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#def not canon anymore but

thetomorrowshow · 1 year

Text

to die in your sleep

hola folks and welcome back to the trust au. I have been grinding on trust au to post while on hiatus soo here u go enjoy (i'd like to apologize for the ending)

cw: violence, torture, blood, brief tooth-related gore

"Just tell us where he is," fWhip says, crouching down close to Scott's face.

His mouth tastes like blood. He can't feel his arms. He can't feel his wings. That can't mean anything good.

"Never," Scott manages. Blood drips down his chin.

He's shaking. He can't stop shaking.

He's going to die here, Scott realizes distantly. He's going to die, in this dark void of nothingness.

fWhip grabs his chin, forces him to look up. Unwillingly, Scott meets his eyes.

"We can keep you alive for as long as we need," fWhip murmurs. "And we can make it hurt. Give up the god."

If Scott had any more strength, he would laugh. "You don't . . . scare me."

fWhip clicks his tongue. "I don't have to scare you," he says simply, dropping Scott's chin and taking a step back. Almost absently, he wipes his hand on his trousers, leaving a smear of blood. "You've got a visitor. Maybe then you'll talk."

Oh no.

The void where they exist grows somehow darker, little specks of color filling it, as a maroon mist fills Scott's sharp vision—

And then he wakes up with a hoarse gasp, and immediately buries his face into Jimmy's chest.

Jimmy shifts, just slightly, to put an arm around Scott. "Hey," he mumbles, voice heavy with sleep. "Nightmare?"

Scott doesn't answer. He still feels half in that dream state, like at any moment he could be pulled back under and into whatever that was.

His wings twinge, spasm, as he can suddenly feel them—filled with pins and needles. He must've laid on them in his sleep.

"Mmf," Scott grunts into Jimmy's nightshirt. He stretches his wings out as far as he can bear, grimaces when they snap back into place, muscles too tight.

He tenses when he feels hands in his wings, but forces himself to relax. It's just Jimmy. Jimmy can touch his wings.

And he slowly relaxes more as Jimmy gently rubs his wings, massaging out the knots and tense places.

It feels so terribly nice. Scott just lets himself melt into the touch, his eyes slowly fluttering shut. His thoughts slow to molasses, lazily dripping from one side of his mind to the other.

"Is this good?" Jimmy whispers in the silence of the room. "Are you feeling any better?"

"Mhm." Scott really doesn't want to move off of Jimmy. He's comfortable.

And safe, for now.

The warmth and peacefulness that he'd been sinking into vanish, swallowed up in the sickening recollection of his dream.

He sighs, blinking his eyes back open so he can at least see Jimmy's arm. They never leave their rooms dark, a lantern left casting a low glow across the room, illuminating enough of his partner that Scott knows he isn't alone.

That hadn't been the usual nightmare. Usually, it's some twisted replay of his six days in captivity, or not being able to catch Jimmy in time and watching him disintegrate in the Void.

And while it was to an extent similar to the first brand, it had been so . . . vivid. His dreams tend to be blurry, confusing, cut through with terror that accentuates the shadowy shapes.

He'd seen fWhip so clearly. He'd almost seen Xornoth, uncommon for his dreams.

Usually, Scott would write it off as a one-off, strange but something that just happens sometimes.

But the dream feels familiar. So very, very familiar.

He thinks he dreamed something similar last night, but it's just out of the grasp of his conscious mind.

"You gonna go back to sleep?" whispers Jimmy, pulling him from his thoughts. "You've probably got another hour or two before sunrise."

Scott sighs. He's pretty much fully awake at this point, and there's always work to be done no matter what time of day or night it is.

They're headed into a full-blown war, after all. Skirmishes have already begun to break out along the borders. The real fight could start any day now. There's always someone awake in the war room, drafting new back-up plans for their back-up plans, or writing up training evaluations and strategies for the layman army.

So Scott could definitely get up out of his warm bed into the frigid night air of Rivendell, change into something proper, and head down there to stare at numbers of resources for the next several hours until breakfast.

Or he could stay here with his lover under the blankets for the rest of the time he's allotted himself to sleep, and either fall back asleep or have some much-needed recuperation time before heading to the war room with renewed vigor.

If Scott was any sort of king, he'd pick the first. His people come before his personal interest, which is precisely the reason why he and Jimmy are kind of no longer betrothed (a complicated situation in which they technically might still be betrothed, depending on whether or not the court deems the war enough of a state of emergency to eschew tradition). He needs to spend every moment possible doing what he can to protect the citizens under his care.

But Scott's never professed to be a particularly good king.

"Just want to stay here with you," he says quietly.

Jimmy chuckles, his hands going still in Scott's feathers.

"If your people knew we sleep in the same bed, they'd have a fit," he says absently.

Scott snorts. "Oh, the people absolutely know," he tells Jimmy. "It's the councils that we have to keep from knowing."

"How in the world would the people know anything?"

"The servant that does our laundry has got to notice that your blankets are never rearranged and my bed has two dips in it," Scott points out. "The one who cleans the room probably has seen that, more often than not, your clothing manages to find itself in my closet. Various messengers have absolutely guessed that you've just sprinted into the other room when they knock. And remember that time a cooking apprentice was bringing us a late dinner, and you were fast asleep on the bed while I worked?"

". . . What happens if they all know?"

"Usually, nothing," says Scott. "It would be bad if one of my advisors walked in on us sharing a bed. Until then, they'll just turn a deaf ear and act as if they haven't heard the gossip."

"Encouraging," Jimmy mutters.

A shiver runs down Scott's spine as Jimmy presses a soft kiss into his hair.

They've moved fast, for elves. Sure, they've technically already been betrothed, but it's not even been a month since the actual love confessions occurred. If it were any other situation, Scott likely would have chickened out by now, tried to shut Jimmy out of his life as a way of protecting himself.

But it's wartimes. It's wartimes, and Scott needs someone to lean on, someone who loves him too.

And, as his advisors keep reminding him, in the case of his untimely death, he needs someone to run the empire until an heir can be selected. Jimmy, at the moment, is that person.

Which is kind of awkward, seeing as Jimmy has a kingdom of his own. And Scott knows for a fact that he's third in line (after Lizzie) for the Cod Empire. That's the issue when royalty only engages with royalty—there aren't a lot of people with the right to rule.

Maybe Scott ought to look into adoption. He's probably never going to have a kid of his own. If he adopts two or three children, there'll be enough to get spread around to various parts of the empire, enough of a temporary back-up that if all the rulers die, there'll be someone to cover the necessary bases.

Of course, there is the fact that Scott doesn't really want to adopt a kid. And the fact that their claim to the throne might be disputed anyway, due to not having royal blood.

For being at the center of them, Scott hates politics.

For now he won't worry about it. If one of his advisors brings it up, then he can figure something out. At this point, as long as Xornoth or any of his minions don't get control of Rivendell, Scott doesn't care all that much about what happens.

He'd sacrifice any amount of history and tradition to save his people from a terrible fate, including the royal line.

Which is a sentiment he'd better not let any of his council members hear, because then Rivendell very well may become leaderless without the help of Xornoth.

Jimmy's hands start moving again, shifting to lay in between his wings, rubbing the muscles in his back there.

Scott melts a little further against Jimmy. That feels heavenly. It's the perfect amount of pressure to force him to relax, but not so much that he feels overwhelmed.

Elves aren't a people of touch. Scott probably hasn't been casually touched in years, if not decades, and he's slowly been building up a tolerance to it, because Jimmy is a very touchy person.

Now that they're 'official', Scott supposes, Jimmy hates being apart, clinging to him whenever they happen to be in the same room. Even in broad daylight, in front of people, Jimmy's arms always find their way around Scott's waist, or his head to his shoulder, or his fingers to intertwine with Scott's.

Jimmy seems especially inclined to give backrubs, whenever he sees Scott's shoulders tense. Scott, as good as they feel, flat-out refuses to allow this in public. He can't relax when there are people watching, and while he can still at least pretend to be regal with Jimmy clinging to him, he can't when Jimmy's massaging his shoulders.

It's okay here, though. In the quiet darkness of their—of Scott's room. Where if Scott gets overwhelmed, he can take time to recover without having to embarrass himself.

"How about you go back to sleep," Jimmy murmurs.

Scott feels that instinctive leap of fear at the suggestion, quickly quashed. It's been months since he was held captive. He doesn't need to be afraid of sleep anymore.

And he isn't. He truly thinks that he would be able to sleep alone.

And yet, despite the war beginning and both their kingdoms desperately needing them, Scott and Jimmy share a bed every night.

They trade off every couple of days—Scott gets any urgent work done here while Jimmy does remote work, then Scott packs up whatever papers he can take with him and spends several days in the Cod Empire. They always say something about maintaining the alliance by showing the trust that they have for the other empire, but in reality they just miss each other (and even if he can, Scott still doesn't like to sleep without Jimmy there).

That all changes today.

"When are you leaving?" Scott mumbles.

"After breakfast. Sure you can't come?"

That's the problem. Scott would absolutely love to fly out to the Cod Empire after breakfast, but today he's supposed to start a tour of the empire, of sorts. He and his party will be traveling as far as they can go in the morning, from the largest cities to the smallest hamlet, just to show support for the soldiers and to garner support in return. After all, a king who will stay in the house of the poorest farmer is one who the farmers will follow.

He sighs. "I can't. I'll message you, of course."

Jimmy hums, a somewhat disgruntled sound. "Well. If you can't sleep, I'll be there in an instant, okay? Or if you want anything. Let me know."

Scott knows he isn't going to do that. Not unless he gets out-of-control sleep-deprived. He isn't going to drag Jimmy away from his important work for any childish fear.

He nods, though. Better to reassure Jimmy now rather than argue about it.

Scott closes his eyes. He could sleep, probably. It's still peaceful in this early morning darkness, the calm before the storm.

Not if Jimmy doesn't fall back asleep, though. If Jimmy's going to stay up, then he is too. He wants all the time possible with his lover.

"Are you staying awake right now?" he asks, trying not to sound too bleary.

Jimmy's chest shifts against his cheek as he shrugs. "Probably not. I wasn't really asleep earlier, just dozing. I might doze a bit more if you sleep."

Scott frowns. "Why weren't you asleep?"

Again, Jimmy shrugs. "I . . . kinda get stuck in the dozing phase lately?" he says. "I'm fine, I just drift. And it's not every night, so I'm getting some rest and all."

"How long has that been going on?"

"I dunno, a couple of weeks?"

So, since the fall. Scott doesn't like that.

His own symptoms have been improving—he only gets the occasional dizzy spell, and the scabs on his knuckles have become red marks. Jimmy's are healing slower, though, bumpy scars where his scales had been and enough dizziness that Scott catches him leaning against him or the wall once or twice a day. "You should report it as a symptom. It's not for any mental or emotional reason, is it?"

"I don't think so?" Jimmy says. "I just kind of . . . drift. I feel like there's something I'm trying to reach, but I can't get it while I'm awake or asleep, you know? Something missing. Does that make sense?"

It doesn't, really, but Scott nods. Weird sleep is weird sleep, and Scott knows that it can affect someone in a weirdly specific way so much that they need a weirdly specific solution. And sometimes that weirdly specific solution leads to getting engaged to your crush.

Honestly, if it weren't for all the Xornoth-fWhip-war stuff, Scott would kind of be living his best life.

Knock-knock-knock.

Scott groans.

So his time with Jimmy is going to be interrupted, is it?

He reluctantly shifts off of his partner, allowing Jimmy to slip out of bed and tiptoe across the room, through the open door and into their connected sitting room. Scott waits an extra couple of seconds, giving Jimmy time to get into his own bedroom. Then he gets up, reluctantly relinquishing his warm blankets, and crosses the freezing wooden floor of his room.

Scott pulls open the door right before the servant knocks again, cir hand raised and ready.

"Oh! Milord," ce says, taking a hurried step back. "General Maldrion has requested your presence. Would you like me to tell xem you are on your way?"

Scott barely holds himself back from rubbing his forehead. What on earth could be so urgent that the general needs him at whatever time in the morning it is?

"Yes, I'll be with xem as soon as I can," Scott tells cir. "Thank you for letting me know."

Ce bows, and Scott absolutely catches cir eyes looking around him, stealing a glance of the room behind.

Scott rolls his eyes before shutting the door. They're not going to be that careless.

"I have to head down to the war room," he tells Jimmy when the man pokes his head back into the room. "Feel like coming with?"

"May as well," Jimmy says, moving past Scott to the closet. "I love learning about your top secret war plans."

"It's likely another border disturbance," Scott waves. "You can just sit there and look pretty."

"Sit there and sleep, more likely," says Jimmy, pulling one of Scott's tunics over his head.

Scott sighs and pulls it right back off of him. "You can't wear my clothing to a meeting with members of my inner circle," he says firmly when Jimmy gives him a confused look. "Go put your own clothes on."

Scott's right about the meeting, and there's nothing he can really do but agree with the general's recommendations to strengthen the border patrol. Then he has to see Jimmy off, escorting him down to the pier. Jimmy would normally just strap on his elytra and fly out, but with the tightened security of the current times, he's got to be accompanied by a couple of guards, and since only the royals have elytra, they have to take the day's trip back overseas. At some point, Scott assumes that dolphins from the Ocean Kingdom will join them to speed up the journey.

Jimmy leaves reluctantly, giving Scott a chaste kiss (Scott's knees feel a little shaky despite the closed lips) before heading out with a wave.

And then Scott barely has any time to finish packing before he has to head out as well, his clothes bundled up into two cases and thrown onto the wagon.

His escort is made up of six soldiers (he'd managed to argue it down from twelve, as long as he accepts local guard details in each place he stops), two servants, and far too many beasts of burden. The trip is going to be an estimated maximum of three weeks, from what he recalls, and while he understands logically that they need enough food for nine people to last a week at a time (with money allotted for restocking), it still feels to him like three wagons is excessive, plus a fourth for clothing.

But Scott's been traveling as a royal for his entire life, and he knows it isn't worth it to try to pare down their supplies any more. It's good to be prepared, after all.

They set out at noon, Scott riding a stag, the other elves surrounding him on horseback. He imagines they cut a rather imposing group, hopefully enough to dissuade any attackers. He feels a bit like a sore thumb, though, their little party trundling slowly down the mountain, vulnerable to attack. It's a demon after them, unbound by laws and capable of wearing away at their magically-reinforced borders. Maybe he ought to have accepted the twelve guards.

It's not like Scott can go back now, so he scratches around Loth's antlers when he gets anxious, and just hopes that his guards have some sort of idea of what they're doing.

When Scott was very young, the few times he'd been on a road trip he had absolutely loved it. His wings hadn't fully finished growing until he was close to fifty, so although his father took care of most royal trips by flying there alone, occasionally the whim to bring his firstborn along would strike and they would journey there together, in a guard such as this. He'd coveted the time with his distant father, and the rare treks across the country became one of his favorite activities. There had been an older guard that would talk to him, who would point out various plants and explain their properties, likely more to keep him occupied than out of any fondness.

Now, like so long ago, as they spend hours on the road, Scott finds himself examining the plant growth, naming them in his head, seeing the occasional landmark that he remembers from his younger years. It helps pass the hours, helps keep his mind off the danger and off of Jimmy.

Although, thinking about Jimmy is a fairly good distraction as well. At some points, when his mind wanders, he finds himself grinning stupidly as he replays conversations with his lover.

That first day, they stop to rest at a small town called Gladieron at the base of the mountain where the City of Rivendell is built, after six or seven hours of riding, and Scott is thoroughly exhausted. He hasn't ridden anywhere in quite a while, and his whole spine feels jolted all the way up. He just wants to lie down and stretch and sleep for two days straight.

The people of Gladieron welcome them with open arms, and Scott doesn't have to do much but hold polite conversation with the mayor over dinner before being led to a room in the mayor's house and being able to sink into an old, creaky mattress.

Despite being alone, no Jimmy there to ensure his safety, Scott's tired enough from the travels of the day that he falls asleep instantly.

He's again at fWhip's mercy, the man tossing aside a whip that shines with red.

Scott shivers, the cool air of the darkness against his open wounds biting.

"I told you we could make it hurt," fWhip says, slightly out of breath. "That was just a taste. Want more of it?"

Scott can't help it; he shakes his head. His entire body stings inside and out, and he vaguely wonders what kind of enchantment the whip must have had to affect him in such a way.

"Of course you don't! So all you have to tell me is this: where is the god?"

He can't give that up. He can't. No matter how badly it hurts.

Scott bites his lip, winces when he finds it already bitten through. That's right. He was trying not to scream, and it had been the only way to keep his mouth closed.

fWhip lets out a disappointed sigh. He crouches down in front of Scott, places a soft and patronizing hand on his shoulder.

Scott can vividly see every line of color in his irises, every blemish on his nose, every hair in the stubble on his cheeks. Whatever these words are, they're important.

And then Scott jolts awake in bed, a rooster crowing somewhere outside.

For a moment, lying there on his stomach in the darkness, Scott can still feel the tearing pain of a whip on his back. It's a clear feeling, a memory acrid in the back of his mouth. The first and only time he'd been whipped had been months ago in Sausage's dungeon, alone and sleep-deprived and barely conscious of his feathers being torn from his wings, yet he feels it as if it had been yesterday.

That was bad. That was terrifying.

fWhip had whipped him bloody and Scott hadn't been able to do anything about it, every ounce of pain sharply present in his sleeping mind.

He's breathing too fast, Scott realizes, when the cold air scrapes down his throat. He swallows, pulls the surprisingly soft blanket around himself.

He misses Jimmy. Usually, he can find instant peace after a nightmare by just rolling over, his lover there beside him with open arms.

And it had been another strange nightmare. One that felt far too real for having never happened.

It wasn't real, was it? There's no way it was real. fWhip isn't actually here to torture him.

Scott, daringly, glances around the room quickly before squeezing his eyes shut again. He isn't afraid. It's not like fWhip's going to be creeping out from under his bed.

Scott steals another glance at the floor beside him just to make sure.

Something was wrong with that dream. Something was off, wasn't it?

There's just no way. He doesn't just have nightmares like that, especially one so similar to the one of the night before.

Scott doesn't know how to explain it, but that wasn't normal. He doesn't have to be a genius to know that repeated vivid dreams of being tortured aren't normal.

What is he supposed to do?

What can he even do?

In all honesty, Scott can do nothing except hope that they pass, he supposes. And hope that he can sleep through them. It would be just like him to retraumatize himself right after he finally is able to sleep by himself.

He doesn't go back to sleep now, even though he probably has the time. Scott stays there, under the covers, until the room begins to properly lighten.

Then he gets up, dresses in something a little fancier than his travel clothes (he's here for another day to conduct military inspections), and dabs a bit of foundation under his eyes in the small mirror.

Time to be a king, he supposes, and he does his best to leave the fear and nightmares behind him.

Finally, he lets out a short scream.

"There we are," Sausage encourages. He pets Scott's hair in an almost fond way. "Knew you could do it!"

Now that the dam's broken, Scott can't hold back a whimper, distorted by the way his mouth is being held open by one of Sausage's metal instruments.

Sausage holds up his pliers, a bloody tooth clenched in them. "For every minute you don't talk, I take another tooth! Sound fair?"

He waits for an answer that Scott can't give before laughing to himself.

"Just scream if you want to talk, okay? Then you tell us where the god is, and everything will stop."

Then the pliers are in his mouth again, and Scott's hyperventilating, he's choking on his own spit, it hurts it hurts it hurts—

The tooth is pulled free with a crescendo of pain, and again Scott screams, and Sausage pauses with a question in his eyes before shrugging.

"That probably wasn't a signal to stop, huh," he says cheerfully, before going in again.

And again, Scott wakes up, heart pounding and jaw aching.

He's going to throw up. All over the forest floor beside him. And that'll bring running the guard on watch, and then Scott will have to be all embarrassed about everything.

He's not going to throw up, then. That would be awful.

But the feeling of losing his molars is so vividly painful and nauseating. He can still taste the blood pooling in the back of his mouth, and he has to poke around with his tongue to make sure that all his teeth are there.

That was a bad one.

Scott's been on the road for a week, and every night he's exhausted enough that he falls asleep almost as soon as he lays down. And every night, he has dreams of the same theme. He would message Jimmy if he thought it was anything he could help with, but Scott had been having these nightmares before Jimmy had even left. There's nothing anyone can do.

And Scott has a feeling, somewhere in the back of his mind, that if he can figure out why he's having them, he'll be able to stop them.

In every dream, he's in the Void—he'd figured that out after the fifth one. The swallowing blackness with tiny specks of floating color ought to have helped him catch on earlier, but it had usually escaped his notice what with the torture and everything.

Whoever it is tormenting him—either fWhip, Sausage, or Joey, with sometimes a guest appearance from Xornoth right before he wakes—is always asking for the same thing.

"Where's the god?" Joey asks petulantly.

"C'mon, Scott, you know you want to tell us where the god is!" Sausage says.

"Just tell us where the god is," fWhip says lowly, dangerously. "Then we can stop."

And suddenly, right there wrapped in his bedroll, a realization hits him.

These aren't just dreams. This is magic.

They're too clear. He sees everything as if it's actually happening, he feels every moment of pain.

Xornoth wants something from him.

Xornoth wants to know where Aeor is.

Which is all well and good, but how on earth does he expect Scott to know?

Scott has, technically, communed with Aeor. Not much—just enough to ask for (and receive) a strengthening of the empire's crops, and to receive His crown of legend.

And, yeah. Scott can see how someone might interpret that as being highly favored of the god. And he is favored, but not enough to know where Aeor is, or engage with Him face to face. That would require more strength or faith than Scott has. He doesn't have any need for that, either. It's not like he's Aeor's champion, after all.

Unless. . . .

Wait a second.

Scott has received the crown of legend, the first ruler of Rivendell to be gifted as such. In fact, he doesn't think any other ruler short of Alinar has been quite so favored.

Xornoth is clearly Exor's champion; the fight in the End and the release of Xornoth's power through the death of the dragon had proven that. If Exor's champion is here right now, then Aeor's champion is sure to either already be here or is about to appear.

And Scott, lucky him, is the only current direct descendant of the royal line—and, as already mentioned, highly favored unto Aeor.

Oh no.

Scott is Aeor's champion.

He sits up abruptly, kicking away the blankets that are tangled around his legs. No. No, he isn't—he isn't worthy of this, he isn't ready for this, he can't have that kind of power—

"Milord?"

Scott starts, whips around. One of the guards is standing there, her bow held loosely at her side. She nods sharply when his eyes meet hers.

"Is everything all right?" she asks. "Do you require my assistance with anything?"

Scott stares at her for a long moment before his brain processes exactly what she had asked.

"Um, thank you, Calidil, no," he says, rubbing a hand down his cheek. His jaw still hurts. He hates when nightmares linger, leaving physical sensations. He can only hope Calidil doesn't notice the way he gingerly holds his mouth, nor the way his wings twitch anxiously behind him.

His father had told him time and time again that the natural respondency of wings were a royal's greatest foil, and he ought to get in the habit of ensuring that his never gave away his thoughts or feelings.

Unfortunately, while he once was quite good at that, in recent months he's found his skill at controlling his wings to be lacking.

"Does your sleep disturb you, sire?" she asks, a frown crossing her face. "Not that it is my place, but I have noticed that you sleep restlessly and wake early. Might I suggest a tea that my mother used to make, an infusion of woodlace bark and calming plants?"

Scott is shaking his head almost before she finishes speaking. He still doesn't do well with food and drink prepared by others, especially if, in instances such as this, he isn't familiar with how the ingredients will affect him. "Thank you, but I will be all right," he tells her. Then, to change the subject (and distract himself, he can't be Aeor's champion that's too much), "Do you happen to know when we plan to continue?"

Four days later, after Scott wakes up crying from the pain of needles being slowly pushed under his fingernails, he takes Calidil up on her offer of tea.

He hadn't wanted to, but it's gotten to the point where he can't think about sleeping without panicking, can't get in bed without his heart leaping into his throat. He can't bother Jimmy about it, and he definitely needs rest for this journey, so the next best option is to force himself to sleep.

He watches her prepare the concoction that she calls tea, asks about the properties of every ingredient, then drinks it slowly and reluctantly before bed, stomach already jumping and throat barely able to choke it down. It doesn't really taste all that good, either, kind of flowery and too-sweet with a bitter aftertaste. He forces it down still, then changes into sleep clothes.

His bed for tonight is on the floor of the main room of a farmhouse (the elderly couple running the farm had tried to make him take the bed, but he'd refused), and he tries to get comfortable while waiting for it to kick—

Whoa.

He feels . . . so sleepy.

He just wants to close his eyes.

He doesn't like the feeling, Scott decides blearily. It feels too much like being drugged. Too much like leaving himself open for attacks.

But he doesn't get to think about it any more than that, because only moments later, he's opening his eyes in the Void.

His body is trembling. His knees smart from supporting him on whatever hard, invisible surface he kneels on. His wings are bound together painfully.

And Scott, for the first time, is aware that he's dreaming while he's dreaming.

And just a moment later he's screaming, his side exploding into searing pain.

It takes him a moment to register fWhip stepping in front of him, one hand twirling a—a red-hot branding iron, in the shape of the Grimlands' signet.

Belatedly, Scott smells something like cooking meat.

If this wasn't a dream, he might throw up.

But it is a dream, he reminds himself firmly. Does dream logic still apply?

His thoughts are cut off by a gloved hand gripping his hair and forcing his sagging body to straighten up. Scott cries out, briefly, before biting his tongue.

"The god, Smajor," fWhip says, and he sounds annoyed. "Tell us, and it'll stop. All we want is the god."

Dear Aeor, they're persistent. No wonder fWhip is annoyed, if they've been giving Scott the same brand of nightmare for days, just waiting for his subconscious mind to give up this information—information that, mind you, he doesn't have.

They want Aeor. How is Scott supposed to know where a literal god is? Especially one he's never seen, or technically even spoken to.

In an unexpected move, fWhip jabs the iron hard into Scott's stomach.

Scott gasps, the breath punched out of him, then holds back a scream as fWhip holds it there. He can hear his own flesh sizzling, can feel the awful, sickening pain that pulses out from his stomach—he tries, he tries to get away from it by instinct more than anything, but as far back as his back can bow fWhip can reach farther.

He's actually shaking with the effort of not screaming, involuntary little whimpers escaping his throat, and finally fWhip sighs and slowly pulls it away, taking some of Scott's skin with it, he's sure.

Scott's body holds its position for a moment more, then sags in relief, twitching against his will with every wave of pain that hits.

He can't do this. He's going to die if he doesn't give up the information.

It's just a dream, he reminds himself. It's just a dream. He can just—he can just wake up, right?

How does he normally wake up?

He doesn't think he's ever lucid-dreamed before, he doesn't know how to force himself out of the dream, he's hyperventilating and his mind is full of so much pain—

"Scott."

He looks up; fWhip is still standing before him, arms crossed.

"Remember how bad it was?" fWhip asks, one eyebrow raised, seemingly unimpressed. "When we had you for six days? Remember how much it hurt, how much it still hurts? That's never going to end, Scott."

He's right. It's always going to be so difficult to sleep without Jimmy, he's always going to have scars, the memories will always be raw and painful and jarring.

fWhip crouches down in front of him, the leather of his boots squeaking. Idly, he twirls the metal rod around in his hands.

"And you know what we're gonna do to that god?" he says softly, staring directly into Scott's eyes. "We're gonna make it even worse for him. The god will feel more pain than you can imagine."

Can gods feel pain? fWhip seems pretty confident about it.

"But he's a pretty slippery one. So if you tell us, right now, how to get to him, we'll make everything quick and painless for him and leave you alone as much as possible," fWhip promises. "So we're gonna give you two more times to try and answer, all right?"

He's stuck. Wake up, he silently shouts. Wake up wake up wake up!

But he remains stubbornly there, fWhip staring at him.

They want—they want Aeor. He doesn't know where Aeor is. They want him to tell them, somehow, where Aeor is.

Scott lets his eyes fall from fWhip's, down to the Void below.

It looks just like the Void had, those weeks ago when he chose to risk everything for Jimmy. It had hardly been a choice, really. Jimmy is his everything.

It had been terrifying to fall. To tuck his wings close to his body and dive, praying with every fiber of his being that he would reach Jimmy before he lost him forever.

And almost as if it's that easy, Scott careens forward and is falling again, just like he had back then, but his wings are bound to his back and his body is spasming in pain and he can't save himself—

There's something white twinkling below, growing larger and larger and—

Scott's sitting on the back of a sparkling white stag, the breath knocked out of him with the sudden landing.

The stag's head turns to look at him, blinking slowly. There's something wise in its eyes, something older than Scott has ever seen.

Well. He's found Aeor.

Scott slumps against the neck of the stag, utterly spent.

It's just a dream, and yet Scott doesn't think he could move a muscle with the pain that courses through him. His fingers (hadn't his hands been bound above his head?) grip loosely at the stag's silky hair as the beast begins to walk, slowly and gracefully as a wooded area slowly comes into view around them.

There's a bird singing somewhere, and Scott sees, sometimes, face turned outward with his cheek pressed against the stag, a deer poking curiously through the brush or a rabbit hopping through the long, dewy grass.

This would be nice if he didn't hurt so bad.

The stag doesn't speak (it is a stag, after all—but Scott kind of expects it to open its mouth and start spewing godly wisdom anyways), just carries him through the forest, hooves making light crunching sounds against the forest floor.

And then a new sound hits his ears—the sound of water.

The trees grow more sparse, the brush grows taller, thick with vines, and a bullfrog is making its loud, croaky call somewhere in the distance. The ground becomes softer, more marshy, until it begins to give way to pools of water. Then the stag stops. It huffs, paws at the ground.

Scott needs to look, doesn't he? He needs to lift his heavy head and see for what reason it is that the stag has stopped.

But he's so tired. He doesn't want to raise his head, pounding as it is. He wants to go to sleep. He wants to close his eyes and drift off, let his pain be swallowed up by the darkness.

An odd thought for a dreamer.

Is this even a dream anymore?

Without warning, Scott's stomach drops as he starts sliding forward.

The stag has bent its neck down, lower and lower, and Scott's weak fingers can't hold on tight enough to do anything but slide, right off the stag's neck between the antlers and gently, gracefully, into water.

Scott sinks into it, clouds of red billowing around him and bubbles streaming from his mouth in the clear water as he falls deeper, until his toes hit silty mud beneath him. It isn't too deep—he's sure that if he just pushed up a bit, his head would break the surface—but he doesn't fight it. He just rests there, under the water, and sighs.

It's cool, and fresh, and every little ebb of a current relaxes his muscles further and brings relief to his multitude of pains. His wings come loose, bonds floating away, and instead of being full of waterlogged, heavy feathers, they feel weightless.

Scott blinks down at himself, and feels nothing more than slight shock as the blistering burns on his body slowly fade away, angry red bubbles softening into unblemished skin.

That's quite nice. He wishes that would happen while awake, too.

A fish—a cod, it looks like—swims up to him, noses at his arms.

It's as if Jimmy is sending a little friend to check up on him in his sleep. That's nice.

Then the cod pokes, urgently, in the middle of his chest.

And Scott wakes up.

His eyes open slowly, reluctantly, as if the water is still dragging him down, pulling on his very bones to try and keep him under the spell of sleep.

Every part of his body feels heavy. His eyelids feel heavy. Every movement is an effort.

He's never taking a sleeping draught again.

Light filters in through the uncovered windows, leaving patches of gold on the rough wooden floor. Scott forces himself to push up into a kneel, relinquishing his nest of blankets on the floor, his back popping and wings shuddering.

That was . . . that was an experience.

He doesn't even know what part of the dream to think about. The healing pool of water in the swampy area, the shining stag, falling through the Void, fWhip burning him—

Scott tugs up his nightshirt, fingers clumsy and sleepy. No brand on his stomach—he twists around—no brand on his side. Not that he's ever woken up with any marks from a nightmare, but this one had felt so real. He'd been so conscious of everything that happened, conscious enough to think about the implications of the dream while it was happening.

Xornoth is looking for Aeor. fWhip told Scott that he would have two more tries to give up Aeor's location, or else they would subject the god to even worse torture than what Scott's gone through.

Two more tries. Two more nights of torment, and then they stop playing games.

The war is about to begin, isn't it?

Now this puts Scott up to a test of his leadership: does he continue on with the tour, spend the last week or so traveling until they circle back around to the City of Rivendell?

Or does he call for an emergency return, go back to the palace now in case of the beginning of the war?

Nobody will blame him if he sticks to the original plan. There's no way for him to know, logically, that the real fight is about to begin.

And if he returns now to prep for an emergency and nothing happens then he'll look like a fool, a scared king who can barely stand to be away from his safe castle walls for more than a week.

But can he continue on in this way, when he knows he ought to be at home, gathering the armies?

He has his communicator. It's not like he's totally cut off from everyone while out here—in fact, whenever he can get a connection, he messages his advisors and asks for updates.

And this is still important work, after all. It needs done just as desperately as anything else.

For the empire, and for his allies, it would be best to finish the journey, Scott decides. It was planned as a show of support for the country, and it wouldn't do to flee before the farther reaches of the country have been visited. They're expecting a good portion of their army to come from one of the cities near the border, which is where they'll be stopping next. To have such a place feel snubbed by their own king could very well be disastrous.

So on this day, Scott ignores the looming sense of doom and prepares for travel.

Such is the life of a king.

That night, Joey slams Scott's head against the invisible floor and kicks his teeth in.

The night after that, Sausage pulls his primary feathers out one by one.

And on the third night, fWhip is there again, arms crossed.

"Well, Scott, you had your chances," he says lightly. "But because I'm a nice guy, I'll give you one more. Where is the god?"

And, just like every night before, Scott can't give that up. Even if he knew the answer, he wouldn't.

He shakes his head, sending his blood-soaked hair flopping into his eyes.

He doesn't even know what injuries he has tonight. A cut on his head, at least, judging by the heat pulsing out from his temple. He's shirtless tonight, more drops of blood rolling down his bruised and battered chest.

fWhip clicks his tongue. "Well, I can't say I'm surprised," he says. "Impressed, but not surprised. I gotta respect you, Scott. You're a strong guy."

Scott's laugh turns into a cough when he feels a sharp pain in his side. Broken rib, feels like. "I'm not strong," he manages eventually, voice a dull rasp. "Just . . . stupid."

fWhip laughs. "You're right," he says, almost fondly. "I don't know any other idiot who would go through all this to protect one person. Well," he adds, "I know one other idiot, I guess."

fWhip checks his watch. "You know what? It's about time to go track down a god," he says, giving Scott a cheeky wave. "Hope you don't mind. I'll be honest, I really won't miss our little nightly reunions—as fun as it is to make you scream, it's kind of exhausting being here every night."

"Tell me about it," Scott whispers.

And then he's awake.

That one hadn't been so bad, all things considered—but Scott's heart is still pounding like he just ran a mile. He hates those dreams, hates being stuck in whatever invisible chains they have, forced to feel pain at their will.

They're humiliating, too. A replay of all he'd gone through at the hands of those three just months ago, all packaged up into perfect bite-sized sessions. Scott just knows he looks paler than ever as the mortification washes over him anew. He's been screaming in the hands of his tormentors every night—he isn't a king, he isn't anything to them, just something to torture.

His mind feels pushed to its last fraying wire. Every day has been full of traveling or speeches or military inspections, and every night filled with torture and threats. He can't do it anymore. He just can't do it.

If his predictions are correct, then he won't have another one of those dreams. Not in the foreseeable future, at least.

But if he's wrong . . . it may be better to simply never sleep again.

Scott groans, pushing his fingers into his eyes. He really doesn't want to go through the whole not-sleeping thing again. It took weeks to get to a point where he could even think about sleeping without Jimmy there. He wants to actually get rest at some point in his life.

Maybe Jimmy can help him with these nightmares, too.

Or maybe Scott just really misses Jimmy. Maybe he just wants to spend time with his lover, and his idea that Jimmy might help with these nightmares is wishful thinking inspired by a lovesick heart.

He does miss Jimmy. He hadn't thought, just a year ago, that he would ever be so attached to any one person. He had friends—Gem and Katherine, certainly, were friends, right? Maybe more like allies—but no one close to him. Especially not Jimmy.

He'd hated Jimmy. He'd teased him and pushed his buttons and laughed when fWhip and Sausage and Joey would 'joke' about beating him up.

And now, he intends to marry the man. Now, he has friends like Lizzie and Joel, who joke with him, and sit around in pajamas in Jimmy's living room and gossip, and message him to check up on him and are always happy to see him.

And right now, they all might be marching out to fight the first battle.

Scott wants Jimmy here, right now, in front of him. He needs to know he's safe.

They're leaving the city of Milerienira later today to begin the journey back to the City of Rivendell, with plans to stop at five more towns for the night on the way. So about a week before they return?

A lot of things could happen in a week. His communicator likely won't have service for most, if not all of the rest of the journey.

Scott leans out of bed to his satchel on the floor, pulls out his communicator. He can just message Jimmy right now and warn him that he thinks something bad will happen.

The last message in their messaging history is from Jimmy, a quick miss you that he'd sent two days prior. Scott can't help the goofy smile that spreads across his face as he looks at it.

But he has something important to say, so he thinks for a moment before typing up a message. He stops halfway through explaining that he thinks the war is about to start and erases it. He doesn't want to seem paranoid. He considers the screen for a few more minutes before finally typing up a shorter, more vague message.

I have a bad feeling. Stay safe.

He copies the message and sends it to Lizzie, trusting that she'll pass it on to all their allies.

Then he pulls up the direct message to his main council.

He needs to sound more divine-kingly than 'I have a bad feeling', especially as he may or may not be Aeor's Champion (a revelation he's been firmly ignoring all journey).

I fear that darkness approaches, he writes. Is the empire prepared to defend herself?

A little pretentious, but just the kind of thing his advisors expect of him.

And though it's not even anywhere near time to rise, Scott gets up and changes out his night clothes for white leggings and a long, embroidered blue tunic, belted at his waist, slipping on his travel boots last of all.

Then he goes out among the few early-waking people, talking with those he serves, and ignores the way his communicator seems to burn in his pocket.

No news reaches him through the rest of the journey, and the nightmares cease. Scott's so exhausted from the daily journeying and lack of good rest for weeks that he doesn't even have the energy to freak out about sleeping, and he's also tired enough that he doesn't even dream.

He tries to put his friends out of his mind. Even if the war has begun, it could take any number of days for it to get bad—and maybe it's a terrible thought, but the emperors aren't likely to get hurt. For the most part, they won't be allowed to be out in the midst of the fighting. They'll be fine.

Jimmy will be fine.

He finishes the tour with a town near the base of the mountain on the other side from where they'd come out, and then they start the two-day trek back up to the capital.

Their spirits are high, surprisingly—perhaps they had noticed Scott's anxiety, but one of the guards starts up an old drinking song and everybody joins in, and when that one ends they pick up another, and so on and so forth. When they can't remember any more tunes, Eitvi—a guard with a renowned talent for storytelling, one of the servants whispers to Scott—picks up a story that goes on for more than an hour. Trading of stories follows amongst the troupe, and though Scott doesn't give one himself, he's content enough to listen, fingers gently combing any knots out of Loth's hair.

The second day begins with stories that transition into an encore round of songs, all the way up until they reach the City of Rivendell, when they fall silent one by one, a clear longing for home in the lines of their faces.

Scott waves to his people, gathered in the cobbled streets, as he rides by, up the winding paths to his palace. He's exhausted, he's worn this tunic three times since it was last washed, and he hasn't bathed in two days, but he does his best to hold his head high and smile like a king successful.

Until he reaches the palace.

One of his younger council members is waiting at the stables, almost appearing out of breath. Strange, but Scott gives them a nod as he dismounts, holding back a groan at the feeling of solid ground again.

It isn't customary for council members to meet him outside the palace after a trip. He's meant to have at least a moment to freshen up in his rooms before being pulled away into a meeting, and in times before the upcoming war, he was usually given a day to rest without interruption.

This

"Galidre," he greets, passing off Loth to a stablehand and hobbling out of the dark stables to stand beside his advisor, legs reluctant to straighten after so long riding. "What news?"

"Did the messenger reach you?"

That's never good.

"No, we didn't see a messenger," Scott replies. Galidre looks back and forth, something close to grief on their face.

Scott's stomach clenches. Has the war really started, as he'd hoped it wouldn't? As he'd known it was going to?

"The armies of Mythland have begun the war," Galidre says, and Scott's breath vanishes from his chest. Mythland? But they'd all assumed fWhip would start the war, had concentrated the main part of their plans on the Grimlands. How could—?

Jimmy—

Before he can even speak, Galidre makes his worst fears come true.

"The Cod Empire has fallen," they say dreadfully, hands twitching at their side.

No.

"The Codfather—" Scott starts, desperately, Jimmy must be with Lizzie, he must've fled—

Galidre shakes their head. "No word," they say. "Likely—likely dead or captive."

Scott knows, in his heart, that Jimmy wouldn't be taken captive.

They want him dead.

If Jimmy hasn't managed to escape by some means, he's . . . he's. . . .

He would've made contact if he had escaped. Right?

But they haven't received word—

Scott fumbles for it, in his satchel, his communicator—he needs to know—

The only message is from Lizzie.

Have you heard from Jimmy?

No. No no no no no—

"You're needed in the war room immediately," Galidre says, their mouth slightly behind their words, the words that echo in Scott's head.

Jimmy's gone.

And the war continues.

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raifuujin · 9 months

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-sips tea while scrolling along-

Okay, so. I don’t keep up with the anime, but as far as I’m understanding, there’s one guy that creates insanely crackish anime fillers that don’t match the tone of DC cases at all.

Which to me sounds like there really isn’t anything stopping them (the anime team as a whole, though maybe also this one dude) from adapting like. At least 70% of the Special volume cases. And the only reason I wouldn’t say 100% isn’t because of insanity (though the last few volumes could create 2-3 episodes of a contained storyline), but because certain earlier cases have a level of gore that I don’t think current anime would allow even with censoring.

#Really the only reason I can think to not go with Special adaptations at this point #When the canon content is a trickle and the anime is majority filler 'case of the day' stuff anyway #Is if they wanted to do a spinoff anime solely for the Special cases #But even if that were the plan they def couldn't run it concurrently with DC #But like. In the eventual future where the story of DC actually ends #I could see them ending DC main. And then going 'here's more DC that may or may not have taken place while Conan was still around'#Just to keep the anime going indefinitely without putting off whatever ending the manga will get around to #(Which does come with an assumption from me that Gosho will end with Shinichi not being Conan anymore)#(When technically the manga could end more open and just have the BO plot be taken care of and the truth out with a 'antidote eventually')#(It's mostly because of the romance subplot that makes me think Gosho will have Shinichi be himself again)

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incrediblysincere · 1 month

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my huge problem with QS is that while king is like a fully formed character in my head and has been that way basically since i first conceived him, todd keeps changing and slipping through my fingers. part of that is just because moving away from supernatural elements in QS made todd no longer a demon... having him be an assassin feels not quite right but a step in the right direction. amd the problem is that when characters become lodged in my mind enough i dont really have my hands on the steering wheel any more. like trying to pull todd away just from being a repeat of one of my old characters (like marque) but also pinning down whats unique about him is probably my biggest roadblock in actually writing down QS in any form

#and like. giving him a twin sister as a foil was a good decision but also king is basically his foil too. its not even romantic to me anymor #like todd/king is still def THE ship and heavily implied but idk if id even call it 'canon' to my version of events #i just know that todd is a misanthrope and king is the opposite of that #quantum suicide #oc: todd #oc: king #king my constant companion my friend my crumpled piece of paper my poor little meow meow #todd my detested. my constant annoyance. my bastard

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imaginedisish · 1 year

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The Only Exception (Din Djarin x fem!Reader)

A/N: Hey guys!!! Ahhh here is the Din Djarin x reader fic I said I’d post. This has been sitting in my WIPs since late November/early December. This is what I was working on before I got sick. I’m so happy it’s done. I’m pretty pleased with how it turned out, although I may have written something similar to this already. It’s very much inspired by “The Only Exception,” by Paramore. I’m hoping I didn’t use this song as a title yet....Oh well. ENJOY!

Summary: Din has been wildly overprotective of you lately, but maybe it’s because there’s something lying deep below the surface that’s been threatening to bubble over...

Warnings: SMUT!!!!! 18+ Please!!! Oral (f!receiving), fingering, PIV sex, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it), cursing, canon typical violence, Jedi!reader, Razor Crest still exists (and it’s def bigger in my head than it is in the show), praise kink, friends to lovers, angsty but fluffy and smutty dw, I only proofread like 2 times so it may be bad (it’s 3:16am...so...we die like men!), AFAB reader, uhhh I think that’s it...

Word Count: 3,078

“I swear to the Maker, if you don’t get back on the Crest now, I’m gonna-,”

Din is cut off by the sound of your lightsaber clashing through the plastoid armor of the stormtrooper to your left. You swing your saber around, showing off more than you need to. You throw it down the alleyway, feeling through the force as it cuts through another stormtrooper before finding its way back to your hand.

“You’re gonna what?” You say, tilting your head to the side. You point your saber to the stormtroopers scattered around the alleyway. “I just saved you.” You close your saber and cross your arms cockily.

Din shakes his head, his gaze refusing to meet yours. “And where’s the kid? You just left him on the Crest?” You roll your eyes, turning your back towards him as you remove your cloak from your shoulders. There, in perfect condition, is Grogu, secure in a little carrier on your back.

“You really think I’d be that dumb?” Your words have a callous edge to them. Din had been far moodier than usual over the past few days, and with that came a strange overprotectiveness that you hadn’t seen before. It was starting to feel as if he thought you were going to mess up, that you couldn’t take care of yourself. “You think I’d put the kid’s life at stake?”

“That’s not what I meant.” The anger in his voice has all but melted away. You’re shocked by how defeated he sounds now.

You inhale deeply, taking a moment to calm yourself down. “So what did you mean, Din?”

“We don’t have time for this now.” He’s curt and almost a bit cold, his modulated voice echoing off the walls of the alleyway. “We need to get back to the ship.”

You hate the way he’s brushing you off, ignoring you, pushing you to the side. You didn’t need this; you didn’t need to put up with his shit. Not anymore. “What is going on with you?” The words come out louder, more aggressive than you meant them to.

Din takes a single stride towards you, his broad figure practically shoving you against the wall in the process. “We are not doing this here.” The feeling of him being so close to you clouds your mind. You can’t form a coherent thought, never mind a sentence. You want to say something, to stand up for yourself, but you can’t. “Now cut the shit so we can get back to the ship.” There’s that anger again, that finality in his voice.

In the distance you can hear stormtroopers chatting, whispering your name, mumbling on about Grogu, warning each other about the Mandalorian. Din was right. There was no time to hash this out here. You nod, finally caving in. Din takes a step away from you, immediately grasping your wrist in his hand before making a break for the Crest, just on the other end of the alleyway.

Somehow you make it without being seen. Din lets go of your hand, motioning for you to get on the ship. You make a b-line for the back and carefully remove Grogu from his carrier, placing him in his crib. You stand frozen in place in front of it, watching his eyes flutter open and closed as he slowly drifts off to sleep.

You don’t want to move. You rather watch the child you had come to care so deeply for sleep peacefully than deal with a massively enraged Din. The oncoming fight would most definitely wake Grogu, so maybe it was best for you to hide in the little corner that you had come to call Grogu’s bedroom, completely unnoticed. But obviously, that’s not an option. You begrudgingly step towards the end of the hull and decide to keep your hands busy by organizing the tiny stock of food that lined a makeshift shelf along the far wall.

You can hear Din’s heavy steps on the other side of the ship, presumably heading up towards the cockpit. After a few seconds and many annoyed grunts from Din, the ship is lifted into the air and away from danger.

You try your best to bring yourself to get angry at him, to yell some explicative across the hull of the ship and spit a curse in his helmet-covered face. You wanted the consequences, for him to storm over and scream back. But you couldn’t – because things weren’t normally like this. Din had always been kind, caring, protective even.

He'd leave the cockpit to grab a blanket from his cot when you fell asleep in the co-pilot’s chair. He’d come back and gently, yet silently, tuck you in with it. It was the only blanket he had. Sometimes you’d wake up in his bed, having been carried into it at some point during the night. He’d be awake, taking care of the child, flying the Crest, making sure nothing and no green baby woke you up.

You’d be lying if you said his doting behavior didn’t draw you to him, that it didn’t make you crave him. Every soft touch on your shoulder, every time you pretended to be asleep just to feel his arms wrap around you as he brought you to his cot. You’d let your stares linger a little too long from time to time, pushing past your reflection in his armor, searching for some sort of sign that maybe he feels the same.

You wanted him to come up behind you, rest his hands on your hips, squeezing softly at the exposed inch of skin where your top and your pants just can’t seem to meet, and whisper in your ear in that husky, modulated voice that he’s sorry, that he’ll make up to you by-

“Never, ever, do anything like that again.” You practically jump out of your skin at the sound of his voice. You quickly turn around, not realizing how close Din had gotten to you. His chest is practically flush against yours, the proximity causing you to stumble back against the shelf, threatening to bring it down with you.

Din immediately snakes an arm around your waist, keeping you from falling against the cold metal floors below. Your arms instinctively reach up around his neck to stabilize yourself. You’re glued to him now, and you don’t particularly want to let go. You swallow harshly, intimidated by the way the beskar clad man seems to tower over you, by the way you can smell him, by the way his forehead practically touches yours.

You take a deep breath, furrowing your brows and doing your best to collect your thoughts despite the fog that the moment seemed to create in your brain. “Do what? Save your ass?” You spit, instantly regretting the harshness of your words, even if he deserves them.

“You weren’t supposed to leave the ship.” He’s stern, his voice somehow punishing. “You were supposed to stay here with the kid.”

You shake your head, feeling far too much like a child caught playing in the front seat of their parent’s speeder. “You needed my help! You would’ve died out there without me! And I can handle myself,” You yell, trying to ignore how you could feel the rise and fall of his chest against yours. “If this is about risking the kid’s life, I promise you I wasn’t. I would never put him-,”

He cuts you off, “I know you wouldn’t, that’s not what this is about.”

What? You think to yourself, confused beyond belief. If this wasn’t about the child, then what could this possibly be about? “So then what’s the problem?” You ask, more aware of the way that Din is holding you against him now than you were before.

You can hear Din inhale deeply through the modulator. “You.” A shudder rolls down your spine. “You could’ve gotten yourself killed.” There’s still an edge in his voice, but he’s calmer now, almost pained, as if considering your death in some dark corner of his mind.

“Sorry that my death would be such an inconvenience for you,” You say sardonically. “It’ll be hard trying to replace me with some other force-wielding wizard that’ll be willing to babysit for you, since clearly that’s all I am.” You wanted the words to sting him, to hurt him, and maybe they did, but it felt like a punch in the gut to simply think them. You wanted to grab the words from where they still hung in the air and shove them back into your mouth, to swallow them so that they could burn in the acid of your stomach.

Din tilts his head down, crushed, defeated. Your heart winces. Fuck. “That’s not what I meant, and you know it.” His stare finds yours again, and you quickly look down at his shoulder, too embarrassed to have him look you in your eyes.

You shake your head. “But Din, that’s the problem,” You say, somehow finding the courage to meet his gaze. “I don’t know what you mean. How am I supposed to know what you mean if you won’t kriffing tell-,”

“Fucking hell, I don’t want to lose you!”

Your eyes widen. “What?”

Din looks around the hull, as if the words he was searching for were hiding, wrapped somewhere around its silver walls. “I can’t lose you. And before you ask, no, it’s not because you train the kid or whatever the hell you think it is.” You can feel the pain in his voice, guilt quickly filling your gut. “It’s just…” He trails off, silence hanging heavy in the air.

“Well…what is it?” You mumble, struggling to force down the lump in your throat. You wish you could see his face, to get a sense of his expression, an inkling as to what he was really feeling.

“You,” He says, as if those three letters held some secret, omniscient being or meaning. To him, they did. It was you. You were the thing that kept him up at night, the thing that made him want to show every facet of his being for the first time in his life. “You’re reckless and careless and sometimes you drive me absolutely insane.”

You scoff. “Wow, what a glowing review of my services!”

Din shakes his head. “You don’t fucking get it. You’re so much more than that, because even though you drive me crazy,” He pauses; the modulator picks up his breath as it catches in his throat, “I know I’d never be able to spend an entire lifetime without you in it.”

You’re speechless. An entire lifetime? “Din I-,”

“Close your eyes.”

“What? You just said all that and you want me to close my-,”

“Just close your eyes. You trust me, don’t you?”

Of course I trust you, smart-ass, You think to yourself. So, you do what he says, shutting your eyes firmly. Then there’s a hiss, and then something clunks loudly against the floor. And then…

It’s warm, and soft, and smooth, and all those other perfect words someone would use to describe the perfect kiss. He has a mustache under all that metal, and now you know, because it tickles ever so gently just above your upper lip. His hands squeeze your hips just a bit tighter, pulling you further into his chest.

His lips press deeper into yours, hungrier. You keep your eyes closed tightly, your hands sliding up and into his hair, combing gently. He moans into your mouth at the touch as he guides you away from the shelf and towards his cot.

“D-Din,” You stutter in between gasps.

“What is it, mesh’la?” He presses a chaste kiss to your forehead.

You can feel the heat pooling at the bottom of your stomach, but there’s something stopping you, something telling you that there’s no possible way this could ever be real, that it wasn’t a set-up, that it wasn’t a dream. “Do you really want this?”

“More than anything.” You can hear the smirk in his voice, and you silently wish to yourself that you could see it. “Do you?”

You nod, repeating his words, “More than anything.”

His lips find yours again, his knee nudging in between your thighs as he pushes you down onto his cot. He’s on top of you now, his hands on either side of your body. “Wanted you for so long…” He whispers in your ear. “Wanted you this whole time.” Fuck, he was going to kill you.

Din presses sloppy kisses into the crook of your neck, leading up to your jaw. His hands stretch under the hemline of your shirt, his fingertips gliding across your stomach and towards the edge of your bra. You shudder as he reaches underneath, slowly inching towards your chest.

Something was changing within him, and that something was you. You made him want to throw his Creed away, to ignore all he had been taught his entire life. How could you ever possibly be something he shouldn’t have? He needed you.

More than anything. And you needed him.

“Please,” You beg. “I need you Din, please.”

And just like that, something within him finally switched.

“Open your eyes, cyare,” He’s so quiet you almost miss it. His fingers dip underneath your bra, rolling a nipple between his thumb and forefinger teasingly before doing the same to the other. “’Want you to look at me when I make you come.”

Panic rises to your chest. “W-what, are you sure? What about the Creed, what about-,”

“It doesn’t matter, not if it means I can’t have you.”

You wait a moment, giving him time to change his mind, but he doesn’t. You let your eyes flutter open, his curly hair and brown eyes flooding your vision. And Maker, there’s that smile, the smile you’d only heard through laughs and sarcastic, snide quips. You swear your heart skips a beat, maybe even two. He was perfect. Of course he was fucking perfect.

“You’re beautiful,” You whisper, your hands finding their way to his cheeks, his neck, your fingertips carefully running over his lips. His forehead rests down on yours, his eyes closing softly, reveling in the intimacy.

Din lifts himself off you and makes his way down your body, settling in between your legs. His fingers hook the waistline of your pants, tugging them down and throwing them somewhere in the hull. He feels your core through your soaked panties.

“So fucking wet for me, pretty girl,” He coos, practically ripping your panties as he pulls them down your legs. “Need to taste you.”

“F-fuck, Din,” You breathe sharply as his tongue laps at your clit, your hips lifting off the mattress. Din presses an arm across your hips, keeping you down against the cot, his free hand spreading your slick, teasing your entrance.

“’Tastes so good,” He rasps, his voice vibrating deliciously against your core. “Doing so good for me sweet girl.”

His mouth sucks harshly at your clit, taking the small bundle of nerves into his mouth, lapping at you like he was starving. You wanted more, needed more.

“N-need you, Din,” You whine, your hips fighting against the arm that held you down. He pushes you down further into the mattress, his mouth pressing even deeper onto your core.

“Not done with you yet,” He grunts, pushing two fingers into your entrance, pumping in and out, fast and hard. You could feel yourself growing closer with each thrust.

You moan his name like it’s a prayer, and in this moment it is. “Din, please, I, just…” But you can’t finish your sentence. It’s all too much, his fingers, his tongue, his voice, him. He was everywhere and everything all at once. And yet you needed more.

“Use your words, sweet girl,” He says patiently, nonchalantly.

“I want…” Your words fail again. “I…need you to f-fuck me, please.”

But he doesn’t stop, he keeps going. “I said I wasn’t done with you yet.” You could feel your walls fluttering around his fingers, teetering just on the edge.

“I’m so close,” You pant in between ragged breaths.

And then, abruptly, he pulls away, leaving you cold and empty. Before you can even think to sit up or reach out for him, he was back, his hips resting against yours, his pants and armor now somewhere scattered to the side. You could feel his cock throbbing against your inner thighs. He lines himself up with your entrance, teasing you.

“Din,” You whimper. “Plea-,”

He buries himself inside you, cutting you off, stretching you out. “So fucking tight,” He praises, pulling all the way out before thrusting back into you, filling you up again. “So soft, so perfect.” His fingers find your clit, circling the nerves roughly.

His forehead rests on your own as his left-hand searches for your right one. His fingers intertwine with yours just above your head, keeping you from drowning, cementing you there with him. It all feels so good, each pump, each circle at your clit. You can feel your walls clenching around him.

“Taking me so well,” He soothes, rocking into you. “Such a good girl.” It was all too much, his words, his cock.

“I-I’m gonna-,” You choke, white heat flooding your vision. You know Din isn’t far behind, his hips stuttering against yours.

“Come for me, sweet girl, that’s it,” Din moans, sending you over the edge. You feel yourself shattering underneath him, falling apart into a million pieces, only to be put back together again. His name slips off your tongue as he comes inside you.

His hips roll slowly against yours, gently rocking into you a few more times before pulling out.

He shifts a bit so that you can comfortably lay on his chest. After all that, there’s only one thing you can think about.

“You wouldn’t be able to live without me?”

You look up at Din. His smirk stretches into a smile. He presses a kiss to your forehead. “I wouldn’t, no.” He says it so matter-of-factly, so simply, as if it was common knowledge. “I need you. I always have.”

“I need you too.” He was the only person you had ever needed, the only exception. You didn’t need to tell him. He knew. Always has, always will.

You are the only exception

And I'm on my way to believing

Oh, and I'm on my way to believing

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xans-mindspace · 3 months

Text

𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐔𝐀𝐆𝐄𝐒 — ꨄ

featuring the demon brothers !!! — gn reader — my headcanons !!! — red text in brackets = spoilers , dw it’s very clear what the spoilers are for !!! + it’s only like one minor spoiler — wc. 1.4k

ꨄ — lucifer : quality time

lucifer loves to spend time with you. this man canonically has separation anxiety mind you !!! he’d send you a random text like “come to the music room” after a long day, or he’d come up to you while you were spending time with the other brothers & tell ask you to go to his room tonight. you rush to his room, expecting to have an important and urgent conversation as he’d made it sound, only to find lucifer sitting on his sofa, a glass of wine in his unusually bare hand and another glass in front of the sofa across from him, as a calming tune plays on the music player.

if you mention the way he had made his request sound so urgent he’d simply say: “what? aren’t i allowed to spend time with my little lamb anymore?” a cheeky smirk plastered on his face.

you would end up talking to him for hours, and the next thing you know, he had somehow convinced you that walking to your room is too much for your little human body to bear this late into the night, so you found yourself warm in the comfort of his bed and his arms as you drifted off to sleep.

ꨄ — mammon : gift giving

what convinced me that mammon’s love language is gift giving is that one devilgram story (mammon at the office) where he worked his ass off to save up for a matching watch for mc ໒꒰ྀི o̴̶̷̤ ︹ o̴̶̷̤ ꒱ྀིა !!! the fact that he didn’t ask money from others like he usually does (apparent from how much debt he canonically has), ‘cuz he actually wants the gift to come from an authentic place !!! it makes it so much more meaningful <///3 and he thinks that the hard work is all worth it if it’s for you !!!

the way the first thing he thinks to do when he receives a batch of money is to take mc out on a date :( he would absolutely spoil you with anything you have your eyes on. you’d be hanging out with him, casually whining about that one thing you really want as you scrolled mindlessly through your phone. the next day, he’ll show up on your door with the exact thing in his hands !!! he def loves surprising u.

ꨄ — leviathan : quality time

levi’s favorite thing is holing up in his room and playing video games. but you rivaled against these, threatening to take their spot on the number one thing that he loves. but why deny himself both?

levi loves it when you come to his room & play games with him for hours. he used to be so used to being alone in his room, mindlessly playing the next video game he had bought. but now, his room would feel so empty without your presence in it.

it’s stupid and cringe, but levi never really cared about that sort of stuff, but you’re his player 2 !!! back then, he’d read summaries of different games. they piqued his interest. he was about to add it in his cart, before he realized it was a game that can only be played by two people. he was left disappointed before deleting the game out of his cart. he basically beamed when he realized that he can play those strictly co-op games he had to drop now that he has you. he immediately jumped to akuzon and bought every single co-op game he wanted to play but was never able to. and adding a few new ones too ! ໒꒰ྀི´ ˘ ` ꒱ྀིა

ꨄ — asmodeus : physical touch

this was a given. we all know that asmo’s love language is physical touch. he just can’t help it !!! whenever he sees you still sleepy in the morning, your hair so messy, he just has to give you headpats !!! it feels like a crime not to !!!

or whenever you two are out together. walking side by side. your hands would touch and i swear to you it would send electrical shocks from the tips of his fingers to his heart. yes, he seems to always have it together, but asmo’s good at performing, right? his heart would thump just from the littlest touches and he can’t help but to intertwine his fingers with yours, holding your hand in his, feeling it click! like a piece of a puzzle connecting. it might be dramatic, but asmo never denied his love for the dramatics, it’s just who he is.

or when you’re acting oh so obliviously and unintentionally cute. how can he not want to give you a tight hug? his feelings are so explosive that he feels like the closest thing that would do his feelings any justice is to let you feel it, literally. physically.

ꨄ — satan : words of affirmation / acts of service

oh satan the man that you are. satan is a textbook gentleman. he has a way with his words. very direct and shameless when it comes to his expression of his love for you. a romantic at heart, at least ever since he’d met you, that is. a romantic at his core, and he can’t think why he would ever hide that from you. it is your fault, after all.

he would flirt openly, and sappily, and he would not bat a single eye ! he’d write you letters, poems. if he were to gift you something, he’ll take the time to stick a sticky note on it, just a cute lil’ message on it ໒꒰ྀི⸝⸝o̴̶̷᷄ ·̭ o̴̶̷̥᷅⸝⸝꒱ྀི১ he’d give u books & when u open it, you’ll see them fully annotated. i’m talking written little stuff on the margins, color coded tabs / highlights & all !!!

ꨄ — beelzebub : acts of service

BEEL OUR SWEET BOY 💔 he will always ask you for what you want whenever he’s out in madame scream’s. he’d get u your favorite snack whenever he’s out in the convenient store.

if you get sick, or you’re having a bad day, he’d show up on your door with aaaall of your favorite food / snacks. he would put it neatly in a basket, and he’d be the person to make you a bowl of soup or even try to bake for you !!! anything to make you feel happy <3

he would absolutely give you amazing massages. beel is a big boy. & i trust he knows kinesiology & thus he’ll know what to do whenever your body is exhausted or isn’t really working with you. he’d be such a huge help, asking you just lay down so he could help you feel better. he’d even put a snack right beside you just in case! you’d feel ten times better after you feel his firm hands massaging your tense muscles. he’d note the way your body relaxes and melts onto his hands. seeing u feel good makes him v happy too. his big & rough hands, handling you so softly and cautiously. just a total teddy bear :(

ꨄ — belphegor : physical touch

people think asmo is clingy? wait ‘til they see how belphie clings to u whenever u two are alone. he will sleep on every part of your body (lol).

once, lucifer had insisted that belphegor actually try to study since finals are coming, and though his grades are not to be undermined, he should still at least study to be safe. belphie agrees, on the condition that you tutor him. so you do. you were studying together. the night was getting darker and you’d been studying for hours on end. you yourself was growing sleepy, so you couldn’t even blame belphie when his head started to sway and bump against your shoulder multiple times, before settling comfortably on it, nuzzling it beforehand.

it doesn’t even need to be a coincidence, he would just directly ask you to be his pillow (verbatim) because it’s the best way to sleep according to him. he would “borrow” your thighs, setting his head so cozily on your lap as if it was as comfortable as a pillow (or even more). or when you hung out with him and beel in their room. you ended up sleeping in his bed, you’ll be vast asleep when you felt something tickling your neck. sleepily opening your eyes, you’d find belphie’s head on your chest. and if you chose to sleep in beel’s bed? oh, he’d climb right up and slither his arms around your waist without saying a word. it was a little cramped, but how could you deny such an adorable gesture? the next day you wake up with his arms still right where it was when you had fallen asleep. his mouth snoring softly as his warm breath fans and tickles the back of your neck.

a/n: ahhh i finished writing this at 3 am 😭😭😭 it’s storming really hard outside and my eyes are starting to hurt but it was rlly fun to finally write again :-) i hate writing / reading ooc characters so i hope i did your faves justice !!! 😭🙏🏼

#obey me x reader #obey me headcanons #obey me x mc #obey me x you #obey me x gn!reader #obey me shall we date #omswd #obey me male reader #obey me female reader #obey me fem reader #lucifer x reader #mammon x reader #leviathan x reader #asmodeus x reader #satan x reader #beelzebub x reader #belphegor x reader #🐰ྀི —xan’s notebook ᝰ.ᐟ #—divider credit goes to @plutism ✧

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whalesforhands · 9 months

Note

would love to see something ab reader having a nightmare about shoko, geto, and gojo dying maybay? and they wake up in a panic? shuffling off to the dorm kitchen to try and maybe calm herself down only to see geto there and he helps calm them down after they confide in him. could be with your series where gojo and geto are together because those boys are def in love 🥹☺️. BUT YEAH JUST,,, comfort hehe.

really enjoying your writing btw, pls keep up the good work, bub :)

very very very cute idea anon. ily ♥️

yes, i swear they are 100% in love with each other canonically!!!! i love them together sm.

if only my dreams were as sweet as you (geto x reader x gojo)

warnings: angst to comfort, anxiety attacks, depressive episode, gore descriptions

You shook upon the ground you sat on, barely breathing, barely able to move.

Your leg was ripped off, the remainder of what was left of it wrapped tight with Suguru’s coat, his attempt to comfort you, to stop the bleeding. To assure you everything is okay.

You think you’ve lost your sense of touch. Your sense of self. You can’t feel any semblance of their cursed energies anymore.

Geto Suguru laid on the ground, his eyes lifeless, an arm torn off from his body, laying uselessly within the pits of some sick curse’s stomach. A large hole stretched throughout his midriff. He had no chance of survival.

Shoko Ieiri was near your side, body cold, trapped within rubble that suffocated her already dead self, her face unrecognisable, gored from the ferocious attacks of a special grade that she stood no chance against from the start.

Finally, Gojo Satoru, laid on your lap as you screamed and cried for him to wake up. You can’t lose him. His eyes were wide open, crystalline blue dull and gone, his cursed energy barely even there. Your tears fell onto his face, staining his cheeks and seeping into the cuts he sustained.

You shake and shake him with your broken arms, your arms feeling useless as the nerves slowly started to die.

Please. Please. Please!

Don’t leave you alone in this universe. Don’t leave. Don’t leave! You can’t lose the only people you love. You can’t. Your heart shattered when Ieiri fell, crushed to dust when Suguru lost, and now nothing would remain as Satoru was defeated.

You feel the looming shadow of the special grade curse.

You hope it takes you to where your beloved three were.

Jolting awake with a start, sweat dripping off your brow even as the AC ran. Feeling your heart stutter and pound, your senses going into overdrive as you felt the area for the three.

Suguru, Shoko and Satoru. You felt their energy all around you. A strikingly bright, overwhelming energy. An ominous, immense and darker energy. A serenely heart-chilling one.

Alive. They were alive. Your heart never felt such relief.

Thank goodness. It was just a dream. Just a dream.

Your hand scurried to what you thought was your missing leg, squeezing and pinching the flesh that was definitely there. Yep, definitely a dream. A horrible one.

A nightmare.

You hold your face in your hands as you felt tears begin to well up. You can’t believe your mind even conjured that. Bile was rising up your throat as you continued to cry.

You can’t live in a world without them. The thought of losing all three of them was devastating.

A life without them? You’d rather die. You felt the urge to throw up just thinking about this.

Water. You need water. Does Suguru keep his chamomile and valerian tea in the pantry too? You think you need some.

Your shaky legs barely hold you up as you venture out of your room, dressed in your sleep shorts, oversized shirt and fluffy lamb slippers. Your hair was a mess, your face void of most of its colour.

You must look like you’ve woken from the dead. (Your attempt at a joke to lighten yourself up. You need to spend more time around Satoru for his silliness. You suck.)

As you approached the kitchen, you were surprised to see a glowing lamp still on. Is someone in there, or did Satoru forget to turn it off?

You slowly peek in from the ajar door, only to find Geto Suguru, in all his glory, already staring at you. Long hair left down from his usual bun, dressed in sweatpants and a t-shirt with Satoru’s face printed on it.

In his hand, a cup of steaming tea.

“I thought that was you. How are you still awake?”

——

Your head was rested on his shoulder, his arm comfortingly wrapped around your shoulders, snuggled comfortably onto the sofa with one empty cup, the other half-way drunk on the coffee table before you.

“And? What happened then?” He softly inquired, voice soothing and gentle as he tenderly prodded your thoughts.

“You all… Were dead…” You began, a sniffle already squeezed out of you. The thought making you want to cry all over again.

“I- I could never handle… Losing any of you…” Your grip tightened itself around his shirt, hand over where his beating heart was, as you buried yourself into his shoulder, trying to press yourself closer to him.

“It’s okay.” He whispered. “I’m here. We’re all here.” His other hand came up to wipe at your tears.

“That will never happen.” He continued to say, hearing your breaths starting to slow and even out.

He was about to continue, until the door to the room was creaked open.

“Suguruuuuuuu, why’d you leavveee meeeee?” A whining Satoru has just awoken from Suguru’s bed. His eyes were still closed, had it made it all the way here just by feeling for his boyfriend’s cursed energy?

Then he must’ve sensed yours too.

Dressed in a shirt printed with Suguru’s sleeping face, and a similar pair of sweatpants, he creaked open his eyes. Picking up Suguru’s half-empty cup and downing the remainder of it.

You felt Satoru plop onto the couch right beside you, snuggling his face into your chest before he stretched over the length of both your and Suguru’s legs, placing his head on Suguru’s lap as he splayed his legs out on your own lap.

(The menace even reached out for your hand, holding it in his own as his eyes closed back, smiling as he threaded his fingers through yours.)

A cuddle pile.

He spoke, feeling Suguru stroke his hair.

“Ya just woke up from a bad dream?” It was an inquiry, tender and laced with a hint of worry.

You remain silent. He understands.

“Don’t,” He yawns, feeling comforted by Suguru’s hand. “Don’t worry…”

“We’re the strongest, after all…” He fell back asleep. How strong of him.

Suguru nods, a smile on his face.

“He’s right, you know?” A kiss to your forehead.

“We are the strongest.”

You think the tea was starting to kick in. Why was there such a warm, soothing feeling within you? You felt the lids of your eyes begin to grow heavy, Suguru opening his free arm more allow your head to loll onto his chest, holding you close as your eyes begin to shut.

You like being here.

masterlist

Notes:

Suguru has trouble sleeping due to the bad aftertaste from swallowing curses. It’s disgusting, the taste haunts his mouth and he gags at the reminder of it.

It was Satoru’s idea to get his and Suguru’s faces printed on shirts. The photo he used for himself was one of him looking charming, whilst Suguru’s photo was one of him drooling onto Satoru’s pillow. The shirts are very high quality, and very expensive.

There is an extra shirt in your size with both of their photos printed on it hidden in Suguru’s closet.

Satoru finds it hard to sleep without a certain someone in bed. If Suguru is awake, they’ll both just sleep on the couch in the shared living room area.

Shoko was the one to find all three of you cuddled into each other asleep on the sofa. She got a blanket she draped over you as she drank her coffee, taking a photo of all three of you that she sent to both Suguru and Satoru.

See? She can be nice. But they both owe her a favour now.

#geto x reader #geto x reader x gojo #gojo x reader #whalewrites #getou suguru x reader x gojo satoru #gojo satoru x reader #jjk x reader #getou suguru x reader #satosugu x reader #dyf au

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variousxreader · 6 months

Text

Puggy Buggy

Domestic Head canons and general comparing Buggy to a Pug

Like a Pug his bark is worse than his bite. His screams could be compared to this.

Man SNORES like a pug and bull dog mix from hell

Loud dad bed shaking snores.

You swear the bitch has sleep apnea.

You literally have to smack him awake or manhandle his ass into a better position for him to breathe in.

Jerks awake with loud ass snorts when you kick or smack him awake. You only do it when you're worried he's gonna suffocate so he's never mad about it; he'll pull you to his chest and snuggle you and mummer a "sorry" before falling asleep again

If his snores just wont let you sleep, you'll wake him up in more pleasant ways. Lay on his chest, he has an automatic cuddle response that he'll wrap his arms around you, and drag you into Him, changing his position to do so.

But at this point his snores are white noise to you.

You actually can't sleep well without hearing him, its too quiet without him snorting and snoring away next to you.

Buggy is also a dog in the way that he has been asleep and Farted so loud he scared himself awake and nearly fell out of bed

You nearly pissed yourself laughing at him for that.

He was so fucking embarrassed but eventually your infectious laugh sent him into his own fit of giggles till you both had tears in your eyes, and you personally got to the point of laughing like a strangled seal.

Mohji and Cabaji ran to check to make sure you both weren't dying because you were both cackling so loud.

You and Buggy had residual giggles for a day after

Man Has Dad™️ Sneezes

Also Burps so goddamn loud and long and is Proud of it.

You egg each other on. Complimenting each others burps and challenging eachother. You are pirates after all.

Richie has you both beat though.

Def gets a distended Stomach after a feast and bingeing. You pat and smack it gently. He swats at you for it. But if he gets a tummy ache he'll BEG and plead for you to rub his belly till he feels better while his head is in your lap or on your chest.

DRUNK BUGGY is something

The man can handle his booze but there is a LINE and he can and will cross it on rare occasions. He regrets it every time.

Shit Faced, plastered, Sloshed Buggy, is a whole other LEVEL

He cannot stand and walk on his own,

You also better be keeping track of potentially detached body parts. Though they're very slow when he's this trashed.

He has to be touching you, HAS TO BE

You literally have to hold his dick so he can piss straight.

Will throw up before the night is over. Hold him so he doesn't go over board.

He lives in the latrine after that point.

You're holding his hair and rubbing his back. The whole nine yards.

If you manage to carry his ass to bed when he cannot puke anymore, you better prepare for the next day.

Water water water.

Hes so fucking dehydrated.

Who left him in Alabasta overnight?

His head is pounding. Is it attached to his body for is it in a barrel in a hurricane? He does not know.

You're gonna be babying him all day.

You thought he was pathetic before?

Oh Honey.

He gives new meaning to the word when he is this hungover.

You gotta wait on him hand and foot.

He'll cry out all the water you put into him.

Hes a fun drunk, but majorly depressed when it comes to BAD hangovers

With your TLC though he'll be cured the next day and beg you to never ever let him get that fucked again.

He worships the ground you walk on 100000x more after that.

The man will literally do anything for you. Not even within reason.

Want him to get you a pet sea king? He'll find a way.

Want him to send a buggy ball at the Marine hQ? He'll find a way.

Literally anything.

---

This has gotten massive so imma end it here!

#buggy the clown #buggy the clown x reader #buggy x reader #one piece x reader

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littledead-ridinghood · 1 year

Note

do yk if jason smokes in canon?

Only as a kid and at that we only see it twice. First time is in the apartment he’s hiding away in while homeless where Bruce tracks him down to. And another time as robin in a retcon (as in he’d already been murdered) where he’s smoking on the docks in secret. Pretty sure it was written by Devin Grayson. Both were pre-flashpoint

We never see him smoke as an adult

Jason is def not the chain smoker fanon makes him out to be. As an adult or a kid

Many people have theorized the reason he smoked as a kid was because smoking staves of the feeling of starvation. And as Jason was literally starving to death on the streets, i buy that. Going with the retcon, he would seem he continued to smoke as Robin because nicotine is incredibly addictive and smoking is super hard to quit.

People also say that Jason would probably avoid smoking cigarettes as an adult due to literally dying via smoke inhalation (a la his death certificate which isn’t necessarily canon but we do know it was the bomb that canonically killed him soooooo smoke’s probably a no go) and the smell/taste would be highly triggering in some way. Which I dig as well. He dies with smoke in his lungs, he probably doesn’t want to reacquaint himself with the feeling

But ya, smoking is literally never brought up around Jason except for those two incidents. I assume a lot of people divulge in the trope for the bad boy persona trope. Personally I don’t as A. There’s frankly no evidence to show that Jason does smoke heavy/at all anymore and B. I’m just not fond of cigs

#jason todd

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ackermonie · 2 years

Text

like a hot dad

content: nsfw, long haired levi, breeding kink, daddy/mommy kink if u squint, dilf levi, post war canon

warnings: +18 content, mild manga spoilers, f!bodied reader.

wc: 1.5k~

tags: @motherfckerrr bc they commented ehe

a/n: i genuinely had no idea where this was going i just kept writing and somehow ended up with being h word for dilf long haired levi and idk how to take it back tysm

also pls reblog if u can!! i’m tryna gain back my old followers from my previous blog due to shadowban, so spreading the word could def help!! tysm either way<3

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

do you think levi would grow his hair out post-war?

idk mahn but the vision of him with a short wolf-ish is really getting to me.

i feel like maybe he’d let it grow accidentally. with the healing process for his knee and the rest of his wounds i feel like he wouldn’t really care about his hair, and you’re totally in for it.

it’s a huge change. for years, you’re used to levi’s neat hair and infamous undercut, and you were 100% into it. but now as he finally lets you cut his hair for him instead of doing it himself, you kinda slowly fix it in a wolf cut and let it grow gradually.

you’d come up with excuses every time he asks you to cut his hair.

“i have so much to do around the house today, my love. maybe tomorrow?”

“oh, i’m on my period today. i can barely stand up.”

“oh! i forgot i have to go get stuff from the market! i’ll be meeting gabi and falco, i can’t be late, can i?”

once he gets frustrated with you, the raven silk was already down to his nape. it shaped his face beautifully, and once you caught him with a pair of scissors in the bathroom, your soul left your body.

“WAIT!” you dash to him, holding down the armed left hand. “you’re not left handed! you wanna ruin your hair??”

“shut up,” he rolls his eyes at you. “you’ve been putting me off for months. look how long it’s gotten!” he gestures with a hand to the mirror in front of you two. “i look hideous.”

you slip the scissors from his hands, and levi catches the little sly smile that slips on your face as you squeeze yourself between his body and the sink.

you watch the realization fall on his face while your hands slip in his hair.

“is this what i get for letting my guard down around you?”

“you look beautiful,” you tell him, love struck as you are, never missing the pink dust that rushes to his cheeks “everyone compliments you for it. you still wanna cut it off again?”

“i don’t give a shit about anyone else.” he grumbles and looks down between you both, leaning on his cane. “i don’t look representable.”

“you don’t have to look representable,” your tone lowers in sincerity. a thumb grazes the scar on the right side of his face. “you’re not a captain anymore, my love. you’re free to do whatever your heart pleases.”

he looks up at you, features blank, but you know well how your words are tossing and turning in his brain.

“besides,” your smile returns back to your face, and you pull him a little closer. “you look extremely hot.” a hand trails down to the hem of his shirt, your eyes following the movement, then you return your gaze back up to him. “like a hot dad.”

his eyebrows shoot up, playfulness making an appearance on the previous stoic features. “like a hot dad?”

“mmhm,” you affirm with a mock-nonchalant nod, and you slip away from him jjjuuust when he was about to pull you in. you look at him over your shoulder, mischief pure in your gaze. “i’ll go check on dinner for the guests coming tonight. feel free to join.”

only except that ten minutes later, the kitchen is completely empty and you two didn’t manage to make it past the living room. he was seated on the sofa, head throw back with his fucking hair framing his delicious expression like that, you swear you could cum untouched in your position between his legs as you get to work.

“like a hot dad, huh?” he mumbles, all breathless and shit once you were seated in his lap, his length stretching you perfectly. a hand reaches up to wipe away the remaining of his previous climax on the corner of your lips. you throw your head in the crook of his neck, the pleasure of your hips rolling skillfully against his hitting you bad. “you could’ve just asked, lovely. wanna make me a daddy?”

you manage a shaky nod when he begins to meet your hips halfway.

a hand trails up from your waist to garb your neck, squeezing deliciously as he pulls you away from his neck to take a good look at you. “words, my love.”

“yes,” you nod, eyes closed in bliss. one of your hands grab the wrist of the hand around your neck. “wan’ make y-you a…hhah… daddy.”

“fffuuck…” he groans out when you squeeze around him, letting himself gather enough strength before he throws you off of him and onto the sofa. when your thighs are squeezed together at the painful loss of contact, a palm falls on one of them, leaving a flushed mark in its wake.

“open wide, baby.” he grabs a hold of his cock while he holds the back of your opening thigh to keep the pair apart. the years upon years in the survey corps leave you as flexible as you can be, so when he presses your thigh back, your joints bend easily at his will. pumping himself a few times as he gazes at your glistening folds, another groan breaks out from deep in his chest.

“god, look at you.” he rolls his hips in, and you feel him slip through so pleasurably that you can’t hold back the loud whimper that escapes you.

because damn, how could you not from this view? this is a face of a determined, pussy-drunk man. sweat broke on his forehead, a few strands sticking to the skin while the rest of his hair falls around his face perfectly. you see a ting of pain on his features, and you scatter to try to change your position for a more comfortable one for him, but he is quickly pushing you back down to the couch, a hand falling to your lower abdomen.

the pressure he puts there makes you forget your own name, and it shows on the way your body shivers with bliss. his thrusts increase in velocity, the maddening roll of his hips against yours throwing you in a whole other dimension.

a hand reaches out to grab yours, and through the dizzying pleasure, you realize that levi is pressing your own hand to your abdomen underneath his.

“look how deep inside am i,” he grumbles, leaning down to press a kiss on your bouncing tits. you feel his length stroke in and out of you the more levi puts pressure on your hand. “taking me so well. always so well, baby.”

he takes control of your hand once more, feeling you squeeze familiarly around him, and he pushes your fingers through his hair. you yank on the strands immediately, pulling out a fucking growl out of the man as he leans down until your chests were touching, putting a bit of his body weight on you for support.

you latch onto him like a koala, the burn of your core muscles stretching as he pushes you in a mating press mixes well with your pleasure-high brain. levi kisses, licks, bites down on your neck to leave marks you’ll have trouble hiding later, but you don’t give a shit. you arch your neck more, letting out a long moan when he nips at a certain spot, the bliss turning you mad.

levi is breathless. his puffs of air fan your face when he brings his face on top of yours. a whimper escapes past his lips, his features twisted with pleasure uncontrollably, and you drown in the sounds he makes.

“wann’ make you a mommy too,” he mumbles, open lips landing on the corner of your lips. “wanna…hhah… fill you up. over,” he pauses, delivering an especially harsh thrust that you feel at your cervix. “and over again.”

“levi, i’m so—,”

your body begins to curl into him, eyes closing uncontrollably, and the poor man barely has any chance to ready himself for the way you tighten impossibly around him as you give him your first climax.

your body shivers and quivers, shaking as he overstimulates you chasing after his own pleasure. he leans back up, hands harshly grabbing your lips as he manages to pull you even deeper, and you tightness milk him.

it isn’t the first time he cums inside you, but this one sure hits different. after a few more thrusts that manage to abuse your cervix, levi stills stiffly with a strong groan, and you feel his warmth coat your walls .

he gives you a few more deep strokes as he leans down to kiss you deeply, making sure he fucks all his load deep enough.

his hips still once more, but you keep devouring his lips. weak moans are erupted from both of you as you two calm down gradually, before levi throws sway your attempts of calming down your still-raging arousal when he pulls away, leans up, and slowly pulls out of you.

and he watches the mixture of both your orgasams begin to pool out of you, and you watch as he takes two fingers to push everything back in. you shamelessly roll your hips against bis digits once more.

he looks up at you, fingers still engulfed, snd a smirk takes over his handsome features.

“one more time for good measures?”

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hyperfixationstati0n · 3 months

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ABOUT SEJANUS!!

I used to love to imagine that if he was in a relationship with a Capitol girly he wouldn't have been so reckless cuz he'd have something to lose right?

But now imagine the ANGSTTT

Sejanus having to chose between expressing himself freely and defying the Capitol like he used to because daddy's money can only get you so far and he's terrified that capitol!reader will pay the price of his actions, him constantly battling in his head between what he knows is right and what will keep her safe?

And then sej slowly starting to resent her bc he feel like the more he abandons what he truly believes in for the sake of making sure nothing happens to her, the more the Capitol has a grip on him and basically won?

But he can't just break up with her and stop caring about her bc no one's more in love than that guys is and she's most of the time the reason why he hasn't gotten insane in the Capitol (yet)

There's just this constant battle in his head and!!

Coryo is the little devil on his shoulder, trying to convince him the reader makes him weak, he'll never be able to change things if she holds him back, the whole love is a weakness stuff blablabla

While reader tries her best to be supportive but can't help being upset/a little mad when he act so impulsive and rebellious bc SHE LOVES HIM AND IS SCARED TO LOSE HIM

So having the two closest people in his life "messing" with his head like that is just making sejanus go straight up INSANE

oh this? this if fucking evil but also so genius?? i also def want to write something for this (but maybe a little longer than what i’ve been writing so idk when that’ll happen)

but i so agree. like Coryo is their biggest hater (just because he’s a narcissist and salty) and Sej has to battle with either losing the love of his life or his only friend.

And the resentment is definitely there for him, but for both of them. Because I think Coryo would end up getting into his head more and he would resent reader more and more so he kind of listens to him, which leads him to kind of act out more and gets im in trouble like how he did and left to be a peacekeeper in canon??)

But obviously the love for reader doesn’t just disappear so he misses her like hell, regretting his actions and just wishing he could go back and make it right. And he tries to write letters to her but maybe she doesn’t respond, or she writes and he doesn’t respond out of guilt?? And it drives him crazy not to have her.

So now he’s just kinda alone because he realizes he can’t have both Coryo and reader at the same time, but he doesn’t know where he wants his loyalties to lie anymore. He either sacrifices his self expression and his best friend so he can keep reader and her safety, or he sacrifices the person he loves to maintain a friendship he’s starting to see flaws in even if it grants him more freedom. Both situations he’ll end up miserable in.

i dont know if im just babbling or if this was even coherent but im obsessed with this !!

#anon request #icarus chats #sejanus plinth #sejanus plinth x reader #tbosas

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terezicaptor · 1 month

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wait based on your tags. just imagine fit and pac worry that tubbo doesn't love them because he's so closed off and they have different ways of showing affection and they just arent truly sure

for fit he knows for sure def when tubbo falls asleep on him or at his house or just close to him. fit comes from the fucking wasteland for god's sake thats hell. falling asleep next to someone is like handing them yourself on a silver platter. so it means sooo much to him that he can fall asleep with him. and suddenly he doesnt doubt that he loves him anymore because of that trust

and then with pac i like to think its a similar thing. pac is more sure but then tubbo falls asleep in his arms and pac is reminded of his days in prison back on alcatraz where the only person he trusted to sleep around and vice versa would be mike. literally remembering nights where he didnt sleep cause he wasnt close to mike. and he knows in that moment that tubbo loves him

AAAAAGHHGHHHHHHH

Have you seen that one post abt 2b2t terminology and the concept of basemates.

I'm thinking about how Fit called Foolish and Tubbo basemates the other day. Thinking hard.

The first time Tubbo showed up, he unintentionally built his base near Fit's, making them neighbors.

But when they were moved to a new part of the island, and given a chance to put themselves wherever they wanted, Fit intentionally put his base near Tubbo's. Even though Tubbo had been standoffish.

(That's canon btw. Fit in canon said he picked his base spot to be close to Pac and Tubbo. It's at 2:10:33 here.)

Do you ever think about that.

#txt #qsmp #poly morning crew #asks #keirawantstocry #qsmp headcanons #<- for ur bit

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