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kenananamin · 6 months

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All I ask, All I want

SHIBUYA SPOILERS... KINDA.

*This story will slightly alter the events during and after Shibuya.

Summary: Nanami makes his way to you after Shibuya in a delirious state and crashes into your apartment with severe injuries. He cannot process his current state and shows you what he was always worried you would see. You question everything you thought you knew about him and you're anxious to ask him for the truth but worried if he'll even survive. post-shibuya angst, worried nanami and reader, angst, pain... i'm sorry. happy ending ~2.7k words

I'm almost there, she's right past this alleyway.

Nanami slowly walks to your apartment and leans on a parked car for support. He can't hold his head up for longer than a few seconds at a time, but he's memorized your neighborhood after patrolling it so often for any curses that might hurt you as a non-sorcerer. I'm almost there, she's waiting for me...

———

You hear your door handle clanking and slowly get up from your bed without making any extra unnecessary noise. You grab your phone and open Nanami's contact just in case you need to call and lower your head to the door's peep hole. You smile as you see the very top of a familiar blonde head and open your door, "Oh gosh, I was about to panic call you until I — "

Nanami crashes into your entryway and you fall back to the floor when you see him. You're in shock and it takes you a moment to realize there was a bleeding man with severe burns in your entryway... and that man was Nanami Kento. Your brain catches up with the scene in front of you and you let out a blood-curling scream as you crawl towards your boyfriend. He's laying flat on the floor by now and the rug underneath him starts to soak up the blood from his shredded and burned skin.

"Nanami! Fuck, what do I do?! Kento!! Oh my god, oh my god," you reach for your phone but pause as you're about to call for an ambulance. Nanami had mentioned weeks ago that you should call his... friend if he ever had an emergency. You didn't understand at the time but Nanami said it was just a precaution he wanted to take early on. You look for the contact and find 'G.S. Emergency'. No answer. You look for the second emergency contact 'K.I. Emergency'. No answer.

You look at Ken who's shallow breathing has filled every corner of your apartment and soul. You place the call on speaker and start to ramble to the operator while hiding the cleaver knife-like object in his hand.

———

You thought something was off when Nanami would look behind the both of you and excuse himself for a second in the middle of your dates. Or when he'd tell you to stand still and close your eyes. Or when he told you to get inside first and you heard light grunting and his fast steps outside your door before he breathlessly entered the apartment.

You thought something was off, but you could have never imagined this. Nanami lay in a hospital bed, wrapped in special bandages, but you guys weren't in a hospital. It was a clean and sterile room, but you could open the large window and see a horizon of lined traditional temples.

You push any other thoughts away and return to your spot next to Nanami and clasp your hands together. You weren't sure who you were praying to this whole time, but you hoped that someone out there, anyone, was listening and taking pity on you.

———

Nanami wakes up and feels like he's floating. He can't feel the bandages he clearly sees on himself and especially — you. You were sitting on a chair near the foot of his bed with your arms crossed on the bed, sleeping peacefully. This must be heaven. There was no other reason why you'd be in this room with him, in Jujutsu Tech. No wonder he felt like he was floating, this was the afterlife that was being blessed upon him to spend another moment with you. Fleeting moment or a permanent heaven, Nanami wanted to touch you again, hear your voice, and look into his favorite pair of eyes.

"y/n," Nanami squeezes out your name from his dry throat. He doesn't have the strength to move his leg and try to shift your arms so he keeps repeating your name and nicknames to wake you up.

You had fallen asleep for the first time in a while but you hear your name very very softly. You open your eyes and see half of Nanami's face moving. You sit up and see him smile, "y/n. Hi baby."

You shove the chair back and stand up to touch what you can of his face while repeatedly pushing the button on the side of the bed, "Hi Ken, don't move too much, ok? You need to rest first."

He lazily smiles, looks at you with a half-closed eye and slowly says, "Thank you for seeing me off. I love you, y/n." Nanami gently closes his eyes right as Shoko comes in and you see him drift off.

"I love you, Kento," you whisper and kiss his knuckles as you feel the tears prickling your eyes again.

———

Nanami was finally awake. He woke up to see you sleeping on a small couch by the window where the sunset lightly reflected off your skin. He thought he was dead and he'd spend the rest of eternity with you in that room and right as he was finding peace and comfort with the idea, his student walked into the room with a tray of food and water.

"Na— Nanamin?" Yuji stared at his teacher and leaned out the door to scream for Shoko to hurry in.

Nanami starts to shush him and his previous thoughts of being in the afterlife shattered. There was relief to know he was alive, but his panic slowly started setting in when he wondered why you were in the room and just how much you knew.

Yuji and Shoko rush in and he can hear questions being asked and hands touching him to check on him, but he interrupts them without looking away from your sleeping figure, "Why is she here?" Nanami looks at them both, "What does she know?"

Yuji sits on the chair that Nanami had seen you in before and quietly starts to explain that he had left Shibuya after fighting Jogo. Nobody knew where Nanami was and some people believed they should look for his body only instead, predicting he'd be dead. Yuji shares that everything was shattered and hectic but they received a call to rush to a local hospital.

Shoko continues as Yuji grabs some new bandages, "Our van got to the hospital at the same time as the ambulance. y/n told them she was your wife to avoid any resistance in going with you and started fighting us when we wanted to take you. That was when I realized that she didn't know anything about us, about this world. She cried and begged to let the hospital take care of you, that only they would know what to do."

Nanami looks over to you and wishes your back was not turned to him so that he could see your face.

"We brought her with us too and let her stay in the room for everything so that she could see we would not hurt you," Shoko pauses in removing Nanami's bandage and whispers, "Nanami, you should tell her. Everything or just something — anything. She has not left the room since we brought you and she won't listen to any explanation from anyone. y/n said she'll wait for you and will only listen to your explanation."

Nanami rubs his eye and begins to wonder how to even start the conversation with you. This, this was exactly what he wanted to prevent. He tried to stay away from you so that you'd never find out about anything he did, he covered his tracks and continued his cover-story of being a salaryman. But even with all his efforts, he was drawn to you like a moth to a flame and was prepared to let himself drown in everything about you.

Nanami glances to his student who's sadly looking at your sleeping figure before turning to nod to Shoko.

"You know Shoko," Nanami takes a deep breath and turns back to you, "she was the only thing on my mind after Jogo. I walked passed some of the most gruesome scenes I have ever seen in my time as a sorcerer, but I could only think about how much longer I had, about how long I could extend my final breaths to see her one last time. I wanted her face to be the last thing I saw."

———

It's nighttime when you stir awake. The couch was too small to comfortably sleep but your exhausted body was willing to pass out anywhere. You shift to look towards the hospital bed to check on Nanami but you find an empty bed with the covers neatly organized. You start to kick your blanket off to hurry out and quietly whisper no, no, no, please, no when you feel a hand on your foot.

You flinch at the touch but squint your eyes to see Nanami sitting on a chair next to the couch and looking out the window. You look over his body to check that he's still wrapped in his bandages. Nanami sees your eyes travel over his body and moves his hand from your foot to pull the robe over his chest to cover what has begun to scar.

Your eyes well up with tears to see him sitting next to you — alive. You move to the edge of the couch closest to Nanami and hold his hand. "Everything," you move one hand to his chest, touching the part he just tried to cover and leaving your hand over his heart to feel the beating. "You tell me everything right now."

Nanami starts from the beginning. He explains what it was like being born to a non-sorcerer family and the fear he would feel as a child when he'd see things no one else could. He describes what it was like to find out there were more like him and being admitted to Jujutsu High. He talks about his classmates, the work that's required, how the curses look and what the process is to exorcise them, a young man named Haibara, a sister school in Kyoto, the levels to the curses and sorcerers, and the weapons sometimes used.

The last part reminds you of the cleaver-like object and you tell Nanami you hid what he was holding. "I wasn't sure what it was, but whatever it was, I felt like nobody else should see it to avoid more questions to the already suspicious scene. The paramedics already thought I was crazy once they got there and saw your body.."

Nanami nods and let's you ask any questions you have about the Jujutsu world. You both lose track of the time and Nanami notices the sky start to turn into different shades of blue with an orange strip on the horizon by the time you ask what you've been holding all night, "Are... will you.... do you have to go back?"

Nanami looks back at you but you're holding his hand with your head down, waiting, perhaps dreading, his answer. "With how things are now, I think I might. I'm not much help right now but with time I ca—"

Your sob interrupts him and you lean your head down further to cry. He tries to scoot closer to you but a sharp pain in his torso stops him. He rubs your hand with his thumb instead and gently shushes you not to cry.

You stand from the couch, right in front of Nanami and start to fall to your knees. He realizes what you are about to do and leans forward to grab your arm to stop you, but you swat his weak grip away and continue into a deep bow.

"y/n, please. Baby, please stand up, please don't."

You cry and let your forehead touch the floor, "Nanami Kento, I am begging you to stop. Please stop being a sorcerer and please leave this world with me. You have taken enough punches and bruises, you don't have to stay in the ring. Tap out and let someone else tap in." Your quiet tears turn into sobs towards the end of your pleading.

You hear Nanami's voice start to shake above you, "Darling, please —"

You interrupt him and sit up to scoot to hold his knees close to your chest, "Tap me in, let me help you, Ken please. Let me protect you, I swear that I will protect you now."

You feel guilty bowing as you are. You are asking this man to leave what he knows, but you don't know what else to do. You have never felt such fear after seeing so much of his body burnt and his breath so shallow. You would bow to anyone for a chance to save his life. You would bow to him and plead him to save himself with this second chance.

"Don't fight anymore. Stay only as a teacher if you want but put that blade away. Don't leave these walls and the protection they offer. This is as much as I will compromise. I do not want you out there regardless of the danger levels. But better yet — please, let me take care of you. Stop fighting and working, follow me out of these halls and I'll do anything for you, I swear it."

Nanami's tears start to fall and he looks down at you gripping at his thighs in desperation.

"Kids..." you continue to ramble, "We can have kids if you want, we can move somewhere far and finally have our kids. You can convert a whole room into your library, you'll have an infinite amount of books and time to yourself to do anything you'd like. I'll make you all your favorite meals and listen to everything you have to say, even open a bakery if you want to try! I'll wear that wedding dress you have a photo saved of on your phone, even do a traditional wedding if you want to. I'll do it all and more, Ken, just please —" You knew your face was drenched and contorting to match your desperate pleas. "I'm begging you, please.."

Nanami reaches out to touch your cheek and a sob escapes his lips. It's the only time you've both cried this way in front of each other.

Yuji is sitting in the hallway by the room door and listens to the desperate rambling. He had been sitting there since he passed by and heard Nanami talking about his adolescence. He knew it wasn't right, but he just wanted to listen to Nanami speak for a while after the overwhelming anxiety of thinking he was dead and possibly not hearing him again.

Yuji stands, steps inside the room and clears his throat, "Nanamin? I — I think she's right. You should go. I can find you if we need help, but we'll be ok," he pauses to walk halfway into the room, "I think you should step out... and maybe have those kids?" the young boy smiles a bit at the thought of young kids running around his usually stoic teacher and calling him dad.

"Nanamin, Jujutsu High will be ok. And you have someone else to worry about now." Yuuji looks down to Nanami's lap where your head is laying on his thighs, weeping and thinking of more ways to beg him. The young boy smiles, "I've got it from here."

Nanami believes his student... and nods. He looks down at the crying woman whose sobs have their whole body shaking. He fights against the sharp pains around his body and leans down as far as he can to hug you. It is not the strong embrace you are used to from Nanami, but a light envelop that warms and calms your deepest fears.

———

Walking out of Jujutsu Tech, Nanami stops and introduces a few of the people he mentioned in his life story to you. He does not introduce you as his girlfriend (which was technically your title at that moment) but as his wife. You widen your eyes the first time he says it but he just smiles down at you and says, "You started using it first, now it's my turn. But I promise to properly ask you soon."

Yuji, Shoko, and Ino follow you both to the bottom of the stairs to say goodbye. You give them your number so that they have another place to reach Nanami and Yuji gladly takes the number with the promise of checking in soon. Nanami lightly pulls you away to finally leave but pauses before taking another step.

You hold Nanami's hand as he looks back to the school one last time. The place that showed him real pain and heartbreak, but also gave him a place to feel like he was making a difference. The place that held so many memories as both a student and teacher. The place that nearly broke him, but gave him the space to heal to return back to you. You rub his hand with both of yours and say, "All I ask is that you are happy, alive, and safe."

Nanami looks back at you with relief covering his features and guilt covering yours while you keep your head down. He gently rubs his thumb on your hand, "All I want is to follow you." You look up and he moves his hand to your face, "I promise, all I want is you."

You nod and lean to kiss him once softly. You wrap your arm around Nanami's torso and he wraps his arm around your shoulders. You motion for him to lean on you as he walks and for the first time in a long long time, he takes the offer to lean on someone else.

Yuji watches from the entrance path of the school as you both turn to leave the premises. He cups his hands around his mouth and yells, "Nanamin, y/n! I'll visit when I can! Read a few mangas for meeee!"

a/n: I saw paramore this summer and their music has been on repeat the whole year. 'all i wanted' is def gonna be in my top wrapped songs and it def reminds me of nanami every. single. time.

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failing-to-write-again · 4 months

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What would it be like waking up with Shu, Reiji, or Ruki?

So sorry I didn't see this Tumblr did not send me a notification!

But thank you for the ask and I will answer all three!!!

Under the cut because my writing is long and I might be mildly suggestive but nothing explicit!

Shu

I imagine waking with Shu would feel like a Saturday morning in Winter, where the heating is on and your bed is so warm and outside it's a cool snowy light.

Rolling over and feeling the slight chill of the vampire, his chest cool but the arm you slept on warmed by your body heat.

I think Shu, as a more subtle romantic, would enjoy like sleeping naked or at least shirtless with you. While throwing perverted comments around to deflect from showing his true sappy side, yet never actually going further then running his fingers along your spine as he holds you against himself slowly heating up.

Hearing him deeply inhale and stir as he feels your movement, eyes opening slightly and smiling before nuzzling between the pillows and your hair. A grumble of protest at having been disturbed.

If it is a weekend or holiday you give in easily resettling into the peaceful feeling of simple having skin contact with someone so intimately. Shu lifting the covers to cover you more as goosebumps cover your body slightly due to his lower body temperature.

A personal head cannon is that after you began to have an actual close relationship he would have servants bring hot water bottles to your room close to bed so you didn't have to be as effected by his chill. However by morning the once warm devices are now useless, yet he's less cold after a night of having you next to him.

Eventually you may try coax him awake. As he hides himself against your neck, feeling him voice complaints in a gravelly morning voice against your skin.

"My princess is so pushy, just rest order the servants to do the stupid errands. They're yours now."

Reiji

Reiji could go one of two ways depending on the day. A busy day or a holiday. Either way I think his room would feel fresh but still warm to wake in.

On the average day Reiji wakes you either accidentally as he gets dressed and ready for the day, or with a drink and some breakfast delivered personally to your room. He claims it's to prevent your morning mood effecting the household but it is actually to just keep you to himself a moment longer even if it's while you're both busy preparing for a long day ahead.

He runs his fingers through your hair to wake you, slowly massaging your scalp. You'd be surprised that it doesn't put you deeper asleep.

On the rare days he doesn't feel the need to wake as early he's sensual and soft. Rare for someone as prim and proper as him.

It's canon from the sleeping with a vampire audios that Reiji wears silk pajamas and bed sheets with high quality mattresses. I see him ordering you matching pajamas and night dresses in similar designs to his and he secretly waits until you get yours on before changing. He refused to admit when he's sweet. He melts when you sleep in his shirt after nightly romps in the sheets.

Ever the leading partner, you wake up being spooned by him either facing him or with you back against his chest and his face buried in your hair. You used to worry about it irritating him at first until one night you felt him nuzzle against it intentionally as he smelt the shampoo you had recently used.

Like Shu I feel he would do things to motivate the temperature difference. However maybe an electric blanket or a potion that will last the entire night.

Deepest as morning voice, grainy too completely unlike his firm even tone when awake. It's a personal side only you see. And forget Shu being the lazy one when Reiji has the time to sleep in with you. The man is begging for 5 more minutes.

"My love, stay...hm? Need a drink? I left one on the nightstand. ... You can't reach it?... Cruel woman treating your lover like this."

Ruki

Ruki's room must smell like candles and new books. A nice toasty feeling to wake to.

Clingy is the best way to describe how I feel he sleeps. So scared you may slip through his fingers or leave like others before, Ruki holds you close as you sleep.

I imagine he sleeps on his stomach due to having to sleep like that for so long after he initially got the scars on his back. His arm around your waist and head turned to rest abobe your shoulder.

The exception being when he reads a book to help you sleep. You lay, head against his chest or in his lap as he sits against a pile of pillows. You wake to his head against yours and the book left open on his lap as his arms encircle you.

Ever the slight sadist, on days you need to be up faster he might lightly pinch your sides to wake you. Chuckling as you squirm and complain at the rude awakening. Kissing you forehead in apology.

During nights where he has particularly bad nightmares you may have to wake him. Holding him against your chest and brushing through his hair as you comfort him best you can. You don't know when you both nod back off but you wake the next day to him still there resting more peaceful than ever. That being said night terrors have decreased drastically since you began to share a bed.

After you both wake up properly he holds you in his lap as you discuss your plans for the day. He takes his time laying kisses along your shoulders and down your sternum, a personal good luck ritual that makes the day a little easier to begin.

"Hm... where do you think your going? I assume like me you don't want to leave my side yet. Especially with those fingers tracing along my body. How shameless."

#diabolik lovers #reiji sakamaki #reiji sakamaki x reader #shu sakamaki x reader #shu sakamaki #ruki mukami #ruki mukami x reader #diabolik lovers imagine #diabolik lovers headcanon #may have to edit later it's 1am rn

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awyeahitssam · 2 months

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Harry just can't seem to stay dead. TW: Suicide, character death, frequent character death, torture, murder, disjointed snippets, concept discontinued -

The first time he dies Harry is fifteen months old, and it’s murder. His parents are both dead already, killed by the same hand Harry himself falls to, but they aren’t in the large, white expanse he wakes up in seconds later.

In fact, Harry is quite alone.

So he does what’s natural, and cries,

and cries,

and cries.

He stops after a bit, when his chest begins to ache. If his mummy or daddy were here, they would have come.

He’s alone.

He can’t remember ever being completely alone before, but he’s a big boy. Mummy’s big boy, she always says with a beaming smile when he's been very good. He can wait for her to come get him from this strange place.

This strange, dull, all-white place.

So he sits and waits, only Harry is a child with a short attention span and an oversized imagination. He wishes he had something to do - some toy to play with. He thinks about the colorful puffs of light daddy had introduced to him yesterday longingly, and suddenly pale puffs of smoke appear before him. Pink, purple, green. All of his favorite colors.

Gasping in delight, Harry claps clumsily, but this disperses the smoke and he’s alone again.

He whines, put out. “More,” he babbles. “Moremoremore!”

Obediently, the expanse lights up again. Harry grins gummily, falling onto his back to watch the pretty colors burst above him.

After a time Harry grows bored. He thinks of home - of his blanky and his stuffed toys and his mummy’s beautiful red curls and his daddy’s laughter - and longs to return.

A portal appears below him and he drops through with a squeal of delight.

Eventually this memory fades, just like the memories of his parents, lost in the cobwebs of a small cupboard under the stairs.

...

Unlike Mummy or Daddy, the Lady has never encouraged Harry's babble or answered his questions or bowed to his demands - "juice!" or "up!" were his favorites. In fact the first time he said “no!” which usually made adults laugh, or sigh and shake their heads, Harry was spanked.

Harry had never been spanked before, not even when he crashed his toy broomstick into Mummy’s desk and got ink spilled all over himself and the ground. Mummy had said he had been a very, very bad boy to ride his broom without mummy or daddy around, and Daddy had backed her up with stern, grunting noises even though his eyes were twinkling like they did when he laughed.

Here, when he spit a mouthful of mashed banana on the floor, the Lady shrieked and threw a washcloth at him, glaring until he got the hint and sloppy mopped it up. Harry didn’t know why the Lady didn’t just make the rag do that itself, but then again Harry didn’t understand a lot of things about the Lady.

The Mister was also not very nice. When Harry was quiet Mister paid him no attention, but if he made the slightest sound Mister’s beady eyes would narrow at him and he would start to shout. Mister was very loud, loud enough that he made Harry’s little ears ring and the other boy in the house start to cry.

The Mister stopped at the tears of the other boy, and so the next time Mister shouted Harry cried. This time, Mister did not stop. He just kept yelling and yelling and yelling until Harry’s head hurt really bad, and he seemed to suddenly lose his voice altogether.

That day Harry was put into his cupboard before it got dark outside, and was not let out for a very long time.

...

The next time Harry dies he is six years old. One moment he had appeared on top of the roof of his school, and the next he is falling. (It’s not exactly an accident, but it certainly isn’t on purpose, either. Harry had landed in the center of the roof, perfectly balanced. But he had gone to peer over the edge, searching, half for Dudley and his gang, half for a way down. He didn’t have to search for long. Maybe his depth perception was bad--the teacher had said he needed glasses, but Aunt Petunia hadn't gotten him them yet.)

He breaks his neck.

When he opens his eyes in an endless white expanse he is discomfited, the brightness so disparate from the darkness of his cupboard. Almost as the thought forms, he wishes the space were not so white, and a section of the room--place--endless land--suddenly turns a comforting pitch black.

Harry stares.

...

Harry decides within his first week at Hogwarts that killing himself is too risky. At the Dursley’s he had little to no supervision, discounting nosy neighbors. Here he was watched all the time: students whispered about him in the corridors, professor’s kept a close eye on his progress in classes, and his dormitory had four other boys in it. There was no real opportunity for privacy, and he couldn’t exactly hang himself, be caught in the noose, and have to explain it all to the Headmaster. He would probably be experimented on or something. He was already so different than other boys; to push it further seemed unwise.

His first chance comes when Draco and Fang abandoned him to the mercies of the Forest, but before he can find a suitably sturdy tree branch a centaur pulls Harry onto his back and leads him from the Forest.

Harry’s getting anxious, by this point. He’s never stayed alive for so long. He feels claustrophobic in his own skin. Sometimes he scratches his nails over his flesh like it will stop the pressure in his head, but he knows there’s only one real way to be rid of it.

His time with the Dursleys had taught him nothing if not patience, so he waits. And waits. And waits.

Harry makes it all the way to Yule before puncturing his carotid with a potions knife. Waking up in the white room feels a lot like bliss.

...

Harry is face to face with Lord Voldemort, and he feels so much—but not fear.

Voldemort, he considers, is a being of rage, madness, and destruction. The only problem that Harry immediately considers is that the man might not kill him quickly.

...

Harry has killed himself many times. That doesn’t prepare him for killing somebody else.

Quirrell burns beneath his hands and Harry is so scared, relieved, horrified. He killed somebody but he is alive — yet unlike most people, even if Quirrell had killed him he would still be alive.

...

In his Second Year, Harry kills himself forty-seven times. He’d like to say it isn’t because of the entire school turning against him for an ability he can’t even control, but he’s never been in the habit of lying to himself, and that was certainly a contributing factor.

Harry had thought he’d left the condemning stares in Little Whinging, but whispers break out when he passes and people either scamper out of his way or don’t like they have something to prove.

It’s easier to kill himself with magic, Harry discovers. Typically less of a mess, too.

Snape has no desire to educate children, and especially not Harry. So the next time he finds himself in The Room, throat ripped out by a giant three-headed dog, he asks for books.

He stays for a week, studying interspersed with flying after a conjured snitch, cooking, and resting. He sleeps far better in The Room than he ever has in Hufflepuff’s dormitory. Nobody can reach him here.

It’s his sanctuary.

At the end of the week Harry has learned many things about potions, but more importantly he has learned how to make poisons.

Vomiting them up after is awful, but he has time to figure out which works best, both for killing him and for voiding after.

...

The horcruxes appear one by one.

The diary is first, of course.

...

When Harry escapes the Hospital Wing a week later the stares and whispers are worse than ever, but there’s no malice to them any longer; in fact most all of the students, and even some of the staff, are looking at him like he’s something incredible. Again.

That night Harry downs a bitter vial of poison. He’s dead before his head hits the pillow.

The first time Harry sees someone else in his sacred space, his escape from the world, he screams. He finally understands what it means when people claim they ‘see red,’ because all of Harry’s distance and half-hearted indifference shatters and all Harry can think of is splattering this intruder's blood and making his white room red.

His magic throws the teenager off his couch, rips the book from his hands, and slams him to the ground. It presses down around him, hard enough he can’t move against it, until he’s nothing more than a pinned butterfly.

“How dare you!” He shrieks. “This is my home, you think you can just do whatever you want? I’ll rip your bloody throat out, I will destroy you!”

Dark eyes stare up at him, nonplussed. Considering. “You’ve already done that.”

It’s only then that Harry actually recognizes him. He feels jolted. Alarmed. Present, like he always is here. “Riddle.”

Riddle doesn’t so much as twitch in response. He can’t, thinks Harry, with a burst of righteous pride.

“How are you here?”

Riddle’s face twists. “You should know, Potter. You’re the one who killed me.

Harry blinks down at him. Considers this. “I killed Quirrell as well, but he didn’t show up here.”

Riddle’s eyebrows draw together. “You’re twelve, and I’m the second person you’ve murdered,” he said quietly, almost to himself. “Brilliant.”

“It was self defense both times,” said Harry, unbothered by the accusation. “But yes. Except for the fact that you are somehow here, in my home.”

...

When Harry next appears (absently clearing his throat - asphyxiation is far from his favorite method, but it’s certainly the easiest when staying with the Dursley’s) he doesn’t spare Riddle a glance. Though he’s reading one of Harry’s books he’s not in his space, and that’s all that truly matters. It’s more respect than Harry had been expecting. Or perhaps Riddle didn’t want to be pinned down and helpless again, which seemed far more likely.

He toes off his shoes, setting them neatly out of the way before curling into the corner of his sofa. The eyes on him are easy enough to ignore - he’s got plenty of practice by now. He tucks his legs to his chest and summons a book, flipping it open to the marked page.

Harry liked to read travel books. After being confined to a cupboard and the small, monotonous Little Whining for most of his life it was no wonder he found some excitement in accounts of exotic locations and different cultures. The rarely indulged pastime became even more excited when he entered the magical world. Reading about historically important magical sights and imagining that he might one day visit…

Tom eyes him warily. “Enjoying your summer, then?”

Harry sighed internally. Did the boy really need attention? This was supposed to be his time, his escape from the Dursleys - from everyone and everything.

“Immensely,” he returned, not bothering to glance up. He cleared his throat, slightly self-conscious at how hoarse his voice was. He had scarcely spoken ten words since his arrival ‘home’ last week.

...

“What do you want, Riddle?” Harry snapped. “Isn’t it enough you’re ruining my only get away from—”

Harry stopped himself. Voldemort had come back to life once. Who said this piece of him couldn’t as well? After all, Riddle had said they were between life and death.

“Well excuse me for wanting some conversation,” Riddle sneered back. “I spent fifty years locked away in a diary, and the last several weeks in this place.”

“You’re the one who locked yourself away,” Harry snaps, unsympathetic. “And I would’ve let you go on living if you didn’t nearly shut down the school for the second time and attempt to murder me.”

For a moment Riddle appeared mutinous. If he said “you started it,” Harry might actually kill him. Permanently. Somehow.

Instead, he lets out a breath and leans back. Harry becomes aware of his own tense posture, and quickly relaxes back into the couch, jerking his eyes away from Riddle.

This was far from the relaxation he had anticipated.

Harry let out a deep breath and flipped to the next page of his book.

The room fell silent again.

...

On the next visit, Tom is in Harry’s area. He’s using the stove, scrambling eggs, and a strange, burnt smell lingers. Harry waves his hand to banish it.

“What are you doing?”

Tom jerks around, immediately abandoning the skillet and stepping off the kitchen tiles. He eyes Harry warily, waiting for his reaction for a moment, before saying, “I haven’t eaten in a long time. I was… hungry.”

Harry considered mentioning that there was no hunger here. But physical needs and mental ones weren’t always so disparate, and Harry took his meals here during summer as well, to feel the content even if afterwards he returned to an achingly empty stomach.

Harry decides to ignore this, approaching the pan curiously. The eggs are more brown than pale yellow, over cooked and sticking to the skillet. He wrinkles his nose in distaste, waving the mess away.

He turns a frown on Riddle. “You don’t know how to cook eggs?”

Riddle’s lip curls. “You do?”

Harry rolls his eyes. “I’ve been able to do simple things like eggs since I was four.”

Riddle’s lips purse, but Harry turns from him without waiting for more of a reaction, cracking a few brown eggs on the edge of the skillet.

“Were you trying for scrambled, or is that just how they came out?”

“I prefer over medium,” Riddle responded after a long moment.

And so Harry began to cook. His actions were smooth, comforting in their familiarity. He hardly minded cooking so long as the Dursley’s weren’t hovering around. He had thought that fondness might carry over to Potions, but that was before he met Snape.

Harry loses himself in the motions, peripherally aware of the way that Riddle is studying him. He plates the eggs and a thought is enough to keep them warm, then continues on with toast and a fry-up. It’s a bit heavier than Harry would dare eat if he was in the process of re-feeding his actual body, but if he felt the least bit ill he would just leave this plane.

Riddle takes his first bite cautiously. “It’s good,” he says to himself.

Harry side eyes him but doesn’t say anything. He takes his own bites delicately, measuring, like he always does when returning for Hogwarts. Even here, overeating with a shrunken stomach could make him sick. And doing so, only to return to the physical plane, made his shriveled stomach all the more noticable.

...

He thinks about boarding a train.

Not often, but it does come up.

“Where does it lead?” Riddle asks once, after he’s just sat, staring at it come and go, for long enough that the teenager’s finished his book.

“Somewhere a lot less dramatic, I’m sure,” Harry murmurs, watching it leave the station once again. It’s just a feeling, but Harry believes pure tranquility lies in wait at the end of those tracks. He’s also sure that it’s a one-way trip into nonexistence, and while he occasionally (okay, nearly always) longs for such a thing, he has duties. Neville and Luna depend on him - the world depends on him - and it’s all very…

Dramatic.

Harry sighs, looking away from the tracks and climbing to his feet. He should be doing something productive.

Though honestly he would much rather stare into space for the next few hours and forget the way his friends have, once again, abandoned him.

He turns to Riddle instead.

“The Triwizard Tournament. Ever heard of it?”

Riddle inclines his head. “Yes, of course. It used to be a way for the three premier European schools to prove their superiority. A Hogwarts student most always won. The practice was discontinued in 1792, when all three champions died in the first task.”

Harry stilled, taking in a quick breath.

“The book said ‘high death toll,’ but of course it’s something like that.”

Even if he died he would come back. But if he died, and died in front of a crowd of hundreds if not thousands, then came back it would be terrible.

He would become more than the Boy Who Lived. He would become the Boy Who Wouldn’t Die. An experiment, shunted into the bowels of the Ministry.

Harry sighed, throwing himself back onto the couch.

“It’s been resurrected this year,” he divulges tiredly. “And I’ve been nominated, despite the age limit being seventeen. It’s probably another ploy by your counterpart to kill me.”

There was a long silence, and when Harry at last looked up Tom was staring at him with a strange sort of intensity.

“What?”

“You can not be killed, yet you continuously die. Still, I find the thought Voldemort being the cause of such deaths... distasteful.”

“You'd rather I keep severing my carotid?” Harry asked, unsure of where Riddle was going with this.

“Were I alive, I would rather you refrain some such activities, but as I am not…” Riddle frowned at whatever he saw on Harry’s face. “Your company is preferable to eternal solitude.”

Harry rolled his eyes, ignoring the strange tightening in his chest. “You just want somebody who can cook a halfway decent meal.”

Tom shrugs nonchalantly, not gracing him with an actual response.

“Speaking of which, I’m making comfort food.”

...

“Harry-”

“I’d like to be alone,” he says, stiffly.

“Listen to me!” Tom commands, shuffling even closer.

“Leave me alone!” Harry snarls, jerking away from his touch, and in a dizzying warp Harry is quite suddenly surrounded by blackness, a sharp contrast the the pristine white of the train station.

Harry blinks, eyes squinting at the sudden shift, but then he doesn’t feel Tom’s hand on his shoulder, doesn’t feel their shoulders pressing together, and he relaxes.

...

Sirius is dead - actually, one hundred percent, can not be reached dead - and as soon as Harry escapes Dumbledore’s office he follows.

The first thing he does when he arrives is scream. He doesn’t give a fuck about the dark eyes on him, doesn’t give a fuck about anything because the only human being that actually seemed to care for Harry (for his comfort, his safety, what he wanted) was gone.

“Fucking!” Harry slammed a fist into one of his bookshelves and watched as it went up in flames, before heaving a breath and flinging a palm full of pure, destructive magic at the picture frame of he and Sirius embracing for the first time.

“Harry? Harry!”

“You really don’t want to mess with me right now, Riddle,” Harry hissed, chest heaving, fists clenched so tight that he should have bled.

“What's happened?” Tom pressed, gently laying a hand on the trembling boy's shoulder. Normally physicality seemed to soothe something in Harry, but the wizard sprang away from Tom’s touch as though it scalded him.

“Touch me again and I will raise this god-damned place to the ground, and you along with it!” Harry bellowed.

His entire body was shaking. He felt like he was splitting into a million pieces, felt useless, felt helpless. He hated Riddle for this, for what he had become, what he had inadvertently caused. Voldemort had trained the insane witch who grew up to murder her own cousin and he hated that, too.

“You have to mean it, Harry.”

Oh, but he really, really did. It was his wand - burning hot and angry in his hand - that was stopping him, not his lack of hatred.

“Potter, you cannot win against me!” she cried. He could hear her moving to the right, trying to get a clear shot of him. He backed around the statue away from her, crouching behind the centaur’s legs, his head level with the house-elf’s. “I was and am the Dark Lord’s most loyal servant, I learned the Dark Arts from him, and I know spells of such power that you, pathetic little boy, can never hope to compete —”

Harry’s wand was lost to him, but in that moment he did not care. He had done powerful magic before, and now, with hatred blossoming from within him, he did not feel he needed the conduit.

He rose from behind the fountain, and yelled again, “Crucio!”

Bellatrix fell with a shriek, only it did not stop there. The most horrible, grating sound clawed its way out of her throat. Her agony was clear, but Harry was hardly satisfied with the proof of her pain. She had killed Sirius.

He did not care about the consequences. He walked until he stood above her, close enough to look in her eyes, were they not clenched tight in pain, and leveled a hand to her again.

“Avada—"

“Expelliarmus,” a high, cold voice whispered.

But Harry had no wand. “Kedavra.”

There was a burst of green, and Bellatrix lay dead. Harry grinned as he turned to face the Dark Lord, who simply stared at him, red eyes wide. The man appeared shocked, which only served to amuse Harry more — he looked much like Tom when he was dumbfounded — until he considered what drew him here. Voldemort… hadn’t he killed Sirius just as much as Bellatrix.

Something in Harry grew very cold.

“Did you tell her to?” Harry whispered, giddiness abandoning him swiftly. “Did you tell her to kill the only family I had left?”

Harry was shaking with residual rage. He felt like he could do anything. There were no consequences, nothing mattered, Sirius was dead—

“Such anger, Harry Potter. Such power.” Voldemort’s voice was as chilling as ever. Harry clenched his hands, eyes glaring up into red. Daring him to—to—to what?

“Did you tell her?” Harry demanded, pushing as hard as he could. He didn’t fully understand what he was doing, just that he needed to know, needed to see if Riddle—Voldemort—was responsible for this.

For a moment, Voldemort looked almost amused. Then his eyes widened, and Harry was falling…

He saw himself through Voldemort’s eyes — his exhausted slump, pressed tight lips, eyes alight.

What has the fool been teaching this boy?

He was forced back, his scar burning hotly and pulsating with pain.

He grimaced, but it was edged in triumph.

Voldemort didn't order it. Hadn’t even expected Sirius to be here at all. He didn’t particularly care that the man was dead, other than the errant thought that he was the end of a noble bloodline.

Voldemort’s face shifted to a snarl. The sharp gleam of hunger in his eyes was gone, consumed by fury. “How dare you,” he hissed. “Crucio.”

Harry should have expected it, but he did not. Perhaps he had gotten too used to pushing Tom’s boundaries to recall that he was dealing with a different beast altogether.

Harry was not in control here. Here, Voldemort could fight back, and he could win.

Harry fell, teeth biting into the flesh of his lips to keep from crying out. He arched from the ground, tendons straining, bones creaking as he bent to an unnatural angle. He hadn’t forgotten the agony he experienced in a dreary graveyard, but remembering the pain didn’t acclimate him to the sensation any better. Once upon a time he thought the basilisk burning through his veins was the worst feeling he would ever experience. He knew better, now.

“Scream for me,” Voldemort whispered. A hand brushed over his hair, barely there at all, and Harry ground his teeth together hard. “Don’t fight it, Harry Potter. Surrender…”

"Fuck you," Harry hissed out, barely having to open his mouth for the parseltongue.

The cruciatus stopped abruptly.

“What?” the Dark Lord whispered, or perhaps hissed.

Harry let his eyes slit open. “I said fuck you,” he repeated.

...

He falls sixteen years, six months, and two days later to Voldemort's killing curse. It’s the second time; the first brought him to the white room originally, and Harry wonders if the second will close it off to him.

But no, he appears in the train station as always. It seems death is still his choice, and though some might think a lot of his character for going towards it without this guarantee, the shards of Voldemort would undoubtedly scorn him for it.

This time Harry doesn’t question the new presence, doesn’t so much as glance at the other horcruxes who hover away from it, bright eyes wary. Unlike the others his very soul recognizes this piece of Voldemort, whose form is but an infant, skin raw and rough, flayed-looking.

It shudders, so obviously in pain, and Harry thinks it says something about the horcruxes, about Tom Riddle and Voldemort and everything in between, that the man doesn’t have enough compassion to help his own soul.

And they accused Harry of self-loathing.

From the depths of his soul, Harry really does pity them. Yes, he hates them at times, feels annoyance and affection and a chaotic jumble of incomprehensible things for the destroyed soul pieces, but he loves them too. Perhaps has loved this one the longest: this burnt husk of Voldemort that’s always been with him.

He wonders if he can even go back without him, can stand the hollow feeling where Voldemort’s soul had once fit alongside his own. He can almost feel it now, a black, echoing chasm. Or perhaps that’s just the grief for all those already dead...

Harry picks the child up easily, ignoring Tom’s grunt of discontent and the diadem’s irritated hissing. They haven’t been introduced yet, but Harry trusts the others not to allow him to attack Harry, if only in self preservation.

The reminder of the ring’s punishment is still fresh enough in their minds.

The horcrux doesn’t flinch away when Harry moves to cradle it to his chest, infinitely gentle and conscious of no-doubt sensitive skin. He wonders if its state is because of Voldemort’s Killing Curse or the neglect of Harry’s soul, though he rather suspects the former by the way the horcrux twists into him, soft whines ceasing as the cool silk brushed his tender skin.

Harry coos at it thoughtlessly, watching in wonder as it seems to oh-so-slowly heal, skin warping until it’s a smooth, pale, utterly human bundle. Dark eyelashes part and Harry is somehow unsurprised to find his own bright green eyes staring back at him from Tom Riddle’s toddler face.

What is a bit shocking is the amount of trust those eyes hold. Harry can’t ever remember looking at somebody like that. Logically Harry didn’t think Tom Riddle was capable of it.

Emotionally it made something in him melt.

Damn toddler-horcrux. Maybe Harry did have some kind of paternal instincts after all.

“That’s not one of us,” Tom Riddle sneered.

“Don’t be a berk, Tom, he obviously is,” Harry sighed. The toddler turned to look at Tom condescendingly, before turning back to Harry with a gummy smile.

Fuck, he was cute. And manipulative. Don’t trust him, Harry. Don’t give in.

“Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing,” Harry said sternly, even as he gently combed a hand through soft, night-dark curls. “Just because it’s working doesn’t mean I don’t know.”

“Really, put that thing down, love.” The locket said.

“This one is more mine than any of you are, and he’s staying in my arms, where he belongs.”

Harry stared down into green eyes contemplatively, before shrugging. “Well, for the moment at least. Soon I’ll need to return and off Voldemort before he gets any grand ideas of hurting more of my friends. Nagini first, though.”

The toddler huffed loudly, pudgy hands reaching up and tugging at Harry’s hair. Harry huffed, wondering if this was typical child behavior or baby Tom was trying to punish him. He caught the small hand and gently untangled it, keeping it loosely clasped in his own.

“Here’s the thing,” Harry said, looking up from the toddler. “If you guys hurt a hair on his head while I’m gone, you’ll be getting on a train to the afterlife. Express.”

The horcruxes looked bitter, mouthes twisted in disdain, though the youngest was merely watching Harry with the same thoughtful gleam in his eyes he had for five years. Harry stepped towards him, raising a brow until he held out his arms reluctantly to accept the child.

It immediately began to bawl, struggling to get back to Harry. Harry leaned in, pressing a kiss to its forehead and cooing softly. “It’s okay, my darling. Tom has you, you’re safe. He won’t hurt you, and I won’t be gone forever.”

It worked. The babe settled under his babbling, with a few heavy sniffs. Harry smiled down at it softly, and looked up to meet Tom’s gaze, intent on his face.

“I’m trusting you,” Harry says lightly, reaching out to cup the boy's cheek. He’s older than Tom, now, standing a bit taller than the sixteen year old. “Take it seriously this time, won't you?”

“You want me to care for our soul while you ensure my permanent death,” Tom replies smartly.

Harry hums, considering that. He’s standing close enough that the toddler manages to squeeze tubby fingers into the front of his robes, clinging. He slowly lets his hand fall from Tom’s face, gently grabbing the hand and holding it, instead.

“Yes,” he agrees, “that just about covers it.”

Briefly, Tom looks annoyed. Then, inexplicably, he looks fond. “We really are nothing alike, Harry Potter.”

Harry smiled at his surrender, a crooked, muted thing. “Now who’s lying to himself?”

End.

...

This guy is long abandoned, I believe I stopped touching it about five years ago or so. I found the fact that I was tracing the same plot points from the incredibly silly, and didn't enjoy the way I had expressed Harry's 'depression'. Really, I was just writing snippets, playing around with the concept when I started. I was about to just delete everything, and then I thought, I know at least one of you will enjoy this. So, here it is!

A story may come tumbling out in 3-5 years with the same general premise, but with some large changes. If that ever comes out, it will be a love note to mental health, and depict the struggle as realistically as I can write it.

Hope you have a peaceful night/day! 🖤

#TW sui #tw sui ideation #tw torture #snippet #disjointed snippets #Harry #horcruxes #weird op moment #written 4-5 years ago #won't be continued #my (old) writing #look at me trying not to claim it

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professional-nutria-enjoyer · 6 months

Text

WARNING! THERE WILL BE HEAVY SPOILERS FOR THE GAME "OUTER WILDS"

can we talk about how "balanced" outer wilds is? Like, the first thing that comes to mind is obviously the black-white hole mechanic: the black hole attracts everything towards itself, a colorless pit where everything will fall into at the end of the loop. The white hole is instead the beginning of the cycle, a singularity that spits you out from the other side of death and depth, a dot with all colours in it.

Then there's the hourglass twins, on one you must be patient and on the other you must hurry. On one side you wait for the sand to reveal the secrets beneath, on the other you may not even have enough time before it covers everything and crushes you between itself and the ember twin crust.

Then there's the Nomai and Owlks thing going on. The Nomai met their end through years and centuries of researches, only for their end to be something completely unrelated. The Owlks found the eye and were disgusted and scared, not fascinated, and met their "end" as a direct consequence of their desperate run for blissful ignorance and estrangement to the outside world. Not to mention how each species communicates with the player: the Nomai utilize writing, something formal, something that is hard to misunderstand, a writing that forms around a spiral (something potentially infinite). The Owlks instead use art as a medium, slides that told the player of their civilization decadence. Slides of drawings framed in a circular shape (that couldn't be more limited)

Then there's obviously the "wow death is a real thing now" that happens after you get the core. Imagine being stuck in a situation where the end is meaningless and not really the end, you will always wake up beside a campfire regardless of how you died (unless you destroy the fabric of space-time). Now imagine for everything you learned about how meaningless death is to be virtually useless, you are left with the existential fear you thought you forgot that came back in full force.

Now, i find the parallel between the Prisoner and Solanum to be fascinating. Two different beings recluded in a giant jail, one by choice, the other sentenced to an eternal bodyless life. Both are more dead than alive, but while Solanum is the nearest anyone has ever got to the eye, the Prisoner is the farthest and furthest. Poor Owlk, inmate of a giant digital jail made by those who hated him and what he fought to free; haunted by the failure of his attempt to free the Eye, but the arrival of the player made him understand that there was still a chance for the universe. Poor Nomai, victim of her own success, surrounded by nothing but the haunting of loneliness, the hatchling's arrival made her understand that the ash twin project finally worked (and what was necessary to make that work *happened*).

Outer wilds wouldn't be as loved as it is without these elements, it needs them to be complete, to have a meaning, to show how cosmic perfection is only achievable by following the universe's rules, it needs the horror element to it's peaceful exploration one, it needs funky music to it's sealed screams, it needs light, it needs darkness, it needs explosions, it needs calmness, it needs water and deserts, it needs geysers and small wooden cottages, it needs blue, green, red, pink, beige, yellow and purple to it's black. It needs so so many things and it has them, it doesn't need anything else to be loved.

Outer wilds isn't just a game about how small we are, how our past will influence the future and the beautiful part of hopelessness. It's also a game about balance, how everything must have a counterpart, how we can't just live on one side of the coin. It's a game about cherishing the sad parts of life, the parts that want to make your legs give up and curl in on yourself. Even in real life nothing would exist if the balance between matter and anti-matter wasn't just right, it's a game about how an existence resting on one side of the plate isn't just impossible, but also empty.

#outer wilds #brain dump #But it's just a theory #I may be reading into this to much #I think Solanum would be sad af if she knew it all #While the prisoner kind of happy #Not to talk about softly playing your banjo while the world around you is falling apart

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mylevisdontfitanymore · 7 months

Note

Thinking about your spooky Feederism post but buckyyyyyyy

Hear me out Bucky’s daily nighttime fall attire is just some cute pumpkin pj pants that are pretty loose and fall low on his waist (bc he’s a slut) but I imagine he’s pretty toned not super muscular but not not muscular yk anyways he does his nightime routine shower pjs watch tv scroll on his phone and it happens by some freak coincidence he eats a pumpkin (or sweet potato) pie at 3 am on the first day of fall anyways from the midnight snacking at the witching hour triggers the seasonal expansion starting slowly when the moon waxing as just him feeling a tiny bit more hungry then it gets worse (better) I’m sure you can expand (get it ) on that idea 😮‍💨😮‍💨😮‍💨😮‍💨😮‍💨😮‍💨

Spooky belly kink

Okay okay okay okay this put an idea in my horny brain. SO. IMAGINE:

Buckle in fuckers, this got out of control. It's long. Warnings for unbeta'd stucky belly kink (Bucky centered, though), magical weight gain, magic, rapid weight gain, stuffing, immobility, etc.

It's early in October, so very early that it's still hot outside. Unfortunately. Seriously, like, Bucky just would like to sleep in his cozy and perfectly hideous Halloween themed pajamas and sip on a hot pumpkin spiced drink, but he can't. It's too damn hot. He will end up a festive puddle if he does.

So, his fuzzy, orange pj pants have gone from comfortably resting around his waist to sitting low on his hips for some ventilation, to... dammit, fine, as he's lounging around the house one early fall evening, waiting for it to cool down so he can sleep, Bucky pulls his fussy, festive pajama pants fully off. Leaving him just in an oversized pumpkin t-shirt and his underwear.

But it's still too fucking hot. He's still sweating. Fuck. This. This is not how fall is supposed to be!

Bucky grumbles and pads into the kitchen of his apartment so he can open the little window over his sink. He unlocks, opens, and then turns his back to it, blatantly ignoring the footsteps he can hear in the alley outside in favor of starting to return to his couch where he can lie (mostly) comfortably and grumble to himself about the heat. The footsteps are fine. People walk out there all the time. Whatever. He's fine, other than maybe melting to death.

As a result of the alley being relatively busy usually and Bucky's back being turned, Bucky doesn't notice the curling, semi-transparent tendril of purple, sparkling magic that reaches in through his now open window. It shivers and curls to the best of an ominous whistle. A whistle coming from someone's mouth outside - whoever is making those footsteps.

With his back turned, he doesn't notice its immediate lightning-like strike against his back, the tendrils wrapping around his sides and over his belly even as he continues to put distance between himself and the window.

By the time Bucky is flopping back down onto the couch, the unseen, unheard lightning is gone. It's absorbed into his lean, muscular frame. His back and sides and belly. His belly-

Now prone, Bucky scratches his tummy through his shirt, feeling a bit of an itch. It's nothing, though. Just the fabric of his shirt pulling against his body hair, probably. Whatever.

Whatever.

It's too fucking hot. It'd ruining his fall. That's all Bucky can think about.

Bucky intermittently complains to himself and scrolls on his phone until it's really time to get to bed. Just in his t-shirt and in his boxers with a light blanket over him, Bucky falls into an easy, blissful sleep, only waking up when...

At about 3 AM, according to the blinding light of his phone (when he takes it off the charger to check, rookie mistake), his belly is rumbling. Loud. Bucky rubs the sleep out of his eyes, frowning before he's even really awake.

God!

He feels hollow!

The moment he's done with his eyes, he blinks and glares down through the darkness at his gut. He had dinner! And he snacked before bed while melting his brain into goo on social media. Why is he so hungry?

So. Hungry.

Bucky just wants to go back to sleep. He tries to have a drink from his bedside water bottle - maybe he's just dehydrated? He rolls over to lay on his stomach. He...

Nope.

He's starving.

It feels like his stomach is trying to gnaw on his spine.

So, with a sigh, he has to push himself out of bed and wander through the darkness of his apartment, one hand on the wall and the other outstretched before him so as to not walk into anything, before eventually reaching the kitchen.

What can he have to settle his stomach before he goes back to sleep? Cereal? Nah. He's not in the mood. He's fresh out of granola bars, so not that either. He polished off the last few slices of leftover pizza for dinner. Maybe-?

Bucky opens the fridge, standing in the illuminated pool, feeling the chill wash over him, staring at the slim pickings aaaand -

Huh?

How-?

When did that get there?

Bucky is shameless with buying himself little treats to get through life, in general, but... he likes to think he would remember if he bought himself an entire fucking pumpkin pie and a canister of whipped cream to go with it. Before he can really investigate, Bucky's tummy growls again. A slice of pumpkin pie does sound really good right now. His mouth is flooded with saliva. With a glass of milk. Fuck. That would hit the spot.

Bucky doesn't really think about the fact that he ran out of milk two days ago and hasn't had time to go to the store yet. He feels dazed. Maybe this is a dream? Maybe he did fall asleep again after chugging water, satisfied enough to sleep but not satisfied enough to really fight the hunger off, so it's seeping into his dreams?

If it is a dream, what's the point of getting a plate and a cup? What's the point in real life anyway? He lives alone! Bucky's belly grumbles once more, this time in agreement with his sluggish thoughts. Suddenly, he can't wait. He can't even spare enough time to get himself a fork. It's just him. Just him and his belly and his dream.

Fuck it.

He digs in. Lifting the whole pie out of the tin and nibbling at the crust. It's mild and sweet. Mmm. He takes a deeper bite. The explosion of flavor takes over his tongue. That's it. Yeah. His eyes slide shut. The creamy pumpkin and dancing spices; the sweetness; the crumbly, delicious crust. Bucky takes bite after bite after bite, barely taking the time to swallow. He wants to fill his entire mouth with the taste and texture of the pie. He stuffs his face until his cheeks puff out like chipmunks.

Bucky swallows a few times to get all of the pie he's eaten down, feeling the chilly, smooth pie slide down his throat and drop into his empty belly. The pie tastes good in his mouth, but it feels even better. He already feels sleepier. He can feel his heartbeat slowing down in his chest. His breathing, too. His eyes are shut, but nevertheless, his eyelids feel heavier.

His belly feels heavier.

Apparently, while he was reveling in the pleasure of this mysterious pie, his body continued to eat. Stuffing his face.

Stuffing. his. face.

Bucky has both hands on the pie and so he can't reach down to explore his tummy. He doesn't even think to do that, though. He's dazed. He's in the process of eating. Eating messily with his hands. There is nothing else. Nothing but eating. He is biting and chewing and swallowing, and his belly is slowly but surely going from painfully empty to heavy. Full. He feels round. He can't touch himself, but he feels bloated. It's meditative.

Stuffing.

The entire pumpkin pie goes down so easily, so smoothly that Bucky doesn't really register that he's just put away an entire pie. He's living in the timeless, foggy, and nonsensical reality of what must be a dream. It's not his fault that he doesn't realize he's run out of food to shove into his hungry mouth until he finds no more filling or crust and instead just his dirty fingers.

Rather than panic over how much he's thoughtlessly consumed or be astonished about his sudden massive stomach capacity, Bucky simply licks his fingers clean with a satisfied, weighty sigh. His left hand, then his right. Then, Bucky licks his lips, too. He blinks slowly. He feels good.

He licks his lips again, savoring the taste of the pie. Moaning over the fact that he doesn't have anymore. Oh, wait-!

Bucky's eyes flick open urgently, his mouth makes a click sound, dry. Mindlessly, he sets the empty pie tin back onto the fridge shelf he found it on. He has whipped cream still! He has a gallon of milk still!

The little logical voice peaking through his dreamy haze and rich satisfaction clouding his midnight reality tells him he can have a taste, just a dollop. The amount that would be put onto a single slice of pie. Reasonable. Not too greedy.

But...

Then Bucky's swollen belly gurgles. It has other plans for him. So, even though Bucky's head tells him he's just going to have a little, his suddenly gluttonous belly overrides it. Big time.

The aerosolized sound of the whipped cream coming from the canister is hypnotizing from the moment he tips his head back, puts the nozzle into his mouth, and presses down, releasing the sweet, silky sugar and cream to the moment the canister squeals. Empty.

Bucky swallows.

Did he swallow at all when he was emptying the whipped cream into his mouth? Did it all pour directly into his gut?

Bucky sets the empty can next to the empty pie tin. The idea of investigating his throbbing, tight, overpacked belly enters his peripherals but... he gets distracted.

Bucky chugs an entire gallon of milk, moaning through it, feeling it flow right into his tummy and slosh around. The crust of the pie absorbs it, expanding. His belly gurgles and grumbles. Bubbles. Bloating. Oh.

Oh.

The whipped cream went in heavy and sweet, and the milk adds to it. It's not as sweet, but it is heavy.

Bucky knows without looking at the label that this is full fat milk. He never buys full fat milk anymore! He must've picked it up by mistake! Oh, well.

He's not going to return it.

He couldn't.

He's done with the gallon.

Oh.

Bucky burps, he hiccups - he sloshes.

Fuck.

The milk container isn't in his hands anymore. He's free to slap his hands down onto his struggling belly. Feeling the way it sloshes and swirls and vibrates with a few more hiccups.

The tightness of his belly is exhilarating. He feels like a drum. The weight of his belly is comforting, familiar but also new. Instinctually, he knows he's safe. Yet, he's never been so thoroughly gorged before. The heat coming from his taut, heavy gut is like his own personal heater soothing him into sleep. And the sounds coming from his globe-like tummy are like a white noise machine. Bucky is practically falling asleep on his feet. He can't open his eyes. He can't move.

He can't move.

"Oooh," Bucky moans, staggering back one step, then two. His hands are flat on his gut, rubbing, rubbing, rubbing away. His entire center of gravity has been thrown off with an entire pie, can of whipped cream, and gallon of milk.

He stands in place, wobbling. Waddling.

Bucky waddles back to bed, arms around his belly to try and keep the burps and hiccups and moans in. He doesn't want to be jostled too much. He might pop. He hardly remembers how he got back into bed, let alone if he closed the door to the fridge. It doesn't matter, though.

The moment Bucky is on his bed, he's out like a light. On his back, weighed down, hot and tight and good, and snoring softly. His hands never leave his belly. He's stuffed it, he's grown it, he's--

And as he's drifting off, he's wishing it was like this all the time. Not just in his dreams. Full. Taut. Swollen. Big.

The next time Bucky drifts into consciousness, it's much later. It's still ungodly early, but... later. There's a light from the full moon drifting into his room. It's not light enough to really wake him up, but enough that he realizes he's...

Heavier.

Bucky realizes, half-awake, that it's harder to breathe now than it was when he was last conscious. Huh? Why? Does he have an oncoming cold? Is he congested? He sniffs. No. So, what?

Bucky attempts to roll over. He doesn't make it, though. Instead, he just groans.

Yeah.

He's, uh, he's -

Heavier. Definitely heavier.

Rounder.

In the limited moonlight, Bucky can juuust make out the way his shirt has filled out with, with a solid, thick belly that's ungodly round.

A faint tickling of, oh, that's right, appears at the very back of his mind, but mostly Bucky is bewildered and awed. The pumpkin face on his shirt is illumated by the light of the full moon, and it's stretched and warped by his body. His belly.

His belly looks like a pumpkin. It would look like a pumpkin even without his festive shirt. It's that large. Heavy. And tight.

Holy shit.

How? What? When?

Bucky lies there, panting, sweating, feeling swollen and sleepy, with his hands on his gut, contemplating his existence for a while longer. What the fuck happened to me? Where did this gut come from?

He's on the cusp of the thought of did I have a midnight snack? And the following, was that dream(?) real? When -

Oh.

"Ohhhh," Bucky moans around his panting breathes, scrambling to lift himself higher on the bed and finding himself unable to do anything. He's too heavy. He's -

Is he growing?

It is harder to breathe.

Yeah.

He's, he's growing.

The face of the pumpkin is stretching, stretching, streeeetching. In the silence of the night, beyond his heavy breaths, the only sound is the complaints of his shirt fabric and the seams.

Under his hands, he's heavier and harder. Oof. He even feels fuller, the larger he grows. Bucky pokes his fingers into his gut, and out comes a deep, brassy belch despite the fact that his fingers don't sink into his belly at all. He's so fucking bloated. It's like he's shoved a basketball up under his shirt. Hard as, as a pumpkin!

And he's as roooooound as a pumpkin, too!

He watches the growth, the swelling, the bulging of his middle as he pants harder and harder. It's... it's... again, he slips into a hypnotic headspace without his knowing. The visual makes him feel sleepy. Hot. Heavy. Weighed down and comfortable. His eyelids droop. And, in no time, with his pumpkin tummy expanding out from his body, over top of him, Bucky is lulled to sleep. A soft, sleepy smile on his face.

Yet, his sleep is no longer dreamless. It's still blissful, but it's colored by visions of being a pumpkin. A huge pumpkin. Prize winning. The kind you see at a county fair being lifted by tractors from the beds of trucks to industrial scales. He's not on a scale in his dream, though. Which is good - he might break it! Instead, he's growing in a pumpkin patch, tethered to the ground by thick, feeding vines, but really, he's stuck in place by the massive weight of his pumpkin belly on top of him. Pinning him. Legs splayed out. Arms splayed out. Tummy growing and growing and growing. Rapidly. Impossibly. Crushing him.

Outside of his dreams, lying back and unconsciously in his bed, Bucky rubs and rubs his gut, obsessed with the taut, hard, spherical surface. He's practically vibrating with warmth. He is still smiling. He's snoring softly under the heft of his gut. His cock has worked itself to throbbing hardness in his underwear but even his physical arousal can't overpower the bliss of his dreams.

He can't shake himself out of the dream -

Growing. Swelling. Widening. Fattening.

Late the next morning, Bucky wakes up disappointingly thin and flat-bellied. He frowns down at himself. The only evidence left of his dreams is the sweat covering his body and the wet spot in his boxers. His shirt... he, his, his shirt might be a little looser than it was yesterday. Stretched. But. He must be misremembering. Also, his tummy, it must be his imagination, but it feels... tender.

As it turns out, Bucky isn't going to have a dreamless night in all of October. Not after that first night, his unconscious mind full of greed and gluttony. Stuffing. Stuffing. Stuffing. Growing. Growing. Growing. Heavier. Heavier. Heavier.

His dreams have him gorge himself, an unending tide of food and lust that can't be satisfied until he physically can no longer reach whatever food has appeared to him in his dream. Or, his dreams are full of nothing but unending growth until he drifts back into consciousness from his sunny, pleasant dish in the cool earth of the pumpkin patch. Rising above the rest of the pumpkins. He's big. He's huge. He's giant. He's impossibly massive. Much more pumpkin belly than man.

His starting size in his dreams climbs throughout the month until when he shuts his eyes, he's so huge that he can hardly move. Crushed by the fantastic, humongous blimp of his belly. He can not describe the way it feels to begin so large and only swell more.

More.

He didn't know their could be more! Bucky moans to himself, thinking about it. More. It's such a good word. How did he never know before? More.

How big could he possibly get?! Bucky craves to know so badly. He starts stealing naps in the middle of the afternoon. He starts hitting snooze more often. He puts candy bars that he's been trying to save for tricker-or-treaters on his nightstand to open and stuff into his waiting, salivating mouth the moment he's unfortunately pulled from his dreams. Big, big, bigger.

Yes.

Bucky won't complain about the shift of his dreams; not the content or the frequency; he can't complain! Especially not when on the Halloween night, with the moon perhaps the fullest he's ever seen it, round and fat and bright, his dreams take him to the fridge again.

He hasn't been back to the fridge since the first night.

Bucky licks his lips, and he rubs his chubby hands together even though it makes him giggle, it's such a cheesy gesture. But. He can't wait to tear into whatever is in his fridge. All of it. He's going to eat all of it. He fantasizes about destroying everything in there and in the pantry and cabinets and everything he has to eat. Every little morsel possible. It's all going down his throat and dropping into his fat, fat belly.

His firm, heavy enough to leave him sweating and gasping, heart thudding, waddle-inducing belly growls. Despite the overfed size of him, he feels starved.

With a jerk, Bucky opens the fridge and groans. He's brought to his knees. All that delicious food. Take-out containers galore. Each heavy and sticky - the sign of good, really good food. There's an entire three pizza boxes in there, too! Each box is full of with a complete, delectable pie. A gallon on chocolate milk. Full fat chocolate milk. Eggnog, too. Unseasonal, but... Bucky doesn't fucking care. It's going to be so thick and rich and good. He'll chug it straight after the milk. Further inspection reveals that in one of the drawers, there's an untouched pumpkin pie. Fuck, yeah. Fuck, yeah! Underneath the pie, there's a container stacked full, so full it almost can't shut, of fudgy brownies. Bucky finds cookies, too. The take-out includes Chinese food and Thai and Italian and -

"God," Bucky moans happily, stroking the parts of his heavy, gravity-defying gut that he can still reach. He hopes he won't be able to reach hardly any of it soon. All this food.

He's going to expand.

He's going to get so fucking fat.

Bucky empties the fridge. Then -

THEN

T H E N because Bucky is a true glutton now, by the end of his month of training, he goes on. He eats more. He finds the cabinets and the top of the fridge equally, fully stocked. The dream melts further from reality at that point, and lightning bolts, friendly, helpful lightning bolds of sparkling, neon purple begin to tangle around packages and bags and dump the contents into Bucky's mouth. All he has to do is stand there, which is a good thing because even the dream can't rescue him from the weight of all his gluttony. This feast has made him fatter than fat. He's engorged. He is massive. So fucking round. His knees shake. He moans and shivers around the candy bars being ripped open by sparkly purple magic to be shoved down his throat. Sticky. Sweet. He's eating them whole. With each bar, he feels the fat on his frame grow. Thicker. Rounder. Heavier. Abruptly, Bucky crashes back onto his monsterous, dimpled ass.

And he wakes up on the kitchen floor. Bathed in moonlight. There is no food in sight, although there is -

There's

All around him, littered are the remains of his feast. Wrappers. Crumbs. Empty containers.

It was real.

But

How?!

Bucky palms his flat, tender belly with a moan. He lets his head drop against the floor rather than craning down to stare at his disappointment of a belly. He wants it to be real so bad. That fat, hard, tight gut. His mouth waters and his appetite roars. Please.

Please!

His cries are heard.

It must be a dream! Right?! That's a thing? Isn't it? Waking up into another dream?

It must be a dream because it hits him all at once. The growth happens as footsteps start to echo through the alley outside Bucky's apartment building.

Step. Step. Step.

Bucky is trying to get himself back to bed to sleep off this weirdness (and maybe have time for another gluttonous dream before he has to go about his day), getting onto his elbows to stand up when BWOOOPH.

Bucky swells.

Sudden.

Hoooly shit.

Heavy and round and hard as the fattest pumpkin in the whole patch.

Bucky is knocked entirely onto his back with a heavy crash. The wooden floorboards creak under his massive frame. Ballooning. He's ballooning. He hasn't stopped yet. Bucky moans ungodly loudly. It's real. It's real! This is everything he wanted! The sensations. The heat. The pleasure. Christ. He wants to be a pumpkin forever.

He's awake! He has to be! It's never felt like this before. It's so real! Every detail is clear and fucking hot as shit. He can't reach his other arm to pinch himself, so he pinches the thick, firm fat of his expanding gut. He pinches as it grows. Bigger. Bigger. He whines with how hard he pinches his blubber. It hurts! He doesn't wake up!

It's real!

And it feels so fucking gooooood.

He's a fucking pumpkin. Ripe. Overripe. He's a whale. Blubbery. Too heavy to swim. He can't move. He's just -

Oh, fuck.

He moans out all the limited air he has in his lungs. Loud. Outrageously turned on. Pulsing and throbbing tightly, hotly. His cock but really his belly. It's pulsing, it's gurgling, moving, sloshing like he really did consume all of that fucking food and all those gallons of thick, fattening milk and Eggnog and juice and his poor tummy has no idea what to do with all the rich calories.

Laughter floats in from the alley outside. It's followed by a voice, deep but sweet, too, "I can make that happen, darling."

Bucky has no time to ask what? What will you make happen? He has no time to even think about thinking. The seductive tone of the voice feels like fingertips against his most sensitive flesh. All of him is sensitive now, plumped. Fattened. Ripened. He would shiver if he could move. If he wasn't so fat that he's immobile. He loves it.

Following the voice, eyes, blue eyes, appear outside his kitchen window.

Bucky should be afraid, but he's not. He's -

He's intrigued.

He's the child lured into the witch's house and fattened for eating. Too stupid and gluttonous to dream of putting up a fight.

"I can make you my fat pumpkin all year around, not just as a Halloween treat," the velvet voice purrs. A hand appears next to the stranger's attractive face. His fingers flick and -

Purple, shimmering magic bolts from his fingers to somehow cradle all, all of Bucky's heavy, massive body.

BWOOOPH

Bucky bloats, packing on at least another hundred pounds.

"Oh!" Bucky moans, fingers scrambling over his rolls, trying to touch himself. He wants to touch himself so badly! Frantically, he nods his head, feeling his chin double and triple, "pl-please! Please! I wanna be-" he groans. "I wanna be your pumpkin!"

"Good," the attractive witch purrs.

"Grow me! Please!" Bucky cries.

The witch does as he pleads, humoring him. "What do you wish to eat, my pumpkin?" he asks as he slithers in through the open window. Standing before him, his cold, electric-sparking hands against his sensitive, taut skin and the underlying blubber.

"Anything!" Bucky whines. "Anything! I just wanna, I wanna be bigger!"

"Ohh, what a greedy pumpkin I have." He slaps his gut, laughing. Bucky ripples like thick jello. Holy shit. His toes curl. "I can't wait to make you bigger." His fingers and sharp nails dig into his tight flesh. "You, pumpkin, can call me Steve."

"Steve," Bucky moans immediately, "g-grow me."

#ask #mylevisdontfitanymore #belly kink #text #stuffing #weight gain #rapid weight gain #magical weight gain #bucky barnes #steve rogers #chubby bucky #stucky #witch steve #human bucky #fat bucky #immobility #tight clothes #magic #plant transformation

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struggling-intuit · 8 months

Text

at their most perverted

nct 127 || DARK 18+ blurbs + drabbles

vibe || focus x sticker - the third album

warnings || DON'T YOU HAVE SOMEWHERE ELSE TO BE, MINORS?; femme!reader, perv behavior, masturbation, panties panties panties, peeping tom, light stalking, reader is oblivious, non-con touching, cunnilingus, somnophilia, singular mention of a diet, secret photos, 127 is beyond pervy but just cuz it's you

mark || jacking off in your room

or outside your door while you sleep, whatever makes the most sense in the moment. and if it did happen in your room well, that's your fault, you should know better than to leave him all alone. for that long

he thinks he hears you coming and is rushing to stuff it back in his pants. can't have you knowing about his little hobby, you know? you don't

false alarm though, he can continue uninterrupted

smol baby is a bit too shy to grab a pair of your panties. he already feels guilty just being in the room with all those nasty thoughts, so he'll fantasize about cotton and lace and the perfume you were wearing today while thrusting into his own fist against the bed

shit, the sheets

taeyong || peeking up your skirt

not a bad bone in this man's body

eyes don't have bones in them, do they? okay, just making sure

tae doesn't mean to look when you bend over, walk up stairs, sit criss-cross-applesauce on the floor. he's craning his neck out of concern, you see. what if you were exposed? some guys will stop at nothing to get a glimpse of... so it's the strawberry pair today?

you really should wear longer skirts

johnny || talking nasty

out of all the boys, johnny's probably the most guilty of gossiping

what can he say? the man isn't afraid of what he wants, and he's certainly not afraid of talking about the ways he wants it. in detail

and i'm not talking positions. where, when, why, how, what you'll sound like beneath him, the whole fanfiction is on the table

he's mostly this graphic to make mark uncomfortable (or maybe mark just gets uncomfortable on his own) but if he's being honest, you awake something feral in him

and imagine her on that table, nothing but her panties

taeil || peeping tom

similar to taeyong he's watching you in ways that he shouldn't, but his sessions of perversion last much longer than a glance or two

taeil is the type you should expect peeking through a crack in the door. the little gaps between your blinds have never failed him, and he's always waiting for a show

he likes seeing you fresh from your shower, standing around in the nude while you ponder over the recurring jeans vs sweatpants debate. he'll add his two cents: sweatpants today babe, it's cold out

but what he likes even more, maybe even loves, is how adorable you look strumming at your clit, the hand over your mouth barely muffling the tiny gasps and moans

are you thinking about him right now?

haechan || hugging on you nonstop

it was cute at first but now he needs to take a hint

haechan is always right on top of you whenever you're in the same room and texting constantly when you're not

he must've never learned no as a child

it's not like he's even asked you out, he's just always there, holding you tight, pressing himself deeper into your breasts. though you still haven't caught onto that. you're so innocent, expecting any kind of virtue from him

and when he comes bounding to you like a puppy, a leech prepared to suck onto its newest host, you never put up a fight. he attaches himself to your arm like it's an extension of himself

you're his, didn't you know?

jaehyun || going down on you while you sleep

he's such a gentleman with it, even when he's absolutely violating your boundaries. jae just wants you to enjoy every moment with him, even the ones you aren't conscious for

you could be three years married to him and he's still between your legs at three in the morning, witching hour

you better watch out, he's brainwashing you with that sweet tongue

another decade goes by and you just continue waking up satisfied everyday, skin glowing, mind sunny...

that diet he told you not to go on is really working, isn't it?

jungwoo || taking dirty pictures

jungwoo may just be your best friend in the whole group. he's so easy to talk to, and even if he can be a bit awkward sometimes, he's nowhere near as weird around you as the rest of them

he's always wanting to go out too, takes you to all the places in and out of seoul with pinterest-worthy scenery and snaps you from a million angles with the little digital camera he's started carrying everywhere

a new hobby, he tells you, and he isn't wrong. he's using all those expensive trips and rental houses and fancy hotel suites to capture you in ways you can't even imagine

the for-your-eyes-only pink lace babydoll you packed for the yacht trip last summer has been seen by more than just your eyes

lock the door next time, won't you?

doyoung || buying dirty pictures

doie doesn't even talk to you much. he's shy

he has to rely on jungwoo's rapport with you for even the tiniest piece of your beauty

the piece in question? those goddamn pictures

jungwoo didn't even offer to sell them, doyoung just caught him once and maybe kinda blackmailed him into a prosperous business relationship

baby woo gets to keep your friendship and doie gets to keep the pictures. or a high quality copy, at least

night falls and he's pulling them out of their secret hiding place (not telling), studying them over and over. won't even touch himself, you're much too precious to stain with degenerate cum

as if he would jack off and risk ruining his beloved keepsake

yuta || whispering naughty nothings

yuta is so distracting

you'll be minding your own business, getting your work done as usual, and he'll come up behind you

"you're so cute today" right against your ear

it's not necessarily what he's saying that's naughty, but the way he does it? the tone of voice, the half-lidded gaze, the way his fingers ghost across your lower stomach as he pulls away... yeah, he's dangerous

not to mention you're on the job

and he keeps telling you how pretty you look, how good you smell, how tempting you are. comments that would make you blush on their own, but yuta makes a couple words

much

read more nct headcanons here

and check out the main masterlist here

imagine this yuta and you're his manager or stylist oh my god. anyway, asks are open babes :)

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i-literally-cant-with-this · 6 months

Text

MORE Reiner. This might not be a phase.

CW ::: Somno-adjacent, light fingering, unprotected sex, P->V, cum spillage on a perfectly clean lap.

Once Upon A DCream

Imagine sitting at home one day, you're watching a movie and it's cold and rainy and stormy outside. You're half asleep on the couch and there's a loud, desperate knock on your door. It's your boyfriend, Reiner, soaked to the bone and looks so fucking sexy with rain dripping from his short hair onto his beautiful face. He's shivering because he'd run through this storm to come see you because he promised to stop by today. But he's a mess because his car broke down and he forgot his cell at home. Your place was closer than his so he decided to make a run for it.

You pull him inside and start to take his cold, wet clothes off. And he doesn't argue because he's freezing his ass off and just wants to be dry. You've got him stripped down to nothing and you lead him to the bathroom and start a hot shower for him to warm his skin. He lets you help him in and you head to the bedroom to grab him a pair of gray sweats and a long-sleeve dark green t-shirt to sit on the bathroom counter for when he's ready to get dressed.

Throwing some more wood on the fire, you hear the water turn off. He comes out, drying his hair with his towel that you always leave hanging for him.

He waits for you to finish stoking the fire and nods approvingly at how nicely you get the fire going again. You stand and turn to face him and he wraps his arms around you. Pulling you in close to his now warm body. You feel his chest muscles move and twitch as his arms change positions on you.

His right arm is around your neck, his hand at the base of your skull, guiding you in for a kiss. His left hand pulls your hips into his.

There is nothing left to the imagination (not that you needed it because you have memorized how fucking perfect his cock is - it just makes the visualization that much better).

He backs the two of you over to the couch and he pulls you down onto his lap and just cradles you in his grasp.

You both sit there for a while. Then he notices your breathing has changed. It's slowed to a much calmer state. He takes full advantage of this and pulls thick and cozy oversized sweater up and over your thighs until he can see your panties.

He slowly runs his fingers over your clothed cunt. Smiling to himself how you twitch and make little noises. Even in your sleep, his touch still affects you so.

Repositioning your body on his so you're straddling him, he slides your thin panties to the side and dips a couple of fingers in to see how wet he's gotten you.

Wet enough and by the taste of you, you're fairly aroused.

He pulls his painfully hard cock from the sweats you so kindly got for him and he drags the head though your wet heat until he's lined up with your entrance and he inches his way in.

Slowly, so he doesn't wake you up. But it's torture. Your pussy is so warm despite being so wet. Almost the complete opposite of the harsh world he left on the other side of your front door.

You stir in his arms and ask if he's ok. He wonders if you feel him stretching you out.

How could you not?

He smiles and brushes your hair from your eyes and tells you to go back to sleep. That he's here and he's not going anywhere. Ever.

Your eyes close and you have the softest fucked out look already on your face. He thinks you're feeling so good from a dream you must be having about him.

He slowly thrusts up into you and he can't help but groan. You feel so good. So tight and wet for him.

He feels you grip him tighter and he knows he's hitting that sweet spot deep inside of you. He gently rubs your clit with his wetted thumb, and you start to moan a little more in your sleep.

You're close and he can feel it. You start to squeeze his cock, and you're dripping all over his lap.

He keeps going, his thrusts are just as paced and focused as when he started to fuck you. You start to move more in his arms, your body chasing the orgasm he's about to give you.

You cum with a shudder, and he feels you pulse around him.

He comes almost instantly after you, his warm load filling you up and seeping out a little under your ass and onto his lap.

He holds you like that. Not wanting to move from this moment.

Reiner will sit there, as he is, sticky and covered in your cum and his, and let you finish whatever dream you may be having.

What he doesn't know is you were awake.

There's no dream that's better than a reality with him.

Taglist ::: @darkstarlight82 @callm3senpaii @reinerswarrior

Dividers? I'm an asshole and can't remember where I got them. Don't be like me.

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puffpasstea · 2 years

Note

omg yayyy that angsty sick matilda blurb sounds amazing!!! i can't wait <3

So, this took a COMPLETE TURN!!! It's also wayyyy too long to be a blurb, but I really hope you still like it. 🥺🥺🥺 Please let me know what you think! Warnings: dom!harry, fluff, mentions of smut.

-----

I knew when I’d gone to bed feeling achy all over and drained of energy after doing the bare minimum that I’d wake up feeling sick this morning, but the reality of how I felt still exceeded my expectations. I dragged my feet across the floor to the medicine cabinet and pulled out a thermometer to check for a fever. Luckily, there it was within normal range. I was probably just dehydrated and sleep deprived. In fairness, I’ve never had the best immune system anyway, as a child, I got the sniffles pretty much twice a month. My grandmother and her friends always speculated that it’s because I never got enough bonding time with my parents as an infant. Some people informally diagnosed me with a deficient immune system, stemming from some kind of imbalance or other. When I’m not in denial about how I treat myself, I tend to think it’s because I run myself into the ground on a regular basis and overall suck at looking after myself.

I would never confess or try to explain the thought process to anybody because I know just how insane it sounds when said out loud, but I often feel that I don’t deserve to rest. And, even if I did, it wouldn’t matter either way. Because, unlike the average person, I had no real personal life, or a family who depended on me. All I had was work. It’s my one real responsibility; the one thing I’m decent at; the one thing I actually enjoy. So, I didn’t need to take breaks, and if I end up falling ill, it wouldn’t matter anyway. The only person who’d end up being affected would be me. Comforted by my dubious logic, and the fact that I had no fever to speak of, I decided I’d power through and go into work. I was going to spend my time in the microfilm room, alone, for most of the day. Maybe, if I get everything done early, I could get a nap in before dropping by the film set.

I stuffed my work bag full of tea bags, Emergen-C, and cough drops, just to be prepared for the worst and got out the door. Thanks to the regular covid testing policy on campus, at least I knew I wasn’t carrying a deadly disease. That was a silver lining.

The first couple of hours of work went by fine, it was when I began to feel weak and queasy that the trouble started. I probably needed to eat something to get my energy up, but I had positively no appetite or desire to eat. The very thought of food made me nauseous. I had some generic meds in my desk drawer that I could take, but those probably shouldn’t be taken on an empty stomach.The irony of the dilemma frustrated me. I feel too sick to eat, so I need to take some meds, but I can’t take any meds before I’ve had something to eat first. The adult thing to do here would probably be to seek medical help. So, I tried to imagine what a doctor or nurse might say to me. “Get some rest and drink some fluids.” Which would mean skipping out on work; the only thing that gave me purpose. Nope. Finally, I made the decision to put a couple of spoonfuls of sugar and a squeeze of lemon into my hot tea, to see if that would help. On the plus side, working with microfilm required very dim light and precise temperature control which probably mitigated the headache some. If there ever was a day to be sick on the job, today was it.

Around lunchtime, I felt my phone buzz in my pocket. Out of an abundance of caution, and a superstitious kind of respect for these materials that hardly anyone ever requested anymore, I decided to take the call outside. Cracking open the door and stepping into the hallway proved disorienting. But I told myself I was just dizzy because my eyes needed to adjust to the light. Caller ID on my screen showed that it was Harry, causing an almost reflexive smile to appear on my face.

I swallowed, picking up the call.

“Hello?”

“Hey, sweets. Am I interrupting anything?”

“No, never. What’s up?”

I heard him chuckle nervously on the other end of the line. Though he seemed uncertain, the sound of his laugh always made my heart skip a beat. Not that I’d ever tell him that.

“C’mon, out with it, Styles. What’s going on?”

“Uhh, well, this is gonna make me sound like a horny shithead, but, I’m free for the next couple of hours, and- last week, when I had this time off, we-”

“Oh, so, this is a booty call?”

All I heard in response was a bunch of incoherent stuttering. One of the reasons that I found Harry’s dominance so compelling was the fact that, meeting him in the context of everyday interactions, you’d never guess that he had it in him to be that cruel or strict. It always caught me off-guard whenever he would flip the switch, and it was always the hottest thing ever.

“Not when you put it like that.”

“Like what?”

“Come over and meet me, and I’ll show ya.”

I weighed the options in my mind. Not that his offer wasn’t tempting, but I hated being around people when I was sick. I’d purposefully come in through a different entrance so I wouldn’t have to run into Fran and let her see me like this. If I declined Harry’s offer, though, he would almost certainly know that something’s off. We always found a way to hook up when the opportunity presented itself. To be sure, he always checked in and made sure I never felt pressured or obligated. Sometimes I’d have to get impatient and yell that I definitely show up because I want to, not because I have to, before he’s fully convinced, but we always, always met up. Even if it meant delaying for a bit, or waiting until later in the day. I mean, sure, the sex was fun and all. It wasn’t just about the sex though. Spending any time at all with Harry meant the world to me. He always made me feel seen and heard, and allowed me to explore sides of myself I never thought existed. He was also, always, unexpectedly wild and funny, and I got to see glimpses of what he’s personally like, that often lingered in my memory long after our interactions had ended, and I would fantasize about spending my life with him and sharing these moments everyday. In other words, even if he weren’t calling me for sex, I’d still want to go. The question is, would I be able to hide my current state from him?

“Hello? Have I lost you? Connection in the trailer’s kinda spotty sometimes…”

“N-no, I’m here, Harry. I can hear you.”

“Oh, well- umm… listen, I didn’t mean to make you feel like an object, I’m so sorry….I came off sleazy for sure…I just thought It’d be nice to-”

“Hey, Harry?”

“Yeah?”

“Come over here an fuck me, will you?”

“On my way.”

***

Harry’s smile slowly dissolved as he got closer and closer to me. I unlocked the old office-turned-storage-room that we often hung out in for privacy, and snuck him in.

“Hey, what’s wrong?”

“Uhh, well, hello to you too?” I deflected. He was already seeing right through me. I loved that Harry knew me so well, could read my body like an open book, knew exactly what I needed when I needed it, and knew exactly how to give it to me. But, times like these made our intimacy feel overwhelming and suffocating.

“No, I mean it.” He cut straight through my attempted bluff. “What’s wrong? Your eyes look glassy, and…well, you seem off.”

I entertained the idea of playing it off like I was offended. “Excuse me? Just go ahead and call me ugly, why don’t you. after you called to-”

“Baby, you know I think you’re beautiful. Always. Don’t act like that isn’t true. We both know it is. Now tell me what’s going on?” He reached over to caress my cheek with the back of his hand. “Shit, you’re burning up….”

I stared into his eyes, unable to speak, and unable to look away. My anxious mind ran over the different possibilities for this conversation. I wasn’t sure which would be worse, having to tell him that I’m sick and him insisting on doing something about it, or having to tell him that I’m sick and him walking away from me.

I don’t know why it felt so inconceivable to admit to him that I was feeling ill. Harry had seen me at my worst pretty early on in our friendship. He’d cleaned my apartment, shaved my body, washed my hair, without batting an eye. Hell, he’d even stuck his dick in my ass, beat me bloody, and spent many nights looking after me in subspace, at my most vulnerable. So why was this so hard? Maybe because I hate asking for help, or maybe it’s because Harry had already done so much for me. I didn’t want him to feel responsible for me. I also didn’t want to appear helpless and needy. And yet, this instance, the only thought I had was how I’d crumble to the ground if he pulled his touch away, let alone left the room.

“I-I swear I wasn’t feverish when I came to work this morning…” I wrapped my arms around the arm that touched my face, to make sure he kept it there.

“You’ve been sick since this morning?”

“Since…last night.” I mumbled.

“So, earlier, when I called and you hesitated…” I could see in his eyes that the realization hit him. “Oh, god. And I didn’t even bother to ask how you were doing before I asked if you’d wanna suck my dick…what kind of- shit. Shit. shit! I’m so, so sorry. I didn’t mean to-”

“Harry, Harry, Stop!” I squeezed his hand to get his attention. “You didn’t ask me to suck your dick. I believe all I heard was incoherent stuttering…”

Harry rolled his eyes, cracking a smile. “Okay, brat. Gonna let that one slide. Only cuz you’re ill though...”

“Seriously, I was the one who asked you to come over. Stop berating yourself please.”

“Alright, well, it’s a good thing I came, isn’t it?” He wrapped his arm around my shoulders. “Let’s get you outta here. C’mon…”

“I’m in the middle of work!”

“Work will survive without you for half a day. All the dead poets will still be dead tomorrow. Let’s go.”

“I can’t-”

“You seem to forget who’s actually in charge here…”

***

On the way home, I fell asleep in the passenger’s seat of Harry’s car, with his hand on my thigh the whole way. When I woke up, blinking the sleep away, and attempting to open my eyes, all I saw was Harry’s gentle smile, inches away from me. “You’re awake..” He’d bent down to cradle me into his arms, and carry me out of the car,

“W-wait, what are you doing? This isn’t even my place!”

“Yeah, it’s mine. Think i'm lettin’ you spend the night alone when you’re this sick? Who’s gonna look after you if your fever doesn’t go down? Hmm?”

“I- Harry, I’m a grown woman. Can take care of myself, you know. I HAVE gotten sick before…”

“Honey, I don’t doubt that you can. But just cuz you can, doesn’t mean you should have to.”

Despite my relentless protests, Harry refused to put me down until we’d reached his bed. He set me square in the middle of the king sized bed and promptly went on to take my shoes off for me. Which I fought him for, and attempted to kick his hands away. A Battle I quickly lost.

“It’s pathetic…” He shook his head with a smile as he undid my shoe laces. “On your very best days, I can tie you up and pin you down with one hand. We’ve done it countless times. Tryin’ to fight me when you’re sick? It’s just sad…”

I blushed at the recollection of my body underneath his, aching for his touch.

He disappeared into one of his gigantic closet and came back moments later. “Heating pad; some clothes…boxers might be a bit loose, but that’s probably more comfortable anyway, and here’s an extra pillow to prop you up. Want the TV on or do you wanna just sleep while I make us some soup?”

“S-soup? Harry, you're supposed to be on set in an hour!”

“Took care of that. Don’t worry.”

“What does that even mean?”

“Chicken noodle or Italian vegetable? I’m thinkin italian…”

***

I stared down at the empty soup bowl in my lap as Harry watched the tv with his arm around me.

“Harry?” my voice was already strained. Tears pooling in the corners of my eyes,

“Hmm?” his eyes still on the screen.

“Can I ask you a question? But please be honest.”

“‘Course, always.” He muted the tv and turned around to face me, giving mr his undivided attention.

“What happens on a film set when a leading actor suddenly disappears in the middle of a work day?”

“Oh…” He turned his attention back to the TV, apparently deeming my concern unserious. “Depends on the circumstances…”

“Let’s say he disappeared cuz he skipped out on work to go make Italian vegetable soup for the woman he’s sleeping with.”

Harry looked visibly irritated. With a loud huff, he ran his fingers through his hair, pressing his lips together tightly…

“First of all, I’ve already told you to quit worrying, I have everything under control. Second, you’re not just some ‘woman I’m sleeping with,’ alright? Get it through your thick head, I’m in love with you! I know you’re too fucked up to accept that as fact, and I get that. I don’t blame you. I mean, you couldn’t even tell me you were sick! Think I don’t know why that is? I may not experience the things that you do, but I’m not an idiot…” He took a pause to catch his breath and to gain control over his tone. “You’ve got it in your head that you don’t deserve love. Any time I try to show you any decency or step closer, you bolt right away under the assumption that caring about you is this huge fuckin burdon to me. Well, it’s not. I’m not gonna argue with you about it. I know I can’t just convince you of it in one conversation….but I’ll be damned if I don’t spend the rest of my life trying to show you what it means to love you.”

Hot, stinging tears ran freely down my face. “You- love me?”

“Mhmm.” Harry nodded and reached for the remote, unmuting the TV as if he’d just taken a quick bathroom break, or something.

I laid my head on his shoulder and continued to silently cry as he kept his focus on the film. Neither one of us said a word for several minutes.

“Told them I had covid symptoms, by the way…’don’t wanna put anyone in danger before I’m sure..’ you know…”

“What?” I pulled my head off his shoulder to look him in the eye. He burst out laughing. “I’ll conveniently test negative tomorrow and go back to work.”

#dom!harry #matilda #harry styles #harry styles fluff #harry styles smut #harry styles fanfiction #dom!harry styles #harry's house #harry styles blurb

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memestockpile · 2 months

Text

ivan's childhood (1962) feel free to change as needed.

they've detained someone.

light the lamp.

go stand by the stove.

wait outside. i'll call you.

come on, strip and wash yourself. if you need any help, call for me.

don’t be bashful.

are you gonna speak, kid?

what’s that on your back?

none of your business.

don't raise your voice at me.

i've never heard of you.

you'll stay here til you tell me who you are and where you're from. got that?

i don't have to prove anything!

are you kidding me? are you sober?

i was told to lock you up.

go on. i won't look.

enough of your talk.

it's daytime for you and me, but it's nighttime for the star.

you needn't get so worked up over the smallest thing.

i'm going down to the river to see what's going on.

go to sleep. i'll wake you up when they're here.

did i talk in my sleep?

my nerves are on edge. i've become jittery.

you mean you swam all the way across?

you're nothing but skin and bones, my boy.

here, put this on.

yes, i've heard all this before.

i have reliable firsthand information.

waited all night for nothing, eh, [name]?

so that's how you work, by tricking me?

the matter is closed. i'll discuss it no further.

i'll do a good job. i'll work hard.

yesterday in the mail, i received two mysterious letters.

are you going far? everybody is nowadays.

you think i have nothing better to do than chasing after you?

watch your mouth.

get in the car. you won't run away again.

can't you understand, silly? this isn't a place for you.

besides, i'm all alone. i have no one.

are you my father, that you can decide for me?

shut up! or i'll give you a good whipping.

i'm my own boss.

you're a pain in my neck.

the linen isn't disinfected properly.

i honestly don't know what to do with you.

you're beautiful and stubborn.

you look angry even in your sleep.

twenty minutes by train.

why are we being so formal?

you said you weren't afraid of anything.

jump. i'll catch you.

i don't need your forgiveness.

damn! couldn't you have dug it deeper?

you don't lie too well.

here's to our meeting!

you're too stern, [name]. you need a little tenderness inside.

i've looked everywhere. now i've found you.

it's just a painting. just someone's imagination.

i did nothing but read for three days.

you're not trigger-happy, are you?

temper, temper, temper.

what a knife!

i'll get you one just like it tomorrow.

don't waste your breath explaining. they can't see beyond their own noses.

watch out, troublemaker, or i'll report you.

keep cool. that's the main thing.

just thank god you're alive.

you've done your fighting. rest up now.

i don't want you to smoke.

stop staring at me like i'm a stuck pig. i'm serious.

he loves you very much.

jump up and down, check if anything rattles.

i'm sick of everything.

i'll go part of the way with you.

are you a louse or just stupid?

it's the first snow of the year.

who were you talking to on the road?

will this be the last war on earth?

you should see a doctor about that.

come on out, you little devil. we've got a thing or two to teach you.

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luci-in-trenchcoats · 5 months

Note

(I apologize in advance this is a bit lengthy, and will contain spoilers for those who haven’t read part 5 of The Princesses & The Playboy)

So I just read part 5, and I have to say, how you manage to leave me speechless after every chapter is one of the things I love about you and your work (I literally had to sit down and gather my thoughts before sending this lol). I’m always on the edge of my seat wanting to know more! I loved Dean’s talk with Eric and him being able to confide in Dean about his childhood a bit, genuinely Eric is such a good guy and he deserves so much happiness. I’m also very happy to see Y/N’s writing music again, even though what brought on her songwriting was less happy. I really liked Dean and Eric standing up for Y/N against her parents, even when Eric wasn’t supposed to interfere, her parents needed to hear that, hopefully it’s a wake up call for them. I’m glad that Y/N has Dean and Eric though, they are two people in her life who notice her strength but are able to protect her in times where she feels she can’t be that strong, and I’m relieved she wasn’t mad at them for defending her. Also the small mention of Eric going to therapy makes me extremely happy, I hope that he’s able to work everything out in time, not even just everything with Sloane, as much as Sleric is a big ship in my heart, I hope that Eric is also able to work things out outside of everything that went down between them and that he’s able to start moving forward in more aspects than just the relationship between him and Sloane, if that makes sense. Lastly, I cannot begin to express how excited I am to see where everything goes with Sam and Max’s plan, it’s starting to work and now they just have to wait. I’m so nervous for them, and actually on the edge of my seat, despite having a feeling they’ll both make it out okay (or hoping at least). Thank you for another amazing chapter!! 🥰

(Also one small side note, I feel like Eric’s physical appearance has been mentioned once or twice but I’m a little foggy with remembering it. So I was wondering when you write for him what do you imagine him to look like? I feel like I have a bit of an image of what he looks like in my head but I’d love to know what you envision as the creator!)

Hey! I LOVE long asks so please don't apologize!

I love when I get to the part of the story where I can starting weaving the threads tighter and other things start becoming apparent. Dean and Eric's growing bromance is a favorite of mine, as is trying to get Eric and Sloane to actually talk to each other honestly but that's easier said than done! At least they're both taking baby steps in the right direction!

The reader needs someone to be her bad guy for her and it was so needed with her parents! Dean's really in tune with how things for him could have been much different if his family treated him the way they do reader. And yes she is writing again! Hopefully something happier too with some inspiration from a certain green eyed guy?

Oh man I can't wait to show you what happens with the plan! Everything's been building up to that party and it's going to explosive when we get there!

I didn't really give a lot of detail on the big guy huh apart from he's tall I think lol. Well if you've ever seen Friday Night Lights, the main actor that plays Coach Eric Taylor (cough cough) is probably a pretty good match for him!

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cerastes · 1 year

Note

Ouuugh, continuing to knock it out of the park with these characters. Always loved characters who are solely referred to as a title or epithet, and god the replacement of ones eyes like Istesas rules.

Did she have much inspiration from concepts or characters from Arthurian legends, or did the fey connections and "lady of the lake" thing just happen to be a fun coincidence?

Looking forward as always for where everything you're setting up goes, an effective god like character who just exists to hand out weapons that always lead to greater tragedy or destabilization of things absolutely slaps.

Thank you! I'm happy to hear you enjoy these, haha.

Istesa does in fact have a lot of Arthurian influence, yes. It's one of my favorite mythos, and the Fae have always been fascinating to me, especially when you consider the complete whiplash anyone would have when going from the modern, incredibly infantilized views on the Fae, to their old, outright brutal and callous origins. It always seemed fun to me to think that even back then, our ancestors were coming up with stuff like "yeah there's these very theatric and whimsy creatures that will try to prank you with such knee-slappers as enslaving you forever or turning you into a sentient bush".

The Lady of the Lake angle is sort of an evolution of a concept I've always wanted to play with: For the longest time, I had this idea of the Lady of the Lake being just one of the many titles of the Lady, and that she's more or less a weapons merchant that spends her time managing her business in the shadows as usual, until a great hero is in need of her. So she'll set out and deliver the legendary weapon to its rightful hero, by hand, so that they may mete our their destiny. If you're not a great hero and you come across her, you may get your hands on one of her formidable wares... For a very, VERY high price, and not necessarily one that involves money. Can't be handing out Caladbolgs and Tyrfings out like candy, you know?

Imagine you're an adventurer and you meet this woman in sunglasses and a suit, she's carrying a big case, she looks at you, and goes "hey, I'm in a bit of a bind, help me out here", and you're like, sure, so you go on a small adventure through dangerous lands into the territory of a despot. Throughout the quest, she never once opens the case, but is formidable nonetheless. Then, when you finally make it close to the despot's fortress, and you get ready for the fight of your life, the climax of this quest, she simply says "alright, we're here", and points at a crappy hut by the side of the river. You're confused, but you follow her as she opens the rickety door. Inside is a poor, young child wearing rags. She slams the case in front of the child and opens up the locks, revealing the most wonderful longsword you've laid eyes upon. She hands the sword to the kid, and then signals the way out.

"We're not going to topple the despot?", you ask.

"Nope," she says as she lights a cigarette, "Not our villain to defeat. Just came here on a delivery."

"And why didn't you use the sword throughout our battles?"

"Not my sword to swing. That's his."

Then she refuses to elaborate on anything else, thanks you curtly, and disappears the first chance she gets. Six months later, you're in the middle of the wilderness, the morning sun wakes you up, you step out of your tent, and notice a familiar case waiting for you outside. It has a letter attached. "Thanks for the help back then. For you." Inside the case is the single best weapon you've seen in all of your travels, it feels comfortable and natural, it fits your style of combat perfectly, there is no weapon in this world that could be more closely customized to you, specifically you. This is your weapon.

That sort of concept. Then, I thought, "damn, if someone or something could actually do things like this, it would be scary if they did that, but for villains", but it wasn't really a breakthrough of a thought, since a lot of villains... Do have that kind of service or advantage, some sort of scientist or wizard. Then came the follow-up thought:

"What if the Lady of the Lake straight up had no sides, she just made incredibly powerful, history-changing weapons and artifacts for the express purpose of shaping history to be 'interesting', to be 'chaotic', because in the future history books, it will be incredibly interesting, maybe even entertaining, to read about these chaotic times. What if the Lady of the Lake wasn't good or evil, she solely sided with whoever side made history look more interesting in the future, so she could, one day, sit down with a nice drink, on a comfy couch, and read the most wonderful tragedies and upheavals, content with the knowledge that she had a hand in the penning of these stories?"

I thought that would be terrifying and I loved it, so Istesa was born.

#ivarea #istesa

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wednesdayaddamsmood · 2 years

Text

One moment of piece and quiet

Here is an old imagine that I posted like 3 - 4 years ago, I rewrote it do my liking and hope that you enjoy it.

Pairing: Steve Harrington x Henderson!Reader

Word count: 1714

Warnigs: I think none ? mention of nutidy but there is none.

You woke up by the sun shining in your eyes through a gap in the curtains. You tried to sit up, but felt a heavy weight on your waist and smiled as you remembered that Steve came over for dinner last night while your mother had girls night, but fell asleep before he could sneak back out to avoid Dustin knowing that he was in your room. You turned around in his arms to face him and saw that he was still asleep, his mouth is slightly open and you could hear light snores coming from him. It was usually Steve that woke up before me so you took the time to really look at him. His hair was a mess all over his pillow, a few locks of hair were in his face so you gently lifted your hand and brushed them behind his ear. His eyelids fluttered slightly and you froze, waiting to see if he would wake up, when he didn´t you lowered your hand and snuggled back up against him. Sleeping next to Steve was one of your favorite thing, your body fit right into his and you head fell right into the crook of his neck. You lay there breathing in his sent for a few moments. After a while you started to trace your fingers over his chest, trying to be as gentle as you can but after a few seconds you felt Steve starting to wake up. His nose crinkled up slightly and his arms tightened around you and a hum came from him as he rested his head on yours. You started to pepper his neck with light kisses to which he let out a groan. You let out a small laugh and lifted your head to get a better look at him. He opened his and and blinked them a few times to get them used to the sunlight. After his eyes adjusted, a small smile came onto his face as he looked at you. Steve nuzzled his face into your neck and he pulled your body closer so you was laying half on top of him.

“ Good morning beautiful. “ He says and his voice was slightly cracked from not being used for a few hours.

“ Good morning handsome. “ you say as you started to run your fingers through his hair.

” How long have you been awake ? “ He asked as his eyes closed in pleasure.

“ Not for long, just for a few minutes. I have just been watching you sleep. “ You say and smiled.

“ You are a creep. “ He says chuckling.

“ You are too, you watch me sleep all the time. “ You say.

“ Touche.“ He says with a goofy smile on his face.

We layed in my bed for a few minutes, just relaxing and enjoying being with each other in the moment. We don't really get to have moments like this together often because of my brother, Dustin and the party. You and Steve had been dating for a few months and have now sort of become “ the parents “ of this little group, so you rarely have time just for the two of us. So when you get these moments together we try to cherish them since we don't know when we are going to get something like this again.

“ We should get up, you promised the party that you would drive them to the arcade. ” You mumbled into his chest.

“ Fuck, I forgot about that. ” Steve says and buried his face in the crook of your neck.

“ And Dustin still doesn't know that you sometimes spend the night so you will have to climb out the window before he wakes up. “ You say as you sit up.

“ Tell me again why he can't know about that. “ Steve asked.

“ Remember when he found out about us dating and he freaked out. It was such a disaster and I don't want to deal with him again, at least not yet. “

“ It was only a disaster because the little shit was being dramatic. “ Steve says.

“ He wasn't that dram- …” You start to say but were interrupted.

“ Hurry up Y/N, Steve´s car is already outside and he's waiting for us. “ Dustin slammed your door open but stopped and stared at you with widened eyes, his mouth gaping open.

“ Shit. “ You hear Steve mutter.

You stand still and don't move an inch. You was afraid of moving in fear of setting of the dramatic bomb that is Dustin Henderson.

“ Maybe if we just close the door he will go away. “ Steve whispered behind you.

“ Wh- wh- what is going on here. “ Dustin questioned. “ ARE YOU SLEEPING WITH MY SISTER, YOU SHITHEAD !!!! “ He screamed at you.

Dustin picked up the nearest thing to him, which turned out to be a pillow and he started wacking Steve with it.

“ Hey- hey- hey- hey, stop it. “ Steve said as he fumbled away from the pillow.

“ Dustin stop it, I´m not sleeping with him. ” You say and jumped up from your bed and grab the pillow from him.

“ WHY IS HE NAKED IN YOUR BED !?! “ Dustin screamed at you now.

“ First of all, Steve is not naked. Second of all Steve is my boyfriend so he is allowed to be in my bed so stop screaming at him before you wake p mom because she definetly won't be happy about finding Steve in my room.“

“ Why did he sleepover then. “ Dustin asked, having calmed down a bit.

“ Because of you and your friends demand that he takes you to the arcade at the butt crack of dawn and since he lives at the other side of town and you all live near here he sometimes spends the night so he wouldn't have to wake up before the sun had risen. Now get out of my room so we can get ready. “ You say and pushed Dustin out of your room and closed the door in his face.

“ Now that was him being over dramatic. “ Steve said out of breath.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You sat in the library during your free period studying for an upcoming test chemistry chest. You were so engrossed in your work that you didn't notice Steve when he sat down next to you. You only noticed him when he placed his bag harshly down next to you. When you looked up you and saw Steve with his head resting on his bag.

“ Hey babe, how was history class ? “ You ask but all you got back was a small whine from him and he turned his head towards you.

You smiled at him and started to run your fingers through his hair.

“ Was class hard ? “

“ Yeah, Mrs. Gernalds was being a bitch. She gave us a project that is worth 30% of our final grade and it's due on monday. It’s going to take all weekend so I probably have to cancel our date night on Saturday, I’m sorry I know that you wanted to see the “ Police Academy “ movie. “ He said and you could see that he was truly sorry.

“ Hey don´t worry about that, we can go and see it some other time and I can help you with the project so it will be finished early and we can spend the rest of the weekend together. “ You say and Steve let out a sign of relief.

“ You are a godsend babe, what would I ever do without you ? “ He said looking at you with lovey dovey look in his eyes and you only chuckled at him.

“ What is your history project on ? “ You asked.

“ The difference between life of young women and men from the 1400’s and today. This essay is supposed over 1000 words and hand written. “ Steve said and he pulled out his history textbook, putting it between us.

“ Oh that's great, I know a lot about that time period. We could do this at my house since Dustin will be a Mike´s but my mom is having her book club meeting so we will have to study in my room. “ You say and looked over the material in his textbook.

“ Or we could meet up at my place. My parents are out of town so I have the house to myself, after the project we could pop in a movie or… do other things ? “ You could feel his hand on your thigh and felt it start rubbing up and down.

“ Steve … what are you doing ? “ You ask him but didn't remove his hand.

“ Nothing, just enjoying having a quiet time with my girl.. There is no way that the little shit will interrupt us and we are all alone now. “ He said and scooted his chair closer to yours. You can felt him start to leave pecs on your shoulder, moving slowly towards your neck.

“ Calm down Steve we’re in the library “ You say and remove his hand from your thigh.

“ Oh come on babe, we haven’t had us time for over a week thanks to the shitheads. Just relax no one will see us. “ He says and starts kissing your neck harder.

You turn your neck to the side, starting to enjoy it. Then suddenly, the stools at our table scraped against the floor and we heard six shouts of: “ Eww! ”

“ Damn it. “ muttered Steve and looked up at the kids who were sitting at the table. Their faces were scrunched up in disgust.

“ What the fuck are you guys doing here ? How did you get in here ? “ Steve says.

“ You are late to pick us up, we were supposed to play D&D together today. “ says Will.

“ Shit “ Muttered Steve as he remembered his promise.

. “ I’m just really glad that we arrived now instead of later, who knows in what situation we would have caught them in. “ Max says while the party stood up.

“ I swear, we need to run away to a remote Island to get a romantic moment for ourselves these days “ You say while holding Steve close to you for a small moment longer.

“ STEVE COME ON !! STOP FONDLING MY SISTER !!! “ Dustin yelled to you and Steve groaned into your neck.

“ I am going to kill him one day “ Steve said as he stood up and followed after the kids.

76 notes · View notes

gaymerasmus · 2 years

Note

(for the fic requests) medic and heavy stargazing 😔

Ye s Yes Y Es beautiful lovely I love it

It gets hella fruity in this salad guys. And they were roommates.

Redoktoberfest but they're stargazing!

CW: none

11:27 PM

1:31 AM

3:16 AM

They all blend together at this point. Stretching with a grunt, Medic mentally curses his expansive imagination for the umpteenth time. Insomnia has plagued him for many years now, but for the past week it's been particularly unbearable. Even with ungodly amounts of melatonin it just won't happen. His brain fires ideas rapidly, and he finds that they've begun to bounce off each other. Each combination makes a different idea, a different experiment. He just wishes he was this creative during waking hours only.

He shuffles out of bed. If you can't sleep the night away, he thought, you might as well make yourself useful .

The lights of the infirmary flick on and Medic squints. He makes his away toward his desk, ignoring the way his slippers sound against the cool floor. The journal is waiting patiently for him in the top drawer, always ready to be filled with notes on experiments. He lifts it gingerly and settles down into the chair behind him. He begins reading the scrawled German, tracing his steps back on each last experiment. Medic makes note of each changing variable; each trial unique in its own way, yet simultaneously attempting to reach the same final result . There has to be a way they connect. Some common ground, he thinks to himself.

A yawn. He reads the same line for the third time. Hands shift up to his eyes, and he rubs them as he leans back in his chair. He listens to the wind gently rattle the base before going silent. The same line again.

"This isn't working," he mutters to himself. Frustrated, he stands from his desk and makes his way out the door and toward the kitchen. If paperwork wasn't the answer then maybe, just maybe, it's coffee he needs. He marches down the dimly lit hall.

The mess hall is clean for once; the smell of floor cleaner and dish soap hits Medic as he turns the corner. He hums to himself, happy and thankful for whoever cleaned the mess so he didn't have to. He distinctly remembers a pool of syrup on the floor and table, and grease smeared on the wall (no thanks to a rowdy post-match Soldier and Scout). He paces over to the cabinet and reaches inside, sleep shirt lifting above his hips as he stretches farther to grab the coffee machine from the back. He quickly sets to work and watches the pot simmer to life, then coffee drip into the glass.

The bitter aroma quickly finds its place in the room. Medic sighs, savoring it. It reminds him of his younger years; when being a legitimate doctor in a legitimate hospital was more of a given than a wonder. He spent many a night studying, and the bittersweet drink helped him along the way more times than he could count.

His reminiscing is cut short by shuffling from just outside the room. He freezes.

"I can hear you," he calls, pretending not to be scared, "do you want some coffee as well?"

He stares into the abyssal dark outside the kitchen as it moves and takes form. It moves toward the light, and a familiar body passes through the doorway. Heavy stands in the kitchen now, looking (much to Medic's amusement) rather cute in his matching pajama set and slippers. Their eyes meet and they both offer a friendly, albeit tired, smile.

"What is doctor doing out so late in the night?" Heavy asks, pulling up a chair to sit across from him. Medic tells him of his sleepless predicament and the irritating paperwork, mentioning that this is the first time he's seen the mess hall so clean. Heavy chuckles.

"You're not the only one who doesn't sleep. Thought it'd be nice to clean up a bit," He says.

Medic stands, walking over to the cupboards once again to grab two mugs.

"Well, that explains what you're doing up," He pours himself some coffee and opens the fridge, "Creamer?" He doesn't wait for an answer, sliding the bottle of sweet cream down the table. He knows that he'll use it.

He pours Heavy's glass and gives it to him. He takes it, gently blowing on the steam rising up from the drink. Medic sits back his spot with a content sigh. They sit in comfortable silence as they sip their coffees. The minutes tick on, and their mugs only become emptier.

"We could stay up together," Heavy offers, breaking the silence after a moment. Medic's cheeks flush and he looks up at the other man.

"The stars are out tonight, first time seeing the stars so bright," he adds. Medic nods, glancing toward the window above the hall's sink.

"A lot of firsts tonight," he says absently. His face heats up more, now along with Heavy's. The implication of his words linger in the air. Medic glances at the clock who reads back 4:03 AM. However flustered, it was far too late for him to be embarrassed about anything right now.

"I'd like to look at the stars with you Heavy. Let's go," Medic says, standing. Heavy follows in suit, watching the other man walk the length of the table towards him before exiting through the doorway. The light of the kitchen remains on, and their cups sit at the table abandoned. Neither of them pay any mind to it as they make their way toward the ladder to the roof of the base.

They're outside now, the breeze blows along the rolling hills of the desert. Goosebumps line the doctor's arms. He gazes at the muted beauty of the land and suddenly realizes he's never been outside the base at night before. The expanse is endless, dark sand shifts with the winds as clouds pass through the midnight blue sky. The air is crisp and warm, much like during the day but far more bearable to the men. Medic shivers. Heavy, only pretending not to notice, picks up his pace after the ladder.

"Here. Would you like to go first?" Heavy offers, moving out of the way so Medic has a clear path to the ladder. He nods, pausing at the foot of the ladder.

He grabs the other man's shoulder. Heavy freezes and their gazes lock. Both are silent for a moment, trying to digest the butterflies in their stomachs as the eye contact holds steady. The hand trails to his neck, fingers slowly spanning across the side of his face.

"Danke Heavy... I appreciate you," He thanks him quietly. Heavy nods, dumbfounded. Medic takes his hand off him and looks away bashfully. He wants to ask Medic what that was about, what that feeling was. Alas, the doctor has made his way up the ladder without another word. The part of his face that Medic touched is warm, and the cool air only makes it worse. He sighs, climbing up after him.

The view splays out in a broad expanse of the horizon. It's all Medic can see for miles, the only distinct thing being the few lights still on in the nearby town. He looks up and finds that the outside world has expanded once again. The stars wash over the sky, and a particularly bright one reflects in his glasses.

Heavy watches the man observe their surroundings. He can't seem to take his eyes away from his friend, but it's not like he wanted to anyway. He has so much to ask. But much as he yearns for answers, he finds that he has nothing to say. Perfectly content standing here next to him, he is.

Medic finally turns his head and meets Heavy's gaze once again.

"In my experiments," Medic starts, "They all have different readings for different things. Each scenario is different and yet..." He slowly meets Heavy's hand with his, keeping the contact.

"And yet?" Heavy prompts, intertwining their fingers together. Medic's hands are cold in comparison to his.

"And yet. There's a certain point they all reach that leads me to believe they're all headed towards the exact same result." He continues. Heavy listens intently, nodding along. He thinks for a moment, truly pondering what the doctor had said.

"Perhaps," an experimental squeeze in their hand holding, "There is a constant you are not seeing. A variable you look over. You are searching and that is good, but problem isn't where you're looking, doctor. You'll have to look elsewhere," Heavy explains calmly. Medic looks away again, frowning. Heavy hopes they're talking about what he thinks they're talking about; but he can't be sure. To him, Medic is a man of science before a man of romantic endeavors. However, he can't help but hope. Especially when the other man steps closer to him and envelopes him into a gentle hug.

"I've been incredibly restless lately. I think it's begun to reflect in mein work," admits the doctor, "There is something I want to do. One final experiment to tie the ending together and draw to..." He trails off again.

He suddenly lifts his head from Heavy's chest and looks up at the flustered man. Heavy's eyes widen. His hand slips upward, gently curling around the taller man's collar. A soft tug, and he's leaned toward the doctor. Both faces flush at the shortening distance between their lips. Stormy grey eyes meet deep blue ones, save for the darting down to glance at each other's lips. Neither of them dare breathe as their air around them buzzes with suspense.

"...And draw to a conclusion." Medic finishes, letting out a tentative sigh. "Alas," he mumbles and pulls himself away from the other man, "Such an experiment would require two willing participants."

Heavy nods once again, trying (and failing) to cover up his disappointment, "Da. Heavy would like to help your research."

Medic turns bright red and steps back, chuckling. Heavy suddenly can't help but laugh too, not exactly sure what's coming over him. He just knows that there's something with that doctor. The way he grabs him, talks to him, makes him feel things. It was all so much to him. Heavy admires Medic, who is grinning now. They both laugh together, hands coming up to hold each other once again.

They stand like that; eyes meeting, hand in hand, and warmth wrapping around both their chests.

A bird trills somewhere in the distance, signalling the first of many calls of daybreak. The sun peaks lazily over the horizon, dusting the sky in a soft pink-blue hue. Medic yawns, feeling the call of his warm bed from within the base.

"Heavy," He says softly, "I'm tired."

Without warning, Medic is instantly lifted from the ground. Heavy puts an arm underneath the man's legs, swinging him to sit comfortably as he's carried bridal style across the roof. Medic let's out a startled gasp and wraps his arms around Heavy's neck, earning him a laugh from the other man.

"Want me to put you down?" Heavy asks, to which Medic quickly shakes his head and holds him tighter. With that, Heavy makes his way back to Medic's room in the base.

~~~~~~

Medic's bedroom door creaks open. Heavy takes gentle care of Medic, making sure he doesn't hit him on any of the walls while he carries him in. Somehow, during the short walk from outside to the his room, Medic has fallen asleep. He snores quietly in Heavy's arms.

Heavy shuffles over to Medic's bed. He leans, angling over the bed to lay the sleeping man down. He makes sure his head is rested on one of the plush pillows before sliding off his glasses. He turns putting them on the nightstand next to the bed.

When he turns back, Medic is upright. It startles him, and he jumps back slightly.

"Sorry for waking, go back to sleep." He mutters, begining to stand. Medic grabs Heavy's shirt, tugging as he stands farther. Heavy turns toward him again, feeling the flush return back to his face. Medic gives him a look, and Heavy immediately sits back down next to him. Entranced, he grabs the hand holding on to the fabric of his shirt.

The air feels thicker and the room is suddenly stuffy. Medic and Heavy are both blushing again, eyes refusing to meet.

Heavy calls Medic's name tentatively. He doesn't respond, slowly dragging his eyes up to meet the pair that's been staring at him all night. Medic places his hand on Heavy's face, fingers tracing lines on his face.

Heavy can't keep sitting on edge like this. He shivers before grabbing Medic's hand, taking it away from his face. He places his lips against his knuckles, brushing against the soft skin on his hand. Medic's breath hitches. He moves, quickly getting closer to the man sitting next to him.

They draw in a sharp breath before pulling each other closer. Noses brush together as their lips meet. Lips press against each other, the heat of their skin intertwines. Hands wrap around each man, slowly drawing the two even closer. Medic feels a fingers card their way through his hair and he groans.

They kiss for a few more moments before pulling apart. Heads rest together, both men breathing heavily and flushed beyond reason.

"Heavy," Medic speaks in a hushed, hoarse tone, "I think I've figured out what I was missing from my equations." He smiles, laughing softly. They don't hesitate to kiss again.

~~~~~~~~~

Woot woot another one done thanks for being patient:)

#tf2 #heavymedic #red oktoberfest #medic tf2 #tf2 heavy #thank you for the ask!

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ikemenomegas · 1 year

Note

Nightmare for Gojo? Because he's kind of a nightmare 😂

He is kind of a nightmare [affectionately] isn't he XD. Hmm how about in a nightmare?

You wake with a quiet gasp, alone in a room that is familiar but not yours.

Throat feeling too thick, you sit up and fumble for the cup of water on the bedside table. It is stale, but it forces you to hold your hands steady and you grip it just a little tighter than normal while you slowly cycle cursed energy through your body.

It warms your limbs and wakes you up. You're unsure whether to be disappointed about that. It's still dark outside and the dull white numbers of the clock in the bookshelf read some time late after one in the morning. Too late to be wandering but you shrug a thick oversized shirt over the clothes you had put on - too wary of being woken by more than your own mind to change into pajamas - and pad out the door, into the chill November night.

You can't sit still while images, real and imagined, tear around your mind. The path before you goes up and around the mountain the school is built around, and you start to climb, lungs tingling with cold.

No one stops you.

You weren't there in the barrier on Halloween. You're not on trial. You're not under arrest or even truly censured. You're just... remanded to the school. Waiting. While they decide whether or not you're enough trouble to execute outright.

Satoru has made enough of a nuisance of himself that you're fairly confident they'll ignore you in comparison. Especially once they won't be able to prove any binding connection. It makes you wonder for a moment how intentional it is the way he pushes away everyone but the college's dozen wayward teenagers, and how much is just his bad personality.

Children he can protect. The world of sorcerer's is a harsh one, but it has still learned to excuse youth and its inexperience.

It makes you wonder again why he has you.

Your nose is cold by the time you run out of road and end up at your destination. Night washes out color and it hasn't helped the constant replay in your head, like the pages of a book flipping back and forth: bodies surrounding a bed, moving the bare figure on it, dead to the world.

When you enter the infirmary, the familiar scent of antiseptic and medicine just makes you shudder. The lights are low, half of them turned off given the late hour, tiled walls and floors gleaming dully. You move deeper into the building, listening, but the only footsteps are yours.

At every corner, you're apprehensive of what you might find.

The infirmary is dim and gray as the vision that woke you where pooling light doesn't touch. You hesitate once, just the tip of your finger on the door to a room you have been in before, and then steel your nerves and slide it open.

The fact Shoko can't describe how to create or use reverse-cursed energy used to frustrate Satoru. You'd thought she was enigmatic, since then you've come to understand.

Even when you can lay out the rules of a technique in perfectly comprehensible terms, the feeling is not so easy to describe.

How does Gojo Satoru make something that literally shouldn't exist? The answer lies in mathematics. The way Shoko repairs the human body is based in biology and physiology. Your own technique is only an answer to certain laws of physics.

Even Suguru, whose power was the closest to the kind of pure and terrible magic that you used to think existed only in storybooks, who didn't want to explain himself...

You'd guessed over a decade ago that his physical form was acting as some kind of barrier but the truth is you still don't understand it.

Even knowing what you know, maybe you don't understand any of the people around you.

Just like how Shoko can't quite explain herself, she can't explain why Nobara hasn't woken up yet. The curse called Mahito should have rent her to ribbons like it had done to Nanami but sorcerers are good at subverting what should happen.

Instead, she like so many other things, is simply a secret here, her injury frozen while Shoko carefully tries to augment whatever technique Nobara discovered at the edge of death.

She'll be fine, that's the verdict, but with nothing else to do, you come here to see her, to remind yourself of what it is you're protecting.

You sit on a hospital's version of a some kind of padded bench, and rest your elbows on your thighs and drift into an uneasy sort of vigil.

ii.

"Nightmare?"

Megumi's voice jolts you out of your doze. You can't have been here long because you don't yet feel the chill, but you hadn't heard him approach the door. He doesn't look convinced when you try and smile at him.

"You always did know. Even as a child."

"You shouldn't try to hide it."

You just give him another smile and Megumi sighs, settling down next to you on the bench. It's familiar the same way you sat down was familiar. The heaviness is a mirror to your own. You've seen him here and have left him alone while he works out whatever he has to at his healing teammate's side, silencing your steps to give him privacy.

"I'm proud of you, you know."

Megumi starts. He's been different, since Shibuya. You all have been, the world has changed, but there's a weight to his steps that's just... different.

Megumi rests his head against the wall, disordered hair even messier at the back than usual. He must have been here before you and stepped out. You must really look worn down if he broke the unspoken rule you'd both been abiding by. Or maybe he just wanted to be around a familiar face for a while.

The light in Nobara's room is turned down, and it's like the scratch of discordant strings, the screech of a train, the way the grey false memory of your dream cuts through your chest.

There's no such thing as prophetic sorcery. Nothing is set that far in stone.

And yet.

"I know what you're trying to do. The strategy is good, but if it's a choice between your lives and accomplishing your mission--"

You trail off while Megumi looks curiously down at where you're still hunched over your folded hands. You have just enough courage to let your hands shake a little in exchange for meeting his eyes and seeing the guard there, and the trust.

You turn away before you can see that most precious thing break.

"Take your lives."

You can feel the way Megumi stiffens beside you. He's been raised by the Strongest sorcerer in the world and told more than once that he has potential to be that equal. He can be forgiven the hope and arrogance that one can win it all.

Although... they'll be with Hakari, so maybe not.

There's always a price to be paid though. If the kids don't come back, if this kid you've known since he was six and far too serious--

"Gojo-sensei has done a lot for everyone," Megumi says, voice dark and low.

He tries to keep you out of it, is what you don't say. There's lines he won't cross. The spirit possessing our old classmate's body found one of them.

Even though the kid's taken up the mantle, clan head at his age, it's still worlds cleaner than it could have been.

"The world needs him," Megumi adds, and you say nothing to the slightly desperate edge. The world needs a lot of adults to do more than they are and some adults to do less than they've done.

"The world might be able to rise to the occasion," you reply, and you're trying for dry but even to your ears you just sound tired.

"Don't you want him back?" Megumi finally asks, quieter. He doesn't talk about the thing between you and Satoru. It's been what he knows most of his life even when he hated the "lanky layabout teenage delinquent" that showed up in front of him like some kind of criminal. He's old enough now to assume what is still, for the time being, true.

"I think that Gojo is a little safer in there than the rest of us out here." It's stupid to be this emotional about it, it was just a dream. "Don't you think?" you try and joke.

He gives you the kind of look he sometimes give Satoru when he does something to try and derail a conversation in the worst way possible.

"Well whatever Megumi-kun is going to do, is what Megumi-kun is going to do," you say, leaning back so your head touches the wall too, the chill seeping through your skin as you speak blithely into the air.

Megumi leans back and sags a little sideways, sighing. "You shouldn't worry so much," he finally says.

I wouldn't worry so much if you valued your own life a little more, but how can he? A sorcerer's life is lived in the service of a world which barely knows they exist, fighting the kind of battles that barely hold the line against curses. Protecting people from their own creeping self destruction.

You had normal friends, once upon a time. Sometimes you still see those people. You make excuses for your absences and fend off well meaning attempts to get you to try and date someone, to come out drinking and catch up, to see them more often than middle school reunions.

Satoru doesn't get it. He's never had any of that. A normal life? It's pointless to try and you don't miss it. Being a sorcerer is what you can do. It's just a hard truth that you have to do it alone.

Satoru wants the students strong enough to be an indispensable threat, to fill the ranks and tip the balance of power. You want them strong enough to stand together.

Sometimes you think that makes you the worse of the two of you.

"You don't have to take it all on your own. I know I'm not around a lot, so it's okay if my words don't carry as much weight. If it makes you feel better though, you all are the plan, so you can't go around dying. Satoru knows you're important to changing the world so--" don't let him ask you to die for him.

The mark between your shoulder blades burns.

"I'll be careful," Megumi says, but his voice is weird, too close, and you know why a second later as his head lands on your shoulder, curling up a little into himself like when he was younger. "I'll make sure Itadori is careful too."

He's hidden his face in the high collar of his jacket but your own embarrassment is harder to hide up close. "Well," you settle in, moving the bare minimum so Megumi can rest a little more comfortably without being embarrassed into leaving completely. "I'll be here. Probably."

His elbow digs into your side hard enough to knock your breath out.

"Ouch. I think Nobara is rubbing off on you. You know she's going to be insufferable about the reverse cursed technique once she wakes up."

Megumi hummed, amused, but went quiet after that. You felt as his breath deepened and more of his weight dropped against you and he eventually fell sleep.

iii.

"You smell like him," Shoko says, leaning against the wall. She doesn't have to say who. You are wearing a piece of clothing you'd left in his room for far too long and your old classmate has always had a sharp nose.

"Hmm," you distracted yourself by checking on Megumi again. You want to smooth the unruly hair from his forehead like you had done when he was a mistrustful boy, tug the wrinkles from his collar like you had when he was an angry middle schooler.

Now he's a sorcerer, somewhere between a man and a child, steady and kind and tired. You can see the dark circles under his eyes and the way he slouches when he walks has to do with that new weight he carries.

When you look up, Shoko is still looking at you. She hasn't given you a look like that since first year when none of you liked or trusted one another further than you had to.

You incline your head towards Nobara's bed anyways, giving her permission to enter the room. She doesn't need it. The infirmary sits squarely in your mind as part of Shoko's territory. When she's administering to her patients, she is the only one in charge.

Still, she gives you a wide berth on her way to check on Nobara and it gives you an odd sense of relief. You want to say it's because you came to talk to her as much as checking on the injured students, but begrudgingly you admit she's treating you like she would treat any Alpha guarding their pups. She comes close only to the one you've granted permission until you feel safe around her again.

They're not your kids, you remind yourself guiltily. You don't have that kind of right, no matter how protective you feel.

If I am ever incapacitated, look under the loose floorboard in his old room. You know the one where he kept Shoko's--

Cigarettes, yeah.

As if any of you could forget. It was so long ago, more years spent apart than together, but that year still haunts you like a ghost.

Earlier in the afternoon, you'd followed those instructions and found your own piece of Satoru's contingency plan. Then you'd watched it burn between your fingertips, turned to less than ash.

You wonder if Shoko is here for Nobara or for you.

She checks the girl's pulse and you watch her close her eyes in concentration, a golden glow filtering through Nobara's veins.

You're glad to see her chest rise and fall a little easier.

When Shoko finishes you use a tiny bit of your technique to draw her scent towards you on a breeze. She smells like smoke.

The scent flashes grey over those old memories of delinquent days.

What the hell are you two doing?

It's disconcerting to be left out of the loop, but as Satoru's letter proved, maybe it's the right thing to do. You do have your own part to play after all. It won't do to die yet.

You don't want to wake Megumi though. It's been a long time since the last time you've been able to take care of him. It's the only thing that's felt right since Satoru was sealed, since Nanami died.

It's not going to be yours much longer in any case. Maybe that's why Shoko quietly sits down at a desk in the corner and starts making notes in Nobara's chart.

He's not your kid. He's not even Satoru's kid, he was never adopted as a ward, the clans just didn't fight the sponsorship. And he's a few years too old to be able to pretend, which is probably a good thing. What kind of parent wants this kind of job for their child, for children to meet early deaths? Some of the students grew up being told there was honor in it, some that this was what they were born to do.

Megumi's smart, loyal. He could have found a way into the world of non-sorcerers and to a normal life. But he would never leave his sister behind or the promise he made. You don't think he's capable of leaving behind the people he's decided to care about. It would carve out his heart.

That more than anything reminds you you're not his Appa. He had a father and Satoru killed him.

"Megumi-kun" you say softly.

He stirs, but doesn't open his eyes. A muffled chuffing chirp is all you get as he turns his head into your arm.

Shoko's pen stills on the paper for a second before restarting. Still it's a second too long and it's probably the tension in your body that makes Megumi blink open his eyes before you call for him again.

"Sorry to wake you," you whisper.

Megumi sits up slowly, rubbing at his eyes with the back of his hand.

"You should go sleep in a bed. I'll come get you if anything changes."

He tips his head around your body to see Shoko, probably doodling nonsense right now to keep your instincts at bay.

Maybe he gets it because he nods sleepily and stretches when he stands.

You shrug off the oversized shirt, leaving you in your typical sorcerer blacks. The shirt is more like a jacket anyways, with a thick weave and heavy material, and it will help keep him warm on the walk back. "It'll be colder now, so don't linger, okay?"

He takes it with a little bit of red in his cheeks, but you already guessed he was leaning on you at least partly because it smelled like Satoru. Satoru who's always been there no matter how much Megumi didn't want to ask too much. He puts his nose in the collar as if he's cold.

"Are you sure you're okay?"

You hope your expression is a little more convincing this time. "I'll be fine. Get some rest."

When he leaves Shoko stays. She sits heavily beside you, her fingers tapping on her thighs like they want for something to do.

People don't look at Shoko. She is, like the school, a secret kept with silence. She keeps her own counsel the same way.

Once, you thought you would always know where to find her, but sitting here, in the pre-dawn dark, she is both familiar and a stranger.

The dream is fading, as dreams do. Already it has slowed so that it is no longer a familiar body, limp, spare, Hellenic muscle of his naked flank and thighs dimpling under some masked, gowned creature's handling. Turning your mate so that he lies lateral, faced away from you while horror yanks you back like a hook through your navel.

The scene turns to snapshots and the dull, ill feeling remaining to thrum through your body. It's a bitter match to your resolve.

"How's Toge?"

Shoko shrugs. "The wound is sealed but it's still resisting my technique. We have to wait for his blood supply to build back up before anyone tries again."

"I'll see him when he wakes up then."

"You're planning to stay the night?"

"You expect me to sleep after this?"

Shoko sighed, looking suddenly more tired. "You're really going through with it then? It's only been three days."

"They made the declaration this evening. Against any argument that this Getou isn't Suguru, the higher-ups have decided. Satoru's conditions have been met."

"Being his mate could still give you some pull," Shoko said, "even mated to the exiled clan head, you'll carry weight with some of the factions."

"They're already hunting Yaga. If I want to live long enough to make any difference at all, it has to be before they start sincerely going down the list and assigning bounties."

Her lips twist in distaste. She might be aware of sorcerer politics but you've always gotten the distinct impression she tries not to be.

"I didn't expect you to try talking me out of it." Aren't you in on whatever he's planning? Either way you're getting close to dangerous territory.

"It's not exactly a standard procedure but you should still know what your options are."

You carefully pressed the tips your fingers into into your left palm. You'd never thought of yourself as having pride exactly in the bond-mark. People in the non-sorcerer world could show theirs off but it meant something different in the sorcerer world.

Even though both of you typically had it covered, it's been there for almost four years, a constant reassurance of the promise you'd made to him. One hand comes up to grip your own shoulder.

Will he feel it?

"It's what has to be done," you say. You remember Satoru's wide hand coming to rest on your back, steering you clear of the Harajuku crowds. You remember brushing against the mark with the tip of your nose as you leaned over the back of the sofa, arms wrapped around his shoulders. You remember talking with him about it in the weeks before you'd bitten the mark bloody and deep at the very base of his neck. You remembered the way you own spine had bent when he placed his own mark on you.

"Ready?"

When could anybody who has made this choice be ready?

When you nod and Shoko's hand slips down the back of your neck and under the hem of your uniform to where your bond-mark hides.

The three steps of mating in the sorcery world are each a binding vow.

The bond vow is a less formal, more emotional tether, and the fear of loss makes one stronger. The emotional difficulty of leveraging that fear lending a sorcerer increased power. A marriage vow is a declaration, saying that this was someone important to you whom you would protect as family placed a target on each sorcerer in the bond and heightened the sense of risk. In the mating vow, the bond-mark that goes with it claims ownership and power, one over the other, sealing the other two bonds so that no one else could easily break them.

In return, its destruction destroys all physical evidence of the other two.

The bond-mark is a seal and can only be broken by the death contingency or by cursed and reverse-cursed energy being used on the seal at the same time. It's intentionally difficult, meant to protect the powers achieved by sorcerers entangled this way.

Shoko sets her fingers into the faint indented marking of the bond-mark bitten over where your heart chakra would be pierced through.

The mark resists her, but the crawling of your skin lets you know that the scar is already changing.

Better not to draw it out.

With your hand on the other side of your chest, you push cursed energy into the mark, swirling slowly around the elliptic shape. It feels hot and cold and like pins and needles as you break the muscle and collagen apart and Shoko knits it back together.

She presses her fingers into the smooth skin, checking on her work. But you can feel it. The bond-mark is gone.

As if it were never there at all.

It doesn't make any difference. You couldn't feel Satoru's presence before he was sealed or after.

It shouldn't make a difference, but you feel both lighter and heavier, like Gojo's gravity is still rooted somewhere in your body.

You drop your hand back to your knees.

Shoko doesn't leave.

You listen for Nobara, for her still-human breathing.

When you look over at her, Shoko is also looking down at the ground.

"I didn't think you'd do it."

You look back at the black and white pattern on the ground. You weren't sure you would either. It had felt too much like admitting defeat but then...

"I dreamt of him."

You shouldn't be saying anything. Shoko doesn't do this. But she's staying even though she should leave so you can make your confessions to a comatose fifteen year old who won't ever know you've been here.

"A bunch of scientists, rolling him on a table," you say, wry and feeling ridiculous. The dream doesn't sound terrible when you say it aloud. "Just... faceless people manipulating him while he just lies there." Unable to stop it. You, unable to stop it because you'd been as frozen as that day in the city, and then you'd woken up.

The dream might be fading but you feel like it's still happening.

Shoko straightens up and you know she's finally leaving. You know what she's thinking too because you made sure to say it that way, in the way that would make the dream a metaphor of what's happening right now. If you'd hinted at your simply literal horror, she'd be within her rights to laugh at you.

"So it's not like a vow will be useful anyways," you force your voice light and slightly self mocking. "He can't do anything from in there so why not pretend it never happened."

You raise your head only meet Shoko's apprehensive expression and falter. There aren't a lot of people who know for certain that Satoru is your mate. Now your place by his name in the family tree will be burnt away. The sealing ink on the marriage documents will fade to nothing. The bond itself might still exist, but any promises intentionally attached to it are blown away like so much sound in a gale.

There's a pinched edge to Shoko's usually cool expression. It's too bad that even with this, you can't promise not to leave her all alone. "Let me know if you need anything for it," she says before spinning on her heels and clicking away down the hall.

iv.

You bury your face into your folded hands, thinking of that body, his body, knuckles pressed hard to your forehead, while the vision shifts slowly to Shoko, to the dead-limp body of the students, to Nanami's hellbent flesh, and back.

You hadn't told Shoko everything.

The only part you can't shake was the way that grayscale atrocity began - with Gojo Satoru torn open and bloody like that day, something bundled and birthed dead being taken from him, and how you knew even while he was turned away from you that he was back to being as pristine as he was when this began.

Megumi leaves again in the morning and you don't say goodbye from the window where you're watching. You didn't go back to sleep, there's too much to do. Your power courses like a livewire inside of you.

You started cycling it to see if your typical energy was still there. You should feel weaker without the vows and restrictions weighing you down, but for now you don't. Anger pours molten through you, fear slinks under it like ice. Grief lays over it all like it lays over everyone and the black and white terror of truly losing what Megumi really means when he talks about the world needing Gojo Satoru is both more stark and more abstract in the morning.

You've never thought of yourself as living in Satoru's shadow. Suffering that particular misconception was thankfully prevented by having a good insight into the reality. You hated that there were so many things he took care of alone.

Megumi doesn't think you have it in you to burn the world. You'd seen the faint disbelief in his eyes when you'd told him to give up on Satoru if it meant surviving. And maybe he's right.

But what he doesn't see, behind the mask Satoru wears and Shoko's distance and Suguru's death and your silence is that you all became monsters. Maybe Gojo Satoru chose to keep you close because for a while you were the only one left.

If the kids don't come back, you think it might just be enough.

Gojo Satoru isn't the only nightmare in the world after all.

#In case it wasn't clear because this isn't that good the implication is that mating marks between sorcerers are a binding vow #i'm aware vows between people aren't typically done. but it was explained that this is because it's difficult not impossible #the mating vow is particularly strong because of what is signifies and therefore leaves a physical mark that is connected to vow's existenc #mates don't have to take on the mark but Gojo has spent a lot of time implicating such to the world at large that you both have #as a binding vow the mating vow does two things #one: it prevents a bond and a marriage from being broken by outsiders #(this does not limit the number of people one can bond/mate/marry in the sorcerer world)#two: the binding vow gives each person an option of control over the others' power and actions #the risk of giving someone power over you in turn increases your own power like another layer to the first order bonding vow #which is another reason sorcerer's have the mating vow #it has been abused in the past of course. this is jjk. but because the bindings must all be “consensual” they're still used in modern times #satoru's instructions were for his mate to break the mating mark if he is ever implicated #because if they're “under his control” the elders won't hesitate to execute them along with him and if he's gone he can't prevent it #if it makes anyone feel better his mate doesn't actually thing satoru doesn't love them #but like everything in this world it's complicated.#jjk #gojo satoru x reader #prompt fill #a/b/o dynamics #omegaverse #mating bites #gojo satoru #reader insert #edited #shoko #i am so sorry #for some reason i convinced myself that ieri was her first name #what convinced me the boys were being so polite i have no idea #io.omegas

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