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despereaux7writes · 13 days

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Obey Me (OG): Lesson 16-19

I wrote this a couple years ago. I really needed to write down my interpretation of what happened after all that mess happened in Lesson 16-19 (you know, when Belphie murders you :v ). I believe all the dialogue is pulled word for word from the game, but I wrote everything else :p

Oh also, so my MC's name is Des (big surprise I'm sure lol) and I didn't have the energy to go through everything and change it to "MC" or [y/n] like people often do, so sorry if that makes it not as fun to read :v It's also not finished but we can just ignore that...

But here it is! I hope you enjoy! :3

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“Here you go,” said Barbatos, setting down the large tea tray on a table already packed full of a wide variety of pastries and sweets. “It’s a special Mandragora blend,” he added as he quickly stepped out of the way as the demon brothers crowded into the living room, followed by Lord Diavolo. Barbatos had a slight smile on his face, but his eyes were sharp and calculating as he watched you being shepherded towards the treats.

Asmodeus giggled with excitement. “Yay! Afternoon tea prepared by Barbatos!” he sang, sitting down on one of the plush couches and pulling you down next to him. There was a small scuffle as a number of the other brothers all tried to fill the remaining seat next to you at once, but your blood ran cold as Belphegor stole the coveted spot, pushing up against your side you as he shoved away a protesting and persistent Mammon.

You froze, your muscles instantly tense. Why was he sitting next to you?? He had made his hatred of humans... very clear... and while learning about what really happened to Lilith seemed to have changed things, someone couldn’t just shut off a burning, festering, hatred that they had held onto and been consumed by for countless centuries just like that, could they?

Everyone around you laughed at something as they all took seats around the table of treats, but you barely heard it. All you could focus on was the heat of Belphie’s body as his arm pressed up against yours, and the tug at your sleeve as he grabbed at it in a clingy manor. You could hear your heart racing as it thudded heavily in your ears, your throat getting tight and your mouth going dry. Was he just pretending? Was he planning on attacking you again? Normally with the other demon brothers there you would have felt safe, but Belphie was sitting so close...

Someone on your other side, to your left, took your hand and entwined their delicate fingers with yours, giving it a gentle squeeze. You blinked, your panic momentarily broken as you turned to see Asmodeus snuggling close while leaning his head against your shoulder. His expression was playful, but his eyes dart meaningfully in front of you. You follow his gaze to find Mammon eagerly holding out a plate full of food in your direction.

“Hey! Hey Des, wanna try some of this?” he asks with a grin.

You force yourself to reach out to take the plate, giving him a weak smile in return, and he doesn’t seem to notice anything is off.

“Oh, ya gotta try these muffins here too!” Mammon exclaims, adding them to the pile of food.

You could feel yourself starting to sweat. It should be ok, you think to yourself. Belphie shouldn’t try anything with the others so close...

You weren’t sure if you actually believed that, but you tried to pretend that you did.

You take a slow and deep breath, and doing your best not to be obvious about it, you tried to relax and focus on the conversation around you.

Satan leaned across the table, holding another plate towards you. “Here, I’ll give you this piece of cake as well,” he said with a warm smile.

Next to him, Leviathan shook his head as you set down the first plate to take the second. “Pff...Satan, that’s way too big!" He snickered.

The brothers continued to chat around you with an almost giddy excitement despite what had just happened not even an hour ago. When you had been lying limp in Mammon's arms, the life slowly fading away from your broken body... Didn’t they remember?

A hand reaches out and gently places a fat flaky scone on one of your plates and everybody suddenly falls silent.

You look up to see Beelzebub. His violet eyes lock onto yours with an awareness you haven't seen since you jumped in front of him to protect him from a raging Lucifer.

“I was planning on eating this myself,” Beel said, his voice low and gentle. “But here, you can have this scone too, Des.”

Everyone looked back and forth between you and Beel and the scone in complete shock.

“Did Beel just give his food to someone ELSE?!” Asmo asks astounded, breaking the silence. “Beel?!?”

The brothers erupt in conversation again, teasing Beel, asking if he switched bodies with someone else again, and laughing together. To your left, Asmodeus moves so he can wrap an arm around your shoulders and hold your hand at the same time, shifting his long slender legs over yours so he is practically sitting in your lap, always wanting to be as close as he can get away with.

You practically jump out of your skin when that causes Belphie to pull you closer towards him, trying to push Asmo’s legs off of yours.

“Hey, don’t snuggle up to Des like that, Asmo. You’re too close!” Belphie pouted, looping his arm around your free arm, almost making you tip your plate in the process. “I’m the one who gets to sit next to Des. Don’t you butt in.” He leaned in close so he could properly glare around you at Asmo, his face just inches from yours, and you catch a familiar scent.

Fresh laundry, a faint touch of lavender...

You breathed in his scent as you rested your head against his shoulder, his arms wrapping tightly around you as you returned his embrace.

“Oh Des!” Belphagore exclaimed, pulling you close and burying his face in your hair. “You’ve set me free! You saved me!” He nuzzles against you, his hot breath tickling the skin on your neck. “Thank you so much... I knew it,” he said, his voice growing soft. “I knew you’d come through for me.”

You stood there for a minute, just holding one another. It was oddly comfortable, despite only having spoken to Belphie once or twice before. There was just something so soothing about him, his embrace warm and soft. And his scent...

Asmodeus refused to be pushed away from your side.

“Aww, come on. Can’t you see that I love Des so much that I can’t help it?” Asmo smiles innocently at his younger brother, snuggling close to your side. “You can have Des’ right side, Belphie. That’s all you need, right? The left side’s all mine, ‘kay?” He kept his tone light and friendly, but there was a definite possessive edge to his voice.

You closed your eyes as you relaxed more into the hug.

“In any event, Des, all I can do is thank you.”

You opened your eyes and tried to pull back a little so you could look at him, but Belphie’s arms held you firmly in place.

“Now I can finally achieve what I set out to do,” he purrs, squeezing you a little tighter.

Beel lets out a heavy sigh. “No fair... I want to sit next to Des,” he says sadly as he takes the entire tray of finger sandwiches for himself.

The smallest bit of doubt began to twist in your stomach. You try to pull back from him again, but he still refused to let you go.

Well... he had been locked here alone for quite a long time... that’s probably why he didn’t want to let go yet. It must have been awfully lonely, with the only rare visitor being Lucifer, his captor.

You tried to smother that flicker doubt as you rubbed Belphie’s back comfortingly.

He lazily raises his head from your shoulder and rests his cheek against yours, his dark indigo hair tickling your face as he whispers softly into your ear. “Ah...this really brings back memories. This feeling... I wonder how long it’s been since I’ve touched a human?”

Mammon, unable to sit still any longer, jumps to his feet and points accusingly at Belphie and Asmo.

“Y’know what? You’re ALL too close to Des! Get away! Go on, shoo!” He steps in your direction between the couches and low table, bumping against it, almost causing various plates and cups of tea to spill their contents. The brothers all began yelling at Mammon, who ignored them, waving his arms at Belphie who was closest, trying to get him away from you.

He finally relaxes his grip on you enough that you can pull back and look at him. He gives you a lazy grin, his half lidded violet eyes staring back into yours.

“So, Des...”

Something about his tone instantly puts you on edge. His grip tightens around you once more as he begins to shift and change. Two black rams horns grow and twist from his head, a long tail with a thick black tuft of fur at the end wrapping around both your and Belphie’s legs. His eyes lose their sleepy luster and become cold and sharp, making the little hairs on the back of your neck stand on end.

“How can I express how I’m feeling right now?” He gives you a predatory grin as you make a weak attempt at pulling free. “What can I do?”

“Ugh, it must be nice being so popular, you NORMIE!” Levi says over the commotion as Mammon tries to pull a loudly protesting Belphie from his seat. But then he adds a little more quietly, “Um, but you’re the one normie I actually like, okay?”

You make a real effort to pull away this time, but his grip is like iron.

“You humans really are foolish, idiotic, weak creatures, aren’t you? You’re so stupid that I can’t help but laugh.” His arms tighten uncomfortably around you, making it difficult to breathe. “Don’t blame me for tricking you, blame yourself for falling for it.”

This can’t be happening. You jam your hands between the two of you and push, struggling to get free. You’re attempts becoming more and more frantic as he continues to hold you with ease.

“If you die,” Belphie purrs in your ear, “the exchange program will be ruined, and Diavolo’s reputation will be in tatters. I hate humans, you see.” His grip around you gets even tighter and tears spring into your eyes at the pain. Your muscles ached as they were crushed and bruised under his touch and you could feel your bones barely enduring the pressure.

“I hate them more than anything in the three worlds.” He growled. And with that he gave a squeeze, and you felt something snap.

Satan lets out an exasperated sigh as Asmo tries to scootch you away from Belphie and Mammon while they practically wrestle with one another for the spot next to you on the couch.

Pain erupts from your chest, and you would have cried out if there had been any air left in your lungs. Instead, all you manage is a weak strangled whimper, which just causes Belphegor to chuckle.

“Does it hurt? Finding it hard to breathe? I’m sure it must be very unpleasant. I have to say, seeing a human face twisted in pain like this... why, it’s so much fun that I can barely stand it!” He begins to laugh, the motion only causing you more pain. You can feel his arms squeezing you harder and harder as something else breaks.

With your last remaining bit of energy, you desperately try to speak the name of one of the demon brothers you made a pact with, but nothing comes out. Your vision begins to grow dark as another piece of you cracks and breaks, the white hot pain overwhelming your senses.

Belphie’s laughter continues to grow as your strength fades and the world goes black...

You drop your plate, which falls and shatters on the rug below, catching everyone’s attention.

Lucifer stands suddenly, his harsh gaze causing both Mammon and Belphie to wither slightly.

“All of you, that’s enough.” He doesn’t raise his voice, but there is no disobeying the power in Lucifer’s command. “You’re making Des uncomfortable.”

There is some awkward murmuring from Belphie and Mammon as they return to their seats, making halfhearted attempts at excuses, but soon going silent as Lucifer’s gaze intensifies.

Diavolo, who had been quiet up until now, lets out a hearty laugh. “Hahaha! There must have been so many things you’ve all wanted to do for Lilith over the years.”

He laughs again, causing the others to chuckle and relax and fall back into easy conversation. Belphie, though once again leaning against you, seems to have temporarily forgotten about you as he and Mammon continue to battle one another with glares and dirty looks.

Every bone in your body screamed at you to run. You could feel the sweat beading up on your brow and the back of your neck as Belphie continued to rest up against your side like he hadn’t tried to kill you not even an hour ago. Like he hadn’t actually killed you...

“Is something the matter, Des?”

You hadn’t realized Barbatos was standing directly in front of you. He crouched down to sit on his heels, eye level with you. His tone was kind, but his cold calculating eyes seemed to glimmer with amusement.

“... Is something the matter, Des?” He asked again, slower this time, head tilting slightly to the side.

Everyone’s attention once again turned towards you, but you’re panic made it hard to think. All you wanted to do was run, but you had to act normal. Everyone was so happy to have Belphie back, despite... Don’t think about it. You couldn’t ruin their family reunion. You couldn’t make this about you. But your skin began to itch as you felt everyone’s eyes on you, and the panic only grew as Belphie turned from Mammon to return his attention to you as well.

But thankfully, like before, Asmodeus came to your rescue. You feel a sharp pinch on the back of your hand, momentarily breaking your concentration free from your panic. You turn and look at him, at Asmo, his warm orange eyes comforting as he gently takes your hand back in his, his thumb softly brushing back and forth over your skin.

You take a shaky breath and turn back to Barbatos.

“Do... do you think I’ve warped history?” You couldn’t hide the anxiety in your tone, but hopefully nobody would realize it was actually because of Belphie.

Barbatos gives you a reassuring smile.

“Ah...I take it you’re worried about the other Des’ disappearance?”

Yes... the version of you who had died... But Mammon interrupts before you can answer.

“Oh yeah... I thought I was gonna have a heart attack when that happened!”

“Ah, right,” says Asmo, his other hand gently rubbing slow circles across your back. “You mean when the other Des vanished in that cloud of smoke?”

Barbatos gives a nod and then carefully begins picking up the pieces of your shattered plate.

“I know I told you that I have the power to see both the past and the future,” he says. “But the truth is that there’s one more secret – something I still haven’t mentioned. You see, I have the power to select from any number of different potential realities and make any of them into the sole reality.”

Your focus had once more began to drift towards Belphie, but Barbatos’ words quickly caught your attention.

“Within the various potential realities, there are an infinite number of versions of Des... however, in the sole reality I chose, the one and only Des is the one right here. That’s why the previous Des disappeared while the you remained.”

There was a tense silence.

“You know,” says Asmo, suddenly looking a little uncomfortable. “I notice how you sort of smiled as you said all that, but...um...”

“As far as abilities go, that’s a pretty powerful one to have, don’t you think?” asks Satan, glancing at his brothers around him.

“The Legend of Barbatos: Most Powerful of All Beings...” Levi said in awe.

Mammon “Eh, details. Who cares about all that complicated stuff?”

END

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I had planned on continuing, but that never happened. So instead there is an abrupt and awkward ending :v

Hope you liked it though! :>

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virologikal · 8 months

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𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐔𝐍𝐐𝐔𝐈𝐄𝐓 𝐆𝐑𝐀𝐕𝐄 - 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟑: 𝐈𝐬 𝐢𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐲𝐨𝐮?

CHAPTER EXCERPT: Utilizing a strange combination of special keys for certain rooms and hiding them throughout the department was only one of many ways to publicly - yet indirectly - make a show out of his dismay - even hostility - towards the force inside his own men now called S.T.A.R.S. - the Special Tactics and Rescue Service. But the brunt of those emotions was clearly directed at the one spearheading the two teams, despite sharing his position - at least on paper - with another: Albert Wesker. Having been nominated by none other than Mayor Warren himself, his time in the US Military apparently had been glorious enough to warrant this special position. At least that was what Chief Irons assumed about the man, since he had never seen a full C.V. of him, and not for lack of trying to get his hands on even the smallest bit of information he could garner about the vexingly enigmatic blond. The officers loved him, even looked up to him and not even Enrico Marini, who Irons had been certain he could at least somewhat control and use to his advantage under the current, humiliating circumstances, seemed to even mind being a team leader only by name. In contrast, everyone in the R.C.P.D. gave Chief Irons a wide berth whenever he strolled the halls. They avoided meeting his eye, changed directions abruptly or dove into rooms they clearly had no business being in just to avoid him, and only ever talked to him if it was absolutely necessary. All in all, Albert Wesker was everything Chief Irons was not, and it only added insult to injury. If the captain of the S.T.A.R.S. Alpha Team was aware of the inner workings that pushed the police chief to his limit day in and day out, no one could say. Wesker preferred to wear his pair of sunglasses at any time of the day, hiding his eyes and thus making it hard to read him. Not that it would have been much easier if he did not have a strange habit like this - most of the time, his face was even, perfect to win the most gruesome poker game some would joke. Despite that, however, he was known to be fair, open for suggestions and all-around treating his team exceedingly well. During the first months of recruiting promising talents either from the R.C.P.D.'s force or the military, he had allowed them to personalize their desks if they were on site most time during the week and not part of the rotation. Upon tentative requests he had allowed for a dart game to be hung on the wall as well as pictures and posters, and rumor had it that a photographer had been hired to take a picture of both the Alpha and Bravo Team together once all positions were accounted for. Captain Wesker seemed to have an exceptionally keen eye for each of his S.T.A.R.S. member’s talents and encouraged them to participate in competitions - not just to hone their skills, but also to have their wins serve both as motivation for them and advertisement for future recruits. It was no secret that many R.C.P.D. officers dreamed of one day joining the ranks of S.T.A.R.S., and the last written test to apply for a position had been jam-packed to the point they had to send attendees away. To no one’s surprise the people working in the department soon murmured amongst themselves how much they would prefer Captain Wesker to be promoted to Chief, leading the R.C.P.D. instead of Irons and making their life - and work - easier and more enjoyable. All of these things and more served to only fan the fire of hatred sweltering in Chief Irons’ chest.

FIC SUMMARY: Death is only the beginning. And as we know, anything in this world that dies has a habit of not staying dead for long. Albert Wesker returns, letting his presence be known to Chris Redfield in Dulvey, Louisiana. And as per usual, he seems to know more than he should be able to. A reluctant cooperation is formed as Chris tries to find out how it is possible that Wesker survived, how he did it and what other secrets the man is still hiding.

𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐏: Wesker / Chris 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐒: Canon-Typical Violence . Post-Canon . pre-game . Post-Game . and some in-between the games . Coming back from the dead . Co-workers to lovers . Enemies to Friends to Lovers . Slow Burn . Gay Sex . death as a disease . delusions of grandeur . ecstasy from knowledge . Emotional Disconnect . emotional underdevelopment . the end as the beginning . destruction as creation . noteworthy genre tags will be added in the process .

Read Chapter 3 now on AO3

⸻ 𝐅𝐀𝐍𝐅𝐈𝐂 𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐘𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓. ♬♪

#⸻ ⨯ 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐊: 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐔𝐧𝐪𝐮𝐢𝐞𝐭 𝐆𝐫𝐚𝐯𝐞 #resident evil #resident evil fic #resident evil fanfiction #chrisker #albert wesker #chris redfield #// singlehandedly fighting the portrayal of Wes having been a bad Captain fr fr #// me: Man I wanna get into the spicy nitty gritty already!! also me: worldbuilding fun! complex relationships great!#// I swear we will get drrty in the next chap I prommy

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yuu-loves-you · 10 months

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Is it really rape? (2/???)

TW: same as last time

You wanted to talk to someone about your problems but your only friends were Nekomas boy volleyball team who were at practice. Plus, None of the boys know the real reason you transferred to their school in your second year. They aren’t even aware you don’t live with your parents; but your grandparents. You weren’t about to unnecessarily traumatize them with your stupid story. You crawled to your bedside table and opened the drawer. You took the box cutter from the drawer and held it in an almost gentle manner in your hands. Was this really what you wanted to do? Is it really your only option for coping? Considering you didn’t know any other way, yes. You stood and made sure to lock the door into your room before removing your skirt. In an almost gentle manner you placed the blade on top of your already scarred thighs. For a moment, you almost consider running a bath first before cutting as deep as possible. You’re painfully aware that this is a suicidal thought process. To want to cut yourself open and then sit in a bath to bleed out. You slap yourself in the face before getting to work on your thighs. It was an undeniable truth that your self destructive behavior was a mix of rage, resentment, sadness and disgust. If people knew, they’d think the saddest part was most of those feelings were directed towards yourself. You couldn’t help but feel you deserved all of that self hatred. Upon finishing you peaked your head out the door to your room. “Grandma?” You yelled. “Yes sweetheart?” You heard from downstairs. “I ate on the way home and I’m super tired. Can I miss dinner?” You nervously waited, squeezing the door frame with your hands. “Okay, just this once!” She responded. You felt bad lying to your grandma but it was for the best to keep your actions a secret. You headed to your private bathroom and began to run a tub. As that happened you opened one of the bathroom windows just a crack, and brought out the Marlboro Red pack. You read that E-cigarettes can make crystals in your lungs and while cancer is bad, the crystals were practically a guarantee you didn’t wanna risk. Your grandma could barely pay for your grandfather's medical issues, so you didn’t want to burden them more than you already did. Before you would take one out you decided to add some special soap and a bath bomb to make a bubble bath. You undressed completely. After this, you took a cigarette and you lit it. You took one inhale and puff before relaxing into the tub. After this you simply smoked and soaked in the water. It was the most calming part of your day and almost helped you forget. Once finished with your cigarette you rubbed it into the ashtray you kept on the corner of the tub before taking care of your physical needs, such as washing yourself. The only problem was, despite the cigarette it didn’t calm your racing thoughts nearly enough that occurred immediately after starting to wash yourself. You ended up scrubbing yourself raw before realizing what you were doing. Though you couldn’t find yourself caring if you scrubbed your skin raw. Again, an unhealthy coping mechanism but it made you feel clean if only for an hour. You found it to be worth it. Afterwards you got in your pjs and passed out in bed. Today had been long and falling asleep was rather easy tonight, thankfully.

#haikyuu x reader #haikyuu x abused reader #kenma kozume x reader #reader insert #kenma kozume #nekoma #recovery

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vacantgodling · 1 year

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alright time to once again kick a hornet’s nest, this time trope edition:

tl;dr this take is wrong lmao (imo)

let’s do my usual shtick and add a definition:

basically i just dislike the assertion that “enemies” always has to be someone you are actively stabbing. that it has to be a constant action packed physical altercation. i also dislike the assertion that enemies to lovers can’t be one sided on one character’s end because that’s like …. literally the entire plot of p&p — a lot of the emotions lizzie was experiencing and the hatred she had towards darcy for 1. meddling in her sister’s relationship 2. betraying wickham and 3. being condescending towards her 4. she just deadass states outright that she hates the man so…. that qualifies in my mind as enemies to lovers—on the side of lizzie. darcy not seeing it that way doesn’t make it Not enemies to lovers. but let me explain further:

(to me) enemies to lovers is when one or more characters in a proposed relationship follow more closely the actual definition of what an enemy is: people who are opposed or hostile to one another. the confines of their situation and universe will actually dictate how they are able to showcase their emotions or act out on their hatred but even the act of feeling it and feeling like enemies is fair game in calling something enemies to lovers.

in the case of lizzie and darcy: lizzie cannot be rude to darcy outright because he is of a higher social class than her and it would be unbecoming and bring shame to her family if she were to act out. so she opts for more subtle ways to show her displeasure, ie (and btw these are mostly taken from the 2005 movie cuz it was my special interest for years and i have the most on hand brain knowledge of it): the dig at the first ball where she overheard him saying poetry was shit and her interfering just to say she disagrees to undercut his prideful stance. the way that, when she was staying at merryton, she stopped reading when darcy acknowledged it as a good thing, she actively went out of her way to politely, but still pointedly disagree with near everything he said, etc. TO LIZZIE he is her enemy and adversary and the cause of the unhappiness in her life and she wants nothing to do with him. clearly, that’s not how darcy feels, but if we focus on lizzie, her storyline is an enemies to lovers. darcy was her enemy and she grew to love him.

he wasn’t “just” an annoyance to her like he legitimately fucked up parts of her life that were important to her—like jane’s feelings, or the injustice to wickham and the cruel view he had of her family.

also as an aside, you clearly don’t understand p&p if you think darcy for any moment disliked lizzie. like he literally didn’t and that is Also apart of his storyline but i digress.

circling back around the the physical altercation thing: not every character is going to want to put their hands on someone (for a variety of reasons, whatever those may be; be it character morals/values, the plot or story restraints — such as p&p it’s unbecoming for lizzie to put her hands on darcy even though i’m sure she wanted to strangle him after she found out about how he separated bingley and jane) and, more importantly even: not every character who puts their hands on each other are enemies.

let’s use a very generic example: (to me) two characters who are on opposite sides of a war aren’t always enemies. their factions may be enemies, and they may have to fight each other for their loyalty to said factions, but they themselves might not actually hate each other specifically. and i think what hinges on making a Good enemies to lovers dynamic is the actual personal dislike, distaste, and hatred the characters have for EACH OTHER.

final point i will make is tbh where do you draw the line in the sand from just disliking someone to actual enemies? if your only metric for deciding someone is an enemy of someone else is their propensity for physical violence then you’re missing out on a whole plethora of delicious ways that characters can hate each other and display it despite the confines of their situation. if all your thought process is is just yeah they aren’t killing each other so clearly they aren’t enemies then like idk! you’re just missing out! having reasons why these characters can’t fight each other or even Won’t fight each other is what makes an enemies to lovers dynamic so interesting, fascinating, and fun to play with. is it fun when characters beat the shit out of each other? absolutely. but is it also fun to see two people who clearly don’t like Anything about each other be forced to play civil? absolutely!!

tl;dr: tropes are tools not bibles let people have fun and if you don’t see more of what you want in the world then maybe make it yourself

#was there a reason to make this post? not really #just got annoyed seeing it #idk how much sense this post makes either but we move #ren hot cakes

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separatist-apologist · 2 years

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Hey MB, real quick. Would you be able to describe how the role of family was portrayed in to Kill a Mockingbird? If you could would you be able to keep it between 1000-2000 words paying special attention to Aunt Alexandra? Pls and thank you

She hated that she shook—that her uncle still had that kind of power over her. Worse, still, had been Eris. How many times had he sworn she was not leaving only to stand before him, head inclined, his expression utterly impassive.

I’ll consider your generous offer.

He didn’t touch her as they made their way through the hall. Arina could barely think, was unsure how she was still on her feet. She was tempted to abandon the pride she’d held so tightly and fling herself at his feet. Had the last few months meant nothing to him, then? Pretty words until he could end the charade? Until he had something more valuable.

King Helion had left it in his eldest son's hands. Arina began constructing a frantic argument. She’d fling herself from the cliffside before she went back—she wasn’t going, and if Eris wanted to make her, he could send what was left of her in a box.

Eris yanked open the doors to their bedchambers, ushering her in with that same near amused look. Did he think it was funny? An old, yet familiar sensation rose through her—hatred. Just as potent and ugly as it had been when they’d first met. He might as well have been mocking her. Arina made her way to the bedroom, halting when she realized she didn’t know what she was supposed to do?

Pack, perhaps? She looked toward the balcony but Eris’s movements stopped her. Reaching for the dagger held at his belt, Eris unsheathed it. For one wild moment, she thought he was going to kill her. He took two steps and then tossed it between them. Steel clanged against the marble flood as the blade bounced before sliding to her slippered feet.

When Arina looked back up at Eris for clarity, she found him on his knees, his neck arched. Like he wanted her to kill him.

“Eris?” she whispered, suddenly very afraid.

His eyes flicked to the blade. “Pick it up,” he told her. She crouched, taking the orange jeweled knife in her hand. She was shaking—surely he could see it.

“What are you doing?”

“This is the only way you’re leaving me.” His words were a vicious snarl. “If you want to go back, you’ll have to kill me first.”

She didn’t think she was breathing. Arina’s chest was tight while blood roared like rushing water. He watched, his eyes tracking every little movement.“Do it.”

“Get up,” she replied, the blade hanging from her hand. “Please get up.”

#hope this was helpful!#this is from invader elucien btw #eris is losing his mind

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miiarito · 2 years

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Sims 3: Deadly Sins Legacy Challenge

Inspired by: https://daisydezem.tumblr.com/rainbowsin

Any trait slots not filled, you can pick

All careers you don’t have to max unless the LTW says so

This challenge includes these packs, Ambitions, University Life, Pets, Late night, Showtime

Gen 1) Wrath

"Wrath can be defined as uncontrolled feelings of anger, rage, and even hatred. In its purest form, wrath presents with injury, violence, hate and vengeance"

Traits: Hot Headed, Mean Spirited, Technophobe, Athletic

Life Time Wish: The Emperor of Evil

Career: Crime

You’re fueled by spite, revenge and fear. You had an extremely rough childhood and resent your parents, explaining your anger issues. You feel you’re being judged by everyone and must prove yourself to the world. You spend your free time training your physical body, technology is a distraction and will not help you reach your goals. You’re driven, maybe not for the right reasons, but it’ll lead you somewhere impressive, regardless of it’s legality. Having kids is the last thing you’re concerned with, but accidents happen. Love is your kryptonite. The one thing that softened you. Once you have your first kid. You let your partner stay home with the kid, and refocus yourself, barely ever spending time with your offspring. You die as The Emperor of Evil.

Other:

Have a secret liar in your house or garage

don’t marry, but only have one lover

lover must have good / family oriented trait

Visit local bar on friday nights

Gen 2) Gluttony

"Gluttony is the overindulgence and overconsumption of anything to the point of waste."

Traits: Gluttonous, Slob, Absent-Minded, Childish

LTW: The Culinary Librarian

Career: Chef

Discipline , selflessness and self-control mean nothing to you. Growing up, one parent spoiled you completely, every time you cried was a new toy, a snack or a punishment forgotten about! You never tried in school because there was no special satisfying reward at the end if you did, your parent would still take you out for a meal regardless of your grades. You’re addicted to self indulgence in other forms aswell as food. You live selfishly, for your own enjoyment, live fast die young. You're not a chef to improve your knowledge but more to try all sorts of new cuisine.

Other:

live mostly controlled by your wants

cook every time youre hungry

Hire a maid / butler

Die by cowplant

Gen 3) Greed

"greed is an inordinate desire to acquire or possess more than one needs, especially with respect to material wealth."

Traits: Gatherer, Mooch, Born salesperson, Workaholic

LTW: Gold Digger

Career: Business

You want it all, you Need it all. You aren’t all too different from your parent but you’re more intelligent. Says who? Says you. You describe yourself as cunning, resourceful and hardworking. Really to you, the ends justify the means, you cannot let yourself die poor. You cut the corners, dumpster diving and collecting rocks at the start, eventually your effort pays off when you marry a rich sim. You and them raise an empire that hopefully one day will shadow the Landgraabs. Stricly a power duo, not much romance. As long as your kids don’t mess everything up you’ve worked for and follow in your footsteps.

Other:

use a consignment store

Decorate your mansion with lots of expensive paintings

have a nuclear family

marry rich, but work just as hard.

Gen 4) Envy

"Envy is characterized by a sad or resentful covetousness towards the traits or possessions of someone else."

Traits: Over-emotional, can’t stand art, unlucky, Loser

LTW: Jack of All Trades

Career: Writer

You’re a trainwreck, youre helpless, you are your own biggest enemy and you’ll never listen to advice. Or otherwise known as a drainer. Your friends come and go and you don't get why, why does everyone have a better life than you? You sit in your deceased parents house, one of the richest families in your neighborhood, furiously jealous of everyone else. You don’t work for a lot of your life, but you try loads of different hobbies. You follow all the trends and just want to be as cool as everyone else. Most of your relationships end you in getting dumped, but eventually you meet the one. They preach self love and give you something to be proud of. After your first and only kid though, You tragically lose them, leaving you to raise your kids alone.

Other:

take the paintings down your parents had up

live in your parents house

change your looks as the trends change

don’t have any life long friends

End with a smaller amount of money than you started with this gen

Gen 5) Sloth

"Sloth may be defined as absence of interest or habitual disinclination to exertion. Lack of any feeling for the world, for the people in it, or for the self."

Traits: Clumsy, Couch potato, coward, heavy sleeper

LTW: Blog Artist

Career: none

You saw your parent spiral after losing their spouse and watched them curse at the world for not giving them everything. You never understood what they meant though, the house you grew up in was giant and the possibilities were limitless. You grow distant from your parent. if UNmaterialist (and apathetic) was a thing, you’d be it. You move out, to a small dinky house and refuse any money your parent offers. You don’t need money and work sounds like torture on earth. You spend your time blogging on social media to others like you, chronically lazy. You often order take out and call the plumber when anything is wrong, any house chores are too much work. You only have a couple of friends, they know you never leave the house and always come to you. During a change of heart you adopt your first and only kid. Raising your kid, watching TV for hours and online shopping, this is paradise to you.

Other:

have a garden you never touched

move out asap

have no relationship with your parent

adopt your kid (s)

have a low maintenance shelter pet

never formally date

Gen 6) Pride

"Pride is an irrational belief that one is essentially superior, more important than others, and excessively admiring oneself as godlike, refusing to acknowledge one's limits, faults, or wrongs."

Traits: star quality, ambitious, perfectionist, diva

LTW: Vocal Legend

Career: Singer

You’d think someone so opposite would hate their parents, but shockingly you understand, you empathize. You don’t want your family tree of issues influencing you, you’re going to shine like the star you’re meant to be. You and your parent are best friends and they support you and encourage you through everything. You want to show them how amazing you really are and try out for a talent TV show and win! You quickly gain fame and stop attending high school to take up “celebrity” as a full time career. You host fan meet ups and sign signatures until your wrist hurts, not because the fans mean that much but more because you love to soak up their infinite admiration. You deserve this fame. You often see yourself too good for most of partners in your relationships, but once you meet someone as talented and powerful as you, you know its real. You raise many children with them.

Other:

die with your partner

be best friends with your parent

get a pet for show

never do anything bad infront of the press

marry someone famous / high in a career

Gen 7) Lust

"Lust is intense longing, or unbridled sexual desire, or other sinful acts"

Traits: Irresistible, Great Kisser, Flirty, Kleptomaniac

LTW: Heartbreaker

Career: many*

Youre easily tempted by sin and desire. From a young age you craved attention from those who you were attracted to, everyone gave you so much attention as the child of celebrity parents but you couldnt help fall for those who acted like you didnt exist. You go to any extent to impress and get validation from them, thats where your long streak of hopping from job to job comes from. Besides your girl/boy crazy brain you also cant help but addicted to stealing, its a thrill you cant ignore. You dont stay in one relationship long, most of the time balancing many at once without others knowing. Something in your eyes is just to die for. You live and die by, "follow your heart" and even get it tattooed.

Other:

Change to the job of your current fling every fling

Steal from a flings house before you dump them

Have a loyal posy

Lose all fame as your life goes on

Have a tattoo

Good relationship with family

#Sims 3 #the sims 3 #sims 3 legacy #sims challenge #sims legacy #sims legacy challenge

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neaverse · 1 year

Note

hi hi!! i am curious about the art class fic and the regulus birthday fic if you wanna talk about either or both of those!

Omg hi, thank you!! I'll gladly talk about both of them because they're so ridiculous and I love them😭

The Art class fic is such a silly fic that I came up with one night and I truly want to finish it. It's partially a texting fic— well, there's a lot of texting but it's also just a regular fic set in a modern, muggle world.

Basically, James spontaneously decides to sign up for an art class after seeing an ad online. James is not an artistic person at all, but it looked fun, so why not? He doesn't expect much, but he certainly doesn't expect to see Sirius’ little brother sat behind a desk as soon as he walks through the door.

Here's an excerpt:

James thinks, bitterly, as he comes to a harsh stop in the doorway to the classroom, that the universe is out to get him. There is no bloody way that this is happening. No, Regulus Black is not taking the same art class as him. He is just not.

Regulus is supposed to be in France, drinking and shopping and partying his way across the country with Barty and Evan, if his Instagram stories and posts are anything to go by, that is. So, imagine James’ surprise when his best friend's little brother— whom he hasn’t seen in three years— is not only back in England, but taking the same art class as James. At the same time as him. In the same building.

James contemplates the idea of running out of the building and not showing up to a single class because of this. Regulus has yet to notice him, sitting in the back with his headphones on and eyes plastered on his phone screen. He thinks that his chances of making a quiet exit without ever letting Regulus know that he was there are quite good.

Aaaand another one:

James: DONT YOU DARE LILY

James: I TOLD YOU THIS IN SECRET

Sirius: You told her but not me???

Sirius: What kind of best friend are you??

Lils: The kind that wants to fuck your brother

Sirius: WHAT

Mary: OH MY GOD

Marls: NO YOU DIDNT JAMES

Marls: DID YOU FUCK HIS BROTHER???

James: NO I SWEAR I DIDNT

Remus: Prongs…

James: Yes…?

Remus: little advice. don’t come over tonight

Remus: actually, you should probably start running

Remus: if you want to live

James: Sirius?

Sirius: Best listen to Moony.

James: It was good knowing you all!!

James: And thank you Lils. I hate you

Lils: Hate you too<3

Marls: this is like watching a movie. Where’s the popcorn?

Pete: 🍿🍿🍿

The Regulus birthday fic was actually written on my own birthday. I was having a hard time and thought I would project all of my feelings towards turning older —and my birthday in general— onto Regulus, and this fic was born. It's a muggle au and it basically follows Regulus during his birthday (no shit) and how he tries to avoid having to celebrate it. He pretends he doesn't care, that it's just another day, but deep down he wishes someone (his brother) would care enough to message him. So, in good old Regulus fashion, he shuts everyone out and ends up having a depressive ass birthday. Yay!

Here's an excerpt:

A perfect birthday, in Regulus' mind, is to pretend that it's just another day. No, nothing special about this date, just another boring, tiresome day of the week.

The problem, however, is his friends. They love birthdays. And despite knowing Regulus' hatred towards his own, they always plan something.

So, naturally, he has turned off his phone, locked the door to his flat and drawn the curtains shut, because it won't happen this year. He refuses to have them barging in with cake and wide grins on their faces. He refuses to watch Barty and Evan humiliate the fuck out of him as they start singing happy birthday out of tune in a packed restaurant. He refuses to have Pandora look at him with sympathy when he inevitably picks up his phone, waiting for a message from his brother that will never come. He refuses to have Dorcas beg him to go out for the night and get shitfaced drunk.

He also doesn't want to deal with his parents today, but there's so much to unpack about all of that so let's just… Not.

He's twenty as of today. Well, he's been twenty for eleven hours already. It doesn't feel real, very… anticlimactic, to say the least. It should be a milestone, but Regulus is all alone in his dark flat.

#wip game #future fic #jegulus #regulus black #james potter #marauders

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fablegaze · 1 year

Text

Spectember day 6 - leviathan planet culture

(mostly me rambling for this one)

the leviathan planet is made up of 2 major landmasses: I'll call them the "human continent" and "leviathan continent" for now. you can find a Very messy world map that I drew on day 1. it's not entirely accurate (going to make both continents smaller in the final version) but it's good enough for now

the human continent is the largest area of land on the planet, mostly uninterrupted by water and with only a few islands surrounding it. "wait how are humans on this planet-" don't even worry about it.

the leviathan continent, on the exact opposite side of the world, is Entirely islands. some of them get pretty big though

there’s a huge divide between human & leviathan cultures, fueled by distance, a language gap, and a recent uptick in leviathan hunters

human culture is almost entirely unaware that some leviathans are sapient. leviathan hunters are the only ones that interact with them often enough to be able to tell, but they tend to push those thoughts aside for the sake of money or culling these “dangerous animals” (human attitudes toward leviathans are not the best)

the only guy that actually knows about their sapience is now kinda a leviathan himself and has almost entirely left the human side of his life behind, so. yeah, no contact between humans & leviathans at all

(i will explain Why he is a leviathan. later. eventually)

leviathan hunting is a relatively new thing that more and more people are hearing about, largely fueled by the sheer rage and hatred of One Guy. most people either don't like it or just don't give a shit

fish leviathans & seal hexadogs are both species that used to gather in schools/packs, and are still very social. they tend to get anxious if alone for long enough. frilled leviathan socialness varies wildly from individual to individual. horned leviathans are almost entirely solitary

most leviathan settlements tend to be on land near the shore, or in shallow waters. there are a few deeper settlements for those who can hold their breath long enough to go down there

leviathans don't wear clothes very often, but they LOVE accessories and many leviathans are just completely decked out in random bits and bobs that they found or made. necklaces, earrings, and bracelets made out of driftwood, shells, dried plants, beads, and/or scraps of fabric are very popular

in the biggest leviathan city (the one that the two pictured above live in), the most common way to show your affection for someone is to give them gifts. accessories are a go-to option, but also food and supplies. bullet (the lighter gray one) spends a lot of their time fishing, and passing out the extra to anyone who needs it

leviathan culture as a whole adapted pretty well to being contacted by other sophonts, but most are entirely disinterested in space. especially the bigger leviathans that would require specialized equipment and large ships to even get up there. the fish leviathans & seals are overall the most interested in space. they are little and easy to transport

humans are way more eager to go into space, and all the people from other planets are eager to meet them. humans are an outlier on the leviathan planet; they don’t look like anything else that lives there, and no one knows where they came from (including Me ❤️❤️❤️). there are old leviathan legends about humans descending from the skies but they don't really go into much detail past that

humans learn about sapient leviathans around the same time the leviathan planet is contacted and the reaction is mixed. some people don’t give a shit and still view them as wild animals, others are filled with immeasurable amounts of guilt. leviathans are willing to make peace with anyone who Wasn’t involved in leviathan hunting. their only message to the hunters is “get fucked”

#spec bio #speculative biology #spec evo #speculative evolution #xenobiology #worldbuilding #spectember #spectember 2023 #world tag: ased #featuring helios whose design changes slightly every time i draw him. and his friend bullet #oc tag: helios #oc tag: bullet

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virtuouswhitehatorganization · 10 months

Text

Hormoniac (Villainous Oc)

Name: Amobi Onyilogwu

Age: Same Age As Black Phantom

Headcannon Voice Actor: Uche (English); Javier Olguín (Spanish)

Relatives: Amadi Onyilogwu (father-deceased); Nnedi Onyilogwu (mother-deceased); Jidemma Onyilogwu (uncle) ; Ijeoma Onyilogwu (aunt by marriage); Adaeze Onyilogwu (cousin)

Abilities: Hormone Manipulation And Generation

Love Interest: Green Rod

Ethnicity: Nigerian-American

Gender Identity: Genderfluid

Sexuality: Pansexual

Residence: Marin City

Occupation: Villain; Club Owner; Gang Leader; Drag Queen Performer; Singer

Personality: He is an eccentric and quirky fellow who sees himself as larger than life. He is very bombastic and loud and loves to make a scene. He also is very dramatic and can act very over the top. He also is very mischievous and can use his powers to play pranks on people. Despite being a villain he does have a soft side for his underlings and gang members due to the fact he took them in when no one else wanted them. He also has great hatred for PEACE due to the experiments they did on him and is willing to also target them as revenge. Although he is very confident and prideful, he also inside has vulnerabilities he doesn't often show to other people and it includes his past involving his family and his reluctant to show them to anyone except his closest subordinates and later Green Rod. Despite how civil he can be, he can still have a ruthless side since he is a gangster and will get rid of people if he thinks they will get in his way. He also tends to be very flirty and loves flustering and teasing people. He tends to be a nicknamer and give people special nicknames he uses to refer to them.

Background: He was an orphan was who taken in by his uncle and aunt after his parents died, but they mistreated him and favored their daughter over him. The abuse got worse as he started identifying as queer and they got even more hostile towards him. He then at the age of eighteen decided to leave where he lived on the streets until he found a spot opening for PEACE as a test subject. He entered into the program where he was promised big things if he was tested. However, the results of the testing turn haywire and mutated him. The scientists thought the results were mixed but still though he could useful and wanted to keep him as a observation subject. He decided he didn't want to be used as a locked up specimen and used his new powers to subdue everyone and run away. He was again back on the streets until he saw an ad for the Black Hat Organization and became a member so he could avoid being used by PEACE again. He then got the resources to form a gang called The Pride Pack and opened up a club called Flavor Flair. He recruited people who felt marginalized for their sexuality and used his powers to help those fulfill their dreams when it came to being their trues elves.

* He joined Black Hat's organization before meeting Flug and Demencia, but afterwards he has met them many times. He does seem to be sweet on Flug.

* He uses and switches between female and male forms.

* He is influenced by Uche and Emporio Ivankov from One Piece.

* He has ties to other mob bosses like King Cassino.

* He is Green Rod's third love interest.

* He uses he pronouns in male form and she pronouns in female form.

* He started discovering his identity when he got into high school.

* He likes switching people's genders for fun.

* He has a great singing voice and often performs at his club in both forms.

* He knows Igbo and English.

* He is inspired by flamboyant villains seen in media.

Created through picrew.me/en/image_maker/20949…

#villainous #villanos #villainos #villainous oc #villanos oc

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sentimentalscientia · 2 years

Note

Kelly shrugged. "Kinda seems like a better way to do it, honestly. Joke or not." Then the kid could have some input, too, and have potentially once less reason to resent their parents.

'Temperamental' was certainly one way to put it. 'Cunning' was more on the money in his experience.

"Seems like he has a good head on his shoulders." He shrugged again. "M'not particularly hostile towards humans one way or the other. Just seen enough shit to know shitty behavior is the rule, not the exception."

Why the hell was he talking so much? When and how did he get sucked into a conversation? Couldn't just be the will to live, something about this guy was prompting overly polite behavior. Then again maybe that was the will to live.

He gestured vaguely toward the pot of coffee he had warming near the fire. "Do you... ?"

“I feel that is a genuine truth. Perhaps those cultures with naming ceremonies as adults are on to something.” He chuckled a moment. Gaze lingering on the other. Watching slight emotions play on his face. Learning what he thought.

“A part of me always wonders what is the true rule when it comes to humans? In all my years on this earth, I have witnessed countless horrors. Unfathomable atrocities. Cruelty beyond measure. Disgust and hatred stemming from fear. But at the same time I’ve encountered so much kindness in this world. So either it’s not really too much of an exception, or I’m just a particularly lucky wolf. Technically both are a distinct possibility.” This conversation was going much better than anticipated. That immediate tension that had filled the air….well it hadn’t exactly lessened. But it wasn’t growing either. The other sitting there exchanging words instead of bolting away. And what’s this? An offer of a warm drink? Now that was an offer he couldn’t refuse. Something drew him to this young man. A wolf, but not like him. Wearing a certain air that life had not been kind. That a pack hadn’t been either.

“That would be wonderful thank you.” He moved closer. Steps slow and careful to not startle. Taking a seat opposite the other. A little further back then he normally would. “It’s been quite a while since I’ve had campfire coffee. I’ve missed it. Though I have gotten a little spoiled with the fancier drinks we have now a days. I have this delightful little French press that my pups got me for Christmas a few years ago. That’s my typical caffeine fix. But some mornings I’ll lurk near the kitchen until I hear one of them messing around with this speciality coffee maker. The thing is a monstrosity. Takes up a large section of counter. Can make over a dozen different types of drinks. They can be quite delicious. Most days I’m content with my little press. But those days I want something fancier I will lurk for hours to get a chance to ask someone to make me one of whatever they are having. I’m very much hoping they haven’t yet realized I do this because for the life of me I can’t work that machine. Figured out cars. Computers. Cellphones. An assortment of technological marvels and I’ve gained some level of proficiency in all. But that machine taunts me with its mysterious workings.”

#thehighlandhealer #itsuki #kelly

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sunspire-knight · 3 months

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I translated my old short fanfic from Russian to English (all by myself, without any translator, so I'm a little bit anxious to post it, but I really want to. Idk how to tag it, but, am–)

❗️cw/tw: smoking, alcohol, internal homophobia, self-hatred❗️

short description: USSR 90s AU with my special interest, characters from Skyrim, my Dragonborn Zendar (Zakhar for this AU) and Marcurio (Mark for this AU), his husband. I wrote this fanfiction on his behalf. Men who love men in the post-soviet space very often face internal homophobia and hate themselves for their feelings towards men. That's why Mark is struggling here, but probably that's just because I enjoy writing painful stuff about queer people–😭

━────────────━

collage by me!

and the song which I was listening to while writing — for the atmosphere✨️

━────────────━

I wrap myself in my cheap coat, my feet freezing in autumn boots while I stand in the snow and wait for a marshrutka. It is going to take a while for it to arrive in this snowfall, but I will wait. I will freeze, but I will wait.

Somewhere on the other side of the road, among the rows of Khrushchevkas and panel houses, there is a light in the window of Zakhar's apartment. He is probably drinking his favorite tea with three tablespoons of sugar as usual, and watching the Spartak vs. Dynamo game on TV. I wish I could be with him now, not to watch football, not to drink tea with him, but to lie with my head on his lap and finally relax. I have not been able to relax for a long time.

I am lying in the bath without water, right in my clothes, looking at the ceiling. I turn on the water. I do not adjust it — it pours a little warm, a little yellow from rust in the pipes. The plaid shirt sticks to my body, the trousers too. I throw my legs up on the wall and lie there until my back starts to hurt. I do not want to think about Zakhar, but he gets into my head. I hate him. I hate him so much.

I drink 'forty percent' from a faceted glass. I wince — I hate vodka, as I hate Zakhar. I drink to muffle my thoughts. I smoke until my eyes are blurred, get drunk and fall to the floor. I vomit and crawl to the toilet. While I am throwing up, I feel like I am spitting out my own lungs along with my guts. Bile and vodka are bursting out of me. I feel very sick.

Muska is running around, meowing anxiously. Your owner is an idiot, Muska.

Exhausted, I lie down on the bed and light up again. How angry Zakhar would be at me right now... I smoke a whole pack, cough and feel how my chest aches. I understand that I can not do this anymore.

And so I live week after week, distracted by forced trips to the university, to work, trips to the store. I am indifferent to the world. And disgusted with myself.

Zakhar will not leave me alone in any way. He calls me at home, tells me something for hours, and I sit with my legs tucked up on a dusty armchair, listening to him. His kind voice on the phone, and it is so hard for me to remain calmly silent. It is hard not to shout anything superfluous into the phone. In Zakhar's voice, they tell me something about sports, about the district news, about what the old ladies in the entrance of his house are talking about, what is happening in our country. I do not care. My lips are trembling treacherously, and I clench my teeth tightly so that if I start talking, Zakhar will not hear weakness in my voice.

But now I am still standing at the snow-covered stop. My marshrutka drives up, I jump into it like into a black abyss, grab the handrails and shake off the snow. Behind my back, again, "Pass the fare, comrade" — I pass it on. I am not sitting down, I am going out soon anyway. It is not that far from Pervomaiskaya to my stop.

Here I go. The snow hits my face again in large flakes. Damn December. But the New Year is coming soon, right? I see colored lights in people's windows. Everyone is scurrying through the streets, happily chattering like jackdaws. Every year I manage to miss the moment when the general commotion begins. Zakhar will probably call me soon, as usual, and invite me to celebrate. I will agree. I will sit in his kitchen, drink coffee, stare absently at the television interference, and listen to the chimes, wondering what will happen next, in the coming year. There is fun in the next room, and Zakhar will invite me to join them. I will submit, I will enter the living room. Some guy, recognizing my face and remembering my last name, will jokingly call me some slurs, and I will not care. Zakhar will pour something for me. I get drunk easily and quickly, so soon, after half an hour of uncontrollable laughter at stupid jokes and attempts to joke back, I will fall asleep in the corner of the room like a hopeless alcoholic. Every year it happens somehow like this. The same movies on TV, the same holiday.

Probably, this New Year will be about the same. That is just it... with Zakhar, everything will be more difficult.

I walk further along the road covered with soft snow, winding along courtyards and entrances. A cold wind blows between the concrete boxes. The snow wipes away my shame like washing powder. I take a cigarette out of my pocket again, take a drag and smoke for a long time, looking at the fragment of the moon in the black sky.

There is a hard and bloody war going on in my heart. It does not seem so crazy out here in the cold, but when I am alone in the apartment, I know what it is like. I know what it is like to forbid yourself to feel. My dear Zakhar Demidov, you have always been so kind to me and always called me your best friend, and I... I destroyed it all. I am sorry, Zakhar. Sorry. I did not know that I could love too.

I throw my cigarette into a snowdrift and hide in the entrance, walk up the stairs to my apartment on the second floor, rush in, throw off my coat, take off my heavy boots, sink to the floor and remain silent, burying my shaking hands in my snow-soaked black hair. I do not understand how I allowed myself to do this. I do not understand. I do not want anything. I do not want to live, think, eat, or sleep. I do not want to realize that I am alive. From the feelings inside, everything hurts and is torn to pieces. I clearly know that love and I are incompatible things.

Realization rolls in slowly, incrementally, like an avalanche descending from a mountain. Me, who lives in the gangster nineties, on the edge of a cliff, where the Soviet Union ends and nothing begins, blackening with a terrible abyss. Me, who was born after the war. Me, raised with forced ideas of family values. Me, who never found the meaning of life, which, in fact, does not exist at all, and never did... It is all me. I am Mark Hoffman, born nineteen fifty-seven, educated and, it seems, not a stupid person, but in fact a complete idiot. Because I fell in love with someone who I was not allowed to fall in love with.

Zakhar will come to me again. He often comes in just to chat and play with the cat. He says he likes my company. I am going to pretend like nothing happened again. To look at him, hating myself and my stupid heart. To lie to his face that I quit smoking. To discuss newspaper clippings with articles about the decaying West, where for two men to love each other is no longer something shameful. I will laugh about it and say, "It is hard to believe." But, it is interesting... What will Zakhar think?

And I do not hate him after all. I love him. I love him too much to forgive myself for that.

━────────────━

It was definitely MUCH better in Russian, but I hope at least someone will like it–

#fanfic #fanfiction #Spotify

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hanibalistic · 8 months

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LOVE ME LIKE A GOD, BITE ME LIKE A MAN | JAKE SIM.

genre | fluff, angst / hybrid au

synopsis | you were jake's first patient after he obtained his license as an emotional support dog. except you asked for an actual dog, not a hybrid dog.

word count | 6.2k+

warning | abusive parents (verbal abuse, degrading talk, mentions of physical abuse) / blood, violence, injury / mentions of depression, self-harm, suicide

note | hi, i ate a whole family pack of golden oreos. they are better than regular oreo.

Golden retrievers never get angry. Golden retrievers never bite.

It was a misconception Jake had heard left and right since he was born, but to him, it wasn’t much of a misconception; it was the truth. He could count on one hand how many times he’d felt hatred and anger toward someone, and he couldn’t count on one hand how many times he’d sunk his canine teeth into sensitive human flesh because he’d never done it. He grew up kind, polite, and genuine. Everyone told him so.

Support dogs never get angry. Support dogs never bite.

This was not a misconception. This was the law. It was part of the rules he had to memorize to become an emotional support hybrid dog during his trainee days. They were the first two rules. But, to him, it wasn’t much a law to abide by but rather a misconception.

You were his first patient, or rather his first owner. Most emotional support pets only have one owner, but you were a special case. he could recall vividly when his agent presented your case to him, they had jokingly addressed you as ‘the stepping stone.’ he later found out the nickname was an inside joke among the workers of this field to refer to patients with the highest likelihood to end their lives. The term ‘stepping stone’ was about how a support dog with experience with an owner like that tends to have more opportunities lined up for them afterward.

Before the first day of work, he was advised to be vigilant and observant. Be kind, be gentle, and be the emotional support dog he went through four years of schooling and obtained a license for. But remember, your death would ultimately be beneficial to him, so as long as it wasn’t his direct fault, it couldn’t be bad if you do end up killing yourself.

Jake took the advice to heart. He was vigilant and observant. He was kind, considerate, and gentle. He wasn’t precisely the support you were looking for, though. You made it known the first day you met him that you requested a real dog, not a hybrid dog, and that he should promptly leave your apartment to report to the agency about the mistake. But he faltered with that demand—the only demand he didn’t adhere to.

Perhaps he wished to prove a point, to uplift himself after his agent thought it was a bright idea to assign him a high-risk patient on his first day. If he could get you to spend the remainder of your natural life in moderate peace, it could mean a lot to his reputation in this career field. Or he hated how the word ‘stepping stone’ popped into his head the second you opened the door to your apartment, and he didn’t want you to be boxed into a category by people who could never understand what you were going through. Or, perhaps, he just didn’t want to give up on you, his first owner, the person he was set to build a devoted relationship with.

He grew up kind, polite, and genuine. Everyone told him so. How could he leave you to rest your tired eyes alone? How could he leave you to rot?

Jake smiled a lot, but he wasn’t chatty. You understood why that was. You weren’t so talkative yourself, and conversations with you go nowhere interesting. He only said what he had to say and did what he was trained to do.

Heading out to get groceries, five minutes before he throws the dirty clothes in the washing machine, pick your feet off the ground when he’s sweeping the floor, if you would like fried rice for dinner. You look ill, he’ll take you to the doctor, he’ll wash your body with soap, he’ll give you medicine to drink. Happy birthday, Happy Thanksgiving, Merry Christmas, Happy New Year, Happy Valentine’s Day. Good morning and good night. Please sleep well and wake up tomorrow.

(He’s here, he’s always here. Look for him when you need him; call for him when you need him. He’s here. He’s always here.)

He was overbearing at his minimum, and you were uncomfortable with the care he had to provide you. If you didn’t know better, you would’ve thought you ordered a housekeeper, not an emotional support dog. But, housework and caretaking aside, he was good at providing emotional needs.

Your mother’s sickening voice hollered out of your phone and drowned out your desperate attempts to stand up for yourself. It’s an old story that never ends, starting with her narrow-minded beliefs on your depression to her impossible standards for your quality of life that should have benefited hers. There wasn’t a moment’s rest in her tangent, and how ironic that she could hold her breath for so long while you could barely take one.

Jake hid in a corner when your parents called for the first time. He has sensitive ears and a sensitive mind. He has never been yelled at, berated, or dehumanized. Your parents’ cruelty was unfathomable, given that he had parents who fought and bantered to love him the most, but it was easy to grow accustomed to it after a while. Now, he would fold his ears and ceaselessly stay near you no matter the distance you create because you didn’t think he deserved to hear those words. Your mother was never speaking directly to him, but the scars that land on your skin may as well land on his own. He thought you knew that much.

You could pace the room, and he would follow. You could lock the door behind you, and he would sit outside patiently. You could shrink into a corner, and he would fold his knees to his chest and squeeze into the tiny space next to you. You could sit there silently for hours, and he would, too. Jake was ceaselessly near; this coffin was built for you and him, and sometimes you let him hold you to make space.

“You must think I’m pathetic,” you assumed quietly. “They’ve called me so many times. Not once have I successfully stood up for myself.”

Jake’s tail began to sway at a slow rhythm. It was the first drop of your voice after an hour of white noise. He moved away from the couch and turned to face you on the floor. Your bloodshot eyes met his soft ones, and he wondered what the meek raise of your brows meant.

“I don’t think you are,” he clarified with a shake of his head. It was true. He only thought good things about you.

“Yeah?” You rolled your eyes. “You’re just being nice.”

“I am nice,” he agreed, with a grin settled more in his voice than on his lips. After a short pause, he rubbed his thighs and cautiously glanced at you. When you furrowed your brows at his suspicious movements, he finally spilled, “Your mom is mean.”

His comment made you heave out a dry chuckle. Nobody has ever insulted your mother before, not that what he said was much of an insult. But it was his honesty that really baffled you. His voice traveled with childish discontent, and he had nothing to add to that observation. Your mother was mean! That was it! You could almost envision a younger him stomping his feet and crossing his arms. It was laughable, an unknowing joy that occurred after a torturous phone call.

Jake beamed at your smile. His sad ears perked with newfound excitement, and his tail wagged harder, bruising himself as it hit the feet of your coffee table. He leaned his torso forward, his chin scraping past the edge of the couch as he forced the sight of his grin upon your eyes.

“You laughed!” he beamed.

“You’re so silly, Jake,” you said as you adjusted your head on your arm.

His eyes flickered as his smile dimmed with confusion. “What did you say?”

“I said you’re silly, Jake.”

(He heard you the first time, but he wanted to hear you say his name again.)

“I am,” he admitted.

The way his shoulders rose, fitting his bashfulness perfectly between them, sent a tender exhale through your nose. You never quite noticed him, not enough to recognize the features on his face anyway. Your sadness cast a veil over your eyes, so you never looked at anything. And then you saw him—the way he bore his teeth in his grin temporarily lifted the blinding veil, and you saw him. His lit eyes, genuine smile, expressive ears, and white canine teeth.

“Hey, can I ask you a question?”

“Yeah, what is it?”

“Can I touch–well, you know–“

You struggled to speak. It seemed there wasn’t a proper way to address your curiosity about a dog hybrid’s body. You’ve briefly looked up their anatomy before, mainly because your attention was caught by a catchy title rather than to satisfy a desire to learn something different. Their body functions are relatively identical to yours, except they have the sensitivity and advantages of their animal counterparts. Heightened senses, night visions, high stamina, quick feet, and the most jarring of all—the myth that some of them have four ears.

“What? I only have two ears!” Jake exclaimed as he pointed at his head, his ears raised in bafflement. He smiled in disbelief. The idea of having human ears was foreign. “Who made up a lie like that?”

“Just the internet. People say the darndest things there. I shouldn’t have believed any of it,” you said, feeling somewhat embarrassed.

“I get it. It’s okay. I’ve believed in worse things.” He waved his hands dismissively. His parents gave him a tablet for his birthday when he was young, so if anyone understood the repercussions of the internet’s freedom, it was him. “I spent most of my childhood thinking all those urban legends are real.”

You tilted your head. “Like Bigfoot?”

“Oh, no. I know for a fact that Bigfoot is real.”

You squint your eyes at his nonchalant response, and unfortunately, you couldn’t tell if he was joking. “Is that confidential hybrid information?”

“What have you been reading about us hybrids?” he cut you off with a dramatic exclaim, putting a hand on his chest as he leaned back to access you with incredulity. When he saw your timid frown, his eyes widened with affectionate panic, and he frantically shook his hands at your face. “I was joking! I was just joking! Hey, look, you can touch my ears if you want!”

Heat bolted to your neck, and you abruptly sat up. He got up with you but maintained a comfortable distance as you curled your legs to your chest and shook your hand in disagreement. The smile on your face wasn’t forced, but it formed out of awkwardness. He could tell you were flustered as he leaned back on his heels, his fingers fidgeting at the sight of your smile. This was the most he’d seen of your expressions; you usually maintained a bland face.

He liked it. He wanted to see more of it.

“That’s okay!” you practically shrieked.

“What, why? You were asking to touch them.”

“I don’t want to invade your personal space!” you reasoned, forming a cross with your arms. “I wouldn’t like it if someone came up and started rubbing my ears.”

“Well, yeah, I mean,” he slurred with a haphazard shrug, his hands being thrown up to his chest to accentuate his nonchalance. “I wouldn’t like that either, but you’re not coming up to me and doing it out of the blue. You asked for my permission, and I’m giving it to you!”

You frowned. He didn’t understand that there was a dynamic here where he risked pushing you off the cliff of sadness if he rejected your request. You wouldn’t budge from the cliff; this wasn’t the kind of thing you spiral for, but you didn’t want that to be Jake’s thought process.

“Hey, come on! It’s okay! Us Goldens love being caressed. I really don’t mind,” he urged quietly as his knees tip-toed forward. He propped his hands on the edge of the couch, just before your feet, and smiled at you. “Give it a try.”

“I–“ you breathed out an airy laugh and curled your hand into a fist, stopping it just before his face–“I actually wanted to touch the spot on the side of your head where the human ears would have been.”

“That’s okay, but touch my ears anyway,” he requested politely as he carefully curled his hand around your wrist. He felt razor-like bumps on his palm and said nothing.

He gently tugged your hand closer to his face, and with his persistent encouragement, you first tapped your index finger against the side of his face. There was nothing there, just a flat surface, as you anticipated. Carefully, you planted more fingers on his warm skin and began shifting. You traveled further to the back where his hair met, down to his neck, to the side to brush along his jaw, then back to those invisible human ears.

Your touch was weak, and it held no aggression. He was sure it was a direct consequence of your lack of care for everything that made you so frail. Before he arrived, you didn’t bother with proper meals, never went outside to taste the sun, and couldn’t even bring the empty water bottles out of your room.

But, more importantly, your touch belonged to you.

You chose to react softly to him. You decided to be gentle with him. There was love in your hands; you gave it all to him. He received it with such grace and greed you would’ve never imagined.

Slowly moving your hand up, you reached his head where his ears sat. He shut the eye closest to where your palm landed on his head. His hair was soft, and his ears foldable. He pursed his lips and closed his eyes when you rubbed his ear, his tail still wagging behind him and his head nudging up against your palm. His toes wiggled to a rhythm while smushed between the weight of his body and the ground, completely drowned on the spot.

Jake sat with contentment and patience. His bright eyes, squinted because he smiled with everything on his face, stared up at you.

Your brows raised once you felt a shiver run up the side of your waist, a ghostly touch that was surprisingly fulfilling, rattling your heart and growing your space to accommodate his continuous presence. He’s here. The size of his ear solidified its shape in your palm, you could feel it better. He’s here. Something in you was changing, and you unknowingly beamed at it. You surrendered to it.

Jake’s tail wagging halted to a slower rhythm.

He really, really, likes you. You would’ve never imagined.

“Does this really feel nice to you? I imagine it could make me uncomfortable if I was in your position,” you asked, your voice clearer. “Let me know if you don’t like certain things normally done to dogs being done to you.”

He let out a nonchalant hum as if he couldn’t care less, but the way his hand reflexively flew up to hold your wrist in place, to keep you closer to him, told a different story about how he felt.

“It’s okay, I like it. I like them all, the head pats and everything,” he said. “Besides, we’re not allowed to be annoyed.”

He frowned when your movement trailed to a stop. “Oh, that’s not–that shouldn’t be how this works.”

“It’s a rule we learn during training,” he said, discreetly pushing your fingers up against his chin as a sign that he wanted to be caressed.

“What other rules do you guys have?” you asked. “Also, you don’t have to follow that if you don’t want to. You’re here to help me, not be trapped with me.”

“That’s fine! We have many rules and were trained to follow them, so we will,” he said.

Support dogs always prioritize their owners’s needs and safety. Support dogs never get distracted. Support dogs never discuss their owner’s issues with others. Support dogs never betray or lie.

Support dogs never get angry. Support dogs never bite.

Jake bit your father the day of Christmas, and then he bit you.

Like the downfall of Rome, all the progress he made with you collapsed that one festive night you decided to muster the courage to visit your parents.

Jake had doubts, but he wanted to support one of the most significant steps you’ve taken to better your life, so he only followed you home. He held out hope that your parents changed, but even he knew that was wishful thinking. The phone calls you’ve received from them have yet to turn out for the better.

All hell broke loose within five minutes of you all sitting down at the dinner table.

Everything reverted to square one when you first swung open the door for him. How surprising to him that it all happened so quickly, too, the way your poised smiles (small as they were, it was an accomplishment to muster them) were replaced with deep exhales. Your parents complained without making space for any input, yet comically, they didn’t mind their own overlapping voices.

But harsh words you could endure, as could Jake. He could make up for all the things your parents say with something as simple as a poorly told joke, folding his arms around your body, letting you squeeze his cheeks like a fidget toy, or making you taste the somewhat burnt cake he tried baking (and you would take a small bite to make him happy). You two could handle words. What broke your support dog was when your father decided raising his hand at you was a good idea.

“You stupid dog!” your father roared with a trembling hand.

You dropped out of your seat and raced to the corner where Jake slowly began to stumble to his feet. A nasty cut adorned the side of his face, reflections of glass pieces shimmering within the bloodied flesh where your father smashed his glass cup to get his jaw to let go. But it couldn’t be worse than the marks he left on your father’s old forearm, where skin peeled and tissues tore into the blood that flowed into a river on his plate, mixing with the blood of the steak.

Jake’s eye twitched at the sight; he smirked like a rabid dog. He felt his mouth salivate, and he spat out the clump of meat he clawed from the hand that hurt you.

This was a newfound sensation. He wasn’t sure what to make of it. Was it vengeance? Spite? Disgust? Bloodlust? It felt like all of the above.

“Honey, we need to get you to a hospital to check for infection.”

Your father shoved your mother’s pleas away and stomped toward you. It took a brief moment for you to realize he wasn’t coming for you but rather for the boy who dared to disrespect him. You panicked; you knew your father. You knew the wrath in his pride. Jake may have a physical advantage, but he did not possess the brutality your father did, not even for the man who dared harm you.

“No!” You hastily stepped in front of Jake. “Dad, stop!”

“Get out of the way! You are enough of a disappointment as it is! Now you’ve gone and brought home a fucking half-breed! A wild animal!” your father accused with uncontrollable spit. “Look at what he did to me!”

“It’s his job to keep me safe,” you muttered through an exhale.

“Safe from what?” He sounded with an entire world’s certainty, being so sure he wasn’t wrong. “The only thing dangerous here is him!”

“You were going to hit them!” Jake retorted, but he could not move closer to your father due to you blocking his path.

“It’s part of parental discipline!” your father’s hardened gaze was ferociously uncanny. “I don’t suppose you would know anything about that, dog.”

“Okay, no–“ you spun around and pressed a trembling hand to Jake’s chest–“come on, we’re leaving. We’re going home.”

“That’s not happening!” your mother protested from the sidelines.

“Mom, please,” you held a hand up, “you don’t get to decide where he goes. He is my support dog, not yours.”

“I never implied that he is,” she retorted as she approached and stood beside your father. “But that thing is not going anywhere until the police arrive.”

“Police? Try animal control!”

Jake furrowed his brows. He knew your parents were heinous beings, so he didn’t necessarily suffer the weight of their words. Not in the way they were intended to be taken, anyway. He didn’t care about them enough for their words to affect him, but you seemed to have taken a dramatic hit like you always did.

You kept your hand flat on his chest and whipped your head to look behind your shoulder at your father. With brows furrowed in disbelief, your heart beating out of your chest, and your lips pulled into a deep frown, you said, “You can’t call the police on him.”

“He bit my fucking arm, [Name]! Look at it!”

You unconsciously flinched away when your father stomped with his bleeding arm extended toward your face.

The edge of the open flesh was decorated with the shape of Jake’s teeth, and the dead skin flailed along with the hasty movements like a piece of torn cloth. The split wound gargled with fresh blood, screaming to be covered and protected once again, and there was the corner where Jake bit off a patch of skin. You could see the damage. It was as clear as day. You didn’t want to look at it, but your father was determined to victimize himself.

“I see it, dad,” you said. “Stop showing it to me.”

“You don’t get to complain when you’re the reason why this happened! Look at it properly, [Name]!” he hollered, demanded. “Look at what you fucking did to me! You’re a curse!”

You stumbled another step back to avoid closing distance with your father, but you realized he was backing you into a corner. Once your shoulder hit Jake’s chest, a curt whimper flew out of your mouth; you almost forgot he was here. He immediately put his hands on your shoulders to steady you and pull you closer to him. Your eyes were beginning to redden with desperate tears, and your arms were shaking to wrap around yourself. He bit back a deep, throaty hum.

“They didn’t do this to you,” he corrected, attempting to raise his voice to be heard, but all that came out was a low, distraught gruff. “I did.”

“Don’t talk to me. You’re mad, and you should be put down.”

“Dad!” you gasped, but sheer incredulity forced it back. The contrasting movement of your throat—throwing your voice out simultaneously as it suppressed it—choked you up, and the tears gathering in your eyes fell silently as you turned to see your father. You blindly reached for Jake’s hand; you sewed yours with his for comfort and perhaps to make sure he wouldn’t be taken away. “How could you say that?”

“Why not? Which agency did you get it from, hmm?” your father asked. By now, he seemed to have forgotten the pain in his arm and was clearly focused on making you as stressed as possible. “I want it returned immediately. If you want to continue with this bullshit pseudoscience and get a support animal for your depression, be my guest, but get a regular dog!”

You felt it difficult to exhale. The knot jumbled together with all the words you wanted to say to defend yourself was stuck too deep down your throat, you couldn’t stick enough fingers in your mouth to puke them out. Your parents’ relentless ignorance of your mental health was no stranger to you, and you didn’t understand why you kept hoping they would at least care about convenience enough to deal with it properly. Not even a doctor could get to them. What made you think you could?

Your silence was assumed to be rejection, and your father never reacted well to that. He didn’t like it when you talked back or disobeyed him. He has the right to not love you, but you cannot put others over him. You absolutely cannot choose a half-breed over him. His lip quirked on one side, exposing contempt through a permanent sneer, and he pointed at you with his bitten arm.

“If you don’t return that fucking dog, I will sue the agency, and that thing behind you is getting euthanized!”

“I’ll kill myself.”

Jake’s ears rose from its folded position. He glared at the back of your head, but his eyes held no more malice than reluctance. He couldn’t bring his hand to fold over yours since you were holding him too tightly, practically shattering his bones.

Then came a short-lived silence. Your parents accessed you with calculation, debating whether to take you seriously. There was an invisible threshold to this—for how long could they wait and neglect your issues with the guise of disbelief until your body starts to shut down and ceases to function? The answer was three years. It took three years for them to handle your depression, but that was because your body was visibly dying in their home, and you became a sore sight. You disgusted them.

They were doing an identical mental gymnastic as they stared at you: for how long would you be suicidal until it becomes their problem? They have no plans to take precautions any moment earlier.

“Don’t talk nonsense!” your mother accused.

“I’m serious.” You let your chest heave with slow and steady hiccups. “If Jake dies, I’ll kill myself.”

You have to be ceaselessly near him; this coffin was built for you and him, and you let him hold you to make space.

“Don’t bother holding a funeral for me. I know you’re not going to hold one for him,” you said with a shrug. “Let his parents take care of the both of us.”

The contortion of annoyance on their faces made you chuckle. Not for a second did they consider Jake to be just as human as themselves, that he has friends and families that loved him. Friends and families that accepted you into their home with open arms the moment he introduced you. But beyond realizing that, they were irritated that you trusted his parents to send you off at the end of your life. It hinted that not only were you capable of being loved elsewhere, Jake’s parents, possibly half-breeds, were objectively better people.

You deflated their ego. It was the worst crime.

“You’re all bark and no bite,” your mother grumbled through gritted teeth. “It’s always been this way with you. You never truly let yourself rot away because you’re afraid.”

You rotted away in bed, but you always got up for school and work in the morning. You said they caused you depression, but you haven’t cut ties with them and picked up their phone calls whenever they rang. You wanted to kill yourself, but you haven't actually gone through with it.

Everything you do is half-hearted. Even with your illness, you couldn’t suffer it properly. Moving away, not visiting them during holidays, and getting yourself an emotional support dog was all for show. Your parents had no reason to believe your puny threats.

Jake glanced down at your once intertwined hands. He tilted his head slightly, the top of his ears raising in faint alert when a whiff of acid crossed his nose. It wasn’t a physical smell but rather an inkling, a sensation so unknown that his brain manifested it into something tangible for him to describe. It smelled terrible; it smelled of doom, corpses, and leaked gas. He remembered smelling something familiar before. It was a memory rarely dug up to relive.

“Give it up, [Name]. You’ve been at this for years,” she huffed. “You’ll kill yourself? What a joke.”

You loosened your grip on his hand, and suddenly, you completely slipped from his fingertips.

Your steps were slow and steady, your mind made up within the spur of the moment with determination for the ages. Blindly sifting a hand through the dining table, you kept your deadpan eyes on them. Your lips uncontrollably quirked down to indicate how frightened you were, but you continuously forced them back into a neutral position. Once you felt the handle of a piece of silverware, be it the knife or the fork, you moved the fastest you’ve ever been and rose in the air. You lunged the tip of it toward your neck, and you felt a blockage that didn’t hurt.

Jake’s knees buckled at the pain. He squeezed one eye shut as he focused on leaning his nerves into it, trying to distribute the sharpness of the steak knife through all inch of his body so the pain wasn’t concentrated on the hole stabbed through his palm. You let go of the handle in panic once you realize his injury; he put his free hand on your neck to feel for even the faintest poke of the knife.

The acid smell was gone. Now everything smelt of you.

“Did it nick you?” he asked when he saw your pursed lips quiver. “The knife. Did it hurt you?”

Your face scrunched as you cried. The fact that he found it in himself to question your safety was not lost on you. It has been this way since forever, him prioritizing you over himself in various scenarios, going from the most trivial things to the worst accidents. The burn scar under his sweater sleeve reminded you that pain owned a lover’s face just as much as his palm on your face reminded you that care could overwhelm it.

“I’m just sorry. I didn’t mean to.”

“I know. I’m not mad at you,” Jake whispered, his thumb moving toward your tears. “Hey, look at me. I’m not mad at you.”

His palm wasn’t as smooth as it used to be. It hurt when it touched your face the way stubbles would. His skin was soft as silk and smooth like a newly paved road when you first met him. Now, they’ve thickened, and they felt old. Taking care of you took a toll on his physical body—cooking, cleaning, and riding the bicycle. Bandaging, rubbing, and blocking sharp objects. While he did grow stronger, he was also uglier, with peeled edges and tiny scars, and it was all because of you.

His voice was as loving as you have always heard. Like a summer breeze that blew hats away from beautiful heads, the face of its owner revealed after their hair settled down. Like the plastic sound of your pillow when he shifted to make space in your bed, his hands no longer fearful of your bare skin. Like the twirl you let him guide you into on your way home together, the street empty with only fallen leaves as company. You didn’t know, but it was also because of you.

Reaching your hands to grasp his wrist, you let your trembling lips talk, “I want to go home. Please take me home.”

Jake did. With a gaping hole in his hand and an earful of fading protests, he brought you both home.

“Your hand hurts,” you pointed out. Our hand hurts.

“We will go to the hospital tomorrow,” he muttered with a pinch of the bandage he wrapped tightly around the wound. The red spot in the middle stopped growing.

Bandaging him was the first thing you two did once you returned to your apartment. The knife he pulled out of his hand was hastily thrown somewhere on the floor and never cared for again. His blood sunk into a stain on the floor, an identical match to the image printed under your uncleaned feet when you stepped over it.

You stared at his hand with dry, split lips. You didn’t dare let yourself add any ointment or moisture. You didn’t have the energy to, and you figured it was punishment for yourself. “I’m sorry. I really am.”

“I’m not mad at you, I promise,” he hummed, dropping his hand on his lap.

“Not just that. I’m sorry I tried to stab myself too.”

He peered up from where he was staring, realizing he hadn’t thought about your bold actions tonight. He knew you have self-harm tendencies, and you used to be dangerously suicidal, but they have mellowed out for the better so far. He figured his presence has helped you somewhat subdue those urges, so he hasn’t thought about it in detail for a while. But, seeing what you did today, he wasn’t as upset as he used to be.

“I’m not mad at you for that either,” he said, turning his head to look at you.

“I didn’t think it would come this easily to me. Given the situation, my spite may have encouraged me to move forward with it,” you confessed as you rubbed the base of your neck, feeling a gentle pulse. Your elbow touched his shoulder. “I was scared, but even then, I wanted to feel pain. Any indication that this could be the end.”

“You could be relapsing,” he said.

“Yes.” You nodded, then shifted on your bed to comfortably lean your head on his shoulder. “Would you take care of me if I end up doing it? Plan me a proper funeral and everything before you take your next case.”

You’ve uttered a similar topic, debating his sense of responsibility and enticing him with opportunities easier to handle than yours. He could be having a much greater time being the caretaker of another. At least he wouldn’t have to worry if his owner would even wake up the next day. He denied you any comments on that because it wasn’t appropriate for him to discuss his feelings. He was being nice.

Now, it was nothing but faithfulness, with his feet cemented into the ground where you stood, with the loyalty of a dog to its owner. No place was better without you, and no place was worse with you. He would pass up any opportunities, but even then, it was never about that. It was about being with you. It was always about being with you.

Jake clenched his injured hand to feel a stinging pain, and he prayed that the pain would linger forever so he would never forget who he belonged to.

“I’ll kill myself if you do,” he said.

“Don’t talk nonsense,” you gasped after pulling back to eye him pointedly. “That’s not funny.”

“I’m serious. We die together,” he said. “I can’t be here if you’re not.”

He would lose all that was good about life to follow you, as it was never about giving up heaven but creating hell. A hell where only you and him existed. Jake looked the devil in the eyes and spat in his face, for the devil could never understand true pain and torture, for the devil could never understand true devotion. With all that you’ve given him and all you’d one day take from him, Jake created a new hell far damned than what was already known. For he loved you more than God despised his own, for he yearned for your sabotage more than the devil wept for a believer.

This coffin was built for you and him. You were a slaughterhouse, and he walked into you like the good dog he was.

The proximity of your faces was more visible now that neither of you spoke. You could feel his breath, and he could see your pores. At some point, your closeness became less of an everyday normality. It was more a sign that both of you have been starving, that there was an eternity to be discovered if one of you would close the gap.

“You’re really relapsing,” he whispered, to which you replied through a shared look of exhaustion.

“I’m so sorry.”

“Where is it?”

You frowned, unsure of what he was asking. “Where is what?”

“You said you wanted to feel pain,” he said as he pulled away and touched your neck. “Where?”

“I don’t understand–“ you struggled to maintain eye contact–“anywhere, I suppose.”

“Okay.”

Golden retrievers never get angry. Golden retrievers never bite.

You sucked in a bated breath and held onto it when he suddenly, but carefully, cupped your chin and moved your head to the side. Out of your peripheral vision, you could see him lower his head. His hair tickled your jaw, and his full lips graced the surface of your skin. He ghosted over your neck, announcing his presence where you were most sensitive to touch, and for the first time, he harshly gripped you in place.

“Jake?” you trembled out.

“This will hurt.”

But it will be out of love, unlike the knife you tried to stab through your body.

Support dogs never get angry. Support dogs never bite.

Jake bore his teeth. He bit down.

#enhypen imagines #enhypen scenarios #enhypen x y/n #enhypen x you #enhypen x reader #enhypen x gender neutral reader #jake sim imagines #jake sim x you #jake imagines #jake x reader #jake sim x y/n #jake sim x reader #title has nothing to do with the drabble lol

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