#but that fucking curse carved into their skin that keeps them from harming the only person they’ve ever truly wanted to harm
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Whumpees with some sort of magical power, but that power being controlled entirely by Whumper.
#the agony of having the strength to be free of Whumpee#but that fucking curse carved into their skin that keeps them from harming the only person they’ve ever truly wanted to harm#or a magical contract they can’t burn#magic-dampening restraints they can’t remove#magic that is a part of whumpee being cut off or siphoned at Whumper’s every whim#magic Whump#whump
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taking the horny and making it sad always results in fucking fantastic fic so.... please do 👀
I'm so sorry this took me like four months to answer-
Tw for a lot of self hatred and Dew using sex as a form of self harm.......
Swiss was a good mate; he was kind, attentive, loving, anything a ghoul could ask for.
He was a sweetheart...When he wanted to be.
Swiss also had a mean streak just about a mile wide.
It wasn't something that ever really came out to play when it was not invited, but when it was, it came in full force. Cruel was a good word to describe him. Not in the way that Rain was cruel. A particularly more forceful brand of it. While Rain is more apt to strike his partner down with words coated in honey and venom, Swiss is more fond of displaying strength. He enjoys making his partner feel small, helpless.
And Dew needed mean. He needed a type of mean that would bruise and ache for days to come. He needed to hurt in the way he deserved.
The feeling of Swiss' hand twisted in his hair brought a burning sensation to his scalp. He wasn't nice about the way he handled the little ghoul. His kindness was reserved for the days Dew didn't use every ounce of energy he had to provoke him, and as of late, those days were becoming few and far between. It was purposeful, Dew wasn't sure if Swiss had picked up on the fact yet. If he had, he made no indication. Swiss just continued to pull him along by a fistful of his hair, ignoring the little hisses and curses the fire ghoul sputtered over.
He threw him to the floor and kicked the door shut. Dew swallowed down the sour taste in his mouth. He could smell gasoline and charcoal wafting off of him with all the subtlety of a warning sign with flashing lights. It was clear to him that Swiss was too far in that merciless headspace to register it, and Dew was grateful. He needed Swiss to keep going. Despite the feeling of needles piercing his skull it was far from enough. Far from what he felt he'd earned.
"Can't keep that fucking mouth shut, can you?" The multi ghoul snapped and pushed his sleeves up. On another day, Dew might’ve fixated on the way the veins bulged below the skin. He would've drooled over the way Swiss' body looked like it was carved from marble. The only thing he could focus on was the way Swiss' fingers curled into fists like he was itching to strike him.
His stomach flipped. Close to nausea.
"I only run it because you haven't figured out how to stop me." He sneered, hoping Swiss didn't hear how hollow his words felt. There was no heat. No fight. All smoke.
"Is that it, droplet? You just need to learn your place?"
"My place?" He quirked up a brow, "and what's my place?"
"Right where you are, at my feet, only speaking because I allow it."
Swiss moved closer and Dew nearly shrunk away from him. He plastered a smirk on his face, a cockiness that didn't settle into the rest of his features. Reminded himself to laugh at the notion, Swiss hated being laughed at. A jab directly at his pride. Swiss' lip curled in a snarl. He could feel his heartbeat in his lungs.
"You're such a fucking brat, you know that?" He seized him by the hair again, pulling him off his ass and onto his knees in a quick motion that caused him to yelp. "What am I talking about? Of course you know that, just love getting a rise out of me huh?"
He had to brace himself against Swiss' strong thighs as his cheek was pressed to the front of his pants. Already hard just from tossing him around like a fucking ragdoll, it was something hard for him to stomach on days like these, knowing Swiss got so turned on from hurting him. From all the tears and the screams he could ring out of him.
It's because he hates you. It's because you deserve it. Let him have his fun, it's all you're good for.
Dew felt his throat go tight as the words carved themselves into his brain. Facts he needed to accept. This was the only reason any of them kept around after all, something pretty and pathetic they could inflict their frustrations on. It was a novelty that was bound to wear off.
"Hey, idiot, are you fucking listening?" Swiss snapped and Dew tried to will a lie to roll off his tongue but he choked on the syllables. He growled and forced his thumb past his lips, "I said-" and pried his jaws apart with enough force it pulled his whole body forward "open."
Instinct was what made him bite back down. Self preservation stronger than self loathing. Strong enough he could taste blood, he'd knicked skin with one of his fangs.
Swiss hissed and jerked away like he'd been burned, Dew was surprised he hadn't burned him.
"Fucking ingrate!"
For a split second the room spun rapidly, dark spots dotting his vision as his head hit the floor. He stared up at the ceiling as it seemed to distort with the rest of his vision. Swiss was still talking but he sounded like he was a mile away, muffled behind a shrill ringing that rattled between his ears. Dew felt something wet on his face. It was either blood or tears, and neither felt acceptable. He nearly curled in on himself. A pathetic bug under Swiss' boot. He sucked in a breath between his teeth and forced himself upright despite the fact doing so made him feel violently ill.
His cheek stung. His jaw ached. His throat burned.
It wasn't enough. The pain wasn't enough.
"H-Harder-" Dew breathed, bracing his hands on his knees to steady himself. It didn't help. He couldn't look up at Swiss. He didn't deserve to meet his gaze. "Hit me harder." The words clawed themselves out of his mouth desperately and he braced himself for another sharp strike.
But Swiss fell quiet. The floorboards creaked when his weight shifted. Dew squeezed his eyes shut.
Breaking Dewdrop wasn't hard, Swiss could do it with his eyes closed. He played himself off as barbed wire and scalding rock but in reality he was fragile. No better than porcelain on his best days. Dew broke with a sort of predictability. Cleanly. Soft edges. This was anything but clean. More akin to a pane of glass being shattered. Sharp and messy and hazardous.
He was shaking like a leaf.
Swiss felt the fire in him die, ash settling in its place.
How had he been so stupid? So blind to the warning signs?
He sunk to the floor in front of the little ghoul and felt his heart fall when Dew looked up fearfully, but his glassy stare seemed to pass right through him. Like he was waiting for further punishment. He felt sick with himself.
"Baby?" Swiss softened his tone and Dew flinched away from the sincerity. "Can you hear me?"
"Dont-" Dew started before his lower lip trembled and Swiss' chest ached with guilt. "I'm fine."
"No you're not." It wasn't accusatory, a gentle fact. "You're not okay."
"Doesn't matter." His nails were digging into his knees. They'd just about poked through the denim. "Keep going."
"I'm not gonna keep going," Swiss frowned. "Not when something's wrong."
The novelty was gone. Nobody wanted a broken toy.
"Please! Please, I'm fucking sorry just keep-"
"Shh...None of that, angel. None of that...You okay if I touch you?"
Every part of Dew wanted to say no, knowing Swiss was just doing damage control so the fucking dumpster fire of a ghoul didn't set the abbey ablaze, but he nodded. Swiss gathered him up in his arms and before he knew it, his face was buried in the juncture of his neck. His arms held him carefully. Dew couldn't fight off his tears. He'd been trying. He'd been forcing them down dutifully. But a lick of kindness had him crumbling.
"I'm sorry Dew, I should have realized something wasn't right." Swiss' palm rubbed small circles into his back, "I'm so sorry angel, I didn't mean a word of that I promise."
"Don't gotta lie...it's okay if you meant it. I get it."
His voice sounded painfully small and Swiss held him tighter like he might just slip through his fingers if he wasn't careful.
"I didn't, I couldn't, ever mean those things...I love you Dew, to the moon and back, I love you so much..."
Dew bit his lip and tucked himself further against Swiss. Shame crept in, toeing over the aversion, to drown him in disgust. He'd used Swiss as a tool for his own self-destruction. Selfish didn't begin to describe his actions. How Swiss could even stand to look at him, let alone comfort him, made no sense to him.
Even still, Dew clung to him like Swiss was the only thing keeping him together. He clutched at the back of his shirt and let another sob wrack his body.
Swiss only continued to hold him, never once speaking above a whisper.
#void writing#writing#answered#swiss ghoul#multi ghoul#dewdrop ghoul#sodo ghoul#nameless ghouls#the band ghost#the band ghost fanfiction#ghost the band
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DAMAGE DONE FOR KENPACHI SOULMATE CAN YOU IMAGINE THE A N G S T AND CONFUSION
I know ppl who follow this blog have taste because you were the the first of four ppl to ask for this exact combo jdhdjsjs. We are all Kenpachi brain rot compliant.
Features: Cutting/self harm, a real shit start to a relationship, and angst.
Bleach Your Soul: Ask Meme
Kenpachi Zaraki + Damage:
So much of your life was defined by isolation. A patient treated terminal. Everyone paid you the same attention they would a ghost, fleeting smiles and tears that fell over your bed as though it were a grave.
How could you not feel tortured and angry, to be saddled with a soul mate determined to drag you through hell with them? There were times you truly believed were your last. Stabs too close to your guts. Slashes peeling open to far towards your heart.
There was little room in your thoughts to worry about who suffered with you, other than to curse them. Whether they struggled to live or delighted in violence, you didn’t know. You didn’t care. It was hard to care about anything while laying in your deathbed. Through childhood, your heart withered like the flowers always dying on your window sill. If only they’d throw you away for good, as well.
You garnered hobbies to keep busy rather than to enjoy them. Your stitching, calligraphy, and precocious little drawings stained in blood more often than not. The 4th division was your jail. Your soulmate, your warden. Keeping you there, always.
For years, you begged them. Desperate to be heard--to have a modicum of fucking control--, you carved words into your skin. Were they scared the first time you did it? Did they hate it? Did it hurt them?
Vindictive, you hoped all your horrible thoughts were so. When you cut ‘stop. stop. stop. stop.’ you did it on your side and hip, so it would reopen. Again. And again. And again. And--
They never responded. No matter what you wrote. ‘Please stop.’ ‘It hurts.’ ‘Doesn’t it hurt you?’ ‘I hate you.’ ‘Who are you.’ ‘Don’t you care?’ ‘Kill me.’ ‘Die.’ ‘I’m sorry.’
Slowly, then suddenly, the damage that had been near daily stopped for so many years stopped. Your family settled you back in the home, a living urn. They said your name and stroked your cheek and smiled too small when you spoke.
Your skin buzzed with the absence of what had plagued your entire youth. Was it sickness or shame that drove your blade through your skin still? Did you just miss it? Was the violence boiling you alive with no where to spill out anymore?
There were times you swore minuscule nicks would appear, healing too fast to smooth over, but staying long enough to feel. Older, able to be among people, you realized what that could mean. What kind of person you’d told to die as a pithy little tween.
Were they alive--really alive? Did anyone else care or were you the only one?
‘Songbirds.’ ‘Hello.’ ‘Your name?’ ‘Sorry.’ ‘Work sucks.’ ‘Too hot.’ ‘Alive?’ ‘Hotpot.’ ‘Cut words.’ ‘Please.’ ‘Alive?’ ‘Shinigami.’ ‘13th.’ ‘Rank?’ ‘Rukongai?’ ‘I’m sorry.’
@
Retsu Unohana, the only woman he couldn’t quite look in the eye, was there to smile all serene-like over him. After he’d lost. Figures she’d be there when he fucking lost.
She asked him all those annoying questions about how his body felt and told him all the things he needed to heal from. He wanted to shake her like Yachiru did when he wasn’t paying attention enough for her liking. Who gave a shit about all that--he lost and got what he deserved. He had to get stronger. Just because she’d abandoned her pride didn’t mean he would.
“Your soulmate is here, too.”
Kenpachi couldn’t ignore that one. He never ignored that one. Not that they let him, with all their fucking writing. Saying the strangest shit sometimes too.
When he was young, he’d been paranoid, not knowing what the fuck was doing the writing. He’d swing his sword over his calf or side or thigh, expecting to lob and invisible arm off. Running, Kenpachi would try to out pace the fucker.
Yumichika explained it like having one was exciting. Ikkaku had yelped for Yumichika to knock it off as the man with beautifully kept hands had given himself a paper cut.
“See? It means the person you’re meant for feels everything you do on the battlefield.” His colorful eyelids narrowed, sights shifting between his captain and Ikkaku. “Or in the file cabinet, if either of you would bother to help out.”
The more he understood--and thought about it--the less he wanted to meet them. His soulmate. Kenpachi wasn’t a person who forgave weakeness and anyone meant for him wouldn’t either, right?
He’d been consumed by sleepless nights, futile attempts to nap, and brutal training sessions, trying to keep his failures out of mind after the realization. What if Yachiru had been forced to take every blow the same as he had? Whenever he tucked in his lieutenant, the question ate at him further.
With time, there had come some form of solace--one day he’d find the thrill of a horrible battle again, to drown the thoughts out. But what Ichigo Kurosaki had offered hadn’t been horrible in the way he’d imagined. And here he was, face turned away from Unohana’s thinly veiled impatience, his feelings too complicated to bother with fully.
“Well?”
Unohana stood, like she was disappointed and Kenpachi couldn’t help but snap at her, “Fine. Whatever.”
She smiled, soft as she’d gotten, and went to the door. “Fine to what? I only told you they’re here. But if you’re so determined to see them, Captain Zaraki, follow me.”
@
Grumbling about how much he hated ‘that sneaky shit’, Kenpachi did follow her, and went through the door she gestured at before being closed in with your recovering body. Your body hadn’t healed as fast as his, but that wasn’t a surprise--you’d be a captain for sure if you could pull that shit off.
Worst of all, you were awake, the scar lining one side of your face as thick as his own. No one else was in the room with you. There were no flowers or cards. And your mouth was hanging open.
“You’re alive.”
“Yeah well,” Kenpachi didn’t know what to say, trailing off as one of his fingers brushed over his thigh.
“Everyone is talking about your fight,” you said, filling his silence with a light shrug. “I figured it was more than coincidence that I ended up like this at the same time. I’m glad it was you and not the ryoka.”
“You thought that kid was your soulmate?”
“How was i supposed to know? No one’s seen him since your fight, or so they’re saying.”
“The scar’s pretty fucking obvious.”
“Uh, I’ve never seen you before and it’s not like you’re ever in the Seireitei Bulletin or...or wandering around where people could find you!”
Kenpachi winced, not because of your words, but because the closer he got, the more your sweat and shaking arms showed. You must’ve been like this for a lot of your life. A worming feeling of guilt he seldom felt curled in his belly. Now that he had a person to pin to the thought, it swelled large.
Maybe if he were a softer person, someone rounded out like the long gone Yachiru turned Unohana, he’d say something comforting or concerned or even charming. But his hand was still on his thigh and his mounting frustration at himself, all revolving around his lack of strength, felt thick on his tongue.
“This mean you’re gonna stop with the fucking words?”
You pulled your head back slow, looking up at him like you couldn’t decide between succumbing to exhaustion or lunging at him.
“What if I don’t? What if I just keep going till you respond?”
“You’ll keep going until ya die.”
“Well, great! There’s you’re answer,” you scoffed. “You’ll have to kill me.”
It was a shit start, all things considered, and the silence that took over the room as Kenpachi sat on the nearest chair, so hard it almost cracked, felt as horrible as his zanpakuto refusing to answer him.
“The name’s Kenpachi Zaraki,” he said, resolved to at least get your name.
“Yeah, I know.”
“Damn right, you do. Now tell me yours.”
You wouldn’t have introduced yourself if he hadn’t looked so...well, you couldn’t quite tell what he looked like. Tired, maybe. Tired and wanting something.
So you gave him your name, your relief that he was alive, that you hadn’t wished him to his grave in your youth, outweighing your anger. An apology for putting you here was like grasping at the sky and hoping to hold a star, if his reputation proceeded him. So you let it go as best you could.
And Kenpachi settled back in the chair, grunting in acknowledgement. He didn’t think learning your name was gonna make him stronger, but it felt nice to hear someone talking to him like a person and not a beast.
If he was being honest, it’d always felt nice to be given your words, when so many people refused to give him any. A bit awkwardly, he stayed while you fell victim to sleep, your breath slow before he spoke again.
“Thanks.”
#kenpachi zaraki#kenpachi x reader#kenpachi zaraki x reader#bleach imagines#bleach fanfic#kenpachi having to grapple with his love for battle having direct consequences on someone he comes to care for more and more#and reader having to decide if they can move past the fuck ton of harm he's done to them or if they can't make peace with it#especially since he is not going to apologize for it#like lmao Kenpachi you keep calling Unohana a weak coward in your mind but just you wait JUST YOU WAIT#can you bare to lose the only one who loves you when both yachirus are dead and no greater enemy than a god will ever come again#tybw with this au would be pain#bc tbh i don't think reader would make it#unless they were also put in a pod
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A/N: hello!! this request sounds super lit but i am Scared of not writing their dialogue witty enough so imma just try my best! :D i hope you have a nice day as well hehe
genres: fluff, BIG angst, sort of happy ending?, tw death, tw blood and gore; 2k words
divine omniscience [Sukuna X Reader]
“Do you guys think it’s true? What Gojou-sensei said?” Nobara asks out of the blue as she casually munches on a fry that certainly was not from her tray.
“You gotta be more specific, dude,” Yuuji replies, speaking with his mouth half-full of burger. She scrunches her nose at him as she reaches for another one of Megumi’s french fries.
“Y’know when he said all that stuff about Sukuna having only one known trusted companion or whatever. I mean, everything in the texts seems pretty vague, no?”
“Yeah, ‘companion’ is not the kind of word I’d associate with someone like him.” Megumi chips in, pushing his tray closer to the girl sitting opposite him.
“Kinda wanted to ask if they meant it sexually but I swear he’ll just start giggling and wasting our time.”
The three friends continue to chatter on about their theories and interpretations of their earlier class’s contents, all the while completely unaware of the fourth party listening in–the one who is actually most knowledgeable on the topic they’re so oddly curious about.
Or perhaps it would be more accurate to say that you are the one who knows the most, that is if you’re still alive. Though Sukuna doubts you died within the time he was away. You’re too smart for that.
The village chanted, faces obscured behind masks carved from wood and dyed red from the colour of the witch’s blood. Watching from within the shadows, Sukuna felt compelled to observe the ritual, having never felt such a strong surge in cursed energy in his entire existence.
He was proven to have wrongly assumed it was coming from the outraged villagers when they finally set your crucified body alight and a blanket of black cursed energy covered the area, engulfing every single one of the citizens beneath it. Bone-chilling screams and begs for mercy filled his ears, the sound muffled but satisfying to listen to nonetheless.
When the strange turn of events finally came to an end and the energy receded into your bloodied and broken body, the King of Curses himself decided that he’d finally found someone worth his time.
At the end of your torturous life as a human and the start of your existence as a newly born cursed spirit, you were honestly a little too much for Sukuna to handle. Despite having never heard of cursed energy or jujutsu sorcery, you were quick to pick up everything you needed to know and then some.
Not only were you dangerously intelligent, but you were also completely unphased by him and his raw power, no matter how much he made sure to display it–whether it be in the form of exterminating a town of people or setting a forest ablaze with just a snap of his fingers.
“Scared yet?” he would ask, a smug grin on his face. You would smile back without a hint of sarcasm or dishonesty.
“No,” you’d reply without a second thought, “because I know you will never hurt me.”
What Sukuna initially assumed was well-hidden arrogance turned out to be a mere fact you were stating. A piece of truth you’d gained due to the nature of your ever-growing curse technique. Outwardly, the King could deny it all he wanted to, he could threaten you day and night, grab your throat and tighten his grip just to prove you wrong but he would never–has never–done any harm unto you.
When he had come to accept that as the truth, he tried deluding himself into believing he kept you around merely for your wealth of knowledge and powerful supply of cursed energy. Those were, in fact, his reasons at the start of it all–they were why he even walked into the village that fateful day and used his reverse cursed technique on you.
“You can say that all you want,” you once said, reaching up to wipe the blood off his face with your sleeve while the same red substance stained your own skin, “but we both know the main reason you keep me by your side.”
He did not respond.
Instead, he scoffed and grabbed your chin with one hand before raising the other and mimicking your gesture. With an uncharacteristic tenderness, Sukuna wiped the blood off your face with his thumb as the cries of the dying soldiers around you slowly faded to nothing.
“Their name was (Y/N).” His voice echoes shortly within the confines of Yuuji’s dark bedroom.
“What?” the sorcerer blearily murmured, having been on the verge of falling asleep when the King of Curses himself decided to speak.
“My companion… though, they would have preferred the word ‘partner’... was named (Y/N).”
“Why’re you telling me this?” Yuuji groaned, rubbing his eyes.
“The inaccuracies your teachers spread to your friends are painful to listen to,” Sukuna scoffs. “Frankly, it’s insulting and disrespectful.” The cursed spirit’s choice of vocabulary throws his vessel off guard.
“... You must’ve liked them a lot, huh?” Yuuji responds, voice softer than before as he feels his initial frustration of being denied his sleep fading away. “It’s weird to imagine someone like you feeling indignant on someone else’s behalf.”
“Well,” Sukuna smirks to himself, “let’s just say they’re the only one I have any respect for in this godforsaken world.”
“He plans on betraying you,” you stated matter-of-factly, opening your eyes for the first time throughout the entire meeting.
Sukuna had called forth a few powerful cursed spirits under the pretence of forming an alliance, with his true intentions being to simply size them up and subtly intimidate them into leaving his newfound territory alone–if they valued their lives, that is. He didn’t need to tell you of his plans and he knew he didn’t have to for you to understand it completely.
The cursed spirit you’d singled out widened his eyes before his expression turned hostile. “Don’t spout bullshit! I’ve done nothing but agree with everything Sukuna-sama has said!”
Sukuna watched the events unfold silently, unable to help but feel something in his chest swell with warmth as he observed you.
“I know everything.” Your simple reply was enough to enrage the spirit who shot out of his chair and seemingly began to lunge in your direction.
“You fucking wh–!” he cried.
Where his head used to sit was a neck sliced cleanly through the middle as everyone in the room felt a gust of wind brush past their terrified faces. The only outliers were you and the perpetrator of the murder himself, both smiling as one would out on a walk on a pleasant afternoon. His skull bounces twice on the tatami flooring before it disappears alongside his body.
“That was a bit much, don’t you think, Sukuna?” The other cursed spirits practically break out in a cold sweat upon hearing you so daringly speak to the King of Curses after such a display of his power.
“That was merciful, my dear,” he responded casually, reaching out a clean hand to wipe away the droplets of blood that had reached your face. Still touching you, he turned to the others. “Does anyone else have anything to say?”
“No, they’re terrified,” you laugh when they fail to respond, all still shaking where they sat.
“Good–”
“Of me.”
He scrunches his nose and softly pushes your face away but a smile still creeps onto his face as he thinks to himself, ‘as they should be.’
Nobara and Megumi would find it hard to believe had the information not come directly from Yuuji’s mouth, as well as the additional mouth that had unceremoniously popped up on his cheek mid-conversation.
“You’re saying everything wrong!” Sukuna had exclaimed after making his appearance and refusing to leave until Yuuji had gotten all the facts right.
When he was finally satisfied, he still didn’t leave right away, sensing the two sorcerers wanted to know more. “Well?” He prompts. “Just ask your fucking questions already, we don’t have all day.”
“If you put it like that… then I’ll just ask it as it is and you’re not allowed to get all pissy, ‘kay?” Nobara responds. Megumi and Yuuji share a nervous glance.
“How’re you so sure they’re not dead?”
He wished he hadn’t left you on such a bad note; that he didn’t spit at your feet and push you away when you tried to stop him from leaving the temple in which you both sought refuge. He wished he’d at least bade you a proper farewell and that his last words to you didn’t consist of him questioning your abilities just so he could keep his ego intact.
As Sukuna laid dying, surrounded by Japan’s most powerful sorcerers, he realised, finally, that he would never see you again; or feel your hand wipe at his face after another victorious battle.
For the first time in his life, the King of Curses shed a tear.
The braver sorcerers scoffed, some even taunted him, assuming he was merely afraid of death, whereas the warier ones hesitated in approaching him to deliver the final blow, taken aback by the uncharacteristic gesture. Still, with his immense cursed energy forming a protective barrier around him as a last resort, the sorcerers hadn’t won the battle quite yet.
A few minutes later, in fact, they lost it.
Sukuna remains silent, pondering over Nobara’s question. As promised, he didn’t show his anger and hid his grief even better. Truth be told, he doesn’t know if you’re alive.
“I told you not to go,” you spoke, voice trembling as you rested his head in your lap, your hands wiping the blood off his face. “I told you you’d die, didn’t I? Why didn’t you listen? Why?”
The sound of your soft sobs mingled with the noise from outside the pitch-black barrier you’d placed around the both of you. The sorcerers who survived your ambush were chipping away at your cursed energy shield and it was only a matter of time before they would break through.
“Even after all I said to you before I left,” Sukuna murmurs, relishing in the feeling of your skin against his, “this is what you choose to scold me over?” He let out a weak chuckle.
“I know of your grief and regret, I know you’re sorry and I’ve long forgiven you.”
“Thank you, my (Y/N).” He turned his head to press his lips against your palm for the final time. “Now go. You have to escape before the damned sorcerers force their way in.”
“No.” Your defiant tone juxtaposed with your tear stricken face amused him. “I’ll be here to see you off and then I’ll kill them all.” You leaned forward to kiss his forehead. “I’ll wait for your return, my love.”
When Sukuna refused to answer Nobara’s question and promptly disappeared, the trio assumed that was the end of it all. As much as they wanted to leave the information behind them, they still find themselves talking about it as they wait in line at a new sushi place that opened near the school.
“Kinda weird he was so insistent on telling us everything, huh?” Yuuji remarks.
“I highly doubt that was close to everything, though.” Megumi scratches the back of his head. “It felt like he was withholding a lot, like when he didn’t answer Nobara’s question.”
“Yeah, that was pretty lame,” she says with a pout. “I really wanna know if they’re alive or not. I mean, their whole story was pretty interesting but imagine how scary it’ll be if (Y/N) was still alive and in Japan after all this time.”
“Table for three, please,” Yuuji says to the staff at the counter once it’s their turn. They stare at him for a brief moment before a happy yet somehow sinister smile stretches across their face. The jujutsu sorcerer feels his blood run cold as he feels Sukuna suddenly begin to vie for control over his body.
“Finally,” you whisper, body and soul flooded with sheer relief as tears run down your face. You reach your hand out to touch Yuuji’s face and though he tries his very hardest to turn away and run, he finds his body frozen in place. “I’ve been waiting for you, my love.”
#jjk#jujutsu kaisen#jujutsu kaisen x reader#sukuna#ryomen sukuna x reader#sukuna x reader#imagines#scenarios#fluff#angst#somewhat happy ending#tw death#tw blood and gore
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Hey! Could you do a Regulus fluff with the prompt 17. “This reminded me of you.”
from a boy, to a man
regulus black x fem!reader
summary: regulus finds his way back to you after destroying the horcruxes.
word count: 2.0k
warnings: mentions of self harm (bleeding, scratching, scabs), insinuations of depression, mentions of anxiety, self hatred, poor mental health/not taking care of ones self, angst-fluff
a/n: amelia amelia i wanna kiss u thank u sm for helping me baby @fives-cup-of-coffee
dark stygian swirls. the infinite markings submerged in his pallid sickly flesh that had healed prolongingly into a lustre of peach. but the black branding lay delineated, every curvature, every edge lay as detailed as when it had first been cursed into his complexion.
the relevance of scrubbing his nails against the dermis until it scalded the nerve endings in his left forearm had become insignificant. the carmine scabs fading over time but the reminder of his baleful past prompting his memory.
the branding was the only thing that could make him clutch his arm in a bashful sense. yet the only talisman evoking his senses to remain his strong demeanour was the minuscule silver-plated band that lay on his thumb tightly.
jewelry. it was your familiarity.
necklaces, rings, earrings, they all somehow coordinated with you, your essence. something complimentary to you complexion, soothing important to your family as they were heirs.
when strolling the corridors you received the compliments, it was rather flattering. it was something people began to notice over some time, but you never had owned a bracelet. it was common to own bracelets such as heirlooms but you had never received such an entity until the age of eleven.
august 28th, 1971
the sun was fading into the familiar evening hues of feverish vermillion and a slow fading shade of apricot blending into the sky. the prelude to dawn at its beginning while you gaped at it intensely, the fresh pricks of grass hitting your bottom under the shell-pink dress you had been dressed in as well as the small gusts of wind looming through the air as a small reminder of where you had been rather than slipping into your mind into an abyss of daydreams.
the wind began to increase, hitting the delicacy of your skin. the little nips at your skin producing a small shiver from the curvature of your spine to the muscles in your legs. the moment was serene, like something you read about in fairytale books about a princess awaiting her prince, almost silent. until a faint boyish voice had interrupted the tranquillity.
“’ve got a gift for you.”
your body slightly sprung at the sound interrupting the deep prolonged silence. You began to crane your neck behind you, a short boy awaiting for you to glimpse at him, your eyes were met with deep aquamarine irises that swirled in the hues of virescent green and cerulean blue. a small twinkle found carved into his irises in them at your attention.
“regulus,” you muttered, viewing as the boy sat next to you with something particularly large clutched in his hand.
he held up a gold circlet with intricate detailing that had been engraved in the brass item. as well as an emerald gem placed directly in the centre. the main focus of the bracelet, if you will. your brows began to force together into a pronounced frown, your optics glancing from his digits clutched around the object to his features, his shell-pink lips fixed into a quirk as well as a small gleam of virtue flaring in his irises
“what’s this for?” you began to query, taking the rather dense manacle into your palm and staring at it for a moment. “it’s a bracelet, i know that you don’t have any so i got you one.” he retorted faintly, a small sense of pride and adoration swelling in his belly. but he wasn't of age to particularly identify those feelings yet.
“think of it as a present, before school starts.”
your face steadily began to upturn at his endeavours, a scramble of letters trying to escape the cavern of your mouth in a enliven venture to thank him for his doting thoughts about you.
the memory becomes a slow fading blear as recollects his thoughts and narrows his eyes in a sneer at his maimed reflection. the caliginous imprint taunting regulus through the obstruct mirror, his hand beginning to clutch over the mantle flesh ensuing the laceration that had been flung under the downpour of searing water minutes prior.
he recollected every detailed moment of that night, the way your eyes glimpsed at the bracelet every couple of seconds in elation. even at eleven years old in a floral shell-pink dress, in the distance you looked so angelic. he didn't know as an eleven-year-old boy and now only loathed himself for realizing so much later in life.
following his departure, he had glimpsed down at the silver ring that was clung onto his thumb that you had gifted following the bracelet, a ring he had to move around several fingers till it fit perfectly again. this incident similar to a parallel between scenarios. the small band holding himself together in a way that couldn't be understood by another.
the girl he had loved, adorned, the girl that was now a woman who had let him weep into her shoulder, the woman who made sure that he would take care of his body to keep it in a healthy state, the girl that was now a woman that would cheer for him amid his quidditch games till her throat was raw, the girl who was now a woman whom he still had loved wasn’t there to clutch onto his arm and whisper to him that everything was going to be alright.
the subconscious that laid embedded into your skull was subsequently pivoting in rapid twists till it was firmly knotted without anymore pondering to be completed. the footprint of where the boy had once been subtly faded without a trace as to where, the boy who grew into a man with mangled black tendrils that sat in entangled twists, the man with a structured jaw whilst he was old enough to spew out curse words to his mother, the boy who was now a man who you loved had vanished beneath your fingertips without a trace.
the man that was once a boy had taken a vow that potentially concluded his life and vanished for, ‘your safety,’ as he pronounced before departing from your vapid figure. the last i love you escaping from his lips as a final message in case it would be the last time you would hear it from him.
then you became alone, all fucking alone.
he huffed whilst pacing almost becoming nauseated, crackling at his knuckles due to the submerging coarse of anxiety running thickly through his blood. it was enough to swivel into the crevices of his spine and sprawl into his brain like sporadically placed letters in an intense game of pool, his mind configuring ways on how to address you after almost a year of his blatant absence.
the minuscule of a second he had after the duration of his completed mission, regulus had ventured to find almost every piece of detailed information that had been absent in his mind for the last ticking days where he hadn’t spoken to you. almost as if he hadn’t played the recurrent memory of you laughing at his foolish jokes in the slytherin common room in the deep hours of the night following a few hushed whispers, in a recurrent loop to the point where he could recall every faint characteristic that you had worn with pride.
your thumbs were absentmindedly twiddling in an abyss-like daydream, similar to the ones you had as a young girl, the collision of decrepit wood and firm knuckles splintering the perpetuating silence that had sunken depressingly into your flat. a look of puzzlement contorted onto your features, you paused and speculated as to whom was at your apartment as you weren't used to having such visitors.
opting to leisurely trudge to the door in exhaustion, the door had revealed regulus arcturus black with an ivory box clutched in his hand and a nervous grin quirked on his lips. you stopped, taken back for a moment. a revelling thought peering into your conscious mind to ultimately shut the door closed and pretend this moment, the moment that you had dreamed of till the early hours in the morning wasn’t occurring. instead, grappling at his hand and pulling him into a close-knit embrace till you could feel like hast respires in his chest along with the palpitating beats of his trembling heart against your sternum.
he sighed in relief, his hands melding into the curvature of your waist. the tension in your frame gradually disentangling from the days that had surpassed without the boy who was now a man, a man with a sallow complexion and sickly carved features stood in front of you with now a tearful grin that was almost quivering awaiting forgiveness that he was frightful he would never receive.
“what have you done to yourself, regulus?” your hands melded into the sharp curvature of his cheeks, the balmy embrace of your hands warming his figure like a camper that had created fire without months of warmth. his optics began to gape at the floor of your flat, ignoring your question with the clearness of his throat.
“nevermind me, this reminded me of you.” he clarified while bringing the box into your viewpoint. “regulus.” you pardoned him but taking a grasp on the box and setting it down on the oak-wood table with a small ‘clink.’
“what’s happened to you— why didn’t you come back for me?”
“i was scared, i didn’t want to leave you. i promise you that, i just— i didn’t want to come back and you would hate me.” regulus confessed with a stutter, a mild nervous tic he had obtained when he was young. as well as when he ventured to drag his slender fingers between his swoop of curls but found it rather difficult as they were mangled together.
you frowned disquietly. the boy that had endured your whines, and your tantrums as to when a fifth-year hufflepuff had ticked you off rather irritatingly. the boy who was now a man, whom you had loved, and he knew you had loved. continued to think that you had hated him when that had been opposite.
"I don't hate you, reg. I never have, I don't think you can hate the person i love the most." his hands fell back in place to the contour of your waistline, the palms of his hands steadily dragging themselves in a comforting motion while your fingers delicately pushed into his hair.
“your hairs a mess, reg,” you observed with a sated smile, the smallest of a chuckle escaping his lips after his mouth had almost been sewn shut by voldemort himself. the thought of regulus laughing could’ve turned heads now because of how unusual and unfamiliar the sound was. but it was the same child-like giggle he expressed on the hogwarts train several years ago.
“yeah,” he chuckled again, louder this time. he felt the small indulging swirls coming up from his eyes, the downpour of tears almost cascading down his cheeks before he brought his digits to slide them across his sockets, “brush it for me? like old times?”
he wasn’t sad anymore, he didn’t feel dejected, he didn’t feel the urge to lay in a bed that was poorly made with creased sheets and never get up again, the tears threatening his face were delightful ones. they were tears of elation, that the girl who was now a woman had remainingly loved him.
he was home, an unfamiliar concept now wrapping him in an unyielding enclasp. regulus was home.
he sat upon a bench, looking at a reflection no longer splintered with guilt, or narrowing eyes. his eyes moved in an upward motion, his irises seeing the way you languidly dragged a brush through his tuffs and a small smile quirking at your lips.
“i love you, too. i didn’t want you to think i forgot.”
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and he sees dawn before the rest of the world
or: a fucked up little au of 200. intended to be unsettling so just be warned
warnings for: unreality (i think that’s the appropriate term? please lmk if not), implied self harm, fucked up relationship dynamics; lmk if i should tag anything else
Bzzzt! Bzzzt! Bzzzt!
“Ugh, five more minutes,” Martin hissed, throwing an arm across his face, as though he could stop the barrage of sound just by covering his eyes. His alarm was unsympathetic to his whinging, continuing to scream its daily mourning dirge, grieving the end of another period of blessed rest. “Fine, fine! I’m getting up, christ…”
He reached clumsily for the phone on his bedside table, only for his fingers to scrabble uselessly around the ghost of its presence. He was momentarily so stymied by the absence that it took him longer than it should’ve to remember that he’d moved it to his desk, to prevent him from giving into the temptation to hit the snooze button just one more time.
Letting out another slew of curses, Martin shuffled onto his other side and reached for
A jaw-cracking yawn near split Martin’s face in two as he hunched over the gleaming tea kettle, steam beginning to pour from the spout. He shuffled his feet, eyes meandering sightlessly over the cow-shaped mug drying on the counter, the cluster of crumbs that he must’ve missed when cleaning up after dinner last night.
He hated mornings. Maybe it was the preemptive dread he felt at the thought of going to work; maybe it was because he hated having to be upright this early in the morning. Either way, he felt strangely disconnected from his morning routine, each motion carried out with habitual, distant efficiency as his thoughts raced along like a hamster on a wheel just below the surface.
It...was a bit silly for him to be worried about work, though. The stuff he was doing was interesting, and he had the loveliest coworkers a guy could ask for. They’d even offered to teach him a thing or two about artifact restoration once they learned the truth about his CV.
He drew himself up to his full height and rolled his shoulders back, clouded sigh mingling with the fog from the boiling water. Things were going well. Hell, he was actually going to get top surgery sometime in the next year or so, which was amazing considering his teenage self would’ve laughed at the very idea of being out.
There was no reason to dread going to work.
Martin carefully poured the water into the mug, letting the tea steep before adding a splash of milk and sugar. When he picked the mug up, the heat from the tea had bled into the ceramic, so warm as to be uncomfortable against the delicate skin of his palms. He didn’t let go, just kept on gripping the mug, like trying to contain the last gasp of a dying star.
Martin stared around his kitchen. The waterstains on the inside of the cow mug slowly evaporating into the still air; the crumbs that had sat there for who knows how long. The empty, blank face of his fridge.
Martin lifted the mug, and steam collected on his glasses as his breath wafted over the surface of the tea. He drew away, waiting for the lenses to clear, before leaning in for another sip.
His reflection stared back at him, a monochrome facsimile of his face rimmed in white smoke, and he recoiled, the mug slipping from
Working nine to five, what a way to make a living…
Martin stared out the window, his hand pillowed in the palm of his hand as Dolly Parton crooned in his ears. Split second by split second, he let his eyes catch on a point in the darkened surroundings, only letting his vision blur into incoherence when that fixed point whipped out of sight. It was a game he sometimes played when he got bored of reading or playing cards on his phone.
The old woman across from him let out a quiet grunt and shuffled, drawing his attention back inside the train. She was a gnarled old thing, bowed by the gravity of grief and time and life, though Martin couldn’t say for certain whether it was one well-lived.
Barely getting by, it’s all taking and no giving...
That was the thing about people watching: Martin was never quite sure if it was disrespectful to make assumptions about a person’s life based on a passing glimpse. He could never be sure if the person with the grumpy expression had a foul attitude, or if they were just a kind person on the tail-end of a truly awful day.
The old woman was knitting though, and Martin generally found it safe to assume that knitters were nice people.
For a moment he thought about taking out his headphones and striking up a conversation; the pattern looked devilishly complicated, and as a beginning knitter, he always appreciated tips. There was an unfinished set of fingerless green gloves in the back of his closet; it was easy for hands to get cold in the Archives, and the color suited
“Alright, Martin?”
Martin startled, his pen clattering to the floor. He looked up to find Sasha perched on the edge of his desk, grinning like the cat who’d just eaten the canary. Or, he thought she was. His eyes kept skittering from one corner of her face to the other, like a smooth stone skipping across a lake.
“Uh…” Frowning slightly, he let his gaze travel over the shelves of books, the humming lights, his cluttered workstation. He removed his glasses so he could rub at his aching eyes, and let out a deep sigh. Probably just the stress. “Yeah—yeah! Sorry, I’ve been distracted all morning.”
Martin got the impression of Sasha’s grin being tempered with genuine concern. “I’m sorry to hear that. Is everything okay?”
“I think so. Just...work, and my mum…” he gave an expansive you know sort of gesture at life in general. “Thank god the weekend’s coming. Anyway, is there something I can help you with?”
“Well, I was going to ask if you wanted to come get drinks with Mel and Tim and I after work, but…” She cut him a meaningful glance, the bottomless holes where her eyes should be boring bright spotlights into the back of his skull. “We’d understand if you’re not feeling up to it.”
“Is Georgie coming?”
Sasha shrugged. “Probably. Mel didn’t say so, but they’ve been all over each other since they started dating.”
Martin laughed. “True.” Tried to gauge how he was feeling, whether or not he was up to a night of socializing. You should go, a strangely posh little voice murmured in the back of his head, and he found himself saying, “Actually yeah, I would like to come. I could use a night out.”
Sasha clapped him on the shoulder, and the impact rattled through him like a gong being struck. The echoes of it vibrated all the way down to his toes. “Excellent.”
Martin hesitated, and then, not entirely sure of what he was asking, “What about J
“Thanks for waiting with us,” Georgie said, smiling beatifically up at him. Passed out on her shoulder, Melanie let out a drunken snuffle and curled over, like she was thinking of climbing through the spaces of Georgie’s ribcage and sleeping in her chest cavity forever.
“Not a problem,” Martin replied, scratching the back of his neck.
To be honest, waiting with her was as much for his benefit as theirs. At first, he’d thought it was just stress; now, he was very sure that something was wrong. It wasn’t anything specific, or even bad; more like there was a sepia camera filter tinting the world dusty and nostalgic.
After his third drink, he’d looked into Tim’s laughing face and thought he might burst into tears. And he still didn’t know what Sasha was supposed to look like.
But he didn’t want to worry her, so he just bit his lip and rocked back and forth on his heels, even though the motion made his head spin that much worse.
(Maybe he needed to take a couple of days off. Have a lie-in. But that would—that would delay his work. The Institute’s work. Delays were bad; he felt strongly enough about that to carve it directly into his skin so that he’d never forget. He could roll down his sleeve and take a peek at it whenever his motivation slipped, like checking a watch for the time.)
For lack of anything else to say, he nodded toward Melanie. “She’s really out, huh?”
“She’s always been a lightweight.” Her tone was wry, but her eyes were soft and fond as she brushed Melanie’s bangs back from her face. “Never gets hungover though, the lucky bastard.”
“The nerve!” Martin said, affecting offense, which sent them right into another giggling fit.
Once he got his breath back, Martin mentioned offhand, “You know, considering how similar they are, I’m surprised that her and J̷̧̱̜͕͕̤͉̣̺̺̝͖̠̹̜͙̣͉̩̺̤̟͉͓̞̹̗́̆̂̋͆̊̎́͂̑͋̌͊͘̚͠ͅo̶̧̨͕̖͔̬̖̝̪͚̻̟̠̜̣̰̅n̶̥̉́̎͑̀͂͆̿̾͛̾̔̐͌́̅̂͂̒̆̐́͊̄̾̍̅̅͝
“Stop it!” Martin screamed, grabbing the mug from the counter and throwing it across the room. It shattered against the wall, scattering shards of ceramic across the floor. “I know
“What you’re doing,�� Martin gripped the bathroom counter, ignoring the persistent ringing of his alarm, staring deeply into his reflection, “Stop it, stop it, nononon̴̡̡͚̮̠͙̻͔͎͈̜̓̈́̈́͜͜ͅǫ̸̯̠̱̖̲͙͍͎͒̇̑͒ṅ̶̨̩̳̩̝̹̳͎͈̬̦͆́̈́́͐̏̈́̕͝͝o̸̡̻̱̗̥̮̙̳̞͗̄͋̈́̀͝n̸̢̛̟͙̘̱̩͕̦̫̤̮͆͑̊͋́̂̽͜o̶̘̱̗̘̘͑̿͜ņ̶̥̞̠͕͓̠͔͚̮͈̬͕̀͗̄̓͑͑͛̕ͅő̸̮̫̓͌̾̌͋́̂̏̒̃̃̄̚n̵̗̫͕̺̻͔̭͖̉͒͗̀̈́̃̅o̴͓͉͉͗͋̎̕—”
“Shhh, it’s okay. I’m sorry, it’s okay—”
“No!” Martin shrieked, shoving Jon’s hands away, skittering backward across the broken and cracked stones of the Panopticon. Through the arched windows, the sky was a poisonous green and black, and multitudes of eyes orbited the room, watched his every movement with sickening fascination. “Just—stop.”
Luminous gaze weary and resigned, Jon did as he was bid, dropping back onto his heels.
Rubbing sweat and grime and tears from his face, breathing harshly through his mouth, Martin took a moment to remember where he was, why he was here. It always took a moment for everything to come back.
As though unable to keep silent any longer, Jon asked, “So what was it this time?”
“Don’t,” Martin hissed, dragging his hands through his greasy hair.
Though his expression went mulishly annoyed, Jon raised his hands placatingly, a silent, alright, you win. It was a familiar gesture, one that he’d done so many times while they were living in Scotland, while they were traveling the devastated landscape of the apocalypse. It made Martin ache for when things were simpler, when his heart didn’t just feel like one big bruise.
He gently set the thought aside, and turned a more assessing eye on the Panopticon. Normally the changes were insignificant, but something thick and red and black had started to coil around the windows, weaving in and out of the floor, cracking the stonework. Martin traced the strange things with his eyes, frowning—
“Christ, Jon,” he whispered in horrified realization. “Are...are those corpse roots?”
Jon bobbed his head. “They’ve long since overtaken the rest of London. It’s just us, now.”
Martin sucked in a long, frustrated breath through his teeth. There was no point trying to talk any sense into Jon, not after so long, and force would only result in immediately getting kicked back into that horrible dream world.
“And the others?”
Jon shrugged, tracing the cracks in the earth with his fingers. “Still alive, and living happily in the dream I made for them.” He didn’t say, unlike you, but the implication was so loud he might as well have screamed it.
“Shut up,” Martin muttered, pushing to his feet and limping to one of the windows.
Corpse roots, as far as the eye could see. They covered the city of London in a blanket of tangled black, so thick that it was impossible to see the buildings beneath.
“Was it worth it?” he asked, sagging against the side of the window, too tired to be angry.
When the silence persisted a second too long, Martin turned around to find Jon with his head tilted back, examining the corpse roots consuming what had once been the Beholding’s seat of power, expression distant and thoughtful. The eyes, ever-watching, never understanding, drifted closer, greedily drinking in the sight.
When Martin realized that Jon wasn’t planning on answering, he let out another sigh, ruffled his bangs away from his face, and said, “You’re never there.”
Jon’s gaze snapped to him with a laser-edged focus. “Sorry?”
“If you’re going to trap me in a dream,” Martin said, each syllable clipped and precise, “You could at least be there.”
Like it always did, Jon’s face crumpled, and he looked away. “...I don’t deserve it.”
“Oh, we’re well past that and you know it!” Martin shrieked, striking his fist against the stone. “You made your fucking decision to damn the world, to hell with whatever we thought, the least you could do is stop hiding behind your pointless guilt and act like this is what you actually want!”
It would’ve been better, if Jon had simply become drunk with power and was no longer listening to reason. The fact that he’d made this same decision every single day with clear, unclouded eyes and sound judgement—as Jon the human, rather than Jon the lynchpin of the apocalypse, pupil of the Eye—made Martin want to scream.
“I do want it!” Jon snapped back, then quieter, “I do.” He looked up at the corpse roots again, eyes going misty. “I just—I should witness every second of misery and pain that I’m causing. I don’t deserve to just...forget.”
Wind snapped and howled around them like a creature mad with rage, and Martin idly wondered what would happen to this world once Jon died. If it would all go back to the way it had been before, or if the shell of the apocalypse would remain until the end of time, a corpse husk of a reality warped beyond repair.
“You shouldn’t have to experience this alongside me though,” Jon continued, rallying. “So I would really appreciate it if you’d stop breaking your dreams.”
“Tough,” Martin snapped back, folding his arms obstinately over his chest.
“You could be happy!” Jon reiterated, stabbing his index finger into the palm of his hand. “You could just...live your life! Forget! There’s no point in being here.”
“It’s a deal, remember? Where you go, I go. Fuck you very much, but I don’t break my promises.”
Jon stared at him for one beat, then another—and then promptly burst out laughing, his whole body shaking with the force of it. Martin stared at him, utterly bewildered, as the laughing slowly began to dissolve into desperate, heaving sobs, as he began rocking back and forth, arms wrapped around himself in a mockery of comfort.
“I miss you,” Jon gasped out, half-crazed. “So much. I miss you every day even though you’re right in front of me. But I can’t go to you, because I don’t deserve to, not when I’m the one who trapped you here. I’m everything that’s wrong with the world. I always have been.”
“Jon,” Martin sighed, low and tired.
Jon buried his face into his knees. “No, you shouldn’t—you shouldn’t forgive me just because you pity me, that’s not what I—I don’t—”
“Who said anything about forgiveness?” Martin shook his head. “Fine. You’re an asshole, and I hate you. But it’s like I said.” He gestured toward the Panopticon, the roots, the poisonous sky. “When has deserving ever mattered?”
Jon lifted his face from his knees, though his gaze stayed rooted to the floor. “...I suppose.”
“Right,” Martin agreed. “I’ve accepted that you’re not going to change your mind, but...at the very least, I don’t want to die alone. So can you please just…”
There was a long, weighted pause.
They’d had arguments like this what felt like hundreds of times before. Martin begging for Jon to change his mind, Jon refusing with that same resigned, determined expression on his face, before sending Martin back into his dreams.
Maybe it was because Martin wasn’t asking him to change his mind this time. Maybe it was because they were so close to the end of all things, and soon they’d be the last two people on earth. Maybe it was because Jon was tired, had been for so, so long, and he had won anyway, so there was no point in fighting any longer.
“Alright,” Jon whispered.
…
…
...
Bzzzt! Bzzzt! Bzzzt!
“Ugh, five more minutes,” Martin hissed, throwing an arm across his face.
Somewhere in the far distance, the toilet flushed. A moment later, a pair of feet padded lightly into the room, hesitated at the edge of the bed, and then made their way over to the desk. The alarm abruptly went silent.
Martin uncovered his eyes and grinned up at Jon as he tentatively slid back between the covers, every movement careful and deliberate, like he was reading stage directions from a script.
“Look at Mr. Workaholic, having a lie-in,” Martin teased, pulling Jon into his arms and inhaling the scent of his coconut shampoo. “Must be the end of the world, or something.”
Jon stiffened for just a moment, before turning around and burying his face into Martin’s chest. “Or something.”
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Please please please, may i please request a prussia/reader drabble (oneshot?? what ever is easier for you honestly) for the prompt: “Every atom of your flesh is as dear to me as my own: in pain and sickness it would still be dear.”?? thank you so much and i love your writings <3
Hello, Lovely~ Wanted to thank you for your patience. Couldn't quite get the perfect scene in mind till about 1:14 am this morning. Hope you enjoy, and thank you for the request!
In a world that never seemed to rest, tranquility had become an elusive mistress, an antiquated ideal that was valuable for its rarity alone. There were many who would never find such a thing, or would be cursed with just a brief glimpse before it slipped away once more, never to return.
Tranquility was a gift, and you had been blessed in multitudes.
A light breeze was rustling the pines towering above you, scents of the nearby stream, forget-me-nots, and the wisps of smoke from the campfire dancing with it.
So tucked away from everything, you couldn't hear any engines, noisy neighbors, or- most fortunately- the impatient pings from your cell demanding your attention.
It was quiet, as quiet as Nature could be when one is sitting near a babbling brook, their swing squeaking on hinges decades older than themselves, birds of all ages serenading the small patches of sunlight reaching the forest floor.
Your foot trailed along the ground beneath you, a path carving in the soil from the steady back-and-forth of the old wooden swing, your head resting comfortably against Gil's chest.
He had one arm loosely draped on the back of the swing, the other extended as he read his paperback, folded over itself to spare himself a little freedom.
You shifted slightly, just a little, and he instinctively followed, adjusting the blanket across your legs and shifting his own to accommodate your new position, all without once removing his attention from the page.
It was approaching midday, and while you had both agreed on a short hike to visit some waterfall or other, you were finding you had no desire to leave just yet, perfectly content and cozy as you were.
You let yourself relax further, eyes closing as you rested your cheek against his chest, listening to the steady refrain of his heartbeat.
The familiar, unconscious dance of fingers against your upper arm made you smile, his decision to shift his free arm almost as reflexive as your decision to open your palm and rest it directly over his heart.
In a time not so long ago, the very thought of being alone in the same room as him would have been laughable, and now you were alone together in some ancient hunting cabin, leagues away from civilization, and completely at peace.
It struck you in that moment just how ingrained he was into your life, your sphere, your thoughts. You never could have anticipated this level of intimacy, and the unexpected epiphany of just how vulnerable that made you left you reeling.
"It kind of scares me sometimes," the words slipped out in a sigh, a wisp of a murmur that faded as easily as woodsmoke. They hadn't even been loud enough to disturb a trio of hares near the truck, and when several moments passed, you were beginning to hope Gil hadn't heard them at all.
It was more a rumbling than a fully coherent query that finally answered you, his eyes still firmly affixed to the Greek text before him. "What's that?"
Without fully lifting your head, you shifted your angle, giving you the chance to study his features- the small indents on his nose from wearing his glasses so much the past week, the single, nearly invisible freckle just by his left eye, the patch of chapped skin on his lower lip, the intoxicating and inexplicable gradients of indigoes and crimsons in his irises.
He hid nothing from you, every perceived flaw and weakness completely at your mercy. And to know that he could see through all of your own barriers, knew you in-and-out more than you perhaps knew yourself-
But there was trust there, and something so strong that- even years after first naming it, after first defining it, exploring it, embracing it- still left you breathless, still rendered you speechless.
For a moment, it did exactly that, overwhelming you in a wave of emotion so strong that you could scarcely think in the face of it.
But it was a familiar feeling, one so commonplace that you simply sighed again, letting it settle over you like an additional blanket, warmth settling in your veins as you relaxed once more.
"It scares me sometimes how in love I am with you." You traced a pattern with your finger against his shirt, eyes focused on the lupine family enjoying vegetable scraps from the night before. "It scares me how vulnerable you make me feel."
But no. Scared wouldn't be quite the right word for how this vulnerability made you feel. Intimidated, perhaps?
Irregardless, it was such a good feeling, so freeing to be so fully exposed to someone, to know they saw the worst of you and still-
He was resting his head against your own, silence patiently resting between you, the quiet of the forest yet again remaining undisturbed. He had even ceased powering the swing, apart from a small movement with his toes that was likely from his muscle spasms than anything else. You let yourself relax fully, because no matter how suddenly and aggressively this wave of realization had swept you away in its riptide, he would always keep you safe, always anchor you in the face of whatever storms may come.
"You know it's a two-way street, right?"
As if further testament to his knowing you, the words went straight to the core of it all, exposing his own vulnerability to you, proving just how much he had placed his faith in you.
What a perilous place to be, putting so much faith and trust and hope and care and control in someone else's hands, wholeheartedly believing that they will never bring you any harm, that-
"You're not going to leave me, right?"
The question was so sudden, so unexpected, that you took yourself by surprise, not accounting for the deep, tired exhale of the man so gently holding you. "How could you even ask that?"
You started to try taking it back, wishing for all the world you could keep your thoughts more thoroughly reined in, but he was plowing ahead, the arm that had been resting on the swing coming around you, fingers slipping in between your own. "Do you really think I could leave you?"
By all accounts, yes. Yes he could.
His claim to immortality was shaky at best, and there was no guarantee that he wouldn't get bored of you, that someone pushing near 1,000 would wake up one morning and realise that-
"Where the Hell is all of this coming from anyway?"
You gave it a half a moment of thought, and soon found yourself melting in defeat. "I wish I had an answer, but I honestly have no idea."
He resumed his earlier motion, putting the swing back into a steady glide. When he spoke again, it was as if he were reaching across centuries, finding just the right words out of billions to try to comfort you. "To quote some book I read in some teahouse somewhere quite a long ass time ago: 'Every atom of your flesh is as dear to me as my own.'" Here he paused, a good six seconds of silence as he rooted himself once more to the present, voice lowering to a whisper. "Leaving you? Losing you? It would be like losing a part of myself, like losing the best parts of myself."
He paused again, a seriousness that was only just familiar to you making an appearance, a depth to his words that made your toes curl. "I was lost for centuries, Schatz, never realizing or accepting just how alone I was, how fucked up I was. I waited for you for ages, and didn't even know how badly I needed you until I finally met you. It was like everything I had done, everything I had gone through, suddenly made sense. You were- are- the very thing I was fighting so hard for."
For claiming to have not a hint of romance in him, he still always seemed to have the perfect strategy for disarming you, for charming you, for leaving you even more infatuated with him than you were mere minutes before.
But this pedestal that he had carved for you, these expectations-
"I'm only human, Gil."
"I know," he murmured.
"I could still get sick-"
"I know," he sighed.
"Or hurt-"
"I know," he growled.
"Or di-"
"I know!"
His exasperation was so unexpected that you swore the whole world had frozen around you, as if the tranquility of the forest had finally been disturbed.
But no-
Everything was still exactly as should be; it was only your surprise that had affected your perception.
In actuality, his interjection had been scarcely more than a rasp, so damaging to you alone as it cut straight through to your soul, piercing through what little armor you still had against him.
He squeezed your hand, an apology conveyed simply through touch, an armistice accepted and strengthened through reciprocation. "'Every atom of your flesh is as dear to me as my own,'" came the quiet refrain, each syllable accented through the dance of his thumb against your palm, each syllable a soft breath that tickled your scalp. You expected him to stop there, his point well made, but soon enough he was murmuring again, words nearly a hum. "'In pain and sickness they would still be dear.'"
You couldn't place the words- who knew if a copy of that book even existed anymore- but it didn't matter. They were exactly what you had needed, the balm for a restiveness that you hadn't even known was plaguing you till a few moments ago. And what's more, you never knew Gilbert to exaggerate, not when it came to matters of the heart. He knew no other option than complete sincerity, maddening some days, endearing most others.
Thoughts shifting, comfort once more reestablished, you shifted slightly, turning your attention to the few clouds you could see through the canopy. "Every atom, huh?"
There was a huff of a laugh, an accentuated exhale that highlighted his exasperation, but the amusement in his reply was tempered by fondness, highlighted with a small kiss above your ear. "Every proton, neutron, electron... Every single quark, if you need me to get technical," he finished in a whisper, slowly, gently, reassuringly, practically an embrace on its own.
You melted against him, giving his hand a small squeeze of gratitude, thoroughly reminded now of exactly why it was okay to share your vulnerabilities, how lucky you were to have found him, to be found, to trust and fall and grow together.
Tranquility eventually, quietly, made her reappearance, bringing with her the blessing of the midday sun.
Thanks for reading!
#prussia x reader#gilbert beilschmidt x reader#austen bronte prompts#hello lovelies!#aph prussia#aph prussia x reader#hws prussia#hws prussia x reader#hetalia prussia#hetalia prussia x reader#aph gilbert#readerfic#i can only write this man as soft lately but hnghhhhh#i am Yearning my darlings#thanks for reading!#hws gilbert beilschmidt#aph gilbert beilschmidt#hetalia gilbert beilschmidt#aph gilbert beilschmidt x reader#hws gilbert beilschmidt x reader#hetalia gilbert beilschmidt x reader
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and i fell apart
I got very obsessed with maelin and went on a tumbles binge. While the content is INCREDIBLE there just wasn't enough so I'm adding to the pile with *gestures to whatever this is*. Please enjoy! Let's not pretend this was edited lmaooo
to Jana (@flamingveritas): for the compliments and falling down the maelin rabbit hole with me
i highly recommend listening to rosier/punk2 by brakence while reading this. if i could i would have just copy pasted the song and made that the fic.
I left home now I'm fucked up
Realized how much I loved you
Whole goddamn life, been a suck-up
Now I'm just tryna get my luck up
All the pain went when you kissed me
—rosier/punk2, brakence
Manon has indulged, feverently and with vicious delight, in all manner of debauchery and sin over her many years. She has sipped the blood of men like fine whiskey, and kissed women like morning dew clinging to rosy petals. Most especially, she has never denied herself a pleasure.
Once her gold eyes lock on a target it's as good as hers, already weaving into her present and past. It is no longer a thing of the future to her. No because that would imply she still needed to get it, that it was not hers yet. It is something she simply refuses to accept.
Which is why, blood boiling, iron nails glinting viciously in the midday sun, she snarls at the blonde haired, blue eyed queen. The most beautiful being she has ever seen and by far the most infuriating. Manon has never wanted to lick someone's lips while simultaneously driving a dagger through their heart so godsdamn much in her life.
"Get your ass back here, Queen." She can barely keep the growl out of her voice. She feels half beast.
"Fuck you Witch," Aelin sneers, "You don't get to tell me what to do. Not anymore."
Manon is in front of her before the wind can catch in her snow white hair. With another grumble clawing through her throat, she plants her feet in front of the blonde. It takes everything in her not to melt at the fierce beauty she is met with. Gold spun hair, rivaling her own eyes, and sun smattered freckles and arched eyebrows. There's a look in the queen's eye that makes Manon want to pull them too close for decency and see how much of the pretty gold ring swallows that blue gaze.
"You owe me." She says instead. There is no gentleness in her voice. They have never been gentle with each other.
"I owe you nothing." Aelin spits. "I stopped having anything to do with you the day you left me."
"I didn't leave you." She explodes. She cannot go on like this. She can't bear it.
"Oh," The queen's voice takes on that high pitched tone, as if she's attempting to be snappy but her emotion is betraying her. She carries on despite it all. "Well, sorry for thinking that coming home to a note that says 'I'll be gone for a some time' and then not having a wife for ten years doesn't count to you."
There are tears running down that beautiful face and it makes every part of Manon wither away. She is made of iron but it takes one look at Aelin's crumpling composure to reduce her to rust and ruin.
"If I was gone for three hundred years I would still be your wife. No matter how long, or how far." Her voice is disturbed dust on a locked chest.
"Please leave." The queen shakes her head, stumbling backwards, away from her, from them. "I can't do this. I won't."
"I'm not going anywhere Aelin." Her voice cracks and she wants to curse herself for sounding so weak. But this is not a matter of blood and teeth and enemy. This is a matter of heart and she would always be weak when it came to the person who owned hers.
"That's what you said every day before you left for a decade." It is so quiet, so unbelievably quiet it feels almost as if the world hushed to hear that statement.
Her chest feels like it's been struck by lightning. She cannot imagine anything else would make her heart beat so fast while killing her so slowly.
"I didn't have a choice." She shakes her head. The words are coming out wrong. Will they ever be right?
"You had the choice to tell me."
At this her mouth curls into a snarl, gold eyes flashing with rage. "I would never have put your life in danger like that."
"We could have faced it together." Aelin bites her quivering lower lip. "Like we always have."
"I will never risk you, I will never put you in harms way if I can handle it myself."
"Maybe you could have handled it Manon," Her wife sighs, tears still rippling down her golden cheeks. They carve rivers over her freckles, making them stones on the riverbed. "Or maybe we could have done it together and it would have taken five years instead of ten. Or maybe you could have gone alone and I would have kissed you goodbye and said come back soon."
"That is—"
"Instead," The blonde interrupts, sadness, true grief, covering her face like a veil. "Instead I woke up to an empty bed one morning and it just never ended. Everyday I wondered if you had left because you no longer loved me, or if you had been dragged away, or if you went on a mission and had not survived it. Every day I thought of your white hair and your gold eyes and the smile you have when the wind dances across your skin and I didn't understand why I could no longer see it, see you."
Tears, hot and salty, stream down Manon's face. It is violent and full of agony. She isn't going to survive this. How could she?
"But I'm back now." She gutters.
"For how long?" The question is laced with exhaustion as if it had been asked to the point of meaningless.
How long will she be gone? How long can I live like this? How long should I wait before I try to find her? How long before I realize she doesn't want to be found? How long has she stopped loving me? She sees the questions reflected in those blue-jeweled eyes. It snaps the chords of her heart, like broken piano strings.
"Forever."
"That tells me nothing."
She doesn't know what to say, doesn't know how to make this right. She would do anything. She would suffer through hell if it meant making this okay again. If it meant standing by her wife's side once more, instead of loving her from so far away.
"Please Aelin," She breaks, cracks so hard her jaw snaps. "How do I make this better? How do I fix us?"
"I don't know," Blonde hair glitters in the sun as she shakes her head. It catches like a halo. "I don't know and it hurts so much and I can't—" She is hyperventilating.
Manon wants to go to her, wants to wrap her arms around the queen and hold her until they've both stitched themselves back together. But she knows she will be shoved away, so far and so fast she will not be able to recover.
"I love you Aelin." She says. Her voice is quiet but her words are clear as Terassen waters. "And I will love you through every season to come, and every sunset we witness while on the back of abraxos, and every morning I catch you with chocolate cake before breakfast, and every evening that you read a book to me, and every moment I find your lips perfectly slanted over mine. I will love you through this life."
They had never placed their love in the past. Manon had never said "I have loved you since", she always says, "I will love you through..."
"And I will love you through the next."
The sobs that wrack the queen's body make the witch's hands shake. She cannot believe she has hurt her love so much, so carelessly, so destructively.
"I don't need you to love me through the next. I needed you to love me through this one."
"I do!" She cries. "I do, I do, I do. How could I not?" There is distance between them that no bridge can cross, but she can reach out a hand and brush her fingers across a tear-streaked cheek. So close in body, so far in heart.
"I will not survive if you leave me again." Her queen sobs. Manon sobs with her.
"I cannot survive leaving you."
Hands, smaller than hers, infinitely more warm, find her own. "I love you through the darkness."
"Until it claims us." She finishes softly.
And ever so gently, intertwined only by their fingers, they begin to stitch together. The future is theirs, and it is the only guarantee.
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[image id: white all caps text, on a black background, that reads, “i thought you were dead”. end id]
#maelin#manon x aelin#aelin x manon#manon blackbeak#aelin ashryver whitethorn galathynius#fds fanfic
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No 2. IN THE HANDS OF THE ENEMY
“Pick Who Dies” | Collars | Kidnapped
Title: and the worst part of waiting is the anticipation
Fandom: Naruto
Character(s): Team 7
Rating: T
Warning(s): blood, vomit
Wordcount: 951
Summary: Team Seven gets captured. [part of the whumptober au]
cross-posted to ao3 [eventually]
@whumptober2020
“Sensei?” It’s Sakura who wakes up first, her eyes almost luminous in the dark of the cell. Kakashi doesn’t react at first, just watching her as she takes stock of their situation. He can see her looking, analyzing, and he can see the moment she realizes what has happened by the expression on her face. She takes it better than he expects; there is a moment her face scrunches and he thinks she might cry, but she lets out a shaky breath and turns toward him. “Did you see who took us?” she asks.
He did. “I didn’t.”
Her face falls a little, but she swallows and goes back to examining their cell. Kakashi’s already taken stock but he watches her, watches her eyes as she discovers what he already knows. They’re all bound in individual corners of the room, and although they are shackled loosely so that they can stand up and lay down all the way, they can’t reach anyone else in the room. The shackles in question clamp around their ankles and have chakra-suppression seals carved into them; Sakura runs her fingers over the seals with a frown.
Sasuke is laying in the corner opposite Naruto, his skin glistening with a thin sheen of fevered sweat. Sakura can’t see it from her angle, but Kakashi can see the curse mark on his shoulder, peeking out innocently from the collar of his shirt. Sakura’s eyes linger on him longer than anything else in the room. Eventually she turns to look at Naruto, and his unconsciousness worries Kakashi. He can’t see any injuries that would keep Naruto so still, so… quiet. If it’s internal, there’s not much that can be done for him.
“Are you hurt, Sensei?” Kakashi turns back toward his conscious student, considering the question. He’d been injured quite badly, as one could expect from a fight with a Sanin and his right-hand man, but that med-nin must have healed his fatal wounds while he was out.
He shakes his head. “Nothing worse than a few scrapes and bruises, I think.” A pause, while he double-checks to make sure he isn’t lying to her. Again, the little voice that sounds spitefully like Obito in his head mutters. “What about you?”
“A headache,” she replies, softly. Ashamedly, Kakashi realises; she won’t meet his eyes and she looks downright miserable, current situation aside. “I think I got hit first, since I was in the back.”
“Maa, I think they hit all of us in the back, Sakura-chan. Even me.” Liar, the voice hisses. He tells it to shut the hell up; his own pride is worth far less right now than the confidence of his student.
Whatever she’s about to say in response is interrupted by Sasuke’s abrupt awakening. He sits bolt upright, screaming, and the chakra that pours from him is like stepping into a blast furnace. The chakra suppression seals on his shackles are glowing, overloading themselves, and the energy still fills the room thick and choking. “Sasuke!” Sakura lunges toward him. The chain of her shackle pulls tight and she hits the floor of the cell face-first. Her nose breaks - loudly. Kakashi can only watch, wide-eyed, as she pulls herself up and reaches out toward her teammate. “Sasuke-kun, blease, calm dowb!” He’s still screaming, voice going in and out as his vocal chords strain. “If you blow out thobse seals you’ll kill yourself!”
Sasuke stops screaming suddenly. His chest heaves as he falls forward onto his hands and knees. He vomits, body shaking with the force of it. The smell of bile and burnt skin fill the room, turning even Kakashi’s stomach. Sakura, to her credit, doesn’t even flinch back at the spew. She remains, mirroring Sasuke, knees on the hard stone of the cell floor and hand still outstretched toward him.
Sasuke regains control after a few moments of heaving, leaning back on his haunches and roughly wiping his mouth. Kakashi can see the burns around his ankles where the shackles meet skin. Sakura’s arm lowers. “Sasuke-kun?”
He slumps back against the wall, looking down at the floor. “Where are we? What happened?” His voice sounds rough, coarse, but at least he hadn’t blown out his vocal chords.
“Looks like we were captured,” Kakashi supplies. “And Sakura, take it easy. You’ll hurt your injury more.”
Sakura sits back, face bloodied and eyes blackening spectacularly. “‘Kay.” He can see her limbs trembling; the adrenaline of whatever the fuck just happened likely wearing off. She leans against the wall a little more carefully than Sasuke.
Kakashi turns his attention back to Sasuke. Well, it was increasingly more obvious why the Sanin had targeted them, though the fact that he took all of them and not just Sasuke didn’t bode well for the future. “Did you try to use chakra just now?”
He doesn’t mean for his voice to come out sternly, but it does, and Sasuke turns his face away with a petulant pout to his lip.
Kakashi sighs. The Sandaime really put him in the thick of it with this team. “These shackles that are binding us aren’t just for show. They have chakra suppression seals worked into them.” At that, Sasuke looks down toward his burned ankles. “Using chakra just causes them to harm the wearer, and too much chakra could cause them to blow. Maybe even literally, who knows?”
“Tch.”
It’s so, so much easier to be annoyed by his problem child than it is to be worried about what this capture means for them. What Orochimaru wants with them. Sasuke’s trembling now, too. Kakashi tips his head back against the wall and closes his eyes. There’s not much now to do but wait.
#whumptober2020#no. 2#in the hands of the enemy#naruto#fic#blood tw#vomit tw#prince fic#y'all i am so excited to share this au
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cute without the e | emo!jim x reader
the ship: emo!jim x reader
the song: taking back sunday - cute without the e
the summary: emo!jim wants to try out a stereotypical kink
the mission: cheer up my beautiful wife @shenevertricks1831. i hope this helps baby!
warnings: vigorous sex, knifeplay (/razorblade-play), bloodplay, squirting, dom!jim, cockblocking sandy, mention of self harm, slight fluff if you squint
word count: 2.1k
“Mom, please, keep your voice down,” Jim pleaded in a gravelly hushed tone, nervously twisting his lip ring with the tip of his tongue.
“I will not keep my fucking voice down just because you brought a girl home,” Sandy hissed, hands flailing in the air as her means of expressing her blood boiling beneath the surface. “And quit playing with that fucking lip ring, you look desperate.”
Sandy was always aware how much her words hurt her son, but they still poured unfettered from her lips like diluted poison. Her fierce protectiveness of Jim only intensified with every day that passed without Phil, her life force aimed at the defence of her son in exchange for the wasted efforts on saving her marriage.
“I really like her, mom,” Jim’s gaze dropped awkwardly to his feet, hands weaving through his choppy black layers. “She’s a great girl.”
“I don’t care about your bullshit excuses, Jim Mason, you sound like your fucking father talking about his stupid whore.” Her snarls through pursed lips and gritted teeth skewed her face into that of someone Jim didn’t recognise. Someone Jim didn’t want to keep fighting against.
“Believe what you want, mom, you need to go and calm down,” Jim’s defensive palms flew into the air between him and Sandy as he backed tentatively through his bedroom door, clicked it closed and swiftly sliding the lock.
“I... I guess you heard all that, huh?” Jim sighed, collapsing onto the bed beside you and wearily wiping his eyes, oblivious to the smoky black smudges he created as his fingertips swept across his thick eyeliner.
You sat cross-legged atop the duvet, tugging at the loose threads on your jeans, the thin knee holes you chopped into the black denim fraying recklessly like your sanity mere moments before Jim burst into his room. “It’s okay, Jim. These things happen.”
“I’m sure your parents don’t call me a whore when I come over,” he blinked back tears, weaving his fingers through his hair, poker straight and a deep black that shone electric blue in the sunlight.
“Parents don’t understand and they never will, they haven’t grown up the same as us. They haven’t sat through an entire Taking Back Sunday record and fought back tears.”
Jim pouted, twirling his lip ring.
“Sorry, Jim, I should go—“
As you stretched out your legs to leave, Jim grasped your thigh.
“Please, don’t go,” Jim hummed softly, leaning in to plant a light peck on your cheek before bumping his forehead against yours. “Don’t let her spoil this.”
You swallowed thickly, focusing on his I fingertips digging into your jeans, his chipped black nail polish sinking comfortably into the denim. Your gaze wandered up his form, lingering on his AFI shirt you bought him for his birthday. You paused at his lips, his black lip ring sinking into his mouth as he chewed down nervously. Journeying up to his eyes, deep and piercing like the boundless waves beyond his bedroom window, they stared back at you warmly.
“Come here, princess,” he husked, cupping your face with both hands and drawing you in for a haunting kiss, his lips consuming yours with a hungry intent, sitting up to tower over you and deepen his infinitely passionate embrace. He mumbled into your mouth with a low growl, “I want you so badly.”
“What if your mom hears us?”
“Good thinking,” Jim hummed, smiling against your lips as he reached for his phone in his back pocket. With a few blind taps, somehow without breaking your kiss, his bedroom speakers broke into song.
Your lipstick, his collar, don't bother, angel
“You’re such a fucking emo,” you chuckled into his mouth, tugging his shirt before parting from his lips to cast the black cotton across his room.
I know exactly what goes on
“You love it really,” he giggled with a quirked eyebrow, decimating your shirt in the same manner and leaving his fingertips lingering impatiently at the top your studded belt. “Almost as much as I love you but much more than I love these fucking jeans that I can never get off you.”
When everything you'll get is everything that you've wanted, princess
Rolling your eyes and curling the corner of your lips, you battled with your buckles and zips as Jim practically drooled over you stripping for him. Laying back against the pillows to slip the denim past your hips, Jim gulped uncomfortably and cleared his throat.
Well, which would you prefer?
“That’s it,” he growled, gripping your jeans and sliding them past your knees before slithering between your thighs. “Stay just like that, baby girl.”
My finger on the trigger or me face down, down across your floor?
Anticipation hitched in your throat as his one hand lay gently in the valley of your pelvis, the other grappling his length from beneath his jeans. Cursing himself for putting on three studded belts that morning, he finally battled himself free and proceeded to run his tip over your clothed folds, gradually dampening at his mere presence.
Well, just so long as this thing's loaded
“Jim,” you husked through gentle gasps, hips rutting frantically up to him. “I need you inside me.”
And will you tell all your friends, you've got your gun to my head?
“Not just yet, be patient for me little dove.” Jim fixed a soft peck on your forehead before diving over to the bedside cabinet, tucking into a drawer and retrieving a small gleaming razorblade. Your breaths stilled as you clocked its flawless silver sheen, reflecting beautifully in the bayside sunset beaming into his room.
This all was only wishful thinking
Pinching the blade between his fingers and spinning it idly in his grasp, a devious grin crept across his full lips, his gaze darted back to your eyes to discover the glint of fear in them.
And will you tell all your friends you've got your gun to my head?
As much as you trusted Jim, he’d never wanted to hurt you before and, holding a shimmering razorblade above you, it certainly looked like that was his intention.
This all was only wishful thinking, let's go
“Can I…” he trailed off, not sure how to describe his intentions. Hovering the blade over your breast, he traced a small letter J in the space just above your skin, moving to your other breast to mime a letter M over it. “Is that—“
Don't bother trying to explain, angel
“Of course it’s okay, Jim,” you smiled contentedly once he’d explained his idea. Resting your hands around his waist to signal your willingness, Jim breathed a sigh of relief and leaned in to kiss you. “Be gentle with me, yeah?”
I know exactly what goes on when you're on, and
“Always, baby girl,” he cooed softly, one hand swiping aside your panties and pressing his leaking tip at your entrance, the other lightly sinking the blade into your chest just enough to feel the cool metal shock your skin.
How about I'm outside of your window?
Jim had worked out his positioning meticulously in the moments he’d hesitated — marking just beneath the light red rubs of your bra lines, where your cup would conceal his initials once you dressed.
Watching him keep the details covered
“Ready?” His excited intonation poured through his broad grin. As you nodded tentatively, he rocked his hips forward and slipped through your folds while swooping the curve of his J into your breast, leaving you hissing through gritted teeth. Years of self harm taught him how hard to push down on the razor to make light chicken scratches that delicately weep crimson, the small swipe across your skin gathering a soft bead of blood at the edge.
You're such a sucker for a sweet talker, yeah
The searing shock of the cut sent a bolt of pleasure down to your core, a fresh wave of arousal flooding around him as Jim buried his length inside you. His eyes widened, blown with lust and a sadistic streak you hadn’t seen on him before. Where his hips had rolled carefully into you at first, his pace now quickened as he growled under his breath, gazing lovingly at the wound and plowing into you as your blood gathered.
And will you tell all your friends you've got your gun to my head?
“Jesus fuck that was hot,” he moaned, casting the razorblade to your side as he anchored himself with both hands curled over your shoulders, pulling you down as he curled his hips and rammed his cock against your walls. His gaze couldn’t part from the slash, the single droplet now racing across your chest leaving a glistening red trail in its wake. “It looks beautiful, you look beautiful.”
This all was only wishful thinking, this all was only wishful thinking
“Li—like what you see, baby?” You stuttered through broken pants, his furious pace stealing your breath from your lungs. His satisfied smirk widened, pounding into you ruthlessly in response, soft hums leaving his lips with every thrust.
The only thing I regret is that I never let you hold me back
“Oh yeah I do,” he mused, leaning down to lick a clean stripe over the wound, sweeping the gathering crimson beads onto his tongue and groaning gratuitously as the metallic tang shocked his tastebuds.
Hoping for the best just hoping nothing happens
His eyes nearly popped from their sockets as he leaned back to take in the view before him — gazing down at his girlfriend, spread wide open beneath him, your breast bleeding ever so slightly — a wave of insatiable hunger for you washed over him.
A thousand clever lines unread on clever napkins
“I love you, I love you so fucking much,” Jim gushed, fixating on the wound so hard it was almost as if he was addressing the J carved neatly into your chest, bouncing with every snap of his hips. “You know that right?”
I will never ask if you don't ever tell me
“Kinda got that when you started carving your initials in my tits, Jim,” you joked, raking your nails down his back and raising your hips to meet his.
I know you well enough to know you'll never love me
“You... you just get me,” he trailed off as he hammered against your walls, his persistent aim tightening a burning coil deep in your belly. “You know me, you understand me like nobody else.”
Why can't I feel anything from anyone other than you?
“So hurry up and finish it before I cum, Mason,” you pleaded through breathy moans, your spine keening eagerly toward him with every thrust, an inch away from the hollow ache of the coil in your gut snapping. His own climax wouldn’t hold much longer, noticing his base frantically twitching between your folds.
And all of this was all your fault, and all of this
Jim obliged all too happily, reaching for the blade again and leaning down to press a jagged M into your other breast, concealing the shock of the slash with another sharp snap of his hips.
I stay wrecked and jealous for this
The heat from the fresh cut once again sent a jolt of arousal through you, this time an overwhelming tsunami that left you gasping as you came over him.
For this simple reason I just need to keep you in mind
“Fuck Jim, I’m… I’m—“
As something larger than life
As Jim reared his hips back, the room filled with sinful squelching, realising you’d squirted all over him as your fluids came gushing through your folds. A deep growl erupted in Jim’s chest and he quickly pulled out, pouring his release over your abdomen and crying out with every spurt over your pale skin.
I stay wrecked and jealous for this
Your chest heaved relentlessly through your aftershocks, panting as you gazed down at the new scrawl on your chest. Jim’s stare fixed on it just the same, waiting until he rode out his own orgasm before leaning down to latch his lips onto the crimson droplets from your second wound.
For this simple reason I just need to keep you in mind
Moaning greedily as the coppery taste filled his mouth, Jim smiled against your chest and planted a kiss over his last initial.
As something larger than life
As the music faded around you, Jim pulled up to capture your lips in a lingering, grateful, haunting kiss.
“Baby girl, that was…” he hummed into your mouth, cut off by the sounds of his mother’s voice shrieking in the hall.
“Do you two think I’m deaf or something?”
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The Castle on the Hill Chapter 1: Hyde
Genre: Smut, Romance, Fluff, Thriller, Werewolf AU
Pairing: Werewolf!Bangchan x Reader
Warnings: No warnings apply
Summary: Superstition is as powerful as religion, especially to those living in the countryside. Nevertheless, the sole outsider in town fully joins in the belief of the Last Warden of the North and is insistent on protecting the only girl who accepts him yet refutes the local lore.
However, there is something in the castle on the hill.
And it hungers for something in the village below.
Someone.
You.
Author’s Note: Hello,
Indeed, I am still very much alive but have been extremely busy with university and my job. However, now that the holidays are coming up and I am on my Christmas break, I have a wee bit o’ time to write leisurely again.
I came up with this tale when I was in Cardiff in November, strolling around Bute Park and thinking of ‘Castle on the Hill’ by Ed Sheeran. And, let us be honest, I was thinking of Chan as well (though that should not come as a surprise at this point).
Regardless, hopefully you will enjoy this wee trilogy.
Forever yours,
The Red Raven
Hyde / The Marriage of Man and Beast / Jekyll
Masterlist
Religion is a form of superstition, but just as powerful as the latter for it has ruled mankind in equal amounts, co-existing yet often the cause for war as well. In contemporary times, however, the belief in all folkloric creatures seems to have faded into a case for a good laugh rather than truly believing death will come at hearing the wail of a banshee or swearing the ghost of the black nun continues to haunt the ruins of the friary at which entrance she is buried. Withal, the faith in a particular mythological being has been altered time and again thanks to pop culture but, perhaps fortunately so, the origins of the legend remain remembered vividly by the people who inhabit the area the tale stems from.
The golden sunlight outlines the ruins of the majestic castle that once graced the hill outside the park, mustard and amber leaves littering the pathways frequented by strollers while the weather still permits it. Soon, winter shall conquer autumn and the rains increase in frequency. Henceforth, the days running a small café in the middle of the park is enjoyed the most when all is grand, the world frozen in a perfect seasonal frame.
‘You’re either immensely stupid or incredibly brave to run this establishment, lass.’ A cup of steaming black coffee is served to the wise old man living around the corner of the recreational ground, the white brick worker’s house providing a view on the scenery that everyone seems to fear even in the twenty-first century. Always up for conversation, Paidraigh has helped a novice independent entrepreneur almost flawlessly continue the business formerly run by one of the local women who had to stop due to health issues. He might look like a grumpy soul despising the world, but the stout figure with wise wrinkles and bushy pale beard is actually one of the kindest people residing in the wee village.
‘How do you mean that, sir?’
‘Have ye nay heard o’ the wolf inhabiting the castle?’
‘I have heard the whispers of strange sounds coming from the ruins at night, aye, but I am sure it’s nothing to worry about.’
‘The word’s it’s a wolf, the spirit of the fierce Last Warden of the North to whom the castle once belonged. It’s said that once he entered the battlefield, all that would be left o’ the enemies were bloody carcasses. As if eaten by, ye guessed it, a wolf.’ Kind stone irises gain a wary glint once they wander to the edge of the sandstone terrace, noticing the heavy boot fall of the town’s most recent inhabitant. ‘Speak of the Devil and he shall appear.’
‘Paddy, don’t be mean. Drink your coffee and leave the lad be, alright?’ A palm amiably pats a broad shoulder before tucking the serving plate under the armpit and heading back to the counter to take a new order.
And likely do more than that, knowing the newcomer.
‘Alright, fine. Just watch yersel’ around him. One wolf is more than enough for this village.’
‘Hiya, how are you?’ Before the habitual order can be placed with as few words as possible, attention is called to the deep scarlet scar running over the bridge of a big nose. ‘What did you do to get that?’
‘Bar fight.’ A soft smile is laboriously carved onto roseate lips, likely albeit clearly suppressing the memory of the scene causing the physical damage. Nevertheless, once gazes lock, the hatred is actively tried to be kept to a bare minimum and show a friendly side the reclusive does not always reveal to anyone. ‘An americano, please.’
Without speaking further, the beverage is prepared. However, as the coffee machine is buzzing while freshly grinding beans to create a perfectly brewed medium roast, the first-aid supplies stored in a cupboard beneath the counter are sought out and taken alongside the drink to the outside of the little booth. Of course, it could have been slid to the customer immediately through the window but it simply happened to unnecessarily be carried as well.
‘Here’s your americano.’ Sitting down on the empty stool across from the silent force looking on in surprise while maintaining a friendly though slightly tired tone, fingers search among the medical care items for the disinfectant and a cotton pad. The frustration wants to be kept to a minimum but it is hard to do so when this very same scene keeps repeating itself and fuels the bad image the villagers have of, in their eyes, a stranger.
Bruises and open wounds thanks to fights that were either started by one’s own volition or after provocation.
Cuts thanks to carving the wooden pillars dotting the grand park, curiously staying close to the little café and helping out at times by remaining on the grand lawn regardless of how many meters need to be bridged to get the new piece of art where it belongs.
‘I’m fine.’ The remark is clearly meant to dismiss the caregiving yet results in all but that since physical damage, no matter of what nature and source, do ignite a genuine worry for the local woodcarver.
Although the habitual resorting to sarcasm protects sincere emotions from showing. Nonetheless, it is helpful in chastising, never failing to eventually get Christopher to look like a guilty puppy while patching him up. ‘And I’m the Queen of Sheba. You strained yer knuckles too much and now they’re bleeding again.’
‘It’s but a scratch.’
‘Is what the Black Knight said before he got annihilated by King Arthur. Give me your hand, you eejit.’
‘Y/N, it’s fine.’
‘No, it’s fecking not.’ A deep sigh lowers tense shoulders admitting that stubbornness will lead nowhere and thus take a soft-spoken yet still genuine approach. ‘I just want to help. Please, give me your hand.’
Howbeit reluctant, the damaged calloused palm nevertheless reaches out and comes to rest in a concerned lap as small digits wrap lightly around the wrist to keep it in place. ‘Thank you.’
The bystanders are ignored as the fresh ugly patches of broken skin are taken care of, taking great care to clean the wounds properly before bandaging them up. Withal, what cannot be ignored is the low threatening growl rolling from plush lips with every touch of disinfecting cotton. ‘Excuse me?’
‘Sorry. It’s just that, grm, it really fucking hurts.’ Teeth grit, snarls and hisses alternating with the light dabs as irises shoot invisible daggers. The free hand which has yet to be treated moulds into a trembling fist trying to remain static despite the agony.
‘Then maybe you shouldn’t get into fights in the first place. What even was it about?’ The damage has been cleaned enough to apply an ointment and bandage the harmed knuckles, gaining the same feral reaction as before.
Notwithstanding, the silence is filled by wordlessness and primal noises, igniting an irritation at the deduction the chastisement is ignored in stubbornness. However, the assumption is counteracted when a whisper provides a muttered surprising answer that fuels a novel sort of annoyance in the mocha locks sitting on the stool. ‘Someone insulted you.’
No, it is not irritation.
Rage.
Pure fury, barely contained.
‘Me? Why?’ Puzzled by the confusing display of hatred against an absent party, locks tilt in patient curiosity waiting for the story.
‘It wasn’t really an insult. Just men drunkenly talking about how they’d show up here to surprise you and you’d be the girlfriend of one of theirs and how lucky you’d be with one of them.’ The split bottom lip is caught between pearly teeth, nibbling while trying to regain a calmer composure even though it is hard when the second set of broken skin is about to be treated. ‘I couldn’t- couldn’t, fuck, that stings! I couldn’t stand the arrogant, hrm, tone and nonsense so I... I just lost it. Snapped.’
‘Christopher-’ The imminent correcting in spite of secretly being flattered by the reason that likely holds no meaning whatsoever since there is more of a patient-nurse relationship is cut short by a low snigger. ‘Hey, why are you smiling like that?’
‘I just like the way you say my name.’ Bright earthly irises set above a big nose marred by a scar likely inflicted by a knife blade are humoured, the sentiment filtering through in the gentle curve of plush lips. The playful aura makes the woodcarver appear quite boyish, a stark contrast with the pub brawler the village has cast out from the beginning.
‘Well, it’s yours, aye?’ Heated cheeks faking casualness return to the task of taking care of the other damaged hand, trying badly to ignore the sweet smile now vividly engraved into memory.
Keep it together. It means nothing. You’re more his nurse than anything else. You’re just friends, if there is any friendship at all. He simply trusts you.
‘Yeah, but-’
‘And I’m sure I don’t say it any differently than any other person.’
‘Still, I like- fuck!’ A giggle flows over into a curse when the bandage is tugged perhaps a bit too tightly to nevertheless teach the lesson of not getting into fights as often as one does. A pleased little grin cannot be suppressed, hiding the delight at the hopefully effective teaching method that will lessen the scene which is exhaustingly re-enacted over and over.
‘If you didn’t get into fights, I wouldn’t have to keep patching you up and you wouldn’t have to deal with the pain.’ A new cotton pad is soaked in disinfectant while throwing a cautious glance in Paddy’s direction, the old man’s lips tightly sealed as grey whiskers move ever so slightly in discomfort.
‘He doesn’t like me.’ A sombre self-aware tone sneaks into lowered defeated shoulders turned towards the old cod, gaze softening in powerlessness.
‘That’s not true.’ The seemingly misplaced remark pulls the young man’s attention, head slightly tilting to the side while irises remain strangely heart-wrenchingly grave.
If only they could know you the way I do.
‘Y/N,’ the powerful mere word is spoken as if surrender is not an option, that the truth of being disliked has to be admitted even though it does not want to be, ‘It’s obvious. Everyone’s afraid of me.’
‘The only thing they’re really scared of is the wolf up in the castle.’ Mocking local superstition, a sigh rolls from the lips setting to work on the carmine single cut running over the nose. There is no resistance this time, Christopher moving, in fact, to the edge of the stool for better access and to make cleaning the scar easier. ‘Guess I’ll hear the same uselessly worried whispers again from the customers tomorrow.’
A hand rests leisurely on the thigh for support, but is taken to come to rest on the brawler’s cheek and kept there, a content hum filling the air scented by coffee and cologne. Lashes flutter shut as mocha locks lean into the touch, almost as if falling asleep right here and now. It would be a lie to say the display does not spread an odd fuzzy warmth throughout, especially when memories of healing up close, observing wood being carved from a distance or problems with difficult people were solved in the same proximity as now resurface.
Unfortunately, the delightful image is disrupted a second later for the jaw clenches as a low beastly rumble rises from a broad chest trying hard to remain casual as the disinfectant once again stings in the stupidly acquired cut. Irises light up in an amber flash, bearing a terrifying violent hatred that calms down immediately upon establishing a bit of distance that nullifies the intimacy. A confused heart does not know what to make of it, only that the rage that surfaced as rapidly as it disappeared never wants to be directed towards oneself.
Still, a normal question is raised in an odd undefinable manner that rises from the fearsome wolfish attitude, voice sounding apologetical and clearly wanting to move past something as digits vaguely reach out but drop restlessly in ignorance of what to do. ‘Are you staying open much longer?’
The throat is cleared to regain composure, hardy succeeding yet enough to answer as if nothing happened. ‘Till six, as usual.’ The resumed dabbing briefly stops at the notice of an uneasy shift in weight, a panic without direct cause causing the action. ‘Why do you ask?’
Bandaged hands awkwardly occupy one another in futile twirling of cared-for fingers as the tongue staring at the sandstone is hesitant to voice what suddenly has become urgent. ‘Can you close earlier?’
‘I could but why would I?’ Feigning not having taken notice in the change of demeanour, the last straws are laid in nursing the bloody scar. The palm leaning on the knee of mocha locks, put there in an unconscious move after pulling up the unresisting chin for better access, does seem to calm the nerves somewhat as the regulation of breathing suggests.
When applying the ointment, it is entirely regular and a sigh is relieved with the company.
Only to speed up again when worriedly mentioning the legend that has the entire village spooked even in the twenty-first century. ‘The wolf.’
‘Christopher, don’t you get started as well. There’s no wolf in the castle, no spirit of the Last Warden of the North.’ Shuffling to the edge of the stool, something is attempted to be done about the split lip which has started bleeding again. ‘Your lip is bleeding. Sit still for a wee bit, will ye?’
Calloused fingers wrap firmly around the wrist reaching out after soaking a new dot of cotton in disinfectant, earthly irises ablaze with superstitious concern flowing over in pleading speech. ‘Please close the café before it gets dark.’
‘Look, it’s my business so I decide the opening hours.’ Budging results in nothing but a firmer, even painful grip. Withal, knowing the novel local woodcarver, panic does not set in as it would have had it been anyone else. Still, a meaningless glance sideways is picked up by Paddy as something which does hold significance, the stout old man already rising from his seat when a quick denying nod assures all is well. The command is tranquil yet effectively fierce. ‘Chris, let me go. You’re hurting me.’
As swift as lightning, digits unravel upon hearing the response and move away to create a distance filled by curious emotions that would hint at an intimacy going beyond what is truly present. ‘I’m sorry, he- we didn’t mean to... I- I mean, I didn’t mean to… to...’ A shivering sigh precedes a steadier repeated request, trying to move past the incident while remaining clearly doubtfully calculating of words and actions. ‘Y/N, please. Please close before it gets dark. We don’t- I want you to be safe.’
We? He? Why are you talking like this?
‘I’ll be regardless because there’s no ghost or monster that will slink down the hill to devour me.’ The remark tries to be amusingly sarcastic but it has no effect on the outcast whose grave expression does not change, continuing to stare remorsefully at the red band around the wrists.
The shaking fingers holding soft cotton meant for healing.
Yet ends up hurting.
‘Even if you don’t believe my reason nor the villagers’, close early.’ Lashes are brave enough to look up, keep up the pleading despite being refused over and over.
Maybe I should... no, what am I getting at. It’s just a story, a myth.
‘Can we stop talking about this?’ A palm finds the courage to rise and endeavour to nurse the split lip anew. ‘Sit still and let me help you.’
But soon retracts in heart-pounding concern when unspoken consent flinches as bodies come a wee bit closer to make it easier. ‘Are you alright?’
‘Yeah. Yeah, I am. Ehm,’ mocha locks confusedly and haphazardly glance around the terrace, questioning eyes flitting over the customers as a quite adorable big nose sniffs the air before leaning in to take a whiff, ‘Are you wearing perfume?’
‘No, why?’ The head buzzes with what to think of the weird gesture and unanswered inquiries about how the sudden change of topic has come about alongside the earlier talk in the third person. Brows furrow in wonder of the easiest topic for contemplation since perfume is fairly ineffective if unnecessary for the scent of coffee replaces the function on a daily basis.
‘Oh. Well- You- Never mind.’ A shadow movement forward remains just that, a hallucination without certainty. What is real, however, is the rapidity to get up and turn halfway away yet having the politeness to end the conversation by an unsettling awkward look over the shoulder. ‘I should go finish that pillar.’
‘But... your coffee?’ Christoper is already gone before the sentence can be finished, a gobsmacked offended finger pointing to the cooled cup on the counter containing liquid cold. In an instant, likely due to the great offence taken at letting such a precious gift to mankind waste away, the confusion of the chaotic farewell turns into a barista’s rage directed towards the woodcarver who has fled the scene. ‘The bastard just left the coffee to cool? That barbarian!’
The key turns in the lock, definitely closing business for the day. The moonlight falls in through the autumn leaves, casting moving shadows enhancing the dark of the dusk which has overtaken the quiet town. In the slightly clouded sky, the moon shines bright and illuminates the ruined haunted castle on the hill.
Y/N, please. Please close before it gets dark. We don’t- I want you to be safe.
‘I am completely fine. There’s nothing out here to get me. Also, who is ‘’we’’?’ Jeering strands shake in partial self-mockery at the brief spark of fear quickly running through veins at the recollection of the wish spoken in an oddly worried tone, foolishly spooked by mere folklore. ‘And here I thought you and I were the only sane people around, Chris. Guess it’s just me.’
After a final tug on the doorknob to ensure the place is neatly closed off until the dawn, sneakers start their wading path among the fallen mustard and ruby leaves that have been shaded a hue of onyx, tiger’s eye or plum in the twilight. The wind has calmed from its fierce mannerisms, now only softly blowing among the trees densely planted in the great park.
Carrying the sound of a low rumble as it smoothes over branches.
A snarl.
In the twilight silence another disconcerting noise resonates between carved pillars and trunks.
Padding.
A faint tinkling.
Of iron.
Shackles.
No, I must be hearing things. His and Paddy’s words are just getting to my head. There’s nothing. Nothing.
Withal, the bright amber lights are no will-o’-the-wisps and the appearing fur does not appear in the adorable shape of a squirrel. There is not the faintest trace of innocence to be found in the extraordinary meeting between a gigantic wolf cuffed by a firm iron collar around its neck, the broken chain clinking loudly as it drags over the ground and creates a hideous symphony in combination with the violent low growls of the beast.
‘That’s not possible. There’s no Warden, no wolf. This isn’t real.’ Even as the words are spoken in the futile hope of regaining a sense of logic, the conviction is hardly there. In fact, it is entirely absent. ‘This isn’t happening.’
Nevertheless, the snarled warning tone is too near, the impact too tangible in nerves standing on edge in alarm to dismiss the current situation as mental trickery. Especially because the silver light reflecting off of dagger-sharp canines comes too close for comfort, sending raggedly breathing feet fleeing to the wee café a few meters away while silently praying to reach it alive.
However, every rush forwards paradoxically yields nothing to a panicked mind who can feel warm predatory breath heat the back of the brown leather jacket and slowly rise to the back of the neck. Mortified tears start to brim in the corners of the eyes, damnably obscuring vision at a time when errors cannot be made for one, be it stumbling over a fallen branch or temporarily slowing down, will mean the end.
Christopher, Paddy, I’m sorry I didn’t listen. Youse were right and I’m a feckin eejit. I’m sorry. Chris, I’m sorry.
Growling grows ever closer, whispering of there being no escape because paws shall at one point do more than brush against ankles.
Rampant fingers search the pockets of jeans, cursing while feeling around the fabric for the damned key to open the lock to the safe haven.
Sneakers halt in front of the inaccessible door, still searching.
The wolf has slowed down, no longer running yet not giving up the chase now that the helpless prey has been forced into a corner. Big paws as black as a starless sky in winter pad languidly, bright eyes the colour of the pumpkin spice latte that forms the seasonal special obviously finding joy in the hunting game.
In toying with a hopeless target.
One step forwards.
One step back.
To and fro.
I can’t turn my back on it. Still, I have to if I want to get into the damned café. What do I do? What the fuck do I do?
The shivering spine is frozen in place thanks to paralysis due to pure horror, though digits carefully and hopefully unnoticeable continue rummaging through pockets as they keep a close watch on the impending beastly enemy.
Where the fu- By Jaysus, there it is!
Tense shoulders lower slightly in relief when the key is found on the bottom of the right pocket, the brief second of peace of mind carrying over in an unconscious sweetly delighted sigh.
Which evidently triggers the haste to attack because the sadistic game of threats is cut short as the wolf lunges forwards at the speed of lightning.
Fortunately, sharp-fanged jaws are evaded just in time when the key is rammed into the lock, opening the blasted barrier before slamming the door shut and sealing it off once again. All the while cursing Heaven and Hell together.
Hastily, steps lead around the tiny kitchen in search of anything to barricade the door with. An effort which proves fairly futile as basically all equipment is installed in such a manner it cannot be moved and all tables and chairs are kept outside since thieves do not tend to take furniture when on a heist around here.
Or such is the sentiment with which they are stored outside.
Why, of all the times, did I store them outside? Why couldn’t I at least put one table and chair inside? There has to be something around here, there’s got to be.
The fierce longing finds a wonderful answer in the old yet glistening iron chain lock that the former owner of the establishment used before getting proper locks installed and which has been stored away in the back of one of the counters. Sneaking glances to the amber-eyed predatory shadow roaming the terrace through the window of the main counter, horrified palms reach for the sole barrier between life and death.
Flinching back while hardly suppressing mortified screaming, allowing a meek gasp to escape, when the door leading to the hunting dark rattles as if a great weight has been thrown against it in an attempt to force it open. Blood rushing in the ears of accelerated breathing on the edge of breaking down backs away from the tightly sealed entrance, putting the key that was kept inside the lock into the pocket, shivering thanks to the ice veins have turned into.
Finding safety in the corner of the kitchen, wrapping arms around the knees that have fallen to the ground without muscles and pressing tears knowing this is the end of the line into stony grey denim.
Paddy... Christopher... Chris, I’m so sorry. I wish you were here. Fuck, I should’ve listened to ye instead of being such a gobshite.
The memorized phantom of lush lips take a shivering figure soon to meet death into sturdy woodcarving arms dusted over with soft thin black hair, head resting against the secure chest that has been healed from sickly bruises, bleeding bullet wounds, fresh deep dagger scars or a combination of all. Because, despite the chastisements each time the curious artists shows up at the café in a worsened condition, there remains the recalled moments of mocha locks helping in dealing with difficult customers and men trying their futile luck by going too far. Christopher had been there at an oddly fascinated barista’s side, leaving as little distance between bodies as possible while snarling in warning of touching the boundaries of patience so desperate men would see their chances ruined and people complaining about the pettiest things would know the customer is not always king.
Day in, day out. From the moment the café opens until it closes, staying close by while creating the gorgeously engraved pillars dotting the landscape.
Sometimes even walking homewards together, wordlessly refusing to part ways before having made sure the sole girl in town not distrustful towards an “outsider” has arrived safely and only then cracking on to the personal roof. When not doing so, it is towards working places set in nature, enjoying the hush of the morning as the sun rises in the golden sky.
Hands used to meaninglessly brush against each other.
At some point, it has become a habit to hold his pinky from the moment of being picked up without an explicit arrangement until the destination is reached.
In blissful small talk or a comfortable silence.
I wish you were here. See you one last time.
But death is lonesome in the growling silence of the lush park.
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Fires Burning
Pairings: Loki x Reader
Genre/Ratings: Jotun!Loki; G, no warnings apply
Words: 1200
Summary: Written for 1V1 on Ao3, who won a little contest I made for Lie to Me. Featuring Jotun!Loki, complete with horns.
You’re dragged before the king of Joutunheim, amongst ice and snow and inexplicably, fire.
“What. The. Fuck.”
You can barely get out your curses between viciously chattering teeth, and though you keep using what little strength you have left to twist and tug, the- things, dragging you along with them have an iron grip around your wrists. You’ve stopped kicking in favor of letting your feet be dead weight, but they just haul you through mounds of wet white snow like you weigh nothing. Even worse, the cold is slowly sinking into your bones, turning your fingers blue and lips numb. Everything you can see- the ground, the landscape, even the flurries falling from the sky- is ice and snow. It’s a winter wonderland, except it has teeth sharper than it’s razor-thin wind and it’s coming for your throat.
That is, if these monsters don’t break it first.
Monsters? Giants? You don’t know what to call them- these creatures that kidnapped you, at least twice your height and with pale skin covered in some sort of swirling runes that seem to shift in the light. The temperature doesn’t seem to bother them a bit. They wear fur- though not from any type of animal you’ve ever seen- but in configurations of ragged-cut skirts and thin vests that would offer little protection from the weather.
Unfortunately they haven’t offered you any of those furs, and so as they drag you to your impending doom your sweatshirt gets crystallized with snowflakes and your jeans rip open and crust to your legs. By the time you get to a massive set of double doors carved of pale ice and petrified wood, you’re afraid you’ll die of hypothermia before the giants have their turn.
“Quiet.” The one on the left of you grunts out the order in a gruff voice, peeved by your outburst. “Pesky little thing.”
“I swear to god-” he yanks on you harder, dragging you down a grand hallway. “I don’t know what you want with me but if you’ll just-”
Your words die in your throat. The end of the corridor gives way to some sort of throne room filled with even more creatures like your captors, gathered around a dias at the far end. The walls are carved with a language, maybe, one you can’t recognize, and there are actually fires dancing in alcoves inlaid in the walls and in the floor. You can feel the heat on your face- it burns, causing a few tears to streak down your cheeks- but none of the surrounding area seems to melt. There’s a sense of magic about the place, something ancient and strange, but you’re more preoccupied with both the relief of warmth and also the man staring at you from the far end of the room.
Because he is a man- at least, moreso than any of the other creatures you see. He’s tall, but only for a human, and his skin is more porcelain rather than stark white. Blue runes highlight sharp cheekbones and glittering, curious green eyes; he’s lither than the hulks keeping you captive, but you have a feeling he’s just as- or even more- dangerous.
You’re pulled through the room and deposited at his feet- without anything supporting you, your legs slack and you barely catch yourself before falling flat on your face. All is quiet except for the roaring flames. They cast shadows that stretch through the hall and fill your ears with strange whispers.
“What have you brought me?” The man- some sort of king, based on the wreath of wood and crystals circling his head and set amongst small, lethal looking horns peeking though his ink black hair. He’s beautiful, in some ethereal, fantastical way- you can’t look away. It’s a fever dream come to life right in front of you, fearsome appearance juxtaposed by a honey-smooth voice.
He notices you looking, and the corner of his lips tilt into a smirk. You force your gaze elsewhere.
“We found her in the wastelands, Lord. A strange creature.” You huff at that- you’re the strange one?- and receive a kick to the ribs for your trouble. “We thought it might make a suitable sacrifice.”
“Sacrifice?” You find your voice unexpectedly, even if it’s an octave higher than normal. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“Oh,” the other giant says belatedly. “It talks, too.”
“I can see that.” The Lord’s tone is amused. He descends the steps from his throne and lowers himself so he can tuck a hand under your chin and force it upwards to meet his face. His fingers are soft, but cold. “A mortal. Fascinating.”
You want to spit in his face- or maybe slap him- but his gaze, those eyes, keep you glued to where you are.
“Is it acceptable, my King?”
“Mmm.” He circles you slowly, sizing you up. “You might have prevented her from freezing to death. She’s hardly useful like that.”
“Our apologies, Lord.” A heavy fur is immediately draped around your shoulders, nearly knocking you flat. Wonderful. It is warm though, so you try to count your blessings and keep your mouth shut. For the moment.
They talk amongst themselves for a while longer, lapsing in and out of a guttural language you can’t make heads or tails of. The carvings on the wall remind you of something from old mythology, depicting gods and heroes and monsters. “What are you,” you murmur, entranced by the murals, not realizing you’ve spoken aloud.
“I am Loki.” His name is accompanied by a wolffish grin and a click of sharp teeth. “King of this realm. And what shall I call you, my pet?”
“My name is Y/N,” you say harshly, “and I’m no one’s pet.”
“So ornery.” Fingers whose touch are becoming rapidly familiar comb through your mussed hair. “How refreshing.”
“Get away from me,” you spit out, recoiling from his caress.
“Believe me, I have no wish to harm you.” His voice softens, and you almost believe him. Almost. “Ask a question- any question, and I shall answer truthfully. A sign of good will, as you call it.”
Where am I. What are you going to do with me. How do I get home. Can I have something to eat. Are you going to kill me. Will the frostbite kill me first. Why do I find you beautiful, when I should find you terrifying. “The fires. They- they’re burning, but the ice doesn’t melt. How-?”
King Loki laughs, but not derisively- it’s actually quite a pretty sound, low and smooth. You almost want to make him laugh again. “A little mortal wanders her way into the realm of Joutenheim, surrounded by foreign creatures and foreign names- and she wants to know how our fires burn?” He’s almost gleeful. “Oh, I think I quite like you, my dear.”
“Bite me.” You say it as viciously as you can, imagining you could snap his neck with the force of it.
Loki only smiles. It sends a shiver down your spine, with something like fear and curiosity and anticipation. “All in good time, love. All in good time.”
#loki#Loki Laufeyson#loki fanfic#loki fanfiction#loki imagines#loki x reader#loki x you#reader insert#jotunheimen#jotun loki
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Horseshoes and Hand Grenades, Larocque’s Introduction
As I’m finally getting some actual words done on the project, here’s a fun sneak peak into the early chapter, and Harding’s first interaction with Larocque. I feel like I’m finally finding the narrative voice, and I may be having too much fun with descriptions.
===========================
"Agent John Harding, Sr.?"
The use of his full name startled Harding out of his focus, and he jerked up so suddenly he sent half a dozen papers fluttering to the ground. They hadn't been in much order to begin with, emptied from the file box and strewn across his desk and the floor with a few of his own notes scribbled on post-its on top of them, still trying to make sense of the flood of information. He had expected some other lackey suit to be standing in the door to his office, perhaps holding another full box or checking in on his progress as they had been doing for the past couple days, but instead was someone he had never seen before. And he didn't look like a paper pusher, or a field agent. Instead of a suit, he wore a long white lab coat, immaculately pressed and clean. He had the long, narrow look of someone who had at one point been a normal proportion, but then had been squeezed and pulled too tightly through some sort of unforgiving machine. His high cheekbones angled too sharply against the line of his jaw, leaving hollows that might have been called dimples if they didn't look so severely cut. Dark blond hair curled loosely across his temples, and seemed the only thing about him not pressed and stretched into a cultivated, regimented perfection. Harding got the distinct impression that he was some sort of lizard that had decided to wear a human-suit, but had no idea how to make it properly fitted. If he saw a forked tongue, Harding was going to carve a window into the wall behind him and jump through it.
"Yes, sir," he answered instead. "That's me. Can I help you?"
The reptile in the doorway smiled, at least much in the same way a snake smiled while sizing up a cornered mouse. It was less of a gesture of goodwill, and more a yawn of fangs in preparation to swallow someone whole. "My name is Dr. Henri Larocque. I have the results of your bloodwork."
"Ah." When Larocque didn't continue right away, Harding felt compelled to speak. "Is this like looking up symptoms on the Internet? Do I have brain cancer?"
The doctor's smile widened marginally, enough to finally wrinkle the hollows of his pitted cheeks. "Quite the contrary. Won't you follow me?"
"Why do I feel like I don't have a choice in the matter?" Harding picked up a few of the papers that had fallen, returned them to the piles where (he thought) they came from, and gingerly stepped around the rest. Standing beside Larocque, he was even more acutely aware that his own suit was rumpled, his tie was loosely done, and he hadn't really slept in a day or so. He felt rather like a stray dog beside a freshly-groomed Westminster poodle.
"You always have a choice, John."
Harding flinched. No one called each other by first names here, and he wasn't sure if it felt too familial, or too mocking when the doctor said it. It was just weird. Everything about the doctor spoke something of the other, and he couldn't help but wonder if there was some sort of Lovecraftian beast lurking under the skin, rather than a simple razor-toothed lizard. "Yeah, it sounds like it. You sure I don't have brain cancer?"
Larocque led him down the hallway, past the series of windowless offices where other paper-pushers like him worked, past the open cubicles of other agents. RJ saw them pass by, and she stood to exchange a glance with him. He offered her a shrug, and gestured vaguely towards the white coat in front of him, before spinning one finger beside his temple in a gesture of insanity. When she looked genuinely alarmed, a tightness formed in his stomach. Did she know something he didn't?
The doctor pushed open a door at the end of the hall, and gestured Harding into the same small clinic room where the nurse had drawn his blood almost two weeks ago. "Please, have a seat."
The only place to sit was on the hard metal table, covered with a sheet of sterile paper, and Harding felt like a child waiting for a round of vaccinations when he hopped up onto it. The paper crinkled under his hands. The sound settled around the knot in his stomach, adding an acidity that made his teeth ache, as if he had just heard nails scraping against chalkboard for the past two hours. "So," he began lamely, "what's this about? They never said what the blood draw was for."
Larocque drew the shades on the door's window, giving them as much privacy as could be expected. Harding half waited for him to pull out a butcher's knife and begin painting the white walls with chunks of his flesh. But instead, the doctor moved in front of him, and tapped his tapered fingers against a clipboard. "How much do you know about the human genome, John?"
His teeth ached, and he realized he had been gritting them. "It's Agent Harding."
The doctor smiled thinly. "Answer the question, please."
What the fuck was he supposed to say? "I'm not a biologist. I studied French and political science. I know they finished the human genome project recently. It was all over the news." Larocque nodded, and seemed to be waiting for him to go on. He felt a frustrated sigh hiss past his clenched teeth. A headache began to throb in his temple. He hadn't slept, hadn't eaten anything that morning aside from three cups of coffee and half a bagel that he had mostly neglected after he found mold in the cream cheese. "I don't know. DNA makes us who we are?"
"That is correct." He sounded like a teacher, praising an especially thick student for finally answering a simple question, while the rest of the class snickered and flicked spitballs at them. "And we have mapped your genetic code. This is a brave new world we are entering, and you and I are to be on the forefront of this new science. You see, your DNA is holding something extraordinary."
"Not brain cancer, then?"
Larocque's impeccable human suit flickered with irritation. His nostrils flared, and a hint of color finally touched the hollows of his face. "I am certain that you are aware of the rumors of humans with powers beyond the norm? Those that can produce elements with the powers of their mind, or move at speeds and strengths thought impossible?"
"I read comic books," Harding agreed.
"This is not colorful fiction any longer, John. We may have the power to unlock and strengthen these abilities, now that we know the genetic markers that indicate a predilection towards them." He tapped the clipboard again, and his taunt body leaned forward some. "And the markers on yours are incredibly rare. Tell me, how often do you get sick?"
"Get sick?" he repeated, feeling a fresh pulse in his headache when Larocque called him by his first name again.
"Yes, how often do you contract an illness?"
The question gave him pause. "I don't know. I guess--as often as anyone."
"Specifically, when was the last time you were ill?"
"I don't know." He had to bite his tongue to keep from cursing. Professionalism had been his feedback when he was accepted into the program. He had really wanted to tell them then that they could go fuck themselves. Translators weren't in the public eye anyway. But he needed this job. He just didn't need this reptile probing him with weird questions. Fuck, when was the last time he had been sick? He could remember looking after Karen when she got colds, when she got the flu last year, and she had scolded him for kissing her, because what if he got sick next? The only thing he could remember-- "Food poisoning," he said at last. "Uh, senior year of college. Four buddies and me went to a bad choice of restaurant. They all ended up in the hospital."
"And you?" Larocque pressed.
He shrugged. "I was cradling the toilet for eight hours or so. It was miserable."
"Only eight hours for food poisoning, when all your friends were in the hospital for--how long?"
His shrug came stiffer. It hurt his shoulders to make the gesture. His stomach tightened again, knotting in on itself like a low throb of warning. "I don't really remember. They got their stomachs pumped and they were dehydrated so--a day? Two?" He could taste the lie. One of his friends had nearly died, and was there for a week. The other two spent four days wretched and pale. They had sued the restaurant and won enough money that the one who had treaded the veil decided he didn't need to find a job, and bought a house instead. Harding hadn't been a part of all that. He had never even told a doctor that he had been ill. It hadn't seemed to do any harm.
Larocque made a note on his clipboard. "And that was how long ago now? Four, five years?" he guessed.
Harding felt his shoulders jerk in another harsh shrug. It felt as if his muscles were trying to tear themselves free of the bone.
"And before that? Or since then? Any allergies?"
"Nope. Not that I've found yet. Why? Do you think I'm some sort of superhuman cockroach or something?"
"Precisely that."
Harding opened his mouth to speak, but his tongue was dry, and he snapped his teeth shut again. What the fuck was he supposed to say to that?
"What about injuries?" the doctor went on. "Any broken bones?"
"I broke my arm when I was a kid. I got a papercut this morning." He held up his hand to show the mark on his finger, but the line was so thin it was nearly invisible, and the skin was barely torn. He had a hard time finding where it had happened to begin with. "Fuck, I was in a car accident two years ago and had a concussion. Ripped my head open on the steering wheel." He tilted his head slightly, running his fingers along a scar just at his hairline, faded and smooth. "I'm not a man of steel or anyth--can you back up?"
But Larocque had closed the distance between them, and took Harding's head between his thin hands. His fingers were cold. Harding tried to pull back, but he was held like a vice, and the doctor inspected the scar with such intensity that he had to wonder if the reptile also possessed laser vision or something.
"Fascinating," the doctor breathed at last. "A scar this healed would take decades for a normal individual. You had stitches on this wound, yes?"
"Twelve staples."
"Incredible. The marks have completely vanished. If your body already possesses this sort of accelerated healing, then it should only grow stronger once we begin the treatment."
Harding finally jerked himself free of Larocque's probing hands, and all-but fell off the metal table to get away from him. "The fuck do you mean, treatment?"
"I have your paperwork to sign first, of course. We will need your informed consent to begin." Larocque's dark eyes were glittering, and he had the giddy appearance of a schoolboy that had found a particularly large worm on the playground, and couldn't wait to pull it apart to watch both ends wiggle bloody death throes. "I'll have it all sent to your desk. I suggest you finish your current project quickly. We start treatments on Monday."
Tag list:
@fatal-blow @gingerly-writing @rrrawrf-writes @pied-piper-of-hamlet @inkstarlight
As always, let me know if you want to be added or removed!
#excerpt#writeblr#horseshoes and hand grenades#harding#larocque#hippocrates#honestly this book is going to be so much fun just because it's very much harding's voice#and he's so snarky#and so weird#i love him#he's so YOUNG here
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Come Back Home (A Kim Taehyung Mafia AU) // Part 2
Since so many of you wanted this, I just had to write it. Can't keep my readers waiting so here it is. Part Two. And I'll definitely be writing more parts to this. Consider it a series. Let's get it!
Summary: You were dead. Or at least that's what Kim Taehyung thought. But love never dies. A myth, yes. And maybe that's why when he finds out that you are alive, he may have already lost you.
Pairing: Mafia!Taehyung×Reader
This was another curve ball that life had decided to throw in Taehyung's way. And so far, this was the most unpleasant one. Being a mafia boss, Taehyung had dealt with all kinds of obstacles. He had been threatened, he had been shot, he had been betrayed, he had almost been caught by the police but none of it compared to what he was dealing with, currently.
Hoseok wrapped up all his medical instruments and stood up, frowning at you in sympathy. You were finally asleep after struggling and resisting with whatever energy you had left. It was mainly due to the benzodiazepine running through your veins but you were asleep, that's the only thing that mattered.
With a defeated sigh, he left the room to inform Taehyung who was eagerly waiting to see you.
Taehyung would have been in the room with you if you weren't scared of him. Surprisingly, Taehyung was the one you were scared of the most. You kept screaming at him to leave you alone, as if he was the one who tortured you.
"She's asleep for now." Hoseok announced, watching as Taehyung jolted up on hearing his voice.
With a curt nod, Taehyung rushed towards the room, not being able to wait anymore. The love of his life had come back to him, what else was he gonna do?
As soon as Taehyung wrapped his fingers around the doorknob, Hoseok stopped him by taking hold of his arm. Taehyung frowned and looked down at Hoseok's hand, wondering why he was being held back.
"There's something we need to talk about first." Hoseok mumbled, unable to look into taehyung's eyes. He already knew how red and puffy Taehyung's eyes must be because of all the crying he had done. But Hoseok couldn't bring himself to see the brokenness in them. He couldn't see his younger brother so damaged.
"What is it?" Taehyung asked, his tone holding the weight of an impatient man. Without a word, Hoseok dragged him back to the couch, making him sit on it as he sat in front of him.
The others stared at Hoseok with a curious look, trying to come up with different reasons for the upcoming conversation.
"She has been brainwashed...."
Taehyung's eyes stayed the same, not reacting to hoseok's words because he already knew this. You didn't remember him, for godsake. You didn't remember that one guy who loved you and gave you all he had.
"....beyond repair."
Now that made Taehyung's breath hitch. His heart was in his throat and all hope that he had for you to remember him had been shattered. There had to be someway. What was he gonna do?
"There has to something we can do, right?" Jimin asked, making Hoseok glance at him. Hoseok sighed and rubbed his forehead before answering the question.
"We need to know what Castillo did to her. I can't say anything until then."
Taehyung sat unmoving, his fists clenching and unclenching as he thought about all the possibilities of you having any memory of him. All he knew was that he had little to no hope left but he couldn't give up. Not yet. Not after he had got you back.
"Fine. Let's go talk to him."
💔🖤💔🖤💔🖤
"Finally here to kill me, huh?" A gruff voice filled the warehouse as Taehyung stepped inside along with the rest of the members. His eyes turned stone cold and he glared at the beaten man with a ferocious intensity.
Castillo was standing with his hands chained up to the ceiling, his clothes torn and bloody along with his skin which was splattered with his own blood. This wasn't a surprising sight for anyone who knew Kim Taehyung, things could have been worse. If anything, Castillo was being shown mercy.
"Oh trust me. You don't know the things that I have planned for you." Taehyung stated, the emotionless void in his voice was spine tingling.
Castillo chuckled, spitting blood on the floor before glancing at Taehyung with challenging eyes.
"Go on. Ask me what I did to her. I might tell you."
Taehyung gritted his teeth and prepared to lunge at him, only to be held back by his gang members.
Yoongi stepped in front of Taehyung, walking towards the tied up man with slow steps.
"Tell us what you did and we might spare you." He said, tilting his head with a threatening gaze.
Another breathy laugh escaped Castillo's mouth as he shook his head.
"We all know that's not gonna happen so I'll just tell you...."
Taehyung stopped struggling as the others dropped their hold on him, their attention turning to the man who was gonna die very soon.
"I drugged her....."
Taehyung clenched his jaw, trying his hardest to keep his temper in check.
"...again and again..."
His breathing became erratic as the others glanced at him, knowing very well what was gonna happen.
"...and I tortured her. I stuck needles in her arm. I carved her soft skin with a butcher knife. I starved her. Her screams were so delightful and sweet. Made me wanna keep hurting her. And you know what I told her?"
Taehyung took a step forward, ready to throw himself at the disgusting man in front of him.
"I told her that you asked me to hurt her. I told her that you wanted her dead."
A sharp punch landed on Castillo's jaw, blood spewing out of his mouth and dripping down his chin. Everyone stood calmly as they let Taehyung do what he wanted to do. His yells and curses rang through the room followed by Castillo's horrifying screams of pain. He deserved it.
He deserved it all.
"Now I'll tell you what I'm gonna do. I'm gonna bring in my hounds who are gonna feast on you. Alive and Breathing. And I'll stand outside to listen to your screams. Won't that be so delightful?"
Taehyung grinned maliciously before landing a final punch to Castillo's cheek and turning around to leave. He informed the guards to bring in his hounds and let them feed on the pathetic man's flesh.
"But don't let him die. Take them away before he stops breathing and fucking burn him alive."
The guards gulped and nodded, knowing better than to not listen to Kim Taehyung. As they all sat in the car, the show begin and Castillo's screams could be heard from outside the warehouse.
Taehyung smirked in satisfaction as a tear slipped down his cheek. He had taken his revenge for you. He had made sure to bring your kidnapper as much pain as you had endured. Unfortunately, you didn't remember anything enough to appreciate Taehyung. He loved you with his everything and all he wanted was for you to remember something. Anything.
💔🖤💔🖤💔🖤
"She needs to be around someone she remembers." Hoseok stated, placing a hand on Taehyung's shoulder and giving it a light squeeze.
"And she remembers none of us."
Taehyung clasped his hands in front of him, staring at the floor as he drowned in his own spiral of thoughts. He couldn't even begin to fathom how his life had gone so wrong.
If only he hadn't left you alone in the club that night...
"Who does she remember then?" Namjoon asked, wracking his brain for anyone who knew you before you met Taehyung. Taehyung's eyes widened momentarily before he sat up straight.
"Yoona..."
Hoseok nodded and stood up, glancing at everyone with a knowing look.
"Y/N kept calling her name before falling asleep. She remembers her. We need to call Yoona."
"But-but Yoona hates us. She'll probably do something to make sure that Y/N never remembers Taehyung!" Jungkook protested, staring at Hoseok in disbelief.
Hoseok frowned sadly and looked at Taehyung, finding the younger male looking very distracted.
"It's Taehyung's call." Jin announced, waiting for Taehyung to give a verdict.
Ignoring everyone, Taehyung stood up and walked to your room, quietly entering it and closing the door behind him.
You were still asleep.
A number of bandages covered your body as your chest rose and fell rhythmically. It broke Taehyung to see you like this, knowing it was all because of him. But at least he hadn't lost you completely.
He could hear everyone's murmurs from the living room, catching bits of their conversation. Cautiously, he sat down beside you and gently held your hand in his, bringing the back of it to his lips.
He softly kissed it and rubbed circles onto it with his thumb, taking his time to look at you properly. He still couldn't believe the fact that you were here, in front of him. That he was breathing the same air as you.
But moreover, he couldn't believe that you didn't know him. That all the happy times spent beside him, had been erased from your mind.
And the thought of sending you away to live with Yoona was killing him.
Because Jungkook was right.
Yoona had been your best friend and you used to live with her before Taehyung saw you. Yoona also ran a gang but she kept that a secret from you, kept you in the dark until one day Taehyung kidnapped you. But he didn't mean you any harm. He took care of you very well. All he wanted was for Yoona to pay back all the debts that her brother owed to Taehyung.
Her brother, Minho, had been relentlessly borrowing money and drugs from Taehyung's dealers, only paying back with empty promises. It had become important to get back the money since Taehyung's reputation as a mafia leader was at stake. He didn't let people get away with things like these anyway. So why must that one guy be treated any differently?
He kept you with him as leverage, promising you that he'd let you go back as soon as Yoona paid him back. And the day came very soon.
It was a rather memorable day since you refused to go back with Yoona. Because she had lied to you. She never told you what she did, playing around with you like you were a fool. Yoona was mad at Taehyung and she blamed him for all this. She begged for your forgiveness but you had already made up your mind.
But that wasn't all.
You had also inevitably fallen for Kim Taehyung. You had accepted all his flaws and you had decided to stand by him, as long as you were kept out of his work. Unfortunately, things went wrong one day and Taehyung failed to protect you.
"Will you ever remember me?" Taehyung whispered to you, caressing your hair and taking in their softness. You were so strong for having gone through everything, only to come out alive. Taehyung was proud of you. Very proud of you.
He kissed your head and stood up, letting go of your hand as he headed out of the room. Despite everything going on, he believed in the love you both shared. He believed that someday you would truly come back home to him. He was willing to wait all his life, if that's what it took.
"Call Yoona. Tell her everything."
Taglist: @min-t-posts @annoyinglyunabashedangel @bringitseijoh @kpopgirlbtssvt @unppleased @shadowstark @bangtanniexxx
Just tagging people who I thought would want to read this. Let me know if you wanna be tagged though. Or removed from the taglist. Anything works!
-XX
#bts#bts army#kpop#bts imagines#bts v#bts reactions#bts request#kpop roleplay#bts maknae line#bts au#bts mafia au#bts one shot#bts mafia imagine#bts mafia reaction#smileyoongle#bts angst#bts taehyung#mafia au#kim taehyung#taehyung×reader#mafia leader kim taehyung#come back home Taehyung#bts jungkook#bts jimin#bts yoongi#bts hoseok#bts jin#bts namjoon#mafia bts au#one shot turned series tf
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