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bookshelf-dust · 8 months ago

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Hii love!! I absolutely LOVE your works and was wondering if you could write a fic where Billy finds the readers s/h scars and asks about it? The reader kinda opens about why they did and Billy is super confused about why you would purposely hurt yourself, but he swears to himself he’d never let you do that again?? If not, that’s perfectly fine, i know this topic is pretty sensitive to people🤍🤍

billy hargrove x fem!reader

word count: 2,513

warnings: SH trigger warning!! please heed that. mentions of self harm (specifically cutting), scars described, areas on skin. all scars are healed and reader has recovered. please do not read this if this will make you uncomfortable. this is meant to be comforting and let you know that things do get better. it is about acceptance and change.

a/n: anon!! thank you for this idea. i just want to put it out there that i’m not taking requests for the foreseeable future, and haven’t been for quite awhile, but i got sent this and i felt really compelled to write it because it’s something that’s important to me. i felt like i could do it justice, at least a little bit, and i really hope that it will provide you with some comfort. this is something close to my heart, and my goal here is that it will reach someone the right way and encourage them to keep going. i love you all so much!! please go easy on me as i’ve never written anything like this before. also did a bit of a different format! anyway, mwah! 🥰

————

Billy knows you’re shy. Of course he does.

But he wants you to feel as comfortable with him as he does with you. He’s never felt as relaxed and safe as he does when he’s around you. Hell, he’s never allowed himself to let his guard down in this way.

Inviting you to sleep over was his olive branch, hoping you’d have a space where you could be fully you. He has the house to himself, and he knows that will help ease your anxiety. All Billy wants is to give you all that you’ve given him. And maybe more.

Billy had just stripped, pulling on sweats and an old t-shirt, not caring whether you saw him in his underwear. He’s yours anyway. Sure, you haven’t gone very far in your relationship, but he still wants you to see how comfortable you’ve made him. He’s never done this casual intimacy thing before.

“I’ll be just a second, okay?” You give him a gentle smile, feet softly padding against the worn hardwoods, sleeve brushing the door frame as you walk by.

Billy watches you walk out of his room with your pajamas tucked under your elbow. “Okay, baby.”

He busies himself while you’re gone, straightening the bed, finding the tv remote. (He’d never be allowed to roll it into his room if he weren’t home alone.) He figures you’re taking your makeup off too, maybe doing something with your hair, and heads to the kitchen to make some popcorn for you both to share.

In the bathroom, you take a deep breath as you pull on your nightgown. You don’t pride yourself in having nice or fancy things to sleep in, but you felt like bringing this with you because it’s one of the few things you own that makes you feel pretty. Something about a freshly washed face and the soft fabric make you all…content.

You stare at yourself in the mirror. The gown is not tight by any means, and actually a color that brings out your eyes. It has little bows on the sleeves and a tiny strip of lace at the hem. You don’t tend to dress for anyone but yourself, but you do think Billy will like this. Some part of you craves that feeling.

He’s never even seen your legs before, much less your collarbones. And not because you’re trying to be modest, but because it’s been cold and any other opportunity hasn’t presented itself. Showing someone so much of yourself is harder than you anticipated. And you anticipated quite a bit of work.

You inhale and exhale deeply, shaking out your arms. You can’t help but be nervous. You’ve never slept over with a boy before. But it’s Billy. Your Billy. What is there to be worried about?

Billy returns to his bedroom shortly after you’ve sat down and queued up the movie for you both to watch. You take the popcorn he offers you, the socks that are much too big, and snuggle into the worn pillows propped up against his headboard.

You’re sitting too far away for Billy’s liking, munching on your snack and trying to focus on the beginning of Nightmare on Elm Street as if you haven’t seen it over ten times. His eyes can’t stop dragging over your bare legs. This is the first time he’s seen them, and he wants you and all that skin closer.

“Baby,” he drawls.

You can feel his big blue eyes on you, but for once you really are paying attention. “Yeah?” you hum, licking butter from the tip of your thumb.

You don’t even look over at him, and Billy lets out a huff of a laugh. The noise prompts you to spare a glance in his direction, but he’s already got an arm wrapped around your thigh, yanking you across the sheets until you’re pressed against his side.

He tries not to convey how excited he is that he can feel the warmth of your skin on his, how soft your inner thigh feels. He frees you though, laughing at the “Oomph” you let out before settling yourself more comfortably.

You swing your leg over both of Billy’s, handing him your popcorn remains and resting your head on his shoulder. He happily sticks his hand in your little bowl, eating what you’d left behind.

As the movie progresses and Billy finishes all the popcorn, you shift further and further into him. It makes Billy so happy to see you act so comfortable around him. This is everything he was hoping for. He sets your empty bowls on his side table and wipes his hands clean with the wet rag he’d brought with him.

You’re engrossed in the movie, laughing every now and then at something you shouldn’t find funny, or clutching at Billy’s fingers when you get stressed out during a tense moment.

God, he’s so happy to be with you. If he could make this night last forever, he would. Billy kisses the top of your head and wraps an arm around your back, his hand coming to rest on the top of your thigh. You don’t think much of the gesture, only feeling a shiver run down your spine at the contact. At his warm hand on your skin.

Your skin.

Your nightgown has ridden up a bit, and suddenly you register exactly where Billy’s hand is. You take a deep breath, hoping he won’t rub your thigh and feel what you’ve avoided showing him for so long.

You try not to worry, try to keep your focus on the movie, but you can’t. Your bubble has popped. You want to adjust your nightgown, but you’re afraid to draw more attention to the area, afraid to offend him and make him think you don’t want his touch.

Billy’s thumb starts to stroke back and forth on your skin. You can feel the exact moment he registers that it doesn’t feel the way it should. The way your arms do, the way the soft backs of your hands do when he takes them in his.

You feel him sit up slightly, crane his head to look at you. At your thigh.

Upon touching your leg, Billy had expected smooth skin. But he met ridges. Bumps. Lines of raised skin. He knew that wasn’t normal, and it sent a surge of curiosity or maybe even concern through him.

What he sees confuses him. What happened to your leg?

“Baby? What’s that?”

He’s sitting up fully now, prompting you to do the same before you fall against the bed.

The longer he looks at it, the more confused he gets. There are scars on your leg. They’re not big, but there are a lot of them. So many that it’s scaring him. Some thin, some thicker. Different shades of scar tissue and scratched skin that never returned to its original state.

They aren’t fresh, no, not at all. They are all healed. But he’s so confused because he’s gotten lots of cuts and bruises throughout his life, and they’ve never looked like yours do. They don’t look like a normal injury does. These look…deliberate. And he doesn’t understand.

You turn around and sit on your knees. I guess it’s now or never, you think. If you don’t tell yourself that, you’ll probably throw up. And if you hadn’t moved so far past this, you’d feel even worse.

“They’re scars,” you say, rubbing your elbow.

Billy flicks your knee, mainly because he doesn’t know how to react, his other hand rubbing down his face. “No shit.”

Your heart is pounding despite the fact that this is something you have long overcome and are not ashamed of. Even still, there is a part of you that hopes he won’t be disgusted with you. It’s the same part that hasn’t let the relationship go as far as you’d like it to.

“I put them there.”

Billy blinks. Even if some part of him knew that’s where this was headed, he still can’t wrap his head around that. “What?”

His eyes dart to your leg again, wondering if the scars are more extensive than what he can see. He’s scared of how badly you’ve hurt yourself. If he’s not careful, his eyes will glaze over.

“A few years ago. You know how I’ve mentioned my depression and anxiety? And how I have medicine? How it was hard for me to go on dates with you at first or how sometimes I get standoffish?”

He nods, encouraging you to continue.

“Well, you’ve been really good at reassuring me and understanding my panic attacks and stuff, and I’ve gotten a lot better at managing these things. But before all of that, before how I am now, I had no one. I was all alone, and I couldn’t deal with my feelings. So I took it out on myself. I started cutting myself as a way to cope.” You hate to admit all of this, but he deserves to know.

You start fidgeting with your fingertips and break eye contact with him. Billy’s lips have formed a stern pout, his brows knitting together in a way that shows he’s trying to understand you. To him, he really is just trying to comprehend this. But to you, that’s the look of shame you’ve been awaiting. You don’t want to be looked at that way.

You sit on your hands and stare at a string that’s come loose from your worn-in comforter.

“Anyway, I didn’t have anyone to help me. I couldn’t talk about how sad and lonely and angry I was, and I certainly wasn’t ready for a doctor. I kept it all in, figuring it was safer that way. But that got to me, and I chose to take it out on myself. There.” You touch your thigh. “Here and here.” Your fingers brush your stomach and hip. “Here too.” Your forearm. I know it’s horrible, but that’s what I chose to do. And I wouldn’t ever want someone else to choose that.”

“I didn’t want to die, I just wanted the hurt to stop. I needed an outlet for all of those suffocating feelings, and that was what I did. Hurting myself helped me feel better because at least I was expressing something. And I was able to punish myself for being so unlike everyone else. So quiet, so hard to love, so different.”

Your heart is pounding but you steal a quick glance at Billy. He can’t fight the emotion from showing on his face anymore. He feels his eyelashes getting thick with tears that are threatening to spill at any moment.

“I know this is probably hard to understand. I know you might be disgusted with me. But I guess it’s better that you know, right? I should’ve been more open about it with you sooner to avoid it being so…complicated.”

You stop, not really knowing what else there is to say. You’re hoping that this will encourage him to say something. Anything. You’d be happy to answer a question at this point.

Billy brings the hem of his shirt up to wipe his eyes. You wince, feeling awful for making him emotional over this.

He takes a moment to try and wrap his head around what he’s just heard. He’s had a habit of self-medicating with alcohol, with cigarettes, hell, even ego lifting shit he shouldn’t at the gym. But everyone copes differently, right? You wouldn’t do what he does. He wouldn’t do what his dad does.

He just can’t bear the thought of thinking that someone would physically do that to themselves. That you, his perfect girl, would be feeling so low that you’d make yourself bleed just in search of relief from the pain. He can’t understand it, but at the same time, he sees that it comes in different forms.

Billy reaches out for your hands, waiting for you to take them. The pressure behind your eyes immediately softens at the gesture.

“Don’t apologize to me, okay? I’m just trying to process.” He lifts your hand to his mouth and kisses your warm skin.

“Okay.”

He kisses each of your knuckles in turn, maintaining eye contact all the while. He straightens, not letting go of your fingers. “I don’t like to think about you being in any sort of pain. Imagining you doing that to yourself…fuckin’ breaks my heart.”

You tilt your head, scanning his face. He’s hurting for you, and you want to take it away. “It’s okay, Billy. I’m so much better now.”

“But I wish that I’d known you when you were hurting so damn bad. Y-you were alone, and I’m angry that no one was there to pull you out. I would’ve helped you.”

You squeeze his hands. “Billy, baby. I wouldn’t have let you help me.”

“Why?” he asks, his voice cracking.

“Because I didn’t want to get better. I was comfortable in an endless cycle of hurt, and I had to be the one to finally change something.”

Billy leans forward until his forehead is resting against your chest. “I’m so sorry that you had to deal with that, and I know you sure as hell don’t want my pity, but I just can’t have you ever be in pain.”

You weave your fingers into the hair at the base of his neck. “I know, Billy. I’m okay, I promise? I’ve worked really hard to be okay.”

He straightens, cupping your face. “God, I know you have. I’m never gonna let you hurt like that again, you hear me?”

“I hear you, Billy. That’s not a place I ever want to return to.”

He leans in and kisses you with so much passion, using his lips to say more than he could ever form into words, that it leaves you feeling dazed. Loved.

“I’m so proud of you,” Billy says.

You smile at him, and if he weren’t already sitting, he’d need to because of how weak you make him.

“Thank you for respecting me and not treating me differently. You have no idea how much that means.”

Billy’s hands slide down to rest on your collar bones. “Why on earth would I treat you differently? Have people before? If anything it shows me how much of a fucking star you are, because you got through that all on your own. You got through it and now I have the pleasure of being yours.”

You feel like someone’s poured warm water down your back. “People are usually awful about it, yeah. But that doesn’t matter. I’m grateful that you’re so accepting. And I want to be more open with you.”

“You don’t ever have to worry about that, baby. I’m working on my patience, so I’m happy to wait and learn every inch of you. Inside and out.” He winks at you, hoping to coax out a smile. It works.

“I’m so glad I got to this point,” you admit to him. You never say that out loud.

“Fuck, so am I.” He kisses your forehead. “My best girl.”

#tw: self harm #tw: scars #trigger warning: self harm #savannah’s fics #billy hargrove #billy hargrove x fem!reader #billy hargrove x you #billy hargove imagine #billy hargrove x female reader #billy hargrove x y/n #billy hargrove comfort #billy hargrove fanfic #billy hargrove fanfiction

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monstermoviedean · 2 months ago

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hey im so sorry to just pop in here but i have been LIVING for your s14 takes!!! the precise way you've been deconstructing sam's treatment of dean and how that arc in general leaves dean's feelings and needs so deeply unaddressed is so important to me. i guess i just wanted to talk about one thing that really devastates me in 14.12. twice sam is like let me talk about, in detail, what being in the ma'lak box will be like.

first he says, "We know we could die, uh, doing what we do. It’s always a possibility. But what you’re talking about is far worse than death. Michael’s an archangel. He could literally keep you buried in a coffin, alive, forever." and then later, talking about Donatello (but clearly meaning it's also about Dean), he says, "Trapped. Trapped in his own body, somewhere between life and death. It’s just tough to think about somebody going through that."

and both times he says this as though dean hasn't thought about that? or like as though he can scare him into not going through with it? Dean pushes back both times at first saying he never said he wasn't scared. and the second time, after Dean says not to think about it and Sam says that's easy for Dean to say, Dean says it's NOT!!!

idk those parts just crush me so much. cause of course dean is terrified out of his mind at this choice he feels like he has to make. of course the psychological weight is pounding down on him. and yet sam just keeps prodding at that fear and those feelings as though... somehow dean isn't feeling them??? or he can scare dean out of doing the right thing????

sorry to just yap at u but im just so excited to see people talking about these eps this way!!!

no apology necessary!!! omg i love asks like this. thank you!!! and thank you for being so so kind :') (also i love your spreadsheet so so so much thank you for that too!)

i'm glad i'm not too far off the mark with season 14. i think part of it is that i am approaching it for the first time, for better or worse. it's interesting because i have the basic summary that i've picked up from tumblr in my head, and i keep noticing what events i don't really see people talk about. they feel to me like missing puzzle pieces slotting into place to form my understanding. knowing how s14 ends...i can see how we're getting there. i can see how dean is getting there. (i'm not going to make a judgment on dean's behavior until i actually see it, but i see what looks like a breadcrumb trail!)

the first bit of dialogue you cite - i can't get over the fact that this is the sequence of events: dean has a nightmare -> sam asks if he wants to talk about it -> dean says no -> sam keeps talking anyway. it's not just that he launches into horrifying detail, it's that he does it after dean has very clearly said he doesn't want to talk about it.

and the bit about donatello happens because dean reaches out! dean extends an olive branch and asks if sam is alright, and sam uses that opportunity to make this pointed comment about how hard it is for sam to think about that happening to somebody. again, dean has said he doesn't want to be talked out of this. he wants to be allowed to talk about it on his terms (ie, his "deathbed apology" to sam), but sam shuts that shit right down. if sam wants to talk, sam is going to talk, regardless of what dean wants.

and that is what i find so frustrating. that sam is prioritizing his own wants and needs, that he will do and say whatever he wants, regardless of the effects on dean. and the implications of this are deeply troubling to me. because like you said: is sam saying all this because he thinks dean is too stupid to understand what he's getting into? does sam think dean hasn't thought this through? sam thinks it's easy for dean to not think (this is the "easy for you to say" / "no, it's not actually" exchange).

maybe sam doesn't think dean is stupid. maybe he thinks dean is fully aware of the ramifications and is just so "self-destructive" that he doesn't care. okay, fair. but how is it going to help at all to try to guilt him into caring? like you said, to scare him out of doing the right thing?

i understand sam's coming from a place of care and he doesn't want dean to die - very reasonable! but the way he is expressing his care is by bombarding dean with things that are designed to make dean feel fear, guilt, and shame. fear of what michael will do to him, guilt over "leaving" sam, shame over "giving up" and doing things the "wrong" way. he doesn't give him one affirmative reason to abandon the plan - he's not saying dean is strong enough to beat michael, or dean is good and doesn't deserve an eternity of torture, or dean is making a difficult but right choice and his sacrifice is honorable. it's all about how bad this is will be.

and then sam takes it a step further and makes it about dean not believing in sam enough. if dean does this, it's because he doesn't think sam can save him. if dean doesn't think sam can save him, it cannot be because they're up against impossible odds, it must be because dean doesn't believe sam is strong or smart or dependable enough to save him. that is a monumental leap, in my opinion. and in a bass-ackwards kind of way, sam is taking responsibility here. he's suggesting that if dean does this, it's sam's fault for not coming up with another plan. it's self-centered in a very weird way. it's almost like sam thinks dean can't be trusted to make his own choices, and sam has to make those choices for him, and if dean tries to make choices it's because sam has failed. (not 100% solid on this, gotta think about it some more. but it's weird right?)

i do believe that sam is doing all this because of the enormity of his feelings. he is afraid of dean giving himself up like this and afraid he won't be able to survive without dean. he feels guilty for not "saving" dean. i can have some sympathy for sam having a very very bad time. but he's taking it out on dean. it's not like he's saying to cas, "wow, i don't think dean has thought this through" or asking mary to comfort him. he is doing everything he can to make dean give up this plan, and he either does not realize that this is potentially very harmful and unfair to dean, or he does realize it and doesn't care. he keeps reminding dean of how bad it will be. he encourages dean to doubt himself. he doubles down on the guilt dean already feels for everything by emphasizing that dean is giving up, abandoning his family, etc. he creates situations where dean, who is facing down an eternity of torture, comforts sam.

that is a very fucked up thing to do. like i can't emphasize enough that it's fucked up to treat a human being like this. especially one that you care about. i said it last night but i'll say it again: i wouldn't wish this kind of treatment on anyone. i am definitely more sensitive to it because it's dean and i love him but i don't want anyone to be treated the way sam is treating dean. and i'm kind of stunned that sam gets away with it. i think it goes to show how beat down dean is at this point and how he's so crushed by the psychological weight of everything that he accepts this as if he deserves it.

#i'm sorry if i went too deep on this apparently i have a lot of feelings #thank you again for the ask!!!!!!!!#spn #14x12 prophet and loss #spn rewatch #cw suicide #tw suicide #suicide mention

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livelaughghoul · 5 months ago

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Future of Daniel Ricciardo

Disclaimer: This is for entertainment purposes only, nothing observed or taken away from this should be considered fact. As a reminder, I know fuck all about Formula 1, I just like fast cars (DALE EARNHARDT LIVES ON IN MY DREAMS, GOD BLESS AMERICA).

This was requested by an anonymous, who is curious about Daniel’s future. It sounds like there are a lot of rumors (I promise guys, I am trying to learn about F1, there’s just like, a lot), and his luck doesn’t seem to be super favorable. Unfortunately, his actual birth time is unknown (I will be petitioning them to release the actual time of birth), so we are using 12:00 PM UTC in place, his chart is not 100% accurate, but gives us a close depiction of what it should be.

I’m sticking with a two-card pull for this since we are mainly focusing on what career, future, and luck I wanted to keep my questions relatively vague and open-ended. My first question is how can I tell if I’m on the right track, and the second is how has my past influenced my current career path. I think that these questions can answer a lot of those questions people might currently be having about his luck, where things are going, and maybe why things are going the way they are.

Right away, I think pulling two Pentacles here is a moment, and leads me to believe that he values his career, and is incredibly hardworking. Pentacles can also be super grounding, which leads me to believe that he is a source of comfort and stability to others, even if he feels his shit is super off balance, he isn’t going to let that impact how he shows up for others.

How can I tell if I’m on the right track? - 3 of Pentacles, reversed.

I don’t love that this is in its reversed position, especially because the card itself is focused on teamwork, planning, competence, and balance. In its reversal, I think that there is a lot of conflict with some of these core things, and in the sense that determining if someone is on the right track, this tells me that no, we are off track right now. I think early on, yes, he absolutely was on the right track and things went well, but in the current positioning, there is a lack of effective communication, and teamwork is becoming difficult because there is no coordination between the moving parts. Is it possible to find this balance and teamwork again? Absolutely, there is. I think that it is going to take a lot of work, and finding faith in the team and self again.

How has my past influenced my current career path? - Two of Pentacles.

Two of Pentacles is being able to adapt and keep things balanced, working with others, and being open to change. I know nothing of his past career, so this could be totally off here, but I believe that his past has likely set him up for huge success in terms of being able to adapt to less-than-stellar circumstances. I think that there has been a continual balancing act being done here, keeping others happy at his own personal sacrifice. I believe that we are seeing the burnout with this though, the balancing act has been going on for so long that we are finally reaching that breaking point, where it’s no longer healthy to continue keeping things in balance when so many things are stacked against you. I believe his past has set him up to be an amazing source of balance and cohesion, but I think we are reaching the point where the load is becoming too much.

What I find interesting about his birth chart:

Jupiter in Gemini:

Jupiter in Gemini is hilarious for me because this is communication-heavy, which leads me to believe that the filter? It doesn’t exist, we’re a PR nightmare and proud of it. It’s also a sign of financial and career luck in more than one field, and it’s my understanding that he has a clothing line and wine as well, right? I get the sense he may be branching out because one of them is coming to an end, it’s not super uncommon for a Gemini Jupiter to change careers completely at some point in their life.

Tenth house Sun and Chiron:

I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again. Tenth house Sun is literally the best house. It’s the natural ability to fit into the career and succeed, to be a natural talent. I definitely think that it kind of plays into the cards above, with becoming too involved in the career and forgetting those other aspects of life.

I don’t think I’ve talked about Chiron before, but we’re talking about Chiron now. Chiron is the wounded healer, how we handle and adapt to trauma and pain in our life. In the tenth house, I really am not the happiest with this, because this tells me that instead of addressing and handling some of the trauma that may be there, he instead throws himself into work and focuses on that instead of addressing the things that need to be addressed.

Jupiter opposition Uranus:

While oppositions are usually not that great, I personally love this opposition because it’s so fucking petty. Once the patience is gone, this man will verbally terrorize you in such a passive-aggressive, petty way. The outspokenness is intense, usually petty, and can be brutal. Absolutely do not recommend pushing the patience with this man.

#formula 1 #f1 #formula one astrology #daniel ricciardo #red bull racing

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thelastarchangelaskblog · 1 year ago

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Seventh Year: Reconciliations Bonus Scene 3

This one's a bit different! I don't normally do rehashes of scenes already written, especially from another POV, but I actually had to do Gabriel's version first before I could do Michael's. So first I wrote this, and then I wrote out what was going on with Michael.

This scene is Gabriel's POV of that first conversation he had with Michael, after Loki confronted him.

Bonus Scene 1

Bonus Scene 2

Bonus Scene 4

Bonus Scene 5

Bonus Scene 6

Bonus Scene 7

Bonus Scene 8

Loki frequently played around with his magic and the Enochian language, so Gabriel didn’t think much of it initially when he felt Loki’s magic flare in one section of the palace. But it was only a few seconds before he realized that Loki wasn’t practicing or playing around because he’d blocked off himself and Michael from prying eyes or ears.

Gabriel let out a low curse, since apparently it had been too much to hope for that Loki would just leave it and not go after Michael.

He went to pierce through the wards, only to stop when a particular sigil inscribed with his name flared in reaction, pushing him back. Gabriel found himself abruptly relocated to Vanaheim, almost falling into a lake.

“Not funny, Loki.” Gabriel stumbled back, turned on his heel, and flew back to Asgard, this time approaching the room a little more warily.

He could take the sigils down more delicately, but he knew Loki wouldn’t appreciate that anymore than him ripping them down through brute force. But Gabriel would gladly risk Loki’s ire when it came to ensuring his safety.

Loki was many things, subtle, diplomatic, and tactful being a few of them, but he could also be impulsive when angry. Gabriel was relatively sure (okay, 100% sure) that Loki was pissed at Michael, which meant most of his sense of self-preservation went flying out the window to be retrieved at a later point.

And if Loki pissed off Michael…who didn’t think highly of pagan gods…Gabriel didn’t want to think of what the fallout would be.

He reached out to dismantle the wards – Loki’s ire be damned – only to stop when Raphael laid a hand on his wrist, pushing his hand down.

“He won’t do anything,” Raphael said, eyes on the warded off room.

“Got a look into Michael’s mind, did you?” Gabriel glanced between her and the room.

“He knows Loki is one of yours,” Raphael said. “He won’t do anything even when Loki does something inadvisable.”

Were Gabriel in a better mood, he would have protested the slight against Loki’s impulse control. But as it was, Raphael was right in saying it was “when” and not “if.”

Loki couldn’t hurt Michael, but Michael could certainly hurt Loki if he lost control. And yet – and yet…

Gabriel let out a low breath, forcing himself to relax. He’d never known Michael to lose control. Everything he did was calculated.

Michael had changed somewhat, but Gabriel didn’t know how much. Only it had happened, because the old Michael wouldn’t have treated gods with any level of courtesy. The old Michael wouldn’t have let Belial or Beelzebub go without punishing them for what they had said.

Gabriel didn’t move to take down the wards, waiting for Loki to do so himself. It was a few minutes before they dissipated, Loki stepping out of the room and looking entirely unsurprised to see Gabriel standing there.

Gabriel’s attention was split between Loki and Michael. Michael felt—

He was gone, slipping through space and out of Asgard before Gabriel could register a cold fear and relief tingeing Michael’s Grace. He almost chased after him – almost – but stopped short on registering the very loud no that Michael shot his direction, clearly picking up his intention.

Gabriel huffed, then directed his attention to Loki. It wasn’t his full attention; by this point it was practically impossible to direct anything his full attention. There was always something else on the fringes that he was aware of; this time it was Michael, who had stopped on one of Yggdrasil’s branches.

“I’ll leave you to it,” Raphael said mildly, flying away before Gabriel could respond.

That was fine. It was fine. Gabriel didn’t want or need an audience for this.

“Loki.” Gabriel’s tone was more reproving than he’d intended it to be. Ah, well, too late to fix it now.

Loki didn’t look even remotely apologetic. “Did you really expect anything different?”

“I expected you to actually have some impulse control after all this time,” Gabriel said dryly. “Or have you given it all to Thor?”

“I have perfect impulse control,” Loki said, fiddling with the ends of his sleeves to straighten them.

Gabriel raised a skeptical eyebrow. “What just happened tells me otherwise.”

“Nothing about that was impulsive,” Loki said pleasantly, meeting Gabriel’s eyes.

“Wasn’t it?”

“No.” Loki’s answer was firm.

“Enochian sigils of the kind you used wouldn’t hold Michael in place long,” Gabriel said quietly.

Loki didn’t look remotely worried. “They worked well enough for what I needed them to do, which was hold his attention long enough to say my piece.”

“Please don’t tell me you insulted Michael to his face,” Gabriel groaned.

Loki’s face darkened. “If I had, he would have deserved it. No, I told him what no one else seems to have.”

“Loki—”

“You may have forgiven him for his actions,” Loki said, “but I have not. And he has yet to express any sign that he regrets what he did to you. Regardless of your feelings on the matter, that is not something I will allow.”

Gabriel swallowed thickly, the age-old scars in his Grace throbbing at the reminder. Forgiven Michael? Gabriel had told Loki he was trying, but no, he hadn’t forgiven Michael yet. He hadn’t yet had the time to think about it with everything else.

“So you thought the best way of getting your way was antagonizing him,” Gabriel said instead.

“I thought it best to remind him where he stands,” Loki said. “For while you and your siblings may be inclined to let things lie, I am not. Michael has a great many things to answer for.”

Michael did, but Loki putting himself in danger to wrangle an archangel into anything wasn’t a good idea.

Gabriel gave Loki a look. “Maybe so, but I don’t want you putting yourself in danger.”

“If you think him to be so dangerous, why did you bring him here?”

Gabriel let out a low, frustrated breath, unable to quite answer the question beyond the simple fact that he’d thought this would be better than dropping Michael back off in their old world with the Host. Just giving him a little bit of breathing room before bringing him to the rest of their siblings.

And he couldn’t deny that Michael had changed, even if he kept running into the question of how much. Because Michael kept hiding, and Gabriel couldn’t pull aside that damned mask to see what lay underneath.

“I appreciate it,” Gabriel said, not answering Loki’s question, “but please… Let me deal with it. I’ve got it handled.”

Loki gave him an unhappy look, eyebrows furrowed. “Will you?” The rest of the question remained unspoken. Will you handle it?

“Yes,” he said wearily, “I will.”

He wasn’t going to let Loki antagonize Michael any further. And like it or not…this was a conversation they would need to have. Even if it was one Gabriel didn’t want to have because he didn’t know what he’d think of the answers.

Loki’s expression softened, and he closed the distance between them, reaching out to take hold of Gabriel’s shoulders.

“You are not alone in this,” Loki said.

Gabriel didn’t respond, giving Loki a small smile and reaching up to touch Loki’s hands. He squeezed them briefly, then pulled them down, rubbing his thumbs over the backs of his hands.

Gabriel hadn’t been alone in a long time, but there were some things that he had to do without help.

Talking to Michael would be one of them, and he dreaded the inevitable conversation.

He didn’t even have that much time to himself after the conversation with Loki. Gabriel had retreated to his balcony, part of his attention on Michael but the rest on Asgard. Or not even the rest because even now there was a small part of him painfully, terribly aware of the rest of Creation.

Even just lingering over it threatened to pull Gabriel under, so he just brushed against that part of him briefly to check everything was fine before withdrawing and focusing solely on the present.

It was a few hours before Michael landed next to him with a gentle flutter of wings. Michael felt determined and resolved, but that was all Gabriel was picking up from him. There wasn’t any anger for what Loki had done, which was slightly surprising.

Gabriel glanced over to him, but there wasn’t much else visible on Michael’s vessel’s face that revealed what he was thinking. He kept his Grace away from Michael’s, not wanting to impose.

“I need to speak with you,” Michael said, unflinchingly meeting Gabriel’s eyes.

Tension crept into Gabriel’s shoulders, and he rolled them slightly, trying to shake it loose without much success. His hands tightened briefly on the balcony railing before he realized what he was doing, relaxing them before he could break something.

“Is this about Loki?” Gabriel asked. He wasn’t going to apologize for Loki’s actions, but he did have to wonder if Michael would even be standing here if not for what Loki had done.

To his surprise, Michael shook his head. “Something else I should have done before.”

Gabriel gave Michael a close look, but there really wasn’t anything else he could pick off from him other than a steely determination. It seemed like they were going to have this conversation, and Gabriel would definitely prefer to have privacy for this.

He nodded, exhaling to try and release the tension coiled in his body. He pulled at the Enochian wards around his room, activating them to give them privacy.

“I don’t think you want others listening on this,” Gabriel said, turning to face Michael. He leaned his hip against the balcony railing, bracing his weight on one hand. Michael had always been private. Gabriel was less picky about privacy, but he definitely didn’t want the entire Host eavesdropping on this.

Michael pulled in a long breath. “Words have never been my talent,” he said. “Not like yours, brother. And everything I can think of saying…it’s not enough. It won’t ever be for what happened.” As he spoke, the blankness of his Grace gave way to sincerity and regret, but Gabriel barely registered the change, unsure of what else to do other than breathe.

“I’m sorry,” Michael continued when Gabriel didn’t speak – couldn’t speak. “I’m sorry I failed you. I know it’s not enough—” He cut off at Gabriel shaking his head, mouth snapping shut.

It was too much – too much. Nothing that Gabriel had expected but what he had hoped and yet it was bringing up memories Gabriel would prefer to have forgotten.

Gabriel closed his eyes, unable to deal with looking Michael in the eyes. The old scars in his Grace were aching, and he had to breathe. He wasn’t in the Cage.

Michael didn’t speak but he didn’t reach out to Gabriel either. He just…stood there, a silent presence that Gabriel could focus on that wasn’t memories of cold and pain.

Eventually, he managed to compose himself enough that he thought he could speak without revealing too much. Even so, he was just…

They were apologies but they were apologies that were years too late. (Not that Michael could have apologized before because he’d been dead but what about afterwards? When he’d just stared down Gabriel and said he was tired and Lucifer needed to—)

“You’re right.” Gabriel’s voice was quiet. “It isn’t really enough. Not for”—he stumbled slightly here—“not for everything that happened, Michael.” And there was so much that had happened. From— “At the beginning and then…” The beginning and then the Cage and Michael just not—

Gabriel’s throat throbbed, and he almost reached up to touch it before forcing his hand to still.

There was regret from Michael, utterly surprising after the lack of it that Gabriel had seen before.

He gave Michael a surprised look, unable to keep it out of this voice. “You do regret.”

“Yes.”

“You didn’t before.”

There was no reaction from Michael beyond the regret.

Gabriel let out a breath, scolding himself. That was unhelpful. Michael was trying here; the least Gabriel could do was try as well.

“I don’t know what to say,” he admitted, glancing back to Michael. “Michael…I’ve spent so much damn time wondering just why.” A question no one had the answer to, and Gabriel wanted to know the answer now. “Why the fuck did you do it?”

“Does it matter?” was Michael’s infuriating response.

Did it matter? Did it matter?

Gabriel thought that after everything he damn well deserved an explanation. “Yes, it does!”

There was no physical reaction from Michael, but suddenly his Grace retreated, his true form shrinking in. There was still regret radiating from his Grace.

“I can tell you why,” Michael said quietly, “but they would be excuses. They don’t excuse my actions or lack thereof. Would it help you if I told you why?”

Did Michael want to get out of explaining his actions? Did he think he could just get away with an apology?

All these years and Gabriel had no idea just why Michael had never bothered to help him. Why Michael didn’t think he was worth it.

Gabriel drew in a breath through his nose, trying to compose himself. It didn’t work; his voice still sounded strained. “It would help me understand just why you thought I wasn’t worth it.”

“It wasn’t because of that,” Michael answered, unexpectedly fierce. “Don’t you dare think it was because of that, Gabriel.”

Gabriel stared at him. “Then what was it, Michael?” He deserved to know after everything that had happened, even if he had little hope for an actual answer.

“It had nothing to do with you,” Michael said slowly, “and everything to do with me.” There was regret clinging to him and guilt. “Because fighting did nothing in the end but only make Lucifer angrier, and I…” He trailed off, no longer looking at Gabriel. It was a moment before he continued speaking. “I have no excuse, absolutely none, Gabriel. I failed you, and that has nothing to do with you.”

Gabriel snorted. “That’s no explanation.” Because it wasn’t. It sounded like a paltry excuse.

“I don’t have one.”

How did Michael not have an explanation?

“Don’t you?” he demanded. “Or is it one you don’t want to tell me?”

“I have none,” Michael said quietly, subdued. “None but for my own apathy. None but for believing that it would be best if his anger was spent. I was wrong.”

It wasn’t an explanation. It wasn’t even close to an explanation. It was just…nothing.

So everything Gabriel had gone through…everything that had happened…it was because Michael couldn’t care? Because he just couldn’t be bothered to help? There hadn’t been a reason behind it?

It just…was?

Gabriel’s Grace ached, and he didn’t know what to feel or think at the revelation that Michael didn’t have any explanation and just…

What did he want?

“What are you expecting to get out of this?” His voice sounded choked.

“Nothing. But I owe you an apology for what I failed to do.”

“So what? It’s all fine now?” Gabriel’s eyes burned. “Are you expecting me to say you’re forgiven—”

“No,” Michael said instantly, firmly. “I don’t expect forgiveness, Gabriel. That isn’t why I’m doing this. I’m doing this because I failed you, and there is nothing I can do to make it better.” There was a palpable sense of regret from Michael and no hint of a lie in his words.

Gabriel’s breath hitched at the sensation, the burning in his eyes intensifying. He ducked his head before Michael could see the tears.

Breathing didn’t help quiet the roiling emotions in his Grace. The first few tears came slowly and then all at once, and Gabriel just felt Michael standing there silently while he tried to pull himself together after the non-answers and apologies Michael had lain at his feet.

“I’m sorry,” Michael said after a long, silent moment. “I’m not asking for forgiveness. But you deserved to know what happened in the Cage wasn’t your fault; it was mine. I should have protected you.”

Gabriel bit out a hoarse “Stop” before he realized what he was saying. He let out a sharp breath, covering his face before Michael could see the tears.

He didn’t notice what Michael was doing until the other took a step back, and Gabriel realized what his intention was a split-second before he did it. His hand snapped out, grabbing hold of Michael’s wrist before he could fly away, and he took hold of Michael’s Grace in the same instant.

His brother froze in his grip, not a word escaping him.

“No,” Gabriel managed past the old aches in his throat. Michael wasn’t leaving now. Gabriel wasn’t finished with him.

He wasn’t finished with Michael. Apologies and explanations that weren’t explanations didn’t mean anything after everything that had happened.

Gabriel could feel Michael registering his emotions through the contact of their Grace. There was no other reaction otherwise, but Gabriel could definitely feel the regret and guilt etched throughout Michael’s Grace like this.

Regret and guilt and… Michael’s Grace was too tightly pulled in for Gabriel to make out anything else, but he did honestly and sincerely regret what had happened before, and there was nothing but genuine concern for Gabriel now.

The anger cooled slightly, a wave of weariness washing over Gabriel. He was just…

“I’m angry,” Gabriel said, acknowledging what Michael was picking up from his Grace. “I’ve…I’ve been angry for so damn long. Angry and upset and hurt because I’ve always wondered why but I knew I wouldn’t get an answer and now I’m still not getting an answer because you don’t have one either.”

There was no answer from Michael; he didn’t pull away from either of Gabriel’s grips.

That was fine. Gabriel hadn’t expected an answer from Michael. Not that he knew what it would have been either way.

Gabriel was…

“I’m tired of being angry.” Gabriel finally looked up to Michael, smiling slightly. There was a spark of surprise from Michael and a widening of his eyes as he saw the tears on Gabriel’s face.

Gabriel was so tired of being angry at Michael for something that had happened a billion years ago (or nine hundred and ninety million years ago but the semantics didn’t matter much, did they?). And more than anger, there was hurt and betrayal still lingering because he had never gotten an answer for what happened.

He still didn’t have an answer, but there wasn’t one that Michael could give if he didn’t have one in hand. And Gabriel knew enough that not everything had a proper explanation. Some things just…some things just were.

And as fucked up as what happened in the Cage was, it seemed like that didn’t have a good explanation beyond Michael…beyond Michael being an apathetic asshole.

Lazy was one word for it, but it probably didn’t quite cover everything.

Gabriel breathed out, meeting Michael’s eyes. “I’ve been angry for so long,” he said quietly, feeling the muscles of Michael’s wrist tense in his grip. “Angry and…hurt. Because I couldn’t understand just why. And to hear that – that you don’t even know – that you don’t even have an explanation—” He cut himself off before the words could spill out, breathing through the flare of anger. Once it was gone, it was just the weariness left.

Gabriel let go of Michael’s wrist, pulling his own Grace back as he put some space between them. There was no movement from Michael beyond his hand falling back to his side.

“Anger hasn’t gotten me anywhere,” Gabriel said wearily, folding his arms over his chest. His fingers tightened on his biceps; Michael might not recognize the gesture for what it was, or maybe he would after seventeen years in the human world. “It’s just…” He exhaled, closing his eyes.

The Messenger without words? But then…Gabriel wasn’t the Scribe. He just carried others’ messages. He was good with words, but words sometimes failed even him.

And he had no way of describing the tumultuous chaos in him right now. His shoulders drew in unconsciously.

Gabriel had forgiven Samael, but that had taken years. That had taken Samael repenting and years of awkwardness between them. And Samael hadn’t had an explanation beyond fury and insanity for Lucifer’s actions.

Michael? Michael had even less of an explanation, and while he seemed genuinely remorseful about what had happened (which was a far cry from his behavior before where he’d just blandly said Lucifer needed to finish with Gabriel like he had with Michael), it wasn’t—

Gabriel didn’t know.

There was a hesitant touch to his shoulder, and then he was gradually enfolded in warmth as Michael slowly wrapped his arms around Gabriel’s shoulders. He went numbly, hiding his face in Michael’s shoulder. He did register when Michael blanketed Gabriel’s Grace with his own, warmth blazing through the cold areas in Gabriel.

Gabriel shuddered at the touch but didn’t flinch back, pressing his face harder into Michael’s shoulder. His robes smelled like space dust and a little something that Gabriel identified as belonging to the in-between space of dimensions.

“I don’t know if I can forgive you,” Gabriel said into Michael’s shoulder, his voice muffled by cloth. It was easier than saying it in Enochian through their shared link.

Michael didn’t react, but there was a curl of sadness and regret that briefly touched Gabriel’s Grace before it was gone like it had never appeared. “I don’t expect you to,” he murmured.

“But it doesn’t mean I hate you,” Gabriel said, still speaking into Michael’s shoulder, even more muffled than before.

It was only by grace of Michael being an archangel that he was able to make these words out. “I wouldn’t be surprised if you did,” he admitted wearily.

Gabriel didn’t respond for a moment, trying to piece together the oddity of Michael’s Grace feeling blank other than regret and the weary tinge to his voice. It was so…fatalistic.

Gabriel wasn’t used to Michael being fatalistic. It didn’t suit him at all.

And Michael’s Grace was just…it was warm, but there was just nothing to it. Nothing of substance like with Gadreel or Samael, who both felt very different but did still feel.

Masks, Raphael had said. Michael had masks.

Masks, and there was no way Michael was as cavalier about this as he was pretending to be.

If Gabriel were feeling spiteful or vindictive, he might let Michael go thinking that Gabriel did hate him, but that time had passed, and Gabriel was done with holding these resentments close to his heart. Michael wasn’t dead any longer – he was here – and Gabriel was fully aware of how lucky they were to have him back and not dead.

“I don’t.” Gabriel pulled back from Michael, meeting his eyes. “I don’t hate you, Michael.”

Michael blinked at him, hands on Gabriel’s shoulder for a lingering second before he let them drop. He looked surprised, even though there was no mirroring emotion in his Grace. He didn’t respond, eyes flickering to the side and then back to Gabriel’s.

Gabriel exhaled, letting Michael feel the sincerity and honesty in his own Grace. They could lie to each other, but such deceit was so much harder than being honest.

Michael ducked his head slightly at the emotion, shoulders pulling in.

“You should,” Michael murmured, not meeting Gabriel’s eyes, the words sounding like they were being dragged out by the reins.

Gabriel shoved him by the shoulder, hard enough that Michael had to take a step back to brace himself. “No, I shouldn’t. You’re my brother, Michael! I could never hate you.”

Michael’s eyes darted up to meet Gabriel’s and then darted back down. He didn’t look at all like the forbidding Commander of the Host from Gabriel’s memories. But then…he hadn’t looked much like the forbidding Commander of the Host since the Cage, had he?

“I could never hate you,” Gabriel repeated when Michael didn’t speak, gentling his tone. “Upset? Sure. Mad? Oh yeah. But hate? No. I never did; I never could. Hatred…hatred isn’t something that’s in me, Michael.”

“I’d deserve it.” The words were so low Gabriel almost missed it.

Gabriel shoved Michael again, this time more gently, and he gripped hold of Michael’s elbow. “I think that’s my choice to make, don’t you?”

Michael didn’t speak, this time holding Gabriel’s gaze when he looked up.

Gabriel didn’t look away, keeping his hold firmly gentle on Michael’s elbow.

Eventually, Michael nodded. “I am sorry.”

“I know.” Gabriel managed a strained smile. That was one thing that Gabriel did know, even if he didn’t know anything else.

Michael held Gabriel’s gaze for a minute longer, expression and Grace unreadable before he slowly pulled away. This time when he took off, Gabriel let him go.

Gabriel didn’t take down the wards just yet, using the time to rub his hands over his face and let out a loud sigh.

That…that hadn’t gone terribly. It hadn’t gone great, but it hadn’t been terrible.

What was more, it felt like a weight had been lifted off Gabriel’s shoulders. Things weren’t perfect, but he had the feeling they were better than before with some of the air cleared.

Minutes later, as he pulled himself together and took down the wards, Gabriel thought back to what he could remember of Michael’s Grace during the conversation.

Masks…

Gabriel really wasn’t sure he wanted to know what Michael had going on under his.

#first born #my writing #bonus scene #seventh year: reconciliations #the last archangel

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marcusoseman99 · 11 days ago

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Songs of the Isle pt 45

Dion: I am the God of wine do I really have to answer that.

Vick: I'll be there.

Apollo: Where can we stay I don’t think I still have a tent.

Dion: Of course you do it’s right where you left it, silly boy.

Apollo: You could have taken it down I don’t want to been trouble.

Dion: Shut up I love it when you visit I just wished you would say longer.

Apollo: Well thanks....... Vick lets go I’ll show you where the tent is.

*The pair head through the tents that are spread out around Dions camp they pass woman that are dressed in fawn skins some covering one breast others completely shirtless.

The only commonality among them is vine tattoos covering their bodies wrapping around each limb some in other parts of the body but all have them.

The woman also carry the same staff as Dion but each is slightly different branch colour from light brown to a dying necrosis, the same goes for their staff length some could be a battle staff other a walking stick.

Vick blushes and looks to the ground as they pass*

Vick: I guess this place has heard of free the nipple don’t look I don’t to make people think I am a perv.

Apollo: Hey perv.

*Vicks eyes shoot to Apollo*

Apollo: No one cares here just don’t stare at their titties.

Vick: But well but

Apollo: You have seen my boobs and didn’t panic this much so think of it like that cuz it’s the same thing.

Vick: So you don’t feel awkward.

Apollo: Yeah maybe the first few times but now it is what it is.

*They continue till they reach a tent and as Apollo enters Apollo waves at some other goat people Vick basically knocks Apollo down as they enter*

Apollo: I should talk to him; this must be overwhelming.

Apollo: What are you scared of boobs.

Vick: No you asshole I just didn’t want to be weird.

Apollo: By being weird.

Vick: I don’t know man it’s just different.

Apollo: Yeah hmm just see it like they are dudes actually that doesn’t change much well they are people with a bit of skin out you will get used to it.

Vick: I know that but why are their….

Apollo: tittes out?

Vick: Not how I would put it.

Apollo: Its apart of their belief in Dion.

Vick: How though.

Apollo: Well, Dion isn’t some party God he is that animalistic side that everyone has, he is the desire and honest that life can force you to hide.

Some people don’t want to hide they want to live as themselves, their pure self, these people are just that balance but more honest than us.

Vick: That actually sounds....... good.

Apollo: I know I have thought about staying here a lot no one fighting or hating, just honesty.

Vick: Why don’t you?

Apollo: I like fighting and lying.

*They both laugh before Apollo looks back at Vick*

Apollo: Well there are two real reasons, first the fort needs someone to take care of it and Reegan needs company.

Vick: Second?

Apollo: They just party too much

*Vick tries to hide his laughter, but Apollo starts laughing*

Apollo: Swear to Dion himself these motherfuckers just party all the time.

Vick: *laughing* OK OK…. I get it pfft.

Apollo: *laugh* Any other questions then

Vick: Actually yeah why do Demi and Philp live away from everyone else?

Apollo: They are the ones that patrol and check things for Dion so they get their own space for training and privacy.

Vick: Why them though

Apollo: it’s a heredity job their parents did it so they do too simple.

Vick: That’s something

Apollo: Old school rules but they work.

Vick: I guess.

*Vick and Apollo sit on his bed his room dusty and looking almost exactly like Dions but before they can talk Dion opens the tents entrance and looks at them on the bed*

Dion: Sharing a bed?

*Vick stands up exactly as he Dion finishes specking*

Apollo: I'm sleeping on one of the floor rolls..... why jelous?

Dion: No but can I talk to you outside please its important

Apollo: Yeah sure Vick just hmm I don’t know unpack or something.

Vick: Cool.

*Vick gives an awkward thumbs up as Apollo leaves giving him a pity nod then he leaves the tent with Dion, Apollo and Dion start walking through the camp again*

Apollo: What’s so important then.

Dion: Have you been checking the moons.

Apollo: You are worrying too much half of it is just myths.

Dion: It’s going to be a tough one Mene seems to have it in for you.

Apollo: Who?

Dion: I swear I mention her at some point.

#comics #horror #original character #gay #webcomic #script #lgbtqia #mythology and folklore #my writing #creative writing #fantasy writer #writer #writer stuff #writer things #writers on tumblr #writerscommunity #writing #writing blog

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ravingrovebeetle · 1 year ago

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fanfiction excerpt (ghost on ao3)

this is a shameless self-plug, sorry y'all

here's the link to my actual fic: https://archiveofourown.org/works/47626291/chapters/120038833

(it's a miritama fic because everything i do is miritama)

Tamaki's passed from hero to hero, and yet he still hasn't seen Lemillion for more than those few seconds when the heroes first arrived. The last one he's left with is Fat Gum, who takes him outside for the first time—and oh. It's been months. The few trees that are actually in the city have grown a kaleidoscope of red and orange and yellow, their leaves slowly beginning to fall from their branches.

"Wh... How long has it been?" Tamaki breathes, looking over at Fat Gum from the corner of his eye.

Fat Gum isn't in good shape, Tamaki can tell. For one, he's lost his roundness, but that can be chalked up to the fact that he's been fighting to save Tamaki for far longer than he should have. That doesn't explain the dark circles that run under his eyes, though, or the way that his crow's feet don't appear the way they used to when he smiles at Tamaki.

"You should wish the boys a happy birthday," is what Fat Gum says, far too cheerfully for the situation they're in now or his horrible physical state.

"...October?" Tamaki blinks. Two months. Two months he's been gone. Two months without properly eating or sleeping or talking to anyone that he actually cares about.

When you're a hero, you learn that anything can happen in the blink of in eye, within the span of a single second. And if Tamaki's been out of the scene for two months... How much has he missed?

"The 16th, exactly. I told the kiddos they could take the day off, but they both insisted they'd rather come help save you. They really care about you, Suneater."

Tamaki feels like curling in on himself. He wants to get back in there, to help all of the people that are working so hard to save him despite all of the better things they could be doing. But he can't, because if he uses his quirk... No.

"They're too..." Selfless? Optimistic? Caring? Altruistic? Chivalrous? Spirited? "Manly?" "They're so much like Mirio," Tamaki settles with.

"Lemillion led this mission," Fat Gum tells him. "He hasn't been the same since you were..." Kidnapped, Tamaki finishes mentally. It's telling that not even Fat Gum, one of the most "grin-and-bear-it" type-heroes Tamaki's ever met is faltering at even the thought of his sidekick being abducted.

"His first one?" Tamaki guesses. It's true, unless Mirio has been up to other things in the two months that Tamaki hasn't been around. Fat Gum nods, confirming Tamaki's theory.

"I saw him for a second," Tamaki says. "But not since then. I... I don't know if I can face him, after everything that's happened. Hado, either."

"Lemillion and Nejire-Chan will be okay," Fat Gum responds. Tamaki's not so sure. So much has happened, for all three of them.

Tamaki sighs, taking in the view of the city. There aren't many people out at this time of night, for which Tamaki is grateful. Even with his hero costume looking like it's been buried for years and just finally brought back to the surface, even with Tamaki's greasy hair that has grown longer, reaching his shoulders, Tamaki is still recognizable as Suneater.

Fat Gum takes the hint, and instead reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small box. "I brought some food. I wasn't sure how much you'd be eating there, if..." Right. To the rest of the world, Tamaki's probably dead. He remembers, some time ago, Heart coming in with an obituary and a smug smile. Tamaki's obituary. His mother had written it... Oh my god. His mom. He's alive, and his parents are probably still grieving.

Tamaki takes the food and tries his best to eat it without wincing. There are two pieces of takoyaki—not nearly enough to satiate Tamaki, but enough for him to at least use his quirk without... He shakes his head. He's not going to think about it—he's not. "I have to call my parents," Tamaki says, standing up once he's finished eating. "Do you have your phone on you?"

Fat Gum grimaces. "You... you can't talk to them yet. Not until the police get here and we get you to the hospital."

Red-hot fire shoots through Tamaki—metaphorically, thank god. But he's angry. He's furious, because he's finally made it out of that place alive and he has to deal with the fact that his parents still think he's dead and he can't even offer the slightest bit of help or comfort to anyone, not even the people he loves most.

"Taishiro," Tamaki says, using Fat Gum's given name. "Give me your phone. I did not get kidnapped for two entire goddamn months to not be able to talk to my parents."

Fat Gum doesn't argue, instead taking out his simple flip-phone used exclusively for hero missions. Tamaki takes it, desperately typing in his mom's number. He can feel his heart pounding in his ears, a drum beat to the ringing of the phone.

The phone rings once, twice, three times—and his mom picks up.

"Mr. Toyomitsu." Her voice is exhausted, but not the kind of sleepiness from just waking up—she sounds like she hasn't slept in days. "Is there anything I can help you with? Fumihiko and I were just getting ready to head to bed."

"Mom," Tamaki whispers, then repeats himself, louder this time. "Mom. It's me. Tamaki. I'm okay. I... You're not supposed to know I'm alive yet, so act surprised when the police or the hospital or whoever calls you, I don't know, I... I just needed to hear your voice."

"...Tamaki?" Softspoken, as always, his mom calls to his dad and suddenly they're both at the phone. "You're okay, oh my god? Where are you? We'll be there as soon as possible, okay?"

"...I don't know. A city, somewhere. Someone will call you, okay? I'm still going to be here in an hour. I just need you to be okay and I need you to know that I'm okay. I love you, Mom, Dad. I'll talk to you later, okay? I love you. Okay."

The two of them talk over each other for several entire minutes, fussing over Tamaki's health and wellbeing and how he sounds so sick and tired and how he must not be okay at all and how does he sound so calm? Tamaki hangs up through one of his mom's tangents about good food for mental health and hands the phone back to Fat Gum.

"I'm never talking to anyone ever again," Tamaki decides stubbornly. Fat Gum just laughs, wrapping Tamaki into a suffocating hug.

"I missed you, Suneater," he says, and Tamaki would cry if his eyes weren't so painfully dry from dehydration.

Tamaki laughs sardonically. "I missed you until about thirty seconds ago. Now I wish I'd never seen you. I'm leaving your agency, never being your sidekick again."

"You wound me."

"You missed it."

#miritama #fanfic writer #fanfiction #fanfic #bnha fanfiction #tamaki amajiki #fat gum #toyomitsu taishiro #fatgum #boku no hero acedamia #fanfic excerpt #fanfiction excerpt

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phantombs · 2 years ago

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ofyokai:

The girl playfully snaps back, “To stop my lying?” She scrunches her face into a feigned sort of you-offended-me expression, but amusement gets the better of her and Reiko bursts into laughter. The mirthful sound rings like babbling brook from her lungs, and several more petals lazily fall from the shaking of the peach branch behind her back. This teenager has quite literally left an small trail of pink through the man’s shop from the moment she walked through his doors. “Well… you wouldn’t exactly be the first to chastise me on that one, chú ơi.” She sticks a hand into her canvas bag and pulls out her wallet. It’s a cute sage green, bifold design with various red foxes embroidered into the fabric. The girl embroidered it herself, so it lacks the professional touch. Even so, it is as though the creatures actually stare up at the man from the threads that make up their cunning, little eyes. “But hey, it’s like you said, isn’t it? That’s my personal business to work out between me and Ông Trời, so don’t waste your breath on an urban prankster like me. You’ll grey your hairs trying to get through to someone like me. I’m hard-headed, you know?” She shoots him a disarming grin, but then her eyes dart towards the Buddha shrine, having nearly forgotten about the dead that have been watching her. Speaking to her. Begging her to help. If anything in the world has the right to ask, it’d be them, wouldn’t it? Reiko stops smiling. “Since it’s honesty you want, then no, I don’t think the flowers aren’t good enough. If anything, I think they’re sacred. Although, I suppose you could say that I came here to pay my respects in a certain sense…” Reiko offers him the peach branch with both hands. It’s the most serious gesture yet of her day, what with the shrewdness dissipating from her eyes. Who knew that she could warm up so quickly to one who can beat her at her own game of calculating words and cleverness. “This is the first branch of the season from the gardens of Ông Út Lé. He’s the one that told me to check out your shop if I wanted to buy incense.” At this point, they’ve somehow come to the all-too-familiar topic of ghosts. Now that it’s her turn to choose her words carefully, Reiko keeps casual about the subject. “When I was a little girl, ghosts used to scare me more than humans, but nowadays people scare me more than ghosts. So if you’re really looking to haunt me, I’d do that now before you die.” She moves to follow the man but tries to discretely steal a glance over her shoulder at the spirits as she pulls out her money. “For how much are you selling me the incense, chú?”

The liar laughs sweetly. It tinkles in the air. Cường eyes her as she does so, her cheeks blurring a crisp apple-red, nose scrunched, and he thinks, goodness, aren't you contradictory? After all, she looks sweet as pie, laughter high and jam-like, but for all the innocence she’s giddily boasting, he won’t buy it for a second! No, frugal, he won't buy it one bit. "You know, I'm starting to think lying is the most innocent thing you do at all," he starts, shuffling down the aisle. The gardener, ghost-seer, half-wolf thing, reaches out and vexingly pinches her earlobe. "In fact, maybe you're not a little girl to begin with. Well, I have charms for that, too, you know, and I'm told they're pretty potent. Exorcism charms. They’ll suit you better."

Exorcism?! "Little devil is more like it. Now, start behaving, or I'll be no chú either. Go and act up again, and I’ll be Ông Ba Bị”

He lets go. Oooh… Scary! Surprisingly, however, chú’s voice, soft and river-lilting, had not but one glimmer of loathing. In fact, he’s heard them all himself, all those cruel, devilish, and demonic evil nicknames. He’s been thought of as an omen, even a bringer of Hell, so when he waits for her response, it’s humor that fills the silence. It clings to the porcelain and sounds like – He knows. No, no, he's like you. She grabs her self-stitched wallet and hands the branch over, too. "Sacred?” Cường drawls, blinking as the blossoms sway in his face. How fragrant. He takes it from her, studies it, twirls it idly. “Well, it’s good a thing Ông Út Lé told you to come here today. If you took the time to remember a forgotten store like mine, I guess I was wrong. You aren’t bad after all.”

Cường pauses. They’ve approached the aisle with the incense cannisters, and his dark eyes, lost-in-thought and stone-still, track the fleeting glance she'd tossed past his shoulder. She's interesting. She's young in her face, doe-eyed and fresh like rain, and yet, yet, she speaks though she's lifetimes. Ghosts are foul, sure, though men have hurt greater than wraiths, but despite the cuts he's gotten and the names he's been called, he still finds love for humans. He still treats all so soft. And what of her? Somehow, bitterness doesn’t suit her. She trifles with her wallet, and he stills her hand. "Forget it.” Around them, the Buddha shrine dulls its prayer song, and the phantoms at his shoulder, eyes gouged out, return her lingering stare. The first blossoms… Is this one for us? “For the one you’ll leave with today, you can pay me back by dyeing black every grey hair you give me," he jokes. Sort of. He grabs a cannister with his free hand, and opening it, offers her a whiff. Nice. It’s like the temples, deep, perfumed, and it overrides the chè chuối at the other curiously empty shrine. "Ah. So, that’s why you pull pranks. People scare you, so you’ll scare them all right back. Huh. Revenge isn’t something good girls do, you know." Nope. Cường raises the cannister and taps her head once. “But revenge is a good way to get someone to remember you. I’ll let you in on a secret: ghosts don’t really haunt people. I think, actually, it’s that they can’t let go. Be forgotten.” Can she relate?

#ofyokai #i throw this at you..with love on my heart #reiko is so sweet. well. shes just a kid..shes got that childish quality to her thats so endearing #cuong is endeared. hes like an older brother. yeah. hell call her a little devil. a little demon. yeah hell pinch her ear and tell her #the bogeyman will punish bratty kids if you arent careful #but (humorously)#cuong cant explain it but he feels he can relate to her #obv...somethings odd...shes haunted by spirits just like him but theyre talking around it #she wants to be like him and he finds her ability to meet him wit for wit is both infuriating and funny #he will absolutely challenge her. but he also gets what its like being like #the bad kid. and now the bad evil man. in a way its like #yeah. shes right. the living are mean and maybe meaner than the dead #but he still finds much to enjoy in humanity and life. and he wonders if shes...rebelling #or alone #...mmmsmh..sad...#also something to be said where she did visit his store. she didnt forget to drop on by #and how ghosts become evil when they're forgotten... and how shes so haunted by them #cuong can see why her air is so thick with them — the ghosts #desperate to be remembered cling to her

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onecoloraway · 2 years ago

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I think Pete is far too smart or at least trained to be smart for most of the discourse to shove his motivation under the i can fix him/shared trauma/his inner freak is attracted to Vegas angles. Sure he has a lighbulb moment as soon as he hears how Vegas is being talked to, hit by and humiliated by his father, recognises his own father probably, but him giving that monologue later is still not self-explanatory just because of this similar abuse they both share. I think Pete is incredibly good at his job and has gained more than great experience at reading people. It's not his loyalty towards the main family that leads him, but all that acquired knowledge and reflex to survive. Him asking Vegas again and again why he doesn't just let him die is frankly a good way to get a reaction out of him and figure out Vegas' next moves. He fears for his grandma's life, he IS in survival mode. But he knows how unpredictable Vegas is, so he needs to bend Vegas' expectations and be one step forward. He does try to escape and will again probably. Him sharing his own trauma and gifting Vegas with that revelation can be seen as him being kind and understanding like the Pete we learn as the series starts, but I think it's also a brief moment where he sees a window to bond with the monster and earn his trust as much as he can. It's a survival reflex. You want to show your abuser that you understand them, that you are patient and calm and won't try to break their trust. It's like an olive branch that Pete reaches to Vegas. He DOES understand him more than anyone, clearly, and DOES feel sorry for him being hurt, but I can't forget for a second that Pete wants to survive and is more cunning than we actually notice.

Just all the praise to Build, it's 11 eps and he just reveals multitutes upon multitudes about who Pete is and what drives him.

#vegaspete #kinnporsche

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deepdarkdelights · 4 years ago

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Lady of The Night (Namjoon x Reader)

Pairing: Namjoon x Reader

Word Count: 13.3k

Warnings: 18+, Yandere, Obsession, Victorian Era, Time Travel, Misogyny, Jack The Ripper Murders, Forced Relationships, Forced Stripping and Dressing, Blood (Lots of it), Gore, Fear, Panic/Anxiety, Discussions of dead bodies, Depictions of a corpse, Depictions of Wounds, Use of Drugs, Illicit Behaviors

I do not condone the acts displayed in this story nor do I believe any members of BTS would actually engage in this type of behavior. This is simply written for entertainment purposes and should not be taken as a reflection of my own values, opinions, or morals.

Preview: You had been plunged backwards through time for a reason, and maybe this was the reason. This was the world’s most infamous cold case. What were the chances that a journalist would slip through the cracks in time and stumble into the East End of 1891? The only conclusion you could draw was that you were meant to identify who the ripper was.

You knew nothing about time travel regardless of the pop culture you had consumed. For all you knew, changing the events of the past would not create a ripple effect but instead a branch. And, as horrifying as this scenario was, your curiosity was going to get the better of you. You needed to know, even if it meant following around the egotistical self proclaimed genius that had sheltered you.

A/N: Yay! It’s my first fic up after my two week break! So, this is pertaining to the Jack The Ripper Murders. For storytelling purposes, the timeline of events has been altered as well as details of the crimes. This story may not be for everyone so please read the warnings and take them into consideration before reading. Your mental health and wellbeing should always be your number one priority. That being said, I hope you enjoy! 💜💜💜

You could see your blurry reflection in the glass of the watch face you held in your hands.

You wiped away your tears with the heel of your palm violently as you sniffled tiredly. It had been a long day.

You were coming to terms with the fact that you were the last living member of your family, everyone else had died and moved on. Your mother had been young when she had you, but she was also young when she left you. Mere moments after you had been given life and were brought into the world, she had departed shortly after.

All you had ever known was the warm, comforting embrace of your grandfather. He had been more like your father your entire life and now he had left too. And all you had to remember him by was his old, Victorian house, some grainy photographs, and his pocket watch.

Today had been the day you learned of his last will and testament, and he had left you everything he had ever owned, especially that pocket watch. He had carried it everywhere with him for as long as you could remember, the long, silver chain neatly clipped to his vest at all times. He would often remove the watch from his pocket, swiping his thumb over the sealed lid fondly before flicking it open and tracking the time. He had never once been late to anything, something he bragged about often.

If you closed your eyes, you could visualize a scene that was not unfamiliar to you. You would be seated on the floor in a pile of pillows by the fireplace, the flames crackling and emanating a comforting warmth. The scent of black cherry tobacco wafting under your nose as your grandfather settled a thick book on his knees, pausing his reading aloud to puff at his tobacco pipe. You would giggle happily, wrapping your quilt tighter around your body as you watched him attempt to blow smoke rings. He would then slip his hand into his pocket and remove the watch, the chain clinking about as he flipped the watch open.

“It’s almost half past nine, don’t you have school tomorrow?” He would ask you, raising one eyebrow in questioning.

You, at ten years old, were familiar with what this meant, and you absolutely refused to head up those creaky stairs to bed when the two of you were in the middle of embarking on an adventure.

“Please, just one more chapter!” You would beg, eyes wide and watery with a pout settled on your lips.

“Alright,” He would concede after a long pause of faux thinking, “We do have time, don’t we?”

But that's where your grandfather was wrong. You didn’t have nearly enough time. You were twenty two when time came and took a hold of your grandfather and left you in the dust. That was the thing about time, it moved quickly and was unforgiving. Twenty two years was not enough, you were far too young when you said your last goodbyes.

Fuck, and now you were crying again.

You laughed humorlessly to yourself, pulling the sleeve of your jacket over your hand and wiping your tears away again. Crying would do you no good, he would want you to be happy. Death did not mean the end of a life, it meant the celebration of one, was something he had once told you.

It was time to start celebrating then.

You uncorked a bottle of wine, throwing the cork into the sink and having a staring match with a wine glass before you sighed and grabbed the bottle by its neck and left the room. You lit the fireplace before sitting down in your grandfather’s chair, throwing a leg up on his ottoman and taking a swig from the bottle. That made you feel a little better.

You tilted your head back before turning your face into the fabric, the scent of black cherry tobacco still clung to the chair. Your eyes burned again with unshed tears as you nestled your head closer to it, breathing the scent in deeply before taking a longer swig of wine from the bottle. You were sure you looked pathetic.

You groaned in irritation, the last thing you had wanted to do was throw yourself a pity party yet here you were, drowning your problems in wine like a young mom who is questioning why she didn’t use protection.

You sat up, grabbing the neck of the bottle and setting it on the side table before standing up on weak knees. It was too weird being in that room without him. You weren’t ready to move on so quickly. So, you killed the fire and shuffled up the creaky stairs and headed to your bedroom down the hall.

Once the door clicked shut behind you, you flung your clothes off into the corner of the room and grabbed an old, large, band shirt you tended to use as pajamas. After you slipped the raggedy fabric over your head you slid beneath your sheets, fisting the comforter in your hand and pulling it up to your nose.

You could see the silver of the watch glinting under the moonlight on your night stand. Without much thought you reached across your bed and grabbed it, pulling it under the blanket with you. You twirled the delicate chain around your fingers as you pressed the latched watch to your chest. Your eyes fluttered shut as sleep tugged at your mind. But, despite that, your head was still filled with the memories of him that you tried to shake away.

You missed him, and you wanted to go back and see him again.

~~~~~~~

When you woke up the next morning, it was to the smell of warm food wafting throughout the house. In your delirium you rolled over and buried your face into your pillow, you were sure it was just your grandfather whipping something up.

And then you were jolting awake. There were two things you knew: one, your grandfather was a terrible cook who considered spam as breakfast, and two: he was dead.

You shot up in bed, your sheets pooling around your waist as you cocked your head towards the door, listening in silence. You could faintly hear the sound of pots and pans clinking and the clacking of heels along the wood floor of the hallway.

Someone was in the house.

You snatched your phone from your bedside table and slipped free from the warmth of your bed. The pocket watch swung into your thigh, the chain still wrapped around your fingers from the night before. You kept your phone on the ready, prepared to dial the emergency line in seconds.

When you opened the door you stuck your head out into the hallway, swinging it from right to left. You couldn’t see anybody, but the scent of food had gotten stronger.

You allowed your door to swing shut behind you, the knob clicking with an air of finality. The floorboards were cold beneath your bare feet as you made your way down the stairs, dodging each squeaky board from years of practice. You knew this house like the back of your hand.

Once you had descended the stairs you found yourself in the first floor hallway, the kitchen door to your right. Your eyes fluttered shut and you took in a deep breath before tensing your body with determination and flinging the door open so hard that it slammed against the wall.

A cry of shock echoed through the kitchen, the clash of pot and pans forcing a scream from your throat in response. Standing in front of you was what appeared to be a maid, her wispy brown hair tied into a bun at the base of her neck beneath a hat matching the long black dress and crisp white apron she donned. She looked like she had been pulled straight out of the nineteenth century.

The two of you stared at each other in shock for a moment after your scream had died down and fizzled out. Her hand laid limply on her chest over her heart as her shoulders heaved with surprised breaths.

Her gaze flickered up and down your form, her cheeks quickly reddening at your state of undress.

“I cannot believe this!” She suddenly cried, throwing down the spatula she held in her other hand. “I’ve told the young master numerous times to stop consorting with heathens like yourself!”

“Heathen?” You echoed in confusion. “Hold on, what the fuck are you doing in my house?!”

“In your home? The audacity! You lay with the young master once and you believe yourself to be the lady of the estate? I will not have a harlot like you traipsing around!” She yelled back.

“Lady, what the fuck are you on? You’re the one who broke into my house! Get out!” You screamed.

“Emmett, Emmett come quickly! The young master let in another stray!” She called.

In a matter of seconds a man entered the room dressed in a three piece suit and gloves, he looked much like a butler.

“Again? This is the third one this month, Mary.” He sighed in disgust, eyeing your form. “The indecency of this one, running around naked.”

You were speechless, all you could do was dumbly look down at your bare legs. The shirt you wore was fairly big, it covered everything important. Still, you grabbed at the hem and harshly pulled it down further, your mouth agape at his words.

“Come now...miss. It’ll do you little good to linger here, we wouldn’t want to get the authorities mixed up in this, they aren’t fond of your kind as you know I’m sure.”

You couldn’t think of anything to say until he approached you, gripping your arm roughly and tugging you out of the kitchen.

“Get your fucking hands of off me, fucker!” You yelled, struggling to free yourself from his grasp.

He tutted to himself as he ripped the front door open, “Such colorful language and such poor manners. Well, I suppose that is to be expected from women of your status.”

“Stop!” You cried, digging your heels into the floor. “You can’t throw me out of my own house! If you don’t leave I’ll call the cops, I swear!”

The butler merely shook his head, tired and annoyed with your antics. “Have a pleasant day, and for your own sake, find yourself a husband and stay off of the streets.”

And with that, he threw you out onto the front porch and slammed the heavy, mahogany door shut, the lock clicking into place. You spent the following moments banging your fists against the door and demanding to be let back in, once you realized how futile that was you unlocked your phone and dialed the emergency line.

But you weren’t met with anything, no ringing, no voicemail, nothing. Your face scrunched up in confusion, your phone didn’t have a signal...how was that even possible?

And that was when you realized, for certain, that something was very wrong. When you finally looked up from your phone, you were surrounded by trees.

You stumbled backwards in surprise, knocking into the front door behind you. All of the houses that once lined your street were gone. For miles around you all you could see was a dense forest and dirt and gravel roads. Your sweet, elderly neighbors house was gone, the ice cream shop that you could once see from your house was gone, the sidewalks and the fire hydrants were missing. It was as if they had never been there in the first place.

“What the fuck?” You whispered to yourself, your stomach turning and your heartbeat thundering violently in your chest.

Everything was gone, how was that possible? Where did everyone go? Where did all of the buildings go? There was no way that they could all have been decimated and replaced with trees that towered higher than your house in one night. What in the absolute fuck was happening?

You crouched down to your knees, weaving your fingers through your messy hair as panicked sobs wracked your body. You had no explanation for what was happening, you had no idea what the hell was going on. Your phone wasn’t working, you were kicked out of your own home, and everyone was missing.

You sat there for a moment, crying to yourself in a complete and utter panic before you realized that you needed to at least try and find someone who could help you. You allowed yourself a few more moments to squeeze out some more tears, heave your last sobs, and dry your wet face. You had done a lot of crying the past few days, enough tears to last you a lifetime. It was time to get to work now and figure out what was going on.

So, you stepped foot onto the manicured lawn before you and made your way to the dilapidated road ahead of you. The dirt and gravel dug into the bare skin of your feet causing you to wince and jump in pain. It was better and easier to walk alongside the road rather than on it.

The more you walked, and the further you walked, it became apparent that it was not only your street that had suffered changes overnight, but your entire town. What had once been a shopping district you frequented often in your teens was now a sea of never-ending trees. You hadn’t seen this much greenery since you went hiking years ago.

The home that you remembered was much different from the sights you were seeing now. Your house had been the only Victorian on the street, the others newer builds that had popped up over the decades. It looked like any other street you had ever seen, an amalgamation of history in a couple blocks. But now, it appeared to be a clean slate, devoid of noise, devoid of life, and devoid of structure.

In an eerie way, you felt like you were at the beginning of time, back before humanity had cultivated the earth and turned vibrant greenery into concrete jungles. It was as beautiful and it was lonely, if you hadn’t had that run in with the maid and the butler earlier, you could have assumed you were the only person on earth. How startling and stifling that would have been, to be just a house plopped in the middle of nowhere, with not a person in sight.

It was not unlike how you felt now, alone walking alongside an empty road surrounded by trees. You could feel the miles passing as dirt clung to the soles of your feet, the skin burning in protest as you continued walking aimlessly in search of any signs of another person or house in the area.

The thick layer of dark clouds hanging in the sky was not doing anything for your mood. You were certain you would be doomed to spend the day or possibly even the night in the trees trying to take cover from the onslaught of rain that was sure to come.

And, just as you had predicted, all it took was one roll of thunder through the sky before the clouds let loose a torrent of rain. Your only saving grace was that the rainfall was not ice cold, but lukewarm. Your other concern was that where there was thunder, there would be lightning. At least you weren’t the tallest thing in the area though, a tree was more likely to be struck than you were. But that would be the cherry on top of your shitty day wouldn’t it, to be struck by lighting as well?

But, just as your hopes were about as low and hell, you spotted something in the distance. The structure was familiar, you were certain you had seen those peaked roofs and stone walls many times before. Yesterday you had been driving on the highway when you passed the country club, and now you were certain that’s where you were. Where you stood now and once been home to a highway, and mere miles away was the country club you had passed everyday on your way to work.

If you were lucky, the staff would take pity on you and maybe you could shower and get some food in you before you called the authorities to deal with those intruders of yours.

By the time you finally made it up to the country club, you were completely soaked to the bone. The only pieces of clothing you had on, being your underwear and your oversized t-shirt, were drenched with water. You looked like a drowned rat if you were being honest with yourself.

But, even in your panicked and miserable state, you took notice of a few things. The signs that once held directions and the name of the club were gone, nothing there that even hinted at their prior existence. The parking lot was long gone as well, not to mention the caged in tennis courts and the golf grounds. It was all missing. The only thing that stood as familiar to you was the large, Victorian manor itself, and the grand water fountain in the center of the roundabout. This roundabout was made of gravel though, instead of the cement you remembered it being. And, to your disdain, the tiny pieces of gravel had returned to puncture the delicate skin of our feet once more.

You were tired, you were cranky, and you were wet. All you wanted to do at this point was run inside and collapse on the polished floor.

You sped over the gravel as fast as you could before running up the stone steps, sliding under the cover of the roof that was fixed over the front door. You raised your hand up and curled your numb fingers around the door knocker. And, with difficulty, you swung the door knocker against the rich wood of the front door frantically. If there was a doorbell you would have been annoyingly ringing it nonstop, so you had to settle for banging the door knocker violently instead.

While you were mid swing the door was ripped open violently, your soaked form almost being tugged inside as you were still attached to the knocker. A man stood in front of you, he too was dressed in a three piece suit, gloves adorning his hands and polished oxfords sitting under the hem of his pant legs. His suit was much finer than the butler’s from before, but the expression on his face was just as, if not even more, stern than the butler that came before him.

“Please,” You huffed out, using your best pleading gaze. “I need help.”

“I think you are mistaken, miss. I do not believe you have any business with the master of this estate.” He responded coolly, a harsh edge to his tone.

“Wait please!” You cried as he backed away and attempted to shut the door. You gripped the door frame, wedging your arm in place to keep it from closing. “I just need to use your phone.”

“I’m sorry miss, but -”

“Claude? Who’s at the door?” Another voice echoed from inside.

“Please, can I come in for just a second?!” You called inside as you heard the click of footsteps approaching the door.

“Master, I think it would be best if you let me take care of this.”

“It’s alright, Claude, step aside.” The voice responded. The butler, Claude, edged away from the door in uncertainty before disappearing inside the depths of the club.

Seconds later, a new man replaced him, opening the door much wider than the butler had. Your heart dropped into your stomach in astonishment and embarrassment. He was probably the most attractive man you had ever had the privilege of seeing and for a moment you were convinced you had fallen into an alternate universe because all of the men you had seen on a daily basis were nothing in comparison to him.

He was rather tall with tan skin, dark hair, and a set of dangerous dimples. It took everything in you to restrain yourself from delicately poking one of those smooth craters in his cheeks that was calling out to you.

With a sudden jolt you realized he had been staring at you just as intently as you had been staring at him. His lips had parted and his eyes had darkened. You could feel his gaze traveling over the dips of your collarbones and the exposed flesh of your legs and arms before settling on the thin fabric that stretched over your chest.

Heat instantly flooded beneath the skin of your face, your arms crossing over your chest. In your moment of hysteria you had forgotten your lack of bra and the rain. You were sure this man had seen more than you had wanted to show him.

His tongue swiped over his lower lip at your action, his dark, half lidded eyes flicking up to meet your own in a rather sensual stare.

“Are you a lady of the night?” He asked, his voice deeper than before.

Ah, that was a term that you had become rather accustomed to today. Well it’s synonyms at least: heathen, harlot, and now lady of the night.

“No!” You cried in frustration, you had no issues with sex workers, what you did have an issue with was that because of your state of dress everyone had come to assume you were looking for some!

“Please, I just need help.” You sighed, your shoulders dropping from the stress you had endured all day.

The look in his eyes had all but disappeared after your omission of the truth. You were not a lady of the night, you were just scared, confused, and in need of help.

“Come inside.” He said, opening the door wider.

You looked up at him in surprise, shocked to see a gentle smile gracing his lips. Before he could regret offering you shelter, you hastily entered the front room, your arms still wrapped securely around you as you felt the warmth of the building rush through you.

Yet again, though, you noticed things were different. The front desk was gone, the signs pointing to the bathrooms and the changing rooms were missing, and there weren’t any people other than yourself and the man that stood before you.

“Where is everyone?” You asked him, turning to face the man as he closed the door behind the two of you.

“What do you mean?” He asked you, equally as confused as you were.

“This is a country club...where are all of the guests?”

“Country club?” He laughed, his dimples becoming more prominent as his eyes filled with mirth. “This is my home, there isn’t a country club for miles.”

“What?” You whispered to yourself, the water from your shirt sliding off of you and tapping against the wood of the floor rhythmically.

“They’re still fairly new after all, not many around here I’m afraid. You must be lost then?” He mused.

“What do you mean they’re new? They’ve been around for years, this is one. I’ve been here numerous times!” You explained, exasperated.

“Are you feeling well, miss?” He asked, stepping closer to you without letting his gaze wander as it had before.

No, you weren’t feeling well at all, you were incredibly fucking confused. What he was saying didn’t make any sense, none at all. Country clubs weren’t new, they had been around for over a century now.

And that was when it all began to make sense. All of the pieces suddenly had fallen into place. All the houses on your street were gone, the shopping center, the highway, the signs and the parking lot were missing from the country club. Your phone was unable to get a signal in the hours that had passed. You had encountered four strangers that spoke in a manner you had not heard often and dressed like they were from a different era.

“What - what year is it?” You asked, your body trembling now from anxiety and from your wet shirt.

“1891, of course.” He responded, his face appearing even more confused than it had before. He was looking at you in concern as well, he wasn’t sure why you would be asking him such an obvious and ridiculous question.

“Oh.” Was all you managed to say as you began to stumble backwards, your legs going weak underneath you as you slumped to the ground. Your vision was focusing and un-focusing, your head feeling light as you could faintly hear his panicked voice in front of you. It was beginning to sound further and further away though as your bare thighs met the cold, wood floor beneath you.

You were having a stressful day.

~~~~~~~

When you woke it was to a cold compress against your forehead and the feeling of a plush mattress beneath you. For a moment you thought that you were at home again, that the past few hours had all been some fever dream and your grandfather was taking care of you in your state.

But the feeling of the thin, silver chain still wrapped around your fingers assured you otherwise. That had not been a dream in the slightest.

You jerked forward, the cold cloth flying onto your lap as your hands scrambled across the top of the duvet reflexively searching for your phone.

“It’s alright, relax, you’ll only worsen your condition!” A voice seethed as hands settled on your shoulders and coaxed you back against the pillows behind you.

It was him again, the man with the dimples.

“You have a fever, it won’t do you any good to move around too much.” He lectured you, his hand waving around as he scolded you.

You quickly caught sight of something wrapped up in his ringed fingers, it was your phone.

“Give that back!” You yelled, snatching your phone back from his hands and holding it tight against your chest. You were glad that your phone was password protected, not that he would ever know what to do with it even if he managed to unlock it by accident.

“What is it exactly?” He asked you as he relented, taking a seat in a chair that had been moved to your bedside.

“It’s none of your business, that’s what it is.” You replied, shooting him a look that he reciprocated with shock and astoundment. He probably had never been spoken to like that before, a man with what you could only assume held power, status, and wealth. There was a part of you while still shocked at your predicament enjoyed the idea of fucking with some rich people.

“As a guest in my home I think I have every right to know.” He shot back with a quirk of his brow, jerking his chin up.

The audacity. So, as petty as it was, you refused to dignify his statement with a response.

“Fine, if you won’t tell me then I’ll have to assume you don’t know what it is either and you stole it just like you did that watch. It’s to be expected of someone of your...nature.” He insinuated, his gaze flicking over your form from head to toe.

“My nature?” You replied, your skin going hot with untapped irritation.

“Well, a prostitute of course.” He answered with such certainty it made you want to scream.

“For fuck’s sake how many times do I have to say I’m not!” You yelled, throwing your head back against the pillows.

“Well of course you are, with that way you looked coming up here you were practically naked, how could you not be a pros-”

“First of all,” you interrupted, “The proper term is sex worker and you have no right judging women who have no other choice and even if they did choose it you still have no right to demean them for taking up a profession that employs a service and receives payment for it like any other job!”

“Secondly, the manner in which I am dressed does not mean you get to make baseless assumptions about me or my job without knowing why I look this way in the first place.”

He sat there for a moment, stunned. A long pause of silence passed between the two of you before a smile split across his face, those dimples returning in full force.

“I’m Kim Namjoon, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Did I ask?” You retorted, annoyed, and overall confused from his sudden change in demeanor. A voice echoed in the back of your mind that maybe he had a thing for women putting him in his place but you quickly shoved that down in embarrassment.

“Well it’s only proper, you’re already in my bed anyways I figured you should know my name.” He replied with a boyish smirk.

You choked in confusion and shock before softly muttering your name in response. You did owe him that much, he had taken you in and taken care of you. That was the only thing you would give him though, his prior attitude still stung.

“I’d like to inform you that despite your progressive thoughts not everyone will see eye to eye with you, miss. You’re lucky you found your way here, there’s a murderer stalking these streets.”

“A murderer?” You echoed, your blood chilling in your veins.

“You don’t know of Jack the Ripper? That’s what the public titled him at least.” He explained.

Holy shit, the timing was perfect. Namjoon had told you the year was 1891, whatever had caused your slip through time sent you right back into the tailend of the Jack the Ripper murders. You had been lucky that he hadn’t stumbled across you, because despite your beliefs that your attire didn’t mean anything, everyone you had met had mistaken you for a sex worker. It would be expected that the infamous ripper himself would have thought the same and your name would have joined the list of victims.

That was too close of a call for you.

“Has he killed recently?” You asked out of morbid curiosity, you were hoping, selfishly, that you had arrived after his last victim.

“He’s been rather active, I should know, I’m the one investigating him.” He said, a look of irritation falling over his features as he crossed his leg over the other, his tongue poking against the inside of his cheek.

“You’re an officer, then?” You asked.

He responded with an annoyed snort, rolling his eyes. “Thankfully no, I’m more of a private investigator. I’ve been employed by some officials high in the government to do the work the police have been ruining as of late. How embarrassing, three years and they still haven’t managed to pin the murderer.”

Ah, so you had struck a nerve. He didn’t like the police, noted.

“Tell me more.” You probed, your genuine curiosity winning over your unease.

Namjoon appeared to gather himself, his gaze that had once been far off returning to you. “Detail such grizzly deaths to a lady? I’m afraid not.”

“Where I come from we don’t take sexism lightly, Namjoon. And, not to mention, I’m a journalist. Trust me, I can handle it.” What you said was true, as a journalist you were receiving a once in a lifetime opportunity, you were given the chance to witness the investigation of the world’s most well known cold case.

“You’re a strange woman, unlike any other I’ve ever met before.” He said softly, an amused light in his eyes.

“You’d be surprised just how much we are capable of.” You shot back.

“Fair enough,” He smiled, enthralled with the back and forth the two of you had engaged in. “I’ll tell you more in my study, I’ll send for a maid to help you dress.” He said before standing up and heading towards the bedroom door.

“I’m interested to hear your thoughts.” He called over his shoulder before the door clicked shut.

As soon as he left, you felt like you could breathe freely, a deep exhale of air passing between your lips.

So, you had slipped through time. Your thumb rested between your lips as you nervously chewed at your nail. You were coming to terms with the fact that somehow, some way, you had retreated into the year 1891. The next issue that you needed to resolve was how you were going to get back to your own timeline. You didn't belong here, that was for sure. Just from your previous conversation with Namjoon you knew that you were drastically different from anyone of this era. At this point, you were sure that was bound to get you in some sort of trouble. It was probably best to lay low around people other than Namjoon who had already been exposed to your modern ideals.

As you sat, stewing in your thoughts, a series of gentle knocks echoed from the door to the bedroom. You peeled the sheets away from your body and stilled for a moment. Somebody had changed your clothes. Where you had once worn your faded tour shirt you were now dressed in a long, flowing, silk nightgown that just brushed the tops of your toes. It was rather pretty and ridiculously comfortable but that didn't lessen your anxiety from having a new state of dress from what you had passed out in.

Another set of knocks, less gentle ones this time, spurred you to move faster. As soon as your bare feet met the plush carpet beneath you, you rushed to the door. Upon opening it, a maid stood there. She held a few items in her arms, her face obscured by the dense pile of fabric she cradled. Without saying a word you moved aside and held the door open for her. You could faintly hear her mumble out a weak thank you, muffled by what she held.

She shuffled over to the bed and dropped everything on top of the mattress with a heave that swung her small body with it.

"Alright, Miss. Are you ready?" She asked, turning to face you with a pleasant smile.

"Ready for what exactly?" You replied.

"Well, to dress you of course."

Your face flushed in embarrassment, that was something you had conveniently forgotten, people of higher status like your host did not dress themselves in this period.

"Oh, that's alright, I can manage on my own."

"Are you certain?" She asked, an apprehensive look crossing her features as she stopped laying out the clothing items, her hands halting over a corset.

Fuck.

"On second thought I would love the help." Yeah, there was no fucking way you were learning to lace that thing on your own.

You hadn’t realized just how much of a struggle it would have been to dress yourself had you not appreciated the help the maid had given you. In Victorian fashion, layers were undeniable and you couldn’t help but flinch at the thought of how hot these women had to get in the warmer months.

You had also assumed the corset would have been troublesome, given how you always heard about its bad rep via movies and literature. In reality, it was quite comfortable. It wasn’t overbearingly tight and you could breathe perfectly fine without a single hint of dizziness. You couldn’t help but ask the maid about this in astonishment.

She giggled as she smoothed your dress, “Tightlacing you mean? Why, is there someone you’re trying to impress?”

Your face burned with heat at her insinuation, “No, no, I was just curious.”

“It is quite fashionable, but not very practical, no?” She said with a hint of a smile as she stepped back from you. “Well, if that’s all you’ll be needing of me the master is waiting for you in his study, would you like me to escort you? It’s not very far.”

“Oh no, I’m sure I’ve distracted you enough, if you could just point the way that’d be very much appreciated.”

“Of course!” She chirped, guiding you into the hallway of the manor. “Just head straight down that way, it’s the door at the very end of the hall!”

“Thank you for all of your help.” You smiled gratefully before your turn and began your walk through the hallway.

The manor was gorgeous with pane glass windows that stretched from the length of the floor to just below the ceiling that were framed with thick, velvet curtains. The floor beneath your shoes was parquet and a deep mahogany that shone proudly in the daylight that filtered into the hallway. You had not seen all of the manor but you knew, just from this glimpse, that the rest of it radiated wealth and power just like its master.

The clicking of your shoes against the polished hardwood echoed down the length of the corridor as you approached the doors to the study. You had never been to this floor of the manor in your timeline, it had been long since roped off and only elite members were allowed access. Now, it appeared you could roam freely to your heart's content.

Your knuckles brushed against the door, three knocks in quick succession sounding out into the quiet hallways and study.

“Come in.” Namjoon called, his voice steady yet distracted.

You pulled the heavy doors open and slipped into the study. Upon entering you noticed a number of things, for one the study resembled that of a library. The space was vast with bookshelves towering over you as well as everything else in the room.

Namjoon was seated behind a desk, his fingers resting at his temples while he flipped through a set of papers placed on the surface of the table. While the rest of the manor had appeared clean, almost sterile really, this space had gone untouched by the staff. Various books laid open or bookmarked on the floors, couches, and his desk.

Upon further inspection you noticed textbooks and medical journals strewn about, anatomy pages glaring back at you.

“Are you a doctor, Namjoon?” You asked, lifting one of the textbooks up to get a closer look at what he had been reading.

“A doctor?” He laughed, “I consider myself to be more of a scholar, really-”

Whatever else he had meant to say ceased, the words failing to part his lips. He was looking at you again, not unlike the way he had looked at you when you had appeared on his doorstep scantily clad and drowning in a torrent of rain.

He made you uncomfortable.

“Look at you, looking like a lady. You could have fooled me if I did not know any better.” He said, the corner of his lips tugging up into a sarcastic grin.

“Such a gentleman.” You huffed with an exaggerated roll of your eyes. “If you’re not a doctor then what is the point in reading things like this?”

“To catch a killer, you must think like a killer.” He hummed, tapping the tip of his forefinger against the side of his head.

“You’ll never catch him.” You said, the words escaping you before you could even think about the repercussions they would have.

“And why would you think that?” He asked, his eyes narrowing with a challenging look to them, the irises were dark and sent a cold chill down the length of your spine.

“Call it intuition.” You replied, thinking quickly on your feet. “If countless others who are far more qualified and knowledgeable have failed to find him, it’s improbable one individual will bring him down.”

You had unknowingly just challenged his intellect, if this were a dance you would have quite literally just stepped on your partner's toes.

Namjoon stood quickly, his chair shooting back as he rounded the desk and approached you. You stumbled backwards in surprise but did not manage to dodge him as he matched your pace. His hands had settled on your waist, spinning you around to pull you back into his chest.

His voice was soft and mellow beside your ear as he spoke, “Each victim was a prostitute, all found in the east end of town. Already there is a location and a motive, no?”

“Now, here is what I find interesting.” He hummed, swiftly gripping your chin and pushing your head back onto his shoulder. His fingers ever so lightly brushed down the column of your throat before drawing a line across it from left to right.

“Immediately he slits their throat, and right after? Disembowelment.” He said, his other hand that was settled on your waist migrated to your lower abdomen, his fingers caressing another line over the clothed flesh.

“Most people, those ‘investigators’ for example, would say he hates women. But on the contrary, I think he is quite fascinated. With every murder he takes something that is uniquely theirs, would you happen to know what that is?”

“Their womb.” You managed to say. You were trembling and you were certain that he could feel it. He was scaring you, the reality of your situation was suddenly becoming rather apparent.

That could have been you.

“Exactly, and to do something like that you would need some medical background, especially considering the speed and technique with which he does it.” He confirmed, his hands resting on your waist once more, this time turning you to face him.

“So, if I were a ripper who was fascinated by women, where would I be?”

“Well...everywhere?” You replied, stepping out of his hold.

“Yes and no. We have a pattern and a motive, someone who is targeting prostitutes in the East End. My money would be on a hub for illicit activities, and with my sources I have a clue as to where he will strike next.”

That piqued your interest. “And where would that be?”

“If I know anything, it’s that the rich don’t like to follow rules and love a good party. Every now and then viscounts, dukes, and aristocrats alike will gather and dabble in illicit activities together. These parties change location every now and again, but most commonly we see them in the East End. Chances are, we can find a doctor with devious intentions at the hub of them. So, do I seem qualified to you?”

“This was your way of proving your capability to me?” You huffed, shaking your head.

“Yes, and it appeared to work.” He smiled, leaning back against his desk with his arms spread behind him on its surface.

“Well, luckily for you, I’m interested.” You responded, jutting your chin out as you crossed your arms over your chest.

“Interested?” He echoed.

“If you want to catch a killer, what better way is there to do so than draw him out?”

“You’re offering yourself as bait? Are you neurotic?!” He laughed, shaking his head from side to side as he popped off of his desk. “Do you really think I would allow that in good conscience?”

“I don’t need your permission to do anything, Namjoon. What I am offering is an agreement of mutual satisfaction. You get a way to bait the killer and I get the story of a lifetime.”

You had been plunged backwards through time for a reason, and maybe this was the reason. This was the world’s most infamous cold case. What were the chances that a journalist would slip through the cracks in time and stumble into the East End of 1891? The only conclusion you could draw was that you were meant to identify who the ripper was.

“So, do we have a deal? You asked, extending your hand out to him.

The silence that hung between the two of you was unsettling. His dark eyes lingered on your hand for a moment before flicking up to your face and back down. His lips were pursed in thought and you could tell he was debating with himself heavily. There was a soft ringing in your ears as the quiet stretched on.

A sudden smile spread over his face, one that you thought almost appeared devious. He laughed to himself and then shook his head before breaching the space between you and gripping your much smaller hand in his own. He gave your hand a firm shake before tugging you forwards and pressing a light kiss to the back of your hand with a grin.

“We have a deal.” He confirmed.

“What a fucking flirt.” You grumbled to yourself beneath your breath, anxiously sliding your hand over the fabric of your skirt. “So, when will this party take place?”

“One week from now.” He said, raising his hand to hold up one finger.

That was much longer than you had wanted to spend in the Victorian era. Far much longer.

“And what will we do in the meantime?”

“Well investigate, of course.”

~~~~~~~

Days had passed in Namjoon’s company, and for all of the investigating the three of you (Namjoon, Claude, and yourself) had done, no results were accomplished. But, on the other hand no murders had been committed in the East End.

You were halfway through the week until the party, and despite your efforts there was absolutely nothing. You were becoming as frustrated as the inhabitants of the East End as well as your fellow investigators. Among all of your “resources,” you were caught at a dead end just as the police were.

You had heard of Jack the Ripper in your youth, you were once an avid true crime fan. But, for the life of you, you could not remember who the next victim was and where their corpses would be found. And for all you knew, protecting that individual would only cause someone else to lose their life. Time was tricky and fickle, and if it was set in stone, it did not matter who would die so long as someone was drafted into the void.

You assumed.

Your host had been...strange, to put it simply. You had thought to yourself that that was just in his nature, he was easily distracted, unfocused, yet insanely intelligent. But his mannerisms were unusual. He seemed completely unfazed by the case he had been assigned to, the only moments in which he showed a visceral response were when he dealt with you, or the police force. He hated them intensely, you could only assume because of how ineptly they were handling the case itself.

And, most frequently, you found yourself going head to head with him. And boy, did he enjoy the challenge. And, if you were bold enough to admit it, you would say he derived pleasure from the arguments the two of you would get into. He would constantly fix you with that confident smirk, the one that told you he believed he was always one step ahead of you. And fuck, did it piss you off. And he was very much aware of that. He loved a good challenge and you were far different from any of the women he knew of.

He often wondered how far he could push you before you snapped.

And if his cocky behavior wasn’t enough to piss you off, it was how much of a blatant flirt he was. There was nothing more frustrating than someone arguing with you while flirting with you at the same time. And your constant refusal and rebuttal to his advances only seemed to fuel the fire.

The cover of night time became your one refuge, that was when you had an excuse to stay away from him. You could have the whole night to yourself and be free of him until the morning.

Usually.

Normally, you slept through the night. But for some reason your body woke you. It was either late at night or extremely early in the morning. No sunlight entered the room, it was still incredibly dark.

At first, everything appeared to be perfectly normal. That was of course until you noticed a figure seated in the chair by your window mere feet away. You immediately jumped and began to scramble backwards out of the bed, the sheets twisting around your legs and slowing you down.

It was the call of your name that made you freeze.

Namjoon was sitting in your room at an ungodly hour...watching you.

“Namjoon?” You hissed, pulling the sheets back up to your chin. “What the fuck are you doing?”

“I didn’t want to wake you.” He answered, pressing his palms onto the armrests and pushing himself up to stand.

“I really wish you would have.” You grunted, pulling the blanket around you even tighter. “Do you know how creepy you -”

“Two more women are dead.”

Silence.

“What happened?” You whispered, your fingers going limp.

“One woman was murdered late last night and the other an hour ago. It was a double event.” His tone was flat, completely absent of affect.

The three of you could only hold him off for so long, and it looks like he lashed out as soon as he was given the chance. Two women within the span of a few hours were killed, and you couldn’t help but feel like that was your fault.

No matter what you do, someone will die.

“What do we do now?” You asked, sullenly looking to him from your point on the bed.

“We have to go meet with the authorities.” He answered, distaste evident in his voice when he uttered the word ‘authorities.’

“Come, we don’t have much time.” He urged you, snapping the sheets back to the foot of the bed while pulling you up to your feet.

You stumbled as he tugged you forward, your head spinning from the sudden motion. You were struggling to see, your eyes still heavy with sleep despite the dreadful news you had heard. The feeling of his hands at the back of your nightdress certainly shocked you awake.

“What do you think you’re doing?” You snapped, smacking his hands away from you.

He appeared frustrated, his eyes dark and his face set in irritation at your refusal. “I just told you, we don’t have much time. All of the maids are still asleep, it’s far too early to call one of them for help and you certainly don’t know how to dress yourself.”

“I can manage on my own, I don’t need your ‘help’.” You argued, stepping away from him in an attempt to create some distance between the two of you. “You don’t know the first thing about women’s clothes anyways.”

His jaw tensed, his eyes fluttering shut for a moment before releasing an annoyed sigh. “Trust me I have undone a few corsets in my time, it’s not as difficult as you make it out to be.”

“And just as I said, I can dress myself I am not a fucking child.”

Before you could move his arm shot forward and his hand wrapped around your forearm tightly. Despite your struggling he yanked you towards him, his other hand gripping your elbow.

“As stupid and insufferable as you like to think I am, I know you are not from here.” He said, his voice low and dangerously quiet. “You don’t speak, act, or even walk like you are from here. The more you hide from me the harder this is going to be. You need help, now you can either be a brat and I have to force you to do as I say, or you can play along and we can get this done and get to work. It’s up to you.”

He had just told you he knew you were a time traveler without explicitly saying it. At least that was the way you took it. But the way in which he spoke to you did not seem to insinuate that he meant that you were a foreigner. Many of your interactions with him would have led him to believe you were from a different time and, not to mention, you had done a terrible job of hiding your phone from him the first day you arrived. You had done a poor job of concealing that from someone as smart as him.

“And what if I don’t want you to see me?” You tried one last time.

“It wouldn’t be anything I haven’t already seen.”

So, he was the one who had changed you the first day you had arrived in 1891. There were many red flags waving in the back of your head, and like an idiotic bull you had failed to recognize a single one of them. Some journalist you were, you had missed all of the finite details.

“Turn around.” He finally said, his voice firm.

And, with no other choice, you did. It was incredibly awkward on your end. Despite the attractiveness of your host, you had no desire for him to strip and dress you. Unfortunately for you, he did not care. You understood the urgency to leave and your little spat had already delayed your departure. But you were a person who valued your dignity and autonomy, you weren’t built to live in a society such as this one.

You tried your best not to focus on the feeling of his touch, but it was incredibly hard to ignore. Instead of touching you as little as possible, it felt like he took every chance to caress, graze, and linger on every inch of bared skin.

For a moment, all movement stilled. You were only halfway dressed, your corset exposing everything upwards of your chest leaving your collarbones, arms, shoulders, and neck on display. You shuddered at the sudden feeling of fingers smoothing over the column of your throat, not unlike the incident in Namjoon’s study.

He was absolutely quiet as he pressed his face into the juncture of your neck and shoulder, softly breathing in and out as his fingers continued to stroke the skin of your throat from left to right in a gentle, slow, sawing motion. Your heart was pumping frantically in your chest in what could only be described as fear. Your back was ramrod straight, a harsh line in comparison to the relaxed form behind you.

Why were you so afraid of him? It was like every nerve and muscle in your form was begging you to leap away and run for your life. But he wasn’t dangerous, right?

You jolted at the feeling of lips just brushing against your shoulder as he pulled away from you and finished helping you dress, far quicker than he had been before. His demeanor was suddenly resigned, professional, and cold. It was like he had suddenly mustered a sense of self control in mere seconds.

Who exactly was Kim Namjoon?

Said man was retreating in the direction of your bedroom door, his hand grasping the doorknob as he called over his shoulder, “Meet me out front, and please be quick about it.”

That was when a thought suddenly intruded your mind.

“Namjoon? How did you get into my room? The door was locked.”

He stiffened for a moment, his hand tightening around the doorknob causing the muscle to strain and his knuckles to whiten. He said nothing, his head jerked to the side for a moment like he was gesturing in disbelief.

He raised his head and stared at you, and then without saying anything, he left.

~~~~~~~

You stared at the face of your pocket watch, the delicate chain wrapped around your gloved fingers. The hands of the watch were still, the familiar ticking of the watch was silent. It was like time had completely stopped. And in a way, maybe it had.

The carriage halted to a stop spurring you to snap the watch cover closed and pin it back into place.

Your companion quickly exited and stood outside, reaching his hand out to you to help guide you from the compartment. Despite the sudden animosity between the two of you, you placed your hand in his own and allowed him to help you down. The layered skirts of your dress swirled around your ankles, they were heavy and made it hard to climb in and out of transportation. Begrudgingly, you managed to say your thanks between gritted teeth.

“Try to behave.” He whispered beside your ear offering his arm to you.

You hooked your arm into the crook of his elbow and allowed him to lead the way. If you had it your way you would be fifteen feet in front of him carving your own path through the East End. But, your lack of knowledge of Victorian etiquette had already managed to get you in trouble and the last thing that you needed was more trouble.

“Where are we going?” You asked, quickening your pace to match his long strides.

“The previous crime scene has already been cleaned up by the task force, but the one from this morning is still intact. I have been instructed to go over their findings as well as conduct my own investigation.” He explained.

“Alright, what can I do?”

“What you can do is stay right here.” He instructed, bringing the two of you to a stop at the mouth of a narrow alleyway. It was already blocked off, warning the public to steer clear of the area.

“You have to be kidding? You really expect me to wait here for you while you go and investigate? I don’t take kindly to being told to just sit and look pretty, Namjoon.” You glared.

Namjoon titled his head back and let out a sound of annoyance, his shoulders rising and falling dramatically with an exasperated sigh. “For once, will you please listen to me? This is an active investigation and I am asking you, a civilian, to stay put. I swear, I will tell you everything you need to know for your story, alright?”

Another bitter silence passed between the two of you. He knew you were incredibly dissatisfied with what he had said. But he was just as stubborn as you were, that being the reason the two of you butted heads so often.

He shook his head, jaw tensed with anger as he stepped away from you heading in the direction of the alley way.

“Stay put!” He called over his shoulder, waving his hand at you as he disappeared, his form melting into the darkness of the alley that had yet to see the glow of the early morning sunrise.

Now that, that pissed you off. You were not some dog that would obey his every command, the more he told you not to do something the more it made you want to do it.

You waited for a few moments, for his sake and for the very fact that it would piss him off that you refused to listen. You were an impatient woman, and you would be damned if you listened to a single thing he said.

The air was crisp and cool with the lack of sunlight, your breath fogging the space in front of you as you slunk down the dark alleyway. You could hear Namjoon’s voice echoing down the brick tunnel, he sounded enraged. There were several other voices attempting to speak over him, but they were evidently failing.

And then there was the smell, it was horrid. The cramped space was packed full of the scent, it was indescribable. The only prominent smell that was familiar was the tangy, coppery odor of blood thick in the morning air.

But what you hadn’t been expecting was that the body was still there, slumped against the ground haphazardly like it was nothing more than trash. An officer was still there, knelt down next to her body. He was prodding her flesh with a grimace, holding a handkerchief over his nose to block out the scent.

“Christ, she’s still warm!” He called out, jumping up to head back to the investigators while giving you a full view of the carnage laid out before you. “He could still be close by!”

Multiple sensations bombarded you at once. A scream was caught in your throat as your stomach began to churn from the sight before you. You raised a gloved hand to cover your nose and mouth as you leaned against the wall, your knees feeling weak.

It was bad, worse than you could have possibly imagined.

There was blood, more blood than you had ever seen in your entire life. And whatever it was that was laying before you just barely looked human. But the parts that did look familiar was what made it so unsettling, so wrong, so horrifying.

Namjoon was calling your name.

You were still in shock when he grabbed you, his hand cupping the back of your neck and forcing your face into his chest blocking the grotesque view you once had. His other arm wrapped around your shoulders, cradling you closer to him.

“Her...her face.” You stuttered, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes.

“Are you that inept at your jobs that you couldn’t keep a civilian from entering a fucking crime scene?!” He yelled over your head, his voice vibrating deep in his chest.

“I told you to stay put.” He mumbled, his lips pressed to the crown of your head while his thumb stroked the side of your face as you shook in his hold. This was the gentlest he had ever been with you.

You had never seen anything like that before. Whatever words he had spoken were falling on deaf ears, a sharp ring was echoing throughout your head, numb tears streaking your face and ruining his jacket.

You could feel his hands slide to the curve of your jaw, forcing your head up to look at him and only him.

“From now on, you listen to me, okay?” He said, his eyes darting over your face to make sure you were retaining what he was saying.

You weren’t sure what was more concerning to you. The fact that he was suddenly so gentle with you, or the fact that he paid no mind to the corpse mere feet away from the two of you.

There was something wrong with Kim Namjoon.

~~~~~~~

Whatever investigation Namjoon had managed to conduct during your moments of shellshock provided nothing new. The choice of murder was the same, albeit the brutality was by far the worst of all the victims before.

Her body had been warm indicating the perpetrator could still have been close by, but despite that knowledge the search parties could not find the culprit that had been described. There was no man covered in blood hiding in the shadows of the East End, he had disappeared like he had never been there in the first place.

A few days after the murder had taken place, Namjoon had informed you the killer had made contact. His face was grim as he described what had transpired. A letter and a parcel had arrived addressed to the taskforce, inside was what appeared to be a human kidney and a letter signed with a flourish, “Jack The Ripper.”

He was playing with them.

Your dreams were plagued with the memories of the sights you had seen that day in the early morning light of the alleyway. And instead of forcing you into submission, it made you angry. The initial sight had rendered you imobile, weak, and defenseless. You had never seen a human look like that. But with each dream you dreamt as the week melted away, you festered in guilt and rage.

Your fellow Victorian journalists had called him a monster, but you knew better. He was not a monster, he was a coward preying on women in the veil of darkness. Cowards harmed the weak and the defenseless, he was a caricature of a monster.

And you wanted nothing more than to rip the Halloween mask off of that faux monster.

This thought is what lent you strength as you and Namjoon reentered the East End, prepared to once and for all unmask the killer that had escaped the two of you.

You were dressed expensively, and rather salaciously, to blend in with the aristocrats around you. Namjoon and Claude appeared comfortable in the environment and it made you wonder if this had not been their first time attending an illicit party. Namjoon had explained to you before that he was often hired by government officials to do the jobs the police often failed to do, so it would not be unexpected if he had been there more than once.

You were bombarded by various sights that had you sticking close to your companions. When Namjoon said “illicit” parties, he meant it. The amount of illegal activities taking place was astounding. No matter where you looked, something was going on. Various partygoers were drinking unmarked liquids, inhaling unidentified substances, or swapping large amounts of money for some unknown service (although you had an inkling as to what they may be).

At one point in the night you had tried to locate a bathroom only for Namjoon to pull you away from the door you had attempted to open.

“I wouldn’t go in there if I were you.” He said with an all knowing, tight lipped grin.

“Really, and why not?” You asked, your hand resting on your cinched waist.

“I didn’t picture you as one for...group activities.”

“Group activities...there’s an orgy in there?!” You whisper yelled, frantically wiping your hand on your skirts with wide eyes.

Namjoon wheezed out a laugh, guiding you away from the room and back towards the center of the pseudo ballroom. “What can I say, this is a sinner’s paradise.”

“Sinner’s paradise, more like Chlamydia’s Palace.” You huffed, your cheeks hot.

Namjoon laughed again only to be stopped by the presence of his butler, Claude. His hand concealed his mouth as he whispered something to Namjoon. Whatever it was he said seemed to please Namjoon while also provoking an indescribable look to wash over his handsome features.

As soon as Claude stepped back, Namjoon spoke. “I need you to stay right here, okay? Don’t talk to anyone, don’t drink anything, just keep to yourself until I return.”

Your eyebrows pinched together in irritation and confusion, “But, Namjoon -”

“Remember what happened the last time you refused to listen to me?” He snapped, raising his eyebrows in emphasis.

You pressed your lips together, turning your head to the side. Yes, you did remember what had happened the last time you ignored his instructions.

Namjoon sighed, propping his finger under your chin and turning your head to look at him. “Please, trust me on this one thing.”

You thought to yourself for a moment, the last time you didn’t listen it hadn’t exactly gone well for you. This was just one thing he was asking of you after all of the things he had done for you, he was asking for just one moment of cooperation.

You lowered his hand from your chin and took a breath. “Okay, I trust you.”

A look of pure elation erupted on his face. He gave you a wide grin, his dimples deepening in his cheeks.

“I’ll be back.” He said before retreating into the crowd with Claude following close behind.

And then you were alone, but not alone for nearly long enough.

Your hands fiddled with the pocket watch your grandfather had gifted you as you walked, your head down and your gaze focused on the glass face of the watch. It was almost like everything had gone wrong after he had died and left it in your possession.

Far too distracted from your internal thoughts and the presence of the watch, you missed the incoming form barreling towards you. Within seconds you were knocked to the floor, the layers of your skirts luckily breaking your fall.

“Ah! Sorry, sorry, sorry, my bad! In a rush, I’m quite late I’m afraid.” The voice rushed out, a slight wheeze accompanying it as he appeared breathless.

You felt two hands grasp your own and carefully help you into an upright position.

“It’s fine, I’m fine.” You said, irritation clear in your tone.

“No really! Forgive me, it’s my mistake.” He said.

You adjusted your dress, making sure all of the important bits were in place before finally looking up to see who exactly this man was.

You were not expecting it to be him. Not at all.

“Grandpa?” You asked softly, taken aback.

It was him, he looked years younger than when you had last seen him, but it was him. You had gone through countless scrapbooks as a child and the face that was staring back at you was the younger version of the man that had raised you.

“What?” He laughed, his eyes crinkling as his shoulders shook.

Your gaze zeroed in on the chain of the watch clipped to his pocket. And, without saying a word, you pulled your own watch free and showed it to him.

All mirth completely left his body, like the flame of a candle being snuffed out. His lips parted in shock and distress as his eyes traced over his own initials carved into your watch. His hand patted his own chest frantically as he pulled the watch free and held it beside your own.

They were identical, down to every nick and scratch in the silver finish.

“How did you get here?” He asked, his voice low and serious in a way you had never heard before. “Did they send you?”

“Did who send me? Nobody sent me. I just woke up here, other people were living in my house and everything was gone.” You explained as he pulled you to a corner of the ballroom.

“This isn’t right,” He mumbled, flipping open his own watch. “You’re a time anomaly, there can’t be two of us here at the same time.”

“Two of us?” You echoed.

“Time travelers, dear, it runs in the family I’m afraid. What was I thinking about giving that to you without explaining?” He said, his words flying so quickly to the point that you were struggling to keep up.

“Then let’s leave, show me how to get out of here! There has to be a way!”

“You can’t just leave, you’re here for a purpose, you didn’t just come here by accident.” He said as a blue glow began to steadily thrum and pulse from his watch. “Oh no.”

“Oh no? What, what’s happening?”

“I have to go, I’m being called back. Whatever you do, you cannot change anything, do you understand? Who are you staying with, what have you done?”

“I haven’t changed anything that I know of. I’ve been staying with Kim Namjoon.”

His eyes widened as the watch began to pulse even stronger than before. “Kim Namjoon! Listen to me, you need to go, you need to get as far away as possible he -”

But before he could finish what he was saying he disappeared. It was like he had blipped out of existence, like he had never been there at all.

You spun around in a circle, trying to see if he was truly gone. All of the party goers did not appear to be phased, it was like they hadn’t seen a single thing that occurred. How was that possible? Fuck that, how was any of this possible?

All you knew was that you were going to follow his advice and get the fuck out of there and out of the East End.

You forced yourself through the thick crowds of people, pushing, checking, and elbowing away anyone that got in your way. You winced as one particular shove sent a whole glass of wine pouring down the cleavage and dress of one inebriated woman. It didn’t really matter though, you were sure she could afford another one with the way she had been slamming back drinks all night.

You threw open various doors in an attempt to find a way out, each time you were met with an increasingly more disgusting or disturbing sight. You didn’t even know some of those positions were possible for fuck’s sake.

Finally, when you threw open a door you were met with the smell of crisp, fresh air. A way out.

It was a slim alleyway of the East End, just barely illuminated by the crescent moon that hung in the pitch black darkness of the sky. A sudden sense of paranoia washed over you, the last time you were in an alleyway it had ended poorly. But you knew you didn’t have time to think about that.

Oh, if only you did.

The minute your heeled feet met the ground you were greeted with that all too familiar scent. There was blood nearby and lots of it. You could hear shuffling a few yards away, and you knew that you fucked up.

Your throat felt tight as you attempted to swallow, you were certain you could taste the blood on your tongue from how strong the smell was. And, when you finally turned to face whatever was in that alley, you were horrified.

A few yards away you spotted three figures, two on the ground and one leaning against the wall. And beneath the three of them, a crimson river steadily flowed through the cobblestone.

You took a step back, your heels scuffing the stone spurring only two of the figures to look up at you. A scream bubbled in your chest at what you saw. Claude was hunched over the figure of a woman, blood splattered over his face and down the leather apron he wore over his clothes. You could see bloodied tools in his grip as he settled back on his hunches, pausing his motions mid incision.

And then there was Namjoon, the once blank look he wore on his face suddenly lighting up with intrigue at the sight of you.

“Claude? Why don’t you take the lady home.” He spoke, gesturing to the corpse.

Claude looked between you and Namjoon for a moment, appearing conflicted. But he did not hesitate any longer as he scooped up the woman’s corpse and retreated down in the dark depths of the alley.

Namjoon was quick as he approached you, you barely made it a few feet away before he grabbed you by your forearms and pinned you up against the wall, hushing you as panicked cries parted your painted lips.

“I’m sorry, darling. But, I did tell you to stay put didn’t I?”

“Why?” You managed to say as you trembled in his hold, ugly sobs wracking your entire form.

“Women only want me for one thing I’m afraid. My money. I thought that maybe I could help those women who had nothing, that they could give me love in return if they didn’t know who I was. But they were just the same, motivated by money. I would give them my love and beg them to stop selling themselves but they just wouldn’t listen to me. Every single one of them failed my little test. They were greedy, and selfish. They didn’t deserve to be women. So, I hurt them just like they hurt me.”

You didn’t know what to do or what to say, you could only focus on the rising feeling of panic in your chest.

“I knew someone would eventually catch on to what was happening. But how ironic was it that they assigned me to the case out of all people? Those fucking investigators are so inept they never saw it coming. And Claude, well his loyalty was extremely helpful. If you don’t want to be caught, don’t commit the crime yourself.” He whispered.

“All I wanted was to give them my love, but each and every single one of them broke my heart. All of them except for you.” He said, pressing a kiss to your cheek that made you violently flinch.

“You were such a little spitfire, and when you showed up to my door I thought I was going to have to kill you on sight. But you proved me wrong, you’re the only one deserving of my love.”

A blue light suddenly lit up the space between you, the glow of the watch casting sinister shadows over the ripper's face.

Immediately he reached for the watch at the same time as you, and without much effort he wrenched the watch free from your hands and shoved you down to the ground. Your head met the stone first and on impact black spots blurred your vision.

The watch pulsed vibrantly in his hands, humming like a heartbeat. A wicked laugh shook his shoulders as he flipped the face open.

“So this is how you did it?” He asked, swinging the watch by it’s chain recklessly.

“Namjoon, don't’!” You cried, struggling to stand.

But it was too late. A feral scream ripped its way out of your throat as you watched him slam the watch into the ground and violently dig the heel of his shoe into it. The glass shattered, the metal bent, and the blue glow stuttered, weakly thrumming before fizzling out and plunging the alley into darkness.

The ripper stalked down the alley and stood over you, a viscous smile pulling at his cheeks as he slowly tilted his head to the side.

“Don’t look so surprised my love, there is only one way I’d ever let you leave me.”

#bts #bts namjoon #bts x reader #namjoon #kim namjoon #namjoon x reader #kim namjoon x reader #yander #yandere bts #yandere namjoon #bts fanfic #yandere namjoon x reader #yandere kpop #yandere bts x reader #bts rm #rm x reade #yandere rm x reader #jack the ripper au #victorian au

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roscgcld · 4 years ago

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RYOMEN SUKUNA || pretty little thing

note: am I simping for volume 12 cover sukuna once more? ...yes, and am not afraid to admit that. that man can glare at me and i will apologise for gracing him with my unworthy self lmao. but i do enjoy this entire idea of super mean and evil sukuna and his cutesy lover that can do whatever she wants to him and he wouldn’t stop her - not like he wanted to anyway lmao

pronouns: she/her

warning: mentions of murder and acts of murder as well, and if you squint a little there is mentions of minors, but it doesn’t play a big role in the story

The small group of sorcerers stood before the towering man, trying not to show the fear on their faces as they tried to look at the glowing red eyes head on. Sukuna was seated on his throne, two of his four arms resting on his while another was propping up his cheek; the other tapping his fingers on the plush fabric of his throne. He hated having his time wasted on useless things, and the socerers before him were starting to wear their welcome too thin.

Sighing tiredly, he tilted his head back, a sign that had the sorcerers tensing up. They knew that body language all too well - if they do not tell him what was the purpose of them coming all the way to him temple, and even daring to walk up to his alter will lead him to murdering them all in cold blood.

He doesn’t care how important they are in the town, or in jujutsu world either - to him, he is the most important. And everyone else is beneath him.

Well, everyone but one person, that is.

As if the Gods took pity on them, the soft sound of delicate footprints came from somewhere beside the group, causing the group to stop their whispers between one another at the sound of soft footsteps. Within seconds a beautiful woman walked out from the shadows and into the main room of the temple, her kimono trailing behind her delicately. The beautiful crafted garment hung on her frame perfectly; not too tight where it left little to the imagination, yet not too loose to hide her beautiful figure underneath it either. It was clearly crafted by a master craftsman, and the fabrics it was made of show how expensive it must have been.

A hana kanzashi was delicately placed on her perfectly styled hair, a streams of flowers hang off the end of the pin, giving the woman a more mysterious look as the sunlight casted a shadow over half of her face. She gave the sorcerers no more than an uninterested glance, trying not to roll her eyes at the sight of the group of mostly men - the same group of elders in her town that were so willing to sacrifice young girls to the man before them in exchange for peace.

She would know - she was one of those sacrifices, after all. However, the difference between her and the others was that instead of being killed after their purpose was done, Sukuna was now wrapped around her finger tightly. She can’t be too proud of it either; she was equally as obsessed with him as he was with her, so the better word to describe it might be mutual pining.

Sukuna will never admit that though, claiming she is just a foolish woman he likes keeping around for food and a warm body. But if she tries to get up and leave, or if he knows people are even thinking about bringing her harm? The world would suffer through Hell like they’ve never seen before.

Speaking of the man - Sukuna’s ruby red eyes watched as the woman made her way towards him, carefully climbing the steps of his alter like it was her own home; a soft pout resting on her lips as she walks closer to him. He didn’t get the usual burst of annoyance when anyone dared to look at him in eyes, or the anger he’d feel of having someone even daring to take one step towards the direction of his throne. Yet all he felt was amusement as he shifted in his seat ever so slightly; watching how the woman just made her way towards him and sat down in his lap like it was her throne.

Which it was after all, and Sukuna will let her indulge herself in such a luxury. He loves to spoil her, letting her do as she pleases

“Yes, my beautiful flower?” He hums softly as the hand that was once tapping his fingers along his seat reached up, stroking the apple of her cheek delicately as he raised an eyebrow at her. At that moment he didn’t care who was in the room - all that mattered was her. And he has a gut feeling he knows why she is currently sporting that cute pout of hers, her arms crossed over her chest adorably. “You’re taking too long. I got cold.”

Immediately a low chuckle rumble from somewhere in his chest as his other arm wrapped around her protectively, his tattoos a contrast against the unmasked skin of her bare thigh that was revealed by his simple action of pulling her closer. “We can’t have that now, can we?” He cooed ever so softly, something so foreign and so unheard of coming from a cold hearted killer that it scared the already terrified sorcerers even more. A few of them were even shaking at the sight of the woman, who was a mere girl when she was scarified, now perched in the lap of such a fearsome creature like she was a lazy house cat.

How can such a relation be so natural?

“What a pretty little thing she is, isn’t she?” Sukuna suddenly stated loudly, his ruby red eyes now dull and clearly showing his boredom as he turned to address the sorcerers before him once more. The woman from before just smiles softly as she curls up into his warmth, not caring about the others in the room; quietly purring at the feeling of a large hand stroking along her face delicately. An action that might seem hard for a man his size to achieve, yet he still somehow manages to treat her like fine china beneath his fingertips.

“I should thank you for being blind enough not to keep a beauty like this for yourselves, but it’s because of your blindness that landed her in my lap in the first place.” Sukuna continued into the silent room, the hand that was once cradling his cheek waved in the air lazily; a smirk tugging against his tattooed face. “All the ones you sent before as sacrifices were quite sad little things; blubbering and whining so much that I rather send their heads back to you so you can see just how pathetic they really were.” He sighs in annoyance, his face curling a little as he remembered all the past women he had.

Some were pretty, yes - but there was just something about them that just irked him. He didn’t know what it was; maybe it was their constant crying, or how they try to pretend to be head strong and threaten to kill him in his sleep. He just took what he wanted before slicing their head off just as he climaxes; not really caring for their own pleasure. It’s not his problem if they were satisfied or not.

However, when his little flower came, sniffling with tearful eyes at how she had been yanked away from her loving family; yet eyes curiously staring up at the man that she had heard so many stories about. There was just something in him that lets him know that she was the one. That she was the one that is going to scratch that insatiable itch that he has whenever he is sent a new sacrifice from the town that he is currently residing in. And he was right. “Yet, with that being said, that doesn’t mean I am not growing tired of your antics. Speak now before I make you.”

Immediately a few eyes glanced over at the woman in his lap, as if they were silently begging for her to lend them a hand. Yet this actual caused Sukuna to scowl as he looks over at the group, snapping his fingers to drag their attention back to him. “Who gave you the permission to turn your disgusting gazes at her? She can’t help miserable excuses like you lot anyway.” He scowls, his eyes narrowing in anger at how they thought they even worthy enough cast their dirty eyes on her, as if she would extend the olive branch to them after they’ve done.

Before he can do anything rash, the woman decided to step in, gently placing her warm hand against the exposed part of his chest from underneath the kimono he had worn. The feeling of the familiar touch caused him to sigh softly as he leans back into his throne once more, but he glared at them with the same intensity as before, watching them for a moment longer. “You know what? I think I know what to do with you lot. I mean, I hope you didn’t forget - you did make my little flower cry.”

Just as he finished saying that, he gave them all a sadistic smile before he swiped his hand in the air leisurely. His other arms immediately wrapped around the woman, turning her face away from the scene before them as the sorcerers all started to be sliced up one by one by invisible blades, the sound of wails and body parts flying about as they landed on the ground in bloody heaps. A few. who watched their fellow comrades be sliced up in horror before they tried to run, turning and running towards the entrance as if they can escape their fate.

They should know better than to try something so foolish.

“The clean up is going to be a pain, you know.” Y/N sighed softly as she looks up at her lover, knowing that he was shielding her from the horrors he had committed. If she was being honest, she had never seemed to fear how easily he dispose of others - whenever he does kill people, it usually leads to a much more wider and bigger picture at the end of the day. What she can’t stand though, is the mess he tends to leave behind. “The maids just cleaned the rugs too.”

“It’s their job, flower.” He just sighs and shifted her so she was straddling his lap leisurely, letting her hands rest against his warm chest as two of his arms wrapped around her waist. One of them rested against her cheek lovingly, letting her lean into his touch once more whilst his other hand went back to cupping his cheek in his hand. “You can still make it less dramatic, no?” She mumbles softly with a soft giggle, to which Sukuna just rolled his eyes at her comment.

“Why make killing so dull? I enjoy the flare of dramatics, flower.”

With a fond roll of her eyes she just leans forward to press soft kisses along his face, knowing that he will not push her away; not when his arms tighten their own hold on her. “Whatever you say, my King.” She cooed at him quietly, still placing feather-like kisses against his face as he closes his eyes for a moment. Soon he grew bored of them, and with a firm hand on the back of her head, guiding her face down to his. He presses a passionate kiss against her as she smiles, her hands trailing up his chest before they found themselves wrapped around his neck where they belong.

Maybe it was an obsession, or maybe it really is fate - whatever the reason may be, he’s going to make sure that his little flower is safe and content. Even if it means killing an entire army of people at her command, or tearing out his heart for her if she so much so as asks.

He is her slave, and he doesn’t see a reason to fight against his faith.

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kittydemon9000 · 3 years ago

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The Beginning of Heatstroke, aka Red's Villain Origin

* crashes down from the ceiling * I HAVE FINALLY FINISHED ONE OF MY 5+ CURRENT WRITING PROJECTS! BEHOLD, A WRITTEN VERSION OF THE 'Red's Villain Origin AU', also known as RVO / Heatstroke AU

To summarize the AU for SPBNR for those that don't now it:

“Who'd be the biggest conspiracy theorist out of the M!Ninja? The one who drinks 5 hour energy at 3am and spits off the craziest theories and then actually gets it right but nobody gives the theory any merit because the rest of the theories are too crazy?”

The answer: Red / M!Kai

Red: Okay hear me out: Smith is actually an alternative version of one of us sent here from another dimension.

The other M!Ninja: You’re just saying that because Smith’s cool and you want him to be your counterpart

Based on the M!ninja making red cork boards trying to figure out ‘What Is Up With Smith’: Red gets increasingly accurate and nobody will believe him (all pre shogun reveal) and he eventually snaps and takes up a secret villain persona to fight Shogun like 'if they won't believe me I'll do it myself' and it gets awkward when he accidentally does too much damage and catches not only Shogun's attention like planned, but also the rest of the Ninjaforce, and now he has to keep his own identity a secret

So, without further ado, I present... Heatstroke

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

Red blamed the 5-hour energy coffee blend at 3:00am for this.

It was no surprise that between ‘Operation: What’s Going on with Smith’ & the sudden appearance of Shogun that the resident Bounty red-stringed ‘joke’ cork-board doubled in size and seriousness. It also was no surprise that Red had a corner all to himself and that his theories were… in the words of the others, ‘wildly inaccurate and implausible’.

But this time, he was sure he’d gotten it right.

Smith is Shogun sent here from another continent/planet/dimension with the goal of protecting Ninjago City.

The latest string of laughs and scoffs at his theory was the last straw. He’d show them. He’d prove it!

Which was why he was currently standing on the roof of a noodle house, awkwardly adjusting the spare motorcycle helmet he’d ‘borrowed’ from Nya and painted black and orangey-yellow (red had seemed too obvious). He’d exchanged his Ninjaforce outfit for a soot-burned cross between a bomber jacket and a leather jacket. Down his back jutted a row of flames like the spines of a monster, courtesy of one of Nya & Jay’s unfinished inventions Red had modified- surely nothing bad would come of that!

For tonight, the Red Ninja was off-duty. For tonight, it was Heatstroke’s turn.

He fiddled with one of the weapons he’d ‘lent out’ from Master Wu. It resembled a small arm canon, like a smaller version of the Ultimate Weapon. The plaque under its post had read ‘Elemental Focuser’, which, in cryptic Wu speak, probably translated to ‘you can use an elemental power like something out of Avatar: The Last Airbender’. So far he’d only figured out how to activate a focused jet of fire. Well, at least it was on brand. He hoped it would help him catch Shogun’s attention so he could unmask him.

He’d tried confronting Smith at school, of course. But there were only so many ways of saying ‘are you the new vigilante helping the ninjas’, and Smith has a genuine talent for dancing around the topic. Red could confront him with the name Shogun to get a proper reaction, but that would mean explaining how he knew the name and outing himself as the Red Ninja.

So fake villainy really was the only way.

His plan was to use the Elemental Focuser to cause some minor petty damage, just enough to attract the new vigilante. Perhaps set a trash can on fire, block an alleyway with rocks (if he figured out how to change the setting from fire to earth), small things that could easily be repaired.

Of course, plans were never actually stuck to. One way or another, something was always improvised.

Red’s improvisation just happened to involve him accidentally setting the entire alleyway on fire.

He’d only been aiming for one dumpster, honest! And maybe he’d spotted a couple fliers for a SoG meeting on the ground and happened to burn those too. And a newspaper article blaming Lloyd for the recent Garmadon attack, again. And an article about those ‘Damn Ninja Menaces’ by a S. Sonah Sameson. And-

Okay, so maybe Red had aimed the fire at a few small targets. But just a few! And with good reason and good care, but…

Well, fire liked to burn. Give it enough kindle and it’ll continue to grow, stretching like reaching branches towards each other to join in a massive bonfire.

So now the entire alleyway was on fire, and Red was panicking.

He’d luckily chosen an abandoned part of town near the beaches where Shogun sightings seemed most frequent, but with the stupid Elemental Focuser not switching from fire mode to water mode or ice mode or something that didn’t have the potential to burn Ninjago City to the ground, Red had no way of stopping the flames.

And more flames meant more destruction which meant a bigger audience.

Which was why his previously muted comm suddenly flared to life, the only warning Red had before Nya’s water strider mech slid around the corner.

Red scrambled onto a roof as the mech drove past, spraying water at the bonfire to dose it. His sigh of relief was just as quickly dosed as Lloyd’s voice came over the comms; “Status, Grey?”

“Flames are out,” Nya replied. “Pursing the joker that set it ablaze.”

Uh oh. Red took off across the roof, leaping from building to building. Tiles creaked, pebbled and dust scattering underfoot. The sounds of the mech’s engine roaring behind him echoed through alleyways below to create the illusion the mech was everywhere at once.

As the chase grew on, more mechs started to join in. Red ducked into a narrow avenue to avoid Zane’s tank, then under a cafe overhang to throw off Jay and Lloyd. His heart hammered in his chest and he groaned, filling the inside of the motorcycle helmet with steam. Saying this was going ‘bad’ would be the understatement of the century.

What had he been thinking? Oh wait: he hadn’t. Seriously? ‘Oh I’ll just pretend to be a villain real quick, that should get Shogun’s attention and not the attention of literally my entire team of fellow ninjas!’ Stupid, impulsive, this was why everyone was always calling the red ninja the ‘hothead’ when he really tried not to be- Lloyd’s voice over the comms snapped him from his thoughts. “I can’t catch them! It’s like they know our every move!”

Red winced as he climbed up a banister and leapt from balcony to balcony. Sorry, Lloyd.

He didn’t miss how the others asked Nya where Red was. And how she made up excuses the others bought so easily- granted, he’d told those excuses to his sister before setting his plan into motion, but still, ouch. They acted like he was simply being at best too busy and at worst lazy and selfish.

He just wanted them to know the truth! Why couldn’t they at least try to believe him when-

Of course, that was when Shogun dropped out of the sky and tackled him.

Red shouted with surprise as he tumbled down from the second floor, slamming into a few softer bags of garbage to break his fall before rolling and slamming into the unforgiving concrete. A crack formed in his vision as the visor of his motorbike helmet smacked into the concrete ground. One of the fire jets on his back sputtered and sparked, sending a thin wisp of smoke into the air.

Shogun pinned his wrists to the ground and growled. “Who are you?”

Red tried to break free, agony turning his muscles and bones to fire with the movement after his fall, but the vigilante was too strong. Damn, how often did this guy train?

“Who am I?” Red said, a nervous tinge to his voice. He quickly smoothed it over with faked confidence. “Who are you? Who are all of us, really?”

Shogun narrowed his eyes behind his hood. “Did Garmadon send you? Or someone else?”

Red sputtered. Really, the nerve! Garmadon? The thought turned his insides to disgusting mud. “Nobody sent me!”

“Then why are you here?” Shogun spat.

“Why am I here?” Why was he here again? Oh right, the bright idea on how to reveal that Shogun was Smith. “It’s, uh… a valid reason! That I don’t have to tell you!” He tried for a villainous laugh. Stay in character, don’t blow your cover, you got this!

Shogun was unimpressed. “Nearly burning down my home was a valid reason?”

“Well, I wasn’t trying to set everything on- wait, WHAT?” Uh oh. “You LIVE here?”

Now it was Shogun’s turn to look uncomfortable, though the expression was quickly wiped from his face. “Nothing wrong with this district.”

Red nodded. “‘Course not. Uh, sorry about that… wasn’t my intention, I swear.”

Shoot, he could hear Jay’s jet getting closer. He had to get out of here, but Shogun, annoyingly, didn’t seem to be in the mood to simply let him go. “Then what is your intention?”

“Well, for starters, it’s getting out of here. This really isn’t going to plan and I’d rather just be home right now, or even inventing a time machine like in that book ‘Hands of Time’ to slap my past self in the face for even thinking about this stupid idea in the first place-“

Jay wasn’t the only one that could ramble under pressure, it seemed.

Shogun leaned closer. “What idea?”

Red shrugged as best he could with how he was pinned to the ground. “Well, for starters, I just wanted to prove to my friends that you’re Smith, and things just kinda escalated from-”

The words were out of his mouth before he realized what he said.

Shogun lurched back, letting go of him. His eyes betrayed a kaleidoscope of emotions; surprise, worry, suspicious, hurt, fear, realization.

“…Kai?”

Well, f!ck.

“I-“

Red was about to badly attempt to bullsh!t his way out of his identity reveal before it suddenly dawned on him that Shogun had not denied his theory.

Which meant Shogun was Smith.

And it also meant Smith instantly recognized him as Kai, which, considering his disguise, was aptly concerning. Sure, he was the first one in his group of friends people would think to do something this extreme but give him some credit! Zane was a regular detective, he’d do the same if it meant answers! Or, well, at least something similar. And Nya could be an adrenaline seeker. And Lloyd- well, maybe not Lloyd. Or Jay, either. Cole had his head just enough on his shoulders that he probably wouldn’t do this either.

But come on, instantly guessing it?

Well, at least Smith/Shogun didn’t know Kai was the Red Ninja. That would be a catastrophe.

Right. Back to the current catastrophe at hand.

Shogun- Smith- still had a look as if he’d been slapped, and Red hated it. He hadn’t meant to hurt his friend. Shogun… Shogun hadn’t wanted them to find out his identity. And then Red had gone and done it, just to prove that he could be the smart one, or a leader, or the protector so they didn’t get hurt, or literally anything but just the ‘hotheaded one’.

…And he’d done it in the most hotheaded, impulsive way possible.

He really was an idiot.

The cracked helmet hid the look on his face, a twisted mess of distraught and shame. But it didn’t help hide how he took stumbled to his feet and away from Smith, nervous that any second he’d spill another mistake and mess up again, like how he always freaking messed up on everything. Don’t pick this fight, interject there instead, no, not there, idiot, there, FMS why are you so useless-

Focus, focus.

Lloyd’s voice, sharp in the intercom and full of static from his tumble, snapped him from his thoughts. “Anyone got eyes on the arsonist?”

Red caught Smith’s eye as he raised his hand to his own communicator. He was so screwed, so busted, so doomed… Smith would report it, and the others would know, and they’d think he was just messing around in an alleyway with some stolen devices and weapons out of curiosity or rage, - and-

“None yet, still looking.”

…What?

Smith stared at him, gaze searching. He looked shaken, more so than Red- who’d just taken a fall from a second story, mind you, it was a miracle he wasn’t more injured than a couple small scrapes and some future bruises-, yet everything from the set of his jaw to the softening of his furrowed brows suggested a change in emotions. Well, not quite change; more like repress and replace.

“You wanted to prove yourself, didn’t you.”

Red flushed, hand instinctually clamping into a tight fist at his side. The still-working fire jets on his back ignited without him pressing any buttons; faulty activation from the fall or something.

Palms up and hands raised, Smith silently asked to defuse the situation. “Didn’t mean it as an insult. This wasn’t about venting some anger, was it.”

Red’s lack of response only confirmed it. Smith continued. “I won’t say anything about this if you don’t tell anyone my identity. Deal? I know finding it out was important to you, but-“

“Deal,” Red interrupted. Guilt ate away at his core, like a wave of water dousing a candle. “Smith, I-“ He swallowed hard and stared at the alley floor. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to… to…”

Smith’s hand was suddenly on his shoulder and he flinched before relaxing as Smith didn’t move further, nor did the grip tighten. “I’m a little hurt, you’re right. But I’m not mad. And I won’t tell the others, so you can relax. But you better get out of here and get yourself an alibi. We can talk at school or something.”

Wow, he was handling this rather calmly. Red was struck by the sudden memory of- what did Jay call the word? Right. Compartmentalizing. That… wasn’t healthy. But at the roar of Lloyd’s mech somewhere nearby, he didn’t comment further. Instead, he shot Smith a grateful nod and ran down the alley, sticking to the shadows and blind spots of the flying mechs and the tight alleyways where the land mechs couldn’t reach him.

When he got home, miraculously without further incident (though Shogun leading the others on a wild goose chase over the comms certainly helped there), he ditched the outfit in a bag hidden beneath a loose floorboard in the shed. He’d return the weapon to Master Wu’s ship later, and… well, hope Nya never searched for the missing supplies. There wasn’t a way of fixing it without involving her or Jay, and neither was an option.

Heatstroke was back off duty, and so was the Red Ninja.

For now, he could just be Kai Smith. And there wasn’t any issue with that.

…

Right?

—————

yooOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

THIS IS AMAZING REHJJGFHDESFXJVZ

and ah yes, good ol trauma and compartmentalizing, we love to see it

#We love ourselves some good ol aus #same people but not really #Spbnr #spbnr aus

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izusun · 3 years ago

Note

*hands you an AU dump to hoard like a little goblin handing a small coin to a dragon*

OKAY so basically: after the doctor's visit where Izuku learns he's quirkless (I hc that they went when he was about five n' a half), Inko does a little bit of research on quirks and more specifically on her son's notebooks, learns that he's even more brilliant at quirk analysis than she originally suspected, and (after looking at some not great quirkless statistics) she instead informs Izuku that no, he's had a quirk all along! It's an analysis quirk!

So she updates the quirk registry, and Izuku goes through his life believing he has an analysis quirk, albeit teased for being a late bloomer, but he still can't shake the insecurity being quirkless for that one and a half year gave him.

He does research on all sorts of things, hacking, knife throwing, first aid, and building his own support gear and takes to all of it like a duck to water. He also does research on UA's policy for support gear in the entrance exam (cause surely they've gotta have a policy for non-offensive quirks like Koda and Hagakure) and finds that he can take one with him if he builds it himself. He goes fuckin bonkers.

Anyways: he trains with Katsuki, cause they're relationship is pretty good since Izuku has a 'quirk.' They both demolish the entrance exam. (Also Izuku kinda swears a lot because Katsuki rubs off on him)

Aizawa doesn't notice a goddamn thing is amiss until the battle trials on the second day (he decides to shadow All Might that day), where when he was using his quirk to silence his students while Izuku was rambling, he just didn't stop, as if he didn't notice anything was wrong. It happens again during the USJ.

So at some point during the sports festival, Nedzu (who is now intrigued because of Aizawa's complaining) invites Izuku into his office during a free period and lets him go ham on analysis, all while Aizawa is secretly there erasing Izuku's 'quirk.' Nedzu invites Izuku to be his personal student (making Aizawa go grey), he says yes, and then Nedzu drops the absolute BOMBSHELL that Izuku is actually quirkless. Cue an existential crisis.

(Also Izuku gets captured at the training camp alongside Katsuki because of his "analysis quirk," wonder how well that goes for him~)

- Goblin anon (sorry this one was kinda long)

GOBLIN?? DUDE???? HOLY SHIT I KNEW YOUR AUS ARE ALWAYS PHENOMENAL BUT THIS RIGHT HERE??? D U D E

i misunderstood the prompt a bit but i genuinely don’t know how to backtrack, so here you go goblin. sorry again o(TヘTo)

ok first of, inko taking on a stronger stance to support her son? love that of her. like, she doesn’t say sorry when izuku turned to look at her and cried that he can’t be like all might. instead, she took him in her arms and assures him that he will be a great hero. at first, of course half of it is lip service because she doesn’t know how to help her quirkless boy be a hero, since, you know, heroes need quirks.. (or do they)

and then she comes across a quirkless self help group which rang many many warning bells in her head. what kind of life do quirkless people live when a google research of them resulted in subsequent pages of results like how to stay safe when quirkless, or how to find jobs when quirkless, or quirkless mortality rates?

she fears for izuku, until she notices that her son’s smart. too smart for his age, but inko thought she’s just being biased. but izuku’s wit is something many people notice, for an instance, when izuku goes to the park to play and his friends’ (the few ones who stayed) parents tell her that her son’s smart for a quirkless person, she realizes that izuku’s wit is far more vast than normal.

then a thought worms into her head but wouldn’t it be bad to lie…but also, no one would be any the wiser.

further pushed by all the statistics she keeps seeing, or the lack thereof, about quirkless people, she makes the decision and pours it to izuku.

izuku who’s far smarter than his age and understood what his mom is asking from him. izuku who already saw the disparities between quirked and quirkless people at the tender age of five. izuku who knows what it means to lie about something as personal as a quirk, but realizes that it’s necessary for him to do so if he wants to live a “normal” life.

so he agrees; he tells inko that he’ll work even harder to sharpen his mind, and to keep expanding his knowledge.

when izuku’s quirk file is officially updated, he watches how his peers and teachers revert back into treating him as izuku. he regains his old friends, but he chose to drop them because he doesn’t want to surround himself with people who thought he was less for being quirkless.

katsuki stayed, surprisingly. katsuki stayed and everyday he kept bothering izuku to “get your quirk already!” katsuki stayed because he can’t fathom that the smartest boy in their class (of course not as smart as him, psshh) is quirkless. deku couldn’t be quirkless. (but if he found out that izuku, indeed, is, i wonder what would happen…)

katsuki was one of the loudest to celebrate when izuku announced that his quirk arrived.

“finally!” he screams and bothers izuku about the semantics of his quirk. he really wasn’t surprised to find out that izuku has an analysis quirk because he thought that nothing else would better be suited for izuku.

he doesn’t know that izuku pours so much of his time into learning and studying, often bypassing basics and intros to take more of the developed courses that are usually recommended for older ages. he doesn’t know that izuku is just a naturally smart kid with the ability to fill the gaps of his young mind with knowledge upon knowledge, storing and stacking them until he feels that he’s laid a sturdy foundation for his fake quirk.

then izuku began threading into different areas. he learns how to get into cyberspaces; hacking into accounts and delving more into how to access private information. he doesn’t thread too close lest he gets caught, but he learns the logistics of maneuvering around the web and burrowing in empty spaces to branch out his own. he creates and designs web algorithms for himself, just so he doesn’t trigger anyone who is looking into the web movements. he hones this and uses it to access more information.

then when he deems it enough, he turns his attention to something more tangible and something more physical. he learns other ways to be a hero; how to fight without a physical quirk, how to win against bigger opponents, how to use analysis quirk in fights.

izuku becomes more than a fake analysis quirk user; he creates it.

mental quirks are hard to describe, more so to compress, thus he creates new definitions of an analysis quirk. what used to be a silly lie is now a tangible fact that izuku believes in. because what makes a quirk? because what makes analysis a quirk? he learns these semantics (often political) and uses it to his advantage.

then he finally threads to hero analysis. at first it were classmates he analyzed; eyes running quickly at their forms and watching with great interest before calculating everything he’s seen and transversing it with the things he learned, and bridges these two facts together to create an analysis. it was a struggle at first: he didn’t know which to put emphasis on until he realizes, he doesn’t need to. he weaves them together and lets his analysis run long and watches how his hobby comes into fruition.

following his classmates are current heroes. these were more tough and more fun, and any of the information is less shared. he doesn’t tell his classmates or teachers about his analyses, only katsuki. and katsuki’s breath hitch every damn time at izuku’s talent quirk.

it is in their second year of middle school that midoriya begins to incorporate the facts with himself to create physical performances. the issues and things he learned through observing are now practiced by himself. he calculates the best way to fight with a body as petite as his, often taking examples from pro-hero hawks and other women heroes. their agilities and physicality suit izuku’s young body; he doesn’t see the merit in punching his way through things when he physically cannot.

so he learns ways to ease his muscles. he learns ballet and gymnastics; lets his muscles contort and mend themselves anew. he finds his balance and roots himself firmly, and learns to calculate his actions so he doesn’t waste his energy. katsuki doesn’t say anything, but he sees izuku’s dance and falls in love.

then in the spring of their third year of middle school, izuku learns how to build and handle weapons.

this is the easiest. izuku learns that weapons aren’t tools, but extensions of his arms and hands. they are not to be revered and not to be depended on because they can fail. instead, he learns to wield weapons as though they are parts of his bodies. he learns how to use swords and often narrowing to wooden sticks that can be picked up anywhere; he learns how to fire guns and how to hide daggers in his uniform. he learns that his body is the best weapon to use and that tools are just arsenal to help him win.

then he learns how to build them.

by summer, izuku begins reaching into UA’s servers. they are hard codes to crack, but not impossible. it takes him five days to access old entrance exam videos. the next day, the videos are snuffed and he is left to try digging deeper into UA.

he fails.

nezu must have caught onto his codes and proceeded to build walls against it.

so he slithers out. but a five minute video of last year’s entrance exam is enough for izuku because he learns two things: one, heroes must defeat villains and two, heroes must save others.

izuku prepares for this. unknowingly, katsuki is taught these same principles. katsuki would grumble and tell him that he knows what heroes must do, but izuku continues to hammer it down to him.

by the time of the UA entrance exam, izuku falls into the ease of having a fake quirk. he passes the written exam with flying colours and although it took three teachers to approve his support gears (present mic had to pull in powerloader, midnight, and hound dog to ensure that the well designed support gears are made by the hero student examinee and not by a support student examinee. majima saw the works and begged nezu to allow izuku to be his student.), izuku still succeeds and dominates the entrance exam.

when the zero pointer was released, he had flung himself towards the girl crushed by debris and yanks her out. he doesn’t waste a modified grenade to explode the zero pointer because through his calculations, doing so would not only create more collateral damage, but would also endanger the examinee in his arms because she still would be caught in the crossfire.

nezu hums in appreciation from the screening room, after all, smart minds always do think alike.

izuku gets a whopping 92 in the physical aspects of the entrance exam.

katsuki gets 85.

aizawa gleefully takes them in.

izuku thinks that no one will ever know of his and inko’s secret, but one look at nezu’s beady eyes and he knew that the stoat knew. it became a game to them, then. a game to see who else would realize.

and while izuku is smart, he doesn’t realize that nezu has basically taken him as his personal student the moment he and izuku had created a bet.

it takes two months for aizawa to figure things out. surprisingly, he is the only one to do so and he only realizes due to the many untimely attacks of LoV.

——

how angst would it be if katsuki realizes that izuku’s always been quirkless during their captivity in the LoV’s hideout.

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sparklingchan · 3 years ago

Text

Ruby Eyes|| Seo Changbin (Stray Kids)

Pairing : Reader(fem.) X Changbin

Word count : 7.3k+

Warnings : Mention of an accident, cuss words, divorce, a single kiss.

Genre : Romance, Soulmate AU, fluff, angst, best friends to lovers.

Description: Seo Changbin has done everything in his capacity to remove and replace you, yet fate seems to have different plans for the both of you.

A/N : Hello everyone ahhh I know it’s been so long y’all. So many things have been going on including exams and internships and I just didn’t have the patience to write :(( This one shot was written as a part of a collab event by wonderful, dear Ro!

I hope y’all like it!

"So, how's it being back, y/n?"

Your dad looks older now than he did the last time you saw him - probably two years ago, when you were leaving the country.

You missed him, really. You missed his warmth and his wisdom and how he was a sharp contrast to your mother, more calm and composed. Sometimes you wonder how your mother had even managed to get your custody after their divorce.

"Okay, I guess." You lie.

You didn't want your father to know how your feelings are all over the place, ranging from sadness to anger and longingness.

It's a weird thing to be experiencing such a cocktail of emotions when you'd convinced yourself these feelings had disappeared the day you left the old neighborhood, seven years ago. You had not felt any attachment towards the new neighborhood that you and your mother then went on to live for the next two years before you moved abroad for your studies. Yet you feel nostalgic now, as your father drives you through your old old neighborhood.

"How's mom?" He asks, taking a left to a road all too familiar to you, "Is she still going to therapy?"

You nod, "She's getting better, I think. The new country seems to have changed her. The therapy is helping too. She has many friends there now. "

At first when you were offered a job at one of the biggest publishing companies in the world, you were ecstatic. But everything soon died down when you found out you were posted at a branch in the country you'd left behind. It was your mother who'd convinced you to take it.

"I know you don't like being back, y/n." Your dad smiles sadly when he pulls over infront of your old house.The house that contains years of secrets, tears, lies and whispered confessions in front of the mirror stands in front of you, as grand and pretty as ever. It looks different but similar enough to make you tear up a tad bit.

"But I'm glad you're here. I really am." He says, "I renovated the house a little when you told me you were moving back. I hope it's okay."

You smile at the old man, wrapping your arms around him, "Thanks, dad. I missed you. I'm glad you're here, too."

He pecks your forehead, "I missed you, too, love."

Moving in doesn't take a lot of time since your dad had already set up everything. You just had to get some of your stuff and you were ready to kick start your stay.

That evening, your father leaves after making you promise to call him if anything happens at all and when the front door closes, you find yourself in the company of your old room.

You lie on your bed, eyes fixed on the ceiling as you hum an old tune to yourself. And without meaning to, you find yourself thinking about him; The man you hadn't seen or talked to for a whole seven years. The man who'd tried his best to stay in touch with you yet gave up when you didn't reciprocate the same.

A horrific realization then dawns on you,

He'd obviously replaced you now.

The familiar clouds of grief loom over you, threatening to engulf you any moment now.

No. Not now, please.

Getting up from your bed immediately, you shake your head as you make your way to the mirror- the mirror that had encountered more honest tears and smiles and words than any human ever had. You stare at your reflection as tears escapes your eyes, the bright red iris of your right eye staring back at you when you rub your tears off.

You shiver.

"Shit, I forgot to wear the contacts."

Quickly grabbing your lenses from your bag, you put them on, concealing the scary blood red color of your right eye. You take two long strides across the room and pulling your favorite black hoodie over your head, you walk out of the door.

By the time you manage to leave the house, it's already 10:30 in the evening. A quiet calmness has fallen over the town, as the shops and restaurants near the market square slowly start closing up. Your feet are as if on autopilot, taking you to that one place you know would still be open; Yang's Café.

And rightly so, the smell of freshly brewed coffee reaches your nostrils when you walk through their main door, past the group of chatty teenagers waiting outside. This place hasn't changed much, you realize, the brown and golden hues of the place and the vintage coffee cups collection in the far corner of the Cafe are still the same. The only difference is that you're no longer here with your best friend right after school, you are here all alone on an evening too quiet for your liking.

"Y/n? Is that you?"

When you turn around to face the owner of the voice, you are stunned.

"Jeongin?"

Jeongin's family has owned this Cafe for three generations now, from his great-grandparents, his grandparents, his parents and soon enough it'll pass down to him. As a kid, you remember often playing with Jeongin at the park and teaming up with him during quiz competition. He was always sweet and always smiley.

But the handsome young man that stands in front of you doesn't resemble the Jeongin you once used to know, not even a little bit.

"What..what happened to you!" You exclaim, taking his face in your hands, "Where are the braces! And the specs and wow, would you look at the blue hair!"

Jeongin can only let out a few giggles as you continue squishing his face and complaining how big he's grown in only over seven years.

The customers give you weird stares but only the heavens above know how genuinely happy you are to see Jeongin, albeit the fact you almost couldn't recognize him there for a second.

"What have you done to my child?" You mutter when you've finally calmed down and Jeongin takes you to your seat.

"I have a mother, y/n, thank you very much," he laughs, taking a seat opposite to yours, loosening the Barista apron around his torso, "And I missed you too."

You attempt to pinch his cheeks but he is quick to dodge.

"So how have you been?" He asks through giggly breaths.

You sigh, "I'm good... I feel weird being back here, honestly but I think I'll get used to it soon. What about you?"

"I've been good. Graduated a few months back, now I'm working here full time." He ushers over a waiter, "What would you like, y/n?"

You don't even think for a second while responding, "An iced Americano, please."

The waiter notes your order and walks away before Jeongin pinches your arm teasingly.

"Ouch. What?"

"Old habits die hard, huh? You always used to drink an iced coffee whenever we hung out here. I am glad to see nothing much has changed," Jeongin laughs, "You and Changbin, too!"

That one name sends your entire mind into a frenzy. Changbin. Seo Changbin. The love of your life. The man who you wouldn't even go to school without, the man who had saved you from a terrible accident, also the man who probably no longer even remembers you.

And you realise, despite everything, your heart yearns for him, still- for you wouldn't be in so much pain at the mention of his name otherwise.

Jeongin seems to have noticed your discomfort because he immediately changes the topic, "Anyway, you have to try our new chocolate cake. It's heavenly, I'm telling you."

Your reason to leave the neighborhood wasn't a secret, really. It was public knowledge that your mother had blamed Changbin for the fatal accident you almost had.

You're grateful for what Jeongin does, and try your best to engage in conversations about the neighborhood and old gossip you'd missed out on. Yet all you want to do is drive out of the damn Cafe and find changbin.

"Y/n?"

Or maybe, Changbin will find you.

Behind Jeongin, you see the blurry image of a man that had once caused you great misery yet you had never felt as happy as when you were with him.

"Hi..hi, Changbin." You stammer as you see the said man walk towards your table.

The seven years have as if done some magic on him, because the Changbin that walks towards you in no way resembles your high school best friend.

With thick buff arms, new ear piercings and silver jewelry gracing his wrists and fingers, you have a hard time actually accepting the fact that Seo Changbin is really there, in front of you.

"Been long, huh?" He grins, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes and somewhere in the depths of your conscience, you realize it might have been your fault. You'd done everything in your capacity to break apart from this friendship, ignoring his calls, changing your number, even going as far as blocking him on all social media.

So, did you really expect him to welcome you back with open arms when you had caused him so much pain?

Jeongin brings an extra chair for Changbin to sit on and soon, the three of you are talking, maybe not like the old, happy days but it's still better than nothing. Changbin looks at you everytime you throw your head back and laugh, your eyes squeezing shut as his heart clenches in his chest.

You are really back home.

"So what have you been doing? I told you guys about me." Jeongin says, stealing a bite off of Changbin's cheesecake.

"Oh..you know," Changbin giggles, the tip of his ears turning a light pink shade.

You raise your eye brows in confusion.

"Been busy with the wedding and all."

Your heart drops. "Wedding? W-whose wedding?" You try to laugh it off but it's very evident from the way you're gripping your glass of iced Americano that it has affected you. A lot more than you actually thought.

"I'm getting married, y/n," Changbin smiles, "I'm so glad you could be around for the wedding."

Your grief stricken self has not gotten up from the bed since last night and you're thankful to Jeongin for finally checking up on you or else you would have gone deeper into the spiral hole of despair.

"Are you really going to be like this, y/n?"

You hate being miserable on the very second day of your stay. You hate depending on Jeongin. But you can barely move without bursting out into tears,so it seems as though there's no better idea than have someone take care of you at the moment.

"I'm sorry, Jeongin. " You manage to speak when he places a bag full of snacks and drinks on the dining table, "And thanks."

Jeongin chuckles, "Don't thank me, just yet. Guess who wants to meet up with you?"

Your eyes widen for a split second as you sit up on the couch, "Who?!"

No, he wouldn't, would he?

"It's not the person you think, y/n. Calm down." He laughs, "It's Bang Chan. Your senior, you remember?"

Oh, yes, the infamous Bang Chan. Shy smiles, dimples, curly hair, angelic eyes. Yeah, you remember the school's heartthrob. Very clearly.

"I was talking to him this morning and he said he'd be very glad to catch up with you again." Jeongin settles beside you, "It's not a date, y/n. He's an old friend. It wouldn't hurt, would it? You can't possibly sit here all day long crying about him."

You open your mouth to argue, but only air slips out and you realise you don't have anything to defend your miserable state with. You knew this was coming; when you cut off all ties with Seo Changbin, you knew this was coming.

Jeongin is right; you need to go out and meet new people.

You roll your eyes before pinching Jeongin's cheeks, "Fine. Give him my number."

He responds by pulling your cheeks as well.

The first day of work is weirdly gut wrenching.

You hadn't expected yourself to be this nervous but here you are, muttering under your breath as you make way towards the office.

"You'll be okay, y/n," you breathe in, "You've worked hard for this." And breathe out.

A few more minutes of self pep talking and you see all your hard work and expectations go down the drain as you feel a few droplets of rain fall onto your head. You look up and the dark, heavy clouds greet you.

Bloody brilliant.

You see the office goers around you jog quickly to the nearest shelter but you're short on luck today as your gaze falls on your watch and you realize you don't have enough time to wait for the rain to pass.

So you grab your office bag, cover your head with that and make a run for it.

The sole of your high heel shoes dig into your feet and a throbbing pain shoots through your body, as you wince. Note to yourself - never wear heels to office again.

You also secretly pray to the gods that your contact lens don't get washed off. Turning up at your new office on the first day with a blood red iris doesn't feel too fun, really.

"Do you need a lift?"

You had been so busy running to your office that you don't notice when a black car drives toward you and the driver rolls down the window, offering you a smile.

Seo Changbin.

Your heart skips a few beats.

"Y/n, do you need a lift?"

You blink back to reality when he clicks his fingers in front of you, "I-I mean if that's okay with you."

Changbin smiles, pointing to the passenger's seat, "Come on in."

When you're comfortably seated in his car, using his spare towel to wipe off the water from your face and hair, his questions start-

"So.." He steps on the break when the traffic light turns red, "How have you been?"

You look at the digital clock displayed on the cars' LED, and sigh. You're late to work and you're stuck in traffic with the one man you'd rather not be stuck in traffic with. Brilliant.

"Good." Your eyes are focused on the cars outside the window, "You?"

There's a moment of silence before he speaks again, "Fine."

Fine? Just Fine? Shouldn't he be over the clouds, now that the wedding is finally around the corner?

"Okay.."

"Actually, I meant to ask you earlier, y/n." He turns to you, a gentle smile playing at his lips, "I am throwing a party this weekend. I'd love it if you could come by. And I could introduce you to her."

You sink back into your seat, biting your lip, wondering if you want to ever know who her is. Your peace of mind is more important than meeting your ex crush's fiance, right? And if you do end up going to the party, whom would you hang out with? It's not like you know any of his rich friends and cousins and there's no way you'd hang out with Changbin and the said fiance.

You are about to respectfully reject the invitation when a sudden, seemingly good idea pops into your head.

Bang Chan.

You nod, shrugging, "Okay. I'll be there."

You clasp your hands together as he continues driving and you look out the window, unable to suppress the bubbling excitement.

"Great, then." He replies, suspiciously.

The evening of the party finally arrives, much to your dismay, you find yourself seated next to Chan. He's just the same as the guy in your memory; a gentleman.

"You look pretty, y/n." He had greeted you as he held the car door open for you, "I'm glad we could meet up."

His words turn your cheeks into a darker shade of red but your heart doesn't beat quite as furiously as you'd expect it to.

Muttering a small thank you, you seat comfortably in the car while Chan drives towards Changbin's family's old Farmhouse on the outskirts of the city. You've been there before - during summer holidays, he would take you there with his family. That place was only filled with happy memories of sunshine, swimming pools, watermelon juice and bonfires.

You swallow the grief that comes along with these memories.

"Are we here already?" Chan pulls over in a familiar driveway not even ten minutes later, jogging up to your door and clicking it open, like the gentleman he is.

"Yeah, we're here." Chan smiles, "Very less traffic tonight."

You guys walk through the huge metallic gate, making your way through the main door of the house.

"Uh..." People are crowded mostly around the front door and in the front yard, so you and Chan have to push and squeeze your way into the Farmhouse. You hate the feeling of sweaty bodies pressing against you (or holding Chan's hand for stability) but desperate situations call for desperate measures.

"I hate it here." You mutter when you later find yourself by the pool side, swirling the drink that you don't even plan on drinking and looking at all the flushed faces having the time of their lives.

Thankfully, Chan happens to be on the same boat as you.

"I'm sorry I dragged you here, Chan. We could have just gone for a movie."

Chan giggles, "Hey, it's alright. I don't mind, I'm glad I could spend some time with you after so many years."

His eyes shine and dimples deepen.

You whisper, "Yeah, me too."

Chan is a handsome man, good at all kinds of sport, good at arts, very smart and intelligent yet there's a part of you that knows you'd never be able to reciprocate his flirtatious words. It's sad, really, but that's just how life is.

"Wow, those two seem to be having the time of their lives." Chan chuckles, pointing at someone behind you.

It's quite dark outside, the only source of light being a few decorative fairylights hung at random places haphazardly.

Hiding behind a huge, tall bush, you see a couple, kissing each other like it were the last day on the planet.

The guy's hands roam all over the woman's body and the woman is so loud that even you could hear her sighs and moans. When she pulls away to catch her breath for a second, Chan asks you, "You know her?"

"Nope. I don't know either of them."

You look away; what kind of creep looks at a happy couple like that? (Not a creep, just a lonely and touch starved person)

"Should we check out the dinner table?" Chan suggests and you agree with a nod, "I hope there's no crowd there."

As expected, there actually isn't a crowd there - there's only Changbin, sitting and nibbling on a pizza slice while scrolling through the phone.

The moment your eyes land on him, your feet as if stop on their own and your heart bangs furiously against your chest.

He's breathtakingly gorgeous.

By the time you debate in your head whether or not you want to sit there and fill your stomach, Chan has already made his way to Changbin.

"Hey, Bin!" He greets him with a smile.

Changbin looks at Chan with an unamused smile, the same one from your high school days, when these two were named the biggest rivals on campus. You wonder if somewhere deep in his heart, Changbin had still not let go of that rivalry.

"Hey, Changbin." You manage to whisper before sitting beside Chan.

He looks almost angry.

"You should have the pizza. It's good." He mutters, turning to pass you a slice of pizza on a plate, "Help yourself, Chan."

Yup, there it is. The Seo Changbin that would kill to be on top. You feel worse about dragging Chan here now when neither of you were having a good time.

"Thanks, mate. " Chan replies.

Your ears ring with the sound of approaching footsteps, and when a pretty girl comes walking in and takes Changbin in her arms, your heart stings. Like a fresh wound.

"Y/n.." Chan whispers to you as you watch the two collide in a loving embrace, Changbin smiling at her and running his fingers through her hair.

Your heart hurts at how happy and content he looks.

You could have had that, a part of you thinks, if you weren't such a coward, it would have been you instead of her.

"Y/n," Chan calls you again.

"What?" Your tone is harsher than you intended, "What happened?"

You think Chan is about to give you the whole it-is-time-to-move-on talk but he doesn't, instead he points at the girl and whispers,

"It's her. The girl we saw earlier."

The rest of the night is blurry to you, all conversations, all gazes, all thoughts just feel ....like an awkward dream.

"We have to tell Changbin."

You're sitting at Yang's Cafe at 1 am the same night, watching Jeongin's brother guide his staff to clean the place up.

"I agree." Chan says, biting the inside of his cheeks.

While you, on the other hand, are completely zoned out, staring at the glass of water placed in front of you and watching the droplets on its surface race each other.

"Y/n, what do you think?" Jeongin asks when you don't take part in their discussions.

You sigh, "I don't know. I really don't. As much as it troubles me that Changbin is being cheated on, I don't want to get involved in their personal relationship. "

"Let's not tell anyone for now, then. But someday in the future, before that goddamn wedding, we have to tell him. He deserves to know." Chan agrees.

You purse your lips and close your eyes.

Chan is right.

Changbin deserves to know the truth.

"So, how's it being back in town, y/n?"

"It feels good. Weird, but good." You smile at your old teacher, "How have you been, Miss Oh?"

Your teacher adds sugar to the cup of tea in her hands and then looks at you, smiling - the same old smile, except with more wrinkles now, "I've been good. I'm retiring next year so I'm glad I could see you before that, huh?"

You nod your head, "I'm glad too. The school hasn't changed much, unlike what I had expected."

Other than the addition of some new labs and libraries, and the change in color of the walls, everything was still the same. No place in this old school building feels foreign to you.

"Ugh, these administration people I tell you, y/n, they're cheap idiots. They won't spend a single penny on infrastructure unless it's absolutely necessary." She complains as you giggle in response,

"They've always been like that."

Miss Oh gulps some tea from her cup, "Anyway, y/n, I have a class now. I would have loved to stay and chat, really, but I'm afraid that might get me in to trouble."

"No issues, Miss Oh. Go ahead. I'll just roam around the school a little more though, if that's okay."

After Miss Oh leaves, you step out of her cabin and walk the familiar corridors, reminiscent of the memories you have here. Studying a few minutes before tests, bunking classes, running to class when you're late, hanging out with your friends- these corridors have seen you grow in love, in friendship, in life. There's absolutely nothing that could ever replace these memories.

Mindlessly, you wander around the third floor, walking toward the end of the corridor before stopping in front of an old door, way too familiar to not try and push open.

While a part of you tells you it might not be a good idea to go into that room again, there's also a part of you that thinks it's a bloody brilliant idea.

Pushing the door open, you walk into the old dusty room, sighing in relief when you see a particular set of letters still carved on the wall.

CB and YN were here.

You finally let your tears run free, as you crouch down to touch the letters.

Your heart aches at how much you miss Changbin being an important part of your life and how much you miss being his top priority. And your heart aches for Changbin, who is so in love with his fiancé and has no idea he's being cheated on.

You almost want to leave this town and go back to your mother, away from this terrible mess. Yet you don't find it in yourself to act on those thoughts.

Maybe, it is your fear of abandoning him once again that stops you. Or, maybe it is simply the unconditional love you harbor for him.

* Surprisingly, Yang's Cafe is near empty that afternoon.

"Did something happen, y/n? You look really worried." Changbin has his arms crossed over his chest, looking at you with a tense frown.

"Um..it's kind of complicated." You sigh. For a second, you see the genuine concern and innocence on his face, and you wonder if it is worth telling him the truth at all because it would kill you to see him lose his smile but then, his engagement band shines on his ring finger and your stomach turns unpleasantly.

He has to know. From you. In person.

"Changbin, that day at your party...I saw something. " You whisper, "Something I shouldn't have. I should have turned a blind eye really but I can't. My conscience won't allow it. I'm sorry, Bin."

"Y/n, it's okay, just tell me," he reaches over and wraps his fingers around yours, soft and gentle, "You're scaring me."

"Changbin, your fiance is cheating on you. I-I saw her kissing another man that night. Chan saw it too." You feel sick even having to say this to him, "I think you should confront her."

He sucks in a deep breathe, his face completely void of any emotions as he extracts his hands from yours.

"I know." Is all he says.

His eyes drill into yours, as if accusing you of a crime. He looks angry. Just how he looked the day you brought Chan to his party.

"Why are you still marrying her then?" You question.

He sits up straight, "Y/n, I wish I could explain. But I can't. I'm sorry. And please, stay out of this, okay?"

"Why? Why should I stay out of it?" Your voice threatens to break, "I cannot watch my best friend marry a woman who's not loyal. You deserve better than this, Bin."

A sarcastic chuckle leaves Changbin's lips as he taps his foot against the floor, "Let me correct you, y/n. You were my best friend. Seven years ago. You're not anymore."

Your heart shatters.

A part of you knows you deserve this after ghosting him for seven long years. You were the center of each other's world at one point of time.How could you have been so selfish to ever think that your absence and lack of communication wouldn't hurt him?

"Changbin, I'm sorry for everything I did okay. B-but I never stopped thinking or worrying about you. Even for one second. And I still do."

Changbin pushes his chair back and stands up while you stay frozen in your seat.

"It doesn't seem like that though. "

"What do you even mean!"

"Chan. I mean Chan, y/n." He grabs his phone and purse, "Goodbye, y/n. I hope Chan turns out to be a better friend than I ever did." With that, the love of your life walks out of Yang's Cafe.

And for once, he doesn't even look back.

* "Y/n, don't let go of my hand!"

Changbin is panting heavily, his voice shaking with fear as he desperately tries to hold onto you.

He should have known it would be a bad idea to play badminton near the infamous cliff in your town yet when you had showed him your innocent smile and pleading eyes that day, he just couldn't say no.

Your sweaty hands clutch his, legs dangling over the edge of the cliff. Your free hand grabs the rough surface of the rocky cliff to keep yourself from falling.

You want to cry; but you're too traumatized to even let out more than a few terrified grunts. "Y/n," he yells, "I'm going to try and pull you up one more time, okay?."

You don't even remember how you had ended up in this situation; one second you were happily giggling, playing badminton with Changbin and in the next second, you found yourself hanging by the cliff, praying for your dear life.

With all the energy he has left, he tries to pull you up onto the surface.

"Y/n, you have to free the other hand. Let go of that rock." He pants.

You shake your head vigorously, you know you would not survive if you let go of the rock, you'd fall thousands of feet below into absolute nothingness.

"Y/n, please listen to me." Changbin pleads, now crying, "Please. I'll catch you, I promise. I'll not let you die. Just..please."

Changbin sounds like he's about to give up and in all honesty, you couldn't blame him really. Everytime your eyes fall on what's beneath you, a part of you loses hope.

"Please, come on, y/n," he's still pulling at your free hand, while his right hand awaits desperately to grab the other hand. A mixture or sweat and tears grace his face, making him shine under the bright afternoon sun. Your heart aches at the mere thought of never seeing him again- your friend, your childhood crush, your partner in everything.

Well, here goes nothing then.

You suck in a deep breath and let go the Rock, immediately reaching for Changbin. He is quick to grab both of your arms and in one swift movement, he pulls you up onto the surface.

You fall onto his chest, "Y-you saved me."

Changbin let's out a sob mixed with a relieved giggle, pulling you into his arms.

Your eyes feel heavy, as darkness slowly begins to engulf your vision.

"Oh God, I am so sorry this happened, y/n. It's all my fault." He cries, rubbing your back softly, "I'm so sorry. I thought I was going to lose you, oh God. Fuck!"

You want to tell him that it was never his fault, and that you wouldn't even be alive if not for him but your body betrays you and your body goes limp against his.

"I'm not leaving this neighborhood."

Your hands rest angrily on your waist as your mom frantically walks from your closet to where the suitcase is spread open on your bed, shifting all your clothes. She dumps them inside the suitcase, not bothering to fold them even.

"You will do as I say! That Seo Changbin tried to push you off of a cliff and heaven knows what he might do next!" Your mom yells back.

You sit at the edge of your bed, trying to keep yourself calm, "Mom, I told you it was an accident. I fell because I was going after the shuttlecock and didn't notice the cliff. Moreover, why would my best friend want try to kill me!"

Your mom let's out a sarcastic laugh, closing the suitcase roughly. She looks at you with eyes full of contempt and a part of you knows that there's no point in trying to convince her. Her mind is already made. Yet you refuse to go down without a fight.

"You're just sixteen, sweetie. You don't know anything about the cruel world, " your mother sighs, "Rich people are not friends with anyone. Changbin may be nice to you but he only sees you as a pathetic poor girl."

"Mom, we're not even poor!"

"Yes, I know. But those filthy rich businessmen consider everyone below their economic status poor. His family probably doesn't like him being friends with you which is why they asked him to get rid of you."

You think of Mrs. Seo's face in your head, always smiling and always welcoming. You remember Changbin's sister and how she'd promised to let you borrow her dress for this year's winter prom. And you think about Changbin- his face, his smile, his passion for music and his protectiveness towards you. Why would these people ever want to hurt you?

"Mom, you're being ridiculous right now! Do you even hear yourself!" You stand up from the bed, now beyond frustrated.

She walks upto you and grabs your arm tightly, nails digging into your skin as you whimper slightly. "You will listen to me. I am your mother and you will listen to me. " she growls, "Pack the rest of your stuff. We're leaving tomorrow."

When she finally walks out your bedroom, your first instinct is to dress yourself in your black hoodie and track pants, and quietly slip out of the back window of your room.

The cold air nips at your skin, goosebumps slowly appearing on your arms and legs but you're too preoccupied to pay too much heed to it.

You reach Changbin's house and like always, walk up to the backyard and climb upto his room through the emergency staircase.

When Changbin hears knocks on his window, he quickly removes his headphones, "y/n?"

He walks upto the window and let's you in, his heart more at peace now than it's ever been the entire day. The guilt from the accident you had earlier was clawing at his conscience.

His room is mostly dark except for his table lamp. You notice the lyrics notebook lying on the table, open with some scribbles and random phrases on the pages.

"How are you feeling?"

You sit at the edge of his bed, cross legged while he kneels on the floor to get to your level. His hands find yours naturally.

"Fine," you swallow the tears that have been accumulating since you left the house, "Changbin, I- we're leaving tomorrow."

Changbin is taken aback; his heart shattering into billions of pieces at your words.

"Leaving? What do you mean Leaving?" his voice trembles.

You lick your dry lips and tell him everything your mom had told you earlier. When his face twists bitterly, a part of you wishes you'd held your tongue yet a bigger part of you wants Changbin to know the truth now; you didn't want him sending you off with lies in his mind and the fear of him finding out some years later just killed you inside.

"I'm so sorry, Changbin. Mom's just not been okay after the divorce." Your voice breaks when Changbin refuses to look at you, "I know she's speaking bullshit. But there's absolutely nothing I can do to change her mind, I've tried I swear. I'm sorry, Changbin."

When Changbin finally does look at you, even in the dim lit room, you see the tears glistening on his face, mirroring the ones that roll down your cheeks. "Why are you sorry, y/n? I don't blame your mom." He mutters, "It was partly my fault. I should have taken more care, I-"

You cup his cheek, "Shh. Bin, are we really going to spend my last night here crying and blaming ourselves? We might never see each other again."

The words sink deep into his soul, and he nods. He wills his tears back in as he grabs your hand tighter.

"Okay. What do you wanna do?"

You smile a little, "You're not gonna like it though. "

"Stargazing it is then." He giggles a little as the both of you make your way to balcony attached to his room.

It is quiet outside, unlike the noise in your head and you feel the calmness spreading to you when you look up at the stars.

Changbin brings a picnic mat from inside and spreads it out on the floor, along with two pillows and a blanket.

"We'll stay in touch, yeah? If you ever need anything, I'll be right here." He reassures you, lying beside you, hands behind his head.

You smile yet you cannot bring yourself to promise him the same because you know your mother would do everything in her power to push the two of you apart, even to the point of physically hurting Changbin. You would never want that so you'd rather distance yourself and let Changbin forget about you. And maybe, just maybe fate would be a little nicer to you and decide to bring you into his life again. Many years later.

He presses a soft kiss to your head, "You'll always be my best friend, y/n. I don't care how far we are."

It takes everything in your being to not repeat the words.

"Changbin, come on we're getting you to the hospital this instant, okay?" Mrs. Seo is furious next morning, running from room to room, looking through the list of doctors she'd saved just in case of emergency.

When she looks at her son, sitting on the sofa with one of his eye irises turning a glowing red, she is reassured that this is an emergency.

"How did this even happen, mom? I swear I didn't try to do anything funny with my eye." He murmurs, scared, "It feels so itchy, gosh!"

Mrs.Seo looks at him with concern just when the doctor picks the call, "Oh, hello Dr.Lee! Thank god you picked up!"

After his mom walks out of his room, Changbin quickly types you a text,

Binnie: Hey. Did you leave already?

Y/nnie: No not yet. We've stopped at the doctor's.

Changbin's eyes widen in alarm.

Binnie: What why?

You look at your face in the decorative mirror at the doctor's waiting room, one of your irises burning into a bright shade of ruby.

Y/nnie: Mom's running a cold.

You close the messenger app before he even replies, deciding to change your number and deleting all your old contacts as soon as you move into your new house. And as much as it hurt you, this one text turned out to be the last time Changbin and you ever talked.

It has been raining all day, which means you were stuck in your goddamn house with nothing to do but cry about Changbin and your lost friendship and your broken heart.

After you manage to get some food into your body during dinner time, you crawl back to your room and look into the mirror as you comb your hair and moisturize your skin.

(Self care is important, y'all)

Your red iris stares back at you, taunting your mistakes and calling you a coward.

If only you had still tried to keep in touch with him, if only that stupid accident wouldn't have happened in the first place, if only.

Suddenly, a knock on your balcony door makes you jump in your place.

Shit. Is it a burglar?

You grab the closest thing that could be classified as a weapon - which happens to be an umbrella.

The knocking continues.

"Y/n, it's Changbin." He yells, "Can I please talk to you?"

You freeze in your spot.

Why in the world is he here? Does he have anything worse to say? Is he here to invite you to his wedding? But why would he sneak in through the balcony when he can easily ring the main door bell.

"Y/n, are you in there?"

You quickly walk upto the door and slide it open, revealing Changbin, completely drenched in the rain. His wet hair stuck to his face and "Shit. What the- God, come inside!"

He obeys and tiptoes inside your room, a guilty expression plastered on his face.

You guide him directly to the bathroom and offer him a towel.

"What are you even doing here, Bin?" You lean against the door frame, hands crossed over your chest.

He is drying his hair with the towel when he looks up at you as if to answer your question but he stops. His mouth hangs open as his eyes remain glued to your face.

And that's when you realize why he looks so surprised.

"Shit- fuck." You turn around immediately, "my lenses," you mutter to yourself.

But before you can even walk upto your dressing table, Changbin has caught your wrist and spun you around, pulling you closer to his body.

"Your eye." He let's out a shaky breath.

"Yes, I know. Please don't freak out. It's always been like this after -"

"After the accident." He finishes your sentence, "I know."

Your mouth runs dry as his face draws in closer, "What do you mean you know? What do you know?"

He let's go of your wrist and takes a step back, turning around so that his back faces you.

And when he turns to look at you again, you swear you could have passed out there and then.

"Y-you have it too." You whisper, weak in the knees, "You have a red iris too."

Changbin gives you a small smile, "Yes, y/n."

"But why? What does this mean?" You say, "Is it a symptom of some chronic illness?"

"It's a soul mark."

"What's a soul mark?"

"It's a mark that exists on the bodies of soulmates."

You feel a pang in your chest; like someone was squeezing your heart out of your chest.

"Right," You fall back onto the bed, dazed with the sudden piece of information, "And how do you know all this?"

Changbin kneels down in front of you, hands finding yours. He looks more relaxed than he did since the first day you come back to town.

It almost feels like you had been given back your old friend.

"I've been doing my research, y/n. After you left, this is all I've been doing." He says, "This is also the reason why I had gotten engaged. By that time, I had given up on finding a soulmate. So I just settled for whatever I got. I didn't even feel bad when I found out my fiance was not in love with me. For the world, we might look like a happy couple, but truly, it was just a marriage of convenience for our parents' business."

You bite your lips wondering how to respond to these words. He'd laid bare his heart in front of you, something you never thought he'd do ever again.

"What now?" You say, tired.

He intertwines your fingers, "Also, I'm sorry for yesterday. I shouldn't have said all that."

You nod, "It's alright. I know you didn't mean it. And for the record, I and Chan have nothing going on."

"And for the record, I also broke off my engagement."

Your eyes widen as a gasp leaves your lips, "What? Why?"

"Because when I told my parents that I do not love my fiancé, and that I have only ever loved you, they said my happiness was more important than their business."

When you don't reply to his words, he looks worried, "Hey, you don't have to feel burdened to like me back and all okay? Literally, if you want me to leave you alone, I will. I understand-"

You pull him by the nape and place the softest, gentlest, most sincere kiss on his lips.

"I feel the same way, dumbass." You sigh as you pull him into your arms.

He muzzles his face in the crook of your neck, playing with your hair from behind, "So what now?"

"Let's start with a date." You say, "Let's take it slow."

Changbin wraps his arms tighter around you, kissing your cheek, "As you wish, my love. "

262 notes · View notes

delldarling · 3 years ago

Text

bearberry bargain | pyre

male arctic fox shifter x gender/body neutral reader 10,261 words lemon | older shifter, knotting, oral, penetrative sex, no choking but there is throat touching, tricks and bargains, getting lost note: this was the Story of the Month for December 2020 over on my Patreon! It is loosely tied into the same world as my dragon fellow Arroven, but reading Arroven’s story first is most definitely not required.

————-　🦊　————-

The tundra is a gorgeous, but unforgiving landscape. You can hear the words on repeat in your head, clear as a twice damned bell. Worse than that, you can see Bristle, the orc woman that had served as your guide out here, in your mind's eye saying the words as she gestured to the fog drenched terrain. And The Mirrored Teeth are a little more dangerous than most. In the rain, or like now, in the fog, the stone spires gleam. They are beautiful, and all too easy to mistake for a far off porch light, or street lamp—but that isn’t what’s truly dangerous out here.

Bristle’s partner, a curly haired satyr by name of Rhim, with coins jingling in his carefully coiffed beard, had then stepped up to speak. Unfortunately, The Mirrored Teeth weren’t named for the teeth-like spires alone. The mirroring, or in this case, echoing, is the real danger. Voices carry strangely out here when the fog is thick, and if someone is lost? Our first instinct is to travel towards a light, or someone shouting. Whether the voices are our own, bouncing back to us from the spires or the mountains, or they’re the product of a still-living magical area?

They’d both spoken in unison then, smiling at each other with the ease of familiarity: Don’t follow the voices.

Each person in the tour group had been given a small token after their list of safety precautions, to serve as a tracker in case someone was separated. One person had asked if it was likely to get lost, and Bristle had snorted before she’d adopted her tour guide voice again. To come out here in the first place, everyone had been asked to sign a waiver because, inevitably, someone did end up wandering away. They followed voices that sounded like loved ones from past or present. They followed voices that sounded like themselves, calling out warnings. It was generally why people ended up taking the tour in the first place, listening eagerly for a voice they’d long since thought lost, or some kind of warning from their future self, so compelling and entrancing that they must be the product of magic. Most, though not all, of the people were generally found. Overtired and aching from sleeping on the ground out in the cold, but otherwise unharmed. Whatever caused the voices, magic or not, didn’t seem to hurt people, only leave them confused.

A few of the others currently with the group had come out for more academic reasons. Art and science in most cases, but otherwise those going on the tour were magic chasers, looking to record the fog voice phenomena for further study.

You might not have come out here with a recorder, but you can’t exactly deny that magic chaser applies to you as well. Claims of The Mirrored Teeth holding tangible residual magic are terribly rampant. You’ve wanted to witness it for yourself, to hear the voices, or feel the soft ache of magical energy on your skin, just the once. You’ve wanted… Well, it’s hard sometimes, not to want to feel the call of magic.

“And look where it’s led you,” you mutter, searching your pockets for the hundredth time. You know you won’t find the token, that you must have lost it when you slipped on some slick moss about an hour ago, but you can’t stop yourself now. It’s like trying to leave a loose thread alone once nervous fingers have found it. You keep reaching for the token, keep trying to find it, even though you know nothing you do will help any longer. You don’t recognize any of the surrounding terrain.

When you’d started out with the tour group, there hadn’t been anything but fog and the scrubby ground, hardened by a hidden layer of permafrost. You’d seen pictures of the teeth-like spires, but hadn’t been able to spot any when you first arrived. Now, every time you turn around it feels like you’re surrounded by the damned things. They radiate a soft glow, magnified further by the heavy mist and from far off? They look just like the teeth they’re named for. “Done in by moss,” you add, straining your eyes to see further through the fog. ”Not even by the voices!” Which, frankly, was disappointing. Not that you wanted to be lost in the first place, but hearing some of the voices the Mirrored Teeth are known for would have at least given you a better reason. An expected reason to be lost or wandering away from the group. Instead you’d simply slipped, brushed off a handful of withered greenery and pebbles, and had gotten back to your feet to find yourself alone.

You’d shouted yourself hoarse after the first half hour, calling out for Bristle and Rhim, staying in the same place, or assuming you’d stayed in the same place. You’d bent to find the token again, but even that had apparently been too much movement. Every time you lifted your head to look away from the ground, there was a different bit of flora springing up in front of you—and then you’d nearly smacked yourself head first into one of the spires, none of which are clearly marked on the map you have of the surrounding area. There’s always too much mist to plot them.

“Bristle! Rhim?” You call out again, cupping your hands around your mouth, not knowing if you should even hope for some kind of answer. What if they don’t answer because of the echoes? What if that’s the reason they’ve yet to answer in the first place?

The soft crack of a branch makes you whirl, throat growing tight when you spot the shadow of three figures through the fog. They straighten up, huffing, and the fog slowly spins away, shadows coalescing and revealing an older man shouldering a pack that he’s clearly just dug up from the ground. For a moment, he’s silent, staring, hand clenching tight at his pack as his eyes rove over your face. His gaze dips to your feet and lifts quickly back to your face before he wipes the surprise from his expression. “I hoped I was mistaken,” he grouses in a soft voice, tossing his head to get his ragged mane of salt and pepper hair out of his eyes. “But ‘lo, a human. Those tours are getting earlier and earlier every year, aren’t they?” He sighs, not asking like he expects an answer, but more like he’s just making an unpleasant statement. For half a second you have a retort on your lips, but the longer you stare, the more words vanish from your vocabulary.

The man has clearly tried to tame his ragged hair, weaving it into a messy, short braid that’s just long enough to hang over his right shoulder. There are earrings hanging from his right earlobe, dangly things that clink softly while he brushes impatiently at the dirt on his knees. His jacket, once a lovely heather gray, and obviously a match to a long lost suit, is patched and worn in multiple places. His jeans are nothing to write home about either, with frayed hems and patched knees. He has silvery stubble on his cheeks, and crows feet at the corners of his copper eyes, and—and a long tail, like a bottlebrush, fur standing on end. Until he sees that you’re watching. The tail vanishes behind his legs and your eyes zero in on his sharp nailed fingers, the backs of his knuckles covered with pale, soft looking hair. He grimaces, baring razor edged teeth, and promptly makes to stride past you, not even bothering to wait for you to get out of the way. He draws a rough breath as soon as he bumps into you, flinching away from actually knocking you to the ground, but it’s near enough to set your temper stoking.

Frankly? His manners are atrocious. But you’re also lost somewhere out in the tundra, and even if he doesn’t know where your tour is, he knows of them. You wrestle your temper into staying silent and rush after him.

“Wait! Hey, wait up,” you ask, ignoring the thrill that runs through you when you snag hold of his jacket sleeve and his tail bristles again. He’s not just hiding a tail either. His feet look more like great canine paws, which means—

The man whirls, and you spot two furred ears hidden under his uneven hair before he yanks his arm away from you, breathing far too fast. “Surely you know better than to grab at a shifter?” He hisses, leaning in close to your face. For half a second, he’s close enough for you to feel warmth radiating off of his body, but then his nostrils flare and his voice grows quiet. “Or are you from one of those backwater humans only villages in the East?”

“I’m—I’m sorry for grabbing you,” you blurt, mildly startled by his proximity to your face. “And while yes, that wasn’t a smart idea, I’m lost out here. Would it have been smarter of me to let you leave me in the dust before I asked for directions?” You take a slow step back, though you don’t let your eyes drop from his. You’re not going to take your eyes off of him for even a second if it means the fog is going to swallow him up and leave you all on your lonesome again.

The shifter narrows his copper eyes, highlighting the faint wrinkles in his brown skin. “Lost, you said?” He straightens, and keeps staring, eerily still. His frown only grows more pronounced when you nod your head. “You’re three days out from where the tours start. How long have you been lost?”

“Three days,” you repeat, uncomprehending. For another few seconds, the words don’t make any kind of sense. You’ve been separated from your group, according to your watch, for just over an hour. When you glance at the timepiece, only another handful of minutes have passed, but not enough time to even come close to explaining three days worth of travel. Your pulse is already racing, but it’s beginning to grow past the point of discomfort and into painful territory with how hard your heart is working. How the hell are you supposed to get back? “That’s not possible,” you breathe.

He doesn’t soften, but for a few moments he doesn’t look quite so irritated. “If you heard anything at all on that tour, then I’m sure you know it is possible. Residual magic, yes? It can do quite a bit more than just throw voices like a puppeteer.” He shifts his weight, like he’s ready to leave the moment you give him a chance.

“I’ve been lost for an hour,” you say, hoping that will spell out exactly how ridiculous you find his claims. “And I did my best to stay in one place. I’ve barely even begun to walk anywhere, and I didn’t—didn’t feel anything magical.”

“Isn’t it terribly rare to feel anything magical?” He asks, only gently mocking. “So few people even notice when something magical has happened to them. Now, it sounds as if the fog leapfrogged you through space,” he adds, wrinkling his nose. “Or did those green guides of yours not mention that something like this might happen?” He waits, but when you don’t immediately answer, the shifter sighs again, shakes his head and pivots, heading back into the still-swirling fog, ready to leave you behind.

You make another desperate grab for his sleeve, thankful that he only grimaces when he turns back to face you again. “In fact, yes, they did forget to mention! If you happen to have a satellite phone, or maybe-”

The shifter laughs and your grip on his sleeve grows slack. He’s rather handsome when he smiles, and looks like some kind of down-on-his-luck musician, dreaming of his glory days. You hastily let go of his sleeve, before he decides to yank himself away a second time. “Me? Ol’ Pyre, wandering about the tundra with a satellite phone?” He lifts his bag, clumps of dirt still falling from it. “I’m coming out this way to spend the winter in my other skin, and generally? Foxes have no use for phones.” He lifts his chin, scenting the air, and then nods his head in the direction behind you. “Head that way and the fog is likely to lead you right back.”

“Likely or certain?” You press, scowling. “Because there’s a rather large difference between those two options, and I’m not going to risk myself on likely.”

Pyre huffs out a sharp edged: “Which do you think?” before he registers the way your hands are starting to shake with nerves. His mouth opens, and then snaps shut. For a long moment he’s quiet, gritting his teeth, eyebrows furrowed. “You’re not prepared for more than an evening trek through the tundra, are you? Enough food for a snack and dinner round a campfire before they herd you back?”

A small wave of relief loosens your shoulders. If he’s asking, then surely he’s not going to turn tail and leave you all by your lonesome? You start to smile, ready and willing to ask for further help, but Pyre turns away with a quiet curse.

“Pitiful idiots,” he says, glancing up at the sky, even though he can’t see anything but the vague hint of daylight through the thick fog. “Three days. And leaving would be akin to murder.” He bares his teeth, still looking up for a few seconds longer before he turns a sharp look your way, fingers curling and uncurling at his side. “I’ll lead you as far as the Slavering river. If you stick to that and keep yourself from wandering off into the fog again, you’ll certainly make it close enough for those idiot guides to find you.”

Slavering, the river is called, Bristle’s voice picks up in your head again, because they once thought the tundra a hungry thing, with teeth besides. She’d gestured to the West, though none of the group had been able to spot or hear the roar of the water yet. It had just been another wall of fog over hard earth and low growing shrubs. We’ll end our hike there.

You offer Pyre your hand, still worried about the trek, still ill at ease with what the fog has done, but feeling decidedly less panicked. Residual magic my ass. As soon as I’m back, the guides are going to expand that little safety speech of theirs.

“Thank you, really. I appreciate it. If I hadn’t—”

“Save your breath for the walk,” Pyre mutters and fully ignores your outstretched hand, skirting around you in a wide arch so he won’t risk touching you accidentally. He doesn’t get more than a few paces away though before he’s turning to look at you over his shoulder. “And keep up. If the fog decides to deposit you somewhere else, there aren’t many other helpful shifters wandering about the area.” He saunters off ahead, trusting you to make your own way, but the fur on his tail doesn’t lay flat until you’re jogging to catch up with him.

“Are there dangerous shifters then?” You risk asking, thankful for your heavy coat and the weight of your own pack. Bristle and Rhim hadn’t mentioned any shifters in the area at all, but then they also hadn’t told any of you that the residual magic might move you without your knowledge. Perhaps they would have, if you’d been allowed to stick around, but it feels like a glaring oversight, now that you’re all the way out here. Maybe this is why they make everyone sign the waiver. Not because of some idiotic, siren-like voices, but because of magical fog.

Pyre’s ears twitch, visible for only a split second through his hair. “Don’t wander off,” is all he chooses to add before he falls silent, doing his best to stay several steps ahead of you to discourage speech.

“That’s encouraging,” you mutter, and his ears twitch again, but he doesn’t respond. The walk to the Slavering is going to feel like a very long one from the looks of it, and it isn’t just because everything looks much the same no matter which way you turn. You shove your hands deep in your coat pockets, watching the middle of Pyre’s back, and do your best not to unconsciously search for the lost token. You already know your pockets are still empty.

————-　🦊　————-

Despite Pyre’s desire for absolute silence, he mutters about things without thinking. He comments quietly on a hare speeding away when a noise startles you. He grabs up handfuls of wild berries off of the scrubby bushes you pass, promptly dropping any that are too spoiled to be edible. He flicks some of them away with soft, but mocking farewells until he recalls that you’re not far behind him, listening to everything he says. Pyre’s threadbare shoulders always rise with embarrassment, but after the third time it happens and he remembers you’re there, he sighs, shaking off his chagrin. He pauses just long enough to grab your arm and slap some of the berries into your open palm, doing his best not to meet your eyes.

When he speaks, he keeps his eyes on your fingers, touch careful and tense. “Eat those if you’re feeling peckish, or save them for this evening and you can boil them down into tea. Don’t dive into any of your stores if you can until sometime tomorrow.”

“What about you?” You ask, noticing that he’s barely kept any at all for himself. A berry or two slips away, rolling off of your hand and dropping to the ground.

Pyre arches a brow, closing your hand around the berries so no more can fall before he takes a step back. “I’ll be hunting as soon as I leave you by the river. I’m more than well equipped to look after myself out here. A few berries won’t make much of a difference.”

“Is this a regular thing for you then? Coming out here to the tundra once a month for shifting?”

“For the winter,” Pyre corrects in a sour tone, and then turns back to his chosen path again. “Coming out to the tundra isn’t a regular thing for you though, is it? Or was it just the magic that left you so frightened?”

The berries he’s given you are small and gleaming red, and you don’t much care for his continued irritable attitude. You pop three into your mouth while you ignore him, expecting it to be, at the worst, bitter. Instead it’s dry. You make a noise of distaste, which makes Pyre glance back again. He stops, confused for all of two seconds before his eyes widen and he chokes on his laugh. The sour twist of your mouth is clue enough. “Definitely not a regular traveling spot,” he states. “Unfamiliar with bearberries?”

“I hope that isn’t what they taste like when they’re boiled,” you mumble, doing your best to refrain from scrubbing at your tongue. “And no, the tundra isn’t really a prime vacation spot for me or most anyone else. The draw of lingering, tangible magic is a little too much for some people to ignore though. Maybe not everyone, but some of us.”

Pyre hums, tail raising when he hops over a strange looking crack in the earth. “Feeling a call?” He asks, voice far too even to be pleasant.

That’s a personal question in most places, and Pyre has already quietly mocked your interest in magic once. He does seem the type to poke at uncomfortable topics though, to try and get a rise out of someone. His tail is still bristled out as well, quietly hinting that he’s not in a pleasant mood. “Is that why you come out here during the winter? I don’t hear much about other shifters vanishing for an entire season, fox or not.”

“The only call I’ll ever feel is the one to shift,” he grumps, but he does smack his lips and slow down for a moment, letting you keep pace. “I make bad decisions,” Pyre finally adds, as if that clarifies anything at all.

“All the time? Or-”

“Smartass.”

“That wasn’t even hard, are you really going to fault me for that one?” You wait, patiently, but no answer is forthcoming, and then he rushes forward a few steps ahead. “I’ll take that as a yes?” You call out, but Pyre just keeps walking, like he’s reached the end of his tolerance for speaking politely with another living being. “Well, that was nice while it lasted,” you mumble, frowning when you spot his shaking shoulders. He’s—he’s laughing. Maybe he isn’t suffering from lack of manners entirely, but instead has been too long out of practice.

“Not all the time,” Pyre calls back when he trusts his rasp of a voice not to betray his amusement. “Just a fourth of it.”

For the season, he’d said. You snort and don’t even try to hold back a smile when Pyre tilts his head to look at you. His head immediately snaps forward and he shakes it, as if to ward off an unhappy thought. He’s grumpy because... he’s awkward and shy? The last of your fear, still borne aloft by the way he’s spoken thus far, by his quiet mutter of akin to murder eases immeasurably. You follow after him now in less strained silence, a bit more confident now that you’ll make it back to the tour group in one piece.

————-　🦊　————-

Your confidence lasts until early evening, when visibility is becoming a huge issue for you. No matter how well you might see in the dark, the fog feels like it’s pressing in on you from all sides. Pyre hasn’t slowed by much, but then you see the pale, rapid swish of his tail, moving so fast it looks for a moment like he has more and then you recall that he’s a shifter. His eyesight, as well as his sense of smell, are by far better than your own. He might be able to keep going well into the night, but—You grunt, catching your toe on a white rock the height of your ankle. Before you can fall, or do much more than exclaim in quiet pain, Pyre has his hands on your shoulders, keeping you up and steady.

“It’s dark,” he says quietly, by way of apology. “We’ll stop for the night just up ahead. Can you make it?”

“Without tripping over rocks or falling on my face, you mean?” You breathe in, and promptly swallow. He smells a bit like fresh campfire smoke and the faint citrusy scent of the bearberries and he’s entirely too close. You don’t necessarily want him to move away though, not with the darkness growing thick around you. “Probably not,” you admit quietly.

Pyre hums, breathing in slowly, and the sound is terribly intimate. “...you need a hand?”

“Unless you’d rather I trip and skin my knees and palms in the dark? Yes.”

“Humans,” Pyre says, amused, and clucks his tongue as he takes hold of your wrist, turning away to continue on and pull you after him. He only pauses when you try to tug your hand away.

“You can hold my hand instead of towing me along like a kid at the fair. I don’t even have sticky fingers.” You turn your hand, thankful when he lets you adjust his hold. His fingernails, thicker due to his shifting nature, dig a little too hard into the side of your hand before he reflexes his grip.

He pauses, tense, even though his palm is a soothing warmth against yours. “Not sticky,” he finally agrees. Pyre hesitates, like he wants to say more, but a low, strange voice calls out something from far off. As soon as you hear it, the voice has it’s hooks in you. Your entire body grows tense, hair prickling, listening as hard as you can to try to make out the words. “No,” Pyre says in a low growl, trying to interrupt your concentration. He’s only barely louder than the voice. “Don’t listen. It’s all too easy to-”

“That sounds like—”

“It sounds like nothing that matters. Even if you know the voice, it doesn’t matter.” Pyre grunts when you turn your head, trying to follow the fading voice with your ear alone. He rips his hand out of yours so he can take hold of your face, pulling you close until you’re nearly nose to nose with him, thumbs on your cheekbones, fingernails scratching gently behind your ears. “Right now, the only thing that matters is making camp for the night. We’re heading this way and you are not going to go looking for that voice in the dark.”

You suck down a fierce breath, closing your eyes as the last of the echoing voice fades away. As soon as it’s gone, your shoulders start to slump, and you feel strangely hollow. “That is why they make us sign that waiver?” You ask, opening your eyes to find Pyre still terribly close, his hands still cradling your face.

For a moment, he lingers, breath warm against your lips, the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes deepening the longer he stares at you up close. The bright copper of his eyes is muted in the darkness, but the white in his hair, in his eyebrows, stands out brilliantly, and you think there might be more of it now than there was earlier this afternoon. “I knew you’d be a bad decision,” he whispers, and inexplicably, you think he might be about to kiss you. Your heart begins to gallop around your chest, your hands lifting to grasp at his wrists, his own still on your face—and then Pyre pulls away, dragging his nails over your skin. He tangles his fingers with yours and leads you quietly through the dark.

You’re not sure whether you should ask about his other bad decisions again… But you desperately want to.

Putting together the camp is a chilly affair at best. The shelter you help Pyre fumble through in the dark, though of course he has no trouble navigating the process, is little more than a heavy tarp tied securely between two of the tall, white teeth. There isn’t much wind, but now the mist is heavy enough to dot your eyelashes and bead along your sleeves. You don’t quite believe Pyre when he says he can get a fire going, forcing you to sit next to the small ring of stones he’s gathered. “There’s a copse of trees not far from here,” he explains, tilting his head to your right, though you can’t see anything through the fog, and especially not in the dark. “And I’ll be able to scrounge up enough for a fire.”

You want to ask him if he’ll be able to find his way back to you. If he thinks you’ll be safe sitting here on your own, especially after the voice from earlier. Voicing your concerns feels a bit too much like an invitation for bad luck though, and you still don't know Pyre very well. He might be helping you out of the goodness of his heart, but he's already dubbed you a bad decision. You're not sure you want to push things. “Won’t the wood be wet?” You ask instead, chafing your hands together to stir up a little bit of heat.

“No fear of shifters,” Pyre scoffs, straightening up and pulling his bag off of his back. “No screaming at strangers when you're lost in the foggy tundra, but you're worried about damp firewood?" You scowl, knowing full well he can see your expression. That surprises a rough sounding laugh out of him. "I may choose to spend my winter as a fox, but that doesn't mean I don't turn back into a man when spring comes." Pyre brandishes a small box, a tin filled with what sounds like matches. He rattles them about for emphasis. “Charmed matches are a necessity out here, not optional. Even if the wood is damp, they’ll catch well enough to last us the night.”

Charmed matches aren’t exactly common. A package of them, when used only in dire situations, should last someone a score of years at least, and as the spells to make them are some of the few guarantees of still working magic… They cost a pretty penny. “...should you be wasting them on me when I’m supposed to find the tour guides tomorrow?”

Pyre shakes the box at you, silently insisting you take it from his hand. When you take it from him, there’s more hair, more fur on his fingers than there was earlier in the day. You wonder if it’s a conscious change to help stave off the chill, or if it’s simply too close to when he shifts. “We need some way to boil a bit of water for bearberry tea, don’t we? Unless you’d rather eat them plain.” He sounds like he’s smiling, but the dark is getting more oppressive and you can’t see it. Pyre’s tone turns a little more serious, a little more apologetic as he continues: “And using them seems to keep away the voices, so yes. As I’ve taken responsibility for your safety—”

“Responsibility,” you murmur, arching a brow, but you can’t exactly disagree.

“—I’ll do exactly as I said. You’ll get to the Slavering, and I’ll even give you a match as a gift. You can make a torch as you head back and the voices should leave you be.”

You don’t shake the tin of them, knowing that they’re valuable, but you stroke your finger over the top, following the raised patterns of letters. “Will they work, even if they’re unlit?”

Pyre waits, and you don’t know whether he’s reluctant to give you an answer or he doesn’t actually know. “Are you worried about me going to grab the firewood?”

Well, it was kind of ridiculous, trying to hide your nervousness from him anyway. You’re lost in the tundra with someone you don’t know. No matter how resilient you are, it’s going to be nerve wracking. “I’ve never felt quite as strange as when I heard that voice, even with you pulling me back from it…” You stop, a frown growing on your lips. “But the voice didn’t do anything to you. You had no problem telling me not to listen to it.”

Pyre crouches, his knees popping, and groans quietly, rubbing at the patch just under his left kneecap. You can see his hands, pale fur the only spot of brightness in the night. “They don’t much affect shifters. We’re…. We’re already rather full of magic ourselves, even if it isn’t the kind one can use by uttering spells or mixing ingredients in a pot. Whatever the reason, the voices don’t seem to like magic. So a box of those matches?” He reaches out to tap on the tin with one long nail. “It should keep you from falling prey for the few moments it will take me to gather wood. I still wouldn’t get up though, then you might risk dropping it.”

You don’t know everything about the tundra, even with what research you did before you came on the trip, and the talk of magic here? It’s still something people want to study. One of the ones that came with a recorder would probably be thrilled to hear this much about the place from… Pyre might not be a year-round local, but he knows quite a bit. If he can hold off his shifting, maybe you’ll ask him to talk to one of them. “I’ll be safe,” you say, extrapolating, “as long as I stay sitting here. You’ll be able to find me again?”

“...I’ll be able to follow your scent, yes,” he admits, like he expects you to be irritated with the thought. Far, far away, another voice echoes, much fainter than the one you’d heard before. It doesn’t sound pained or panicked though, it sounds a bit like—Pyre takes your fingers, almost crushing them around the tin box in your hands. The voice vanishes. “You’ll be safe,” Pyre repeats, and a breeze whisks through the area, catching at his wild grey and white hair.

“Then get the wood,” you say, before you lose your nerve. “I’ll wait.” Pyre’s hand, still curled tightly around your fingers, eases. He brushes his thumb over the valleys between your knuckles and then pulls away.

“A few moments only. I promise,” he whispers, and then his canine-like feet are scuffing through the hard dirt and lichen covered rocks.

As soon as he’s gone, you soothe yourself by running your fingers over the tin of matches, trying to figure out what words are written along the top in fine, curling letters. There are too many loops though and when you do your best to try and focus on it, bringing it up close to your face, all you can see is that places on the tin have been worn down. Whatever it might say, the color on the tin won’t help you figure it out. It feels like only seconds, but another noise echoes in the darkness, your heart jumping back into overdrive. You clutch at the matchbox, but then Pyre is stepping out of the heavy fog, dropping a heaving armful of twisted branches and thick tangles of what looks like weeds.

“Moments, I thought you said! What was that, 30 seconds?” You ask, trying to calm your racing heart.

Pyre laughs. “I think you were just lost in thought, hm? It’s easy to lose track of time in the dark.” He kneels at the ring of rocks, cursing, even though you can’t hear any popping in his limbs this time. “Now, give me the matches and let’s get things a bit warmer, hm?”

You hand them over, and then get to work. You feel more than see Pyre’s surprise when you start picking up the branches and weeds. “I may be human, but I can help do a bit of work. It’s the last I can do after you helping me like this, what with your shifting getting close.”

“Noticed that, did you?” He asks, tin creaking as he opens and closes the lid. You glance over, but other than his pale fur, you can’t make out what he’s actually doing. A second later and he’s striking one of the charmed matches over a rough rock, and then it blazes merrily in a bit of fire smaller than a penny. “I won’t be a danger. I’m old enough to keep my wits. My… I should warn you, my breed of shifting isn’t always so pretty as others though.”

“Is that why you come out here?”

“One of many reasons,” Pyre mutters and holds the match to the wood in the fire pit. The match doesn’t burn down immediately though, or even catch the weeds when he touches it to them. Pyre deposits it carefully in the exact middle of arrangement, planting it almost like a seedling in the wood and weeds. Only after he removes his hand does the match start to spark, and then fire twists open like a blooming flower. It’s gorgeous. You lift your eyes to Pyre, awe clear in your gaze, and then you have to blink. He’s still the older man you saw this afternoon. He still has a mostly human face, but his arms look longer now, and his copper eyes flash strangely in the firelight. He glances at you, and you see that his mouth has grown wider, the edges either curling back towards his cheekbones or… Or his jaws are elongating. “Frightened?” He asks, and then you realize that you’ve been staring.

“Mildly startled,” you correct, refusing to look away. Whether he’s a pretty kind of shifter or not, you can still see him in his eyes and the way he holds himself.

He chuffs, and the noise warms something deep in your chest. “Smartass,” he says, sounding very fond. “I’ll make some of that tea now then, if you’d like it.”

“Bearberry tea,” you muse, reaching in your pocket for the rest of the berries he’d given you. Pyre unearths a small cooking pot from his bag, as well as an earthenware mug, glazed some kind of deep green. He hands you the mug and then holds out the pot, nodding his head when you lift your berry filled hand over it. It takes longer than you would like. Pyre has to mash the berries down and then he surprises you by standing and tugging at the tarp edge of your shelter. Water, mist really, beaded so heavily along the taut plastic that there’s enough to fill the pot near to overflowing. It’s much more than you would have thought, but Pyre seems unsurprised, even though you’ve both been relatively dry since he started building the fire.

“Alright,” you finally say, watching Pyre stir the faintly pink water with a metal spoon from his bag. “You mentioned bad decisions, and I’m not wise enough to leave it well alone. What are all these ‘bad decisions’ that drive you out into the tundra for an entire season? And, I can’t not clarify, were they flings?”

Pyre stares at you, eyes gleaming in the firelight, his too wide jaw falling open due to your blunt questions. When he laughs this time, it’s a sharp bark and more fox-like than human. “Oh, you are one of them. Much more perceptive than many of the others.” He licks his lips, still human-smooth, but his ears have grown longer. They’re peeking out from the sides of his head, poking through his hair now. “Some of them were flings. Some of them were just… A way to stave off loneliness, even if they were unpleasant.”

“And where am I falling on that scale?”

Pyre arches a thicker brow, baring his sharp teeth in a slightly eerie smile. “I wouldn’t be opposed to a fling with someone like you, but your companionship is more than enough if that’s all you want to give.”

You can’t help but laugh. “Then how, exactly, am I a ‘bad decision’? Making friends isn’t a bad thing, is it?”

Pyre’s smile wavers. “No, no it isn’t.” He looks away, into the middle of the fire, where the charmed match is still blazing like a seed of flame. “The bad decision is that my loneliness drives me to go looking in the first place.”

You let a few moments pass in relative silence, puzzling over his words. It sounds more than strange, but you can’t put your finger on why. “What does that mean?” You finally ask, noting the way he’s digging his nails into his thighs.

He looks back at you. “Anyone who wanders out here is an offering, of sorts. To help bear the brunt of winter. The tours… They’re more like a ritual than those guides of yours realize.”

Your head feels strangely empty. Ritual, he’d said. Slowly, you think back to the myths linked to the tundra, to the Mirrored Teeth, to the folktales attached to cities and Serpent Towers. There had been something about bearing the brunt of winter, holding it back from sweeping over the land…

“Your time here will be no more than the three days I promised. You will be taken back to the Slavering, with only this time gone from the memories of others, and I will do nothing but what I promise: to lead you back, if that is all you desire.” Pyre creeps closer, long arms and long fingers bracing himself on the dirt. All it takes is a single stretch and he’s by your side, towering over you in his half shifted form. “The bad decision was that I was given the right to choose without any warning. That I could only claim those I charmed away.”

“You charmed me?” You whisper.

“You heard my voice,” Pyre explains and your heart beats painfully in your chest. He is why people vanish from the tours and come back tired and dirty but… But most of them come back unharmed.

“What happens to those that don’t make it back?” You ask, trying to quell your panic.

Pyre’s shoulders hunch. “Sometimes people react poorly, and they run. Running in the fog is never wise.”

“How am I… How am I supposed to help you keep winter from swallowing the world?”

Pyre barks out another laugh, though he’s grimacing. “Those years I don’t have a companion, winter escapes my hold. It’s much easier to keep in check with help.”

“Helping how?” You ask, voice going brittle.

“Companionship. You’re already bound to the three days,” he says quietly, nodding his head to the pot of slow boiling bearberries on the fire. “You ate three of them. If…. If you choose to help, to spend the winter with me, then you can drink. You’ll be with me through the entire season—”

“Out in the middle of the tundra, with nothing but a tarp and an evening's supply of food?” You ask, getting to your feet. You take a step away from the fire, nervous energy making you move, and then freeze when you hear a far off voice again. You glance down at Pyre, angry and convinced it must be him, but then you recognize it. The voice, low and soft as it echoes strangely through the fog, is you.

“The voices are possibilities only,” Pyre says, talking over the needy sounding moan. It vanishes, like nothing more than smoke on a fast moving breeze. “And I would take you back to my home, I wouldn’t make you wander out here and sleep on the freezing ground!” Pyre starts to get to his feet and then thinks better of it. He stays where he is, looking up at you, holding out a hand. “If you drink, all I require is companionship. Loneliness lets the ice creep further out, but friendship, or, or anger or passion keeps it at bay. With your help I can bind the overflow of ice in the teeth. But if three days is all you’ll allow, then I’ll find another, I promise. You’ll be free of this, and you’ll forget this ever happened.”

You’re out in the middle of the tundra, wreathed in magical fog and standing before a shifter, a… a spirit? A deity? That keeps winter at bay. You did want magic, didn’t you? You ask yourself. You look down to his open hand, brown palm calloused, nails long and sharp, white fox fur growing longer along his arm.

“No one will even notice I’ve been gone?”

“You’ll be lost in the fog for three days, according to them. What life you’ve missed will feel like a blink, but no. They won’t realize you’ll have been gone for the entire winter.” Pyre’s mouth closes, stubbled throat working as he swallows.

Slowly, you sit back down, picking up the glazed green mug and holding it out for Pyre to fill. “The winter then. If we end up hating one another? You have no one to blame but yourself.”

Pyre doesn’t answer, but he watches like a predator after he fills the mug with bearberry tea, copper eyes caught on your lips. You finish half the cup, and what chill lingered in your bones slowly fades away. Carefully, Pyre takes the cup back and downs the rest, long tongue licking stray droplets off of his lips.

————-　🦊　————-

You travel with Pyre for three days before you reach the banks of the Slavering, only when you do, the tour guides aren’t waiting for you. This is where the Slavering begins, the thick snowmelt coming off of the high mountaintops and rolling down through the craggy rocks to make a river. There’s a cave entrance not far from the rapids, covered over with weeds and just large enough for Pyre to stoop over and fit into. You stop at the entrance, with him close behind you, and stare into the far off dark.

“It’s not like a dungeon in there, is it?”

Pyre grumbles, somewhere between indignation and a laugh. “You always know just what to say. No, it’s not like a dungeon. There’s plenty of modern day amenities inside. I’m a shifter, not a beast.”

Cautiously, still not entirely trusting him, you head inside. It’s dark at first, and earthy smelling, just like a cave, but then Pyre strikes another one of his charmed matches and pulls you to the side so he can lead. There’s a lamp up ahead, the frosted glass globe just big enough for Pyre to reach in and set the match. Heat and light seem to roll through the entire area, a locked, wooden door revealing itself to the side of the lamp. The cave floor, still cold and a bit damp, is actually stones, pieced together into what looks like a strange little map. You frown down at the stones, eyes tracing the edges of a single, deep blue vein, wondering why the chips of pale rock surrounding it strike you as strange.

“The Teeth,” you murmur suddenly. “You have a map of the teeth in front of your door?” Some of the spots are much smaller than others, more like a pinprick of pale stone as opposed to some of the hefty chips. If you unfocus your eyes, the map looks like a reflection of the stars.

“Magic,” Pyre explains, though he doesn’t sound pleased with his own answer. “There’s plenty to talk about when it comes to the Teeth, and the voices, just… Let’s go inside. It’s going to start snowing soon.”

When he opens the door, all the lamps inside are lit. Much like Pyre himself, his decor is frayed and worn down. There are heavy furs on the walls, and tapestries too, both simple and grand, but fragile looking. There are furs on some of the furniture as well. There’s a large stone fireplace, with hooks over the mantle made of horn and a set of stone stairs that curve out of sight. There’s no sign of things like phones or televisions, but you feel like you should have expected that. Companionship through a screen probably didn't fulfill the parameters of his… his curse?

That’s something you decide to ask about later. After all, you have the rest of the winter to spend with him, and he explained plenty over the three day trip to the mountain. The teeth are made of contained winter. The larger the teeth are, the more someone helped Pyre through that season. Through friendship, or anger, or passion, they melted the ice and snow. Pyre would take the melt and bind it in magic-made spires, but he couldn’t build on only one. Each spire was the product of a different person, each fling or friend made or fight had melted the snow at different rates. If your help has already begun, then you know some of the snow must have melted already due to your anger over the past few days, but it’s not something you think you can hold onto. Pyre tricked you into the three days, gave you the bearberries and bid you eat if you were hungry. You’d eaten three of them. The rest of the winter though? That you chose yourself. At least for a while, you’re ready to try and enjoy a little bit of the magic, keeping back winter or no.

“It’s not quite past midday,” Pyre says quietly, voice a strange melding of fox and man. “If you’d like food, I will make it for you. If you’d like a rest, I’ll show you to your room.”

“My room?” You ask, only sounding mildly sarcastic.

Pyre narrows those coppery eyes of his. “Sometimes I think you say these things on purpose. Yes. Your room.” He heads for the staircase, his toenails clicking on the stone floor before he reaches the layers of rugs, the soft padding of his feet on them makes you smile. “I would hardly complain if you decided to join me in mine, but even so, you will have your own space.” He tosses his head, earrings catching in his hair and then vanishes up the stairs.

You move at a much more sedate pace, still examining your surroundings. There’s a very old looking table, covered with the remnants of a puzzle that looks to be from forty years ago at least. There’s a rack of old bottles, some of them look like wine, but others are clearly beer, and still others look like glass bottles of soda, the liquid half evaporated. Pyre’s house is going to be a treasure trove of history, of things left behind by others. The winter is going to be very long, you’re certain, but it won’t be forever. All of the people that left these things behind have obviously left and returned to their homes. You turn on your heel, slip your bag off of your shoulders and leave it at the foot of the stairs. You can come back for it later.

The lamps, all seemingly lit from that single charmed match, spiral up the staircase. There aren’t any doors that open up off the sides, only a hallway at the very top and three open doors leading to the far end. The first one you pass is a bathroom, with a large tub carved out of the stone of the mountain. There are elderly looking cupboards in there, and what looks like a wood burning stove, though it’s empty. The toilet, you assume, is behind the drawscreen, and when you peek your head farther in, there’s also a shining, copper mirror hanging on the wall. The second room is where Pyre is, hands fussing over the thick curtains around the bed. There’s a fireplace against the wall, and a nightstand next to the bed, and more furs draped over a chair made of wood and horn in the corner. There’s a worn desk, obviously hand-made by someone unskilled, but a beautiful bookcase next to it, filled with books in various states of wear. Some of the spines are cracked, but others still are pristine. To the right of the bed, there’s a single paned window. Snow is coating the sill outside, thick flurries weighing down the weeds that are growing in the cracked stone.

Despite the magic, despite the voices and his promise, it still hadn’t felt quite so real, wandering through the tundra with him. He’d said the snow would be coming down soon though.

“It’s lovely,” you answer, honestly, even if not everything is to your taste. It almost makes you want to laugh though, because it definitely looks like it’s somewhere removed from the normal world, some kind of strange mish-mash of time periods all pressed into a two story place. You wonder, without Pyre, would anyone ever find this place?

“Parts of it,” Pyre says, strange looking hands pausing in their tying of the curtains. He’s looking at the headboard, you realize. There’s a faint gouge in the dark wood, but it doesn’t look like it was from Pyre. It looks like a very human scratch. Warmth crawls over the back of your neck, though you’re not sure whether it’s embarrassment or eagerness. You’d been feeling a healthy dose of attraction with Pyre before he told you about everything, and it had taken a bit to sort through your feelings on the matter, even with you making the final choice to come here. You still don’t know how things will continue, but for now…

“Let me see what I can do to help make a few more lovely memories then,” you say suddenly. Heat is pulsing through you now, warming your cheeks and the tips of your ears and zinging down along your spine. Pyre’s head snaps to the side to find your hands working slowly at your clothes. He doesn’t move any further, doesn’t even tip back his head, just stares at you over the crest of his shoulder, pupils swallowing down the copper of his irises.

“If—you don’t have to do anything,” he insists, and his tail swishes, slowly, just the once. It doesn’t bristle out as it had when you’d first spotted him.

Your coat drops to the floor, and his eyes follow it. “I know. We were flirting though, before you told me about all of this, and I still…” You glance away, only for your eyes to snap back to Pyre as he drags his patched suit jacket off of his shoulders.

He slows when he realizes you’re watching, but doesn’t stop. A slow grin pulls at the corners of his wide mouth. “You still want to feel magic?” He taunts, and laughs when you roll your eyes. He stops laughing when the rest of your clothes hit the floor, the hint of a whine escaping him when you take a step closer, shivering when you feel the temperature of the stone on your bare feet. “My room,” Pyre says roughly, though you can’t tear your eyes away from him. He’s still a wonderfully strange mix of man and fox. His face is still humanoid, with lips and stubbled cheeks, and so is the shape of his shoulders through his holey t-shirt. There’s soft curls of hair peeking out of the stretched neck of his shirt, but along the backs of his arms it looks more like fur and his feet are still wholly canine. His tails, tails plural, are starting to grow longer too, and you recall the way he’d seemed to coalesce into one person when the fog had rolled back.

Pyre crosses the room, hesitating before he places his hands on your shoulders, thumbnails scratching gently at your bare skin. The chill of the room had been seeping into you, but at his touch, warmth chases it all away. When you slide your hands up his chest, Pyre’s eyes fall closed, gray lashes bright against his skin. “M’ room,” he repeats again, but pulls you into a kiss as he tows you out the door. There’s no more time for examining the hallway or the knick-knacks he might be keeping in his own space. There’s his lips and his stubble scratching at your skin and his hands splayed over the back of your neck and the base of your spine. He coaxes you into his room with deep, slow kisses that leave your head spinning, whispering things that make your pulse speed. “Want, want the smell of you on my sheets,” he says against your neck, dragging sharp teeth carefully over your throat. He growls when your hands dip to undo his trousers, your thumb following the trail of hair that vanishes beneath his underwear. “If this is, if it’s—”

“I agreed to the winter,” you remind him and then he’s turning you and letting you fall back onto his bed. You have a moment to register soft fur, and crocheted blankets, and comforters too, before Pyre is pulling his shirt off and tossing it across the room. He wrestles with the rest of his clothes, leaving you another moment to admire him. The hair on his chest and trailing down his abdomen looks human, much coarser than the fur on his arms and below his knees. Between his legs is a thick cock, hard and beginning to leak, with a small bulge near the base of him, and then your gaze is drawn back up as he crawls onto the bed, moving much slower than he had in the hall. He doesn’t press, doesn’t rush, just leans his body over yours to kiss you again, careful with his teeth. He groans when you reach up and tug at his braid, pulling the rough tie away and tossing it to the side. You comb your fingers through his hair, tangling your fingers in it to keep him kissing you and tense when his cock slides over your thigh, hot and hard and enough to make you buck up, already seeking friction. Pyre kisses you until you’re breathless, leaving you sucking at your own lips and trying to calm yourself as he urges you further up the bed, back to a veritable nest of pillows.

He isn’t slow when he settles himself between your legs, hands curling around your thighs and pushing them carefully back towards your chest. He isn’t slow when he drags his tongue over you, hot and slick and slightly rough. He’s careful as he can be with his teeth, but there are a few pinches that make you gasp and tremble. He laves his tongue over them, soothing the sting, but his nails are pressing hard into your skin and you’re fairly certain you’re going to bruise, simply from the continued pressure. Pyre is noisy too, whining and groaning as he tastes you, as you do your best to rock yourself against his tongue, hand tugging at his hair while he sucks and eats. The ache of orgasm, painful-but-sweet, is starting to build, starting to make you tense everytime he opens his jaw, teeth dragging over tender skin, leaving you wet and shuddering. He huffs when you whimper, and pulls away before you can come, copper eyes as bright as flame when he moves to sit back against his headboard. The loss of him feels sudden, and the cold is sharp without his warmth against you.

“That was on purpose,” you murmur. Pyre arches a brow, trying to keep from smiling when you scowl at his crooking finger. You still get up, on shaking knees and gasp when he tugs you over and onto his lap, your back against his chest, cock slick and sticky against your ass.

“I want to feel everything when you shake apart,” he murmurs, hand splaying over your sternum as he helps you arrange your legs. By the time you’re straddling his thighs, his fingertips are dipping into the hollow of your throat and his cock is rutting against your thigh and every part of you is on edge, desperate for more. You’d been so close. Pyre licks at the side of your throat, pressing his hand harder against your chest to keep your back still. “Lift your hips,” he urges, and takes his cock in hand, dragging the head over you as you do your best to listen. Like fitting a key into a lock, Pyre finds the correct angle, breathing raggedly as you press yourself down. As soon as you’ve taken enough of him, he lets go of himself and then presses on the top of your thighs, making you gasp out his name as you take him in deeper. He eases off after a moment, letting you adjust, letting you wriggle and groans out your name roughly as you do your best to ride him.

You think for a moment about saying something, about teasing him or trying to rile him up, but it’s all you can do to keep up what rhythm you have, heart beating terribly fast against the hand he has on your chest. He lets you move, lets you reach back and clutch at the messy locks of his hair, his breath warm against your throat and the top of your shoulder and then Pyre pushes roughly against your thigh again, thrusting up until his knot is grinding against you. “Fuck, fuck, Pyre, that—”

“Too much?” He asks, waiting while you shake, trying to steady your breath. You’re probably going to ache later, probably won’t want to do much but doze or take a bath in that massive stone tub, but right now? Right now you want to be greedy.

“More,” you get out and Pyre laughs, that eerie, fox-like noise echoing in your ear as he teases you with the knot, pressing you down and then pulling back his hips. Pillows cascade off the edges of the bed, spilling over the floor. You start squeezing, doing your best to drive him over the edge, so sensitive it almost hurts. “Please,” you whisper and then you’re too busy for speech. His knot stretches you and his hand dips between your thighs, stroking and his fingers press into the base of your throat. He’s not choking you, but he’s starting to squeeze and then you’re coming. Pleasure washes over you in a fierce, pulsing ache that shoots down to your toes and fountains back up your body. You shout out his name and shake in his arms, eyes falling closed as his knot expands, locking you in place. Your eyes flutter open and closed and drift to a steamed up window, much like the one in your own room. Weeds are still poking up through the cracks, but now it’s not snowing outside, it’s raining.

Pyre turns his nose to the space behind your ear, breathing deep, his own limbs growing loose. “The winter might well be softer this year,” Pyre mumbles, voice raspy, his hand smoothing down your sternum and over your hips. “And I have you to thank for that.”

“We still have the rest of the winter ahead of us,” you remind him, but you’re too sleepy to argue with him any further. Whether you end up enjoying the rest of your time here, you do know one thing: Passion will definitely be a huge part of fulfilling your bargain for the winter.

————-　🦊　————-

#exophilia #werefox boyfriend #male werefox #shifter boyfriend #d.darling writes #d.darling queues

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