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yoonsshadow · 4 years ago

Text

ETERNAL - v

➳ summary ; They have died so often that death has lost its meaning; hurt so regularly that pain has become inconsequential; lost so much that they hold each other to the light of the stars. They have nothing yet they have everything, as long as they have each other. And, after centuries, they now have her.

➳ pairing ; bts!ot7 x fem!reader

➳ genres ; The Old Guard au; fantasy, historical, action, romance, alternate universe

➳ themes ; angst, fluff, death

➳ warnings ; smoking, mature conversations

➳ word count ; 3k

➳ note ; Thank you for your patience!

masterlist

Fear is a fist that clutches your heart, reminding you of its presence each time it tightens its grip. It doesn’t hurt, necessarily, but you can feel the strength in its hold; the raging tendons wrapped around your tender organ that strain with each heartbeat. A singular emotion controlling your very pulse.

Cigarette smoke billows into the indigo hour of the night, and you find yourself unable to pry the fingers away.

The air on the balcony is cold, but it envelops you in a comforting embrace; it’s a soft coolness, as opposed to the harsh, biting climate of the desert that you’ve become accustomed to. Your skin prickles with goosebumps, but you don’t feel the need to scratch at yourself, to tear the skin from your flesh. It makes you feel alive, even if the definition of that word has changed for you.

Evidence of your newfound immortality, if that’s what you can call it, dangles between your fingers, ashes falling to the ground several storeys below with each gentle tap. It tastes terrible⎯⎯a bitter flavour of death in every pull⎯⎯but it serves its purpose for now. It keeps you grounded, gives you something to focus on other than the slowly growing anxiety that still holds strong in your chest.

Behind you, the balcony door slides open, startling the silent air with its soft drag.

“You’re up late,” Namjoon says. He speaks soft, low, as if hesitant to disturb you. “Or early, I guess. Didn’t take you for a smoker.”

You breathe out a puff of smoke, watching as it dissipates into the darkness. “I’m not.” He steps into your periphery, leaning on the metal railing beside you. “I just needed...something. Found them hidden away in the bookshelf.”

Namjoon scoffs. “Figures. We’re usually a non-smoking household, but sometimes the boys get sneaky. Pass me one?”

You hand him the box. Only two cigarettes left. He brings one to dangle between his lips and, without asking, you hand him a lighter. It takes him three tries, and then he’s sighing smoke into the air as well.

“Thought you were a non-smoking household.”

“We are. Stinks up the place, and it tastes disgusting. But. When in Rome.”

“You calling me Rome?”

He chuckles, but doesn’t answer. “Couldn’t sleep?”

You shake your head, despite knowing that he isn’t looking at you. “Too much on my mind.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“I don’t think I could if I tried.”

He blends in with the shadows, slightly, though the peaks of his cheekbones catch the dull light that glows through the mist of pollution. “I get that. Would you rather me talk?”

“Not really.”

“Do you want me to leave you alone?”

“Not really.”

So he stays. Until the embers begin to burn your fingertips; until you’re snuffing your cigarette on the metal rail. You don’t think you’ll smoke again. You suppose it doesn’t matter, though. There’s forever ahead of you to change your mind.

Sunlight is just beginning to illuminate the buildings around you when Namjoon speaks up again. He stubbed his own cigarette before it was even halfway done.

“I’m sure you’re curious,” he says. “About us, about the situation, about everything. And we’ll tell you as much as we can, but...There are some things the boys won’t feel comfortable telling you about just yet. We’ve lived long lives. We’ve done good things and bad things; experienced things we’re proud of and things that haunt us. We may not die, but we’re still human. I hope that you don’t mind being patient with us.”

Your heart aches a little at the melancholy in his tone, as if you wouldn’t give the world for these seven men after knowing them just a day. It feels as if your soul has missed them for a lifetime.

“Namjoon.” He turns to face you, now, and a halo of soft light glows around his face. “I don’t know what you’ve all been through, and frankly, it’s none of my business. If you want to tell me something, I know that you’ll do it in your own time. I’ve got the rest of my life to get to know you all, okay? There’s no rush.”

His smile starts as a twitch, a quirked corner of his lips, but quickly grows wide. Relieved.

“I’m glad it’s you,” he says. He offers no elaboration, no further words, but you think you know what he means. Because you’re glad it’s him, too. You’re glad it’s them.

With breakfast comes clarity. As you sit at the large dining table, bowls of rice, soup, and several plates of banchan steaming into the morning air, you find yourself feeling calmer than you have since your death. It’s as though the raging tides of emotions⎯⎯uncertainty, confusion, downright fear⎯⎯have finally quelled into a tranquil body of water. There is sure to be a ripple sooner or later, but for now, it is completely still.

Yoongi, the cook of this morning’s feast, takes the first bite, and the rest of you follow. There is so much that you want to say, so many questions that you want to speak into existence, but the bitter taste of apprehension bleeds through even the delicious taste of your meal. You feel like you might choke on it⎯⎯the taste and your words both⎯⎯but your throat closes before you can even swallow.

Ah. There is the awaited ripple.

Perhaps it is the hours of silent companionship, or simply his centuries of wisdom, but Namjoon seems to sense your internal struggle. “If there’s anything you want to ask us, Y/N, go ahead. We’ll answer to the best of our abilities.”

Your throat eases and your tastebuds return to normal. “Well…” Where do you begin? What questions do you ask potentially ancient beings? “I guess let’s start with what this,” you wave a finger around the table, at the seven other sets of eyes who watch you patiently, “is. The situation.”

Namjoon nods slowly. It seems he’ll be taking charge for this conversation, much to the visible relief of the others. “Even we aren’t completely certain of what exactly this is,” he says. “From what we’ve learned, our death granted us immortality, or something to that degree. We cannot die, nor can we get majorly injured. Any wounds heal quickly, and any illnesses metabolise out of our system before they can affect us.”

You nod. All of this you were already aware of.

“As for this,” he continues. He looks around the group, fighting back a fond smile. “We’re all connected. When someone else becomes like us, we all see visions of each other to help us find them. The same happened with you. You saw visions of us when you slept, and we saw visions of you. That’s how we could find you. The dreams gave us enough information to figure out who you were, and then it was a matter of locating you.”

“Which wasn’t easy, by the way,” Jimin adds, though there is no annoyance. “Your files were so deeply buried that we thought they might not exist. And don’t even get me started on accessing the satellite.”

“You hacked a satellite?” You can’t hide the shock in your tone, and you don’t miss the glint of mischief in Jimin’s eyes.

“That’s not important,” Namjoon says, taking control of the conversation once again. “What’s important is this: the eight of us are intrinsically connected now. We might not get the visions anymore, but we are still linked. The easiest way to describe it is that we’re soulmates, though that might not even be true. We were destined to find each other, to be immortal together. Whether it’s for some higher purpose, or just a random curse, we don’t know. It’s better, I think, if we don’t try and find out that reason.”

Now that confuses you. “Why? Isn’t it human nature to be curious?”

Hoseok scoffs. “I don’t think we fall under the definition of ‘human’ anymore.”

You’ll have to file that away for later.

Namjoon ignores Hoseok, and looks straight at you. “If we become too enveloped in trying to figure out the big ‘why’, we’ll get lost in ourselves. We’ll lose our own sense of purpose. If we were chosen, for whatever reason, then we have to trust that our instincts will guide us to do what is needed.”

“Okay.” You suppose he’s right. “Then, could you tell me how old you all are?”

“We don’t do ages,” Taehyung says. He sounds almost amused. “We know the age we were when we died, but we don’t keep track of how long we’ve lived after that. It’s a rule.”

“Then how about...generally? Who was the first? How did you all die?”

All eyes turn to Namjoon. Honestly, you can’t say you’re surprised.

“I was the first,” he says. A faraway look takes over his eyes, as if lost in the past. Seokjin puts a grounding hand on his shoulder. “I couldn’t figure out my actual age if I tried, but it was...a long time ago. I was the chief of my village. Killed for power. The story isn’t too interesting.”

There’s a brief moment of silence, and then Yoongi clears his throat. “I was the second. A slave to some tyrant who thought he was all-powerful. Killed in front of the other slaves to put them in line.” He shrugs, but doesn’t meet anyone’s eyes.

Hoseok is quick to speak next, his words are short and curt. “I was third. Court execution.” He seems reluctant, as if guarding his past behind the tightly-locked gates of his crossed arms, but you mean what you said to Namjoon earlier; you will wait for them. For however long it takes.

Next is Seokjin, and you have a feeling that his theatrics are for Hoseok’s benefit. “I was the lucky fourth, and a king, at that! Though I was only in the position for a few hours, and all public records of it were thrown into the river with my body. Which is a shame, really, because my portraits deserved to be in museums for all to marvel over.”

“Um.” Jeongguk seems nervous, and you see him hide his shaking hands beneath the table. “I was next. I died of...natural causes.”

“And we came as a set,” Taehyung smiles, arm slung over Jimin’s shoulders. “Died at the very same moment, and woke up the same way! We were best friends, right, Jiminie? On the opposite sides of a war, but I loved him with my whole heart.”

Jimin nods, a wistful smile pulling at his cheeks. “I remember thinking that I was so lucky, to die in his arms. To never have to live a single moment without him. And then we found the others, and I thought that I must’ve been in heaven to be so fortunate.”

“We’re all together,” Namjoon elaborates, though it’s unnecessary. A blind man could see the way they feel about each other. “It may be because of circumstance, though I like to think that it’s because we were all meant to be. Like it’s a gift from the universe, allowing soulmates born in different centuries to find each other.”

“And now you,” Jeongguk whispers. His eyes glimmer, hopeful, and so young despite the obvious years he has over you. You wonder why he doesn’t seem as emotionally aged as the others; what could cause him to cling to his youth the way he does. It doesn’t matter, though. If it means he keeps his heart, it will never matter.

“We don’t expect anything from you,” Seokjin says. “Not romantically or even platonically. You are still your own person, and if you don’t want to be a part of this, in any degree, we won’t force it.”

You are thankful for that. It takes away a pressure that you didn’t even know you had until now. The thought that this is a choice⎯⎯a decision that is completely yours to make⎯⎯relieves you to no end. And yet...

“I don’t think that’s a decision I can make right now.” You mindlessly arrange the chopsticks on your now empty plate as you try to summon the right words to explain yourself. “There’s so much that I need to figure out, and so many things that I feel I have to do. I don’t even know if I’ve properly processed the situation yet, or if I’m simply in shock.”

“Is there any way we can help you?” Yoongi, as always, seems so genuine. So heartfelt.

“You already have. So much more than you’d believe.” And it’s true. Independence is your life. You may have been in a team in your old life, a leader of a small group for whom you were responsible, but you were always brought up, always trained, to survive alone. To find comfort in an existence of solitude. Because that’s what the military is; it is removing yourself from others, from the world. You were in a team, sure, but you were all alike in your aloneness. Alone together.

Now, you have this group of men who, without knowing you, have plucked you from your misery and now offer you everything. Offer themselves, their companionship, their help. You are not the one responsible, the one with everything on the line. They have taken that from you with gentle hands, and you give it away gladly. There is not much else that you could ask of them.

Except. Well, maybe there is.

“But…” You trail off, and their eyes just scream patience. You don’t know how they do it, how they’ve grown to be so effortlessly composed and serene, because right now your heart is beating in urgency. It batters against your chest, yelling at you to just ask them, now, but your words falter in sudden uncertainty. They have already given you so much, offered even more; can you truly ask for the help that you now realise you may need?

You look into their eyes again, and know that the answer is yes.

“This mission,” you continue, sitting up straighter. If you speak with confidence, perhaps you’ll start to feel it. “As far as I know, it was never completed. When our team went in, it was under the belief that we’d be able to rescue all of the children safely and relatively unseen. Someone on the inside tipped them off, but they had to have had a reason. They wouldn’t have betrayed us like that unless something was wrong.”

“You speak like you know exactly who it was,” Hoseok says. It isn’t a question, and you see it in his expression that he isn’t necessarily looking for an answer.

You won’t give him one. Not yet. Not until you’ve figured out for yourself why this person would’ve left you for dead. “That isn’t important right now,” you say in lieu of a confirmation. “What matters is that those children are still out there somewhere, and there’s a leak in the operation.” Releasing a deep sigh, you slump down a bit. “I’m going back to the desert, back to the base, and I’m going to save those children. If you would like to help me...that would be really nice.”

“Of course we’ll help,” Jeongguk says, without hesitation. There’s a resoluteness in the set of his jaw that you haven’t seen in him before. “Anything you need. We mean it.”

“We should talk about this plan of yours first, though,” Namjoon says. “As far as the military is concerned, you’re dead. You died with your team. If you go back to your base of operations, that’s just going to open up a whole lot of complications for both sides. They might think that you were the traitor, being the only survivor. We’ll need to operate with a certain level of stealth.”

You were worried about that. Your dog-tags are with the rest of your team’s, your body supposedly burned along with theirs. You won’t be able to reprise the role you previously played in this, and you won’t have the military support that you once had. If you do this, it will be in the shadows, hiding behind corners and turning away from cameras. You are a ghost now. You’ll have to act like one.

“Okay,” you say. “I understand; we need to stay hidden. But there is one person that I need to see face-to-face. I can promise that they won’t do anything to endanger our identities.”

“It’s a bad idea,” Jimin says. “Trust is one thing when you’re alive, but if they’ve been mourning your death, you can’t know for sure how they’ll react.”

“That’s a risk I’m willing to take,” you affirm. “I trust this person, and I’m going to need you all to trust me.”

Taehyung bites his lip in contemplation. “It isn’t that we don’t trust you,” he says, “but we can’t fully trust the situation. We don’t know this person, whoever they are, or how they’ll use this information against you. Against us.”

“I get it, I do.” You can’t help but sigh. “But this is something that I need to do, and something that I will do regardless of whether I have your permission. I won’t let my decision affect any of you, but if you decide against helping me because of this, I’ll understand.”

Yoongi leans forward. “We’re going to help you.” His tone is final. “And you’re right, this is your decision to make. We just want to make sure that you completely understand what you’re potentially getting yourself into.”

“You are all a lot older than me,” you say, “and obviously much wiser. But I’m an adult too, and I’m mature enough to know that my actions may have consequences. I’m no stranger to making tough decisions, or to taking responsibility. I may not be a Captain by rank anymore, but that doesn’t change who I am.”

“Okay,” Namjoon says. He doesn’t argue, nor does he apologise, but he doesn’t need to. There is a mutual understanding in the way you look at each other, and nothing more needs to be said. “So, what’s the plan?”

You take in a deep breath, and prepare your mind to return to the place you’ve grown to loathe.

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tags: @leafyturtle, @loveyoongles, @paint-music-with-me, @barbikatherine, @itsmorgo1604, @calling-dips-on-j-hope, @veronawrites, @applepie1000, @yoonchrisgullwrites, @ally22042000, @ireallylikefoodandyoutube, @blglmgk01, @basicgukk, @softescapism, @sinceritythatcouldntbedelivered, @m1nt-3lla, @hunnayesblog, @rosycheekb, @hemmofluke, @the-bisaster, @katbonv, @borahebangtan, @monodroppp, @skyys-universe

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giorno-plays-piano · 4 years ago

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Treasure hunt

Pairing: dragon!Steve Rogers x Reader

Warnings: yandere, obsession, kidnapping, death of minor characters, minor depiction of violence.

Words: 2133.

Summary: No knight would dare to save a sacrificial bride of the dragon.

______________

When he lowered your body into a little pond, a cloud of blood dissolved into the water. You whined, looking at your wounded legs. They stopped bleeding when you were in the air riding on the flying dragon's back, but it still hurt too much for you to walk across the cave on your own. You felt the man leaving a gentle kiss on the top of your head while you sobbed.

"You will be alright, my darling." He cooed in your ear in a soft voice and let the water cover half of your body, soaking your long white nightgown smeared with blood.

You shivered but stayed where you were. You were thinking of his eyes dark as the twilight sky when he came closer to you, tied to a stake and barely conscious after all the beating you took. You tried to run on the day of sacrifice, and the villagers didn't take it kindly. They tried to cover your wounds as much as they could, but the dragon only had to lift the hem of your nightgown to see the ugly shackles marks on your skin. He took away the cranberry beads from your neck and saw your chest, all black and blue, smeared with the red juice. Did they think these smashed berries could cover the bloody marks?

When the dragon in a form of a man lifted his head, you felt an unbearable heat rising in his fiery mouth.

"Fear not, my lady, it's all being dealt with."

Although you thought your bones could break if he touched you, he cleaned the cuts and bruises so carefully you barely felt anything at all. Was it his magic? Was the water in this pond charmed? You didn't want to know.

The man wiped your face tenderly and took off your earrings colored in red, scoffing at the piece of metal in his large palm. Apparently, they didn't suit his taste - you saw little, but one glance at the treasures he kept hidden in his cave was enough to see the dragon had more precious metals and gems than the King himself. You expected dozens of servants and concubines to meet their rightful owner, too, but there was not a soul around you two. Did they hide? You hoped so. Otherwise it meant the rumors were true - the dragon simply ate all those sacrificial brides given to him. Even if he cared so genuinely about your wounds, maybe it was because he didn't like to see your bruised skin.

"Ah!" You squeezed your eyes shut. The man above you was covering your cuts with an odd ointment, its smell fresh and somewhat icy.

"We are almost done." He assured you and left an airy kiss on your knee. "You are so young, my love. You will heal fast."

You timidly bowed your head at his remark. How old was the dragon? It was too bold of you to ask him that, of course, so you simply kept your mouth shut.

"I am a century older than you." The golden-haired man said to your suprise, and your eyes widened at his words. "And no, I can't look inside your mind, my lady, but I am able to read your face. Please, do not be afraid."

You nodded, too frightened to speak. You remembered villagers running away in agonizing pain, screaming and pleading and cursing; the smell of the burning flesh and wood; the mighty flame devouring everything on its way. Those people had never been kind to you from the moment they seized you a month ago, but you still did not wish to see them dying such a horrible death.

"Do you feel better?"

It took you a few moments to respond, and you shivered.

"Yes, Your... Your Highness."

You did not know how to adress someone as mighty as him, and the dragon laughed at your words, making you feel even more humiliated.

"You do not have to call me that, my love. I am Steve, Sarah's son." The dragon smiled at you and kissed your knuckles with his soft lips. You were confused and ashamed. This moment felt too intimate. "I mean no harm to you. Whatever people have said to you before, I did not bring you here to kill."

You stared at him in disbelief. What? Did his words mean the dragon did not want to eat you? Maybe you were supposed to become one of the concubines, then. In the end, if there were many of them hiding somewhere deep in the cave, it could be true. You had never wished to serve any man like that, yet it was still better than to be eaten alive.

"Steve, Sarah's son." You mumbled quietly, looking at your drenched nightgown with a sense of deep shame - the white fabric became completely see-through, and you tried to cover yourself with your hands. "T-thank you for..."

It was hard to speak as you trembled in his strong muscular arms, and the man smiled at you, caressing your head as if you were a child. Before you could finish your thought, he lifted you up in the air, caring little about your soaked clothes that got him wet right away. You shut your eyes again, afraid to see where he was taking you and trying to concentrate on your pain instead. Surprisingly, it wasn't as bad as before - the ointment Steve used was magical, indeed.

Once you realized both of your were up in the air, you held on to him for dear life. You still couldn't understand how the dragon was able to transform only a part of him - his hands caressing you were still pretty much human.

You didn't utter a single word before you landed on something soft and fluffy, your nightgown oddly dry on your skin. As you finally opened your eyes, you saw Steve's large figure hovering over you and whimpered, balling up on a huge bed high above the ground.

"It pains me to see you like this, sweetheart." The dragon's voice was unexpectedly tender. "But I know how terribly those filthy brutes treated you. You are afraid I will do the same..." He became quiet for a few moments, and you gulped, suddenly feeling guilty. "Please know I am here to protect you, my love, from any danger from within. No one will ever hurt you again. You're safe here."

Your eyes glimmed with tears at his kind words, and you sobbed, covering your face with a fluffy blanket you found on the bed. He wasn't going to hurt you, he said. He took care of your wounds and brought you somewhere nice, giving you a chance to rest after all the horrors you went through. You didn't know whether he was just toying with you, but for now you felt better, laying on a huge bed covered with blankets and furs.

"I know you would like to have some time alone, but I can't leave you as of now." The dragon explained when he lowered himself on the bed. "You will heal better with me close. You can handle it, my lady, can't you?"

You wished his hot hand was not on your belly as you shivered from his touch, but you kept silent and nodded. Even if you did not want to be close to the man who could burn you to ashes within a minute, you had no right to protest. Maybe you would heal faster just as he said.

"Sleep now, my love." Steve pressed his burning lips to your forehead. "It will get better tomorrow."

You said nothing as he pulled the blanket over you and moved closer. This intimacy with a man was foreign to you, but he did nothing other than holding you in his arms. He didn't want to hurt or use you. He only kept you safe just as he said before, you tried to assure yourself.

Thinking of his gigantic scaled wings of blue and gold colors, you quickly drifted off to sleep.

____________

The next morning you woke up to the divine smell of fresh fruits and honey, the dragon placing some peculiar dishes right on the bed around you. When you gaped at him, he let out a low chuckle and gave you a wet towel to wipe your sleepy face. He insisted that you ate right after waking up, claiming that your body needed strength - most of your wounds disappeared during the night. Apparently, it was all his magic.

"Try this, my lady." He easily sliced an odd red fruit with his razor sharp claw. "This one is special."

"Why?" You asked timidly, but took a piece and saw the white pulp with little black seeds inside it.

"It is called dragon fruit." He answered, proud. "It tastes like nothing else, believe me."

You smiled back at the man and took a little bite, feeling something sweet and sour on your tongue. He was right, you had never ever tried anything like that. Snatching more pieces of the fruit from Steve, you started eating them so fast he ended up laughing and rolling over the bed.

Then he took you to the pond again and gave you your new clothes, a white nightgown embroidered with golden threads and a blue robe, soft as a cloud. Once you changed, Steve showed you around his cave, giving you an opportunity to look at his fabulous treasures - golden and silver coins, gems, jewellery, armour, statues, all those things you had never seen before. He said you could take anything you wanted except for a few magic tools that were unsafe to use. You felt like you were living in a fairytale.

However, you became frightened again once the dragon told you he had neither servants nor concubines. When you asked what had happened to all those women who were sacrificied earlier, he simply said he took them to the other kingdom far, far away as he had no need for them. But over the seven seas, where women were treated better than here, no one could take them against their will, he claimed, and all of them agreed to leave to start a new life. Did a place like that truly exist?..

"Will you bring me there too?" You whispered, afraid of your own thoughts.

You didn't like that look in his eyes. It didn't sit well with you.

"I do not think it is... wise, my love." His quiet voice alarmed you. "The women I brought over the seven seas were stronger than you... smarter than you. No one was as fragile, easily broken. Look what had happened when those peasants kidnapped you. You barely stayed alive."

"But..." Your eyes were glistening with tears again. "... You said women were not treated like posessions there... Why won't I be safe?"

"Nowhere is safe if you can't protect yourself even a little. I pray you stay mindful, my lady."

You had nothing to say, lowering your gaze to your bare feet and clutching the silk fabric of your elaborate nightgown. Although the dragon was right, it was hard to believe now he truly let all those women go. Were you that bad? That feeble he decided to leave you with him? It was unfair. You had the right to decide your own fate even if he considered you weak.

You didn't say it, though. He could still burn or eat you alive if you protested against his decisions, you thought. When his claws scraped over your gentle skin, you bit down on your lip and nodded again.

You were trapped.

"Until I get stronger, who am I here? What do I do?" You whispered, not meeting his gaze, and the man softly caressed the top of your head. "Am I a prisoner?"

"Of course not, my dear." He shook his head at your words and took your cold hands into his own, his skin so hot it was almost burning. "You are my precious sacrificial bride, my treasure. The only thing I demand from you is obeying me, love. Do what I tell you, and you will always be safe."

He wrapped his hands around your back and made you lean on him, pressing your head to his wide chest and kissing your temple. There was so much tenderness in his moves it almost made you cry. Why did it have to be like that?

"Can you make me stronger?" You moved your head to look at him and saw his bemused expression.

"Forgive me, my dear, but women like you are not made to overcome hardships of life." The dragon's fingers stroked your flushed cheek. "I cannot share my strength with you, I'm afraid. But I can protect you. It is enough, isn't it?"

You nodded once more, keeping your eyes shut and listening to him breathing slowly. You knew little of how possesive the dragons were once they spotted a treasure they wanted to keep for themselves.

#steve rogers x reader #dark steve rogers x reader #dark steve rogers #steve rogers #captain america #yandere

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puttingfingerstokeys · 3 years ago

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A little something I whipped up for @heamatic with her Shinnok in mind.

No timeline alignment stuff here, just pure gift work based on a thread we’ve got on my RP account @bastardsunlight. Ft. Shinnok being creepy because that’s kind of his thing. Shinlao, because we haven’t come up with a ship name and I am appalled at our laxity.

Also like, I can’t believe I’m saying this but neither writer is in any way under some fucked up impression that this is a good, safe, or non-toxic ship. We use the term to describe people who are involved IN SOME WAY. That way is not necessarily healthy.

This story features no NSFW instances.

The dimly lit corridors of the Bone Temple are familiar passageways to Kung Lao as he moves effortlessly toward the audience chamber where he will soon be needed. Shinnok does not often offer his time, but today, he evidently feels generous. It is therefore his favorite creature’s duty to attend as well. Lao has long since stopped thinking of himself as a monk or even a former one, though his spiritual power is still formidable. That life is behind him. Netherrealm is—if not his home—his territory.

Emerging from a massive double door at one side of the infernal hall, he surveys the emptiness of it, the cavernous opulence of the mad god’s particular tastes. Deeper, under vents in the floor—Shinnok appreciates the screams of his captives—is the dungeon proper, though the audience hall very much resembles it. The high pillars are of dark reds, shining obsidian, and shot through with veins of other colors difficult to distinguish in the Stygian light of the realm of dishonored dead. Everything is bone and sinew and suffering here, fire and brimstone and ugly deception.

“You have kept me waiting, little one,” purrs the Elder God of Chaos from his throne. It is, naturally, constructed of bones—not all humanoid. He leans to one side and regards Kung Lao with those inscrutable eyes characteristic of his kind. “Do you wish to bring punishment down on yourself?”

“No, master,” responds Kung Lao, approaching the dais and then ascending to within reach of the massive entity’s long arms. If Shinnok wishes to pull his guts out and toss him back down like a used doll, he may do so from anywhere; why inconvenience him?

“Yet you offer no explanation…” The Elder God’s finger came out and lifted Kung Lao’s chin before sliding down his neck, over the pretty young man’s Adam’s apple, and down to collar bone and chest. He has left this one alive, appreciating the responsive heat and goose flesh of living skin. It bruises so prettily.

“I offer no excuse, my lord.” Kung Lao meets his eyes with an impertinence he loves and hates and oh he has made the right choice in this one. He had known the moment they met upon the field of kombat that Kung Lao would, indeed, make an excellent addition to his collection.

“You are wise beyond your years, it seems, if a bit pert.” Shinnok retracts his hand and waves it about. “Well, get on with it. I’ve better things to do.”

Quan-Chi materializes presently, late as well, though his arrival receives no acknowledgement whatsoever. His dark lord spares not a glance, instead watching the retreating back of the foolish monk who exchanged his own freedom for the life of his friend. Sentiment is worthless in Netherrealm and soon, the arrogant boy will learn this, if the old soul sorcerer must show him the way with his own two hands. His fists clench with the thought, imagining themselves about Kung Lao’s throat, squeezing until something breaks. The pleasure that arises from the thought sends a shudder down his spine.

Meanwhile, Kung Lao, unaware of this contemplation—or if he is aware, he cares so little, he doesn’t bother sparing the man, if a thing like Quan-Chi can be called a man, a single glance—turns to descend the dais. An oversized bone arm which has sprouted from the stone and bone floor of the mad god’s receiving hall offers itself, open-palmed, to the fallen monk. Kung Lao accepts it gracefully, laying his hand in the much larger one, knowing he has not displeased his lord on this day. The dry, brittle-feeling digits wrap gently about the young man’s hand as he makes his graceful retreat to discharge his duties.

Quan-Chi scowls at Kung Lao’s back until Shinnok actually turns his attention on his favored sorcerer—really the only sorcerer who will competently serve him with true, deep loyalty. It really is pathetic to watch, but sometimes a whipped dog is better than no dog. Shinnok has not even had to whip this one. He’s done it of his own accord.

A strange Netherrealm native (as native as anyone can be in a realm of dishonored souls and demonic constructs born of the mad god’s fits of rage), it had been he who had approached the Elder God of rot and chaos to serve him. If Lord Shinnok could be said to be grateful for anything, he might have chosen that moment when Quan-Chi’s power had drawn him to his lord and master’s prison and set about events which would eventually free and embody him. Of course they have greater plans, but for the time being, this will do.

This will do very nicely indeed, he considers, regarding his little pet’s taut backside as Kung Lao makes his way through the hall, the bone arm now sliding along with him, digging a furrow in the ground which seems to knit itself together just a few feet behind the abomination which now has its hand on the curve of Kung Lao’s lower back. Every sensation the bone arm feels, he also feels and the warmth of living flesh is delightful; he wants to grasp it hard, make the boy squeal with pain, make him bleed a little. Just a little.

Perhaps later.

“You have some… news?” Quan-Chi has been scheming—he is always scheming—to manifest his dark, mad god in Earthrealm and he clearly believes he has hit upon something. Shinnok can see it in the sparkle of the man’s eyes. Oh how he loves me, contemplates the Elder God with absolutely no reciprocity of that feeling.

“I do, my lord,” responds the sorcerer, bowing to one knee and standing to deliver his findings. Shinnok listens patiently, mind elsewhere as it must always be. He is chaos incarnate. There is little order to be had in Netherrealm beyond his absolute rule. Not much can hold the attention of an Elder God, in general, but Shinnok in particular has always allowed his mind to wander where it will. Aside from grand machinations of upset and overthrow which delight him endlessly, there is almost nothing of such magnitude in all of existence—no single object or concept which can so fascinate him. What could possibly be of such import that he, a deity, might need to focus his energies on it for any length of time? The boy, some part of his thoughts remind him sweetly. You’re quite captivated with your new toy, aren’t you? Ah but toys come and go. He will tire of this one… eventually.

That boy is now crossing the threshold of the temple’s audience hall, the doors gliding open before him. The dry heat of Netherrealm has ceased to move him and he walks out into it, ushering in the first petitioner, wondering if his lord and master will listen to this one, or slay it on sight. Any creature, demon, or lost soul who is bold enough to approach the Bone Temple and beg favors of the lord of the Realm is desperate, addled, or too cocksure for their own good. An obliteration by the death god is permanent, it is nothingness, non-existence. Somehow, that void is more terrifying by far than the screaming, burning, howling dimness of Netherrealm.

The first demon in line—he is first by virtue of having killed his way up the queue; the corpses of those before him are littered in pieces here and there as a testament to this, all still twitching and flailing as the death he grants is only pain—is a truly imposing figure, easily ten feet in height, with massive, twisted horns like a ram and a maw full of jagged teeth. His eyes ablaze with contempt. This expression does not soften when it lays its burning gaze (with all four eyes) upon the pretty, behatted monk—Kung Lao may not think of himself as a monk, but they do—but rather hardens to something bordering on obscene. The thing licks slavering lips with an exaggerated motion, clearly aiming to upset the small, soft-looking mortal, who does not respond, only gestures to the hall.

“The master will see you now,” he says in a neutral tone that betrays nothing. “Please, follow me.”

As they enter, the beast’s three-toed feet hit the ground much harder with each step than might actually be necessary, as if to emphasize his weight. Shinnok leans back upon his throne and assumes a semi-attentive posture. There is no real reason for him to pretend he cares; even the pretense is worthless, but for now, it entertains him. Some of the denizens of his realm wait the Netherrealm equivalent of months, even years, if Shinnok is indisposed and simply does not care. Lately, he has been taking more audiences, but then he has only lately had a… secretary. Kung Lao moves swiftly ahead of the demon, braid swinging tantalizingly behind his shapely back. The boy is an hourglass, upon close inspection, broad of shoulder, narrow of waist, and thick of hip and rear-end. The demon is inspecting.

“This is far enough,” instructs Kung Lao. “What are you called?”

The demon splutters with indignation. How could they not know him, the greatest general of the northern armies of Khadul, the god-king of the demons, the true creatures of Netherrealm! He has severely overestimated his importance, a grave error in the Bone Temple. The silent hall rings with its silence. An audience chamber ought necessarily to have an audience, but Shinnok prefers the cavernous immensity. It reiterates just how small his petitioners truly are. He eyes the demon, but has yet to speak. A bone arm sprouts near Kung Lao and it makes a twirling motion with its forefinger.

“Lord Shinnok bids you speak,” says the shapely boy through plump lips that look like they ought to be bruised and bloodied and used, in the creature’s foul opinion.

“I will speak,” he snarls, reaching out toward Kung Lao with the intent to brush past, “but with the lord of this Realm, he in whose temple we stand, not you, little slut. There are things I would do with you, yes, but speaking… it is not one of them.” The demon’s laughter rings out boldly into the hall, bouncing off the skulls and femurs and ribs and myriad other bones which make the walls, floor, and ceiling. Quan-Chi flinches minutely, though more at the brazenness of it than the sound. Shinnok is a statue. The bone arm has dissipated, crumbling like ash and ruin, leaving Lao alone. His lord is watching.

“No,” says Kung Lao, the syllable sharp and clear as a pretty bell rung in a mausoleum—and equally as incongruous next to the obscene, guttural speech of the demon. “No,” he repeats, “you do not speak. You bark like a mangy cur begging for scraps. Heel.”

He rushes the demon with lightning speed as it swings for him. There is a brief moment when it seems he might make a try for the beast’s sizeable testes, which swing visibly behind the scant loincloth one might say he is “wearing”. The idea occurs to him and a strange flash of melancholic amusement jolts Kung Lao’s spine before he disappears beneath his hat in a flash of red light and lotus petals. The creature, having never encountered this particular mortal, looks baffled and squats to examine the hat. Quan-Chi’s mouth opens to warn the beast of its insolence in his master’s presence, but a sharp gesture from said master silences him. His face heats with rage. How dare the boy show off this way? He will be punished—perhaps disemboweled or flayed. How delicious that would be!

As the as yet unnamed demon reaches toward the object to pick it up, the flash occurs once more and the deadly piece of headwear flips upward, turning vertically, its far edge held by the owner, the only man in any realm able to master such a strange weapon. The creature barely has time to cry out as Kung Lao draws the hat up its entirety, bisecting the thing and spilling its steaming insides along the floor. Midair, Kung Lao flings the hat, hard, toward Shinnok. Once more, Quan-Chi blanches, but the mad god catches it easily and holds it, bottom facing downward, toward his knees where he sits. This, he thinks, is the most fun I have had in millennia.

Kung Lao’s form plummets toward the gory mess he has made and for a brief, shining moment, Quan-Chi thinks perhaps he will fall and snap his neck and that will be that, one last escape attempt with the final spark of the monk’s spirit left to him. Lord Shinnok has no need of a broken doll. Of course this is a flight of pure fancy. Shinnok will find a use for that beautiful body, even broken.

Alas, rather than crashing to his death—or maiming, at least—Kung Lao’s body dives into a circle of blood, red light, once more accompanied by a flash and flurry of lotus petals. It takes only half a moment for him to repeat the trick, falling out of the hat and into his lord and master’s waiting lap. Shinnok allows the hat to settle upon Kung Lao’s head and once more tilts his chin upward so that their eyes meet.

“Far too impertinent,” he scolds, shaking his head, running his thumb over his little doll’s full, perfect, soft lower lip. Kung Lao is flushed with the pleasure of his accomplishment and hasn’t a spot of blood on his person. “Who are you to decide who I do and do not address, hmm? Is this not my domain?”

“His master would pretend it is not. One cannot serve two lords and you rule this Realm.” This is not a question, nor is it simpering. Kung Lao speaks cold, hard facts. “I merely saved you the trouble of hearing a dog bark.”

So bold, Shinnok thinks. I must curb this. But he does not punish his little favorite. The unpredictability delights him. Quan-Chi senses this misplaced delight and recedes from the receiving hall unseen, glowering over his shoulder and now hellbent on perfecting his machinations to bring his master to Earthrealm.

#violence #cc #cw #mortal kombat #kung lao #shinnok #shinlao #gift work

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too-scared-to-do-this · 4 years ago

Text

Of the Devil’s head

Chapter four - Bloody hell!

Sander’s side fanfiction

Wordcount: 1304

Ships: still just prinxiety

TW: mentions of blood, cursing, injury, post-operations stuff talk kinda, imprisonment, a lot of panicking and distress - which kind off resembles an anxiety-attack but not really. I think I’ve got all. As always, if I missed anything, let me know, please. I don’t want to make anyone uncomfortable. :3

Summary of the whole story: They say, the one that wears the crown rules all - the living, the dead, the walking, the crawling, the rooted, the sane and the mad. They say, once you own the crown, you become the most powerful being on Earth and beyond. Roman’s stolen bigger things - a measly little crown won’t present a problem, even if he has to steel it straight off of the devils head!

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

Chapter four - Bloody hell!

Not only does time not work in Hell, but apparently physics doesn’t either. Because no matter how Virgil looked at it, there was just no way this weird figure could’ve fallen straight onto him from the place he was situated at.

He was climbing the throne from the back. Reaching from the side. So please explain to him, how the hell was he able of falling fall over and landing directly on top of the king?

Either Hell was truly that massed up, or this person was just unconventionally clumsy.

Virgil didn’t have much time to ponder on it, though. He yelped and pushed the stranger off. Which resulted in poor Roman landing on his back on the hard ground. Broken stalagmites and new once that were just growing out pushed into his back, his head hitting a particularly sharp one.

Dull ache spread through his whole body. “Aw…” he groaned weakly, reaching for his head. Carefully trying to lift himself into a sitting position, the voices around him started to come back to him.

Someone on his right was barely breathing, short fast breaths not enough to satisfy their lungs. And someone on his left was laughing their ass off.

Roman frowned at the general direction of the laugh. This was not funny.

And why was everything so hazy? His vision was fogged and blurry and his hearing muffled and muted down. And oh god, his head!

He pulled his hand away. Even this out of focus, he could make out the big red splotch that covered his palm. Well, this is just great!

He had to get out of there before these things could lock him up, but the room was starting to spin and his eyes got kind off heavy… He just wanted to lay down… just for a little bit….

“Startup immediate! Let’s fucking eat him!”

Well at least that’s what Roman made out of what the creature on his right said. And that didn’t sound like the most pleasant thing. He didn’t feel like sleeping anymore. He had to get up! He had to run!

In reality, what Virgil said was: “Shut up, you idiot! They’re fucking bleeding!”

Panic seeping all the way to his bones he rushed over to the distressed stranger. This wasn’t good! He couldn’t leave them to just bleed out!

Remi paid his master’s stressed-out state no mind. He was too preoccupied leaning over, just barely standing - laughing so hard. “And?”

Virgil couldn’t believe this! “Remington! Go get the fucking healers!”

When Virgil got distressed and needed people to listen, his voice pitched down a few octaves and doubled over. Demons called it his Monster voice.

In this particular instance, the Monster voice was nothing compared to the way he roared at the servant.

He immediately shut up and ran off to find help.

The king was left alone with a very woozy, barely conscious and scared to death Roman. “Oh shit! Don’t die on me...! Please...!”

He didn’t know what to do with his hands. Could he touch the creature? Should he touch them? What if they have a broken rib or something?

They ended up just awkwardly hovering over the wounded figure.

Meanwhile, Roman didn’t even know what was going on. His mind was too foggy to comprehend anything. He just sat there, willing himself to think the one thought he needed to think.

But what was that thought again?

Some-Something about… running?

Yeah, yeah that…

He… he wanted to run. From what...?

Nobody seemed to be nearby… So why did he want to…

Wait, what did he want again…?

Oh, right. Sleep…

Virgil’s hand-hovering came to an end the moment the med-team stepped into the hall. “Your Majesty.” the demons all bowed.

“Stop bowing and get this Human to the med-bay! Immediately!”

“Yes sir.” the main healer nodded shortly and rushed over to the thief. The rest followed.

The devil let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding and fall back against the throne. It was going to be okay now. His healers are the best in the under-world. They’ll take care of them.

He watched as they took the now unconscious figure away. Remi walked up to him, not-bothered as always. “I don’t see why we couldn’t just left it to bleed out.”

Virgil was too tired for this. His mind was going three miles per second and he just needed to calm down… He turned his cold gaze at the demon. “You’re a mind reader. Figure it out.”

That shut Remi up. No matter how much fun it would’ve been to see the Human suffer, hearing what ran through his king’s head wasn’t fun at all. He wasn’t about that. “I’ll be throwing down damned souls into the pit. If you need me, just call my name, babe. Byeeeee!!” And with a finger-wiggle wave, he left the room.

Virgil didn’t feel like getting up. The ground seemed comfortable enough for now. (There wasn’t much of a difference between it and the throne anyway.)

A Human being. A living, breathing, Human flashbang. He hasn’t seen a living specimen in… He doesn’t even know when was the last time one stood before him.

And now there was one in his med-bay. Antichrist, this was bad!

What is he even supposed to do with a creature like that? Besides torture, obviously. Sweet mother of evil!

The devil sat there, contemplating un-life until one of the healers walked into the hall.

“Your highness, the Human has been dealt with. We stopped the bleeding, and stitched up the wound best we could. It is still unconscious, though, so we locked it in one of the cells, temporarily.”

“Thank you, Lucius. Let me know when they wake up.”

“Yes, sir.” with that, the servant left. And Virgil finally climbed back on that uncomfortable throne. He pulled his phone out, and started scrolling through Tumblr once again. Things didn’t seem so boring anymore.

Roman came to a few hours later - not that he knew how much time had passed. What he knew though, was that he was in a dark cell guarded by two demons. Even through his hazy brain he could understand the situation he was in - he was a prisoner. ”Oh, holly mother Teresa!” he freaked, standing up and rushing over to the bars. Well, more like he stumbled...

“You have to let me out! Come on! You don’t understand! Let me out!” he gripped the cold stone bars.

One of the guards looked at him, then exchanged looks with the other. The second nodded and left, leaving Roman with a very angry looking demon.

He gulped. “Mr. Ehr, Miss- am… I… ah, please let me go…?”

The guard didn’t even glance at him.

Well, this was going well.

The second guard entered the throne hall and bowed down deep. Virgil rolled his eyes. “I’ve been telling you for thousands of years to stop bowing! It’s betting annoying.”

The demon straightened up immediately, nodding ashamed. “I apologize, your evilness.” Another eyeroll. These titles were getting better by the decade.

“What’s up, Derius?” he leaned on the arm-rests, razing his eyebrow.

“The prisoner woke up.”

Oh. Oh shit. Okay. Okay... “Are they okay?”

“It seems fine. IA bit out of it and scared, but that is to be expected. We did just imprison it in an environment completely different from his natural habitat…”

Virgil nodded, feeling his heartrate spike and slow again. They were all right.

Then an idea popped up in his head. Slowly, a grin pulled at his lips. Remi wanted fun, didn’t he?

Virgil could be fun. (Now that he knew nothing serious was happening with the Human.) Virgil could be very, very fun. He bit his lip and looked up at the guard.

“Bring me that thief.”

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

Iiiiiiii can’t even believe it!

Another part, right the next day? I’m kicking this block’s ass, y’all! :D And look where we are! Remember that first anonymous comment that started all this?

But hey, I really hoped you enjoyed it. :3

If you have any questions, don’t hesitate to ask. If I have an answer I’ll gladly share it. And if I don’t, you just helped me come up with another addition to the story ;D

I’ll be back with a new chapter as soon as possible :)

(I wasn’t kidding when I said this was becoming my new hyper-fixation XD)

Bye, for now <3

Tag list:

@alice-only-me

#of the devil's head #demon/thief au #prinxiety #ts virgil #ts roman #ts remi #ts sleep #remi aka sleep #virgil sanders #roman sanders #thomas sanders #sanders sides #Sander's sides #tomas sanders #anxiety sanders #creativity sanders #Sander's sides fanfiction #what else should I tag?

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mermaidinthecity · 4 years ago

Quote

You left my soul bleeding in the dark so you could be king, ah. The rules you set are still untold to me. And I've lost my faith in everything. The nights you could cope. Your intentions were gold. But the mountains will shake. I need to know I can still make, explosions on the day you wake up. Needing somebody and you've learned it's okay to be afraid. But it will never be the same.

Explosions by Ellie Goulding

#ellie goulding #lyrics #eg lyrics #explosions #halcyon days album

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honestsycrets · 4 years ago

Text

Mirror, Mirror II: Freydis, My Sweet [ Ivar x Reader ]

❛ pairing | ivar x reader, freydis x ivar (past)

❛ type | multi

❛ summary | the mirror cracks. what comes next is a mystery to everyone involved.

❛ warnings | past ivar x freydis, mention of congenital deformity, reader body swap, some horror elements, two ivars, 5A situation, time travel (?), Freydis’s soul is le poof, mention of blood.

❛ sy’s notes | thank you @laketaj24 for helping me fix the error on my gif.

The room, if it was a room, was black. It stretched as far as your irritated eyes could see. Your hands are the kind of red that stemmed only from digging knuckle deep in guts, the kind you get from bleeding a little too long, spilling, or tearing. It soaks into your skin, oozing into your mouth, bloody and deep.

“Where’s my baby?”

The voice, gentle and soft, sounds nothing more than sorrowful. It stretches out like thin fibers of cotton that you usually rub your make up off with. Your tongue stretches out to moisten dry lips when you feel it-- those divots on your face.

“Ivar?” You tremble over the word with your hand traveling up your lips, realizing that it’s not just your words that are uncertain and strange, but the entire groove from your lips up, hooking up like someone had taken two fishhooks and dragged down your nose bilaterally. Like your baby pictures.

“Where’s my baby?!”

It’s louder now. As if only a few steps behind you.

“I don’t know, please! Leave me alone--” you answer, scuffling over your steps, rushing forward. Forward is better than backward. Back there-- the crazy lady shrilling her cries, and you regret hitting that mirror-- the pounding memory of Ivar’s words: I killed my son, I killed my son, I killed my son, ringing into a big ball of tension in one powerful uppercut. “Ivar, you ass!”

At last a ray of light outlines the frame of Ivar’s wooden bed, draped in warm furs. His handle dangles from the ceiling, allowing him to pull his legs around when you both would wake up, and you’d tease about what he had on his great big day today, a whole lot of nothing! But he isn’t there. You stretch out toward the bed. It’s the only safety you can hope to cling onto.

“WHERE’S MY BABY?!”

When you turn, she isn’t there, but her voice booms, shaking the whole foundation of your nightmare of your dream like a banshee. Everything bounces up and down and you fling yourself onto the furs, burrowing your knuckles into its soft and forgiving fabric and clawing yourself on his bed. Then, under the covers. “FUCK! Make her stop!”

“--isn’t there!” his voice cuts through the darkness, mid sentence as if he had been saying it all along, but none of the words had gotten through. “Pull yourself free. It’s her illusion. An illusion of the gods!”

The ringing and shaking of the illusion fizzles out to a steady hum. Then, pure silence. You grasp your shoulders and hold yourself tight as it numbs out. At last-- peace. You sit up in his bed. “Where are…” around you, the room pieces together, dropping in as if they are coins flipped into an ocean, manifesting in dark wood and horn. “...you?”

“Here with you.”

You slip out of bed, looking down at yourself. A long white grown tickles your ankles, your feet on scratched up floorboards. Everything is dull and brown and red and black. Too red and black-- “Oh god,” you turn around, whizzing like a top. “Oh god, oh god, oh god.”

“I suggest you forget your god,” it’s his voice in your ear, as familiar as if you’ve held a phone to your ear, but he’s nowhere to be seen. “Pull the cover off the mirror.”

In the corner of the room is a mirror with a thick blanket drawn over it. You tremble stretching out toward it, “No no no no. No.”

“You haven’t touched it. Are we doing this again?”

“No!”

When you rip off the sheet, you recognize your very stupid looking king on the other side of the mirror. Except-- he’s there, in your room, by the fake flowers and shittily soft decor. And here you are in his abode, wringing your hands through your hair.

“This is not-- no.”

“It’s nothing,” he insists. “Calm down.”

“Calm down? Calm down! I’m in your-- your weird Viking castle!”

“It is a Great Hall,” he aptly corrects whilst shaking his gloved hand at you. “Not a castle.”

“Why am I here!?” you shout at the mirror, hitting it this time. It hits back, reflecting your hand off of it with a painful sear. “Fuck!”

“I would assume it’s because you broke my mirror which I didn’t need you to do.”

There’s a rustle behind you. An anxious girl-- no more than ten, peeps in carefully. She bows her head as she looks at you, considering your thin dress shyly. “Queen Freydis?”

“Freydis?”

“Answer her,” he whispers. It sounds as if he’s in your head. And great, scribble that one down in the books, Ivar is talking to you in your head. That tops off this strange and unusual day.

“Do I took like a Freydis to you?” you think back, snappy and short.

“Hurry.”

The young girl hurries to your side, holding your hand and easing you down onto the bed. You gaze into those warm honey brown eyes, sure that there is no greater sack of shit than you in that moment, lying to that pretty face. You clear your throat, “I’m feeling... ill,” you excuse.

“Is it the baby?”

“The what.” You shriek.

“Perhaps you should lie down,” the young girl settles you in bed. “I can call a healer… King Ivar would be want you to rest.”

Oh sweet fuck-- Ivar? There’s two of them?

“No there’s not two of us,” he barks back in your mind. You turn your head toward the mirror, finding him motioning you to quickly lay down. He’s dimmed the lights to your room. Your room with a cushioned bed. Lights that flickered unlike the candles that the slave girl-- and god, a slave-- lit.

“Should I find King Ivar?”

“No!” you shout in unison with Ivar. “No,” you then amend, reaching out to console her with a hand to her arm. “I should rest.”

The girl peers at your hand, almost confused, but then nods her head. Her short hair bobs with the loose collar around her throat before she disappears into the other room. You watch her walk out before knocking your forehead with your knuckles over and over again.

Should’ve left him in the fucking mirror! you reprimand yourself. Because that’s the only way things really make sense. If you had left him there, you wouldn’t be here, knocking your head in trying to make sense of nonsense.

“I didn’t ask for you to help me,” Ivar hisses, you turn your head over to look at him in the mirror, and he flinches. Initially, you don’t know why he’s acting so weird-- staring off at you like his breath was snatched clean out of his throat.

What?

“Freydis?” The pillow is itchy under your head, the quills of a bird knocking into your hair, suspiciously pale blonde under your fingertips. It’s long-- longer than it had ever been. You look down at your long body, suspiciously round, and very well pregnant with a lump that knocks your thighs.

Now you notice, you fold your arms over your chest. It’s just me. Sorry to disappoint.

He snaps out of it, bowing his head down, and looking at your fluffy cat that is crawling all over his calibers. Surrounding him is the room that he’s seen so many damn times he sat on the bed, considering how he got in the mirror over and over again. Except now he can look at the angles of your room. He lurches for the crutch the mirror spat out in a bloody mess of glass. The mirror has pieced itself back together. No blood. No glass. Just… his crutch.

“I’ll be there soon.” Ivar pulls himself up to stand, clacking around your room. “Mistr will tell me what happened.”

Me? You’re right there, buddy.

He rakes his fingers over his temple. “Not me as in-- King Ivar. Not me.”

Uh-huh, you think. That makes so much sense.

“You look like my dead wife,” he says all at once. His fingers reach out to touch the glass. The glass bites back, repelling his fingers from sinking into the mirror themselves.

Your dead wife? Great.

“If you’re fated to be there…” be where? Ivar hisses, slamming his fist into the mirror. A shock runs through his body, knocking him away from the glass. “... in my wife! Then something has changed.”

I’ll fucking bet. I’m pregnant.

Before he could respond, he saw the shift in the leather pleats not so far away. “Cover me!” You peer over the furs-- which are wildly warm-- and stand up on your swollen feet to cover the mirror from prying eyes.

“Freydis? Ah, what are you doing?” there is a clacking behind you, snappy and quick. When you whirl around, there he is. In the flesh, standing tall. You point your finger at him, then turn to the mirror again. Ivar has shut up.

“I--” the man before you looks like him. He is tall, more tall than you remember him being, with playful eyes. His tunic has a layer of heavy leather braided over top of it, darker than his hair. There’s a jovial youngness to the way he encounters you. When he looks at you it’s nothing short of adoration, love, and respect. It… scares you. It’s Ivar-- but Ivar was in the mirror-- so if that was Ivar, who was the man before you now?

You double take to make sense of it, and you’re doing that a lot, but Ivar 2.0 grasps your hand with the one not supporting his weight. “Come, lay down, lay down. You’re not well, my sweet. Has something happened? Have the gods visited you again?”

“That…” your voice comes out pathetically soft. Freydis? No one answers your thought. She’s not here-- the girl, the woman called Freydis? Her soul had gone. You’re not sure if she had gone, or if you had ping ponged her to some other unfortunate shit body. His hand shifts from yours, cupping the back of your neck, forcing you to look into his eyes. You want to look away. But… you instead force a smile. “...doesn’t even cover it.”

You couldn’t tell him. Not yet.

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fairyscribbles · 4 years ago

Text

Tree. (Namjoon, zombie!au)

Wow, this is a long time no see, is it not? :) I hope you enjoy this slightly angsty story. I will post an update about my life in a few days, I promise!! <3

Namjoon looked up from the documents he was frowning at as a knock sounded on his door. When he saw you slipping into his office and clicking the lock behind you, he couldn't help but smile, already leaning back in his chair and spreading his legs slightly, a clear invitation to take a seat. You did so with a Cheshire grin on your face, hand immediately smoothing down the strands of Joon's hair, quite uselessly. You're about to mess them up soon, either way."Report," his voice rumbled playfully, large palms settling over your hips, dragging you closer to him so your chests pressed together.

"Time for your mandatory break, leader," you played along, thumb swiping against the bags under Joon's eyes in a nurturing manner. The chest pressed up against yours shook with laughter, and Joon slid his hands up your body to cup at your cheeks and pull you in for a kiss that was long overdue.

You couldn't exactly pinpoint the moment when you two became an item. You probably couldn't even say when this began.

There was that one time the two of you couldn't get back to the tower in time, a while ago when it was still necessary for every able-bodied individual to participate in runs. It was a mixture of adrenalin, fear of the future and the extreme need to be held that had the two of you reaching for each other like people starved.

After that, you had no talk about what you were. The two of you weren't exactly a secret, Jungkook walked in on the two of you more than he'd like (hence the newly installed lock on Joon's office door), but you weren't as public about your relationship as Hobi and the Doctor.

This was enough for you, you settled with a little sigh as your lips molded against his, and you wiggled in Joon's lap for comfort.

As you rubbed against him, Namjoon groaned deep in his throat, hands sliding down the expanse of your back to perch on your ass, swatting at it as you giggled at the rumbled "behave" that left his lips.

Namjoon led the tower with a firm hand, but it never slipped into dictatorship or terror as you had heard from other groups. He fairly often offered his position up for taking and consulted each decision with as many people as he could.

He was a good leader, fair, kind, but also able to make decisions a few would. He relied on the whole group, and he was a shoulder you could lean on when the night got a little too dark.

And that's what you hoped you were to him at this point.

Many times Joon was the first one to rise and the last to sleep, hunched over maps of scavenged territories, scheduled runs, and inventory documents, trying to figure out the necessary steps that needed to be done. Even though he no longer participated in runs, he was still as active as he was before, when he was jumping from roof to roof.

You felt his body relax underneath you, the lazy smile that stretched over his lips evident as he trailed kisses down your neck. The tenseness of his shoulders disappeared under your touch, which you encouraged with a hum, gently grinding down into his crotch. Joon responded in kind, nipping at your neck in playful warning.

"If you keep this up, I won't get back to work when I'm supposed to," he warned and you laughed, scratching at his scalp.

"Oh my god, I would totally hate if you ended up kissing me all afternoon. Please don't," sarcasm heavy on your tongue, you laughed when Joon sent another swat to your ass.

You dipped down to kiss him once more, when you suddenly felt your skin vibrate in something you hadn't experienced in a while. You couldn't have been imagining it, because Joon tensed up as well, brows furrowing as he tried to locate the source of the sound.

As if a switch went off, it both came to you at the same time and you few off his lap, ripping the door open as Joon grabbed at the radio, ordering all runners to find near shelters and get out of sight.

From the windows, you saw the military truck, mounted with numerous blades, spikes and spears which were getting overwhelmingly weighed under by the mass of dead bodies that blindly followed the booming music resonating from the two venue sized speakers on top of the truck.

All the masses of undead had flown to the source of disturbance, looking like ants from the top of the building. With how loud the truck was, you knew it was not only the walkers that were coming, but also the rabid virals that were much quicker.

You reached the entrance to the tower out of breath and turned on the electric traps while grabbing at the radio stationed near the two alert guards.

"The entrance is armed, I repeat, the entrance is armed," you huffed, trying to catch your breath.

"Do NOT return to the tower," but you watched with mouth agape as someone sprinted around the corner, two virals on their trail. Before you could say anything, the person launched themselves in the air, somersaulting over the electrified fence and landing in the rubble on the other side.

The mindless zombies ran straight into the trap, and before they could attempt to flee, their nerves were charred and the smell of rotten burning flesh got in the air.

Quickly shaking off, the runner rose and climbed the barricades to safety. Jungkook was bleeding from where he cut his palms as he landed in the rubble, and he had a smaller gash on his forehead, but other than that he was fairly okay, and it was okay for you to smack him up the side of his head for scaring the soul out of you, something you just told him. Jungkook grinned sheepishly, scratching the back of his neck.

"Sorry, noona," he murmured, wiping at his bloodied brow. "The tower was the closest safehouse for me."

"And the one near the van?" you handed out the melee weapons to the two guards- after the drama with the girl who saved Yoongi's life, guns were forbidden by the entrance, replaced by spiked bats, axes and machetes.

"It's overrun. Some of the virals smashed through the front entrance and there were already some walkers in there." your heart dropped as you heard this. Before you could ask, Jungkook beat you to it.

"None of ours were there. I checked it out and cleaned some of the walkers when the two virals saw me." you sighed out in relief, walking over to the windows. The music was harder to hear now, slowly going farther away, leaving behind empty streets. The further away the car was, the more runners began to check in.

Hope was just fine, monitoring the situation from the nearby watchtowers. Yoongi took the opportunity to practice his aim and test out of well his homemade silencer worked.

And when you looked over at Jungkook, he had a look on his face as if he was the king of the world. His smugness and the amount of injuries on him didn't match him just escaping two virals.

You eyed him warily.

"What did you do?" he shook the backpack in his hand, before throwing it to you.

"Finally got there." your heart got stuck in your throat as you wasted no time in ripping it open, eyes almost glittering in happiness at the amount of pills that spilled out.

"You didn't!" you exclaimed and immediately rummaged through it, checking what he got. Painkillers, cough drops, anti-inflammatory pills, disinfectants, numerous bandages at the bottom, and so much more.

"I wasn't quite sure what to take, so I just got the basics. When hyung writes me a list, I'll go back at take some more."

"Did you keep it open?" Jungkook shook his head.

"Lured in two walkers and then locked the door. Covered it with some rubble, just like I found it. I hid some things that seemed to look important away and ransacked the place, so it looks like it's been raided. Tried to do more, but I heard the music." Jungkook frowned, but nevertheless you threw your arms around his neck, hugging him tight. You knew how low you were running on some specific medicine, and just this backpack stocked you up for weeks.

"You're a hero, Kookie," you cooed, pulling back to press a kiss against the smudged cheek. Underneath the soot, you could see the blush shining through as a tiny giggle escaped his lips.

"Ah, noona..." he mumbled in embarrassment, wiping at his forehead. The wound didn't look very dangerous, but you still took it up to pull out one of the disinfectants Jungkook scavenged to clear it out. The two of you shuffled away from the entrance, leaving the two guards to peer over the ledge and make sure no stray walkers found their way inside.

"So, you saw the van even before?" you asked as you soaked a piece of cloth with the alcohol. Jungkook winced before he nodded.

"Yeah, they went down the main road. There was quite a bit of walkers behind them, because of the music. The women also shot at them, so it brought even more traffic in."

"Women?" you jumped, not even realizing when Namjoon joined the two of you. Jungkook's eyes twinkled as he looked up at his hyung, nodding.

"Yeah, they had assault rifles and also explosives. They threw some in the crowds every now and then, thinning the herd."

"Did you recognize anyone there?" you gently pressed your thumb against the crease between Kook's eyebrows, as he frowned in thought.

"I don't think so. I'm not sure, they had these weird masks over their faces."

"Masks?"

"Yeah, like red masks with a white hand over it? Remember Lord of the Rings, hyung? Something like that." It was Namjoon's turn to frown, his look souring. You reached out, grabbing at his hand in comfort, but the squeeze he returned was feeble at best.

"Damn," he cursed, running a hand through his hair and biting at his lower lip in frustration.

"I gotta go." your stomach dropped, as he turned on his heel, leaving both you and Kook staring after him in alarm. Both of you turned to look at each other, puzzled and confused. Torn between wanting to follow him and ask what's going on and to stay behind and tend to Jungkook's wound, you silently watched as Namjoon took the bare necessities and ordered the electric trap to be turned off, before he disappeared over the ledge, leaving the building.

"Where did he go, noona?"

You wished you could answer him.

It has been a while since Namjoon had gone out alone. It has been a while since he had gone out, period, but even when he did assign himself a run, the others made sure he would be accompanied by the more experienced runners. There was not much need for him to be with someone, anyways- the streets were almost cleared out completely. If there wasn't as much rubble and occasional fires sprouting up, he could pretend as if no apocalypse happened in the first place.

The wind was blowing softly, ruffling through his hair and bringing the stench of death to his nostrils. The smell that would have made him puke just mere months ago now seems like something natural to him. He tenses only once the stench increases, signifying the approach of an enemy; luckily, he seems to be following the van's tracks meticulously, because all the fast virals are gone, and only a straggler shuffling from inside appears here and there. Even so, he doesn't take any chances and opts travelling on rooftops when possible.

He heard of the rumors, but he didn't want to believe them. It seemed surreal, but seeing the van on his own eyes, and hearing Jungkook speak of the people using it confirmed his suspicions.

He travelled swiftly, jumping from one roof to another, using the ground only if absolutely necessary. There weren't many walkers he offed, some stragglers who got stuck when the van passed their way, only now getting loose. He still had some time left before the sun went down, but he didn't want to waste any chances.

The army base on the outskirts of town was said to be abandoned and overrun with dead soldiers. Since there is a theory that the sounder the body was before the infection, the more dangerous zombie it would create, people steered clear from the institution of possibly extremely agile undead shuffling about. The closer he got, the more disposed bodies appeared to be lying on the ground. Here and there, he saw crucified zombies, warning signs for the living to turn back, and yet he ignored them all. Normally, he wouldn't so easily walk into a human settlement; just because his people and the tower were friendly didn't mean that the others wanted to keep humanity afloat. He already heard of gangs overpowering smaller groups, of mafia hoarding the important supplies and trading them for guns or people. There was talk of human trafficking, of gladiator style games being set up where prisoners desperately fought against unleashed zombies without a weapon.

He might be making a grave mistake, Namjoon thought to himself, frowning, as he neared the reinforced gates of the institution. Already from afar, he could see at least three assault rifles pointed at him, the women wielding them growling at him to state the reason why he came. He came closer, hands in the air.

"Are you the Harpies?" Namjoon called out, trying to stay calm even though he knew his voice attracted potential undead lurking afar.

"What's it to you?" one of the guards scoffed back, hoisting the gun higher up.

"I'm your leader's husband."

The headquarters of the Harpies was full of life, and mostly female. Since he was brought in, he has not seen a man, but instead was met by a horde of battle-toughened women who eyed him suspiciously. It wasn't surprising; he wasn't one of them. There was no white handprint on him, indicating his allegiance to the group. The placement of the handprint didn't seem to be of importance: he saw it on the crown of a bald woman's head, over clothing, printed over someone's throat in a ghastly reminder of how the virus has society in a choke-hold.

Weapons also seemed to be heavily distributed amongst the members. There was not a single woman without some kind of weapon, be it an assault rifle all the way down to a knife strapped over the waist.

After patting him down and disposing of his weapons ("We might give them back...if we don't forget," crooned the guard with a sly grin as she slid his handgun from the holster hidden under his shirt), Namjoon was led down the hangar, instructed to keep his eyes forward. He seemed to attract attention; did they think of him as a hostage? Did he freely turn himself over to the enemy, the sudden thought came to his head. What if they would hold him hostage and blackmail the tower for pharmaceutics or food? A weight suddenly set over his shoulders. He and Yoongi had a mutual understanding on how to deal with situations like these; calmly assess if the price is adequate. If not, see if there is a different way to get one of them out. If not, establish a shrine of remembrance for the fallen comrade, because having one dead is better than dozens. You flashed through his mind just as he reached the end of the hangar, and the door to the former commander's office opened.

A woman stood with her back to him, pondering over a huge map which spread all over one wall. Her hair slicked back, held in a tight braid.

"Boss, there is some guy who says he knows you," came the introduction from one of the guards. Immediately, the woman scoffed.

"Who the fuck has the balls to come over he-" and as she turned and sighted Namjoon, her grumbling cut off, the frown on her face replaced by a ghost of a smile he had remembered from before.

"Namjoon," she breathed out, waving the guards away with a flick of her wrist. Her voice. It still haunts him in his dreams sometimes, calling out for him. And he usually wakes up, the presence of her name on his lips.

"Mina."

There were three hours left before the sun came down, and yet you still couldn't stop pacing. Namjoon broke the most vital rules one has to abide when they go out: always say where you're going and have some kind of communication channel on you. Namjoon broke both, and it was unlike him, and it freaked you out.

You tried to entertain yourself by doing other tasks; bringing Jungkook up to the doctor to make sure there were no other injuries on him, before dumping him off at his room to rest. You then took his bag over to Seokjin, who almost wept with happy tears at the sight of so many necessary medicines being dumped on his desk. You catalogued all of them and then made changes on the roster of most vital items the runners had to keep their eyes out for. It did put your mind somewhat at ease, knowing that there were so many items taken off there, and that there is a place where you can go and restock.

That made you call up Jimin and one more runner, marking the pharmacy on their maps and sending them off to see if they can find other necessary items. There was still enough time, as the pharmacy was shockingly close. How could they have missed it?

On your way back from assigning their run, you passed by Yoongi and the girl who rescued him; she recently underwent restorative surgery to have her ankle put back into place, which rendered her basically immobile. The senior runner took it up to help her get from spot A to B. You were glad to see that she is getting used to the tower. Being in isolation for so long can seriously harm a human being, but she is slowly making progress to grow more accustomed to the life here. The kids seem to help- they like her voice and so she and Yoongi make bedtime reading rounds every now and then, reading from the frayed books that were left behind by former residents. Thinking about children had you turning on your heel, walking over to the Teacher. She has been quiet on supplies for a while, especially because Donghun always seemed to scoff at any supplies she asked for. You didn't agree with him- school was necessary even in times like this, to teach the children basic facts about the world, and to give them a semblance of what normal life looked like.

At first she resisted, affirming she needs nothing new, but seeing that the walls of the make-shift classroom have doodles all over them confirmed that they do need some sort of paper, and maybe if they were lucky, some arts and crafts supplies to keep the children busy. You also took note of her state; it seemed to be a struggle for her to get up from the floor, and the cushion probably isn't cutting it anymore as a good seat. You will soon need diapers and possible baby formula.

You visited the doctor afterwards, mentioning the new possible addition to the tower, and asked her if there are any specific items she will need for the procedure. As Joon still didn't turn on his radio or tracker, you had nowhere to be and the initial check-up for the vital things for birthing turned into an inventory checkup of the medical resources. Even though the whole tower voluntarily gave it up in favor of disinfectants, you found out that you were running low on alcohol, and you immediately informed the current runners outside to swipe up whatever hard liquor they could get their hands on. Jimin just sent you a message, informing you on their trip to the pharmacy- they found everything on the list and more, but still decided to stock up on medicine the tower already had an abundance of - if needed, they could trade it for other material in the long run.

The sun was already low on the horizon as you left the doctor's office. With a shaky hand, you raised the radio to your lips, voice so unsure you almost couldn't let a sound out.

"Joon?" his name got swallowed by the static, and the more you listened to the gritty sound of nothingness coming back at you, taunting you, the more your heart tightened in fear. What is happening?

Namjoon would never expect to meet her again in these circumstances; her offering him tea in her great office. Despite being a leader, it was evident that Mina was out on the van mission as well. Her arms, already blackened by new tattoos that ran from her shoulders down to her wrists in bold strikes, had blood splattered all over them. She followed his gaze, smirking.

"Sorry about that," she said nonchalantly, as she wiped down a bit of brain matter from her bicep. "Didn't get enough time to get ready." Giving up on her task, she dropped the towel in a nearby bin, sitting back in her chair.

"I wasn't expecting company, you know." To this, Namjoon chuckled himself. "To be quite honest, I didn't think I would be going around making visits either." it was strange, seeing her like this, so familiar and yet so strange. The face staring at him was the first thing he saw in the morning for many days, and yet looking at her now didn't evoke the same giddiness of love as it had before.

He was filled with apprehension. He felt like he was locked inside a cage with a sleeping tiger, not knowing whether he fed or not.

"Your van stirred up quite a bit of trouble for us." Mina nodded, lifting her legs to rest them on her desk. "Yeah, we usually don't go down there, but we noticed an increased number of walkers." Her striking eyes pierced his, and the breath stuttered in his chest. Even though he felt like he didn't know her, Mina was still beautiful.

"Was it from you?"

"No. We are keeping a good job at staying whole." at in that moment, as something flashed through Mina's eyes, he knew he shouldn't have said that. Something along the lines of pain flickered in them, but it was gone as quickly as it came. Mina gave him a wry smile.

"I'm glad to hear that."

Silence spread among them; nobody quite knew what to say. If he still had it, Namjoon would've been fidgeting with his wedding band at that moment. But that comfort was lost in the apocalypse.

"And so, what are you doing here?" Mina snapped from her thoughts, a smile spreading across her face.

"The world evidently has gone to shit, Namjoon. It has been months, and there has been no outside contact from any government institution. There has been no cure for the bite, apart from immediate amputation if a limb was the source of the disease." Kicking away from her desk, Mina stood up, walking over to the large map painted on the wall. Namjoon took it as an invitation to join her, studying the various symbols spread across the area of the town.

"At this point, we don't operate under the presumption that the people might get better. We expect things will just go downhill from now on. And we need to start cleaning up." Namjoon's stomach dropped at her final sentence. The purge, something Namjoon strongly opposed and tried to stop, is going to happen. He looked up from the map to stare at his former wife's profile, somewhat stunned. How a woman who was adamant about leading the ants out of their kitchen instead of killing them could lean over a map of the city they built their life in and actively plan to get rid of their neighbors, their co-workers, their...

The door slammed open and a woman with a smile that could light up the room entered. Mina's head snapped up and she grinned fully at the newcomer, opening her arms, which the woman took as an invitation to jump into her embrace. Her movements were so full of life, so active, Namjoon only later noticed that her arm was crudely cut at the elbow, something that did not seem to slow her down in the slightest. The white handprint went over the stump from where her forearm would grow.

Namjoon choked at his spit when his former wife and the newcomer shared a kiss, this being the first time they saw each other since Mina returned from the vehicle mission. Not knowing what to do, Namjoon screened the room, trying to find something, anything he could keep his eyes on while his wife greeted her lover. Hearing her chuckle, he turned to her, a sly grin throning on her face. With one arm still wrapped around her lover's waist, she pointed to the area around her neck with a suggestive lifted eyebrow.

"I see you've also been busy in your tower, Joon." red seeped into his cheeks as he pressed down on the new bruise you left behind, and the thought of your earlier escapades made his stomach clench with guilt. He left without telling anyone his whereabouts, without checking in. There was still a couple of hours left for him to return, he analyzed as he looked out the window. It was only after Mina spoke that her lover seemed to have acknowledged his presence.

"Darling, this is Namjoon. He leads a group downtown." She tilted her head in curiosity.

"So you met during the raid today?" Mina laughed at the same time as Namjoon smiled.

"No, we've known each other even before the apocalypse. He probably saw our mark and it reminded him of me." Mina hit the nail on its head. He still remembers the white handprints on the red wall, ones he had passed every time he went to work. Her lover laughed, shaking her head.

"What did you come here to do, Namjoon? Are you here to trade?"

The handprints on the wall stood out, blooming from the bottom, and crowning out into a tree. Namjoon's bigger palmprint was always complemented with Mina's slender fingers.

He shook his head. "I came to offer a chance to merge groups." Mina, whose smile was still civil up to that point, turned sour. With a tightening of her arm, she pulled her lover back to her, pressing a firm kiss to her temple.

"Hyeri, love. Can you give us some privacy? I'll tell you everything tonight." Hyeri, seemingly sensing something important from her lover, nodded in understanding. She returned the gesture, kissing the tip of Mina's nose, which made her giggle slightly, before taking leave.

The tree seemed to travel through the history of their relationship. Some palm prints would hold small keepsakes, such as the movie tickets of their first date, an old key to the first apartment they rented together, pictures of them with their families, friends...

As the door clicked shut, Mina's gaze turned cold.

"You want to collaborate with the Harpies?" her voice was unlike the one he knew for so many years, and it made a shiver run down his spine.

"We have many doctors," he tried to appease the anger in the woman's face. "Scientists even, ones that are working on trying to find a cure..."

"And have they been successful?" she cut him off, leaning back against the wall. Only then he saw that the wall was covered with pictures of women. Some had a red "X" placed over them. Namjoon knew very well what that meant.

The tree trunk continued with pictures from their wedding. He still vividly remembers the feeling of the day, but the visual aspect of it disappeared in the smoke of the destroyed city. The pictures are still probably stuck to the wall, back in their own apartment, with everything else that makes his heart tug in pain.

"No...I mean, n-not yet, but they could be! Mina, those are our people out there."

"They're not." Mina's glare was stone-cold, and if he did not see the white of her knuckles, he would have thought this was easy for her to speak of.

Their wedding pictures were followed by pictures of house renovations. They bought a run-down apartment near the center of town, and it took a while and many pain-filled days to mold the place in what they hoped would be the home that they would grow old in. It was in a great location; supermarkets were nearby, the public transport was a minute away, parks were near, bordering with a kinder garden.

"They're not our people. If you need to tell yourself that to appease your survivor's guilt, I completely understand that. But they stopped being human the second their eyes turned grey and they reached out to bite at you." Namjoon clenched his jaw, looking away from his former wife.

The following pictures on the family tree were of Namjoon and Mina looking bright and happy. Pictures of Mina's body. A black and white grainy picture which only doctors could decipher but held so much happiness.

"Everybody deals with this pandemic their way, Joon. I cannot sit around and try to keep my women safe, knowing that every day there is more of them and less of us. I need to work on trying to give my people a sense of fulfillment, and if it is by killing the monsters and ensuring our safety, so be it. If it is marked with the price of some of mine dying or losing limbs in the fight, so be it."

The bundle of sheets held the most precious treasure of them all, and it hung from the family tree as a valuable fruit. And the two types of handprints would be joined by another.

"What if it is reversible?" he found that he couldn't speak aloud. The words were as fragile as his belief in them, just barely above a whisper.

"What if we can bring back all those that are suffering at this point?"

"And what if we can't, Namjoon? What if they keep mutating, and there will be a tipping point where they will overpower us?"

He still remembers the days when he would play fight with her. Where he would act as if the tiny hands pushing at his calf were strong enough to topple him down. He would still wake up in a sweat, shivering as he dreamt of a dark lake where the same small hands were pulling him under.

"I don't think I can go around and systematically kill them all, Mina...what about...what about us?" his eyes held too much pain, and it made Mina step up to him and cup his face in her palm. The way she brushed under his eye made him almost believe none of this happened. It almost made him believe that she just woke him up to coax him to a breakfast and then work. He almost didn't want to open his eyes.

He saw them. He saw Mina, holding their daughter. He saw his firm, he saw his colleagues still alive, he saw him and Yoongi drinking beers by the river. He almost thought all of this was just a horrid, horrid nightmare.

But then he opened his eyes, and he was still standing in Mina's office. He saw Mina, eyes full of pain and inherent understanding that there might not be another time they meet. Her hand slid down to his neck, brushing against the hickey that you left behind, and her eyes filled with tears. The last time he saw her crying was when she left him, running off with the protype version of the harpies. The last time he saw her crying...

"Our relationship died when our daughter reached out for me with the intention to kill instead of love." her voice cracked. Something broke in him, and he gathered Mina in his arms. He embraced his wife. The woman that he studied with, dated with, fell in love with. He held tight both the woman who gave birth to their only child and killed it away three years later.

"I will die trying to kill them all, Joon." The hug couldn't have lasted more than mere minutes, but it felt like hours. When Mina pulled away from him, she wiped at her eyes viciously. Turning towards the window, she took a deep breath, and Namjoon could see how she visibly tried to hide all the pain behind the wall of hatred she built. The sun was almost down. He had less than an hour to get back, and he felt tired. So, so tired.

"If you need the help of the Harpies, we will be there. In return, we do expect your help in regards with medical assistance if one of us falls ill. However, we prefer death to undeath."

She turned to him, and he no longer saw his wife.

"If you see me stumbling around the town, Namjoon...please, kill me. I don't want to be them."

"I'm really sorry, Mina. I..." I didn't want this to happen. I didn't want us to end this way, on the opposite spectrum of life. I didn't want to leave the body of our only child underneath the tree of memories we grew for ourselves.

All these words were stuck in his throat and didn't want to leave, and yet Mina understood them all. She smiled at him sadly, secretly glad he did not continue.

"I know, Namjoon. You should go, before the sun falls down."

She led him down the compound, and returned his weapons, as promised. As he turned to say goodbye to his wife, he saw Hyeri standing on the side. She reciprocated his small nod with a wave of her hand.

"Good luck, Mina."

"Stay safe, Namjoon."

----

The tower was already lit up in evening mode. People were slowly heading off to bed, already used to the schedule organized by the sun. Guards changed for the evening, every runner that was scheduled to be on a run returned. All their loot was put into inventory and new lists were made up for the next day. The children were all washed and put into beds. Some of the doctors were already sleeping, preparing themselves for the potential crisis that could happen in the middle of the night.

And yet there was one person still unaccounted for. One person because of which you still didn't turn on the UV light traps.

The sun was already behind the mountains, but the skies were light. There were still a few minutes left before the light would die out and the monsters would come out to hunt the unsuspecting victims.

You were sitting at the edge of the entrance to the tower, legs swinging nervously. A machete lay across your lap and you tested your grip on it every now and then, feeling the weight of it in your hand. Would you be able to do it if the necessity rose up?

The radio was still silent. Namjoon probably didn't even take it with him, so it turned out to be useless at this point. The only thing that was left for you was to wait for him and trust him to come home. The urgency with which he left...it was something that he could not postpone, and something he had to deal with, no doubt. But why did he not tell you?

It wasn't as if you were together together. You were fooling around, were you not? But why did you feel as if your heart were about to jump out of your chest and shatter on the floor when you thought of him getting hurt? Where was he?

"___." deep in your thoughts, you didn't hear him step over the rubble. With a loud gasp and a sob lodging in your throat, you jumped down to meet him, hands flying over his body to ensure that it is indeed him, and he indeed returned in one, unbitten piece.

"Namjoon! Where did you--- what did you..." the tears streamed down your face with no control at this point, and you only did freeze when you felt something drop on the hand resting on his chest. Your skin was unblemished, so it was not blood.

Namjoon was silently crying, gripping you hard as if someone was about to snatch you away from him. His chest shook with held back sobs, and your heart broke to see him like this.

Leaning up on the tips of your toes, you pressed a deep kiss against his plush lips. You slowly helped him get up the barricades, bypass the guards and their questioning looks. You made sure the tower was secure and the night defenses were in place.

Afterwards, you led him to his room. Helped him strip down, wash off the dust and the tears from his broken face. Held him when he couldn't anymore, and after he calmed down, led him to his bedroom, holding him so tight, wishing you could protect him from all the evil in the world.

As the two of you lay in bed, you thought the exhaustion and tears pushed him to sleep, however when you tried to wiggle out from underneath him, he held you tighter.

"Stay." he rumbled quietly, slowly sitting up, pulling you up with him. He heaved a big sigh, running a hand through his damp hair.

"Is...is everything alright?" Namjoon shook his head in response, grabbing at your hand and squeezing it.

"There...there is something I need to tell you." he played with your fingers, looking down at your hands. Bringing them up to his lips, he kissed at your fingertips gently.

"A...a story. About myself. About...why I left today." you nodded in understanding, returning the affection by peppering kisses to the hand you brought up to your face.

"It's a long story," he warned, but you shook your head, dismissing his worries. He stared at you for a bit longer, before reaching over to the nightstand, pulling out several objects. They scattered between the two of you.

A photo of a couple, a suede ring box, and a strand of hair in a little bag. You watched the things, trying to piece them together.

"Before all of this, I was married. Her name was Mina, and we met in university. Shortly after graduating, we moved into our first house and within the first year of living together, Mina gave birth to our daughter. We were very happy; years flew by and they felt like days. That all changed when the sickness came."

#namjoon #rm #kim namjoon #bts #bts namjoon #namjoon bts #rm bts #bts rm #BTS story #bts fic #zombie #zombie au #bts zombie au #namjoon story #rm story #namjoon scenario #bts scenario #rm scenario

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magalidragon · 4 years ago

Text

targaryen’s seven | a Jonerys drabble

A/N: I could not help myself and just threw down this Drabble. I don’t want to post it on Ao3 just yet because is not a full one-shot nor is it going to be multi-chapter (in the near future, maybe one day I will come back to it) but thought you guys might like it. Enjoy!

The wind bit at her exposed skin, cheeks pinking without any aide of blush or tint. It whipped over her silver curls and braids, already pulled back taut from her face. It would have chilled anyone’s bones, except hers. Her bones were heated from the heavy thud of her heart against her breastbone, the rush of blood in her veins, and the fire raging inside her soul. The fire which rose to sparkle in her lavender eyes, redden her plump and pursed lips, and thirsted for revenge.

In the dark winter in the North, far beyond the everlasting lights and skyscrapers of King’s Landing, the craggy peaks of the Vale, and the marshy flats of the Riverlands, no one walking by on the quaint lantern-lit light posted street with its cozy restaurants, pubs, boutique hotels, and little shops devoted to preserving the heritage of the Realm’s largest, sparsest, and remotest kingdom.

The woman standing against one of these lightposts, her hands in the pockets of her designer black trenchcoat, hardly paying attention to the bustle of people. There were locals intermixed with tourists—it was the Dawn Festival soon—going from building to building, stopping to take photos in front of silly little cardboard cutouts of ice zombies and Northmen.

Only a few stopped in their tracks to glance at her, for she stood out among the darkness and the cold snow, her silver hair a moonlit beacon, her entire demeanor that of someone who should not be trifled with nor confronted. One glance of her purple eyes and they were on their way, bewitched almost to forget she was even there to begin with.

She lifted her left wrist up to peer at the heavy silver men’s wristwatch, ticking softly under the wail of the wind. Daenerys Targaryen tsked under her breath. “He’s late,” she murmured. She supposed it was silly to think he would actually honor her summons. He would not be coming then.

Well I suppose I will have to go looking for him.

Her heavy black combat boots crunched under the fresh snows, hands returning to her pockets, walking slowly down the sidewalk. The last time she was here had not been pleasant. The Northern History Museum had been far more difficult to crack than she’d originally planned. She had barely made it out of there with the silver wolf circlet she’d broken in to steal. Retrieve, she preferred, even if the authorities had different views on the matter.

The silver wolf circlet allegedly belonged to a Northern queen, who rebelled against the kingdoms and ultimately died of starvation when all her allies abandoned her. It was exceptionally expensive and the funds of which now had been siphoned into a series of orphanages the Northern government had been sorely neglecting.

Her walk took her from the local streets a bit farther off the beaten track, the lamps extinguished or nonexistent, the people fewer and fewer, until she was the only one on a darkened street.

Dany paused in front of a pub, glancing down at her phone. A message from her hacker—Missandei—informed her his cell phone had been pinging from that location an hour ago. She glanced up, smirked at the worn sign-- The Wildling -- hanging on one hinge. It was not for charm, but because the owner no doubt didn’t care about it. Perfect.

She entered the pub, which suddenly went quiet. Everyone stared at her. Dany reached up to pull at one of the buttons on her coat, her smile amused, gaze sweeping from one end to the other of the less than desirable establishment. She was not a local, she should not be there, but she did not care, purposefully striding towards the ancient bar, where a gigantic man with thick red beard and wild eyebrows surveyed her with bright blue eyes.

“Ale please,” she ordered, sweet.

The man chuckled. “You’re not from around here.”

“Nope.”

“You lost?”

Dany smiled, taking another look over her shoulder at the clientele, all of whom were still staring at her. She met the man’s gaze again, shaking her head. “Nope.”

They looked at each other, unblinking, for what seemed like several minutes, but was only a couple. A boom of laughter finally broke their silent pissing contest, the man slapping his dustbin lid sized hand on the bar, pointing at her, grinning darkly. “I like you.” He reached under the bar for a pint. “Attitude like that, first one’s on me.”

“I was hoping you could pass something along for me to one of your regulars.”

“Can’t say anyone you know would be in my pub,” the man said. He set her pint glass full of darkened ale. He grinned again. “But try me.”

Dany slipped her fingers into one of the inner pockets of her coat, removing a slim black box. She set it down on the bar, pushing it with one red manicured finger towards him. Another enigmatic smile did the trick. “This is for Jon Snow.”

The entire pub might as well have gone on mute.

The jovial bartender immediately hardened, those twinkling blue eyes now chips of ice. He was gruff. “Don’t know a Jon Snow.”

“I think you do Tormund Giantsbane.” Dany climbed off her stool, took a long pull from the ale glass, and wiped the foam from her upper lip. The gruffness of the bartender dropped like a mask at her sudden use of his full name. She liked to stun them. It was fun that way. She turned, calling over her shoulder. “Put it on his tab.”

The heavy oak door swung closed behind her with a deafening thud. Dany liked the taste of that ale, making a note she would have to return if she was ever in the mood for it again. She tugged her phone out, now a message from her ghost, warning her that this was a bad idea and they should try some other way.

Barristan had said the same thing. So had Daario. Grey and Gendry might have also agreed, if Missy and Arya hadn’t been as forceful as they had with their displeasure. Sometimes it was bothersome to have members of a team fucking, but Dany accepted the two couples because they worked well together and did not usually let their personal issues bleed into the world.

Plus they all had reason for this job. Well, not Daario, but he would do anything she asked because he was in love with her.

They all tried to convince her to get someone else. There were plenty who would kill to be a part of her team. To join them in this endeavor. No one else would do, she told them, calm and quiet.

It had to be him.

She returned to her car, parked in a community lot near the main square, and paid the exorbitant parking fee, even if it probably would have been easier to just use one of Missandei’s contraptions to hack her way out of the 15 stags. She drove off, humming along to a silly pop song playing from whatever radio station had been on when she picked up the car at the Winterfell International Airport.

Ah Winterfell, so many memories. The castle loomed large over the city that bore its name. It was a museum now, even if the Stark family still retained some ownership of it. Somewhere on the other side in more modest accommodations a few of the Stark family still lived.

The Starks weren’t as big as they once were. They were desperate for cash. All they had were their titles, such as they were. Dany thought about Arya Stark, her ghost, who technically bore the honorific Lady, but if you thought of calling her that you would get a knife in the gut. It was part of her reason for taking this job.

They all had reasons and now she just needed the final player in the game.

In lieu of a hotel, as much as she would like someone to pull back her linens and prepare a fire for her when she turned in for the evening, she rented out a luxury cabin several miles away. It afforded her privacy, stunning views, and a large sunken tub. Dany liked a sunken tub.

She parked, walked up to the front door, and smiled to herself at the threshold. So obvious. She slipped in the key and entered, turning to plug in the code for the alarm panel. When she turned back, she slipped off her coat, and walked into the large stone paneled living room, with its great fireplace—already crackling—and mountain filled wall of windows.

“Hello Jon.”

The chair before the fire turned, revealing its occupant, who sat rather bored, legs crossed and fingers tapped against his temple. He looked the same as ever, she thought, if not better. Dark raven curls, wild around his face, which had been chiseled from marble. Dark beard dusting over his jaw and upper lip, his gray eyes black in the shadow of the fire. All black ensemble, which she knew hid a body that was as chiseled as his face. Smooth planes and sharp edges, he was a masterpiece.

And he was deadly.

The gray eyes glinted, just a hint of red. Could have been from the fire, or it could have been something else.

Her smile peeled over her teeth. “My white wolf,” she purred.

Jon Snow smiled in return, although it did not meet his eyes, rather cold, as cold as the storm that began outside, the faintest hints of howling wind sounding. “Daenerys Targaryen,” he said, in his rumbling Northern burr. He kept smiling, until he wasn’t.

And then he was at her throat, his fingers digging into the slim column, tilting up her jaw, his breath mingling with hers, warm and raspy. Her eyes threatened to roll back into her head and her body ignited, fire consuming her. He barely touched his mouth to hers, barely breathing. “I thought I said I would kill you the next time I saw you.”

Now it was her turn to smile. She lifted her hand, his eyes rolling down to it. The cold steel of her dragonhead knife was against his jugular. Even if his thumb was pressing down on her carotid, threatening to cut off her oxygen, she knew he wouldn’t. Just like he knew she wouldn’t kill him. Draw blood maybe, but she could never kill him. “Darling, I think you forgot, it was I who said that.”

“Hmm.” He drew in her scent, nostrils flaring, and eyes going red again. The wolf, she noted, her skin prickling, and her body straining towards him. Not to break free, but to join him. There would be time for that later. His thumb dragged over her bottom lip and she darted her tongue out to touch it. He groaned, his nose pushing to hers, laugh deep in his chest. “You came looking for me.”

“I will always come looking for you.”

“I don’t want it.” His dark brows arched, the feral wolf flickering over his features again, hiding his obvious desire for her. She bucked her hips against him, reminding him. He laughed. “Peace offering, huh?” He immediately let her go and flicked the box towards her. He growled. “You stole that from me.”

“And I’m giving it back.” She opened the box, revealing the white wolf head pommel from the ancient Valyrian sword he kept in one of his many safehouses. She sighed. “I realized that it really belongs with you.”

“No, you realized no one would buy it.”

She shrugged, flicking the box towards him and he caught it one-handed, setting it down on a table behind him. “Po-tay-toe, Po-tah-toh.”

“I’m not joining you again.”

Ire flared, her eyes darkening to indigo. “I am no longer asking you nicely.”

“Funny was that what it was when you tried to kill me?”

Of course he would bring that up. She waved her hand dismissively. “It was an accident.”

Jon dragged the collar of his shirt down, pointing at a knife scar on his collarbone. “That is not an accident!”

“Oh yeah, well you stole from me!”

Now it was his turn to shrug it off. “That money needed to go to the Night’s Watch,” he mumbled, arms crossing over his chest.

They squared off against each other. This was not how she planned it to go, but nevertheless. She narrowed her eyes on him, staring. He stared back. No one blinked. Until they were at each other, grappling, tugging, and tearing at each other, mouths a frenzied clash of tongues and teeth. She drew his tongue in between her lips to slide along hers, moaning into his mouth when his large hands slipped from her shoulders to cup the sides of her breasts, straining in their cashmere sweater cage. She lifted herself against him, remembering every feel of him, every dent and ridge of muscle, every nervous quiver, and every bump and drag of scars.

He tore from her first, a hand tangled in her immaculate braids, fingers digging into the ridge of her skull, and another on her hip, holding her to him. “The answer is still no,” he whispered.

Dany shook her head, whispering. “You haven’t heard my proposition.”

“I’m out.”

“Even when I tell you the mark?”

He shook his head again, although she knew him. She’d known him since they were teenagers, misfits and unwanted, trying to scrap by on their wits and wiles. They had bled together, fought together, fucked and almost died together. They’d gone to jail together. She nibbled his lower lip again and he flinched, barely, but she felt it. He still wants to know. “No,” he repeated.

“Yes.”

“I don’t want it.”

She cocked her head, her fingers smoothing over his cheek, dropping to cover his heart with her palm. Eyes steady, breath even, she smiled again. “I need my second Jon. I need my partner.”

They all wanted her to bring in someone else. Even someone she might have worked with in the past, none of them matched to the trust she had with Jon Snow. He was her equal, the one she could trust above all else, the one who knew her deepest and darkest fears and desires. Jon Snow came from nothing like she had and built himself up. He was the only one she would ever feel comfortable doing this job with.

There was also the fact that she was still in love with him.

Trivial thing really, she lied to herself.

Whatever they said about him, she didn’t believe it. He was out, he was done, he’d gone straight…all lies. He was just like her. They were wild, they could not be tamed, and he could never settle for a boring law-abiding life.

The irony of Jon Snow was he was the most honorable criminal she had ever met.

“No.”

Now it was time for the final play. Her other hand cupped his head and fingers twirled with his hair at the base of his neck. “Even if I tell you that we’re going for the Targaryen crown and dragons?”

His dark eyes lifted to hers, his breath stilled. He said nothing.

Her tongue dabbed her upper lip, her pupils dilating wide, smile curving again. “The crown and the eggs will all be in a single location, for the Conquering Day Celebration, and Tywin Lannister himself will be there, to give a speech, to commemorate the day. Robert Baratheon, Cersei Lannister, and that little fucker Tyrion will all be in attendance.” She brushed her nose over his, whispering. “Can’t you feel it Jon? That wolf inside your heart? The one howling? What does he want?”

She knew what it wanted, just like he did. All she needed was for him to say it.

Jon closed his eyes, shivering, and his arms tightened around her. “Revenge,” he murmured. He didn’t need to say it but draining the Lannisters of their stolen riches would also be a bonus.

“Exactly.”

He gazed down at her, lips dropping to hers again, and she knew it. She knew before he even whispered the words to her, before he kissed her and before they decided to start talking terms.

“When do we start?”

#jonerys #jonerys au #my fics #my moodboards #jonerys fanfiction #jonerys drabble #criminals jonerys #robin hood jonerys #had to get this out of my system

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bangchanzz · 4 years ago

Text

Lover’s Paradise

Chapter 5

JEON JUNGKOOK X READER

Summary: Idol!Jungkook and Celebrity!Y/N have been friends for years. For both of them, their friendship has always bordered on more than friends, but neither of them are brave enough to take the leap of faith and confess. But when Y/N hosts the boys of BTS at her suave LA mansion and somehow finds herself sharing a bed with Jungkook, who harbors a few dark secrets of his own, things spin out of control. Tensions rise as she shows them a glimpse of her suave superstar lifestyle, and secrets come out that could change people’s lives forever.

Warnings: Severe depression and anxiety. Mentions of suicide. Eventual smut. Mentions of sex acts. Virgin!JK. Mentions of drug and alcohol use. ANGST

Word Count: 4.4K

Author’s Note: OH she’s angsty. We love good old miscommunication as a plot device :) Enjoy! Let me know what you think!

Lover’s Paradise Masterlist

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Chapter 5

YOUR POV

You were roused from the peaceful clutches of sleep by the unmistakable noise of someone throwing up.

With a sigh you flung the covers back and slid out of bed, wincing slightly as your feet hit the cold hardwood floor. You walked to the bathroom to find Jungkook’s retching form slumped over the toilet, one cheek pressed to the cool rim. The acrid stench of vomit had you gagging in the doorway.

As an avid drinker you yourself had been in the very same position many a time and had sympathy for the poor kid. Alcohol was one tricky drug that unfortunately took a while to master.

You sat down beside him and brushed his hair back from his face, your other hand rubbing soothing circles on his back.

He looked at you, his soft brown eyes brimming with misery, tears streaming down his face. Your heart clenched. You wanted nothing more than to take him in your arms and ease his pain like you did last night, but that wasn’t an option right now.

“I don’t feel good,” he sobbed.

“I know,” you replied. “I’m going to get you some water, okay? Stay here.”

He could only nod before another wave of nausea hit and he started throwing up.

You felt bad, but as a sympathetic vomiter you couldn’t get out of there quick enough.

In the kitchen you found Namjoon and Jin enjoying a breakfast of fresh fruit.

“Hey Y/N,” Jin said cheerfully. “How was your night?”

“My night was fine,” you said, reaching for a glass from the cabinet. “Jungkook on the other hand… well, let’s just say he is currently paying the piper.”

The two older boys shared a concerned look.

“How bad?” Namjoon asked.

“He’s throwing up,” you responded, filling up the glass, “and I don’t do very well with vomit so do you guys think you could…?”

“Yeah, of course,” Jin said, grabbing the glass of water from your hands and heading upstairs, Namjoon in tow.

You sighed and leaned against the counter. Now what? Going upstairs wasn’t an option, but you were still exhausted, so you wandered into the living room to find Brandon watching Netflix on the couch.

“Hey,” you said, slumping down next to him and immediately leaning into his side.

“Good morning, Princess,” Brandon said with a grin, slinging his arm around your shoulders and planting a kiss on your temple.

“Jungkook is throwing up in my bathroom so this is my bed now.”

“Ah,” he responded absently, moving to lie down on the couch and pulling you with him. You settled in easily to the shape of his body—something you’d done a thousand times before. His cinnamon and clove scent draped over your senses, the sensation familiar and inviting as he traced little circles on your bare thigh.

But as your eyes drooped and you slowly faded into sleep you found yourself reliving the ways your body had fit into another boy’s; what it had felt like under his touch, and you found yourself wishing the body pressed against yours belonged to someone else.

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JUNGKOOK’S POV

After what felt like an eternity of throwing up all the food he’d eaten in the past 72 hours, Jungkook made his way downstairs to rejoin society. But as he descended the stairs he froze at the sight before him on the couch.

It was you and Brandon, both sound asleep with some sitcom playing softly on the TV.

He realized with no small amount of envy that the two of you fit together perfectly, like matching puzzle pieces. The two of you even looked good together, like you were destined to be a matching set.

A queen to his king. That’s what this was, and Jungkook was a fool for denying it. Brandon was a king in his own right; a king ruling over a broken kingdom of fame, sex, and designer drugs forged in ecstasy under a dusky palm-studded boulevard. He was a king of rowdy nights and drunken whispers displayed across billboards in neon lights, and as much as Jungkook wished he could deny it, that was your scene. You ruled beside him, untouched and unbothered by the inherent filth and dishonesty of it all, rising to your crown on waves of pleasure, both synthetic and carnal. You were a sex goddess, a party queen, an icon of higher living and its immortalizing qualities.

And Jungkook could never keep up. That was a scene so displaced from his normal life that he couldn’t even imagine it. He didn’t belong in your world., and he never would.

So Jungkook sealed away his heart and walked back upstairs where he surrounded himself with the better memories of you and let his soul bleed out in the soft morning light.

***************************************************************************************

YOUR POV

You woke up a few hours later to Brandon tossing you on floor like a sack of grain.

“I gotta piss,” was all he said as he stood up from the couch and walked to the restroom.

“Ass,” you called after him.

“Oh good, you’re awake,” Yoongi said, descending the staircase. “Ready to work on the album?”

“Yeah, let me just go get dressed.”

***************************************************************************************

The first writing session went fairly smooth. You talked about concepts and possible tracks, always making sure that the boys were as involved in the prosses as possible.

But throughout the course of the day, you couldn’t help but notice that Jungkook seemed to be avoiding you.

He made a point not to be close to you and would only answer you in one-word responses. You shoved the resulting gnawing feeling away because you were working, but once the session was finished and they boys left you alone, your mind couldn’t help but drift back to Jungkook.

Is he still embarrassed about the other morning?

No, we settled that.

Is it about the cuddling last night?

No, he seems more mad than embarrassed...

Is it something I did?

Should I talk to him?

Thoughts tornadoed around your head, so loud and forceful you felt like your skull might burst.

Just then, your stomach growled, so you got up, deciding it was late enough in the day for dinner.

You left your writing studio and headed towards the kitchen, but before you got there you were met by dozens of people carrying what looked to be party supplies through your house.

“What the…” you started, but then saved your breath. You already knew who to yell at.

“BRANDON!” you yell, stomping past a procession of men carrying kegs and straight to the backyard, where you found the Party General himself signing for a giant chocolate fountain on the patio.

“Yes darling?” He asked innocently, not even deigning to look up from his paperwork.

“What the hell is this?” you hissed, gesturing to a giant ice sculpture of a fish being placed in the yard.

He handed the clipboard back to a young man in a uniform who took it and left, leaving the two of you alone.

“Well,” he says, looking over his sunglasses at the ice sculpture and then back at you, “I believe it’s a koi.”

You resist the urge to slap him. “Every day I grow closer and closer to killing you in your sleep.”

“Oh, goodie.” He says. “I do love surprises.”

“Clearly,” you seethe, gesturing to the party decorations throughout the yard.

For a moment, neither one of you speaks. Brandon merely stares at you with mirthful innocence as you glare at him and fantasize about playing air hockey with his kneecaps.

“Since when are we throwing a party?” you demand finally.

“Since a few hours ago,” he shrugs, as if it’s no big deal.

“And when were you going to tell me?” you demand.

He shrugs again. “You were working, I didn’t want to bother you.”

You roll your eyes. “Oh, how very noble of you.”

“Why thank you,” he replied, his eyes twinkling with delight at your obvious rage. “I’m inclined to agree.”

“Did Caleb agree to this?” you demand, trying to figure out if you had an ally or not.

Brandon snorts. “He’s the one who came up with the idea. I just made it better.”

You stare at him, trying to sort your jumbled emotions into a coherent thought.

He reaches over and pats you on the cheek. “You should go get dressed. People will be here around nine.” And with that, he walks away to intercept a courier carrying a large floral wreath.

What even was the theme Brandon was going for anyway?

You decided that you had no choice but to go along with it, however pissed you were for being left in the dark. So, you trudged upstairs, nervous that Jungkook might be in your room, and wondering what you’ll say to him if he is.

You weren’t sure if you were elated or disappointed to find him missing. You tried not to think about it at all.

Instead, you threw yourself into getting ready, finding peace in your makeup routine. You decided on a natural eye and a red lip that perfectly matched your favorite red party dress.

It was made of a satin material that reminded you more of a nightgown than a dress, but you liked the way it shimmers under party lighting. But what you really loved about this dress was the cut outs right below your breasts that showed just enough underboob to be alluring, but still tasteful. You threw on some gold gladiator stilettos and the layered gold pendant Brandon had gotten for you for your birthday last year. Lastly, you braided your hair and coiled it around your head, making it appear like a crown. By the time you descended the staircase a little after nine, the party was already in full swing.

You immediately spot Kenzie in the hallway and ignore the gaping stares of unfamiliar party goers whose eyes you feel on your body from a room away.

“Y/N!” Kenzie squeals, spotting you. “We were just about to come find you!” she says, pulling Arthur towards you.

“You found me,” you say weakly. “Now let’s get me a shot. Or six.”

Kenzie furrows her brow. “Oh god, what happened today? Did the writing session go poorly or something?”

“No,” you reply with a shake of your head. “It went great actually. I’m just in a weird mood.”

You can tell by the hesitation in her face that she doesn’t quite believe you, but she sees something in you that doesn’t make her push further, and instead, dutifully pours you six very full shots of vodka, which you don’t hesitate to drink.

You had spotted Jungkook a few times, but he was always too far away to ever go to him, so you had stayed mostly with Kenzie and Arthur until they disappeared to go make out somewhere.

You found yourself alone in the kitchen, staring at your phone, until someone was suddenly standing right in front of you. You look up and meet Brandon’s drunken smile as he wiggles a small bag of white powder in your face.

“Wanna do some coke with me?” he asks, his grin all teeth.

You stare at the coke for a second, weighing your options. But ultimately, what have you got to lose? Not much these days.

“Sure,” you shrug. “You cut the lines.”

Brandon makes a very drunken high-pitched noise you think is supposed to be a squeal as he clears a space on the island and pulls out his wallet.

He goes first, using a crisp one-hundred-dollar bill to inhale the fine white powder from the marble.

You go next, wordlessly taking the rolled-up dollar as Brandon sniffs next to you. You do one line, and then another, wincing slightly as the drug bit the back of your throat.

The high is almost instantaneous, energy suddenly gracing your jittery nerves.

You turn to Brandon, his eyes twinkling and his smile giddy as you reach up and wipe a bit of cocaine from right below his nose. You pop your finger in your mouth, rubbing all over your gums until that familiar numb feelings takes a hold of your mouth.

“Hey, I got you this,” Brandon slurs, obviously very, very fucked up. He outstretches a shaky finger to trace the necklace you wear, taking the jeweled pendant at the end between his thumb and his index finger.

You chuckle. “I thought Caleb picked it out.”

“But I paid for it!” he protested, swaying slightly. “And just because he saw it first doesn’t mean he picked it out. I have good taste.”

You laugh. “Yeah, okay, your one virtue is good taste in jewelry, I’ll give you that.”

He leaned in close, his mouth almost touching the shell of your ear. From here, you could smell the tequila on his breath. “Don’t look now, but Jungkook is staring at us,” he whispered too loudly to really be considered a whisper.

You whirl around to follow where Brandon is looking, but you only catch Jungkook’s broad back as he walked away from you.

Brandon smacked your thigh. “I told you not to look!”

By now you’re frowning after Jungkook and Brandon really is in no mood to deal with your stubborn crush, so when you turn around, Brandon is gone.

You wonder how much Jungkook saw.

It wasn’t that you didn’t want him knowing about your partying habits, you just didn’t want him to find out like this. You were afraid that he might see you as irresponsible or immature, as many people did when you merely mentioned the word ‘cocaine’. You realized with no small amount of discomfort that you actually cared what he thought about you. You didn’t like this new feeling.

You head back out into the party, hoping to find Jungkook and maybe talk to him, but before you can accomplish that, a group of friends call you over, and you abandon yourself to the revelry, letting the drugs in your system wash through you with a euphoric high.

***************************************************************************************

The good thing about coke is that it hits fast.

The bad thing about coke is that it’s over fast.

Soon, your limbs felt heavy, the day’s work and evening full of wrecking your body finally taking its toll. You slip away from your friends, desperate to go upstairs and get away for a moment.

The piano music greeted you before you even set foot in your bedroom.

It was a sad melody, a tune that sang of loss and heartache and a sorrow so soul-deep it left scars.

You softly cracked the door to your room open to see Jungkook seated at the piano, his long fingers dancing gracefully over the keys. He had his back to you, his shoulders curved inward as if burdened by an invisible weight.

You realized that you should probably say something to alert him of your presence. The moment was too personal, too intimate, to be unknowingly shared, but the soft music was hypnotic in the way that it pulled you in. And then he started singing, and your soul shattered.

It was just a hum, a simple melody over the agonizing notes of the piano, but the emotion it carried was undeniable, like the suggestion of words without actually speaking.

And to you, that said more than any word in any language could. There were moments sometimes where the saddest of music was too happy for what you felt inside, where silence was the only tune your heart could bare as it struggled to find the will to beat.

The song wrapped itself around your very bones, the sorrow in the notes squeezing until you thought your skeleton would turn to dust. You didn’t know you were crying until a tear dripped down your neck and chest. And then one tear turned into many as the rising tide of sorrow that lived deep in your stomach threatened to drown you, and you choked on a sob loud enough that Jungkook stopped playing and whirled around.

You took the split second of his surprise to contain yourself, to push those horrible demons back into their little box inside your soul and lock them away for as long as you could manage.

Your eyes met Jungkook’s from across the room, where you watched surprise and sorrow mingle in his brown irises.

“Sorry,” you choked out, clearing the tears from your throat. “I didn’t mean to interrupt; I just needed some air.” You swallowed thickly, hoping he didn’t notice.

He dropped your gaze like it had wounded him, and instead looked out the windows on your balcony towards the sea. “It’s okay. You didn’t interrupt anything important.” He eyed you carefully and you had to resist the urge to squirm under his knowing gaze. “Are you okay?” he asked gently.

“Oh, yeah, I’m fine,” you murmur, fidgeting in the doorway. “That melody was beautiful. What was it?”

There was a pause before he responded. “Nothing. I was just messing around on the piano.”

“Well, you should mess around more,” you said, your voice soft. “That was seriously good. It was like, hauntingly beautiful.”

Another pause. “You think?”

“I know so. I am a producer after all,” you murmured. “You should work on it tomorrow at the writing session.”

“Maybe,” was his reluctant response. He said nothing else.

In the silence that followed you moved to stand in the middle of the floor.

Jungkook remained seated at the piano, lost in thought. “You love him, don’t you?” he asked, doing nothing to hide the note of angry reluctance in his tone, like a cornered animal knowing it lost.

“What?” you asked, staring at his profile.

“Brandon. You love him and he loves you. It’s obvious.”

Annoyance flared through you. “God, why do people keep asking me that?”

“Because, Y/N!” Jungkook exploded. “Everyone sees the way you two look at each other, how close you are, the way you act around each other, and it’s obvious to everyone except you two at this point that you’re in love and don’t care about the rest of us commoners.” He spat the last couple words like they were poison on his tongue.

“What are you talking about? Of course I love Brandon, he’s my best friend. I love Caleb too! We all live together! We’re friends. But just because I care about someone does not mean I’m in love with them.” The annoyance inside you was slowly building to anger as you sank deeper and deeper into yourself.

“Could’ve fooled me,” Jungkook spat, taking a step closer to you. “I see the way you touch him, the way he touches you. There’s nothing platonic about that, Y/N.”

“That’s just the way we are with each other, we’re touchy people, not that my friendship with Brandon is any of your business,” you reply, ice coating your words.

“It is my business when you keep shoving it in my face!” he hissed. “And you never touch anyone else that way,” he added, almost as though it were an afterthought. He took another step towards you and you could now smell the beer on his breath.

“Oh, is that what this is about? You’re jealous?” you demand, the alcohol and drugs in your system loosening your tongue. There was something hopeful in your words, just as much as there was malice. You wanted to hurt him, but you also hoped that maybe you were right and maybe he was jealous. Maybe this wasn’t just a friendship.

You so desperately hoped it wasn’t. You found yourself willing to give anything to have him, and the thought scared you.

Somewhere in your head you knew that you had been in love with him for a while now, but it had never really clicked until tonight.

You found yourself staring at the defined lines of his jaw when he wasn’t looking, or the cute way he crinkled his nose when he thought something was really funny. You were fascinated with the way his shirt would brush up against the powerful lines of his muscled abdomen, something you found yourself yearning to see in full. You loved the smooth way he moved, like water, with his fluid dancer’s grace, even when he was doing the most basic of actions.

You loved the way your soul felt lighter around him, the way you felt better, more whole in his presence. He was like a balm for your wounded, broken soul.

You watched his adam’s apple bob as he swallowed at your words.

“Is that what you want, Jungkook?” you demand, your voice low. “Do you want me to cuddle with you on the couch, and sit on your lap in the hot tub, and put my arms around you like this when I’m drunk?” you ask, closing the remaining space between you two and twinning your arms around his neck. Up close, you could see the flush of his tan skin, and the way his pupils were blown out to hide the brown of his irises. His breath fanned across your face; his mouth frozen in the shape of an O. His body trembled beneath your touch.

Logically, you knew this was a very bad idea. He’s your friend, and nothing more. You’re producing his album, its wildly unprofessional. You should stop.

But you threw caution to the wind and you slid your hands down his muscled arms and gripped his wrists, trying not to meet the intensity of his gaze, as you moved his hands to the small of your back, slightly lower than what would be considered proper. The back of your party dress was cut low, and his hands grazed painfully slow across your bare skin, leaving tingling trails of electricity in their wake.

“Is this what you want Jungkook? Do you want to touch me?” you whispered into his ear, your mouth millimeters away from the skin right below his ear. “Because you can. I want you to.”

“You… want me to?” he choked out, his body becoming very still.

“Yes,” you murmured, pulling back to look at the starved look in his eye.

His grip tightened around your middle, pulling you flush against his muscled chest, like he had finally realized that this—that you—were real. “Y/N, I- “

The sudden knock on the door had him releasing you and stepping away, your body suddenly robbed of the warmth he radiated.

Both of you stared at the floor as the door slowly opened and the sounds of the party permeated the dulled silence. Taehyung stuck his head through the door, the rest of his figure following soon after.

“Hey,” he asked, closing the door softly behind him. “I just came up here to check on Jungkook. Is everything okay?”

“I don’t need a babysitter, Taehyung,” Jungkook snaps. He’s standing so still, his eyes so full of fire, that it honestly scares you a little bit.

“Hey,” you snap at Jungkook, letting your own anger slip its leash. “Just because you’re mad at me doesn’t mean you get to take it out on him.”

Jungkook’s eyes flare as his focus goes back to you. “What? Are you going to sleep with Taehyung, too?”

Before you really know what you’re doing, you slap Jungkook right across the face.

Taehyung sucks in a breath from behind you, but he doesn’t move from his spot.

Jungkook slowly turns to look at you, disbelief plainly etched across his face. “Did you just slap me?”

“And? Did you not deserve to be slapped?” you demand, not yielding a single inch.

You and Jungkook stare wordlessly at each other; Taehyung using this moment to quietly excuse himself.

Even after the door clicks quietly shut behind you, neither of you speak, choosing instead to stare into each other’s faces, daring the other to talk.

You observe the scowling lines of his face, the tears pricking the corner of his eyes, and you realize he looks more betrayed than mad.

And it breaks your heart to see him look like that.

“What the hell was that?” you finally demand, breaking the silence.

“I should be the one asking you that,” He huffs, eyes flashing with hesitation.

“What is up with you? Why are behaving like this?” you ask, your eyes narrowing up at him.

He takes a step closer, placing the sharp curves of his collarbone mere inches from your face. A wicked part of you wonders how soft his skin would feel under your lips, what kind of moans would slip past his lips if you kissed just the right spot.

“You were the one who made me touch you,” he says, his voice breathy but still angry.

You were the one who made me touch you.

His words are like ice water on your skin. A sinkhole opens up inside your chest, but this time you do not fight it, you simply let it suck you in.

“Did you not want me to?” you ask quietly, but not softly.

His eyes become unreadable. “Why would I want to touch you like that?”

Everything stops. You feel the repulsion in his voice in your very bones. Suddenly your head becomes incredibly loud.

You’re tired. You are so fucking tired of this hurt, this rejection, from everyone in your life—especially yourself.

You fucked up and it’s probably cost you one of the most important relationships in your life. And now you had to live with that.

“Don’t worry, I won’t be doing it again,” you say flatly, your voice devoid of any emotion. You felt yourself shutting down.

You realize you’ve let your mask fall—the façade you cloak yourself in to mask the pain that’s always lurking just below the surface. You typically don’t let people see you like this—the real you. The dark truth of your heart.

He’s looking at you with a mixture of hurt and anger and you can’t stand the way his eyes search your face with feverish unfamiliarity.

You can’t bear to stand here with him anymore, not when you feel your heart shattering into little pieces.

It’s over.

You fucked up.

Live with it.

You don’t say a single word as you lock yourself in the bathroom; he lets you walk away.

You turn on the shower so no one can hear you cry, and you scream into a towel until your heart feels empty and your limbs are heavy.

You don’t see Jungkook for the rest of the night.

#jungkook #jeon jungkook #jungkook angst #Jungkook smut #Jungkook imagine #Jungkook scenario #bts #bts jungkook #bts imagine #bts angst #bts smut #bts scenarios

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punsandfuturekingsmen-archive · 4 years ago

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//If you go to read this, also consider reading Splatter’s original version here!

A lot of the events are very much the same as they are in that piece, and the dialogue parts are pretty much word for word since it’s from Splatterlewis’s perspective! I just added a bit from Arthur near the end and here and there, and just played around with describing things haha.

He thought that might be the end of it, or at least he thought he knew what to expect next, given his own history with his own Lewis.

So when the next flash didn’t involve trucks or fights with tree yokai, he felt confusion fuzz at the corners of his brain. No… it was somewhere deep and dark. He wandered in some kind of stupor, filled to the brim with a hundred thoughts and feelings, all of them cutting at his skin like knives and a rage that continued to burn in his chest. The rest was vague to leave an impression, but it still stabbed at him as he stumbled along.

But even in the haze he wandered in, he noticed when something began to stalk him from the shadows. The signs of their presence were clear: the area seemed to shift green and bleed it from the earth and sky. Smoke filled every nick and cranny, thick enough to choke on by any who might need to breathe.

He felt himself pulled from the daze with a snap. Something about the spirit set off alarm bells in his mind and left the hairs on his arms and neck standing on end. The smoke and the green consumed everything, the shade just right to remind him of somewhere else. His brain fired on all cylinders, trying to remember anything Vivi might have said that could help him. All that came to him was that this was something powerful. Something dangerous.

He still couldn’t see it in the smoke, but he could feel the weight of its presence. He called out for it, shouting into the green void an almost challenge. Seeing the cave’s greens made him wonder, and he asked if it came to finish what was left of him. The cry reverberated around him in the emptiness, seeming to ricochet off smoke.

The feeling of something dangerous grew stronger, rocking against him like a crescendo in a song mourning his end. But he didn’t want to end here, and his hands ignited with shimmering violet-pink flames. His eyes darted around the whole of the place, searching for movement.

A laugh alerted him, though the aura of power from the thing that found him might have done just the same if it hadn’t. A voice old as time and antique in accent spoke. The tone was something that itched at his skin..

“Boy, I have never met you… Lewis, is it? Such a lovely name, for a lovely soul… So full of fire, of power, and rage. Why would I wish to drive you to hell, when you are the key to my freedom?”

He could feel himself heating up. The fires in his hand seemed to brighten until they blurred the air at the edges of each flame. His hair felt warmer, and shades of pink glistened and reflected off green smoke from where it was now glimmering, ready to ignite.

A clarity struck him, that this was not what he’d met before. It was something greater.

“Show yourself!” He called for the thing, teeth flashing in a grimace. Anger bubbled at the notion of being scared by this thing. By it trying to intimidate him. He was not about to lose, not after everything he had gone through.

But then they obliged.

The skeleton that moved into view was verdant, a hue of green that was deep and dark. Scant remains of decaying flesh still hung from putrid bones, and each piece that lingered had names endlessly scrawled, carved and etched into every inch of skin until they nearly lost meaning, but did not overlap. A cloth kilt and robes hung from its form and swayed with the steps it took, barely clinging to the emaciated remains of the creature and worn in places to threads.

On the head of the skull was a carving. One that recognition pricked at him distantly for. It was the one he’d seen on Lewis’s head for years. But this one, blackened as char and cracked, seemed to give off a shadowy aura, absorbing the light to nothing around it in way that made it seem to glow. It had never looked like that on Splatter. Or… not that he knew of. But what did he really know?

The memory seized him again. “Such a demanding tone, for someone about to lose their soul… You have a fire in you, a fire I need. And you will give it, aye?”

He felt a flash of pride, or protective fury, and he pointed to the creature with a fist wreathed in fire and a glare Mrs. Pepper would have been proud of (the thought hurt as it struck him). “You can never have my soul, I refuse. No one can have it!”

The skeleton moved in a way that divulged something of its thought of what he had said, but he didn’t have the moment to process it. The corruption that hung in the air seemed to thicken and shift, forming blade-sharp arrows, tainted and green. He barely moved out of the way as they streaked by. A few sliced holes in his already damaged shirt, a testament to how close they managed to get to striking him.

With a growl that twisted his face in a snarl, he returned fire. But as the flames blasted over the creature, it stood there, taking the attack without flinching. It laughed, even at it stumbled back from the force, seeming wholly unfazed.

The shock after seeing what his fire could do held him still, and it was enough for a return blast from the skeleton to strike true. The bolt crashed against his chest, the pain hard and heavy and making him double over with a wheeze. He gasped for breath as if he needed it, clutching at his bruised chest and stomach.

The creature seemed amused and its tone held danger, a promise of a cruel fate. “You have no idea who you fight, boy…. In life, centuries and centuries ago, I was once known as Professor Hean Feramin. A genius of studies of names and their power and origins, as well as medical studies… But now, in death, I am known as ‘The Splatter Man’… Do you have any idea the number of people I have killed? The souls I have claimed and the power I wield…? The hordes of monsters that followed me, and respected me, their king?!”

It laughed again, something deeper, and with a flare of green smoke, a quill formed that he took between thumb and forefinger. It twirled with a flourish as it brought a skeletal hand up as if to write on a chalkboard, stroking the tip of the quill against the empty air.

Where it scratched, letters formed, Large and flamboyant in a way letters often were when they began a chapter of a book, like fanciful olden English. Each letter that adorned the air became red, droplets of it falling off and towards the ground.

His head began to spin, and he stumbled.

He didn’t realize when he hit his knees, but he was on them now, the energy to return to one knee felt like it took all he had. His stomach lurched and a sense of exhaustion burned at his eyes.

The Splatter Man held the quill as if poised for the next letter, but instead he twisted the quill against his palm and crushed it to nothing, blood dripping from his hand where it had been before fading.

Hands laced behind his back, the Splatter Man approached. He could see even more names along the pallid skin, burned in or cut in jagged lines. The skin on his face was gone, and he could see fire-red embers aglow in the sockets, sizing him up. He felt something touch his feet. Something scaly and thick, and the sound of hissing told him what it was.

“Are you starting to understand? I can use your name against you, I can learn any name by staring… And everyone’s’ name holds their soul, their strength… And can be manipulated… Hold still now, and welcome the warm embrace of death. You will free me from this prison.”

He was down on his knee, fighting for that will to stand again, hissing through his teeth at The Splatter Man. He could feel blood soaking the tatters of his shirt, spilling red in thick rivers from what once had been the scars of his death. They were open now, weeping blood until he was slick with it. Weakness had sunk into his bones. His thoughts slipped to his name, but they quickly snapped back as a boney hand found the front of his shirt, gripping the fabric tight. He was sure of one thing.

The Splatter Man was preparing for the kill.

The thought ended nearly the moment the hand lifted, hoisting him easily into the air. He gagged, choked on blood and agony, and looked down at The Splatter Man, panic seeping in and turning everything icy. He was aloft, feet not touching the ground.

Fear crept along his spine. A fear he’d only felt once before.

It made him sick.

He could hear the way a smugness threaded the chuckle of the Splatter Man. He watched, limp in his hold as his free hand twisted, and a dagger formed, hilt curled perfectly to his hand. The gemstones along the hilt glittered with the green light, and the runes also etched almost seemed to glow in their reflections.

He realized what the intention was, when the dagger raised back with the hand.

It came forward at an unnatural speed, piercing his chest over his heart so hard he felt sure he was about to cave inwards. He screamed, screamed as he felt like he was being torn asunder, screaming louder than he thought himself capable. Blood seeped around the blade and it ripped another cry from hi as the dagger twisted, cutting deeper, opening the wound ever further. His chest was on fire and his voice gave out as his scream reached a climax, even his own ears ringing with the sound. The tendrils of corruption magic began to ebb towards the new wound, and he felt slithering along his clothing, before seeing the snakes he’d only heard and felt. They also pressed against the bleeding wound in his chest, and a sound escaped as it seared, the curls of his shirt at the edge of the blade blackening from the heat.

“Ah, you have some fight in you. Good, I will need that… You will free me from this purgatory. This prison. And I shall reclaim my throne… The death left in my wake will be unlike anything this world has ever seen, and you will help me, boy. Your essence will be mine.”

The torture burning him turned to lava, melting through the wound and his veins and then melting down to the organs and viscera. The sounds he thought he would make were gone now, rendered to silent convulsions. He could hear something, and he swore it was his soul, creaking and shuddering as agony struck blows that threatened to crack it in pieces.

But he grit his teeth, jaw squaring, and a snarl crept along his face. He couldn’t end here. Not when…. Someone needed him. Someone….Vivi.

Vivi.

VIVI.

VIVI! HE HAD TO PROTECT HER!

HE HAD TO PROTECT ALL OF HIS FRIENDS!!

A second wind surged through him, his heart beating fast and wild as his eyes widened. Gold light reflected off the bone in front of him from them. The skeleton paused.

“NO! I SAID. THAT. I. REFUSE!!”

His fingers stiffened on one hand that he reared back with, and then he jammed it forward, letting them force their way through the bones of the Splatter Man. His fingers searched blind, until he felt something. It felt rotted, soft and dry like the withered husk of a jack-o-lantern left out far past Halloween, and his fingers squeezed it to his palm.

The Splatter Man flinched as he did, yelling himself, and then howling as his flames returned, glowing violet inside the skeleton’s chest and hungrily eating at the thing left in his hand.

The Splatter Man summoned things, things that snapped at his body and slashed at his skin. Magic that pounded against him with bruising, bone breaking force. But he didn’t let go. He didn’t falter. His eyes stayed focused on his task, and his hands stayed tight around that heart as the flames began to grow and eat. He held on, determined with every fiber of his being, fighting tooth and nail for every inch over what felt like eternity locked together.

But inch by inch he gained traction, pushed further. The Splatter man’s eyes widened, a grimace taking it and a trickle of fear seemed to stitch itself to the edges of his expression. He could hear it in his voice, the slightest way it quavered even with his anger.

“What the hell are you doing?! You will destroy us BOTH YOU FOOL! What is keeping you from giving up the ghost?!”

He ignored him, hissing in his fury like a skillet of oil. His fire crackled and popped within the other, and he grabbed the Splatter Man’s wrist with the hand not in his chest, holding tight. His voice was a battle cry.

“Because I have REASONS TO COME BACK! I will use YOU!”

His hand on that rest continued to move, shooting forwards at lightning speed. He dug his fingers into the bone of the skull in front of him, grip crushing and bones creaking at the sutures. He wasn’t sure what he was doing, but he held on, and pulled at the energy of the Splatter Man.

The Splatter Man seemed to realize what was trying to do nearly the moment he started, and he tried to pull back, retreat with fervor. The blade in Lewis’s chest came out, spraying them both with red so red it was black and bright red from the arteries and purple that glowed. It all saturated their clothing until they dripped with his blood. But he didn’t falter. Didn’t once blink.

Well. Lewis didn’t falter. He probably would have.

The Splatter Man screeched.

“Release me!”

“Never.”

The fire in the Splatter Man’s was glowing brighter, white hot as it lashing out in heated waves like solar flares. The skeleton screeched, something high pitched and bone grinding, and he just leaned closer feeling vitality running through him, strengthening him.

He screamed one last time, and then his skull gave way beneath Lewis’s other hand, crumpling inwards like dried paper beneath a vise grip.

Purple and green light flashed, and Lewis fell the short drop to his feet, and then his knees. He panted for breath, clutching his chest, but watched with a sense of satisfaction as the skeleton crumbled, falling to pieces on the earth in front of him, a hallowed husk.

But with that power came a price, and he could see it seeping into the tips of his fiery hair, that curved just over his eyes. What had been pale shades of embery pink was now shifted, flickering green. Thoughts were flicking through his head over what the Splatter Man had meant and triumph at defeating him, even if he was exhausted by the effort. He could feel the power now, pulsing through himself.

Clambering to his feet, he rubbed at his face, before looking up, and seeing the same emblem that had adorned the skull of The Splatter Man, hovering in the air. It still glowed as it seemed to hum, before it arced forward, making him jump. It slammed against his forehead and he screamed as it burned, melting, burning through his flesh and then further into the bone of his skull and just a little further still until the imprint was etched into him, unmistakable for what it was. It continued to burn and burn and tear at him and—

Arthur woke up screaming, hand going to his forehead and chest where blood had started streaming down the side of his face and torso, down along his side where he was still pressed into the grass. His fingers turned slick as he held them against his forehead and shirt and he squeezed his eyes shut, shaking so hard he convulsed where he lay.

He couldn’t die. But at this point he almost wished he could.

#tw injury #tw blood #drabble #the splatter man scene #arthur speaks #ic #M!A: Memory Pain #aaaa this fought me which is sad because i had the original to reference a lot jdjdjdj #but well i did ittttaaaa #splatterlewis mention #long post #and now at least a short nap jdjdj maybe a full rest #we shall see

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the-roanoke-society · 4 years ago

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now i have a story that i’d like to tell...

about this guy you all know him, he had me scared as hell! / he comes to me at night after i crawl into bed / he's burnt up like a weenie and his name is fred!

horror aus part trois. part one can be found here, and two, here. all warnings and disclaimers still apply--as does the love.

do you dare dare journey below the cut...?

it’s a long way down, a long way down - a holy hell au inspired by the creep series

there are stories are stories on stories on stories about matches made in heaven. about two pure souls destined for the other, finally reaching a ‘happily ever after’ after going through trials and tribulations that, honestly, are played out and boring.

that’s exactly what fergus macleod would tell you, anway.

he’s been inhabiting his mortal coil for a few decades now, engaging in his favorite activity--serial murder.

but lately, something has--gone out.

he’s lost his light. his passion for killing.

so he gets an idea, and puts out an ad for a videographer.

he’ll make a documentary, he decides. a magnum opus to relight the blood and the violence that had brought him so much joy over the years.

what he didn’t expect was andi.

not her beauty. not her courage. not her wit, sharp enough to make a god bleed.

and not her fangs, and a thirst to rival his--even if her moral compass was a bit more lawful.

enough of stories about matches made in heaven.

talk to me about a match made in hell.

(these--particular films are not easy watches, though i personally enjoy them. the sequel is my favorite, but remember when i said ‘explicit sexuality’ in the first warning post? the especially applies to creep 2. when i imagined this au it was less in-line with the main narrative of the movies and more, say, a meet-cute story you’d overhear at an addams’ family function.)

mini soundtrack sampler includes: lovelytheband, ‘buzz cut’ + catfish & the bottlemen, ‘longshot’ + albert natural, ‘sara loves her juicy fruit’

red sun rises like an early warning - an ancient cares au inspired by sleepy hollow

sleepy hollow was often called a “sleepy” village, in the way that meant that nothing ever happened there. marie van tassel, daughter of the richest man in town--and immediately intrigued by the arrival of one police constable walter vaughn, sent all the way from new york city--would disagree. especially in recent years.

the headless horseman had returned.

and marie, for all the occult studying she’d done far from the gaze of her father’s watchful eyes, still so haunted after her mother’s brutal and untimely passing--couldn’t figure out why.

she knew exactly who he was. what he was. but why had he returned? what had woken him?

and could see really be that mournful, when it had sprung start the machinations of fate that brought walter right to her doorstep?

“i have shed my tears for boom... and yet my heart is not broken. do you think me wicked?”

“no... but perhaps there is a little bit of witch in you, marie.”

“walter, why do you say that?”

“because you have bewitched me.”

mini soundtrack sampler includes: frank sinatra, ‘witchcraft’ + creedence clearwater revival, ‘i put a spell on you’ + the rolling stones, ‘sympathy for the devil’

drunk and driven by a devil’s hunger - a safety nets au inspired by apostle, co-starring @agent-thorn

it was only five years into the birth of an entirely new century, and her twin brother had been taken; her father, lost in his grief, was utterly useless.

it was all up to parker jensen.

she found a fake pass easy enough, slyly dancing her way through conversations with began with “you know, i don’t remember seeing you at any of the prayer meetings...” until finally, finally, they reached that accursed island.

she’d never been to wales before.

she had no idea what to expect.

what are you supposed to expect, when you’re all alone on a solo rescue mission going toe-to-toe with what can only be described as a cult?

but ivar--son of the enigmatic priest of the island, malcolm--was a nice surprise.

the only nice surprise that she’d find.

it wasn’t until she caught jeremy, sneaking home after what she could only guess had something to do with ffion, that she got her first flash of what would be a more and more grisly truth.

this island had its own god.

and something much more sinister than genesis had happened on this soil.

mini soundtrack sampler includes: bakar, ‘hell n back’ + mumford & sons, ‘little lion man’ + neil reid, ‘mother of mine’

let that fever make the water rise - a grace & choice au inspired by the ritual

it was supposed to be like a vacation. diana hadn’t had one in at least fifteen years. vida, even longer.

so why not hiking? why not the kungsleden--the king’s trail--in northern sweden?

the first two days were bliss. nothing but rolling hills, clear skies. up until:

“ah fuck!”

“vida--shit, vida, are you okay?”

“yeah, i’m--urk!”

“all right, that was not a reassuring noise, let’s have a look at that--”

vida’s left knee went from pink to a swollen blue to an agonized, deep purple tinged with green over the course of next day. diana couldn’t bear to watch her struggle to keep up, especially when this was supposed to be a romantic break, nothing as taxing as the fieldwork happening back home.

by the light of a campfire, diana studied their map, humming. “what if we just cut through the forest?” she asked. “if we just went as the crow flies... it cuts the time in half. and you need medical attention, vida, we can’t keep going on like this.”

“has the battalion cleared this area?” vida returned her question with one of her own, eyes shining. the reflection of the fire made them look like stones polished by a river. “we wouldn’t run into anything, would we?”

diana smiled. “nothing we couldn’t handle, love, i’m sure.”

and diana didn’t change her mind when they set off the next morning... up until they found the disembowled carcass of an elk, placed up high in a tree like a religious icon.

she thought of morgan.

“diana, what--what put that up there? something had to have put that up there!”

mini soundtrack sampler includes: billie eilish, ‘bury a friend’ + two feet, ‘i feel like i’m drowning’ + coldplay, ‘paradise’

you can hear the river from my burial bed - a secret gardens au inspired by the legends of slenderman & mercy black, co-starring @agent-hood

she wouldn’t say she wouldn’t remember. she did.

it was just that caroline janson had been in therapy for so long... she was no longer sure what of shards of her memories were real, and what would be, as dr. ward would say, hallucinations.

but she knew one thing: she was glad to be coming home.

“i hope chicken’s okay for your first night back,” parker began gently. “i’m just now realizing i forgot to ask--”

caroline smiled at her, “chicken would be great.”

she watched parker’s profile, as she opened her mouth, then closed it, then opened it again. finally, she inhaled, then began, “you know... carter’s missed you since you’ve been gone...”

caroline rolled her eyes. “parker. it’s been a decade and a half. i seriously doubt it.”

“hey, who knows my brother better right now, me or you?”

that earned a huff... and a grin. subdued, but still there. “... okay. fine. but... maybe not tonight.” parker glanced at her once, and nodded.

“i understand. besides, maybe i want you all to myself for the first few days, anybody think about that?”

and caroline laughed.

and she wished that it felt like she wasn’t still being haunted.

mini soundtrack sampler includes: oingo boingo, ‘dead man’s party’ + shaed, ‘trampoline’ + corrina repp, ‘only a beat’

don’t let it shake your steady thread-cutting hand - a royals & robots au inspired by kristy

it was hardly tilde’s idea to spend thanksgiving alone harvard. but between the pandemic, the weather, and her own growing agitation at her father’s behavior...

it just seemed easier.

and it wasn’t all bad. she still had prudence, who opted to stay with her out of love (and perhaps a lack of family--but she didn’t ask). and they had run of essentially the entire campus--there were several buildings that stayed opened, even over the holiday. the library being one.

but it wasn’t until one night, when they made a late night trip to a convenience store not far from tilde’s housing that things became... strange.

“pru. ... pru!” she whispered, snacks in one hand, the other on pru’s elbow. “... i think she’s following us.”

“she?” pru asked, lowly, careful to keep her eyes down, as if they were just having a very, very difficult time decided on what kind of poptarts they wanted.

tilde, face oddly blanched, couldn’t find her voice, so she just nodded.

at the end of the aisle, a figure in dark hoodie and skinny jeans passed out of view.

one of pru’s arms went around tilde’s waist. “don’t worry. i’m sure she’s just here at the same time as us. it’s a small store.”

tilde would remember that when she got home in time to find a snuff film loaded onto her laptop.

“oh shit--oh shit, oh god--!”

this is why she preferred halloween.

mini soundtrack sampler includes: yeah yeah yeahs, ‘heads will roll’ + rihanna, ‘disturbia’ + nonono, ‘pumpin’ blood’

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indiavolojones · 5 years ago

Text

CONGRATS ON 1K @obeysme!! I am your humble servant, m. please, anything you want to exist, I will do my best to bring to u. *choked sobbing*

2.5kish words, T for blood mentions, human sorcerer!Asmodeus/demon!Solomon.

#lil bit of gore, lilith dies here too.

the main difference in this AU is that Solomon (and MC, but they don’t appear here) are demons, and the seven brothers are powerful human sorcerers. this is a wildly indulgent AU with a ridiculous amount of unnecessary lore already existing in my brain lmfao.

this is also... mostly just snapshots of a relationship. hopefully it’s not so jumpy than it doesn’t make sense!! but if anyone cares, lmk and I’ll clarify anything!

The first time Asmodeus asks Solomon to make a pact with him, he tells Asmodeus that he’d rather pick his teeth with Asmodeus’ bones. The second time, Solomon chokes Asmodeus until the other nearly passes out, only letting go when Diavolo’s disapproving frown appears in his mind like an unfortunate conscience.

The third time, a tipsy, bold Asmodeus dares to take the empty seat beside Solomon at the party, and Solomon is ready to snap.

“Would you make a pact with me, Solomon?” Asmodeus asks, as if that is their hello.

I should kill you for speaking to me, Solomon nearly says, but manages to bite it down.

At Solomon’s silence, Asmodeus reaches a wavering hand out towards Solomon, expertly painted nails catching the light. Solomon does not flinch back, too proud of his status to move--Asmodeus stops inches from his chest, before he clenches his hand into a fist and pulls his arm back.

Solomon cannot promise he wouldn’t have ripped Asmodeus’ nails from their beds should the other have touched him.

“Is this part of your attempt to work your way up through the ranks of Hell?” Solomon asks, exasperated--it would be foolish of him to not know of Asmodeus, the insouciant, flirtatious sorcerer who has charmed his way through much of the Devildom’s upper echelon. Asmodeus blinks at him, before he laughs.

(Asmodeus has a laugh like tinkling bells, and Solomon refuses to acknowledge the sound isn’t wholly unpleasant.)

“There are much easier ways to work my way up than by seeking a pact,” Asmodeus says, filled with innuendo, and Solomon tilts his head to the side, wondering how mad Diavolo would be if he just killed a human out of sheer annoyance.

“Your Prince of Hell,” Asmodeus begins, and Solomon’s eyes glint dangerously in warning, as if daring Asmodeus to speak ill of Diavolo, “He’s trying to bring peace to the three Realms, isn’t he?” Solomon blinks, before nodding stiffly, interest piqued.

“My brothers and I are some of the strongest sorcerers in the world right now. My oldest brother, Lucifer, could find a way to charm the King of the Devildom himself should he put his mind to it.” Asmodeus is drunkenly praising his brother, Solomon wants to roll his eyes.

“Then perhaps I should go make a pact with Lucifer,” Solomon says loftily. Asmodeus merely grins back, and waggles a finger with his other hand on his hip.

“Lucifer would never make a pact with a demon. He’s too proud to give anything up in return.”

“And you aren’t?” Solomon can’t help the soft snort.

“I’m not so proud that I’ll turn away the kind of power you offer for something as pointless as my soul,” Asmodeus shrugs. Solomon stills, the offer mildly exciting.

“It is a bold act to readily offer up one’s soul as payment,” Solomon begins, wondering if he should add ‘suicidal’ to the ‘idiot flirt’ to his mind’s profile of Asmodeus. Asmodeus tilts his head to give Solomon another smile, dripping with all the charm of his previous ones, but there’s something more there. A fervor that Solomon might have missed amidst Asmodeus’ flirtation, but unavoidable now that the other is loosened by drink.

“We’ll see. But in the meantime, with however much time you higher powers grant me,“ Solomon might have laughed at Asmodeus’ higher power jibe, were it not for his interest being held by the ambitious glint in Asmodeus’ eyes, “...there’s some hell I’d like to raise.”

How curious.

Obviously, he says no.

Asmodeus calls for him many, many times. As they do not have a pact, Solomon isn’t required to answer, and he takes malicious delight in turning them down. Unfortunately, as a Lord of Hell, Solomon doesn't get to completely avoid the other’s presence. More often than not, Asmodeus has somehow sweet talked his way into all of their important events in the Human Realm.

Solomon is revolted to find that some people find him… charming.

However, when Solomon feels the curl of someone’s magic around his wrist, he hesitates before banishing the tendril. Instead, he lets the tendril swirl in his palm, brings his nose down to sniff at the magic.

Usually, Asmodeus’ summons feel like a song; haunting and sickly sweet. Tonight, it sounds like a whimper, and Solomon’s inherently wicked nature stirs in interest. Iron, salt, the stench of death, of suffering that sings to Solomon. He allows the magic to take his hand, and it carries him through the realms.

Asmo casts a slim, striking figure in the center of the dark room in his fitted black suit. The glass bottle of human liquor has fallen to the side, dark liquid spilling onto Asmodeus’ carpet. Asmodeus does not look like he cares, does not look anything like the provocative, teasing sorcerer he occasionally crosses paths with.

Ah. So it finally happened.

Asmodeus’ arm stretches out between them, blood dripping from his clenched fist over Solomon’s seal burned into the floor. Solomon’s breath catches at the beauty of it in the flickering candlelight, all of his senses sizzling at the barely contained wildness of Asmodeus’ magic. Asmodeus, with his red rimmed eyes, the smears of eyeliner and mascara dirtying his face--he can taste Asmodeus’ pain just by parting his lips to the air.

It calls to him.

For the first time, Solomon touches Asmodeus; delicate, clawed fingers curl around Asmodeus’ bloody hand. Solomon wants to pry open Asmodeus’ hand, lavish his tongue to the wound he’d find in the other’s palm; he settles for pushing his thumb on Asmodeus’ wrist, feeling his quickened pace.

“What are you looking for, Asmodeus?” Solomon asks, quiet, as Asmodeus’ blood drips onto his own hand.

“Immortality,” Asmodeus says, and Solomon can’t help the incredulity in his voice.

“Really?”

“No, but it will have to do,” Asmodeus sniffs, full of young, brazen gusto--but Solomon is old, and knows that willpower will only get Asmodeus so far. Solomon cannot help but think of Asmodeus’ younger sister, still warm in her grave.

At once, the confirmation settles in his head; Asmodeus is a fool. The words do not leave his lips. Instead, he steps closer. Asmodeus watches him with stunned wonder, obediently letting Solomon open his fist.

“Very well. I swear myself to you, Asmodeus.”

Solomon brings Asmodeus’ hand to his face, presses the bleeding, open palm to his cheek. His lips part, tongue flicking out to lap at the wound. Solomon allows the shiver to run through his body at Asmodeus’ powerful blood, lashes fluttering at the sensation.

“Your soul for my oath, until death takes you.”

Asmodeus’ eyes do not leave Solomon’s, even as he nods.

“If death takes me,” Asmodeus says, his fingertips skimming across the heights of Solomon’s cheekbones.

It is almost too easy.

Asmo’s perfect skin will break under his teeth, Solomon will suck the marrow from his bones, and his soul is an assured delicacy. No matter how far Asmodeus reaches for his goal, there is no way he will be able to achieve what no other human has before.

But… Solomon thinks, a wicked, undeniable pleasure curling low in his chest… What if he does? Asmodeus, with his bright eyes and soft, loose curls--could he achieve the impossible?

Solomon realizes that he would love to see Asmodeus try.

How curious.

“I expect great things from you, Asmodeus.”

“Likewise, Lord Solomon.”

Solomon should have prepared himself for this, but honestly, how the hell does one prepare for someone like Asmo? From the beginning, he should have never expected someone like Asmodeus to act as predicted. Solomon should have just never made the fucking pact in the first place.

Mere moments earlier, Solomon had been overseeing the renovations for the grand ballroom in Diavolo’s palace--and now, he squints up at the ghastly human sun.

“Solomon~,” Asmo croons, and Solomon--with all the patience he can muster to not immediately assume his demon form and tear apart this entire godforsaken beach--looks down at him. Asmo flutters his eyelashes at him from over the rim of his sunglasses.

“You cannot keep doing this, Asmodeus,” Solomon stares down at the bottle in his hands, absolutely furious--but Asmodeus tosses an amused glance over his shoulder at the other.

“Solomon, please, call me Asmo,” he purrs, and Solomon’s response is immediate.

“No.”

“I’ll stop calling you for things like this if you call me Asmo?” Asmo grins. Solomon gives him a glare that says he clearly does not believe him, and Asmo pouts.

He touches his forehead, the center of his chest, his left, then right shoulder, kisses his index finger, and points upward, “Promise!” He winks. Solomon’s jaw nearly drops at his audacity.

“Now come on,” he says, pushing his glasses up to obscure his face and presenting Solomon with his pale, bare back, and whines, “I’m going to get sunburned, Solomon,” Solomon looks back down at the sunscreen in his hand.

Damn the pact, Solomon is going to kill him.

“I summon you, Solomon--” Asmo’s voice is a whirlwind in his ears, as it drags him through the world.

“What now, Asmo, I’m bus--” The sharp retort dies on his lips the second Solomon answers the summons, hit with the sudden, unmistakable stench of burning flesh.

“Lend me your power, Solomon,” Asmo begs, desperate, and Solomon’s eyes widen at the tears in his eyes, the blood dripping from his split lip. Curled up on the floor, his older brother Lucifer is staring at Solomon with sheer hatred in his eyes.

“What are you doing, Asmo,” Lucifer snarls, but it’s not as intimidating as it could be when Lucifer starts to choke up blood. Asmo scrambles over, leaving his own streaks of blood on the floor after him. He holds his older brother close, hands pressing against a growing dark stain on the other’s midsection.

“Shut up, Lucifer, just shut up,” Asmo laughs, hysterical, “You can lecture me later.”

Solomon breaks his gaze away from the two brothers, turning to face the center of the room. A blond man stands in front of a terrifying monster of a devil, hands dripping with his angry magic as he tries to stop the devil’s approach. Repulsive, Solomon thinks, the acidic scent of the human’s magic sickening him more than any amount of human gore could.

“What are you doing here?” Solomon asks the demon, and the blond man swirls around to face him.

“Who--” The blond says, but Solomon does not give him a second glance, stepping forward to stare down the beast, seemingly frozen in place with a strange purple glow around it. It snarls mindlessly, lost to its base desires, struggling angrily against the invisible restraints.

“Did someone summon you?” Solomon asks, hand running up the ugly, marred scales across the front of its draconic features.

“We didn’t. They did.” The blond man spits, and Solomon sees the barely distinguishable form of bones and viscera in a pile nearby. He sighs; typical humans.

“Die with the damned, then.” Solomon says.

The devil screams as it dies, and Solomon feels nothing.

“This… this is not the way it should be,” Asmo stares down at the carnage in front of him, eyes obscured by his long curls. Satan has long taken Lucifer to a healer, and now it is the two of them amidst the smoldering room.

“And how should the world be, young Asmodeus?” Asmo flinches at the words, frowning at Solomon.

Another moment passes.

“Different. Not this.” Asmo sighs, gestures at the blood. Solomon is surprised to see a hint of Diavolo in Asmo’s expression. Briefly, Solomon wonders if there are any of their other personal quirks that would mesh. He quickly shuts that down, lest some bastard higher power be listening. It would be his own personal hell should the two ever become acquainted.

“I see your eldest brother is not happy about our pact.” Solomon muses, boot kicking idly at a charred piece of rubble.

“Probably just upset I got to do it first,” Asmo laughs, but Solomon is not so sure. There’s still a tremor to Asmo’s movements, a distrust in his eyes at every dark corner. Silence lingers between them, now that Asmo is not speaking to fill the space.

Asmo’s search has seemed to bring nothing but misfortune, a friend would be concerned; Solomon is… not that… but…

“Perhaps you should give up on your quest, Asmo,” Solomon does not quite know why he says it, but it comes out regardless.

“I bet you’d love that. How boring would that be?” Asmo sniffs haughtily, one hand combing through his dirty curls, “I’m not getting any younger, now am I!”

An unknown emotion paces in Solomon’s lungs--his hand presses on his chest, startled by the unfamiliar tightness. Asmo blinks, and looks at him, expressive eyes big with something that resembles concern. The very thought is laughable to Solomon, but Asmo leans over to nudge him with his shoulder before he thinks about it any longer.

“Come on, help me burn the rest of this place to the ground.”

“My lord,” Solomon says, trying to mask the dawning horror from his expression, “Surely, you aren’t thinking of--”

“Seven of the most powerful sorcerers this century, all of whom are highly regarded in both human and Devildom hierarchies for my exchange program? Why wouldn’t I?” Diavolo grins, fist pressing against his cheek as he props up his head. The profiles for each of the seven lay splayed out in front of Diavolo, and Solomon’s dread grows at the familiar wavy curl on one of the photos.

“Are you not excited to see Asmodeus again?” Diavolo drags out Asmo’s page from the pile, and pushes it towards him. Solomon bites his cheek to stifle the grimace, opting for a neutral, hopefully believable smile. Asmo’s cheerful face grins up at him, as well as a long list of the other’s accomplishments; the list is sizable, and if Solomon weren’t so damn horrified, then perhaps he would have maybe felt a spark of pride.

“You could say that,” Solomon grits out, but Diavolo is already rattling off another round of orders for Barbatos.

“Asmo, it wouldn’t do for you to get eaten on your first day,” Solomon laughs, but there’s an annoyed twitch to his eyes. Asmo reaches out to tug Solomon’s tie from the jacket, and steps closer to examine the color. The glance he gives Solomon through his thick lashes as he does so is irritatingly impudent, but it still stirs a wicked heat in his lungs.

“Isn’t that what you’re for, darling?” Asmo hums, before deftly tucking the tie back into place, and patting him on the chest, “I prefer your turtlenecks.” Asmo sighs, putting his cheek in his hand as he looks over Solomon. One of his brothers calls his name from across the hall, and Asmo’s gaze snaps to them with a wide smile, waving his arm in recognition.

Asmo turns back to Solomon, reaching a hand out to cup Solomon by the cheek. Solomon does not flinch, has never flinched, but he’s never been pleased by Asmo’s touch. Asmo tilts his head, gives Solomon a coy smile that Solomon supposes others may find attractive.

“I’ll see you around, Solomon.” Solomon brings his hand up to brush against where the ghost of Asmo’s touch still lingers.

This… will be a trying year, Solomon sighs.

#ch: solomon #ch: asmo #pr: asmo/solomon #writing #i love indulgent aus #president cv of the obeysme fan club reporting for duty

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mrynncake · 4 years ago

Text

Khun Aguero Agnis X Reader

P A R T - T H R E E - O F - T H R E E

"(Name)! What the hell?! You're bleeding!" The brown haired female immediately rushed her friend into her living room. Of course, she was worried, her friend came to her with a cut on her cheek and an obviously tear-stained face.

"Ah, my suitcase." The (h/c) haired girl couldn't lift up her suitcase for her body felt like it was jelly. She was still shaken after what happened, she needed a lot of things to be done.

"Just leave it near the shoe rack. I get the boys bring it over. C'mon, let's treat that cut." Endorssi said as she placed an arm over her friend's shoulder, supporting her as if she'll collapse anytime.

When they were almost near the living room, (Name) quickly stopped walking for she heard different voices talking. She sighed, they already heard Endorssi's yell so why not just ignore them like she usually does.

"Seat here. I'll go get the medkit." (Name) didn't say anything, she only looked down, staring at her hands placed on her lap. She didn't know why she was still trembling. She could feel the group staring at her figure.

"(Name)..? "Ah, this voice, it belongs to Bam. Khun was probably here too. A lot of people saw her being pathetic today.

".. Yes?" The girl replied calmly, she felt a weight on her side when she said this. Bam didn't reply to the girl, instead, he pulled out a handkerchief and then placed it on (Name)'s wound. The girl flinched at the contact.

"What happened?" The golden-eyed male said softly. The wounded girl shook her head as a reply, she didn't want to tell it because there were people that she doesn't know personally.

"(Name), you better explain what happened later. Bam, can you please carry the suitcase and the backpack upstairs, place it in the guest room."

"Okay." When the dark brown haired male left, the room became quiet. Despite the wound on (Name)'s face, she didn't feel pain when Endorssi dabbed a cotton ball with alcohol on it for she felt numb.

Khun was somewhat worried for the girl, being her classmate and all. He thought that it was probably because he took the first place. Bam came back to the lounge after a few minutes.

After patching (Name) up, Endorssi asked her friends to leave the house. They silently obeyed, the group left the house.

"Can you te--" Endorssi was cut off by (Name) stating her reason.

"I left. I couldn't get the scholarship. I didn't want to burden my relatives with the school's tuition fee.."

"What about your parents?"

"Parents? They're already dead." The girl said this as if she didn't care about them. Unbeknownst to the two females, the light blue-haired male was eavesdropping on them. Khun wanted to know (Name)'s reason.

"Sorry for asking.."

"It's alright. I'm already used to it." The (e/c) eyed female managed to force a smile on her face, however, Endorssi frowned at her.

"You can stop smiling y' know." With that, the girl in front of her dropped her smile. Her lips quivered and her hands trembled as tears once again poured out of her eyes.

"I-I'm sorry.." Loud sobs escaped her throat. This was it, she broke down in front of her only friend, those tears she held in finally came out.

Khun finally walked out after listening, it was his fault, he felt guilty even though the (h/c) haired female didn't blame him. He did aim for the first place just for fun, he had everything, the money, looks and popularity. He didn't have any problem with the school's tuition fee since he's the son of the man who is part of the world's richest.

• • • •

It now was Sunday, (Name) spent her Saturday studying and searching online for an easy job that pays a lot. She was thankful that Endorssi let her stay in, so she did every chore in the house. She cooked food, cleaned the dishes, and cleaned the house, she didn't let Endorssi do anything, she did this for she was grateful.

Suddenly, the brunette's newly bought phone rang, the name of the caller was 'Dad'.

"Endorssi? Your father is calling!" Upon hearing this, Endorssi scrambled from her room and quickly answered the phone.

"Heeey, Dad." Endorssi walked up to her room to gain privacy. (Name) arranged the pillows of the couch until she heard Endorssi scream.

"WHAT?!" The brown haired female ran to the living room, and saw her friend arranging the pillows. "Dad's coming over and uh.."

"And he doesn't like other guests??" (Name) replied as if she had just read Endorssi's mind, the brunette nodded sheepishly.

"I'll call a friend and ask them to let you stay for a few days." The (h/c) haired female nodded, though, she hoped that the friend that Endorssi says was someone she knows. She went to the guest room to pack her belongings, it didn't take her that much time.

"Hey, (Name)? He said that he'll pick you up at 1 pm!" Wait, a male. Does that mean she'll be living with a male for a few days?

The girl sighed, as long as she has a roof on her head she'll be fine or that's what she thought.

There the (e/c) eyed female stood, in front of her was a fancy sports car and the side window opened and it revealed the light blue-haired male.

"Hey." Khun was looking at her with a smirk on his face.

Right now, the girl wanted to live on the streets. (Name) didn't speak but just stared at the male in front of her. Khun moved his head to his side, a sign that the girl should seat in.

The girl just stared at him as if her soul left her body, Khun sighed loudly and then walked out of his fancy car. The girl snapped out of her dazed self when Khun took her suitcase and placed it at the back of his car.

"Oh, uh... Thank you." The light blue-haired male took (Name)'s hand and dragged her to the passenger seat, he even opened the door.

The male's action made the girl wonder why he's being nice today, she hasn't heard any annoying comments from him. The ride was quiet, no one the two spoke a word until (Name) saw a job poster in front of a café.

"Wait, stop right here." The sky blue-haired male pressed the brakes with a puzzled look on his face. (Name) got out of the car without turning back and then went inside the store.

Khun waited for a few minutes, he scrolled through his phone with messages from different girls flooding him, he sighed and turned it off.

"Tsk, how bothersome." He muttered and suddenly thought of something.

If only they acted like (Name).

Wait what?

The male shrugged his thought away and then leaned on the car seat, it seems that (Name) was taking a while.

The (h/c) haired female finally came back after thirty minutes. "Took you a while."

"Yeah, sorry." The girl's voice was a little breathy since it was cold out.

"What'd you do?"

"I took a job." Khun pursed his lips and gripped the wheel, she wouldn't be working if he didn't steal the first place from her.

Another thirty minutes have passed and now, they're standing in front of a penthouse. Was it even considered as a penthouse? It looked like a mansion!

"You'll catch a fly if you keep your mouth open."

(Name) moved her head to the side where Khun wouldn't because she was embarrassed. She could hear him smirking.

"Come in." With that, the blue poppy eyed male carried (Name)'s suitcase up to the room that she'll be staying in, the girl, however, politely thanked him and followed after him.

This was expected for the rich Khun's house, it was definitely fancy enough. Everything looked like it was worth thousands of dollars.

"(Name), we're here. If you need anything just come to my room right here." Khun said as he pointed a finger at the room with gray door. He walked outside of the room where (Name) will be staying in, but was stopped.

"Ah, wait!" The (h/c) haired female took a hold of Khun's sleeve.

"Hmm?"

"I wanted to say.. thank you." When Khun looked at the girl's eyes in front of him, he could see true gratitude.

"Y' know, you don't have to say thanks to me. This is kind of my way to say sorry." Khun said sheepishly and at the same time, he scratched the back of his head.

"Eh? Sorry for what?"The girl was obviously confused by just judging from her face.

"For stealing the first place from you."

"You don't have to! I was just.. incompetent." The light blue haired male took as step forward as (Name) said this, he placed a hand on her shoulder and then leaned in just to make a sincere smile. After that, he didn't give the girl a chance to talk but rather walked to his room and closed the door.

"..."

(Name) was blushing for sure, she didn't know why, her heart was beating fast. It was just physical contact, but why was she reacting like this? Maybe it's because of seeing his face close to her own.

In the other room, there Khun sat on the ground, his back pressed against the door. He was sweating and a hand on his face to cover his reddened cheeks.

• • • •

Today was Friday, (Name) once again woke up early to make breakfast for the the two of them. She woke Khun up and made him eat.

"Thanks for the breakfast." Khun said as he sat on the seat across the girl. He expected a reply but didn't get one, it has only been six days since she got here and oh my god-- look at her eye bags. (Name) was dozing off in front of the food, how can she sleep with sitting?

"Oi, (Name). Why don't you just sleep today?" In the past few days, all (Name) does was study and work, he haven't seen her relax. In the job she took, she had a night shift. To be honest, Khun was also getting exhausted from all (Name)'s work.

"I need to go to school." The (h/c) haired girl said emphasizing the word 'need'. After eating, she forced her fatigued body to go upstairs, she missed on step and almost fell down if it wasn't for Khun who saved her.

The sky blue haired male sighed and said, "That's it. You're not going to school. And also, quit your job."

"Huh, uh, yes." It seemed that (Name) wasn't able to hear what Khun said, but atleast she said yes. The male carried (Name) to his room, for it was much larger than the guest room, he placed the sleep deprived girl on his soft king sized bed.

He sat beside the sleeping girl and caressed her pale cheeks. "You worry me too much."

It was already nighttime when (Name) woke up from her deep slumber. She jumped from the bed when she saw that it was already seven on the evening, only to be pulled back again. Khun was there, laid right beside her.

Khun moved and buried his face of (Name)'s neck before saying, "Mmm, don't go." The girl could feel his breath hitting her skin, she was thankful that Khun was behind her since her blood rushed to her face.

"I-I have to work." The girl managed to choke as few words.

"You don't have to. I already called them, I said you're quitting."

"What?! I don't have money to--"

"Don't worry about money. I'll handle it." Khun cut the girl off. With him speaking on her neck sent shivers down her spine.

"Why?" (Name) asked.

"Because.."

"Because??"

"You're my girl now." Khun said with a smirk plastered on his face.

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dearlazerbunny · 5 years ago

Text

Lie to Me (Ch. 18 of 28)

Pairings: Loki x Reader

Genre/Ratings: M eventually (aiming for a slow burn here); warnings for kidnapping and subsequent anxiety/PTSD (will be marked before every chapter)

Words: 1500

Summary: If you had to guess what the captured, traitor, trickster god Loki Laufeyson wanted or needed at this moment, a babysitter would be far, far down on the list. (Set after the events of Avengers 1.)

SHOUTOUT TO @molmcb and @jessiejunebug, who fair warning are def laughing at everyone freaking out because they know exactly where the story is going

Requested Tags: @deraniel, @iamverity, @yasnooshka24, @wegingerangelica, @themusingsofmany, @dark-night-sky-99, @tarynkauai, @stuffandstuff-stuff, @angelicshinigami, @my-current-fandom-is, @geekysimmerthings, @lokis-butter-knife

WARNING: Loki is M A D and thus HYDRA agents die sickly deaths

[[Bold+Italics = Y/N’s thoughts, Italics = Loki’s thoughts]]

Um. Loki?

Loki’s head snaps up, eyes blazing, fists curled in green magic. “I have her.”

“You have found her?” Thor demands. “How?”

“She is…” his voice breaks, words spiraling off into an abyss of bittersweet terror. “She is praying. To me.”

Thor’s eyes soften just for an instant, before his resolution returns in spades. “Then I believe you would do well to answer her, yes?”

Loki looks at his brother, standing by his side, matched in fury and determination. Ready to charge headfirst into battle for nothing but the sake of himself and yours. And he wonders how he has called himself intelligent for millennia while still being so oblivious to who he truly has had poised in his corner all this time. “Brace yourself,” he says, and puts a hand laced with green magic on Thor’s arm.

In a shimmer and haze they reappear in some sort of compound. Based on the chill emanating from the concrete walls, underground. Though he does not know their precise location, Loki can tell they have travelled hundreds of miles from where they began- how had they managed to move you so quickly?

He shakes his head. Questions for another time. Both warriors are silent as they take in their surroundings, noting the echoing of footsteps- a hallway, through the door to their right- and low chatter all around.

“This is the HYDRA they spoke of?” Thor’s voice is a low rumble; Mjolnir seems to crackle impatiently in his grasp.

“Yes.”

“Can you sense her?”

Loki reaches out through every means he has, trying to strengthen your thoughts in his mind. “Faintly. She has little time.”

“Time enough.” Without warning, he arcs Mjolnir into the ground below him, crumbling the floor to dust and landing on a lower level. The screams start scarcely before the rubble settles, and despite the circumstances, Loki spares a moment to roll his eyes. And they call him dramatic.

With Thor providing a sufficient distraction, he summons his daggers to him and slips through the nearest door, every footstep bring him closer to wherever you hide.

He comes upon his first opponent the next time he hears your voice. Do I need to, like, invoke your full name or something? Startled, he falters, and the lackey dressed in military gear almost lands a blow before Loki’s reflexes kick in and efficiently pin the man to the wall. He is dead in mere seconds, when green energy overwhelms him and seizes his heart. The body slumps to the floor, and Loki tries to regain his balance. He can still hear you. And that means you’re still alive. For now. Leave it to you to ponder the proper protocols of summoning a god whilst bleeding out in a corner somewhere. Something in his heart pangs. Keep talking to me, love. You can do it. I’m coming. By the stars, I’m coming.

Loki Laufeyson, son of Odin

When you speak his name, your connection grows stronger. He makes a hairpin turn down a corridor to his left, and bangs open a door so hard spiderweb cracks are left in the steel. It leads to a staircase

rightful king of Jotunheim

Steps are cleared ten at a time, each leap pushing him further underground

God of Mischief and Lies

When two stocky guards appear at the bottom of the steps, Loki doesn’t hesitate before putting a dagger through one’s throat, and smashing the other’s head into a concrete block, leaving a sickly trail of blood leaking from the back of his skull

Royal pain in my ass for the past year

Had any HYDRA personnel glanced at the god’s face in that moment, they would have seen a ruthless, wolffish grin overtake his features, his smile as sharp as the daggers aimed at their hearts

Um, hi. It’s me.

Loki huffs as he retrieves his weapons from yet another pair of unfortunate victims. As though it could be anyone else. As if anyone else could have worked their way into his head so quickly, wrapped their fingers around his heart so thoroughly, had their laugh running through his veins like morphine when the nights proved too dark for him to handle on his own

You’d laugh if you were here, trust me

“My sense of humor only goes so far, Witling,” he growls, “and at the moment you are severely pushing its boundaries.” His next target only has time to give him a confused glance before their eyes roll back into their head

So, I know you’re kinda in a cell

Once again, his smile turns dark, and he lets a little extra energy crackle and spiral up his arms, enjoying the feeling of pure power he’s been missing in his imprisonment. Not anymore. Would there be consequences waiting for him? Yes. But he’ll gladly take them and more if it means getting you out of here alive-

I mean, I’m gonna die either way

With a roar, he rips more pathetic beings out of his way and descends another level. You. Are. Not. Dying. Stop saying that.

Sorry, that was a joke. You know I like you better.

And I adore nothing in the world so much as you. Is that not strange?

More hallways that lead to dead ends, more rooms with no treasure to be had but the thrill of seeing the light leave another’s eyes

I don’t know if you can hear me

My love, I would wager all of Asgard that I could still hear your voice if I was frozen in the heart of Ginnungagap itself.

a prince is still a prince, no matter where he comes from

And with his shoulders steady, his aim quick and true, his feet lithe and dancing over the destruction that lay in his wake, Loki Laufeyson looks every inch a fearsome prince no one in the nine realms would dare deny

Thor loves you, even if you don’t believe it

Somewhere above him, thunder rumbles, and the building shakes with heaven-sent lightning. The telltale smell of ozone lingers in the air. Loki has seen enough battles to picture his brother now, glowing with energy as he searches for the next soul that stands in his way

try not to dagger him unless he really deserves it

A smile touches his lips. Ah, Witling. Always so forgiving.

So does Frigga

Frigga. Something low in his gut twists. All-Mother, may you hear her pleas as well as mine. Watch over us both.

Trust me, I know these things

Indeed you do, darling. Somehow you seem to know more of the world than I ever shall, and you have only seen a pinprick of what it has to offer. The thought makes him angry, makes him curl his fists harder and slam it into someone’s jaw even more ruthlessly. I will show you the cosmos, my love. I swear it.

You’re close now, he can tell, because your anguish is starting to feel like a tangible thing he could reach out and rip from the air. Your pain becomes his, his terror becomes yours. He isn’t sure if the blood lingering on his tongue is yours, his, or a mingling of both

You aren’t anything like I expected

A smirk quirks his features. I have never, ever been what they expected. I have always been far more.

Closer, closer. He is closer but your voice grows dimmer, further away. He abandons stealth for an all out run, recklessly wrenching open doors as he passes in desperate hope that you might lie behind them

but I’m glad you’re not

You’d be the first.

I don’t think I’d love you nearly as much if you were

I don’t think I’d love you

love you

An unassuming hatch cracked the slightest bit open gets ripped off its hinges so forcefully it is thrown down the hall. Light floods the abandoned space, highlighting old equipment and stray bullet casings

and you.

You, curled up in the corner, clutching an old weapon to your chest like the cold metal might keep your heart from stopping. From here, he can see jagged edges of bone, glowing white against pale skin. Your hair sticks to your scalp in a mess of blood, and drops of it trickle down your cheek, marring your face. What isn’t white is red, and what isn’t red is black and purple and blue.

Keep yourself out of trouble, Trickster. For me.

“Never,” he breathes. It is trouble that led me to you, darling, and for that I shall consecrate myself at its feet for the rest of my days.

Your eyes open, blearily, his whispered words having stirred something inside you. Though you look right at him, your gaze goes through him, seeing nothing but a shadow haloed in green light. Some minuscule part of your brain wakes up enough to say point, aim, trigger

You manage to fire off three shots before everything in you goes slack.

Some notes:

- So @christ-on-a-fucking-stick-tm decided to go and WRITE ME A FUCKIN FICLET and it’s amazing and go read it: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20631224/chapters/48990377. In honor of their utter perfection, have a chapter <3

- Ginnungagap = “gaping abyss”. It’s basically the primordial void of Norse mythos.

- Spot the Shakespeare quote! ‘Tis one of my favorite quotes, and I feel like Loki would have a (grudging) respect for the Bard.

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