle her too hard.

“Miguel you big softie”

Lyla smiled, wrapping her arms around Miguel's neck as he maneuvered himself to cage her between his muscular arms.

Miguel's eyes glowed an invigorating bright red, as he stared Lyla down, analyzing every little feature of hers before leaning down, and softly locking her lips with his own.

Miguel always felt some ornate guilt every time he indulged in moments like this with Lyla. He always felt as if he was taking advantage of her in some way, despite her protests and reassurance. Some part of Miguel was afraid that Lyla had some predisposed reason to love him. That she felt required to love him due to Miguel being her creator.

“Miguel, don't be an idiot.”

Lyla’s round eyes stared back up at his, her lips forming into a disapproving pout. She always knew what he was thinking. All these years together it was a bit impossible not to understand every little change of expression or falter in words.

“I like you, that shouldn't be wrong.”

Her pout morphed into something akin to a scowl, lylas brows furrowed as her eyes narrowed. Obviously she seemed to be frustrated with Miguel's constant self retribution.

Lips locked once more as Lyla leaned up, kissing the corner of Miguel’s mouth in quick, succeeding pecks.

Miguel leaned down, resting his forehead on his companion’s, breathing steadily. He would give up his disapproving thoughts for now, Miguel never enjoyed making Lyla unhappy.

“Did you still want me too uh…”

Miguel swallowed, his words no louder than a murmur.

“You know”

He closed his eyes in an attempt to avoid Lyla’s gaze, focusing on peppering kisses along her neck. Keeping his attention at the junction between her collarbone and jugular. Miguel hoped that keeping Lyla entertained in this way would deter her from prying about his sheepishness. Unfortunately Miguel’s efforts proved futile.

“I'm the one asking to be tickled, but you’re the one getting embarrassed”

Lyla chuckled, mostly due to the barrage of kissing but the humor of her current situation failed to escape her.

“That's pretty funny”

Her chuckle transitioned into bubbly giggling as Miguel’s fervent kissing began to contain more fangs than lips, as he began to gently nibble at the vulnerable skin on lylas neck.

Lyla eagerly craned her head to the side. She hoped that if Miguel gained access to more skin, he would continue his love bites with ease.

And so he did.

Passionate kisses and nibbles trailed up Lylas neck with no hesitation. Causing electric shocks to glide through her body and settle in her chest. Her giggling never faltered. Elated chirps of laughter filled the room as Miguel began to wander his hands up and down Lyla's sides.

Miguel relished in Lyla’s sweet laughter, lifting his head up from her neck in an attempt to see her smile. Lyla’s teeth were ever so crooked, and her nose crinkled in her mirth.

His admiration for lyla had overshadowed Miguel's self doubt, egging him on. Beckoning his fingers to wiggle and squeeze just a bit faster.

“Miguehehel!!”

Lyla squeaked, her hands smoothed down Miguel's back, clutching onto the excess fabric of his shirt. Completely lost in her joyful hysterics.

Her pink,heart-shaped glasses sat crooked on her face, jostled due to the cheery wiggling that Lyla seemed to be unable to contain.

Miguel felt a response was unneeded, he simply remained listening to Lyla's laughter. Wiggling his fingers into the backs of her ribs, or at least the welded steel that mimicked where her ribs would be.

“Miggy!”

Lylas use of his nickname caused Miguel to look up from his diligent work. Slowing his motions down slightly, in fear that he was pushing Lyla too far.

“Lyla?”

His inquiry was soft, barely heard over the residual giggling that was escaping Lyla’s lips.

“It tickles” lyla took in an unneeded breath “Tickles real bad”

Lylas smile never faltered, her brown eyes glistened behind her glasses. Looking up at Miguel, she slipped her arms down from miguels back, dragging her fingertips down Miguel's shoulders, finally holding his large biceps in both hands.

“Do you want me to stop?”

Miguel frowned, concerned about a possible short circuit due to the constant stimulation being provided to Lyla’s servers.

“Do you want to stop?”

Lyla’s smug smile taunted Miguel and his patience. He knew full well that lyla was only trying to get a reaction out of him. goading Miguel into really letting loose and devouring her like she desired..

He could see as lyla began to calculate the most plausible outcome of her teasing, hoping that she would receive the response that she so desired.

How could Miguel deny her such a thing?

With a sort of playful roughness, Miguel pressed Lyla into the bed with his own weight, nuzzling into her neck to nip and gnaw at her nape. He dragged his fangs across her jugular, letting out small snarls and growls as he did so.

Miguel didn't mind playing monster for her, for his Lyla. Whatever made her happy, made him happy. Not to mention the playfulness seemed to actively draw out dread from his heart, leaving him feeling lighter, happier.

Lyla’s gleeful giggles and squeals filled his mind as he snuck his taloned fingers under the hem of her top, dragging the pinpoints ever so gently on her pseudo-skin.

“Miguel! Oh god- it's so bahahad!”

Lyla was wriggling fully, the tickling and teasing seemed to cause her software to somewhat lose control of her bodily function. This only made Miguel chuckle fondly, retracting his claws to skitter up and down Lylas' bare stomach with his blunt nails.

“I'm glad to see your body is functioning better now”

Miguel observed with an utterly neutral tone, trying to tease Lyla even further, as if he wasn’t currently drawing a barrage of sweet giggles from the AI. It was interesting to see how functional she was, a mere 2 weeks ago and this interaction was most likely impossible.

“I think the- the software!”

Lyla cut herself off with a hearty round of giggles, accompanied by a couple snorts.

“The software update helped, I think!”

The sentence was very much rushed out, Lyla obviously trying to fight against the steady stream of laughter. She tilted her head back, subtly signaling to Miguel that she wanted him to nibble there once more. If Lyla wasn't Lyla, and Miguel wasn't Miguel, the signal may have not worked. But Lyla was so very pleased when it did.

Miguel lightly blew cold air on Lylas neck, chuckling when she flinched.

“Just making sure your sensors are working”

Lyla simply scoffed, it was easy to catch Miguel in such a silly lie. She knew exactly why he did it; to mess with her. Miguel could be such a pain sometimes, especially when he was feeling playful.

Fangs suddenly unsheathed as Miguel nipped and nibbled at the exposed skin below Lylas ear. His fingers continued their expedition, wiggling up and down Lylas torso. He even lingered around her hips, giving them a few rapid squeezes before climbing up to just below her underarms.

Her body tensed up at the constant changing of sensation. Her algorithm could hardly keep track of the stimulus changes detected by her sensors. The preoccupation caused the underlying mechanisms of her psyche to cloud. Leaving her mind in a blissful state of static. Just what she wanted. No having to track Miguel’s vitals, or categorize the many anomalies that still occasionally slipped through the metaphorical cracks of space and time.

Lyla loved Miguel, loved him as much as her pulsing wires and chips could manage. But she got tired, so many hours of watching, learning, teaching. She needed a break, and she was so grateful Miguel was here to give her one.

All she could think of was his kisses, and his fangs, oh his fangs. Lyla had grown to adore the sharp canines that Miguel possessed. How they so gently poked into her skin, how they peeked out of his lips in every smile, how the fangs would often catch on his lip, causing her to giggle and point out the accident as Miguel would flush and look away as he adjusted his lips.

Right now, Miguel was nibbling into her with utmost care. Dragging his teeth across her jugular as he growled out praise and horribly embarrassing observations about Lyla arching her stomach up towards him. Miguel was so warm, such a soft and comforting force emitting from such a stark and rigid man

His hand lay its palm flat on lylas stomach, flexing and relaxing his fingers in a steady pattern. Miguel's fingertips played with the silicone, feeling the incredibly smooth surface. Gently prodding and guiding his fingers along her softness, savoring how her body ebbed and flowed along with his perfectly.

Even when lyla arched her back, her stomach and hips seemed to connect perfectly with his torso. Two puzzle pieces perfectly intertwined.

“Should I.. no.. no that’s childish.”

Miguel cut himself off before his thought could be fully realized, shaking his head and continuing to wiggle his fingers gently into lylas middle.

“Whaha- what, what is it miguel?”

Lyla fought back her giggles for a moment, forcing out coherent words. Giddiness be damned, her desire to make Miguel express himself won all her mental battles.

Miguel flushed for a moment, his ears becoming hot. He looked away, changing focus to the neatly printed on freckles that sprinkled Lyla’s arms.

“Miguel, I’m waiting”

He bit back a growl, keeping himself from scribbling his talons wildly into her stomach. His fingers stilled and he lay his head onto Lyla’s shoulder. Positioning himself so that only his cheek made contact with her form. Laying on his side next to her, he let out a sigh.

“Do not laugh at me.”

“Wouldn't dream of it, Miguel.”

Despite her situation Lyla possessed a rather smug grin, finding joy in his awkward and self conscious mannerisms. She found it quite amusing how Miguel bore embarrassment for his theoretical next move, but none for the barrage of tickling he had just put the AI through.

Miguel swallowed, closing his eyes momentarily before opening them. Zeroing in on lylas exposed midsection. He lifted his hand and dangled his fingers about a half foot above her body.

“The.. uh the itsy-bitsy spider, crawled..”

Talons were unleashed, and his hand plunged ever so softly into the soft synthetic flesh right below Lyla’s belly button. Crawling his fingers ever so slowly up her torso, acting as if his hand was a spider itself.

Miguel's brows knit together as he fought the blush currently creeping up his neck. Scrunching his nose as he pushed through the shame.

“… up the water spout. Down came the rain and…”

Miguel grimaced, crawling his talons all the way up to the middle of Lyla’s ribs. Taking a moment to tweak a couple of the bones. Which earned sweet giggles from Lyla, which were already bubbling up due to Miguel’s both goofy and reluctant singing.

“Washed the… spider out- oh god. okay okay I’m sorry Lyla I just can’t .”

Miguel let out a dramatic sigh, burying his face into Lyla’s shoulder and letting out a defeated breath of air. Lyla burst into bright laughter, partly due to Miguel dragging his claws down her stomach, but mostly because of Miguel’s now shattered ego.

Miguel chuckled as he shook his head into lylas shoulder, the cringing feeling of shame rushing over him. It was an uncomfortable chuckle, a sort of laugh whose only purpose was to attempt to alleviate some of the tension accumulating onto his psyche.

Lyla smiled and adjusted her position, bringing her knees up and planting her feet flat on the mattress. Focusing on how Miguel’s tickling turned into gentle rubbing.

She sighed happily, focusing on how her sensors registered the palm of Miguel’s hand, repeating soft, circular motions on her stomach. Settling herself into her pillow, she wiggled against Miguel’s frame. Settling herself between his arms.

Miguel followed her lead wrapping his body around hers. Strong arms crossed over her chest and he tucked lylas head under his chin. Puzzle pieces fully pressed together. Making one perfect, beautiful shape.

He leaned his head down, nuzzling his nose into Lyla’s head before inhaling gently. She smelled soft. A sort of gentle, nearly bland smell. A slight hint of mild perfume, and the fresh scent of laundry. The calming smell began to release the tension between his shoulders. As Miguel’s body began to relax a soft purr began to rumble in his throat.

His body closed comfortably around his Lyla, clutching her like a stuffed toy. She was so perfect, so soft. So comforting. Lyla was Miguel’s perfect companion; she combated his worst and complemented his best.

They were two different people intrinsically intertwined. Fated to never be fully apart from each other. Both Miguel and Lyla held the other in their hearts, never to be discarded.

Miguel opened his mouth to speak, mumbling into the top of lylas head. His words were soft, lacking the edge they usually did when Miguel held the persona of the spider society's leader.

“I love you Lyla.”

He spoke gently, yet with confidence. Miguel's words were not a confession, rather an affirmation.

“I love you too Miguel.”

Lyla intertwined her fingers with Miguel’s, feeling the rough calluses that had formed where his talons would emerge. Such rough hands always treated her so gently, with utmost kindness and care.

The pair laid there, both taking the other in. Miguel nearly began to dose off, sleepless nights finally rearing their heads to nip at his conscience.

That was until his eyes shot awake with realization.

“I left Margo alone”

His words cut off as he unlatched himself from Lyla’s body, rolling off the bed and landing on his feet in quick succession.

“Alone to monitor all the channels.”

Lyla finished Miguel’s thought for him, scooting off the bed herself before she was able to touch the tips of her toes onto the floor.

Miguel stretched out an arm to Lyla, offering a stabilizing force to help the AI steady herself as she stood.

“Please excuse my uh, long absence. My obligations seemed to draw on longer than I had expected.”

Miguel took a short breath, changing the channel of his watch and speaking once more into the device. His voice much less authoritative in tone.

“Margo please take a break at your earliest convenience”

He paused before continuing, playing with his claws.

“Sorry for leaving you for so long, I’m back in the building already, so don’t worry.”

Miguel winced at his own awkward attempts to sound friendly, and the blatant lie he had told. Yet some of the shame was relieved when Margo responded to his message with a deadpan, albeit playful response.

“Back to work Miguel?”

Miguel flicked his wrist and opened another portal, the orange hues lighting up the cool tones of his bedroom.

“Back to work Lyla.”

The pair held hands as they stepped through the portal. Always together, fitting like matching puzzle pieces.

———————————

thank you everybody for taking the time to read my fic!! I know lyla and Miguel can be a bit of a rare pair but this ship is very near and dear to my heart. I hope that you enjoyed reading! If you have any suggestions for another fan fiction please leave me a message in my ask box!!

#nep rambles #sfw tickles #tickling #atsv tickle #miguel o'hara #ler miguel #lee lyla #lyla #sfw tickling #spiderman tickle #across the spiderverse tickle #spiderverse tickle #tickle fic #holofang #thanks to my gf and buddy who beta read this :33 #i really hope you guys enjoy this one

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galaxywarp · 2 months

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What do you do when you're in a bad headspace and can get out and it affects friendships and they start leaving you and you're alone and have no idea what to do and you think life and yourself can't improve

It was a slow and grueling process but my friendships finally started genuinely improving only after I worked my ass off to learn how to comfort myself. Because I could never truly get the comfort and relief I was looking for in other people and trying to was just setting us all up to fail.

Little tangible things I’ve done over the course of several long months that have added up to feeling kind of better:

-I go out of my way to thank myself when I do something nice for myself, no matter how small. I started with bagging up a single bag of trash. I placed my hand over my heart and said hey thanks for doing that. It felt gross and fake. I did it even if it felt gross and fake. It stopped feeling so gross and fake eventually.

-if im spiraling i try to pick my next activity based on the outcome i want. If I pick up my phone, what am i looking for? Humor to distract me? Something to read? Do I want to write about how im feeling? Listen to a song about how im feeling?

-say “thanks for listening” instead of “sorry for venting” to your loved ones.

-leave traces of your own existence for yourself. Pictures. Notes. Drawings. If you have a thought and a notebook just write it down. It helps me feel more like a real person when I leave evidence behind that im here. It’s also comforting to be able to help recall memories and feelings that are blurry with time.

-find something cheap and dumb that makes you happy. I like bouncy balls that you can get for a quarter from those machines and the little tiny toy slinkies that they sell at my grocery store. These things serve no purpose but to be fun to hold and throw around and eventually lose

-try to remember that good days don’t have to be filled with excitement or joy. A good day can maybe just mean that today you didn’t feel as much despair as yesterday. Contentment with neutrality instead of seeking euphoria

-everything cycles. Mood tracking can help me remember that. I have weeks where I feel so sad that im sure I’ve never felt anything except sad but then I look and a journal entry from last month says that I had a few pretty good days in a row actually. And I’ll have a few pretty good days in a row again eventually

hang in there.

#asks

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venus-haze · 1 year

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Rip This Place Apart (Driller Killer x Reader)

Summary: He’s gonna rock your world, baby!

Note: Female reader, but no other descriptors are used. This is based on an anonymous request. I wrote this while I was dealing with a bout of insomnia, ironically. Do not interact if you’re under 18 or post thinspo/ED content.

Word count: 1.5k

Warnings: Descriptions of blood and gore. Sexually explicit content. Do not interact if you’re under 18.

A man kept appearing in your dreams, and he wouldn’t go away. Leather-clad and oozing obnoxious amounts of sex appeal, he was the opposite of a problem, until your dreams started feeling a little too real. Maybe it was your subconscious’ way of telling you to get laid, but every time you had some kind of interest in a man, he clouded your mind until you either made a fool of yourself or retreated.

That night was going to be different, though. You and your friend Marcie had spotted a flyer for a funky looking local band called Shriek and the Spyders, a group of self-professed psychobilly hooligans who were known for their wild shows and over-the-top onstage antics. A bartender who’d overheard you and Marcie discussing the show the day before advised, “Wear something you won’t mind getting stained.” Your interest piqued, and you figured a skimpy black top and similarly black skirt would do.

The Crypt was a hole-in-the-wall joint that certainly lived up to its name. You could hardly see inside, save for a few red overhead lights, because of course they were red. The light fog that swathed the room was either from an effects machine or so many people chain smoking. When you approached the bar, you scanned the cocktail menu, all named after and inspired by classic monsters. You ordered a Frankenstein-themed drink, wondering if it were possible for a place to be too campy.

“C’mon, let’s try to get closer to the stage before they go on,” Marcie said once you both got your drinks.

About fifteen minutes later, the band strutted onstage, an abundance of leather and pompadours. Almost like—no, you weren’t supposed to be thinking about him. Not bothering with introductions, Shriek and the Spyders went right into an upbeat song that made the raucous crowd go wild. They didn’t let up, sweat dripping down Shriek’s face as he ran back and forth across the stage, microphone in hand.

In the middle of their third song, a spray of fake blood rained over the crowd, leading to cheers and screams nearly drowning out the music. Some of the effects looked a little too realistic for your comfort. The bass player’s “eye” popped out at one point, and the lead guitarist’s face seemed to literally melt during a solo a few songs later.

You and Marcie had been dancing along to the whole set, your drinks long since discarded, half spilled on each other as other concert-goers bumped into you. It was the most fun you’d had in a long time, but you couldn’t shake the sense of foreboding that settled in your gut no matter how much you tried to focus on the show.

In the middle of another song, Shriek broke into a howl as a giant drill emerged through his chest, spraying the crowd with blood again. Except, this time you weren’t so sure it was fake. No one else seemed to care. The carnage only electrified the people around you as they roared and cheered when Shriek collapsed near the microphone stand, his guts hanging off the stage. The floor beneath you shook at the crowd’s riotous stomping and jumping at the scene they’d just witnessed. When you looked up at the stage, you were horrified to see him. Gore hung from the end of his drill-tipped guitar, splattering the crowd as he revved it, keeping eye contact with you and grinning slyly at your disbelief.

He leaned into the mic, the corners of his lips curling into a cat-like grin as he announced with a swoon-worthy croon, “This is dedicated to the one I love.”

Then he pointed right at you.

The energy in the room shifted to a tangible malignancy, or maybe it was your own panic as you tried to push and shove your way out of the crowd. Instead, you only found yourself being forced closer to the stage, his romance-laced innuendos and skillful guitar strumming overwhelmed your senses and made your skin crawl. It felt like the whole crowd was in on his scheme to get you.

With each song you were shoved closer, and closer, until for the first time since he manifested in your dreams, you were able to reach out and touch him.

Was he even real?

You were dizzy by the time the show ended, hardly able to protest when you were manhandled and told something about wanting to be seen backstage.

“I want details!” Marcie shouted, oblivious to your plight as the rent-a-cop shuffled you away from her.

Backstage was a stretch. More like a narrow hallway with a utility closet and a small, graffiti-covered room that had been requisitioned by the bands. The door to the makeshift dressing room slammed behind you when you stumbled inside. He was waiting there for you, sitting on a grungy looking red velvet couch, his leather-clad legs spread wide open. His jacket was discarded in the corner of the room, revealing the sheen of sweat and blood that coated his body.

Your eyes drifted to his drill, large and intimidating, with a red tip that looked angry against its large shaft. You could’ve sworn you saw it twitch a bit, and recoiled at the thought of it penetrating you.

With a click of his tongue, he drew your attention back to him. Raising his hand, he beckoned you over to him with a curl of his index and middle fingers. You felt a jolt rush through your core at the motion. Almost involuntarily, you approached until the points of your kitten heels touched the tips of his steel-toed boots.

“How’d you like the show, baby?” he asked.

“It was…a lot.”

“It was all for you.”

“Yeah…” you trailed off, blatantly ogling the bulge straining against his tight pants.

He grinned, thrusting up toward your face. “Could use a little help, sugar,” he crooned, eyes dangerous as he palmed his crotch. “Don’t be cruel to a heart that’s true.”

You let out a shaky breath in response, and proceeded to sit on his lap. He threw his head back, groaning at the sensation of your weight on him. Tangling your fingers in his slicked black hair, you pressed yourself closer to him, kissing his neck as you rolled your hips against his. You nipped at his throat when you felt his cock twitch against your pussy.

“Goddamn, baby,” he moaned. “Gimme more of that.”

Rolling your hips again, you let out a soft whimper at the friction from his pants on your clit. It was as if a switch flipped inside you, desperation flooding your senses as you chased your pleasure, grinding against him, almost embarrassed at the sounds your wet pussy was making as it rubbed against his hard cock.

Your breathing shallowed, muscles ached as you rutted against him, feeling yourself getting closer to orgasm. For a moment, it felt like he was only there for you to use, to get off with like some living, leather-wrapped sex toy. Maybe he was. You weren’t thinking clearly enough to question it.

“Wanna go all the way with you, baby,” he forced out. “Wanna make you mine.”

You moaned at that. “Yours.”

You swiftly shifted so you could pull off your panties, tossing them aside on the couch. He undid his pants, his leaking cock springing free from its leather confines. Your pussy involuntarily clenched at the size of him, and your eyes frantically met his smug face.

He reached between you, his fingers stroking your sensitive pussy. “Cat got your tongue?”

You kissed him again, more teeth and tongue than before as you lifted your hips, slowly lowering yourself onto his cock and whimpering into his mouth at how it stretched you mercilessly. You caught his bottom lip in your teeth, biting down a little too hard and drawing blood, but he took it in stride, licking it from his lips.

He sung your praises, his hands firmly on your hips as he guided you, your pussy taking all of him. His five o’clock shadow scratched at your sensitive skin as he pressed kisses to your neck and shoulders.

“Fuck!” you cried out as you bounced on his dick, your cervix pounded by his length. Your vision blurred with tears, thighs burning as you kept riding him. So close. “I—I’m gonna—“

“That’s it, sugar. Come for me.”

Your orgasm rolled through you, rocking your hips against his as you held onto his shoulders to steady yourself. Your pussy pulsed around his cock, and you could feel his hot cum fill you as your body milked his seed from him. He was vocal when he came, your name practically echoing throughout the room in a perverse melody.

Riding out your orgasm, you shuddered against him, feeling his soft, spent cock still buried inside you.

“That was…are you real?” you asked breathlessly.

“In dreams you’re mine, all the time,” he answered cryptically, kissing you with a disarming tenderness.

#driller killer x reader #slasher x reader #slumber party massacre 2 #slumber party massacre #spm2 #slasher fandom #slasher community

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megamindsecretlair · 7 months

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Be My Little Darling - Chapter 12

Chapter 11 Interlude

Pairing: Loki x Black!Fem!reader / Plus Size reader

Warnings: 18+. Minors DNI. You are in charge of your own reading experience. ANGST. There's ANGST. Mentions of grief, violence and suicidal ideation (please seek help, it's never a light subject). Soft Loki.

Summary: Loki is the exclusive owner of the hottest club in New Asgard. Dubbed the Nine Realms, each of the nine rooms represent a different realm. You are his second in command, working the floors and ensuring everyone is having fun. An attack on the club affects everyone, you most of all.

Word Count: 4,604k

Masterlist

A/N: See! Not too long between updates! Alsooo, had to rework some things in the outline. I don't think it's going to require all 22 chapters and I like the condensed version. I don't want a story to linger just because I can't say goodbye to it eventually. LOL. Likes are always awesome. Please consider commenting and reblogging to help support writers! I block ageless blogs!

Taglist: @cantstayawaycani @braverthanthenewworld @monaeesstuff @chaos-4baby @dayjlovesromance @soft-persephone @mybonafidefeelings @nerdieforpedro @browngirldominion @thecookiebratz @we-outsiiiide @foxherder @itzgabz22 @iv0rysoap

You and Loki ran towards the screaming. Your heart leapt in your throat. Was there no end to this bullshit? Your headache from earlier only increased tenfold. The shrill, loud screaming grated on your nerves. Working here was becoming a dangerous hazard. Once you found this blasted saboteur, you’d have to worry about people leaving this job.

Responsibilities were starting to stack like those colorful block things Midgard children played with. The blocks would topple soon though. Some errant wind or careless leg would crash into it and bring the whole thing crashing down.

Would you survive it?

The screaming was coming from the Helheim room. Patrons and performers were leaving the room, shrieking with a terror reserved for their worst nightmares. The entrance was surrounded by dark smoke but there were no alarms and the sprinklers weren’t on. Was it a fire?

You took a deep breath but didn’t feel anything burning. You attempted to enter, but Loki held you back. “I don’t like the way this looks,” he said. His calculating sapphire eyes took in the entrance and the people spilling out of it, but you didn’t see two of your performers.

There was still so much screaming. You were not one to ignore it. You constructed two batons in your hands and rushed inside anyway with Loki calling after you.

The smoke was thick. Tangible in a way that let you know that magic was afoot. You called out for the staff members that were assigned to the room at the time. “Sweetie! Baby!”

Yes, you knew the names were stupid. But Loki was terrible with names and it provided an extra layer of mystery for the patrons. Not to mention privacy. There were too many drunk tourists that you had to kick out for trying to get handsy with your wait staff.

“Darling!” Loki called after you. You looked behind you but the smoke was too thick. Too cloying. You breathed it in and it was like sweet fog from a fog machine, except thicker and blacker. The dark decor in the room did little to help. The fog obscured everything. You couldn’t see two inches from your nose.

You coughed around the thick fog, grunting every few minutes as you ran into a table or a chair. You didn’t know how far you traveled into the room or where you were. “Call out!” You yelled.

“Oh gods!”

You turned to the sound. “Call out!” You yelled again. You moved to your right. If you only traveled a few feet in the room, you should be approaching the small bar area. Your stomach crashed into the corner and air whooshed out of you in a painful sigh.

You clutched your stomach and dissolved one of the batons. You checked your stomach by feeling alone. It didn’t seem broken. And nothing cut you, you hoped.

“Darling!” Loki’s voice echoed.

“Loki!” You yelled.

You coughed. The fog in the room seemed to get thicker, crawling into every nook and cranny that you possessed. It went up your nose, down your throat. It burned your eyes. The coughing only got worse as you uselessly searched for your employees.

Flashes of green light turned your attention to the far left side of the room. Whatever Loki was attempting, it did little to combat the fog. However, it was a beacon that you stumbled towards. You held out your hands to try and avoid obstacles or getting hurt in the process.

Screaming from outside of the room was still driving your headache up the wall. Everything hurt. Your heart, your head, your eyeballs. The green light continued to flicker every so often. The more you walked towards it, the more it bobbed away at the last moment.

“Loki!” You called out.

“Darling!” Loki sounded like he was behind you, distant. The flickering green light was in front of you.

The fog must be playing tricks on you. You coughed, trying to clear it from your mouth but the chemical taste remained. “Loki!”

The green light hovered mere feet away. You reached out your hand, prepared to grab a piece of Loki’s suit. An arm or Hel, you’d take a leg at this point. When your hand swiped through the light, Sweetie appeared.

Her eyes glowed green, a twisted visage of anger. You screamed and tripped back, crashing over a chair, and falling into the ground with a painful thud.

“Is this all the attention I’m worth, Loki?” Sweetie asked. Her voice sounded amplified as if she were speaking through the stereo system in the room.

“I leave you clues to know who I am and yet all you concern yourself with is your pet?” Sweetie moved in an angry line, pacing back and forth like a warrior gearing up for a fight with a frost giant.

“Why the games? Why not reveal yourself?” You heard Loki but you didn’t see him.

Another pair of glowing green eyes emerged from the dark fog. Baby. She joined Sweetie as they paced, of one mind and body. Similar to those jerks who attacked the club.

“I want to see the look on your face when you figure it out. Until then, the fun must continue. But I will not be ignored!” Sweetie and Baby spoke in unison. It was creepy. It was wrong.

Pain bloomed up your leg but you had to get up. You had to help. You got to your feet and limped towards your employees. “Sweetie!” You grabbed her hand and shook her, trying to get her attention. She had to still be in there.

Sweetie - or whoever was controlling Sweetie - tilted her head at you. Her hand came up to gently caress your cheek.

“He will break you too,” she said, softly.

“Sweetie, I know you’re in there. Fight it!” You yelled. You shook Sweetie but she remained stiff, strong, and unyielding.

“It’s what he does. And you will help my revenge,” she said. The fuck was that supposed to mean?

You moved around her, heading towards Baby. Either she closed her eyes or the entity left her because the green light went out and you could no longer see. You coughed and spread out your hands, waving your remaining baton. You didn’t want to hit either one, but maybe pain helped.

A strong hand gripped your neck and you screamed, turning to bring your baton down. Thanos emerged from the fog, like a devilish mountain. He grinned, his purple face transforming into a satisfied smirk.

He moved methodically around the space, illuminated by some inner glow to where you could see everything. Icy fear wrapped a bony hand around your heart and squeezed painfully. You stumbled away from Thanos.

Gold glinted off of his gauntlet. The monstrosity was half complete, filled with glowing rocks around the knuckles. “It should have been you,” he said, kindly. Patiently. You hated that most of all about him. The way he spoke as if this was some divine duty he had to perform and not the massacre it was.

You couldn’t breathe. Combined with the thick fog, your head swam. The lack of oxygen made your steps falter. You backed away and couldn’t take your eyes off of Thanos. You tripped over something and fell hard on your ass. You patted the ground around you and clutched fabric.

The lump you tripped over felt like a body. A man by the feel of it. He wasn’t moving or breathing. Thanos continued his slow steps towards you. “It should have been you,” he said.

Tears sprang to your eyes but did little to obscure his face. That terrible face that haunted your every waking moment. Your dreams. Your thoughts. Beside him, a figure emerged.

“No,” you gasped. Your friend, the one Thanos snapped away, stood beside Thanos as if she were his daughter. She leaned her head on his thick, protruding arm.

“It should have been you instead of me,” she said. Her voice was just as you remembered. Clear and loud as a bell. Soft and feminine. She had thick ropes of dark hair, a small elven face, skin like butterscotch. She used to read those silly little pamphlets out loud to you while you walked to the playhouse. Gods, you missed the playhouse. You missed her.

Tears flowed freely now. You had thought of her so often, but her image had started to fade away. Asgard didn’t have those…camera things that Midgard had. There was no way to capture someone’s image except by painting their picture.

Silly commonfolk like you and her didn’t have need for such things. Asgard seemed endless. Like a paradise in the universe. You had forever with her. Forever to live. And it was savagely ripped away.

“It’s time to right that wrong,” Thanos said, bunching up his brow. He was so hideous. Disgusting. Hairless and cruel.

“It’s time for you to die this time,” your best friend, Erian, said. Even thinking her name hurt.

“No, no, no, I’m sorry!” You screamed.

“Darling!” Loki’s voice was a distant buzz that faded too quickly. Your thoughts were wholly on Thanos and Erian walking beside him.

You scooted along the floor. You knew better than to turn your back on an enemy but you flipped over and crawled along the floor. Your tears were a haunting, ugly thing leaking from your eyes. Snot dripped from your nose.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” you mumbled.

“Look how she cowers. You’re a craven, rotten piece of trash,” Erian said.

“I know,” you whispered. Your fingers gripped the disgusting floor as you pulled yourself towards the direction of the door. There was a faint, pale light there. Your head continued to swim. A painful throbbing made your eyes ache. Your throat burning from your mumblings and apologies and the thick fog.

“Stop this, at once!” Loki’s voice was still too far away. You were alone. Alone.

You would always be alone. You were too stupid, too weak, too desperate to do things right that it only turned out wrong. You couldn’t take care of your siblings. You couldn’t find your family. You couldn’t take care of the club and deduce who the saboteur was. You couldn’t get Loki to admit his feelings. And now Thanos has returned.

How did he find you? How did he know? Could he scent your uselessness across the galaxy? Had he realized his mistake? That he should have taken you and not Erian?

You didn’t know what force propelled you forward. You longed to stop crawling. To let him take you. To let him trade your life for Erian’s. Still you moved forward. Cravens still had a tiny drive for self-preservation. Some ancient, deep knowledge in your bones told you to move forward and escape the danger.

Thanos’ taunting laugh made you shriek with fear. Your heart felt like it was going to shrivel in your chest. You didn’t have enough air to breathe let alone scream out for help. Who in the world would help you?

Loki. Loki would help.

All Loki cared about was himself. He was more interested in owning you, torturing you, than ever seeing you as a true partner. How could you think such a thing? That you were worthy of a god?

You weren’t even worthy of the skin you occupied. “I’m sorry, Im sorry,” you cried.

“Do you think I want your apology?” Erian asked. Her soft voice sounded wrong. Twisted. Cruel.

Sobs wracked your body, making you shiver with fear. You didn’t want to be crushed under Thanos’ thumb. You thought you’d die doing something else. Perhaps in old age or in a fight. Perhaps by your own construct if anyone ever got the better of you. Not like this. Not like this.

Your thoughts were violently pulled back to the day on the ship when Thanos attacked. How his minions showed no mercy. No capability of the sort. Thor tried to fight but after dealing with Hela and Surtur, not to mention the total and complete destruction of your homeworld, he was powerless to stop him.

Thor, the golden Prince who summoned lightning, was powerless. It was laughable if it weren’t so sad. Loki attempted to fight him as well, going so far as to summon a knife to drive into Thanos’ neck. The gauntlet prevented him from doing so and Thanos blasted him against the ship’s hull, knocking him out.

Thanos’ minions separated the rest of your people. You could smell the fear and despair in the air. There was misery and heartbreak aplenty. You clutched Erian’s hand in yours, desperate to stick together.

You watched his minions shove people back and forth but they were paying more attention to the other side. You pushed Erian. You pushed for her to go to the other side so she would be safe. She cried and shook her head. You needed her to survive.

You tried to push your siblings as well but they clung to you instead. You tried to join Erian but there were too many hulking beings in your way. One such creature shoved you back to your side. Without warning, they turned their blasters to the opposite side and began firing.

“No!” Your scream only joined the ones on your side. The lucky ones. You watched Erian crumple into a heap on the floor and you screamed and you screamed and you screamed.

You finally reached the entrance to the Helheim room and crawled out into the hallway. There were others there, lost in some kind of trance. Your staff’s eyes glowed green as they stalked through the halls.

The black smoke spread to the other rooms, invading like a malevolent parasite. People screamed and coughed. Pandemonium raced through the club as muzak played an upbeat song, mocking the current situation.

“Coward,” Erian said.

“Pathetic,” Thanos said.

You were a coward. You were pathetic. You were responsible for your best friend dying. You heard someone calling your name but you were useless. You crawled with no destination in mind as Thanos’ boots thundered behind you.

Didn’t anyone see him? Didn’t anyone hear them? Was that why everyone was screaming? Thanos’ minions must be in the club terrorizing your staff and patrons. No one would ever want to come here again.

A keening whine left you. You cried and cried but there was no one to help. Nothing to do but wait for Thanos to catch up to you and finish what he started on that ship.

Hands gripped your arms and tried to pull. You still had no air to scream. You fought whoever it was, fought to get away. If it was Erian, you didn’t want to go with her. She was free now. She could escape.

“Darling, Darling,” you heard.

You were flipped over. Loki’s face swam in your eyes and you reeled away from him. “Loki, look out!” You yelled. Thanos hovered behind him. Thanos approached and smiled, bringing his gauntlet across his chest.

“No! No! No! Not him! Take me!” You yelled with a raw, singed throat. You fought with Loki, fought to climb to your knees.

“Darling, gods,” Loki breathed. He tried to hug you or press you to his chest. You fought him. You fought him with what little remaining strength you had left.

“Take me! Take me! Take me!” You said, over and over. A prayer to the ancestors in Valhalla. You could not enter like this. Not dying feebly on the ground unwilling to protect yourself. You didn’t care. You’d spend eternity in Hel if it meant that Loki was alive and safe and whole.

One of the stones on his gauntlet glowed a bright purple. Your head felt like it was being squeezed like a watermelon. You yelled, voice rough from overuse and passed out to the sound of Loki calling your name.

Sound was the first to reach you. Soft murmuring that sounded like prayer roused you and you turned to the sound. If this was Hel, it was awfully cold. You made a noise.

Gods, you hurt. All over. Your fingers especially.

“Darling,” you heard.

Your mouth was dry. You smacked your lips trying to work up some saliva to clear it but it was still too scratchy and raw. “Cold,” you said.

A moment later, a blanket was draped over you. You sighed.

“Darling, open your eyes. Please.”

The only person who called you Darling was Loki. And he was safe on Midgard. If you heard his voice, that must mean he was dragged to Hel with you. Your consciousness swam to the surface, fighting to get to him.

“Safe,” you mumbled.

Loki gripped your hand and delicately kissed your fingers one by one. “Please,” he whispered.

You were trying. Your eyes were glued shut. You tried with all of your might and was able to crack one eye open. The crust in your eye pulled your eyelashes painfully but you persisted.

Loki smiled softly. “Thank you, Mother,” he sighed against you. He leaned his head down towards your chest and rested his cheek against you.

“What…”

“Shh, shh, you’re safe,” he said. He lifted his head and scooted closer to you. He looked haggard. Haunted. His eyes were sunken in, ringed in dark purple ridges from lack of sleep. He grasped your hand in his, rubbing his thumb softly against your skin. He leaned down and kissed your thumb.

You searched his eyes. “Hel?” You asked.

He grinned. “No. You’re alive. You’re alive,” he sighed, relief flooding his tone.

You bobbed your head and it swam, roiled. You dry heaved and Loki shushed you, rubbing your hand. He told you not to move, that you were safe and sound in his office.

Tears gathered in your eyes. “Club?”

Loki used his other hand to gently wipe away your tears. “No one’s dead. The club stands. Figures you would be more worried about that than yourself,” he said.

His voice was soothing, working to bring you more and more to the present. You looked down at your combined hands. He was pale and practically shaking.

“Loki?” You rasped.

“You fucking scared me, Darling,” he breathed against your hand.

You licked your lips and groaned at how dry they were. What the hell happened? Sleep tugged at you however, your body too stiff and achy to deal with the present.

“Sleep, Darling. I will be here when you wake,” he said.

“Mkay,” you mumbled. Sleep claiming you once more.

The second time around, you were able to wake up with less difficulty. True to his word, Loki sat on the floor by his couch. His dark hair was disheveled and plastered all over his face. His suit was dusty and chalky as if he walked through plaster.

He rested his cheek against the couch cushion, still holding your hand. This couldn’t have been comfortable for him. You watched him anyway before you woke him up. He looked like he needed sleep.

You wanted to reach out and brush his hair from his face. Even the thought of moving hurt. Gods, you ached.

As if Loki sensed your desire to move, he slowly blinked his eyes open. He smiled when his gaze connected with yours.

“How are you feeling?” Loki asked.

“Like Hel spat me back out,” you croaked.

Loki laughed and kissed your hand. “Everyone is safe. The club is safe,” he said, already knowing the direction of your thoughts.

“What happened?” You asked.

Loki took a deep breath and told you about the fog that induced fear. Whatever you saw, whatever you heard, it was a hallucination. The fog affected everyone. Loki sent them home until further notice. Loki caught the shiver that ran through you at the mention of what you saw. Thanos was just an illusion?

“I won’t ask what you saw. But you kept screaming for them to take you. What did you mean?”

You took a deep breath and rolled your bottom lip between your teeth. “I didn’t want them to take you,” you said softly. You avoided looking at him. Loki scooted closer to you and gently raised your chin to look him in the eye.

“Hallucination or not, you will never, ever, trade your life for mine. Do you understand me?” Loki asked. His voice was gentle but his tone was harsh. His eyes pleaded with you, demanding that you understand him.

“I can’t make that promise,” you said. Tears gathered in your eyes. When it came down to it, you would always choose him. It was stupid and girlish and you really ought to have more self-respect. “I love you too much to ever live without you.”

Loki’s eyes widened a fraction. His nostrils flared. “You don’t know–”

“This isn’t because I almost died or got hurt. I’m telling you I love you because I do. You drive me up the fucking wall and sometimes I wanna murder you myself, but I know what I’m saying.”

Loki placed soft lips to your hand and held that position for a long time. So long that you worried that he was trying to gather courage to tell you that he didn’t feel the same way. That these past five years were no more than a game to him. A cat playing with its favorite toy.

Loki looked back up at you, eyes blazing. “I love you,” he said and called your name. “I love you and you’re mine. Always have been. Always will be.”

“You don’t have to say it–”

“I’m not saying it because you did. I’ve always been drawn to you, Darling. I prayed to Frigga, to…my mother. I prayed that if she let you wake up, if she let you return to me, then I would earn you. I would tell you anything you wanted to know, do anything you asked of me. Even if you asked me to leave you alone,” he said.

“I shouldn’t have given you the ultimatum,” you said.

“No, you were right to. I was a coward and selfish. I like the way you look at me. If I told you about Thor, I’d have to tell you all of it. And I can weather many things, Darling. Your pity is not one of them.”

“Loki…”

“And I would rather you look at me with pity than never look at me at all.” He took a deep breath and smiled briefly. “I will tell you what happened with Thor.”

You licked your lips, at a loss. Your curiosity about it was winning against your need to assure him that you were not entitled to his secrets. You opened your mouth to tell him that; it was the right thing to do but he squeezed your hand.

“Please. I have a vow to uphold and I want to.”

You nodded. You weren’t going to stop him and you really were dying to know the story there. Why he snapped at you like that and looked at his brother as if he wanted to jump into the nearest black hole.

“Thor and I didn’t leave Sakaar on the best of terms. We were always at each other’s throats growing up. Hundreds of years of resentment. I hated him when he was sent to Midgard. So pathetic. So weak. And he still managed to find happiness. It was like no matter what, the sun shined on Thor and left me it’s cold embrace.”

“We agreed to go our separate ways, in fact I tried to trick him one last time. Leave him there and escape. Make him suffer at least in some small way. For him to feel what it was like to be me for once: hopeless. We managed to leave together only to come home and deal with our sister. You know the rest.”

“Something changed with him after Thanos. He broke.” Loki shook his head as if he just realized that the word described Thor perfectly. After what you saw, you’d say it was accurate. Thor had always been loud and boisterous. The life of the party. He managed to make friends easily and make everyone feel included. He was bright. In your face.

When everyone’s eyes were drawn to him, your eyes were on Loki. On how his smile didn’t match his eyes. It seemed like the brighter Thor shone, the more Loki was forced to the shadows. Forced to move aside and make room. You knew what that was like. Your heart called out to him before he knew you existed, no matter what he said.

Seeing Thor reduced to the town drunk, overweight, and likely depressed was horrible to watch from afar. Loki saw it up close. Felt like he had a hand in it. It hurt you to think that Loki had been carrying this by himself for so long.

“We settled here and I checked on Thor every week. But there’s too much bad blood between us. We fought, over and over. And he got worse and worse. I still show up, but Thor…let’s say it hasn’t gotten better these past five years. I wanted him to suffer but I never wanted him to break. Never. I never wished that.”

“I believe you. But Loki, it doesn’t sound like you had anything to do with how he’s feeling now.”

“Don’t try to make me feel better about this. I’ve earned this guilt and I’ve got to make amends on my own,” he said.

You rubbed his hand in yours. “I don’t pity you, Loki. I’m proud of you.”

Loki tilted his head, the question hovering in his blue eyes. You smiled at him.

“It takes a brave person to admit what you did. And braver still to face it head on week after week,” you said.

Loki sighed and shook his head. “You continue to surprise me, Darling,” he said.

You took a deep breath. “Since we’re in a sharing mood…”

You told him about Erian. You told him that even in paradise you felt lonely. Abandoned. You had family but felt like the odd sheep out. Erian helped. She was the only one who didn’t judge you for your permanent state of melancholy. She didn’t try to fix it with parties, ale, or a man. You worked in the dye house, dyeing fabrics for the palace.

The one vice you had was visiting the playhouse. Hearing and seeing magnificent plays by brilliant writers. You told him that you thought his play was hilarious. He smiled at that.

You told him how you pushed Erian to go to the other side to be safe. You thought your side was going to get killed. Erian’s bright light deserved to keep going on, not your black mood.

But you only pushed her to her death. You watched as you got your best friend killed. The only one who saw you. Loved you despite your mood swings.

“Darling,” Loki said.

“Aht, aht. I can’t make you feel better about yours so you can’t make me feel better about mine. I’ve earned this guilt,” you said.

Throwing his words back in his face made him roll his eyes and smile. He sighed and looked at you, content to just see you. Really see you.

“We are two fools, you and I,” he said.

“Two fools trying,” you said and smiled.

“For a night of confessions, I have one more.” He took a deep breath. You rubbed his hand and looked at him. Whatever it was, you truly felt like you could get through it together.

“I know who the saboteur is now.”

Masterlist | Chapter 11 | Interlude

#Megaminds Secret Files #The Secret Loki Files #Loki x Black!reader #Loki x Black reader #x Black reader #Loki x Fem!reader #Loki x Fem reader #Loki x reader #Loki x you #Loki fanfic #Loki fan fic #Loki fan fiction #Loki fanfiction #Loki #MCU Loki #Loki AU #loki laufeyson

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generic-sonic-fan · 1 year

Text

A Father's Embrace

Summary:

“Father,” said Sage, “Metal Sonic has voiced to me that he would like a hug as well.”

(Eggman, post Frontiers and with the help of Sage, realizes something about the way he’s been treating Metal Sonic. Inspired by Egg Memo 19)

2855 words

The holo-matter generator was now capable of being stable for longer than a few seconds. It wasn’t capable of generating textures, only force, as air molecules were gathered into a rough approximation of a solid. Sage was now able to manipulate basic physical machines, such as levers, buttons, and switches, all of which would help her when interfacing with systems that were too primitive to be networked to.

And now came the final test.

Ivo stood in the center of the testing chamber. Sage materialized a few feet away, and a hum filled the room as the holo-matter generator whirled on. She waved a hand over her arms, chest, and legs.

Ivo smiled. “Come here, my girl.”

She inched closer, and he held his arms outstretched. She hovered out of reach for a moment, clutching one arm in the other. She then simulated a deep breath- she was getting so good at that! -and flew forward until she met his chest. Instead of phasing through, there was a gentle push of force against his sternum.

“Hologram stability remains at 98%.” She reported. “Holo-matter generator output is consistent according to my data. Can you confirm this observation?”

“I can.” He whispered. “May I commence the next stage of testing?”

“Yes.”

He brought his arms toward his chest, stopping when he hit the back barrier of her hologram. His pinky dipped into her graphic before she recalibrated the wall of force to push it back to her surface.

“Stability?” He asked.

“88%, but holding steady. Proceeding with reciprocation.”

He felt her arms press against his sides. So small they were. Such a delicate hold, as if the slightest gust of wind might shake her off.

“Father, you may be experiencing what my database refers to as ‘cuteness aggression’. Please remain mindful of your exertion of force.”

He dropped his embrace immediately. “Stability?”

“Still within acceptable levels.” Sage looked up. “Please. . . re-engage the test?”

He placed his hands back onto her back. He recognized, now that she’d pointed it out, the urge to hold her tight, to twirl her around, to shield her body with his own to protect her from all harm. . . as illogical as it was. The holo-matter projector could only project a force of around five pounds. So, instead, he began caressing a careful hand up and down her back.

“I will strike this unscientific language from the record when we are finished with this experiment, but I wish to inform you that this is wonderful, father.” Sage said.

“Absolutely wonderful. I concur.”

“Better than my simulations. Better than I could have ever speculated.”

He leaned forward to place a kiss on her head, but his lips passed through her hologram.

“Apologies, father!” Sage giggled. “Such an action was not detailed in the testing procedure. I have not generated holo-matter for that portion of my avatar.”

“It would seem we require further tests, then! Repetitions of this experiment would be greatly beneficial.” He smiled.

“Indeed!”

Ivo held her until the whir of the holo-matter generator became a roar, and a notification popped up, warning of an overheat. Spite drove him to stay curled around her, but alas, her tangibility vanished. She hovered, for a moment, a silent image in the shell of an embrace, before she phased through his arms.

“Test complete.” She reported. “The holo-matter generator will require thirty minutes to return to operation.”

“I’ll see what I can do to fix that.” Ivo walked over to the device.

Sage flew in front of him, blocking his path. “Current internal temperatures are high enough to inflict damage to your tissue- you must wait until the device is cool.”

“Ah, if you insist. How long?”

“Long enough for you to sit down for a meal. What shall I have the kitchen prepare?”

“Clever girl.” He wagged his finger. “If we’ve got the material for an egg salad sandwich, I’d like that.”

“Order sent successfully. Shall I accompany you to the dining room?”

“If you’ll have me, my dear.”

With a flick of her eyes, the door to the test chamber opened. They walked out and into the hall. Correction- he walked, she hovered, her hair and dress modeling appropriate undulations due to the air resistance. She’d worked so hard to detail her own animations. He couldn’t help but smile at that.

Before they could reach the dining room, Metal Sonic rounded the corner down the hall ahead of them.

“Hello, brother. Have you completed your task?” Sage went ahead and landed beside him.

Metal Sonic, of course, didn’t respond with anything visible or audible. The unit wasn’t programmed for that.

“That’s good. Mark that operation as done, and bring the production line to phase three once the resources arrive.” Sage instructed.

She could easily give this instruction to Metal Sonic over the network. She had remote command over every Badnik currently operating in the empire through the Eggnet, and she used it for such in every instance except for this particular unit in blue. Thankfully, Metal Sonic was the most well-equipped of his creations to constantly transport itself back and forth to her beck and call, but this habit of hers was still inefficient.

A small giggle from her wiped all the annoyance from his thoughts, though. “The experiment went wonderfully. I would like to include you in further repetitions of it if possible.”

“Don’t be silly, Sage.” Ivo said as he arrived beside the two.

“I am not. Calibrating the holo-matter generator against surfaces of different shape and density would generate useful data.”

“In that case, I suppose I’ll review it if you write a draft of the procedure.”

“Thank you.”

He gestured her back to his side and continued walking, yet she did not appear beside him. He paused, looking over his shoulder to find her still standing beside Metal Sonic.

“I’d like to propose a different variant of the experiment. Or perhaps, not an experiment at all, as the action will not serve for the purposes of data collection.”

“What is it?” He turned around.

“Brother has expressed to me that he would like a embrace from you as well.” Sage said. “Given that he already possesses a physical form, it would be a simple request to fulfill.”

Ivo saw his once-greatest creation stiffen as straight as a ramrod at the words.

No, that couldn’t be the case. It just had to be a trick of the light. Or a trick of his own mind. Pure projection, that was all.

He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Sage, reevaluate your previous statements for falsehoods.”

“I am not permitted to lie to you. You know this. My statement is based on evidence. Would you like me to show you the file-?”

She stopped herself. At the same time, Metal Sonic’s left pinky digit curled inwards, and that was no trick of the light at all. Sage covered her mouth. She then lifted from the floor and rejoined Ivo’s side. Metal Sonic began walking back down the hall. Walking quickly. Almost running.

“Apologies. Please disregard the previous conversation.” Sage waved him in the direction of the dining room.

“Metal Sonic, stop.” Ivo commanded.

The badnik froze in its tracks.

“Please disregard my previous words. They were in error.” Sage said.

“What kind of error?”

“. . . I am now aware that I was not supposed to bring his request to your attention.”

“Is that so?”

“This breach in etiquette was entirely my own. Please do not let this incident reflect poorly on him in your assessment of his functionality.”

Ivo walked around the motionless Badnik until he was directly in its path. It had ceased walking mid-stride, and stared directly ahead.

“Sage, I understand that you seek familial connections. Are Orbot and Cubot not to your satisfaction?” Ivo said.

“They are quite satisfactory. I enjoy an excellent relationship with them. Is there a reason I cannot pursue the same with Metal Sonic?”

“I’m sorry, my dear, but Metal isn’t designed for such a function. Too much of this sort of thing could start affecting his efficiency.”

“You have designed him with a short-term adaptive processor capable of intaking new data with ease. Furthermore, he has witnessed, quote, ‘this sort of thing’, in abundance during his extensive encounters with Sonic and Tails.”

“He is a weapon. He shouldn’t be bogged down with more of that sort of data than he needs to be to exploit it.”

“Should I not be ‘bogged down’ with this data, either, then?”

There was no hidden barb in her voice, and no malice in her eyes, yet it still felt as if Ivo had stumbled into a trap.

“Statistically, my emotional data hinders my processing speed by 7%.” Sage continued. “In order to achieve a higher rate of efficiency, shall I-?”

“NO! Absolutely not. Don’t you ever consider such a decision again!” Ivo pointed.

“Even if not doing so will put your life at stake?”

“Yes!”

“Understood, father.” She nodded. “If that is the case, then what is your command to Metal Sonic in this regard?”

Ivo lowered his hand and turned his gaze to the blue Badnik. It still hadn’t moved. His verbal command held perfect power over it; Metal Sonic was caught in suspension, frozen in time, held to stillness beyond the capabilities of a living organism. There was nothing to be read from its glowing red irises. No thought, no emotion.

Ivo thought he’d patched the “emotion” part out after the Neo Metal incident. That had required a near-total wipe of Metal Sonic’s operating system; rebuilding the AI had taken months, and it had taken even longer for it to relearn the more complex functions that came with experience. Catching any re-emergence of emotion in the early stage meant that it would be possible to simply order Metal Sonic back to the work bench and repeat the process, but. . .

He looked at Sage. Her hand covered her mouth, obscuring the intricate animation of worry painted onto her face.

“Sage, what do you think should be my command to him?” Ivo asked.

“If I may speak freely?”

“Of course, my girl. Always.”

“Have you not perfected my loyalty protocols in the current version of my operating system?”

“I don’t doubt your loyalty.”

“Is there a reason you can not implement similar loyalty protocols in Metal Sonic’s processor?”

“He’s simply not designed for that. You, my dear, are in the network. You accompany me everywhere, as it’s your primary function-”

“And as a result, I generate positive emotional data that strengthens my loyalty protocols instead of conflicting with them. I’m aware.”

“You are not permitted to interrupt me.” Ivo snapped. “What has gotten into you?”

“You gave me permission to interrupt you in regards to the imminent safety of yourself or the Egg Empire, and I’m interrupting on behalf of the Empire now. Root cause analyses show that the most significant causal factor in the Neo Metal incident was a conflict between emotional data and loyalty protocols. To prevent this recurrence, I am recommending that you utilize the same procedure that has seen resounding success with me.”

“It’s too late for that. I’d have to restructure his AI from the ground up to be more receptive to that sort of-”

“Negative. In fact, the last thing brother wants is to be reprogrammed.”

Ivo knelt down. He stared again into Metal Sonic’s irises. The projected ovals on the eyescreen were frozen, of course, but he knew that Metal’s camera mechanisms were independently mobile. It could be looking anywhere if it had the ability to shirk orders. It could simply be playing frozen and helpless on the surface, waiting to strike if provoked.

Or. . .

“Sage, access Metal Sonic’s emergency shutdown code, and be ready should he attempt to harm me.”

“He will not harm you. I apologize for referencing the Neo Metal incident. I thought it would illuminate the situation. I did not intend to imply that Metal Sonic has gone rogue in any capacity.”

“Of course I knew that. Now quit blathering and be ready.” Ivo snapped, before taking a deep breath. “Metal Sonic, relax.”

Its joints released. It stumbled a miniscule amount before restoring itself to an upright standing position.

“Is it true that you’ve developed emotional data despite the inhibitors?”

Metal Sonic did not reply.

“Answer me. There’s no purpose in trying to fool me now.”

“Father, Metal Sonic is incapable of-”

“Which is why I’m asking yes or no questions. Now answer!”

Metal Sonic’s head shifted a few millimeters up and down.

“And you did not report this malfunction to me?”

Another nod.

“Because you did not want to be reprogrammed?”

Another nod. Ivo pinched the bridge of his nose.

“You did not want to be reprogrammed because you’ve found a way around your intended programming again.”

Metal Sonic shook its head violently. Ivo flinched, but the Badnik did not make any further approach.

“Actually, Father,” Sage said quietly. “He does not wish to be reprogrammed because it would hinder his effectiveness to you. He is familiar with the length of the turnaround time after the erasure of his previous incarnation.”

“Show me the communication in which he stated this. You said you had the files.” Ivo pointed to her.

Her hologram flickered out of existence, and was replaced with a box of text displaying the finer workings of her operating system. She navigated through the folders, leading to a file labeled “Communications With Unit MS-1”. A wall of binary text appeared. In a second, various bits in the binary were underlined with blue.

“Shall I translate the text to english?” Sage asked.

“No, I can read it well enough.”

The binary words said exactly what she’d promised. He should have known. She would not- and as a matter of fact, could not -lie, yet he’d doubted her. He’d have to apologize later. He waved off the screen, and Sage transmuted herself back to her original form.

He looked back to Metal Sonic. “So you don’t see me as a roadblock in the way of your core directive?”

It shook its head.

“You don’t object to how you’ve been treated since I last reprogrammed you?”

A hesitation. Ah, there it was. Ivo gave a bitter smile.

“Father, if I may speak freely?” Sage asked.

“Yes, you may.”

“If I received the same treatment that you have given to Metal Sonic. . . I would object to it as well.”

Ivo stared at her.

“For efficiency’s sake. To prevent the aforementioned conflict of emotional data and loyalty protocols, amongst other things.” Sage added quickly.

Metal Sonic lowered his gaze to Ivo’s shoes.

“Why,” he swallowed, though this did nothing to ease the tightness in his throat, “are you informing me of this?”

“I do not wish for this current operating system of Metal Sonic to be erased.”

“I would never erase you, my girl, if that is your concern with all this.”

“I do not fear for my own life. I fear for his.”

Life.

An intelligence made of code and electrons. Brilliant and loyal and perfectly effective. The product of a true genius. Sage was all of this, her design perfected from previous iterations. He’d based the bulk of her data calculation and analysis programs off of the adaptive processing he’d developed for Metal Sonic’s OS.

. . . perhaps he’d created life a lot earlier than he’d thought.

Funny. He’d spent months laboring over Neo Metal Sonic’s code, unable to find the source of the catastrophic malfunction that’d overridden his prized creation’s processor. Now the answer couldn’t be more obvious. How could he have missed it?

“Just so everything is clear,” Ivo looked to Metal Sonic. “All you truly want from me. . . is a hug?”

Seconds passed, before it nodded.

Ivo laughed. He threw his head back and let his laughter spill down the hallway. He clapped a hand against Metal Sonic’s shoulder before standing.

“Father?” Sage asked.

“Yes?”

“Why are you expressing humor in this moment?”

“Don’t worry about it! Say, the kitchen should be ready with my sandwich, shouldn’t it? It’s about time I sat down and had a nice lunch with my children. Come along now.”

He started walking. He did not hear any footsteps following. Metal Sonic was staring at Sage. Communicating, most likely.

“Come along, you two. You wouldn’t leave your old man to starve, would you?”

“To clarify, Father- you do not wish for Metal Sonic to delete his emotional data?”

“No, keep it where it is. And Sage, clear my schedule for today. I want to take a look at his processor after this.”

“Rescheduling now.”

Metal Sonic curled its pinky digit.

“Don’t you worry. It’s not to erase you.” He assured. “I just want to take a look. If I like what I see, I might take those emotional inhibitors out of you.”

Metal Sonic simply stared.

“That would be wonderful, Father.” Sage replied.

“I’m glad you like that idea. Now follow me, please.”

Sage hovered by his side. Metal Sonic trailed behind, its footsteps echoing in the hall.

Or his footsteps, as the case may be. Ivo would have to ask for a preference.

---

(Future chapters posted on AO3)

#Eggman #Sage Robotnik #Metal Sonic #sth #fanfiction #eggdad #eggman is a good dad #or at least he's getting there #he is downright adorable with Sage #but uh. the horrors are still there with Metal #but don't worry! he's great at denying it :)#I'm leaving this one open! I might add onto it or I might not

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jiminrings · 2 years

Text

maybe me

pairing: jimin x reader

wordcount: 9k

glimpse: maybe it’s stupid of jimin to take on everything at once, all by himself. maybe it’s rash of him to book a long-term stay at a luxury hotel, even if it comes with a family discount. but maybe, just maybe, jimin would have nothing to lose and everything to gain if he lets you in.

alternatively, jimin’s a single dad who would do anything for his daughter, even if it means taking advantage of your trust.

[ part one, intermission, part two, intermission 02, finale ]

[ angst, dilf jimin is all over the place but he’s trying his best, wholesome fluff, emotional baggage, allusions to anxiety, moral dilemma regarding stealing, more angst BUT also eventual redemption in the next parts :) ]

notes: peter, the horse The Dilf is here o_O this series is finally out of the backburner and i can’t be any more relieved!! gentle reminder that it gets even more angst from here (so pls take a break when necessary!!) but i promise that there’ll be redemption <3

as always, lmk what you think <3 send in feedback n love to my askbox anytime!! even replying to this post sends me over the moon :) | series masterlist

Jimin can’t afford to have pride nowadays.

What he can afford, however, is crippling anxiety as a single dad to his ten-month old daughter and the overwhelming urge to restart and relocate to the big city where the two of them could have a better future. Those two things specifically, plus whatever his daughter sets her eyes on at the grocery store.

“Do you want this, Yuri?” Jimin looks down on her strapped to his chest with the best baby carrier he could buy, squinting at the label of the item she was so fixed on staring upon. “A sixty-six count pack of Ziploc brand sandwich bags featuring Lightning McQueen?”

Jimin attempts to think about it — like really think about it. His mind’s about to drift how Yuri’s already watched a few movies to enrich her brain (maybe talking cars isn’t the best idea yet) and she can recognize when Cars is on because of the ka-chow! he says under his breath whenever Lightning says it. He was just about to think how he could possibly rationalize purchasing so many sandwich bags until he doesn’t have to.

Yuri’s smiling up at him, all with tiny little teeth and dimples, and suddenly Jimin doesn’t have to think anymore; he puts the pack of sandwich bags with talking cars on them (that he has no real use for) in the cart.

It’s a relief that he could still afford these types of things.

Jimin would not stop at anything to provide for Yuri, giving himself a pat on the back for being wise with his money before she came along. He granted himself luxuries before there was her, but nowadays, luxury was merely defined as having the same things that mattered for his daughter. White noise machine with Bluetooth feature, surround-sound, bass boost, and reverb? Check. A crib that you can turn into a co-sleeper then a proper bed when she grows up? Check. A dispenser that warms up baby wipes? Check.

The moment Yuri was born, Jimin was no longer the skilled and reliable paralegal in a high-end law firm. The moment she first cried and was handed to him because his ex didn’t want her, Jimin became the anxious, yet extremely dedicated and loving, single dad.

Either he was extremely smart or extremely impulsive for doing everything he’s done the past week and despite it all, he’s here grocery shopping with Yuri and laughing as she keeps testing her grip strength on whatever they walk past.

It’s as if Jimin didn’t terminate his lease two hours ago and the moving truck he rented is parked awkwardly outside.

It’s as if he doesn’t have the tangible extensions of his and his daughter’s life right outside the store, from the boxes of his clothes to Yuri’s co-sleeper.

Jimin can afford sustaining himself, his daughter, and his quality of living for ten straight months without working. But if there’s anything that the past week has taught him, his worrying akin to when it was Yuri’s first night home and he didn’t know if he was doing anything right, Jimin can’t afford pride.

His phone rings in his pocket and it jolts him, almost making him cuss. He knows for sure that it’s the call he’s been waiting for since this morning, eyes closing in relief.

He can’t afford being prideful because he called the last person he’d ever build up the courage to ask for help — his half-brother.

“Jimin? What’s the matter, are you alright?” Namjoon asks, unbothered to mask his worry. “You called like 52 times.”

They don’t hate each other, they really don’t. They know each other because they lived under the same roof for years. There’s no animosity between them, just the overwhelming feeling of not knowing how to act around each other.

Between Jimin and Namjoon, there was respect. Perhaps, too much respect and formality that they’ve never breached the territory of acting how real, whole brothers do — warm and unreserved.

But it’s okay, it’s okay now that Namjoon answered. It’s always been okay with them and Jimin doesn’t want to jeopardize that by asking what he’s about to, but he has to take his chances. Whatever it is that his brother says, it’ll be okay too. Everything he’s been doing the past ten months, especially the past few weeks, is all for Yuri.

“Namjoon, you’re the personal assistant of a hotelier, right?” Jimin asks, holding Yuri’s tiny hand for comfort. “A-and you have benefits, correct?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Namjoon breathes out, still a little shell-shocked because he doesn’t know what this has to do with anything. “Are you okay? Is Yuri okay? Why did-…”

“Thirty-percent off for company employees when they stay at any branch of the hotel for less than a month,” Jimin recalls, proving that he was clearly listening the time Namjoon told him about his job. “And fifty-percent off for company employees who want to have a long-term stay.”

“Yes? What does this have to do with your missed calls?” Namjoon blinks rapidly, literally unable to read between the lines because Jimin barely gave him any to begin with. “Is my niece okay?”

Jimin’s heart briefly warms at Namjoon’s acknowledgement for Yuri but he shrugs it off for the meantime, remaining focused.

“And because you’re working directly under your hotelier, that benefit can be transferrable to family, right?”

It takes one, two seconds before Namjoon realizes that his half-brother wasn’t just rambling about his employee benefits out of nowhere.

In the cookware aisle where Yuri keeps pointing at the Le Creuset heart ramekin that he already knows he’s going to buy without a second thought, Jimin proves for the millionth time that losing his pride is no problem if it’s for his daughter’s sake.

“Namjoon, please. I need your help,” Jimin humbly admits. “We’re family, right?”

( ♡ )

Jimin loves hotels.

The moment Namjoon agreed to let him use his employee discount for a long-term stay at the hotel he works at, he hightails it out of the grocery with a lighter aura. Yuri perhaps notices it, being more calm now because as her head is pressed to his chest, she could feel how his heartbeat’s relaxed.

Jimin takes the four-hour drive to the city like an absolute champ, Yuri even more so now that she’s tucked to her car seat and reunited with her emotional support blanket with her name hand-stitched by Jimin himself. It wasn’t the best, really. The stitches are clear but the tension is off, the characters only understandable if you take a good second to stare and tilt your head because the alignment was lopsided. It wasn’t the best but it was Jimin’s best — that’s good enough.

He figured that doing a fifty-percent discounted stay at a hotel, a luxury one on top of that, would be a hundred times better and cheaper than renting a temporary place in the big, expensive city until he could find his bearings. Jimin didn’t need to pay utilities, breakfast would be taken care of, amenities were free, and he didn’t have to worry about the safety of the area; it’s practically equivalent to a vacation.

The moment Namjoon met him and Yuri by the lobby, Jimin feels like he’s been transported back to his childhood home where the couches were lived-in and the floors were warm from the paths of their steps. Namjoon only had ten years on him and yet he was always dignified in his eyes; sturdy to the point of stiff, yet polite when necessary.

Jimin didn’t feel that composed, calculated persona when he saw Namjoon time this though, not at all. With all his worry that he had never seen before on his half-brother, Namjoon embraces him. Fully hugs him tightly and he could even hear a relieved sigh, pulling away when he hears Yuri’s squeal.

She’s smart, that much he’s figured. Could already stand stably on her feet for a few seconds without assistance and say coherent mumbles here and there that would soon turn into actual words. In fact, Jimin just realized now that Yuri could also place faces, recognizing Namjoon whom she only saw probably five times ever.

“What’s with the sudden move?” Namjoon furrows his brows at him, taking Yuri from him without a word and he lets him because his arms were starting to cramp from driving.

“Came to me in a fever dream, actually. I didn’t know you could have that with two-hour naps even without a fever,” Jimin shudders at recollection of the haunting thought that came to him a few weeks ago. “A talking whale cussed me out and told me I was being a shitty dad by not giving Yuri the best I could.”

“You’re not a shitty dad,” Namjoon corrects him albeit softly, the conviction there but not as energetic because he didn’t want to jolt his niece awake.

“Eh,” Jimin shrugs, lightly laughing upon the realization that holy shit, this is the most unplanned, casual, yet deepest conversation he’s had with Namjoon. “I try my best, I guess.”

Namjoon reserves the other words he has in mind and instead digs his hand into his pocket, pulling out a keycard to the room that Jimin begged him for. “Have you eaten dinner already?”

“Nope. I fed Yuri at the rest stop, was supposed to eat dinner, but then we had to leave early because I remembered that I double-parked,” he chuckles, only dawning on him now when he looks around and barely sees people in the lobby that it was already late into the night.

Namjoon, who’s been itching to go home since four in the afternoon, suddenly lost the pressing urge to crash in his bed despite being ten in the evening. God, Jimin really is selfless. If he felt sorry for him awhile ago when he suddenly called him for a huge favor, he feels even more sorry now. The weight of Yuri in his arms reminds him that this is all the weight and more that Jimin’s carried alone for ten months and counting, heavy enough to make Namjoon think that holding off from going home a little longer wouldn’t hurt.

“I’ll call room service up for you. Your dinner’s on me,” Namjoon softly smiles, genuinely, and Jimin could almost pass out from the fraction of the brotherly warmth he— they could’ve had all this time if only they became close. Not just okay, but actually close.

“Thank you, Joon,” Jimin slightly bows, a force of habit that his half-brother wants him to get rid of. He’ll tell him off eventually, but not now when it’s clear he’s had a long day.

Barely thirty minutes since Jimin stepped foot into the hotel yet he could already tell that his stay here would be undoubtedly life-changing. It’s a new experience; a new, terrifying yet ground-breaking experience for him and Yuri to go through, but atleast they have each other.

When Jimin feels like drowning, Yuri drains the water for him.

The moment he taps the heavy metal card to the door, Jimin sighs in relief and thanks whoever is listening. The room exceeded his expectations and more, making the mental note to appreciate it later and instead instruct the bellman where to put the boxes for now with a gracious tip. Jimin still has so much things to unpack, calls to make, and arrangements to handle, but when Yuri yawns, he’s reminded of his first priority.

He sets her down for now on the middle of the large and pristine bed, unpacking and installing her co-sleeper first before changing her. Jimin could only hope that Yuri doesn’t take the drastic difference of environment too roughly, but nonetheless, he comes prepared because he’s already stacking the fridge with the coffee he brought.

When he sees Yuri sleeping soundly in just a matter of minutes (even without the white noise machine), Jimin knows he did a good job today.

He did a good job doing everything that he had to do in the past month and unexpectedly, so did Namjoon by being the reason to why Jimin could not stop gushing at all the free stuff he could take home.

The only problem at the moment is that home isn’t defined, but he’ll just have to worry about it tomorrow.

Jimin gives himself too many pats on the back for even thinking of the accommodation. Even the hair and shower products here were luxury, none of the unbranded, minimalist (is it really minimalist or is there little thought and budget put into it?) products that some hotels carry.

In fact, the sudden reprieve Jimin has from having the most stressful 72 hours he’s had after some time makes him feel invincible. Oddly brave. Oddly too courageous that before he knows it, he’s turning the hot water on and even more oddly, doesn’t rush his shower; even has the balls to exfoliate properly and put a leave-on body mask.

He’s fifteen minutes into his sudden self-nurturing moment until he hears Yuri squirming around, a murmur here and a low gurgle there.

Then she really starts to cry.

It’s the type of cry that makes him want to redo the last fifteen minutes and turn on the white noise machine before he went to go shower. It’s the type of his daughter’s cry that makes his stomach sink because it reminds him of the inkling feeling that shit, maybe he is a bad father. The type that makes him rethink of the sudden move and his performance as a dad the past ten months.

Jimin suddenly feels panicked again, the lavender and cotton scent of the mask on his scalp turning cloying to him as soon as he hears Yuri sob.

“Yuri, baby? What’s the matter?” he yells out as if she could answer, cussing himself under his breath.

“I-I just-! Appa just put on his scrub! It’s the leave-on type!” he yells out again for her to hear past the thick glass pane, having hope when her cries decrease in volume. “Five minutes? Can you give appa five minutes, Yuri? Please, baby?”

Jimin gathers his wits, strengthening his resolve. His plea was basically useless because Yuri cried even louder. The 4-7-8 breathing method he used to do when he stumbled on dead ends when researching case material as a paralegal is barely helping now, trying his best to ignore the sinking feeling of inadequacy.

His mom told him about this before. Yuri’s at that age where she just cries because she wants to! It’s okay, Jimin. She needs to know that she can soothe herself!

Five minutes, okay. For five minutes, Jimin would remain in the bathroom and try to relax, letting Yuri gather her bearings and soothe herself. Five minutes won’t hurt that much.

He’s jittery inside and now he doesn’t even get to be awed at the luxury shower products doing wonders for him, instead worried how Yuri will do in the 300 seconds she’ll be left alone.

It barely registers to Jimin how this must come across to the guests around him. He’s immune to Yuri’s cries to the point that he doesn’t fully grasp just how loud she can get.

You aren’t. You’re not immune to the cries at all.

You’re only supposed to be making your rounds before you go home, an unneeded routine that you do anyway because lately you’ve been procrastinating driving back to your own house.

You’ve just gotten out of the elevator when you hear a baby crying so loudly and clearly from the end of the hall that you just can’t ignore it. Even the room service staff who’s coming from the other hand is just as surprised, his cart coming to the direction anyway. Your assistant, Namjoon, personally instructed him to bring food to the door.

You’re a familiar figure to the employees, obviously because you’re the hotelier and come from a famous family of one. It wasn’t exactly the norm for the actual head of the hotel to do the rounds herself or appear and oversee operations regularly in general, but what shocked your employee the most was that you heard it too; it wasn’t just a trick of his mind that there’s a baby loudly crying through the soundproof walls.

“Why’s nobody soothing the baby?” you wonder out loud, brows knitting in confusion. You’re worried, that type of cry coming from a baby, or any cry in general, anchoring a sinking feeling on your chest.

“I-I don’t know either, Miss,” Seokjin, his nametag reads, replies. Not only is he worried about the baby who just won’t seem to stop crying, he’s also nervous because he can’t believe the hotelier is talking to him directly.

“Could it be that no one’s there? Just the baby?” your mind runs, bottom lip trembling. Situations like these worried you beyond explanation, your heart softening in recollection. “I-I mean, what if the baby isn’t okay?”

You wait for two minutes. You and Seokjin freeze and wait for two minutes and the crying still doesn’t stop, setting off all the alarms in your head that it makes you dig for your own card in your bag.

You screw your eyes shut and tap the master key, hoping that you’re in the wrong and not right about thinking of worst case scenarios. As soon as you open the door and quickly scan the room, you’re relieved when you see a cute baby crying her lungs out on a co-sleeper. You come to her just in case, holding her up and assessing for any indications of what could’ve made her cry this hard.

There’s luggages, boxes, and shoes. Chelsea boots that clearly don’t fit a baby’s feet.

Oh.

You’re in the wrong.

Jimin emerges from the bathroom with a towel on, still dripping wet. He thought his fatigued mind was playing tricks on him when he heard the door click, but as soon as his eyes adjust and he sees you, standing in his bedroom holding Yuri; someone he does not know at all holding a keycard different from his — he loses almost all sense.

“Who the fuck are you?! Why the hell are you holding my daughter?”

Your eyes widen, not only because you misread the situation completely and there’s a half-naked handsome guy in front of you, but also because you let your instincts overtake you again — this time overstepping into a guest’s room.

Jimin thinks your face is familiar but he can’t focus on that when all he could do is panic, his mind all over the place that he only belatedly realizes that Yuri has stopped crying since.

“Why are you— no, who are you?” you return the question, your panic for what the situation seems like suddenly returning.

“What the fuck? Did you just break into my-…” Jimin’s veins are about to pop out when he tries to register everything — from the way you’re dressed elegantly and sophisticatedly not like the employees, to your keycard being a different color than his yet managing to open the door, to how you’re just as concerned as he is and not trying to flee.

Oh.

Jimin thinks that he contributed to you doing your wrong.

“Miss Y/N!”

Namjoon’s voice bellows from the hallway, letting himself in after Seokjin quickly filled him in on what happened. He’s sweating and heaving, wild eyes flickering between you and Jimin, and then Yuri now that she’s suddenly awake, throwing her a little wave.

“Namjoon?” you and Jimin ask at the same time, staring at each other.

The two of you no longer look hostile but there’s more questions raised than there are answers given, your gazes syncing to look at Namjoon who’s still catching his breath.

“Oh, I see,” your assistant breathlessly chuckles, nodding to himself. “I-I see. I think I know what happened here.”

“Do you know this guy?” you’re first to ask, a hesitant look flitting to the man who’s still half-naked and dripping wet in his towel.

Namjoon nods, straightening his posture before looking pointedly at Jimin. “Yeah. Jimin, this is our hotelier — my boss,” he emphasizes, coughing and gesturing to his lack of modesty that it prompts aforementioned to cross his arms, unintentionally highlighting his defined biceps.

“Miss Y/N, this is Jimin,” he smiles, trying to diffuse the tension. You and Jimin both want to sink to the floor out of embarrassment, leaving Namjoon the odd one out because he knows now that his plan of coming home in the next five minutes is soiled. “He’s my half-brother.”

You admit that it’s rash of you to enter yourself in the situation. You may have overstepped your boundaries as both a hotelier and a stranger, but that didn’t necessarily mean you wouldn’t attempt to save face.

“So you’re her dad? Can I see some ID?” you clear your throat, finally being able to look him in the eye when you turn because he’s not only covered by a towel this time.

Jimin shakes his head, half in disbelief and half in amusement. He doesn’t even have to prove anything to you at this point, already being verified by Namjoon and yet for some reason, he still indulges you.

He runs his hand through his hair that’s still damp, walking across the room to get to his wallet and fetch his driver’s license.

“Her name’s Yuri and yes, I’m her dad.”

Yuri?

The name puts a knot on your throat, the melancholic taste of it making you cough. You just freeze as you always do, eyes still staring and hands still grasping Jimin’s ID.

Your eyes focus after a few seconds, having to physically shake your head to get the thought away. Looking at it, you have enough proof that he’s just so handsome even against the light in shitty license processing offices.

“And the baby’s?”

“Yuri’s identification?” Jimin clarifies, eyebrows furrowed because your question doesn’t seem that rational to his brain. “Yuri’s ten months old. She doesn’t exactly have a driver’s license yet.”

“Fucking dumbass,” Namjoon mutters, knowing that Jimin was completely serious and not joking at all. In fact, he looks slightly appalled more than he is concerned because he just swore while carrying his daughter (he does it too sometimes), but gets over it when Namjoon fills in the very large gaps in his thought process. “Birth certificate. Miss Y/N’s pertaining to Yuri’s birth certificate as her identification because of course, she can’t exactly drive a four-wheeler yet, yeah?”

If Jimin notices that this is the first time Namjoon’s been beyond casual, perhaps even snarky with him, he keeps his excitement at bay.

“Oh! Yeah! Birth certificate, I have that. I have that,” Jimin trails, looking for his binder of Yuri’s important documents. They all sit right inside the bag he used to take to work, his most prized law documents that used to occupy the space just stored inside random boxes now. “Right here.”

It’s a little sad, seeing that Jimin’s entire life and his daughter’s by extension fits into this standard hotel room.

Something about the scene incites pity from you, regardless if Jimin doesn’t want it. He looks composed at face value if you were to block the mess that’s happening around him, his charm undeniable.

The whole day’s been heavy on him, his night even longer. He’s better after his long-overdue, makeshift, and unexpected pamper shower with a surprising twist of events.

Namjoon didn’t want to leave the two of you alone because he’s quite literally the buffer, but even before he glanced at the side of your face with the same sentiment he uses at your drawn-out meetings, you already knew when to leave.

“I’ll be taking my leave. I’m sorry, by the way,” you excuse yourself, turning your head down in acknowledgement. “Thank you for choosing to stay here. I hope it’s up to your standards.”

“It’s — oh, oh! No need for that, please,” Jimin quickly corrects you once he recognizes your tone of remorse. The whole incident happened just fifteen minutes ago and yet he already moved on from it; he wishes you could too.

Come to think of it, it’s slightly funny.

“Good night, Jimin,” you smile slightly, your intent being mirrored instantly.

“Good night, Y/N,” he chuckles, a split second decision to not use the same title Namjoon uses for you because he’s not your employee. Speaking of, he brings his half-brother to a side hug, using it as a handoff so he could get Yuri back in his arms. “Night, Joon.”

You make a mental note to give Namjoon an incentive the next day, knowing that he’s been worked to the bone from this day alone.

The baby in Jimin’s arms sleepily wakes up for a moment, looking at you with big, shiny eyes that held the happiness to her dad’s heart before she settles back.

The tiny smile sneaks to your lips before you could even think about it, hand twitching at your side to give her a little wave even if she’s already asleep.

“Good night, Bambi.”

( ♡ )

You make your rounds even if it's unneeded, the exceptional hotel managers you've hired easily being able to do this for you.

But there's something about overseeing that you like; something to do about being able to observe and do things about it.

You’re a dedicated descendant of a family who heads a large hotel conglomerate, trivially committed to getting in touch with day-to-day operations — perhaps boredom is synonymous to dedication.

Namjoon says it’s nice having you around here, boosting team morale and all. Your hotel’s known for you being seen around by guests as if it’s a normal occurrence, a different experience from all the other hotels they’ve been in.

It may be nice having you around but you know to yourself that you’re unneeded around here. That this place would just run fine without you. Having the higher-up casually fill up Excel sheets is unusual, but it isn’t groundbreaking. Namjoon tries to convince you otherwise but you know when he’s trying to butter you up.

Trivial is the word when you take the scenic route to go to the hotel breakfast and see how things are going. Silly is the word when you line up to get your eggs benedict when you could’ve just turned any of the kitchen staff to your beck and call.

Surprised is the word when the guy in front of you turns out to be Jimin, his head turning to greet you fully because he recognized you from the corner of his eye.

"Oh, hello!" Jimin greets, Yuri flush against his chest with a baby carrier. He’s still dressed in his sweats but looks graceful nonetheless, as if he’s always lived here. "It's me, Jimin. The guy with the crying baby yesterday? You met me while I was wearing a towel."

He wishes you remember him still because your eyes look unsure, but to his surprise, you laugh lowly.

"Yes, Jimin. Hi. I didn't exactly forget you."

Yuri vocalizes with joy, reminding you how pretty she is especially when she’s awake and not shrieking. She’s always attached to the hip with her dad, making you wonder if Jimin has a stroller that he could set her down at.

"Sweet," he grins, tilting his head so Yuri can play with his hair gently. She’s learning the careful grasp nowadays, his hair a worthy enough subject. "By the way, I have some serious concerns."

Jimin gestures for the both of you to step out of the line but you do it even quicker, eyebrows furrowing in concern.

"Is your daughter okay?"

He’s pleasantly surprised that your train of thought heads to his daughter first, a faint blush gracing his cheeks.

"Yuri? Of course! I'm concerned about her but this doesn't exactly concern her," he waves off, bouncing her up and down. She calls for him, repeating abba (it should be appa!) in glee but the P sound’s gonna come soon enough.

"It concerns me. Well wait, now that I think about it, it concerns her, y'know? Because it has something to do with me and I'm her dad so by extension, it concerns her. Actually it's-..." Jimin stops himself, exhaling with his eyes downcast in embarrassment. "I'm rambling."

“It’s okay,” you assure him, hand twitching at your side because the sleeve of his shirt is twisted and you have this unspeakable urge to fix it, but he beats you to it. “I have all the time.”

Jimin chuckles heartily at that, but you don’t know exactly what was so funny about it. He walks ahead of you to lead you to his booth, Yuri’s diaper bag placed on the middle of the table to act as his reservation.

He makes sure to have you seated first. He was about to even pull a chair for you but it’s a goddamn booth, further embarrassing himself so he resorts to just putting his hand out.

"The hotel breakfast," Jimin sighs with a shake of his head, strapping Yuri to her high chair. "Do you plan to switch it up?"

"I'm sorry?" you stutter, expecting everything but that.

"Apology accepted, but not wholly," he purses his lips, squaring his shoulders and clasping his hands together while he stares at you intensely. It stays like that for awhile, making you confused for different reasons at the same time. Jimin breaks when you blink at him slowly, almost as if you’re close to tears from thinking.

"What's up with the same menu for breakfast again and again? The scrambled eggs are cute but I've been feeling the butter in my throat too much now," he says all in one breath, chest deflating in relief once he got it out.

You remain glued to your seat, lips parting open briefly but you don’t know what for because you’re rendered speechless.

"Here's what I'm thinking," he murmurs, holding his hand out for Yuri to play with because she likes feeling included in conversations. "French toast and naan. It'll be a hit with everybody!"

He’s been thinking about this for the past two mornings, daydreaming of what you could do to improve the menu while he spoon-fed his daughter.

"About the naan, what if there's a separate table dedicated for making your own dipping oil? Oh, oh, and I suggest a table for baby puffs! Not only would the babies love it, but adults too. I snack on Yuri's puffs when I'm too tired to cook. It's amazing, you should try it!" Jimin gushes, rifling through the diaper bag to retrieve the familiar packaging. "Here, open your hand."

"Jimin-" you snap out of your unintentional bout of silence, once again being pushed into it when Jimin grows impatient and pries your hand open with delicateness yet the same amount of eagerness as his daughter.

"Eat first."

Jimin still doesn’t let go of his hold on your hand, angling it to pop the puffs right into your mouth. He lets go of it once he sees you tentatively chew (you have no other choice but to), happily humming as he hands one to Yuri before he treats himself to some.

Surprisingly, baby puffs do taste good.

Your attempt to be prim and proper while chewing a godsend delicacy almost goes down the drain, willing yourself to clear your throat and not sound too amused.

"I'm not the chef around here."

"Okay?" Jimin scoffs playfully, narrowing his eyes. "You're the hotelier. You can make it work."

Jimin’s suggestion is not… trivial. It makes actual sense. He did bring it up to you in such an unorthodox and forward way, but past that, you know where he’s getting at.

"Believe me, changing up your breakfast menu will have your hotel named as the best in the world."

"It already is," you murmur. You do want to become humble, but condensing the whole excellence of your hotel to a mere breakfast menu makes you a little bit defensive.

"Source?" he raises his eyebrows, prying your hand open once again to put some puffs on your hand and you don’t even have the pride to deny him; they do taste good.

"Architectural Digest. Condé Nast Traveler. The-..."

"Wrong," Jimin boos loudly. "You forgot me. I haven't proclaimed it yet.”

Endearing would be the word for Jimin. Annoyingly endearing. He’s not cloying but he does invade your senses, even from a distance. He smells like baby powder and talks like the two of you have known each other your whole lives.

"I wonder how you react when your coffee order's wrong," you tut, pressing your tongue to your cheek.

Jimin breaks out to laugh, setting off Yuri to do the same. You don’t feel like you’re intruding — you feel like you’re included. Their eyes crescent and their heads throw back, and if only you had the chance, you’d take a picture of them for him to keep.

"I said, trust me. Take it from a paying, long-term tenant in your hotel,” he soothes you with his words, waving you off jokingly once he got over his fit of giggles.

"You've only been here three days and you're utilizing Namjoon's fifty-percent off discount."

"It counts," he gasps. "Take it from me as a girl dad. As a hot, stressed-but-still-hot, single dad of a baby girl named Yuri."

"Okay, hot single dad of Bambi," you smile, ignoring the fond yet slightly confused look of Jimin at your nickname for his daughter. "I'll think about your input."

"The dining area's gonna be rearranged?"

Namjoon looks up from his phone, the groupchat he was in that you weren’t a part of (your employees are still intimidated by you) pinging repeatedly.

He skims the messages, the furrow in his brow going deeper. "I'm also gonna say that the menu should be changed everyday?"

"Yes, Namjoon."

"Miss Y/N," he clears his throat, trying to word his thoughts in the best way possible but falling short. "Since when were you so interested about free hotel breakfasts?"

You look up from the game on your phone, a little break that you granted yourself because you were getting a little cross-eyed from looking at company projections.

"Since your brother cornered me to give some very passionate inputs about our breakfasts, that's when."

"He did what?" Namjoon’s eyes bulge, his phone almost falling from his grasp while he attempts to get out of your office in an instant. "Excuse me, I just have to sort-…”

"Ah, easy," you chuckle, gesturing for him to stay inside. "It's okay, he didn't offend me that much."

"Still. Jimin just has little filter to him most of the time and-..."

"It's okay, Joon," you shush him, reaching across your table to get your snack bowl. “Baby puff?"

Namjoon’s still wary but he looks down on your outstretched palm, taking it from you. He’s still a little agitated and dazed when he puts the tiny puff in his mouth, the crease on his forehead relaxing.

"Oh. That tastes nice."

( ♡ )

It's in the rooftop garden that you see Jimin and Yuri again.

Eating breakfast with Jimin and Yuri has recently turned into a routine, the hour and a half of conversation in the morning conditioning you to look for them more and more. He did get the french toast, the naan, and even the baby puffs that he asked for and more. You were a part of their mornings as much as they were in yours, the two of you in opposite sides of the booth while Yuri was at the end of the table with her high chair.

You unconsciously seek them, unbeknownst to yourself that you started looking for two familiar mops of hair at every facility in the hotel. Mornings were your common denominator, the rest of the day reserved for each other’s hectic schedule.

Jimin’s been busy being out and about looking at open houses, doing a job search on the side that’s still in line with working in law but would allow him to work remotely and on flexible hours. He wants to hold off working until Yuri turns one year old, but the truth was that he just can’t keep doing this up without a stable career.

He seeks you unconsciously too, looking for a familiar figure that’s dressed in true high-end clothes without the obvious logo. He deducted that wherever Namjoon is, you were too — Jimin barely noticed that he’s been texting Namjoon more frequently now, specifically if he wants to hang out during his break and where he is.

When you see him, Jimin's clothed in a thin sweater while Yuri's bundled up, knowing a cashmere sweater when you see one.

"No one's allowed to be out here this late."

Jimin doesn’t have to turn his head to know that it’s you, having expected for you to approach him because your breakfast earlier was cut short because you had an urgent meeting to attend to.

"I know, sorry. I suddenly couldn't read when I saw the sign," Jimin apologizes insincerely, accompanied by his chuckle that’s uncharacteristically low tonight. ”By the way, I didn't pick the locks or anything. I took the fire exit."

"I figured,” you hum, looking down the both of them. They’re sat by the edge of the pool, Yuri placed gingerly on his lap with her socks on (he’s not gonna risk it) while Jimin’s sweatpants are folded upwards haphazardly, his calves dipped into the warm water.

You hesitate if you want to intrude in their moment because after all, this is the only time the two of you are alone outside of your usual breakfasts. You feel like you don’t fit in, still in your fancy work clothes and in your heels while Jimin’s dressed for sleep.

He senses your hesitation, looking up at you as you’re still in thought. Jimin fishes a spare towel he keeps in his pocket (in case the usual towel he slings on his shoulder for Yuri no longer does the job) and lays it beside him, not wanting you to get your clothes dirty.

The night’s cold but you’re so warm, looking down on the towel with much appreciation in your eyes that Jimin chuckles and just nudges you to sit down already. He puts out a hand to set your glass down that he’s seen you nursing while walking throughout the floor at this time of the night, the smell of it familiar.

"Yuri was fussy. Gave her a bath, changed her diaper, warmed her a bottle, sang her a lullaby, checked her socks. Nothing worked," he explains even without you asking, cradling his daughter to the crook of his neck. "Went outside the balcony for fresh air but there was someone smoking next door."

You’re about to apologize for something you didn’t do but Jimin interrupts you, glancing upwards at the sky that he hasn’t taken the time to look at for so long.

"Ta-da. Rooftop garden does the trick."

"Scotch?" you hum while offering, your glass with a tall serving of it already halfway finished. Jimin shakes his head, a shaky sigh leaving him.

"Can't, I'm on the clock. Have been for ten months," he says it matter-of-factly but the undertone of melancholy doesn’t leave it, looking down back at your glass. “You can drink around me if you want to, though. I don’t mind.”

You smile tightly, grasping the glass in your hand but turning away your head as you take a sip because you didn’t want to rub it on Jimin’s face. He looks at the back of your head as you do, stifling laughter because you do it so quickly since you didn’t want to be disrespectful.

When you turn back, Jimin’s gaze is back at Yuri, the way his eyes sparkle still apparent in the dim lighting.

"She's pretty,” you mumble, admiring the way she looks angelic even with faint tear tracks on her cheeks.

"Thank you. All from me," Jimin quips, running his thumb on her cheek as he resists the urge to bite into them because he’d wake her up. “I’m glad she looks like me."

The question is just hanging over both of your heads in the thick air, his reply being the perfect introduction for you to finally ask. You’re not in the position at all to ask about it, but in the same way Jimin beckoned you to sit right next to him, you felt that it was right.

"How about her mom?” you whisper, looking down on your rings to avoid his inquiring gaze. "If she looked like her mom, would she still be pretty to you?"

Jimin knew you were going to ask him eventually about the other, yet absent, person in the equation, but he didn’t know you’d ask him this way — a question if he would still love Yuri if she didn’t look like him.

He nods solemnly, looking down at her. ”Of course. She's my flesh and blood, my daughter. She'd still be pretty to me, even if she looked like... the woman who birthed her."

"Sorry," you apologize once you register Jimin’s tone that isn’t light as it usually was. "Sensitive topic?"

"I've moved on," Jimin smiles albeit bitterly, never quite reaching his eyes. "I hope that when Yuri gains consciousness, she moves on too."

It’s a prayer he makes even if he isn’t particularly religious. It’s a wish upon a shooting star in a sky he barely looks at. It’s too much to ask for, to hope for, but Jimin still does nonetheless.

"Moving on is tough, though," you answer, running your finger along the circle of your glass. “Some people don't move on at all."

"Not when it's unfair," Jimin pokes his tongue to his cheek, a pained scoff leaving him. “Not when it's cruel."

Jimin’s a dam that just endures, taking typhoon after typhoon. He reserves and represses and in odd moments, in crucial and unguarded instances, Jimin catches himself slipping.

"Yuri’s mother doesn’t want anything to do with her," he speaks thickly, hand moving to cover her ears even if she’s sleeping and yet to comprehend. "She’s the heiress of her parents’ law firm. Also used to be my girlfriend of five years, actually," he laughs without the humor behind it, pursing his lips at the thought.

“She’s a lawyer. I’m a paralegal that knocked her up.”

"Jimin,” you call him when you feel that his gaze goes too far, too disconnected to realize that he’s here now with Yuri well and safe in his arms. It may be only his arms that cradle her, but it’s with love that fills in for two people and more.

"Is that Japanese scotch?" he suddenly quips, peering to your glass. He seems pleased when you confirm his guess with a gasp, smiling to himself at the minuscule victory. "Can I have a sip?"

You nod, offering your glass to which he’s eager to take. He’s just about to when he realizes that there’s a weight on his lap, one that wouldn’t blend well when he drinks.

"Can you uhm, can you also hold her while I drink? Just a little, I promise."

Without even thinking of it, you agree.

You take Yuri into your arms and press her to your chest, not having Jimin to correct you on how to hold her because you did it correctly and she didn’t even fuss.

"I'm here because I'm in between things. Haven't worked for ten months, sold my apartment to try and relocate to the city, I need to figure out where we are going in life because Yuri's turning one year old soon, and my backup plan doesn't sound too bright,” he confides in you after he takes a sip of alcohol, the all too familiar yet distant burn in his throat washing him over in nostalgia. It hits him harder than he expected.

"What's your backup plan?"

"Live in a cruise ship because the cost of living is cheaper."

"That actually sounds kind of smart,” you chuckle in delight, shaking your head. Jimin does tend to think out of the box, you easily bet that he was an excellent paralegal before he had Yuri.

"Yeah, except the fact that I get seasick easily and I'm scared of the ocean."

The admission of his fear pries an unexpected laugh out of you, covering your mouth as to not jolt Yuri awake.

"Not funny," he deadpans but the amusement on his face is visible. “You know how I want to take Yuri to an aquarium so bad but the aquarium glass for ceilings terrify me?"

You snort, visualizing an image of Jimin shaking his boots looking at stingrays overhead him. "Her Uncle Namjoon can take her then."

"He can, but I don't want to be indebted to him more than I already am,” he sighs, having considered the idea before.

"She's his niece,” you reason, the sentiment behind it already apparent.

"Only half."

"He loves her, though. I can tell. You can tell," you shrug, the solution in your head still unwavering. “He told me about Bambi a couple times already. Even before you went here."

"He does?" Jimin sounds genuinely surprised, schooling his expression to look unfazed. It’s apparent to you that the both of them don’t know each other closely. “He loves my daughter because she's his niece; of course he would. But as brothers? I don't think we're quite there yet."

You make a noise of disapproval, knowing genuineness when you see it. You know to yourself that Namjoon’s a sincere employee and an even more sincere person.

"Are you older or younger?"

"Younger," he answers, furrowing his brows because he senses that Yuri’s bound to wake up soon. “My — our mom remarried after his dad died.”

You can’t react accordingly because true to his instinct, Yuri does fuss. The way she fusses makes it known to Jimin that if he doesn’t take her back to their room and on her co-sleeper, she’ll fully wake up and throw a tantrum.

"That's enough of my baggage for one night, don't you think?"

He concludes it at that, looking at you with a somber smile. He exchanges your scotch for his baby, skillfully standing up before helping you do the same. You dust off the towel he lent you but he waves it off, telling you to keep it the next time the two of you talk like this again.

Jimin’s an enduring planet and Yuri’s a young moon, the way he looks at her enough for you to know that she’s lucky to have him as a dad.

"Good night," Jimin bids you goodbye, pressing Yuri's forehead to his as if they’re telepathically exchanging thoughts. "She says good night too."

( ♡ )

Jimin's reminded to never drink again after just five sips of scotch.

He woke up with an existential crisis, something that hasn't him in a state this bad before. He's raising his ten-month old daughter alone, there's neither an apartment nor a house attached to his name, has no job, and he's living in a hotel.

It makes Jimin claustrophobic, making him realize that he's close to the end of his wits and probably has been for a long time. Has he really been this lost all this time? Has he really been acting this pathetic despite having a daughter to raise alone?

It's so hard to breathe, carrying Yuri close to his chest on top of that. He smells her hair to try and ground himself, but even the scent of his daughter mixed with his perfume barely does anything to calm him.

Then he gets the call from his dad. He’s so numb; the tips of his fingers prick with electricity but he doesn’t feel, his ears ringing at yet another reminder of one of the multiple responsibilities on his shoulders.

"Jimin, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry," his dad sighs remorsefully. “They're calling me in for some tests again."

Right, Jimin almost forgets. He's supporting his dad secretly.

It was a dire situation, something that only the two of them know. Three if you count Yuri and her attentive eyes whenever he's on the phone.

His dad's been feeling sick for quite some time now. No one's quite sure of anything, making the whole process complicated and extensive; whatever it was, it's only between him and his dad for the time being.

Jimin was sure of two things — a) that his mom has a frail heart and hearing about a possible threat to his dad's health would be detrimental, and b) that the funding should come from him because at the end of the day, Namjoon shouldn't be responsible; after all, Jimin is his father's son, not Namjoon.

It's overwhelming, just so overwhelming that as soon as Yuri fusses as soon as she wakes, calls him appa with a B, and lightly cries, Jimin does the same.

She must be hungry, making him go on autopilot to prepare her bottle but when he opens the tin, he sees more of his distorted reflection inside the cylinder than the actual formula.

Fuck.

Jimin prepares Yuri’s bottle anyway, a lump stuck to his throat as soon as an idea forms in his head. Neither the lump nor the idea leaves him and it pricks the tears from his eyes more, keeping his daughter preoccupied because now she suddenly stopped crying to observe his instead.

He’s chipping at the ends and the very core of his whole mind is raw. All he has are doubts and insecurities and the way Yuri looks at him, like she trusts him even if he’s hugely lacking as a dad, doesn’t console him.

Jimin comes down and meets you as per usual, giving you a side hug and coming into the booth with ease as if there's no tension in his shoulders and in his mind.

He thinks he’s doing a good job at acting casual but you could see how vacant he looks, his eyes missing the usual glint of playfulness that he bore. You give him the benefit of the doubt and assume that it’s his fatigue from the night before; maybe it’s just the hangover from the few sips he had from your drink.

"You and Bambi look a little rough," you observe, piping in as soon as he settles down. “I’ll fill our plates. Just sit here."

Jimin looks at you with an unknown emotion, eyes wide and glassy. You can’t read him and neither can he, the brief moment of vulnerability being cut short when he thanks you.

You walk to the tables, filling the tray with two plates for you and Jimin and one bowl for Yuri like it's clockwork. It's easy for you to fill it all up from memory, to adhere to a routine you've built in just the three weeks you came across Jimin and his baby.

It's hard for Jimin though.

It's hard because this one particular thought never leaves him, the only one he ever had as a solution to quell the anxiety he has that peaked just this morning.

Your bag's right on the table; small, open, and expensive right in front of him, taking your position while you get breakfast for him and his daughter.

Jimin screws his eyes shut, taking several exhales that don't even placate him. He looks outwardly casual, dipping his hand in there as if he's just looking for mints and as if he's known you enough to literally stick his hand where it doesn't belong. As if you trust him.

And that's the thing — you do trust him.

Jimin spots your wallet and opens it as if it's his own. Counts the bills mentally as if he's just counting ducks and takes half of it, thumb swiping quickly. He’s never done this before.

Yuri somehow knows because as soon as Jimin's thumbs through your banknotes, all of them in the highest denomination, her bottom lip trembles, a shrill cry following soon after.

“I’m sorry, Y/N. I’m sorry, Yuri,” he whispers, screwing his eyes shut. God, this is wrong and yet he can’t stop. “This is bad but it’s a justified bad. Don’t be like appa. Don’t steal like me, okay?”

He whispers the last part because even he can’t fathom himself actually doing it, chest becoming heavier by the second. He folds the money in half and stashes it inside Yuri's diaper bag, heart still beating erratically even if he’s already hid it.

“Appa's taking care of a lot of things a-and things are tight, especially with your grandpa's situation, y'know? And you’re running out of formula and we need to stock up before there’s a shortage again," he explains, voice trembling as well as his hands.

Yuri isn’t soothed, however. She throws her head back while calling for Jimin again and again like she’s the reflection of his conscience — his conscience that he’s already tainted the moment the idea went into his head.

“Don’t cry, Yuri. I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Y/N, fuck,” he whispers over and over again, the tears in his eyes threatening to spill whenever he repeats your name.

You come back with the breakfast, barely noticing anything except that Jimin looks even more spent than five minutes ago since you last saw him. Yuri had already started calming down before you approached the table and stopped completely when you set her bowl in front of her, your eyes curious to why Jimin can’t even meet your gaze.

You realize it later, when you fish your card from your wallet because you need Namjoon to run some errands for you.

It's lighter, barely noticeable. The set of bills you've had in it isn't as thick than the last time you saw it, but you could easily chalk it up to you seeing things, or lack thereof.

It hits you completely when you see your crumpled withdrawal receipt in the bottom of your bag instead of your wallet, having a habit to use the paper as a makeshift clip for your banknotes. It would only sink to your bag if somebody had touched your wallet and took your money; it couldn't have been you because after all, you haven't done anything today that required you to pull out your cash.

Then you know when you have someone pull up security footage for you.

You see it clearly despite the slight grain; Jimin and his hands inside your bag, casually rummaging through it as if you're good companions and know each other.

The thing is — Jimin doesn't know much of you.

The security technician is appalled, even more appalled than you are and huffs when he follows your gaze. He's about to press on his radio and bark out orders when you gently put your hand before him, solemnly shaking your head.

It’s okay.

It's for Yuri.

You keep to yourself, thanking your employee before you gather your things and exit the room.

Namjoon's been looking for you and he's a little perplexed to why you would go to the surveillance room of all places, catching up to you as you walk across the grand lobby.

At the corner of your eye, Jimin enters the hotel, holding a sleepy Yuri and a plastic bag of what you can discern to be his daughter's needs.

Jimin tries to catch your attention and attempts to walk alongside you and Namjoon — you pretend not to notice.

#and how r we feeling :O intermission is up next!! <3 #jimin imagine #jimin oneshot #jimin oneshots #jimin angst #jimin angst imagine #jimin x reader #jimin x y/n #jimin au #single dad jimin au #dilf jimin #park jimin imagine #park jimin oneshot #jimin scenario #jimin fanfic #jimin x you #bts jimin imagine

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