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abbessofflesh · 1 month ago

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Ascensionism P1

A/N: Huge thank you to @mothmansbanker and @fuckoffbard for putting up with my ramblings, and thank you to @fuckoffbard again for beta-ing and helping flesh out my story. I would not have gotten this far without you<3

WC: 13k

Summary: For as long as you can remember, you endured blood stained visions of past lives disguised as dreams. You think they’re just that—dreams, until a strange man comes into town.

Remmick’s first love reincarnates as different people each time. After centuries of living without her, his humanity and morality chip away until he will do anything to keep her with him.

Taglist!: @boogiemansbitch , @faephoria , @doflamingadonquixote @2muchtosee2littletime @pom3granates Thank you for all the love on the excerpt!! (which takes place in part 2, whoops)

CW: MDNI 18+, Smut, Dub Con regarding Dream Sex, Unintentional Voyeurism, F!Modern!Reader, Mostly Soft!Pathetic!Remmick for part 1 but Dark!Remmick will make an appearance, Soulmates/Reincarnation, Obsessive Behavior, Stalking, Recreational Drug Use, Feral/Down Bad Behavior, Murder because this is Remmick we’re talking about, Author tries to be funny, crackfic taken seriously, gets better and darker at the end and in part 2 I promise, if i’m forgetting anything pls let me know

When the dreams began, they did so with merciful tenderness.

A younger, fresh-eyed you believed they were prophetic visions of a prince, the foresight of a romantic love story that filled you with a dangerous amount of hope. A hope accompanied by longing for that breathtaking moment where you would finally meet. In the beginning, they were benign, and the croon of a lullaby and wistful wonder would follow you into the waking world.

That naive innocence gradually degraded with each dream. As you matured, the grotesque intensity of them did too.

There was still the gentle warbling of a lilting accent, the promise of eternal devotion, and the freefall into young love. But it was accompanied with the overwhelming smell of rot, the vivid image of bodies swelling in the sun, and the anguish of being faced with a choice of allowing yourself to be stolen away or having loved ones ripped from you.

Tonight, it’s a mashup of the two. There’s a heavy and hot weight to the air, twisting gnarled roots, an ankle-long tight-fitted kirtle that was outgrown years ago and a novel concern of status. You’re wearing a skin you distinctly recognize as not yours, speaking a foreign language, yet somehow you understand the words falling from your lips.

You met him under the sturdy bough of a sycamore during the wind-down of a festival. Skin dry from the salty breeze wafting from the shore, fingers cracked and peeling. He was a bard. You cannot make out his face.

Never his face.

But the blue of his threadbare linen tunic is dazzling. So is the lilt of his voice as he serenaded you. You feel the stretch of a smile across your cheeks. The syrupy stick of elderberries as you pressed them between his lips. Heard your laugh ringing out at the crass swipe of his tongue over your fingers. Felt the warmth rushing to your cheeks when that laugh alone looked to be his ruin.

You didn’t see him again until you’re married off. Until the scenery shifts with no rhyme or reason, and you’re left standing in the woods in a dress stained with blood and ash. A vague memory of being dragged from the altar by something that can only be described as monstrous. A persistent ghastly image of him that strikes terror through you, though all you ever remember upon waking are red eyes and dripping fangs.

But you’re not awake yet.

The village was burning. Smoke fills your nose, throat, expanding into your lungs. Immediate, violent panic seizes you. Your breath comes in agonizing, painful pulls. A numbness starts to spread up from your fingertips, threatening to bring you under-

A whisper of your name slices through the fog of panic. Not the name of the person you’re inhabiting, no. Your name.

“Where are you?”

You jolt awake in a fit of heaving breaths, shooting up in bed, left with the lingering taste of ash and blood clogging your throat. Chills wracked your body as the sodden sheets twist around your damp limbs. Your pulse pounds heavy in your temples with illusions of suffocation.

A quick, frantic glance at the clock tells you that yes, you only have 20 minutes to arrive at your shift on time. Two were spared trying to calm the jittery nerves that left you trembling, only marginally successful in convincing your autonomic nervous system to calm the fuck down. From your experience, the worst of the panic would abate in the next five spent in a light-speed shower.

This is how it’s been for years. Every night.

Different lives. Different experiences. Different selves. But they all had one dread-inducing thing in common. The same fuckass nightmare demon that plagued your piteous attempts at rest.

When tentative diagnoses and logical explanations failed, you took to researching what bleary remnants you could recall from your dreams. The creature’s face could never distinctly be made out, but you caught a few terror-filled utterings of attributed names.

Nightwalker

Vampyr

Even a Nosferatu at some point, but you chalked that up to an active imagination bleeding into your slumber after a horror movie binge.

Because of this seemingly unprecedented haunting, you’ve never been one for the romanticization of vampires. You needed reliable sources, not sparkly, religious-coded bullshit that muddies your research. Not to mention the many discrepancies in the lore that make the truth as elusive as the face of your demon. In a Hail Mary attempt to feel safe, you ensured a steady stock of garlic, crosses you got a sweet deal on at the antique store, and a mix of silver and iron items strewn around your house.

Settling in a small town has the benefit of putting your mind at ease by providing a consistent sea of faces. A cozy cabin bordering the outskirts made for a perfect spot to anchor down. You had wrapped up the welcome mat that came with like it had cursed your mother, roughly disposing of it in a manner befitting personal betrayal. If you wanted the presence of a blood-sucking leech, you’d have gone skinny dipping in the creek behind your house. The same effect without the trepidation of blood-soaked dreams and piss-poor sleep.

You’re not necessarily a true believer in the supernatural, but the protective measures you have accumulated over the years alleviate your troubled mind for reasons you can’t explain.

Your roommate was as decent as they come. Charming until he opened his mouth, and then that charm was ruined forever. But you both stayed out of each other's way, said all of five words to each other annually, and split the responsibilities and the rent. It just so happened that your roommate had also been your kind of crazy, if in a different flavor. He was into survivalist, apocalyptic-style bullshit, and had no problem crafting you your own nail-infused bat after an inebriated, vulnerable confession about your troubles.

For that, you considered him a damn near best friend until a week ago, when he skedaddled right off to greener pastures. Left behind a note barely a sentence long and a glaringly obvious lack of payment for the month’s rent. It smarted just a little, though your bank account smarted more, and occasionally the thought of seeing his car wrapped around a tree on the way to work makes you feel better.

The lack of warning stung for several reasons; the most pertinent was that he knew you were out of a phone after the landline to the house was found cut, though he assured you an animal chewed it. Your own cell was awaiting repair from a fatal crack when you were shoved in a drunken altercation at your job.

And so paranoia became a familiar friend along with faulty memory and constant fatigue.

That means it’s not worth losing sleep over (ha) when your belongings fail to turn up in the place you vaguely remember laying them. But when you begin to notice an uptick in the phenomenon, a certain possession appearing where you definitely don’t remember putting it, or going missing altogether, your mind has enough ammunition to fabricate a manner of explanations, each one more upsetting than the last.

A picture of you and your childhood pet vanished off of the out-of-commission mantle. The only evidence it was there to begin with was the pristine clearing among the dust. And then, more alarmingly, clothing started to disappear. You’re prone to misplacing an item or two here or there, but there’s only so much time that passes before they turn up.

And you don’t have that many pairs of underwear to begin with.

You curse your roommate again, it becoming a daily mantra at this point as you prepare your worn-out body for another tiring shift.

It’s fitting that you meet him on a day as dreary as your dreams. Rain fell in thick sheets, mist curling around the bases of aged architecture, rising against the asphalt like steam. It painted a lovely, tranquil view, one of the redeeming qualities of this dead, small town.

You approach the bar you tend with little enthusiasm. The building hails as the town’s crown jewel, standing proud and apart from the crowded nestling of the adjacent buildings.

You breeze in, make your apologies to your coworker who waves you off with a flick of her hand. There hasn’t been a full house lately and no one sticks around town long besides the old timers. If you haven’t been so out of whack, you would have noticed the man at the bar watching you, and had been for some time.

Time sluggishly passes as you serve drinks.

The consolation that usually comes from the pacifying, dimly lit area is nowhere to be found tonight after your nightmare. Each sensation seems to wear down your already high-strung nerves, pulling you back into that moment of panic-stricken terror.

The hum of a ceiling fan and noticeable absence of a working air conditioner makes your skin slick with sweat. The permanent aroma of cigarettes and alcohol congest your throat, reminiscent of the phantom ash and blood you were hacking up this morning. The tumultuous sounds of revelry ramp up as the night goes on. More than once your trembling hands overfill a few drinks.

At least the rowdier bar-goers haven’t been seen for some time. You make an effort to be friendly enough to the customers, but the occasional, normalized harassment you’ve undergone would’ve sent you over the edge on a night like this. A murder charge definitely would’ve been in your future.

The monotonous swipe of the rag over glassware goes without conscious supervision. That dream still lingers in the back of your mind, digs its claws into your shoulders and amplifies the weighted pull of your limbs to the earth. It’s a constant effort not to shuffle your feet, but it’s a battle mostly lost as they’re leaden with the weight of fatigue.

“I think that one’s as spotless as it’s gonna get.”

A melodic drawl from the far end of the bar top pulls you from your trance with an irksome abruptness. You blink, eyes cut to a man you vaguely noted in your periphery since the beginning of your shift.

The ambient lighting curls around the angles of his face, handsome features toggling between accented and concealed whenever he adjusts his position. He meets your gaze with a seemingly sympathetic one, steady until he nods at the cup you’re holding.

His eyes glisten in the warmth of the light but they’re dark, discomforting in a way that has your grip tightening around the glass.

They’re leagues better than the beady, blood-slick ones that haunt your nightmares, but you’re still not a fan of these. There’s an emptiness to them, cold and prying and knowing, like they’re picking you apart without you having to say a goddamn word.

You blink again.

“That it is.” You offer to top off his drink as you get to working on the counters, but he politely refuses.

From your margin of view, you note his eyes seem to track your movements unabashedly. You pretend not to notice, it’s not your first time dealing with a scenario like this, and observe him as subtly as you can.

Although he was well-dressed, his dapper clothes carried a worn, lived-in appearance. The discernible smell you clocked earlier was revealed to be emanating from him. He had an earthy, musky scent that carried a faint metallic trace — not exactly pleasant, but you’ve smelt worse. A gold chain sat at the base of his neck, vanishing beneath his button-up as if weighted by a pendant or something with similar heft.

At some point during your sly examination, you notice his nostrils flaring slightly when you walk close enough. That has you pausing, second-guessing if the shower you took before work was another fevered, hyper-realistic hallucination. And yikes, wouldn’t that be karmic if you were judging this poor man and his coppery aroma when you yourself reeked of sweat and insomnia. Said sleep deprivation clouds your decision-making, and you not-so discreetly take a whiff of yourself.

Not one for subtly either, apparently – he clocks it immediately and begins damage-control, stuttering out appeasements.

“Oh– no, miss. You smell real nice. Woodsy. Sweet.”

You can’t say the same to him, but you’d been using the scent of coins and desperation as a grounding sense whenever thoughts of your nightmare reared up. So you guessed you owed him an only slightly apprehensive pleasantry, “Thanks.”

He perks like a flower receiving a plethora of water after a nasty dry spell, apparently taking your response as a go for conversation, and excitedly prattles on.

“Oh, it’s a gift of mine. Could’a been a sommelier, if my heart weren’t set on music.”

He gets a hum in response, but he’s still staring at you, and you feel more than a bit pressured to offer a stilted effort to converse with him.

“Maybe one of those airport sniffer dogs.” You muse. He does give off a feral energy. Kind of reminds you of the stray cat that comes around your house once in a while. Sweetly imploring for scratches until he decides halfway through that your hand is the enemy.

“Woof, woof!” The man chuckles good-naturedly. “I’ll have to consider that if my passion doesn’t work out.”

You take some pity on him, eyes roving over the gradually emptying bar and the rustic clock above the pool table. It’s a while before your shift ends and admittedly, your curiosity has been tickled. “What kind of music do you play?”

He brightens like you just handed over the keys to the bar and open-access to the register. This man must not have an extensive social circle, evident for several reasons beyond questionable hygiene and his ardent interest in remaining here.

“Folk, mostly. But I dabble in just about anythin’. Say, you have live music here?” His eyes flit to the radio behind the counter, an almost distasteful glint in them that vanishes when they return to you. “I would love to offer my talents.”

“Sometimes. You staying in town long?”

“For the foreseeable future, yes ma’am. There’s just-” His face twists slightly, and you come to the weary conclusion that this man has a thing for dramatics, “just one little hiccup. I’m lookin’ for an affordable place to stay. Money bein’ tight and all.”

Something in the way he says it makes you pause. This whole conversation felt off to you, though you can’t accuse him of any ill-intent without sounding paranoid. This chat between the two of you feels as though he’s fishing for something; a pervasive theatricality wound through his every word.

“There’s an inn.” You politely ramble off directions, pointing out the obvious solution.

There’s an almost imperceptible narrowing of his eyes, if you blinked you would’ve missed it. Not the answer he wanted to hear. It’s unnerving as much as it is vexing, but you tolerate your job and well-being, so you go for mitigation.

“Let-uh, let me hear something! Can’t promise you anything until I talk to my boss, though.” The rag gets abandoned behind the counter in favor of you leaning against it on your elbows.

Just like that, whatever tension was in the air dissipates. He amps up the prior enthusiasm, along with what some could refer to as charm, and pulls a hard case you never noticed from seemingly thin air, but really just under the counter top.

“Oh, you - wow. You really came prepared.”

“Sure did!”

It’s a banjo. Not what you were expecting but it oddly suits him.

He gets up with flair, brandishing the instrument like a fifth limb. And then he’s singing, a voice so dulcet and infatuated that it calls to your beleaguered soul. He had knelt for you, kissed your hand in a respect designated for royalty, unfitting of you. The echoes of it hum on your skin as you listen, enamored. You want nothing more than to find salvation in those fluctuating notes, those honeyed words offering no reprieve, voice going hoarse upon mentioning your beauty-

You flinch slightly. The striking familiarity of this scenario to the one in your dream makes you queasy, and bile with the incriminating viscosity of blood fills your mouth.

The man goes to pause, more than a little troubled by your reaction, and something like disappointment dawns on his face. You wave a hand, expression hopefully conveying the ‘it’s nothing’ you can’t ground out. Hopefully you passed it off as a bad case of acid reflux.

You shake your head slightly to rid yourself of the nausea and the residual blur cast over your vision. Now’s not the time to detach from your surroundings, and the poor dude only wants a gig. He’s just a flamboyant little guy, with no blood stained claws or grisly teeth. Get it together.

At least he’s playing a song you know, previous theatrics bleeding into his performance in a way you should’ve anticipated. His persistent efforts chip away at any lingering solemnity of yours, breaking you down until your laugh rings out in response to a few of his eccentric animations. He basks in the attention, is encouraged by it, if his increased vigor is anything to go by. The little blip in his performance seemingly slips both of your minds.

When he finishes, you applaud in a manner befitting a standing ovation. His excessive personality is contagious in his performance and successful in pulling you from your anxious, sleep-deprived funk.

“Thank you, thank you!” He accepts the praise humbly, executing a graceful bow that drags another giggle from you.

“That’s one of my favorites, actually.”

Once again, alarm bells ring in your head as that look creeps across his face again, a deceptive quality to otherwise earnest words. “Really? Ain’t that somethin’.”

The red flags he’s raising are put on the back burner as you two get to talking about music, the man - Remmick, he introduced himself as - displays a formidable intelligence of all facets of the topic, including ones broken off as subsequent tangents. At some moments it’s difficult to remember this man is a stranger, but damn is he disarming. Enough so that you allow minute aspects of your life to bleed into your answers until closing time creeps up on you.

The silent, ever-present skepticism rears its head when he stays after your last call announcement, after you begin cleaning up for the night, and after you give him a not-so-subtle hint that he’s welcome to go try his luck at the hotel you mentioned.

For a moment, you think he’s going to push the inquiry until he bids you a kind, if a bit crestfallen farewell.

Odd fellow.

—

The next day passes without the odd encounter at your work. You think you’re in the clear, until a knock at your door alerts you that your relaxing night is about to be rudely interrupted.

And of course it’s this fucking guy. All the land on God's green earth and he lodges himself nicely up your ass in the middle of bumfuck nowhere.

You sigh, resting your forehead against the door with exasperated disbelief. Just your luck, truly. With a glance at your roommate’s innovative weapon in the corner, you reckon your chances of taking him are pretty high. He’s not exactly imposing, and the threat of him is mostly limited to talking you into a coma, so you open the door with no small amount of irritation.

“Look who it is!” His eyes widen in astonished recognition. Too quick. Too counterfeit.

“What are you doing here?” Wariness has your response low and curt, displeasure ringing out clearly in your tone.

“I heard tale that a vacancy has opened up. Straight from the horse’s mouth.” His hands slide into his pockets, feet shuffling with beguiling innocence. He’s not fazed by your tone. In fact, you’d say he looks thrilled at your visible disturbance.

“…Wouldn’t that be me?” You’ve only informed a few people about your roommate jumping ship, but intel around here circulates like blood in the goddamn body. For all your chatting the other night, you took care not to broadcast that you were living on your lonesome now to an unusual newcomer. Damn loudmouths.

He laughs long enough for it to be awkward (yeah, even more awkward), shaking a finger at you like you had told him the first joke he’s heard all year. You don’t join in.

“I guess so! But no. Just word of mouth, y’know. Small town. Nice people.”

That last bit feels pointed. You get a feeling it’s a subtle dig at you. He looks right into your eyes as he says it, smiling, but forgoing his animated expressions to drive the point home. Silence stretches between the two of you and he clears his throat.

“Well, today is your lucky day, darlin’!”

Something tells you that you two have wildly different concepts of luck, seeing as Remmick is cheesing like a strange man at your doorstep is something you should be particularly enthused about. One that still smells like coins.

“Why.” Distrust pours off of you in waves.

“Rentin’ a place on your lonesome in this economy.” He shakes his head at the ground, face pinched as if the idea offends him. “And findin’ good housemates is as scarce as hen’s teeth. But! Here I am. Ready to offer you my company and my money.”

He says that last part conspiratorially, like your panties are supposed to drop at the mention of cash. Maybe pop out a tit or two. The confidence in his pitch has your mind bending over backwards trying to figure out when you were dropping hints that you’d love sharing a house with a man that checked off all the boxes of serial killer.

“What makes you think I’d be a good housemate?”

“Why, from our chat at the bar! I can tell we’re similar. You like music-” He recites with raised eyebrows in a see how close we are expression, “And I, well, I happen to be a musician. We’ll get along real well.”

His convincing points seem to start and end there, but Remmick fucking beams at you. It’s as if he’s conversing with an old friend instead of someone he met days ago. You want to chalk it up to him being a friendly fella, but a nagging feeling tells you to be on your guard.

At your silence and more than likely suspicious expression, his brow creases. Doe eyes widen in a way that threatens to break into a pout, appearance ranging from a pathetic please be my friend to a more intense why don’t you love me. A true performance so dramatic it was painful. You nearly wince.

“Can you stop with that look?” You barrel on as his mouth opens in slight offense. “You’re acting like I kicked your puppy, man. Look, these things usually take interviews. Deliberation. Not drop-ins in the middle of the night.”

“I don’t recall being offered an interview when we met the other day-” His tone and countenance suggest that you’re the one being unreasonable, here.

“Are you kidding! You think I’m going to take roommate applications at my work? At a bar? With someone I just met?”

“I reckon we’ll be thick as thieves come the end of the week. I swear on my Mama, God rest her soul.” Remmick clasps his hands in prayer to emphasize his plea.

You have half a mind to tell him to go fuck himself, and maybe his Mama too.

“How about I give you my- shit.” You ignore his eyebrows shooting up at your vulgarity. There’s no working phone for him to have the number to, not that you’re particularly eager to share it with him, but you’d like to wrap up this conversation in the foreseeable five minutes. “How about you come back in a week?”

His hands slowly lower, dejected. He grimaces, hissing through clenched teeth as he prepares an answer you know will piss you off.

“How about somethin’ on a more immediate timescale?”

“How about no.” You give him the best mean-mug you’re capable of, and he relents.

“Then I’ll be on my way. But I’ll be around town, just in case you change your mind.” The show he’s putting on is truly impressive. He throws on a polite smile that conveys his disappointment, nodding to himself as he strolls away at an unhurried pace you know is fabricated, because this man is nothing but a ball of energy.

Your heart squeezes a fraction, but one quick gander at the situation in its entirety curbs any scraps of guilt you have.

—

Remmick’s melancholic departure would be a lot more impactful if he wasn’t back the next night, claiming his shaded barstool in the corner, and you tell him as such.

“Y’know, your dramatic exit doesn’t hold as much weight if you just come back the next day.” You attempt a mirthful jibe, if only to kill any hard feelings that may be festering. He does know where you live, after all.

Thankfully, Remmick doesn’t seem to harbor any, because his demeanor enlivens at you making conversation with him, and he plays into the repartee with wit of his own.

“I held off long as I could. Gave you time to cool down...” He says that last part gingerly, like you being unaccommodating was the result of an unpleasant mood.

“It’s not even been a full 24 hours!” You blurt, more than a bit incredulous.

“What can I say? Just can’t keep away from you.” His eyes flick over you, flirty, yet fleeting enough to be respectful for an action that’s more lecherous than not when performed by other customers. The dazzling smile he gifts you after helps more than a small amount. “Y’know, there was a time when women would find it flatterin’ to have a suitor.”

“Yeah? I can find ten of you at the gas station, so.”

“Alright.” Remmick smiles a little too wide for a joke that was more than a half-truth, hand raising to clutch his pearls with a slight scoff. “Why’re you single then? That sunny personality?”

Ouch. He had a few half-truths, too. Though his good-natured ability to take a joke is contagious, so you figure you can play into the one at your expense as well.

“Burns too bright, man. They can’t handle this.” You raise your eyebrows, shrugging in a ‘what can you do’ fashion. You hope the unsaid you can’t either rings out just as clear.

“I bet.” He stares at you, a crooked grin and that thoughtful intensity back on his face.

You hum, shaking your head as you go to serve someone else and ignore the way your skin burns with his eyes on you.

—

You should have expected the misinterpretation of your attempted friendliness.

That tick you had to pull out of your arm one afternoon should’ve been taken as the foreshadowing it was, because it accurately summed up the next few weeks. They pass like a fever dream, with varying, conflicting emotions to match.

You’re wary, sure. But Remmick doesn’t strike you as the typical tail-chaser, and nothing untoward has happened in your conversations besides the pleading to let him come live with you.

The look in his eyes does set you on edge, often triggering goosebumps erupting on your flesh when you just feel them on you. It’s not outwardly lecherous, though you have caught a hint of that, too. Several times when he thought you weren’t looking.

While the general populace was mostly cordial, there’s a few times where you’ve been on the tail-end of some seedy-as-hell looks that have you clutching your keys between your fingers on the way to your car. Once or twice things have gotten physical, but the miscreants responsible haven’t come by the bar for some time. A little before Remmick breezed into town, actually, with his banjo and comely smiles.

All that said, you could do worse in terms of admirers. It is a reasonable classification to make, because Remmick comes around your job and home like clockwork, as if he had all the time in the fucking world to pester you. He is frustratingly patient with your dismissal, unlike you.

You feel like a broken record as you rehash the same talking points with thinly veiled irritation.

No, Remmick, this is not your porch. No, Remmick, it isn’t acceptable to play banjo in a stranger’s yard at 2 a.m.. No, Remmick, you can’t live with me.

The bizarre image pops into your head of you parenting him with the No, David! storybook, a round-eyed Remmick sitting criss-cross on your porch, chin resting on closed fists, ooh-ing and aw-ing at the appropriate moments. Soaking in absolutely none of the pertinent lessons you’re trying to get across.

It’s fair to question whether he’s playing with a full deck here, given the amount of times you have to hold his hand through the explanation that he is a strange, strange man, and that just because you share a similar taste in music and films, it doesn’t indicate a compatible roommate arrangement. Though you’re fairly certain he was lying about sharing your taste in movies, anyway, because he couldn’t name a single plot point of one when you pressed him further.

Unfortunately, you begin to acclimate to his Remmick-ness the longer you’re around him.

It helps that Remmick has shown up on a few occasions with gifts that are…actually welcome. Scarily accurate to your current, unmentioned interests and needs. And because you’ve made the mistake of accepting one of his offerings, the walmart-brand sugar daddy he fancies himself as (yes, the one that begs to live with you) persists until you threaten not to open the door to him anymore.

Despite your best efforts to corral your foolish emotions, his affection and attention are more than welcome. Affection and attention, period. Full stop.

He’s not alone in his gift giving, because one day you find yourself offering him something in return: a few fragrance oils you have a fondness for. You tell yourself the thrill that comes with that has a psychological attribute that lies in loneliness and a lack of romantic experience, and has nothing to do with the primal satisfaction you get when he begins to smell like you.

Anyway, it’s more for your benefit than his. You can tolerate his natural, pine-scented musk, enjoy it on a good day, but those metallic whiffs you got occasionally had to go. Of course, Remmick’s ecstatic, like he usually is when you give him the time of day and you had no qualms finding a way to stifle his happiness. The one you land on is to inform him that he reeks of pennies, and you come to the heartbreaking discovery that he thinks he smells great, mouthwatering even (his words, mind you). You accept that the two of you will have a dissenting opinion on the matter.

That becomes a recurring theme in your relationship.

—

“It’s going to be hard to fight off rumors of my suitor when I have a man that’s constantly at my work.” You greet him with one night, taking a slow gander at the styrofoam cup he snuck in. “And don’t say it’s for the beer.”

“Nothin’s stoppin’ you from confirmin’ those.” Remmick’s lips close innocently around the straw. Outside beverages are against policy, but his rebuttal was that he needed all his money for a room after you denied him yours, and you waved him off before he could beat that dead horse. The alternative was a shift without Remmick, which would be peaceful if a little boring. He also quickened the closing process by helping you clean, so you let him keep his contraband.

“I’m not sure how to interpret that.” Your heart skips a beat, and in a rush of bashful delusion, you’d say his eyes glanced towards the malfunctioning organ.

“Interpret it any which way that pleases you, darlin’.” His smile is complacent with a deliberate amount of irreproachability.

And if a grin of your own splits your face as you turn to grab a glass, that’s your business.

—

Remmick is a bit of an old soul. You clocked that from your first conversation, one you used to attribute as overwhelming, but now seems performative and stifled upon comparison with your current nocturnal chats. In the late hours of the night, his mask slips and he doesn’t take care to organize his words with his usual methodical precision.

There’s times where you sit together in easy, cordial silence more revealing than some of your discussions. You, lounging on your swing with mellow contemplation as you study him, furtive. And Remmick, perched on a step with an elbow propped up on the porch, pen between plush lips as he ponders his scripture. The creak of the wood as he shifts to document a sudden thought, the scratch of his pen against the parchment.

There’s something familiar about him, yet he’s entirely unique to you. You’ve certainly never had a man dancing a jig on your porch late into the night. You’d wish he’d take that shit somewhere else, but, okay, he’s not bad. Pretty damn good, actually. And maybe you’re a bit sore because you feel the equivalent of a female bird, mesmerized by his impressive stamina and bones that are seemingly made of rubber. It’s all well and good until he tries to rope you into his antics.

“Dance with me.” He says, tone soliciting after he caught your intrigued stare over the pages of an abandoned novel. He extends a hand and wiggles his fingers alluringly.

“Tempting as that is, no.” You savour his petulant response. He must feel a bit more dramatic than usual tonight, because his arm falls heavily to his side, clearly peeved.

“That's your favorite goddamn word, isn’t it?”

“One of them. Want to hear some others?” You huff, book thumping as it hits your lap. His responding sigh is all suffering, like this isn’t a hell of his own making.

“As long as they’re for me, darlin’.”

—

A month passes and giddy expectation stains the hours leading up to each shift. You waited as long as you could to inform him that he did, in fact, get the gig. Just to see how long he’d stick around on his own. Remmick reacted with the fervor you expected, hands clasped to his chest in gratitude despite it being out of your hands. Sarcastically, you asked if he was pleased.

“I sure am, honey. Now I get to bother you on a frequent basis.”

“Already being done, I promise.”

—

On another night, you’re riding a nice high after finding your roommates stash of weed. You guessed a few clothing items was a more than welcome trade if this was the pay off. Hell, you’d ship him more pairs of panties if he let you keep it. But he would no doubt be back once he realized the gold he left behind, and for a moment, you seriously consider fighting him for it. You could, the kid was a noodle and at one point you had a steady streak of arm wrestle victories over the last pack of ramen. Those are fond memories between the two of you. Part of your annual five-minute interactions.

And now you’ve made yourself sad, wading down memory lane while you’re inundated with raw, unprocessed emotions.

No one had ever stayed long. Romantic or transactional, last roommate not included. Not after nights of waking up screaming, with sheets soaked in sweat and terror. It’s not like you’ve been sitting on your ass about it. You’ve tried therapists — hell, even a few charlatan dream analysts on a reddit thread — but the gas money for travel got progressively less worth it when the night terrors didn’t diminish, only persisted vehemently.

It’s stifling. Maddening. Lonely.

But the cannabis helps, because for now, you’re hazy and hyper aware of every sensation that draws your attention, with less than half of them managing to keep it. It’s fine. It’s great, in fact. Not to mention the potential of the blissful absence of dreams, or at least the memory of them come morning.

Normally, a knock at the door while stoned will send you into rubber-room paranoia, but you know who it is. You know that knock, have heard it nearly every night. It’s your friend. Remmick, who was keen on wasting his own time for the simple purpose of wasting yours too.

Tonight, you throw open the door with too much enthusiasm and pretend to nurture his demented idea of living together. He presents a hard-fought case, with potent impenetrable reasoning you find yourself nodding along to. Fortunately, you know better from your dreams, and promised yourself not to make any hasty inebriated-adjacent decisions after…the last few times.

And he’s talking about family now. You think it’s a bit of an odd topic to transition to when-

“... a damn shame how individualistic society’s become-”

The desolate realization hits you that you have never seen Remmick basked in full sunlight. Now that is a damn shame. A true tragedy. How those lustrous eyes would glitter, the LED glow of porch lights a poor match for the golden radiance that would wind around those dark curls of his. Those short, damp curls, brilliant shades of chestnut and auburn set aflame. How soft would they feel beneath your fingers-

“You listenin’ to me?”

You hum noncommittally. You need to get him into the sun.

“We need to get you in the sun.” You propose, butting into his draining spiel to pay him a very generous compliment.

Oddly enough, Remmick responds as though you’ve threatened to neuter him right then and there. Honest-to-God flinching back from you.

“...Why?” The slow stretch of the word in his pretty accent rings out into the night.

“No reason.” You shrug, finding a new aspect of his face to appreciate. The pull of his brow towards his hairline put those large eyes of his on display, providing an ample view of those perilous, dark beauties. You can see a prominent fang amongst cute, packed teeth, not at all like those dreadful ones in your dreams. Wait, why is he gaping at you-

“...you know somethin’?”

He looks incredibly suspicious of you, like you’re the oddball here.

“Not really.” You shrug, relaxed if slightly confused. Not exactly an unfamiliar phenomenon when you get high. Nothing to be alarmed about. Remmick doesn’t seem to share the sentiment. “What were you saying?”

He cautiously pursues the train of thought you gracefully interrupted, tentative at first and still staring at you like you’ve grown two more heads. Soon enough it picks up full speed as he drones on, if a bit hesitant to outright allude to the selfishness of your actions like before.

He has you questioning if you were toeing the edge of too high, but the room isn’t spinning and there’s no perceptible sensitivity that accompanies a green out. Maybe your roommate’s shit was laced-

“…fellowship…family.”

The pronunciation of the last word gives you pause, the southern cadence falling away to something your head goes foggy trying to place. You fumble with your train of thought before offering up a solution that, in your humble opinion, is a damn good one.

“Look… there’s a community center in the next town that hosts some cultural nights you can go to, a Renaissance Fair or Comic-Con, maybe is what you’re looking for… I can give you the email-”

“No, no, no, that’s not-.” He sighs, hand making to pinch the bridge of his nose before he abandons the action, opting to settle his hands on his hips like a disappointed father. “Thought small town folk were supposed to be friendly.”

Maybe it’s the ridiculous situation you’ve found yourself in, maybe it’s the weed but you can’t help it, you laugh.

It’s abruptly loud, and harsh, and you’re gawking at him with a toothy grin and eyes that are probably bloodshot. All highly attractive. But one look at Remmick wouldn’t confirm the revolting wince you’d expect to find.

At first, he looks shaken, and your head spins when you take in the wistful, tender look he doesn’t attempt to keep off his face. And then, because he’s keen to see how far he can milk it further with an exaggerated, southern drawl, he carries on.

“But you,” He shakes a finger at you disapprovingly. “You’re meaner than a goddamn rattlesnake.”

You’re still giggling as he critiques your absent hospitality, pulling a plethora of recent examples you’ve armed him with out of thin air. Ticks each one of them off on his fingers and then holds his palms up in mock surprise to show you he’s run out. You wave a hand at him to stop, cheek pressed against the wooden panels of the door and split with an uncontrollable smile.

He beams back at you, faux indignation gone, and you’re dazed momentarily.

He looks so, so handsome when he smiles. So enraptured and pleased and drawn inexplicably to you. The authenticity of this look more or less confirms the weary suspicions you had about the genuineness of his previous ones. Those primitive survival intuitions claw through the dumb-struck haze clouding your senses, and you go to bid him farewell in your usual rattlesnake fashion.

“That lets me know I’m doing something right. Away with you,” You halt the closing of the door to throw in a saccharine, “please,” complete with fluttering eyelids.

Remmick seems desperate (when is he not, really) to keep up the hard-fought, genial momentum. In his haste, and with your absent cognitive faculties, the delivery of his next words is poor and easily misconstrued.

“Wait, wait, you gonna give me some?” He cocks his head, brows raised in mock sternness.

“...Pardon?” You force your eyes to narrow at the assumed proposition. Now that was forward, and more than a bit slimy considering your altered state. You’re still flattered and slightly interested, but he doesn’t need to know that.

“You reek like a muhfuckin’ skunk. You holdin’ out on me?”

“Oh.” Ah. Right.

You pluck the joint from where you stashed it on the ashtray, fiddling with a lighter and taking another hit yourself to irritate him. He wiggles his fingers out threateningly when you blow smoke in his face, muttering he’s gonna run out of toes to count on, too. You gingerly hold the joint out to him, careful to avoid his touch more than the burning tip, and he takes it between pinched fingers.

It's an instant regret for the rest of the night, because now your slutty mind has a fresh image to mull over. Remmick, with a J dangling from his lips, glowing tip battling a gust of wind as he strums a tune. Remmick, smoking and performing with a molten fluidity you’re jealous of just as much as you want to jump his bones for.

No. Hasty. Decisions. While. High.

You reprimand yourself with your full, government-issued name. It’s still a mighty effort to bite back the “come on in, partner!” you want to chirp at him, accompanied with an arm thrown wide to welcome him into your home. Take the tour straight to the bedroom.

Strangely, extraordinarily, he doesn’t press the issue tonight. Bids you farewell with a good-natured ‘get on to bed’, complete with an authoritative eyebrow quirk and a raised pointer finger. You raise a finger of your own in return, laughing as he mentions something about ‘ladylike’ and a ‘mind your manners.’

You braved the journey to work the next day with only mild brain fog and an intimate amount of fatigue.

“There she is. You alright there, party animal?” Remmick greets you from his normal spot, fond amusement coloring his tone at your slightly disheveled appearance.

“Please, I’m gonna live forever.” You joke, and something strange happens to Remmick’s face then. What was meant to make him crack one of those charming grins seems to drain him of energy. In a second, he looks haunted, or something of the like, eyes going unfocused for a brief moment.

“Lord willing.” He smiles, but it’s contrived.

Even stranger, you feel something akin to…misery, is an apt description for it. It’s low-grade but tenacious. It makes you contemplative, makes you abandon your usual taciturn behavior. You glance at his hardshell case propped against the counter.

“Encore of ‘The Killing Moon’?” You give him your best smile.

His answering one is blinding.

—

When you retire that night, you dream a scenario so wildly different and obscure from your usual that your head spins trying to understand it.

You still retain some lewd memories before the indecent moment you jumped into. There’s a spike of elation at the thought of him coming back for you, at the praises and cherishing confessions lyrical on his tongue. He loved you, he told you so and he promised to do so for eternity-

Him, him, him.

Him, who? You want to ask, but the blissful thrall of love lulls you into pliant submission. Turns out you don’t need to, because the next thing you feel are strong, steady hands lifting your skirts to expose you.

“You look real good like that, baby.”

The one kernel of reason you retain latches onto that familiar cadence, but it’s quickly drowned by the voice shushing you and a bombardment of sensual gratification. The next few scenes flash by in rapturous succession.

You’re on your knees, face smushed against the mattress, pillows and sheets displaced from his devastating thrusts. That intoxicating, earthy smell of his engulfs you in willing delirium. Large, cool hands massage your thighs, roaming up and up until they’re settled nicely on the arch of your back, tilting your hips up to further present you to him.

Something tepid and sopping drips onto you, sliding through your folds. It feels so good, but you want to see him. You love him, and you need to see him.

Words fall from your lips — yours, dream-you, you don’t know — but you’re begging.

And he was never one to deny you anything.

The image shifts in the disjointed way dreams do. You’re enveloped by the fluff of a mattress, legs spread wantonly and in between them, is Remmick.

He’s pretty, or at least this conjured image of him your debauched mind created is. His length is thick, uncut and leaking against you, hips inching to-and-fro to glide against where you need him.

And oh, do you need him. You’ve never needed anything more.

“Then let me in.”

—

You return to the waking world, winded and warm and drenched in sweat and — oh God. A fucking wet dream? About a guy you met barely a month ago?

Admittedly, the relief from the traumatic nightmares feels so sweet you could sob.

And you do. You set aside a short period of time to weep like a babe before your shift. Then you dry your eyes, collect most of yourself with only your dignity and sense missing, and the realization hits that you have to face him.

It’s not like you did anything wrong. For all your hoping and pleading with whatever is listening to have one peaceful night, you never could have guessed this was in store for you. And it’s not like he would know, so there’s absolutely no reason to feel any guilt.

At least, that’s what you tell yourself as you prepare for work like you’re heading to the hangman’s noose. You tell that to yourself again as you contemplate the accuracy of those dreams.

Would he be sweet with you? Take his time? Your subconscious sure seems to think so, since it’s already assigned him the role of service top in your wildest fantasies. But what if it was rough, feral as he fucked those so-called manners of his into you-

All too soon you’re behind that counter, that intense reverie consuming your coherent thought, looking every which way but his. Remmick’s chatting your ear off about something or other, and you mutter revealing little half-replies. The similarities of his voice and the one your depraved self delightfully calls on makes you lightheaded. You have a hard time looking him in the eye, but when you do, the glass in your hand damn near dive-bombs to the floor.

He’s staring at you. A proud glint in his eye and too damn smiley for your liking. Smug, pleased, and reeking of satisfaction.

He knows. Your traitorous mind squeals. No. There’s no way-

“Huh?” You blurt, elegantly.

“You goin’ for employee of the month?” He lifts his head from where it was propped on a hand to nod towards the glass you’re polishing, a repeat of your first conversation. That close-fitting shirt of his revealing every flex of his well-built back that’s curved over the counter. The more time you spend with him, the more apt the comparison of him to the street cat becomes.

“Sorry. Didn’t sleep well.” You mumble, and while he’s been sympathetic about your confessions of sleepless nights up until this point, it seems to be the worst thing you could’ve said.

If anything, his smile widens. Head flops back on his hand, eyes impish as he just stares. He halts fingering the rim of his drink to drum a tune against the counter top.

“What?” You press.

“Nothin’.” He chirps, which tells you that, yes, there’s something, “Have a drink with me.”

“No,” You reply, immediately. “What’s gotten into you?”

“What's gotten into you? You’re wound tighter than a spring.”

He gets to his feet, and for a stupid moment your heart lurches, afraid he’ll leave. But then he reaches behind the bar top to pluck up a shot glass that you just finished cleaning.

“Hey.” Your eyes dart around, but no one pays much mind to the two of you. It’s the tail-end of another slow night.

“Hey yourself. Drink with me.” He fixes you with those puppy-dog wonders of his. Seriously, he must’ve been mastering that look for years. An A+ student in Manipulations 101. Because you seem to have a hard-on for bad decisions, you grab a bottle of vodka and pour the both of you a double.

You down it in one go, the drink burning a path from your throat to your belly. Remmick hoots and hollers and you swat at his arm, missing entirely when he leans back.

“Look at you. Hair down, all carefree. You look real good like that.”

The vodka nearly claws its way back up your throat as you choke.

You look real good like that, baby.

“Y’alright?” His tone sounds genuine, concerned with a hint of amusement. You focus your eyes anywhere but his, and unfortunately those lustful bastards land on the open collar of his shirt.

“What’s that?” You nod to the chain there, amongst a smattering of chest hair.

He looks a little peeved at his words of concern going ignored, which delights you, but those expressive eyebrows go up and he playfully jerks as if there’s a bug on him. Plays stupid. “What’s what?”

“Your chain, babe. Your chain.” You snort at his antics, but the reveal of the ring as he pulls it up and over his shirt sobers you. “Oh.”

You had noticed a ring on his right hand before. A simple gold band wrapped around his ring finger; the spitting image of the one he just revealed to you. The one he wears around his neck dangles until his palm closes around it, easily dwarfing it in a way that reveals it’s meant for much smaller fingers. Your mouth goes dry. Remmick’s eyes dart towards your chest where it feels like your heart’s halted with your breath. Just as you remember oxygen is a necessity, he fills the stunted silence with a bemusing chuckle.

“Ah, this? I’m holdin’ onto it for someone.” His fingers grasp it with a tenderness that nearly has you grinding your teeth down to nubs. The delicate web of veins in his hand flex as he caresses an inscription on the inside that’s concealed to you.

“Is that…for a friend?” You joke, weakly.

“You can say that, yeah. A dear friend. Just waitin’ to give it to her is all.” Remmick ducks his head with a smile that is both sentimental and entertained.

Spikes of unwanted jealousy eat away at you. They revamp every time you see that stupid chain, each glint in the light a lacerating taunt. You feel nothing short of wounded for reasons that are baffling and arbitrary.

The mood shifts for the rest of the night. Or at least, yours does. You’re unintentionally short with him. He doesn’t seem to notice. If anything, he brightens in response to the change in your behavior, and you wonder what it conveys to him. You’re internally lamenting over a bruised ego, and Remmick’s keen to prattle on about the state of modern music and the lack of allure it brings to the table. All while you’re trying not to have a meltdown that would put a three-year-old’s to shame.

“-and now it’s just ear-candy, no substance worth mentionin’-”

“Can you get to the point?” It always fills you with a bit of sadistic satisfaction when you manage to irk him the way he does you, but it’s extra rewarding now.

“I’m fixin’ to!” He gives you an accusing look that says and this is why you’re the problem. “If you’d just- oh!”

He throws his hands up in sudden remembrance. Then goes to dig around in his pocket. Curiosity piqued, you abandon some of your sulk and lean slightly over the counter to catch a glimpse.

“Forgot. My down payment for the room.”

“What room-” Your incredulity cuts off when he produces an odd-looking gold coin.

“For when you say yes. Uh-uh, doesn’t have to be now! Don’t get started on me,” he says, sternly.

Sure enough, your mouth had opened to retaliate. You slap away the wagging finger in your face and sigh, examining the engravings on the coin. You’ve seen it somewhere before, but now you’re drawing blanks.

“And this is some kind of currency? I thought you said money was tight...” You look up to see a contemplative Remmick, gazing at you like the sun shone out of your ass. “What?”

“It’s the solid gold kind, darlin’.” He nods to the coin, unhelpfully ignoring your other inquiries altogether.

“I don’t believe you.” You shrug, extending the ‘gold’ piece back to him. “And even if I did, if it’s anything my landlord can’t immediately go off to buy booze with, he’d take me out back and shoot me.”

“I wouldn’t worry about that, now that you have me to protect you.” Remmick doesn’t say it like a joke. It should piss you off, or make you uncomfortable, but you cherish what his odd segue reveals.

“Sure.” You laugh, foul mood lifting slightly. He still wants to stay with you. Still chooses to be here with you. “Start helping me clean up.”

“Yes ma’am, y’know I can’t deny you anythin’.” He says, smug and charming as he hops enthusiastically off his barstool.

You’re halfway through conjuring an unimpressed response when the words sink in.

He was never one to deny you anything.

You whip around to gape at him in a manner that would have him poking fun at you for the rest of the night. Instead of the gloating grin you expected, you stare at the expanse of his back, whistling as he begins to wipe down tables.

—

Remmick had a rudimentary understanding of personal bubbles. He wasn’t necessarily touchy – was more than respectful in that regard, actually – but he had a proclivity for standing and/or walking too close for comfort. More than once he’s bumped into you from a lack of maintaining appropriate stopping distance. You figured it was an effort to drive you crazy, because he always seemed to know when he did something that made your heart race, if his pleased little noises were anything to go by. As for your heart racing…

The delicious images you have been waking with throw you straight into a drunken stupor. Afflicted emotions from your dreamstate follow you, bleed into your interactions and infect your sense of reason until you’re never not smiling at him.

He frustratingly remains a gentleman despite his boyish flirting. So the first time his fingers are the ones to initiate contact and he freezes, as if debating some intricate meaning of the gesture, you roll your eyes and leap on that opportunity like fucking spiderwoman.

“No, that’s–it’s okay. Seriously. Hold my fucking hand, Remmick.”

He glows, and you get the feeling you just settled a timeworn decision for him.

For all his expressiveness, he’s never touched you. You understand why now. It’s like a dam burst, indomitable and perpetual. Now, his hands seek you out almost habitually; winding around to rest on your back, offering a playful elbow in the illusion of being a gentleman (you know he’s not, much as he says so), and, most devastating in effect, the gentle hand laid on the nape of your neck, a final, grudging squeeze before he surrenders you to the impenetrable residence that is your cabin.

Suffice to say, there is undeniable mounting tension between you two.

It’s there when you share the trivial matters you agonize over (to lessen the severity of other, far less trivial matters) and he hits you with astute advice and a kind, “Stop worryin’, huh?”

And you do, because his worn, calloused palms shuck off your shoes after a tiring shift, thumbs digging into the arch of your foot draped over his lap with doting attentiveness.

It’s there as the two of you are slumped together on the porch swing, leaning closer and closer until your forearm rested languidly on his shoulder, legs tossed over his thighs. You’re antsy with the dizzying proximity of him, weary fingers going to toy with that chain you have a strange penchant for, occasionally slipping and grazing the length of his collarbones. He shivers, hums out a soft ‘don’t stop’ whenever you pause.

He pretends not to notice the top view of your plush, warm breasts, and you pretend not to notice the budding erection under your knees. It’s a long while before you can convince yourself to move, limbs cozy and listless.

It’s shortly after that, and by shortly you mean that very night, you realize you may be in too deep.

You threw on a film in an attempt to convince yourself you’ve attempted other activities besides brooding. Unfortunately, it has the opposite effect, because you find yourself wondering about Remmick’s thoughts throughout it. You guessed right that he wasn’t a big movie-watcher, though he seems perfectly content to listen to you prattle on about them. Therein lies the issue of wanting his thoughts on a score, wondering what jokes he would make during, and planning conversations and taunts based on those things.

For all his silliness he is wickedly intelligent, often spinning a cursory topic into a long-winded conversation lasting well into the night. Before, the days were long and the nights were endless. Now…

You blink and your shift passes. You catch yourself more and more frequently wondering what he would think about a movie, a book, a song. He’s burrowed himself into your head, clawed his way into your veins so that you don’t even dream of monsters anymore. Just him.

That night, you’re fighting restlessness with negligible results. Remmick, unbidden and evocative, infiltrates your mind and brittle peace without being physically present.

You sigh. Count the water stains on the ceiling. Count them again.

“Fuck it.” Your fingers slip past the hem of your underwear, past your puffy folds to where you’re ripe with need.

You get yourself off while envisioning a particularly vivid scenario of Remmick and his dexterous hands. Those large hands that always seem to be active, whether they’re rapping on the counter, fussing with that gold coin, or twiddling in the air as he talks like he’s playing a pretend instrument. Your enamored recall takes a debauched turn when that imaginary hand dives into his own trousers, this time, half-mad with lust as he watches you come undone.

As you lay there panting, left with the remnants of his name lingering on your tongue, your heart squeezes at a blinding truth.

You want him.

And as long as Remmick had a place in your life, you’d want him.

—

The spare key bites into the flesh of your palm, metal teeth of it grounding you as you mull over a scripted dialogue to go with your presentation. You had stared at it for all of ten seconds this morning, feigning deliberation of a decision you had already made. After scraping the tape containing your roommates name off the bow, you coated it in a layer of red nail polish, a favorite hue of Remmick’s.

When you enter the bar, you don’t notice him in his usual spot, but he sometimes likes to be sneaky and startle you, so you’re not worried. You’re not ashamed about last night’s finger-bang, either. Maybe it’s the anticipatory thank you for making me your roomie sex you’re betting on, knowing his control would fray and snap with one sign that you’re interested. Let you tell him so at the bar, and he’d probably take you right there over the counter.

You serve drinks in a haze, attention split between the pouring and deciding if you should hide the key in his drink, proposal-style. You can see him laughing in your head, those cute, jagged teeth of his on display. And then the two of you would go home, fuck, watch Netflix, maybe fuck some more, all while you make fun of his less-than-impressive repertoire of films. It’s a concrete plan.

You’re a bit sad that the running gag of him permanently stuck on your porch is coming to an end. It made you feel like a teenager, sneaking around in an experience you never got to live. You find solace thinking of the future domestic moments you’ll share together, eagerly keeping an eye on the door.

Only he doesn’t show. The next hour goes by, and you feel like a dog waiting by the door for her owner.

—

Remmick doesn’t come by that night. Nor does he come visit you at your shift the next day.

Or the next one. And the next one.

His silence is more than a little alarming, a phenomenon as unnatural as the clouds pissing blood rain. He wasn’t meant to vanish. He was meant to sing and strum and park himself on your porch after an already tiring day. And you were meant to gripe and sneer and tell him to get lost, all while anticipating his next visit. You had begun to count on it.

And you miss him more than you’d care to admit.

The annoyance he provided served as a balm to the mundane droll of daily life. That’s all it was. Chatting with him, arguing with him. Admittedly, you were lonely, and he listened.

Remmick listened like every word of yours was sacred.

But he had no obligation to you. Nor you him. Perhaps whatever fleeting infatuation that caught his fancy finally ran its course, and he’s probably off chasing skirts in another town. You wished that thought wasn’t as devastating as it was.

You carry on, of course, like you always do with a shift in mood prominent for someone who knows you better. Your coworker notices and even the frequent patrons catch on, but they choose to remain silent while their pitying glances are anything but.

You’re nearly reconciled with the fact that you’ll end up alone when the soft, flowing twang of a banjo reaches you a few nights after his disappearance. Your heart lifts, stupid, foolish hope setting you alight. And then the rage hits. Your eyes roll so far into the back of your head they threaten to stick there, and then you’re yanking the door open to spew out,

“So this is what you’re doing? Taking up residence on my porch again?” Your tone is laced with condescension.

“Where else am I supposed to be?” No added flair. Just blatant truth. He barely looks up at you from his place on the rickety swinging chair, rusty creaks slicing through the melody that irritates you for all kinds of reasons.

There he is. The object of your affliction and affection. He’s cloaked in dense shadows but you can still make out the trace of purple, bruise-colored circles under his eyes and skin that’s a bit paler than usual. The distance between the two of you seemed to affect him, too, with even his indelible mood notably drained by your absence. The charismatic demeanor and energy you know and love him for dampened. It tugs on your heartstrings, as it’s meant to, but you can’t find it in yourself to comfort him, not when you need that comfort yourself.

“It ain’t polite to st– y’know what, nevermind-” His eyes lift when no barb is thrown his way and you must have overestimated your ability to remain composed, because his face drops further with concern. “What’s the matter?”

Damn him. Damn him and his wide, disney-princess eyes that see far too much. You shake your head, not trusting your voice to remain steady just yet.

“C’mon, honey. What’d I do, huh?” He slings the banjo strap over his shoulder, setting it down haphazardly as he rises to approach you. His prized possession, thrown aside when faced with your distress, with the mere presence of you.

“It’s just…you’re back.” You groused, and it didn’t come out as monotone and unaffected as you meant it to. The silliness of your reaction is made apparent by the sudden realization that it’s only been a few days, and here you were, acting like a grieving war widow. Surely it had to be longer than that, right? Were you that starved for companionship?

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

He seems to read a hell of a lot into your silence, or maybe spots the tears burning behind your eyes because he gingerly grasps your shoulders, rubs soothingly down to your arms.

“Darlin’, you thought I left you. Aw, no.” His eyes squeeze shut, as though the idea of that causes him physical pain. He tugs on your elbows to uncross the limbs folded protectively around yourself, pulling you closer until he can encompass you in his embrace. At first, you go rigid, and then the weight of the past few days catches up and you melt against him.

“Doesn’t matter. I’m not your keeper.” The orneriness is zapped right out of you, his rocking hold a balm on the distress you’ve accumulated in his absence. Remmick hums – a forlorn, amused little noise – and nuzzles your head softly. Too softly. “You’re the first real friend I’ve had in years. I care about you. So when you left- I just-”

“Shh. S’okay. I know, darlin’. I missed you too, baby.” His voice was low, murmuring platitudes into your hair that shouldn’t have been soothing but were.

Tucked into his embrace, you’re able to envelop yourself in his usual aroma; the aromatic scent of rosemary oil, fresh pine, and those cloying traces of copper. Subtle, faded, as he attempted to mask it in his normalized routine of freshening up for you. It’s instinct really, that has your eyes cracking open to narrow at nearly imperceivable, spackled stains around his collar. Dark.

Your heart pitches violently, plummeting to your feet as the blood drains from your body. You don’t react outwardly, and that’s what does it, because Remmick halts his swaying and tenses around you.

“Somethin’ wrong?” His words are terse, the warmth and solace they previously offered distinctively absent.

“No. Nothing.” The response that leaves you is pure impulse. You want nothing more than to tell him what’s wrong, so he can fix it like he always does. The idea of it, though… feels unsafe.

Remmick’s grip tightens, almost uncomfortably. Possessively, like you’ll be torn from him at any moment. He hums in reply to your answer, unsatisfied.

That roaring desire you had to see him is all but snuffed out. Your jovial, warmhearted Remmick is somewhere else. This man that’s holding you in his arms is a stranger. Even as he ceases your beginning movements to extract yourself, as he shifts to press a silky kiss to the side of your head. His lips linger a bit too long. Hands hold you a bit too tight.

His shift in demeanor gives you whiplash. He could have detected your hesitation but… you were calm, externally. Could he sense the pound of your heart from close proximity? There’s no other way-

A heavy, sharp realization settles into your bones, one your mind hasn’t yet caught up with. Refuses to. Intuition and limerence battle for precedence. You don’t ask where he’s been, and he doesn’t offer. He doesn’t even ask to come in that night.

You think of that key the whole time, but you’re hurt. You’re hurt and angry and that suspicion of him that’s lain dormant is now making its rounds while that rage is still fresh.

—

Maybe it’s triggered by the off-kilter, fragility of your mindstate, but the peaceful nights cease just as abruptly as they began, the nightmares returning with a wicked vengeance.

It’s fitting that it begins with a feeling of betrayal so heavy it sits in your belly like a stone. Your other senses catch up, each one thrown at you in a dizzying, desperate effort. Bleary flashes of viscera on cobblestone, a chest tightened with ruinous grief and a throat burning, raw from screaming.

A man is in front of you. The one that had whispered such pretty lies in your ear, had promised you forever and everlasting pleasure as you rode him in the back of a carriage. Only this time, his face wasn’t barred at all from view or memory. He was there. In front of you. Red eyes, fangs and all.

Remmick.

This wasn’t- he wasn’t- no.

No.

You felt the world tip on its axis. Your heart rattles against your ribcage, shattering at the betrayal that spans across lifetimes. Your consciousness struggles to grasp the situation in its entirety, the reluctant friendship and trust you built with this man pulled beneath your feet. Someone’s screaming — dream-you, you realize. You’re too far gone into the wounding treachery that you struggle empathizing with getting fucked-over by the same man, and unsuccessfully wail back for her to shut the fuck up, she’s hurting your throat.

You’re such a goddamn fool.

Of course it’s fucking him. Hands in his pockets, casual, collected like he isn’t standing over what you can’t see is a corpse but somehow know is. A viscous pool of blood surrounds the body, displaced as broken hands move — it’s fucking moving, that’s not possible- but your incredulous suspicions are confirmed when he manages to get to his feet. It’s a man, jugular torn to shreds, skin hanging in ropes from what you can see is from a brutal mauling. His eyes find you, entirely unconcerned with the proximity of his killer, and what was once sweet hazel morphs into something purely animal. No, not just a man, your friend-

“No, no. Don’t look at that.” A disembodied voice cuts through the terror. Guiltily, almost but more so desperate.

There’s no flash of light, no dramatic indications before the environment alters. What was once solid ground becomes sturdy wood pressed hard against your back, underneath your thighs, contrary to a softer, calloused touch holding them open. What the hell-

“Look at me.”

Your eyes fly open, you were unaware that you even closed them. If the previous dreams pulled you in with shaken, inexperienced hands, this one was adept with a hardened intensity that left you bound to the memory. Anchored to your surroundings in a way you never were in the others. Every sensation more vivid. And then the reason for the changes became apparent.

The voice that haunts your dreams—Remmick (your adoring lover, your new self unhelpfully supplies) on the floor in front of you. He doesn’t look at you right away, busy taking in the new setting like you were. Then his eyes are on you. Those scarlet, piercing eyes-

“Ah, hell. It was supposed to be a different one.”

You’re in some sort of shack. Fuzzy so that you know it’s still a dream, but corporeal enough for you to retain the previous terror and newfound understanding. What-

“The hell?” The recognizable southern drawl finishes for you and clucks his tongue. “C’mon now. You’re a lot sharper in person.”

It’s him, your mind screams. It’s him it’s him it’s him.

It’s Remmick’s hands that are on you, holding you apart. Him knelt between your legs. And that’s-

Oh God.

That’s you around his mouth, covering the beard he adorns in this version of him. You can feel the slickness at your center, still feel the ache and used condition you’re in.

“Remember. It ain’t all bad.” A soft, soothing kiss presses into the corner of the knee thrown over his shoulder. “Remember, baby.”

You awake with his laugh ringing in your ears, but it’s all wrong.

Your movements are fuzzy, detached, though it’s not unusual for you to still feel disoriented upon waking.

Alarm bells should go off when you sit up, fingers sliding through the blankets like parting water. But your focus remains on the fact that it’s your blankets, in your room, your house. Instead it hits you as you walk through the doorway and straight into the kitchen, the hallway failing to manifest in your dream state. The jarring inconsistencies of dreams are all too familiar to you, but not your autonomous lucidity. Something is different this time.

And then, to solve that mystery, Remmick’s there, sitting at your table and strumming his banjo with infuriating nonchalance.

“Sorry ‘bout that. Figured you wasn’t gettin’ the right idea of me. Meant to show you somethin’ a bit more virtuous but I’m still gettin’ the hang of this myself.” Never-mind the fact that he doesn’t sound the slightest bit apologetic, but the smarmy smile kills any lingering authenticity. He ducks his head with feigned bashfulness, “And that particular scene is one of my favorites.”

Unbidden thoughts arise at his shameless admission. You can’t be sure what time period that was unless you ask — you won’t — but the few palpable senses available in your ‘dream’ offer some hints. The musk and sweat you felt clinging to your skin from the trek to the cabin being a memorable one. Toiletries and frequent baths must’ve been a luxury.

But one of his favorites?

Pure, unadulterated fury bubbles at him, for his pitiless deception, and you, for your mindless trusting and the consequences that came with it. He had gotten into your head. Literally. And you might as well have opened the door for him.

He was a dirty pervert. Slimy, smelly, little man. You tell him as such in a shrill shouting fit, trying and failing to pick up objects for throwable ammunition. He does nothing but stoke the flames of your anger when he laughs, positively delighted, holding the banjo out as a shield when you approach him.

“Didn’t mean to, on my Mama!”

“Stoptalkingaboutyourmother!”

In an attempt to rip the instrument from him and bludgeon him with it, your hands pass through like an apparition. His chortling rings out — he’s damn near giggling, this ancient creature — and it’s resonating through your head and the ethereal space around you.

“How are you– how long could you do this?” You accuse and cease your attempts at picking a fight. Whatever this is, whatever he is, he clearly has the experience here. You can’t pluck a goddamn string let alone play a tune like he did. If you were to wage war, there’s no doubt he would have the upper hand.

“Now this,” He breathes, breathless from laughter (do vampires need to breathe? That’s what he is, right?) and looks around the spectral surroundings with his usual theatrics, “-this is a fairly recent development, courtesy of our meetin’.’’

It’s pure indignation when you huff through your nose, unable to feel the breath or the act of it. You’re you, at least. It’s your own skin you inhabit in your slumber for the first time in years. For all intents and purposes, it’s as normal a dream can be if you ignore Remmick.

“Well I’d be much obliged if you just- fucked off out of my head.” You can’t hurt him physically, but mocking him makes you feel better.

“No can do. Now all’a that-” He clucks his tongue and gestures in a way that references the nastiness of the previous memories, looking put-out like he doesn’t hold a shred of responsibility for them, “I can’t control. But that invitin’ little reminiscence, that I can do.”

“How charitable.” You grit out through clenched teeth. He hums in agreement, either missing the sarcasm or choosing to ignore it entirely. “But I’d rather not think of you at all.”

“That just ain’t true. You liked ‘em well enough the past few weeks. You call for me.” He states, back straightening, arm slinging smugly over the neck of his banjo. Looking satisfied as a bird preening its feathers for his mate, like what he just said wasn’t offensively untrue.

You table the information with all of your newfound knowledge to digest later.

“I sure as hell don’t. Call for you to stay out of my fucking head, maybe.”

“Now I won’t lie, your… guarded behavior at first made me think you weren’t interested. But after I sent those sweet little remnants, I knew I still did it for you.” The words are dirty – though the look he’s giving you paired with that lazy smile, mouth parted slightly is affronting in and of itself.

The truth out in the open appears to make him giddy, non-existent soul unburdened and whatnot, but he seems to come back down to Earth in that moment. His smile doesn’t fade, but the intensity does. He stares at you, seeming content to just take you in, only to drop the mother of all confessions.

“I’ve waited lifetimes for you. Endured loss, destruction, atrocity,” His accent wavers towards the end with something you’re familiar with. Devotion drips from his voice. “-just to find you. To be here for you when you come back.”

And just who’s responsible for that loss, that atrocity, you want to yell. Remmick senses your fury, of course he does, because he’s staring hard enough to cut through you. Your descent into wrath and despair radiates off of you in waves, permeating the ambience of the dreamstate. He sighs, adopting a pitying expression and trying his shitty hand at consolation.

“You’re bein’ misled-”

“Yeah,” You scoff, tone acidic and filled with scorn. “Big time.”

He shakes his head, weighted and resigned like you’re a misguided soul. Switches tactics from beguiling long-winded confessions to something more vague and preachy.

“We were meant to be from the very beginning. Everythin’ else was just noise.”

That … sounds as ominous as you’re beginning to expect from him. Definitely not the romantic, panty-dropper line he meant it to be. You can tell, because there’s always an undercurrent of frustration when the tools in his arsenal fail to woo you. It’s no different now.

“Stop looking at me like that.” He looks at you like you’re going to disappear.

“You did. For a long time.” Remmick responds to the part you didn’t say aloud, his pleading expression carefully crafted to appeal to your sympathies. It fails.

You burn, feeling violated and betrayed and you’d like to slip into sweet, blissful darkness and not come back up.

“Leave.”

His eyebrows lift, but he makes for the door. Head down, but no true remorse on his face. That bastard is smiling.

“See you tomorrow.” He throws a nod and a grin over his shoulder.

“You absolutely won’t-”

The door slams behind him, his laughter still reverberating in your skull.

—

You email your boss and tell them you won’t make it to work the next day. Then the next.

Mercifully, Remmick doesn’t show. He seems to be taking his role of a good, upstanding vampire seriously, because a mob doesn’t show up to your house to arm you with a torch and pitchfork and recruit you for the hunt.

His time must be occupied by something else that distracts him from razing a town. It’s not hard to guess what that ‘something else’ is, because he perseveres with a vengeance now that the other shoe has dropped, and the dreams persist in their relentless entirety.

Their relentless, vulgar entirety.

You’re not in your body, pelted with emotions that aren’t yours but that’s nothing new. What is new is the chain around your neck, ring cool against a flatter chest, a strange appendage between your thighs—You are in your bed though, the same salacious warmth pooling in your belly, filled with such need, yearning, you just want the scent of her to last a little longer-

The scent of you.

Woodsy. Sweet.

He’s thrusted you into his dreamstate this time. It wasn’t enough that he pervaded your waking thoughts, your slumber, but now has somehow accessed your memories, knows the layout of your room, your belongings.

Like its predecessors, you cannot control what you see or what you feel. And boy, are you feeling a hell of a lot. It’s him that’s rutting against your sheets, hips jerking, cock wrapped in a panty-covered fist, but it’s you that’s now experiencing it firsthand.

Ah. So he’s further invaded your mind and is aware of the item taken by your thieving roommate. And has now incorporated it into this fantasy wet-dream.

The unholy squelch of your (his?) skin sliding against the drool-soaked fabric fills every crevice of the room’s acoustics. Fabric you’ve sunk your teeth into, know the taste of, fabric that no longer smells like her-

You try to make sense of his nonsensical ramblings — now your thoughts— echoing in your head. It’s difficult to focus on anything but the wet rasp of your–his panting against the pillow, the crying, the whining as the heady smell of you fades.

Sweet merciful-

Your teeth ache when you think of her, the spearlike canines elongating when you think about how she looked like a dream lounging half across your lap, half on the seat. The way she touched you so casually, with an ease that you would've been beggin’ for if you knew it’d feel so sweet. How her featherlight touch danced along your skin as if it wasn’t ruinous, as if her putin’ those claws away for once wasn’t the damnedest goddamn thing-

You just know that you can’t be around her yet, not when you’re half-feral with the taste of your favorite girl, can still smell the way she touches herself through the damn door-

“You see what you do to me?”

That was definitely not part of the scene, nor was it in the thoughts you were experiencing. You sever the connection with incriminating quickness and awake, in your bed, your body this time, left with a debilitating headache and blazing guilt.

—

True to his word, Remmick seems to have gotten a hold on this dream-bond thing, because your ensanguined night visions have been few and far in between. You begrudgingly admit, they have been more ‘inviting’, as he puts it, but you feel like the choice between gory tragedy and mind-bending sex is hardly a choice at all. Not when they conclude so softly, with the two of you lying together, sweaty and sated, side by side and melded together as one being.

He’s been sending you to a specific one, lately. A lifetime lived of adultery, tender defilement, and stolen freedom in its naked entirety. You’ve awoken sneaking through a garden in pursuit of him, only to have him startle you from behind, the novel sight and feeling of his scruff tickling your neck. As the insidious pull of lust creeps down your abdomen, it’ll shift and suddenly he’s on his knees for you, again. It does seem to be a favorite of his; his fingers buried in you, mouth playing your body as adept as he is with an instrument, a leg hanging over his shoulder.

All while you keep an eye out for your husband.

Goddammit, Remmick.

—

The time spent apprehensively cramped up in your safehaven-slash-prison is filled with enough rumination to need at least ten therapy sessions to cover. It’s not as though it’s difficult to put the broken, bloodied pieces together, rather it’s unsettling in the grand scheme of things.

I’ve waited lifetimes for you.

He could’ve slipped you something at the bar. Maybe all that sleep-deprivation deteriorated what was left of your logic and sanity and you were muttering to yourself in a padded cell. You would heavily consider this to be an elaborate prank if those appalling dreams had not haunted you through life.

It makes you recall the recent ones with mortified contemplation. Raunchy visions haven’t been unfamiliar to you for some time, but the frequency of them is worrisome. And if it was him who was responsible for the latter, debauched dreams (and by proxy, the rest), then it was also him after the initial passion-filled sequence, sat at the bar the very next day oozing male pride and looking entirely too pleased to satisfy you.

Ah. So, he did know, then. And enjoyed fucking with you about it. At least you weren’t making that up.

And that one with him in your room, a depraved fantasy of his? Memories stolen from the very source, the enticement of the forbidden fruit that is access to your residence, your bed. This intrusive assessment has you teetering on the edge of insanity more than your self-inflicted seclusion does.

Any blissful reprieve the dreams offer only lasts until you wake, wanting and primed and wet for him. It’s like something has awakened within you, a primordial ache laid dormant until Remmick got his specter-adjacent hands on you. The languid ache of pleasure brought to you years ago, the cathartic satisfaction still burning bright in your bones. And that’s not all that they’ve stirred in you.

Unwelcome emotions have accosted what little peace waits for you in the daylight. You’ve always had a propensity for intense emotion in several aspects of life, but jealousy was an emergent one. You’re not sure whether it’s truly you that’s feeling it. The consequences of your dreams stretch far beyond sleeplessness now, and you often wake up with the residue of intimate endearment and a sharp, pining ache for Remmick. It’s to be expected, surely. He worked tirelessly to dig his way into your head.

But what does that make you? A cheap imitation of his dearly departed? Was he even seeing you, when you laughed and flirted and-

Are you seriously feeling territorial of him towards other women that were…you?

Alone in your room, you seethed, and cried, and then seethed some more. To date, this was the most contradictory and unique position you’ve found yourself trapped in. Exactly why you’re still thinking of Remmick as a man and not the monster he’s repeatedly revealed himself to be, is beyond your understanding. Perhaps it’s the friendship you’ve built with him over the past few weeks that stains your view of him as a silly, reliable confidant that’s capable of brightening your day without the presence of the sun.

The sun.

You recall musing about him in the sun with the consistency of faded dreams. You were high then, busy waxing poetic so the realization and what should have been alarmed suspicions entirely slipped your mind. You had never seen him in the sun. The most crucial, reliable fucking weakness of vampires and he had lured your attention from it like a siren’s call as he sang and danced and bickered with you.

In your defense, the prophetic dreams could’ve been a little more fucking clear. His face should have been plastered on wanted posters in your dreams.

Unwanted: Fuckass nightmare demon Remmick. Crimes: not worth the waste of paper it would take to list all of them on. DO NOT APPROACH. DO NOT FEED.

More justification on your behalf is that he has an impressive resume with experience of manipulating young women, and has quite literally made it his full-time purpose in his unlife. The careful crafting of the confusing wet dreams and the pleasure they promised, more manipulation on his part. Probably had a heavy hand in concealing his face from your waking memory, too. Past yous have doubtlessly fallen victim to the cycle, ignoring prescient warnings with similar love-struck idiocy.

Not-so in your defense, these seductions and betrayals went platinum in your head every night for years. Your past selves must’ve been rolling in their graves, shouting well-deserved insults as they watched you get close to him. Their tormentor.

Yours.

—

Maybe the isolation and idleness gradually degrades your sense of reason, because when it’s past the point of acceptable call outs, you reluctantly prepare for your shift. Hide a tiny mason jar brimming with garlic juice inside an inner pocket of your jacket, nevermind the fact that it’s sweltering outside and you’re running plenty hot from the misfiring of synapses in your brain. You rehash the plotted route to your car in your head and exit the house with a wince and a prayer. Every noise is the equivalent of mortar fire.

You’re actively scanning the treeline for a Remmick-sized mound loitering among it, waiting for the perfect opportunity to jump out with a ‘rah!’ The sylvan area provided considerable cover for him to be lurking and if you weren’t borderline hysterical, the idea of him squatting in some moldering branches would make for an amusing mental image. If he were to get the jump on you, you’d at least have the pleasure of making fun of him before you ate it.

You clutch the jar of garlic juice tightly, damn near tip-toeing along the graveled path to your vehicle, and you make it without the expected altercation. Problem was, you didn’t expect to find your tires slashed and sagging sadly into the grit in an accurate depiction of your mental state.

“Fuck!”

For several reasons, you’re not too keen on the idea of involving police into what you aren’t sure isn’t a mental break. Disregarding the probable incompetence and unskilled assistance you’d receive for the threat of an actual vampire, you’d be the source of gossip for months. Even if this isn’t a figment of your imagination, you have no evidence he committed a crime. Though the psychological warfare he’s committed – in your opinion, was a goddamn crime. Considering the vandalism of your vehicle and several historical accounts of stalking, he was proficient in them.

Half-way during your heated debate with yourself, the skin on the back of your neck pricks. Your heart thuds to a halt. Primitive prey instincts kick in, and you freeze, attempting to detect what you feel is amiss. You take a deep breath to steel yourself, listening.

There. A hovering, sinister presence, two pin-points burrowing into your back. You’re being watched. Hunted. He’s behind you, isn’t he? Or wait, no-

You look up. A buried remnant of vampire knowledge hits you like a freight train. Knocks the breath from you just as much as the sight above you does.

That fucker can fly.

#remmick imagine #remmick x reader #dark!remmick x reader #remmick x you #remmick x fem!reader

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xxanaduwrites · 1 year ago

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⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ a residue series installment ˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆

sweet talkin’

main hive 🐝 | next part here: honey, are you comin’?

✎ elementary-teacher!reader (miss.honey) x biker!benny 🏍️

summary: in which “uncle benny” picks up johnny’s girls from school and finds some honey along the way ;)

warnings: not much of anything besides talks of danger & some side eyes from on-lookers. an absolute fluff cake of a piece really. enjoy! x

author’s note: ngl there is some inaccuracies. i fully made up locations & such. never been to chicago or illinois even, but maybe someday :)

word count: 2.8k

💌 requests are open, send ‘em honey 💋

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆

You remember it like it was yesterday, the very first time you met Benny Cross. Ironically, it was one of those sticky sweet days in June, just before the start of summer ‘65. The Chicago heat was hard to beat in the cramped little classroom you worked in on Phipps Avenue. Your third graders were all flushed faces with curly cues frizzing about, and their red little cheeks burned in exhaustion. It was no surprise that you lost their ears to the tsk tsk tsk of sprinklers swirling about on the school grounds. Even though the principal was against it, you were rather relieved to see your students running about the wet grass come dismissal.

It was a lovely reprieve, truly to be out of the shoe box you worked in at the end of the day. Sure, the heat hadn’t let up. It was awfully sweltering passing clammy hand to clammy hand to their designated pick up person. But you loved being a teacher. Moreseo you loved those sweet turned up smiles that graced those baby faces of your students as they chatted about their after school plans. Heading down to the local pool or picking up a firecracker pop at the corner store was such a sweet treat. It made you miss being that young again, finding hidden treasures through the little bits of life.

You moved like clockwork during dismissal, attentive as you made small talk with parents and hugged your students goodbye. The pick of the cycle was usually smooth on your part. You knew who tended to be retrieved right away and who was left hanging, so it took you by a hint of surprise when you found yourself still hand in hand with Mr. and Mrs. Davis’s little girls.

You knew the Davis’s well — as well as anyone could holding residence in the quaint village of McCook, Illinois. Mr. Davis and his wife Betty were perishoners at the local church you frequented with your Ma and Pa. St. Caron’s on the corner of Rose and Dawn. You’d see them all together in their Sunday best, the kids in puff pastry kind-of dresses packed together in a pew with their Ma, while their Pa was mulling about in his pressed suit and tie. There was no trace of the Vandals you’d come to know, the Johnny that would be amplified under that some-what imposterous clean cut demeanor. You’d see him solemn as ever ushering pew to pew with the collections basket for the poor and at communion during the mass.

Yet, if you had to name one thing that complimented Johnny to Mr. Davis, it had to be his consistency with being on time. Never once was he ever late to church. 12pm sharp he’d be looking at his watch, waitin’ for the priest and deacon to do their thang. The same applied for his children and their respected school schedule.

It took you a moment to remember the note from the office that was sent up in the afternoon. In your defense, mastering concentration in this heat proved almost impossible. Until it wasn’t. You could see the lovely writing of the secretary with that neat cursive of hers in the back of your mind, reminding you that the Davis girls would be picked up by their Uncle Benny come dismissal.

That would explain it, you thought. But would it really? Fathoming a member of Mr. Davis’s family not being as meticulous as him? You momentarily wondered how the man would react to such a thing as being late. You were sure it wasn’t in his vocabulary by any means.

Your fingers, engulfing the petite ones of the Davis girls, squeezed their hands reassuringly. “M’sure your Uncle Benny will be here any moment.” Neither of them said anything as you glanced between the two flanked at your sides, little eyelashes blinking up at you without a care in the world. And here you thought they would be just as anal-retentive as their father.

They weren’t.

Since the school yard was becoming less compact with people, and the principal put an end to the fun with the sprinklers, you figured some chit-chat wouldn't hurt to keep them occupied. “You girls have any fun afternoon plans?”

The Davis girl on the right, taller, darker hair, lookin’ far too much like her father — a carbon copy if you will — spoke up then. “Yes! Uncle Benny is takin’ us to a picnic. Gonna see Daddy race his bike, Miss. Honey.”

A bike race, huh? You couldn’t remember seeing anything in the McCook weekly papers ‘bout an upcoming cycling event. But, hey maybe you happened to miss it on your skim of the thing, when your Pa just so happened to put it down for a second durin’ dinner.

“Well, ain’t that sweet!” You chirped, smiling brightly at the girls with genuine excitement in your eyes. “Sure it’ll be tons of fun.”

“S’not when Daddy gets all muddy.” The smaller girl, the one that looked more like her mother. Lighter hair and lighter eyes said. Her tiny face contorted into a grimace.

Muddy? Weren’t cycling races on the roads?

Surely the town would block off the streets like they did for those celebratory parades. The little one was probably exaggerating.

“Aw,” you hummed, a frown dousing your features. “M’sure your Pa is just real dedicated, y’know?” You tried to bring out the bright side for your student. “S’like when you buy a fresh book and worry about those pages dentin’. Y’won’t know if you like it if you don’t read it, right?” The girls nodded. “Dentin’ the pages just goes to show all that love you had for that book while readin’ it.”

“I guess…” The Davis girl shrugged, tiny fingers wrapping about the strap of her pretty pink backpack. Seemingly, she wasn’t as impressed as her sister to the right.

You were gonna change the subject. Gonna start chatting ‘bout something else, when a twist of tiers against the pavement sent a squeak across the air. Your mother-hen instincts kicked in instantly, protective hands pulling the girls behind you without a second thought. All heads turned simultaneously to the intrusion on the road, expecting the worst. Expecting a crash of sorts. But no, there was no crash, just a slick car pulling abruptly up against the sidewalk and jerking to a startling stop. One that could only be equated to the driver going far above the speed limit in a school zone.

It went quiet. Far too quiet as the lot of remaining faculty, students, and parents alike kept their eyes peeled back sharply at the reckless driver. Funnily enough the attentive stares of onlookers could have very well been just as bad as those witnessing an actual crash.

You weren’t any better than the rest, collecting snap shot after snap shot like a roll of consecutive film. You could still hear the engine cutting out, the door swinging open and closing with a solid flick of his wrist. A wrist that would do far worse to you in the bedroom. Far worse in the eyes of your religious upbringing, but would feel too holy to you to be considered a sin.

You only caught a glance of him for a second until his back was facing towards you, thick white letters staking his claim with a skull and crossbones for the Chicago Vandals on his cut down vest.

You’d heard a thing or two about those motorcycle men. Your father ranting and raving about the disturbances near route 95 and police chases. But never, had you ever seen one of them in the flesh up close and personal. A shrill of unprecedented delight shot up your spine at the colorful sight, no longer reserved to those blurry black and white paper cuttings.

Stopping in his tracks, you figured his car must have broken down or somethin’ – but no. He was putting out his cigarette with his worn down boot before making his way over to you, and oh he had his eye on you alright.

A relative unease wahed across the school yard, harder than the obvious heat wave as he sauntered across without a care in the world. As if dozens of heads weren’t makin’ disgusted faces and whispering about. Yet a clear intimidation set over them, people stepping out of the way without a word as if he was a Bible figure. Like Moses parting the red sea.

“Uncle Benny!” One of them chirped. Who you didn’t know, couldn’t know with the sudden flush creeping against your cheeks. Your heart dropped to your stomach once you realized who it was and that the man himself with dirty blonde scruff, calloused fingers, and a black inked layer over a honey toned canvas was makin’ a beeline to you. A beeline to you and the girls.

It was the taller Davis girl that must have called out his name, cause suddenly she was pulling you and her sister forward to meet Benny half way. You almost tripped down the stairs within the broken bubble of her excitement. Barely having a moment’s notice to collect yourself, you found your pristine baby pink ballet flats toe to toe with some scruffed up biker boots that had seen better days. You managed a breath before you looked up and boy were you glad you did.

The wind was practically knocked clean out of you when you were caught face to face with the Benny Cross. It wasn’t because you were scared of him — no. You were more taken aback with how pretty he was. How his deeply set ocean eyes managed to speak volumes without saying a word.

And suddenly, on the front steps of Phipps Avenue School you felt seen. More seen than you had ever felt in your life. He wasn’t the only one sticking out like the sorest of thumbs. So were you with your baby pink tank to match your shoes with your signature embroidered denim overall dress. Hair up and out of your face, loose honey curls frizzing about. Your kitsch tastes and unpolished attire were rather baffling for the picturesque depiction gracing the magazines your Ma read at the salon.

Some would say you were lost somewhere in Neverland. Lots of your fellow teachers would crack jokes here and there ‘bout it too. Sure, on a bad day a jab or two could get to you — but hey you liked what you liked and you weren’t gonna change that. Not for anybody. Not even for your Ma or Pa who grimaced at your bedazzled pins wedged into your messy curls during Sunday mass.

So Benny, well who were you to judge him?

“Hi, you must be Uncle Benny,” you greeted the brood of a man in front of you, flexing a sweet-like-honey smile that was just oh-so-you. You let go of the Johnny look-a-likes hand then, allowing her to wrap her small self around Benny’s leg in pure delight to see him as you outstretched your hand in a shake. To your dismay, he didn’t take it. Instead, his free hand that wasn’t mushing up Johnny’s girls dark locks as he patted her head fished for his pack of Marlboro reds in his vest pocket. That didn’t stop you from introducing yourself though. “I’m Miss. Honey.”

He gave you once over, eyes tracing you from head to toe before the edge of his lip tweaked up in a sly smile. “Honey, huh?” He mused, that deep set voice of his, thick and smokey sweetin’ up something deep inside you.

Dropping your hand back down against your dress, the material felt rather rough on your clammy skin. “Yuh-huh.” You nodded, that tight smile of yours making your eyes twitch just a bit.

A fresh cigarette materialized between his teeth then, unlit. A strange courtesy you found rather charming on the midst of educational grounds. “Hm,” he hummed, the narrow cylinder vibrating against his lips as his eyes devoured you a second time. Yet, you figured he was more unimpressed. Most were anyways.

“Benny! Benny! Can we go see Daddy now?” The girl wrapped around his leg yanked his belt loop with a small finger. The little one was still at your side, hand in hand with you. It was kind of amusin’ how different the two were. It was simple figuring out who was the bigger Daddy’s girl of the two.

“In a ‘inute, sweet-art,” he mumbled, that cigarette of his disrupting any fully coherent sentence from spillin’ out. “C’mere ‘ittle one,” he motioned to the shorter girl who was rather uninterested in leaving. In the midst of your conversation, she managed to keep her hand raised, keeping herself conjoined to you as she sat down on the bottom step in complete and utter protest.

“Don’t wanna.” She pouted down at her bunny tied saddle shoes that matched her pretty little pick-tails.

In a sense, you couldn’t blame her. Now it was all adding up. What was really going on. This wasn’t just some run of the mill village cycling marathon. This was a Vandals bike race.

Any other teacher would have probably made a stink, called the parents in for a sit down with the principal over infiltrating their kids in a biker environment infused with criminal records. But, you weren’t like that — no. Especially when you’d see a child’s eyes light up with so much delight. It was clear that Mr. Davis’s look-a-like was really proud of her father. Who could blame her? Respected throughout the community, a family man who put his all into a trucking' job.

A picnic with some bike racin’ wouldn’t be so bad, right?

Not with Mr. Davis involved.

So, you gave the benefit of the doubt. Sure, it could have been for all those reasons that were swarming about your head, but in actuality your heart was working double time over your mind. The image of the Davis girl clinging to Benny’s leg had teddy bear written all over it, giving you all the sweet talkin’ you’d need. Ironically enough, in due time that soft side of him would turn into plushy lovin’ reserved just for you.

“Lemme,” you mouthed to Benny before getting down to the little one’s level. Flattening out your skirt you took a seat next to her and rested both hands over her own in her lap. “Remember when we were talkin’ about a good book? Dentin’ the pages?” The girl nodded, but didn’t meet your eye. Instead, Benny doing the opposite, his eyes practically grilled onto your peripheral vision. “Well, sometimes if we are too protective of it. Too keen on keeping it all in tack, we’ll never learn not to and we’ll just be more and more disappointed when we come across a little crack we never created in the first place. We may not like it, but it’s there, and there is so much love there.” You squeeze the little girl’s hand. “Just like your old man racin’. You may not like it, but he does, and that’s quite alright. You know why?”

“Why?” She looked up at you then, little doe eyes attentive as ever, clinging onto your every word. It was times like this that reminded you why you were a teacher.

“‘Cause you love him, no matter what” You replied, tilting your head ever-so subtly to observe her reaction.

And oh did Benny love you. He didn’t know it then. Couldn’t fully compartmentalize it until later. Yet, unbeknownst to you, it was one of the first of what would become many of Benny's thoughts on how damn good of a teacher you were, how fine of a wife you’d make, and how sweet of a mother you’d be.

Thankfully, your words must have resonated with the little girl. It only took a moment for those delightful dimples of hers to grace those little features before her lips turned up in a sweet smile. “We gotta go Uncle Benny!” The girl declared suddenly, standing up straight with a whole new attitude. You were glad to supply the optimism. That’s what you were all about. That was the lesson you hoped to instill to your students the most.

You couldn’t help but smile yourself, feeling like a warm blanket was being draped over your shoulders soundly. Not uncomfortable. Not contributing to the intolerable heat wave. You’d only been in your second year of teaching, but hey — small victories like this made it worth it. Made you proud of yourself, even if you couldn’t find such gratitude from others.

Little did you know, Benny — he was so fuckin’ proud. Proud to see you spreading such honey-coated wisdom to a youngin’. And there on the steep steps of Phipps Avenue school as the little one wrapped her arms around you and thanked you profusely before grabbing Benny’s hand and heading to Johnny’s car, he found his mission.

You were gonna be his wife.

He was sure of it.

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆

this was so much fun to write! i hope you liked it :) i’m thinking of also including some honey interviews curtesy of danny ! stay tuned for “from the hive” 🎙️🐝

also to note, my requests are open for any miss honey x benny cross works + any convos about these two in general. don’t be shy honey, i’m all for yapping in the asks.

+ don’t forget to comment if you’d like be added to “da bee hive” (my version of da tag list)

smoochies. all da love xanadu 💋

da bee hive 🐝🍯:

@nervousnerdwitch

@sunnbib

@rose-deathman

@austinbsblog

@thegabbyh

@jihyowrrld

@bellesdreamyprofile

@superemobitch

@m00npjm

@imusicaddict

@astrogrande

@alana4610

@cynic-spirit

@mariaenchanted

#miss honey x benny cross #benny cross x reader #the bikeriders fanfiction #benny the bikeriders #johnny the bikeriders #johnny davis #benny cross #austin butler #tom hardy #austin butler fanfiction

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really-burnt-toast · 10 months ago

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Redesigning my COTL cast pt.1

HAHA I'm finally done! I only made busts tho bc Im lazy and Im not putting myself through drawing a size chart... YET.

It WILL come, just so I can show pretty outfits and show how ridiculous Leshy's hight is LOL

If you see any spelling mistakes, please ignore them <3

(more info and rambling under cut)

Here I'll write some more things relating to each character;

Lamb

Born in Darkwood to a single mother, their mom had named them Mellia after the flowers that grow there, since they had aided in striving off an illness she had during the pregnancy.

The Lamb grew up pretty happily despite being on the run. Their mother was eventually caught whilst they made an escape. During their years of hiding, they broke their leg during one particularly risky escape and were caught not long after.

Their number is 1.600.666 because I keep making a connection between Darkwood and Germany's Schwartzwald - there are 1.6 million sheep in Germany - so I decided to have that be the approximate number. 666 was just added for fun.

Their ear was tagged to keep track of how many sheep were caught in which realm. They just so happened to be the last to be executed. By mere coincidence.

They were born without horns and kinda made the crown shape into a set. It has the benefit that they can rip em off and use them as impromptu weapons.

Due to centuries of being treated as a tool for a prophecy and merely a vessel, their self esteem is downright horrid. Whilst they don't condone followers speaking ill of them, they pretty much let Narinder trample on their feelings up until they had snapped one day. In the end it did help them both, but it wasn't great it had to be taken to that point.

Extra: I added the vitiligo because when I imagine a human version, I couldn't help but see them as having Vitiligo. Their leg limp was made after I thought it would make them look more imposing seeing someone "weak" suddenly pull out a giant hammer.

Narinder

Found within a burning village under rubble, clutching a crown as war raged around them. He was found by Shamura and taken in.

He was the first to create resurrection and back then it was an EXTREMELY taxing ritual. It would require his own godly flesh to beckon people back to life - thus it would literally cause his skin and flesh to melt off his bones. Now that's not needed anymore but his body is still weak to it, meaning during certain stress factors, he can still become skeletal. He doesn't have scarring from it, but gained some cool markings.

He was bound by his arms, torso and neck - all of which are scarred. In the afterlife he was perpetually sitting, causing him to be paralyzed from the waist down. Once he was usurped he had to regain his ability to walk and was taken care of by the Lamb.

He was in a catatonic state for many years and it only got better gradually with many setbacks. For years he never left the bed and by the time his Siblings had been rescued, he had barely started going outside. He was also suffering from chronic pains which wasn't really helpful.

He's also very... Temperamental. It took him just as long to say anything nice to the Lamb and it took him extra long to see them as more than his vessel.

Extra: I changed his markings to be more like I had imagined them. The catatonic trait and chronic pain was added after the update and I remember how horrible it was having tendonitis and I wanted to channel my distaste into Narinder.

Shamura

Found and raised by the last gods, they weren't the greatest sibling. They may have taken in the others but it took them a long time to be anything other than cold. With Kallamar, Shamura was distant and strict - then with Narinder they attempted to be less harsh after the kid started crying himself to sleep. With Heket and Leshy they got less and less cold. They tried their best, they'd argue.

They got carried away by their feelings as they had feared at the start and that's when the first prophecy came to them. They had kept it hidden for way too long until the balance of the crown's powers were ripping at the seams due to Narinder's pursuit in power - and they made a decision. They had told Kallamar first. Then Heket and Leshy were brought in.

Stuff happened. Now they are barely coherent and at most have an hour or two at a time where they seem to make sense. Leshy stays with them the most. Kallamar takes care of them. Heket takes care of the rest. Their skull is caved in, they lost an eye and limbs - some of the damages can't be hidden by bandages.

There's also this thing that their crown keeps getting out of control whilst trying to keep their mind stable - sometimes they'll get startled - attempt to form a weapon and instead end up with their arm speared through. They have scarring all over their body from it.

Upon recruitment they are pretty overwhelmed. Their crown can't stop them from breaking anymore and they have gotten so used to godhood that mortality now feels like they are literally rotting alive. They can feel their body wasting away.

Only after getting their relic back do they start becoming more independent and stable. They nowadays go through some sort of rehab to try and regain their sense of self.

Extra: Not much was added. I wanted to give them Glasses but I can't for the life of me draw them with a pair... So Ill just say they have them but not show them LOL

Kallamar

His past is basically forgotten. It sorta slipped away since he hadn't deemed it fit to be remembered. At first he had MANY fights with Shamura, then it ceased after a confrontation turned violent which left him with a bad scar.

He had to take care of his younger siblings whilst coming to terms with godhood - filling in whenever Shamura wasn't physically or mostly emotionally unavailable. For a long time he was the only one that could comfort his ailing siblings. Dealing with that sort of made him pretty easily agitated.

When Shamura proposed the plan, he had been hesitant - but ultimately didn't say anything.

Now he takes care of his siblings medically. He hates himself more than he hates anyone else and as much as he is quick to condemn and betray Shamura - he is also quick to condemn himself. Though maybe not as enthusiastically or openly.

He likes to compensate. Giving gifts to request forgiveness - grand displays of favoritism or mainly decking himself and his multiple spouses out with Jewels. He still keeps his wedding rings around his neck and his earring references his siblings.

Funnily enough, he caused the least troubles to the Lamb. They could argue he even seemed relieved after a short while of staying in the cult.

Extra: Added Jewelry and two tentacles because he looked naked without them.

Heket

Loudmouth frog that when found with her crown, she started trying to fight Shamura - insulting whatever parent they had. She kept threatening to poison them too.

In the lineup of her siblings, she was often the one who took the sidelines. If she was happy, she was left alone. If she was displeased, she'd let herself known. The most uncomplicated of the siblings.

You'd almost miss how every other bishop would seek her out when help was needed. While Shamura helped with godhood and Kallamar with emotional needs - Heket was a good person to pester with anything else. She'd handle it - just let big sis do it. Even if she was the second youngest - it's funny how even Kallamar and Narinder would occasionally use the nickname.

Then when everyone else was dealing with their wounds, she picked up the pace and kept their respective cults from falling apart. She handled Silk cradle until Shamura could - helped with Darkwood and took over Anchordeep when Kallamar was tending to the others. No problem.

She was still loud when entering the cult. Not as much as her brother - but she loved to cause scenes. Her muteness didn't seem to hinder her at all with that. She's not allowed near knives but somehow can handle axes?

Her temper problems don't get better. She just stops being an asshole about it.

She prefers having scarfs covering her neck bandages whilst they're all bloody and disgusting.

Extra: Nothing because Heket is already perfect.

Leshy

Literally a weird insect that kept clinging to the crown until it grew big enough to hold in one hand. It bit anything that got close and by the time Shamura found it - he had started eating small critters.

And god, he kept growing and growing until he wasn't a small worm in Shamura's hand but literally too big to fit through most doors. They suspected he'd grow until the end of time. Or well, now since his crown is gone.

He never listens. He screams for fun and overshares the worst details to the point he manages to break his siblings into just accepting anything he talks about. They can't even scold him or punish him since Leshy always finds a way to make things worse for anyone else but himself.

He also copies everyone. First it was Heket's tone. Then it was Narinder's behavior - now he started growing flowers and vine braids to make fun of Kallamar and his antlers were at first a crude mimic of Shamura's pedipalps and now they grow vines to be similar to the jewels hanging from them. He refuses to acknowledge doing so.

He's very clingy. After locking away Narinder, he stayed with Shamura every day until they were out of bed rest. He follows his siblings around and when he does give them a second to breathe - hes probably laying around in Darkwood instead of doing anything productive. He does tends to plants occasionally, but he prefers "to let chaos do its thing" - as if that means anything.

He makes for a great gardener after he stopped trying to break everything upon recruitment. And once he got over growling at every living thing - he actually became one of the most well liked people living there.

Leshy knows exactly what someone needs and somehow finds a way to achieve that with the littlest of efforts. It's the thought that counts.

Extra: Braid and vines because I thought Leshy would look cute with it.

Special: The 4 bishops all wear old faith themed robes, but Shamura got the elder clothes for comfort and Leshy kept tearing his clothes apart so he is not permanently excluded from having any special outfits as punishment. Narinder wears fancy robes (who happen to be loose and warm while being special - otherwise he'd complain)

The Lamb wears one of the leaked fleeces since I loved the red riding hood aesthetic.

In the end this turned more into biographies than actual explanations but its 3:30am, Im sleep deprived and I wanted to get my thoughts out because I start having memory problems again YIPPEE

#cult of the lamb #cotl #cult of the lamb fanart #cotl fanart #cotl au #cotl three times #redesign #furry art #cotl lamb #cotl narinder #cotl narilamb #narilamb mentioned very slightly #cotl leshy #cotl heket #cotl kallamar #cotl shamura #god im tired

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stillalivebydemand893 · 13 days ago

Text

That night,That Lie,That fucking kiss

Part 2

(so sorry my loves for the delay this degree is humping my ass)

A road trip with Erik you'll never forget

18+ very romantic i was in my feels

You were both left breathless on the kitchen floor,half-naked, half what the actual fuck just happened.

Erik was still buried inside you, still cockwarming you like you were the last warmth on Earth. His grip on your waist tightened, like if you moved even an inch, he might combust,or worse, feel too much.

“Did we just fuck everything up?” you whispered, hand brushing his cheek, fingers trembling.

You’d prayed for this moment more times than you could count,fantasized about it like a goddamn sinner. You’d imagined what it’d feel like to finally have your best friend between your thighs, moaning your name like it meant something. And now?

It didn’t feel wrong. Not even a little.

Which made the spiral even worse.

Every cell in your body was screaming SHAME like you were the village whore in a medieval drama. Somewhere in the back of your brain, there was a nun with a bell shouting, “SHAME! TO THE ONES WHO STARVE FOR DICK!”

You were losing your goddamn mind.

Erik bit your collarbone, hard.

Your gasp punched straight through the fog.

“Okay, technically yeah, we definitely fucked” he said, smirking like the devil reincarnated. “But hey,60% of accidents happen in the kitchen. We just made the best out of it.”

“You made that shit up,” you laughed, swatting his arm.

It felt insane. Hysterical. Like you hadn’t just been screaming at each other two hours ago. Like he hadn’t ripped you apart and then kissed you back together.

“You’re still dripping on my dick, Peach,” he said, like it was a compliment, like it was a fact.

Then he took your breast in his tattooed hand and sucked your nipple into his hot mouth like he was trying to undo you all over again.

You moaned,because of course you did. Like you’d just woken the devil from a nap and he was starving.

“Can we move to the couch?” you panted, tugging his hair. “My knees are fucked and I’d like to avoid arthritis before I turn 30.”

His mouth stayed where it was, hands still reverent on your chest like your tits were the eighth and ninth wonders of the world.

“I need those knees working, Sweets. You ride me like I owe you rent.”

He kissed your neck, dragging his teeth just enough to make your legs twitch.

You groaned. “Come on, stupid.”

You both stood,instantly missing the feeling of being tangled together.

You lasted maybe five seconds before your knees buckled again.

Erik caught you around the waist like he knew it was coming.

“Jesus, Peach, give a guy a warning. We’re gonna end up crippled and unfucked at this rate.”

He swept you into his arms like you weighed nothing and started walking toward your bedroom.

“We’ll get Alzheimer’s one day and think we’re having sex for the first time every week,” you muttered against his chest.

“What a fucking blessing,” he smirked.

You didn’t say it, but the thought of growing old with him,of getting old and still doing this messy dance with him,settled in your chest like comfort.

Like home.

You collapsed onto the bed side by side, skin still humming, bodies wrecked in that perfect way.

“Remember two years ago?” he said suddenly, voice a little hoarse. “When we said we’d just drive around the States? Like Thelma and Louise, but hotter and with less felony murder?”

You turned your head toward him, snorting. “We had the playlist ready. Crime podcasts saved. Snacks planned. But someone-” you jabbed his bicep, hard “-decided to stick his tongue down her throat and settle down .”

“Ow,” he winced. “Unnecessary violence.”

“Say her name and I’ll commit actual violence.”

You ran a hand over your face like that would erase the memory. The image of them kissing in the studio burned behind your eyelids like an old scar that wouldn’t fade.

Erik turned to you, serious now.

“She came by when I was leaving,” he said quietly. “Started crying. Kissed me out of nowhere. I didn’t kiss her back. I didn’t want it. There’s nothing between us, Peach. Not then. Not now. Not ever.”

He exhaled like he was praying you’d believe him.

But your brain was a locked room, and belief didn’t come easy.

“I don’t know what to believe anymore,” you whispered.

“Then don’t,” he said, getting up and reaching for his pants on the kitchen chair. “Just pack your bags.”

“What?” You blinked, confused. “Where the fuck are you going?”

He looked at you, half-dressed and completely serious.

“We’re doing it. The roadtrip.”

“Erik. You’re not making any sense.Where would we even go?”

“Twilight. Twin Peaks. Buttfuck Nowhere. I don’t care. Just us. We’ll figure it out.”

He came back over, dropped a kiss to your lips like it was muscle memory.

“Fifteen minutes. Don’t be late.”

He walked out the door, tossing an “I love you” like it was something he’d been saying every day for a hundred years.

Your heart hit the floor.

“Love you too,” you whispered, dazed.

Then, louder:

“Asshole.”

You stared at the window.

Maybe if you jumped out, he’d catch you.

A good trust exercise for whatever the hell this relationship was now.

Whatever it was becoming.

You threw four pairs of underwear, one hoodie, and a bottle of dry shampoo into your duffel like that counted as packing.

You yanked on your sluttiest tank top ,the one that made your boobs look like a renaissance painting and your shoulders scream “I have secrets and bad decisions to offer” and stared at yourself like you were suiting up for war.

Because you were.

War with your brain.

With your thighs.

With Erik and the cursed magic of his dick.

And with the highway of consequences which, unlike Erik, was reliable.

Fifteen minutes later, a black Jeep honked outside .

You opened the door.

Erik was there, leaning against the driver’s side he was auditioning to play “Emotionally Damaged Yet Inexplicably Hot Roadtrip Love Interest” in the A24 version of your breakdown.

Sunglasses.

Sweatshirt sleeve pushed up just enough to show off that one tattoo you used to trace with your fingers like it was braille for "Please make out with me."

Music blasting , something aggressive, chaotic, definitely featured in a trailer for a movie where someone robs a bank shirtless.

“You’re late,” he said, without looking.

“You left me post-sex and emotionally obliterated with no warning.”

He turned. Smirked. That fuckboy smirk. The one that made you wanna throw your panties in one direction and your pride in the other.

“So... on time, then.”

You rolled your eyes so hard they nearly got stuck in another dimension.

“Where are we going,Kiki?”

He shrugged. “South? East? Hell?”

You tossed your duffel in the backseat and slid into the passenger seat.

“Perfect. I’ve always wanted to get fingered in Satan’s backyard.”

He choked on his Red Bull.

"Driver’s Seat" by Sniff 'n' the Tears was blasting through the speakers, and for a second, you and Erik felt like you were eighteen again. Back when he first got his license and you’d spent days driving aimlessly through LA, just the two of you, windows down, singing like your hearts didn’t already belong to each other.

“She always smiled for the people she’d meet,” Erik sang in a gloriously off-key tone.

“On trouble and strife,” you joined in, tone equally chaotic.

“She had another way of looking at life-” you both finished in perfect sync before disolving into laughter, giggling like you weren’t two people stitched together by unresolved trauma and explosive chemistry.

He reached over, took your hand, and kissed your knuckles so softly it made something in your chest break open. Like you were made of sugar.

You melted right there in the passenger seat.

“I love you too,” you murmured , barely audible. But he heard it. His smile said everything.

He kissed your palm this time, slower. Deeper. Like a promise.

Then he turned the music down with a smirk that should be illegal in three states.

“Come on, Peach. Be more romantic. Pick a song. Show me how much you love me,” he teased, voice low and cocky.

“Oh don’t try me, Campbell,” you shot back, already grabbing your phone.

He leaned back in his seat like he was watching a show.

And then the playlist appeared on the Jeep’s touchscreen.

“how can I stop loving you without fucking this up”

Erik blinked. His smirk grew.

“Peach…” he said slowly, dragging the word out like he was tasting it. “Do you have a playlist for me?”

“Not for you,” you muttered, already turning red. “About you.”

“Oh,” he said, eyes lighting up. “Even better. Show me what you got, Sweets.”

You hit play.

And then:

The world was on fire and no one could save me but you…

His face changed.

That song.

You didn’t have to look to know he recognized it. Wicked Game. The first one he ever played for you in that beat-up Corolla with the broken aux cord, his hand resting on your thigh like it meant nothing,when it meant everything.

You started singing along. Soft. A little shaky.

It’s strange what desire will make foolish people do…

You glanced at him, embarrassed, it felt like you were cracking your chest open and pouring your whole stupid, lovesick soul into the car.

Because that’s what this playlist was. This wasn’t just a collection of songs , it was every moment you’d spent together. Every late night. Every “fuck, I think I love him” thought you pretended wasn’t real.

And this song? This one made you feel like you had memories in a life you hadn’t lived. Like you were someone else’s heartbreak. Someone’s wife in New Orleans. A forest witch with Erik’s name carved into a tree. Like you’d loved him in every lifetime and failed every time.

You felt a tear slide down your cheek before you could stop it.

Erik didn’t say a word. Just pulled into a gas station, parked, and didn’t turn the song off. He let it play , the hum of the guitar bleeding into the quiet night, just the two of you in the soft glow of fluorescent lights, your soul spilling into his passenger seat.

He reached out and gently swept the tear from your face with his thumb.

His voice was hoarse.

“I already fell in love with you, Peach.”

That was it.

You couldn’t take it anymore.

You unbuckled your seatbelt, climbed over the center console, and landed in his lap, knees on either side of him. Your mouth was already on his before he could finish breathing.

And god, the kiss.

It was everything ,soft and hungry and hot and heartbreaking. Your moans caught in his mouth like confessions. Your tears mixed with his breath. His hands slid up your back, pulling you closer, closer, like he couldn’t bear one more inch of space between you.

You ground down on his lap, and he groaned into your mouth, hands gripping your hips like he was seconds away from losing his mind.

“Fuck,” he whispered against your lips. “You’re gonna make me come in the front seat of my own car.”

“Maybe I want you to,” you panted. “Maybe I like ruining you in small spaces.”

“You have ruined me,” he growled, pressing kisses along your jaw, your throat. “I can’t even think straight when you’re on top of me like this.”

“Good,” you whispered, hips rolling slow and deliberate against his hard length beneath his jeans. “Maybe next time you’ll think twice before ghosting the girl who made you a goddamn playlist.”

He cursed under his breath, dragging his hands under your hoodie, fingertips brushing skin, making you shiver.

“You’re a fucking menace,” he rasped.

“You’re a fucking idiot,” you said, grinding down harder.

You kissed again ,deeper, wetter, like your bodies were trying to say everything your words couldn’t.

The song played on.

No, I don’t wanna fall in love… with you…

Too late.

You were already in freefall.

And this time?

You weren’t falling alone.

You were still in his lap.

Still breathing like you’d just been kissed back to life.

Wicked Game faded into silence, and Erik was staring at you like you were made of constellations and he had just memorized every single one.

Your hands rested on his chest. His heart was pounding.

You didn’t know if it was from the kiss or the fact that you’d just emotionally roundhouse kicked each other in a gas station parking lot with a Chris Isaak song.

Maybe both.

You reached up, touched his cheek with your thumb, and whispered:

“I don’t think I’ll ever get over you.”

He didn’t flinch.

Didn’t laugh.

Didn’t dodge like he usually did when shit got too real.

He just nodded,slow. Like he knew. Like he felt it too. Like he’d already tried.

“I don’t think I want you to,” he said.

Your throat burned.

“Erik…”

“I know, Peach,” he said softly, forehead resting against yours. “I know.”

You stayed like that for a long moment,just holding each other in a car that smelled like gas station coffee, bad decisions, and the start of something holy.

You shifted your hips a little and felt him still hard underneath you.

“God,” you whispered, smirking. “Still?”

He gave you a look that could’ve set the dashboard on fire.

“You climbed into my lap singing Wicked Game, cried a little, told me you loved me, and then started grinding like we weren’t in public, Peach. You think I’m made of stone?”

You giggled.

Actually giggled.

Like an idiot.

He pulled you tighter, arms locking around your waist.

“Let’s get outta here,” he murmured. “I wanna take you somewhere where I can love you properly.”

That made your whole chest ache.

“You love me?” you teased, trying to lighten the weight pressing down on your lungs.

He tilted his head, lips brushing yours.

“I love you in every language I don’t speak. In every song I’ve ever skipped because it reminded me of you. In every version of this fucked-up life where I don’t get to kiss you like this.”

You blinked. “You’re making me crazy love.”

He kissed your nose. Then your cheek. Then your jaw.

“I love you in the dumbass way I don’t say it right, but show it every time I look at you like you hung the fucking moon.”

“Erik-”

“And I love you in the annoying way that means I’ll never be able to let you go without burning something down.”

You swallowed.

Your brain was a blur of what did I do to deserve this, and your heart was crawling into his hoodie like it finally found a place to live.

“Take me somewhere,” you whispered.

“Anywhere?”

“Anywhere. Just drive. I don’t care. I’ll love you in every zip code.”

His lips twitched into a soft, crooked smile.

“Damn, Peach,” he muttered, kissing your forehead. “You’re gonna ruin me.”

“You started it.”

He chuckled.

“You ready?”

You kissed him again. Slower this time. Sweeter. Like you were making a promise you couldn’t take back.

“Yeah,” you said against his lips. “Let’s go fall in love on the road like two idiots with a death wish.”

He drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting on your thigh like it belonged there.

You put on another song,this one soft, nostalgic, something that made your eyes sting without knowing why.

Outside, the stars were starting to come out.

Inside, you were glowing.

You leaned your head against the window, hand in his, and whispered:

“If we crash and die tonight, I just want god to know I died horny and in love.”

Erik snorted.

“Romantic and deranged. My dream girl.”

You smiled.

And somewhere between one exit sign and the next town, he looked at you like you were the only destination that mattered.

You didn’t know where Erik was driving. Didn’t care.

The road spilled in front of you like a ribbon made of second chances, and the air felt different - heavier, maybe, or sacred. The way it does right before a storm, or a kiss that’ll change everything.

You were quiet now. Just music humming low through the speakers and Erik’s hand warm on your thigh like he didn’t ever want to let go.

Outside, the sky had darkened into that deep indigo, stars beginning to scatter like someone spilled glitter across the universe.

“You tired?” he asked softly, glancing over.

You shook your head. “No. Just… floating.”

He smirked. “You always get philosophical after orgasms and playlists.”

You elbowed him, but didn’t deny it.

Twenty minutes later, he pulled off into a field , open, wide, nothing but grass and sky and the kind of silence that makes you feel like the only two people left in the world.

The engine cut. The stars blinked brighter.

You both got out, and you climbed onto the hood of the car like it was something you’d done a thousand times , because maybe, in some other life, you had.

He joined you. Laid back, arms folded behind his head.

“God,” you whispered. “We’re so fucking cliché.”

“Hot people doing cliché things. It’s allowed,” he said, smirking up at the sky.

You laid next to him. Close. Barely touching.

“I almost told you I loved you,” you murmured. “Last year. Remember that night at the lake? When you fell asleep on my lap after three beers and a panic attack?”

He blinked. Turned to look at you.

“I remember,” he said quietly.

“I was gonna say it. You were mumbling in your sleep. Said my name like it hurt.”

He swallowed.

“I remember that too.”

You were silent for a long second.

“I didn’t say it because I didn’t want to be another thing you had to survive.”

He turned on his side. Eyes locked on yours.

“You’ve never been something I survived, Peach,” he said. “You’re the reason I’m still fucking breathing.”

The air left your lungs.

And then, from the car speakers, a soft Sinatra song started to play. Erik had turned the volume up from his phone.

He held out a hand.

You stared.

“You’re not serious.”

“Deadly,” he said. “Get up here and dance with me, Peach.”

“We’re in the middle of a field, Erik.”

“So?”

“No one dances to Sinatra in an open field under a full moon like they’re in a goddamn perfume commercial-”

“I do.”

You snorted, but he was already climbing off the hood, standing under the stars, hand still outstretched like he knew you’d come to him.

You always did.

You hopped down.

“Try anything horny and I’m headbutting you.”

“No promises.”

You slipped your hand into his.

And suddenly, he was pulling you into his chest, one hand on your back, the other twined in your fingers. Your bodies aligned like puzzle pieces that had been aching to fit.

He started to sway. Slowly.

You bit your lip.

“This is so fucking stupid.”

“I know,” he whispered, resting his forehead against yours.

“But I love you anyway.”

Your knees went weak.

His grip tightened.

“I love you like it’s ruining me,” he said. “And I don’t even care.”

You closed your eyes. Breathed him in.

“I love you like it’s always been you.”

And you swayed.

There. In the middle of nowhere. With the stars overhead and the world asleep and your entire chest cracked wide open like maybe this time… maybe it was safe to be soft.

He dipped you.

You screamed.

He laughed.

You shoved him back and he caught you around the waist, spun you once, then kissed you like it was the grand finale of a love story no one thought would survive the first chapter.

“Promise me something,” you said, breathless.

“Anything.”

“When this roadtrip ends… don’t stop choosing me.”

He pulled you closer, pressing a kiss to your temple.

“I never stopped.”

The moment the dance ended, you didn’t even realize who moved first.

Maybe it was you.

Maybe it was him.

But your back hit the car door and Erik’s mouth was on yours, hot and starving, and his hands were everywhere at once , cupping your face, sliding down your waist, gripping your ass like he’d waited years to do it in open air.

You moaned against his mouth, fingers in his hair, dragging him down until his hips pressed to yours and there was no doubt how hard he was.

“This is insane,” you gasped as he kissed down your neck, teeth grazing your throat.

“Then call me fucking crazy,” he growled, fumbling to open the back door with one hand while the other slipped under your shirt, thumbs dragging over bare skin.

The car door opened and you both fell inside, tangled limbs, breathless gasps, the weight of everything crashing down in the form of pure, desperate need.

You landed in the backseat, Erik’s body caging you in, heat radiating off him like he was made of fire.

He kissed you again , deeper now, slower, but with a tension that could snap bones. Tongue against yours, hands everywhere, so much skin and not enough time.

Your shirt was gone first.

Then his hoodie.

Then your bra.

He pulled back, just to look.

“Fuck,” he whispered, voice wrecked. “You’re so beautiful it makes me crazy.”

“Then do something about it,” you breathed, hips rolling up into his.

That broke him.

He dove back in, mouth on your chest, licking, sucking, biting , one hand gripping your thigh, the other squeezing your breast like he couldn’t believe you were real.

You dragged your fingers down his stomach, over the trail of hair that led to his waistband, and undid his belt with shaking hands.

He hissed when your palm brushed his cock.

“You gonna tease me again?” you smirked, already knowing the answer.

His eyes snapped up to yours, dark and wild.

“I’m going to ruin you.”

He yanked your jeans down , impatient, messy , and hooked your legs over his shoulders like he was prepping for battle.

Then , his tongue was on you.

You cried out, back arching into the seat, hands clawing at the upholstery as he devoured you like a man possessed.

“Erik-fuck-”

He moaned into you, like the taste of you wrecked him, tongue curling just right, fingers digging into your thighs, holding you open like this was his purpose.

You were shaking already.

“Please,” you gasped, body strung tight. “I need you -please.”

He pulled back just long enough to wipe his mouth on the back of his hand and say:

“You want it, Peach? Say it.”

“I want you to fuck me,” you moaned. “Now. Here. I don’t care. Just-now.”

His mouth was back on yours instantly, wet and hot and filthy.

You felt him line up against your entrance, his cock thick and hot, already leaking against your skin.

Then, one deep thrust , and he was inside.

You gasped , loud. Body bowing into him.

He groaned like he’d been punched in the gut.

“Fuck, you feel like heaven,” he choked out, pulling back and slamming into you again.

The car shook.

Your moan turned into a scream.

He set a brutal rhythm , hips snapping into yours, the sound of skin on skin obscene in the tiny space, the windows fogging so fast it looked like a scene out of a horror movie ,except this was the most alive you’d ever felt.

You clawed at his back, his shoulders, dragged your nails down his spine just to feel him shiver.

“Erik, I—oh my god—”

“I know,” he panted, biting down on your shoulder. “I know, baby. I’ve got you.”

He reached down, thumb finding your clit, circling just right.

You lost it.

Your whole body clenched, legs tightening around him, scream caught in your throat as you came hard, the kind of orgasm that wrecked memory and rewrote religion.

He cursed, hips stuttering.

“Gonna cum,” he growled. “Where do you-”

“Inside,” you gasped. “Inside. I need it.”

That’s all it took.

He buried himself deep, let out a broken moan, and came with a shudder so intense it felt like an earthquake inside your chest.

You stayed like that, panting, tangled, skin slick and burning, his face pressed into your neck, breath ghosting over your skin like an apology.

You were both trembling.

Both ruined.

And still - he didn’t pull out.

Didn’t move.

Just whispered into your skin:

“You’re my home, Peach. Always have been.”

You pressed a kiss to his hair, still catching your breath.

“And you’re the disaster I’d choose every time.”

THE NEXT MORNING:

You woke up with your leg over the center console, your face smushed into Erik’s bare chest, and a single french fry stuck to your arm like it had gone to war with you.

The car windows were fogged.

Erik was dead asleep under the hoodie you both fought over. His mouth was slightly open, hair a complete mess, and he looked like an angel who’d gotten in a bar fight with a raccoon.

You shifted, winced, and whispered:

“Oh my God… my spine’s filing for divorce.”

“Same,” Erik muttered without opening his eyes. “Pretty sure I left one of my vertebrae under your ass.”

You sat up. Everything hurt. Everything smelled like… regret, sex, and possibly Funyuns.

“I think I gave you a hickey the size of Rhode Island.”

He smirked, eyes still closed.

“You think?”

You shoved him gently, and the car creaked in protest like it too had seen some shit last night.

ONE HOUR LATER: SMALL TOWN DINER, BIG TIME SHAME

You stumbled into a local diner looking like two feral raccoons who’d just discovered what love and backseat sex felt like.

Erik’s hoodie was stretched out in weird places. Your shorts were inside out,and Erik’s neck looked like it had been claimed by a vampire with emotional issues.

The waitress didn’t even blink.

“Booth or bar?”

“Booth,” you both croaked in unison like cursed dolls.

You slid into the booth, hissing as your thighs met the cold leather.

“God, I am fucking wrecked.”

“Same,” Erik muttered, flopping in across from you. “Pretty sure I dislocated a hip.”

You both opened your menus in silence.

Then a sweet old woman from the next booth leaned over and, with the voice of someone who had absolutely zero boundaries, said:

“Well. Someone had fun last night.”

You froze.

Erik blinked.

“Sorry?” you said, attempting politeness but radiating shame.

“Oh, honey,” she said, sipping her black coffee. “I know that walk. And those bruises.”

You reached for your ice water like it might help you evaporate.

Erik, of course, grinned like a feral golden retriever.

“Ma’am, if I could high-five you for that, I would.”

She did high-five him.

You nearly died on the spot.

“I’m Shirley,” she added. “Used to be a gymnast. Your form looked impressive.”

“Shirley. Please.”

Erik was beaming. “Shirley, you’re a legend.”

“I still got it,” she winked at him. “But you got it more, sweetheart.”

You slammed your menu down. “I will walk into oncoming traffic.”

After Shirley left (but not before sliding Erik a handwritten note that may or may not have been her number), you finally got your coffee, your pancakes, and a moment of peace.

Erik looked across the table, eyes softer now.

“You ever think about what this would be like every day?” he asked.

You blinked, halfway through drowning your plate in syrup.

“What, sex in a car and old women heckling us?”

“No. I mean-” he ran a hand through his hair, suddenly shy, “us. Waking up together. Mornings. Diners. Fighting over who used the last of the toothpaste.”

Your heart did something horrible and fluttery.

You tried to play it cool.

“Nah,” you said, sipping your coffee. “I’m just in it for the hickeys and public humiliation.”

He reached across the table and stole your bacon with zero remorse.

“Good,” he said. “Because I’m in it for your ass in my hoodie and your voice when you sing ‘Wicked Game’ at midnight.”

You blushed.

He smiled.

And that was it.

You were screwed.

Like, emotionally.

Later, back in the car:

You climbed into the passenger seat, pulled down the mirror, and caught sight of your hair.

“Jesus. I look like I got into a fight with a leaf blower and lost.”

Erik leaned over and kissed your cheek.

“Yeah,” he said. “But you looked hot doing it.”

You groaned, leaned your head back, and muttered:

“I hate you.”

“No, you don’t,” he said, starting the car. “You love me.”

You didn’t answer.

Just reached over, laced your fingers through his, and whispered,

“Yeah. I really fucking do.”

And as the Jeep pulled back onto the road, Shirley waved at you from the diner parking lot.

Winked at Erik.

Blew him a kiss.

You screamed into the hoodie.

He laughed until he almost ran a stop sign.

#erik campbell #erik campbell fanfiction #final destination #erik campbell final destination #erik campbell x reader #final destination bloodlines #final destination au #Spotify

138 notes · View notes

inseobts · 2 months ago

Note

Pretty please could I request a scenario/imagine with Ace where the reader is from Drum Island and lost someone or something during Blackbeards raid and the reader swore vengeance vengeance on the guy.

So when she's tracking Blackbeard down, she keeps running into Ace and it grows into a friendly rivalry to see who's gonna get Blackbeard first and they compare notes and information

How this all ends on Banaro id leave up to you, I'm not pressed on a happy or angsty ending and I'd like to see your spin on this! I like your writing a lot.

Chasing Fire and Shadows

portgas d. ace x fem!reader

poll for part 2

a/n: the islands I name are random tho lmao loved writing this so much btw

words count: 4.6k

tags: slow burn, enemies to allies, shared revenge, adventure, angst/drama, light humor

masterlist || ao3 || ko-fi

Snow falls hard on Drum Island the night Blackbeard attacks.

You remember the fire, the screams, and the way the cold didn’t matter because rage kept you warm. Blackbeard’s crew swept through the town like wolves through a sheep pen, lighting homes, laughing through gunfire. No mercy. No reason.

Your brother had gone to help put out the flames. He never came back.

All they found was part of his coat. Burnt at the edge. Blood at the seam.

That night, in the silent wreckage of your village, you dug your hands into the snow and swore two things:

You would find Marshall D. Teach.

You would kill him yourself.

After all that.

“Vengeance won’t keep you alive.”

That’s what Dr. Kureha says the morning you tell her your plan.

You stand in the snow, fists clenched, scarf whipping in the wind “Then I’ll make sure strength does.”

Kureha narrows her eyes “Strength without control is just chaos. What are you gonna do? Run around with a kitchen knife screaming his name?”

“No,” you say “I’m going to train.”

And you do train, for months, you fight your own limits. Early mornings. Weighted runs in deep snow. Hand-to-hand combat with heavy gloves. You work under the mountain monks for endurance, under ex-hunters for reflex, and under Wapol’s leftovers for grit.

One of the monks, old and blind, says something you never forget “Pain will make you sharper, girl. But only love will keep you human.”

You don’t know how to feel about that.

Six months into your training, you find something in the wreckage of a smuggler's den near the coast. A Devil Fruit. Rotating, pale silver with jagged navy streaks, looking like a storm frozen mid-sky. You remember your breath catching, your hands shaking.

You don’t know its name. No one does.

But you eat it anyway.

It tastes like battery acid and regret.

Three days later, lightning shoots from your fingertips during a sparring match. You black out. Nearly burn down a hut. But you feel the power, deep and electric, coiled in your blood like a storm waiting for a trigger.

They start calling you the Thunderborn after that.

You learn to control it, piece by piece:

Charging your body to move faster than the eye.

Electrocuting your punches for impact.

Using static fields to sense motion behind you.

Eventually, you learn to “blink” short-range lightning jumps.

Now — Alabasta

You walk into the Nanohana bar in a sand-stained cloak, hair still carrying bits of static.

And there he is again.

Portgas D. Ace.

At the counter. Shirt open, freckles out, drinking like he owns the damn place.

He doesn’t see you at first, but you don’t say anything.

You just sit beside him and order something cheap.

Then he turns “Well, well, if it isn’t Drum Island’s sparkplug.”

You smirk “If you call me that again, I’ll fry your eyebrows off.”

Ace laughs “You’ve gotten funnier. And sparky. Did I hear lightning outside earlier?”

You sip your drink “Might’ve been me.”

“Figured. You light up when you’re mad.”

You glance sideways “Why are you always ahead of me?”

“Because I don’t stop to make dramatic entrances.”

“Jerk.”

“Aw, come on. You missed me.”

You roll your eyes “Only thing I miss is good intel. Got any?”

Ace shrugs “He’s headed west. Some say Jaya. Others say farther.”

You slam your notebook on the counter.

He lifts a brow “Still writing everything down?”

You flip through pages of hand-drawn maps, bounties, and coded rumors “Unlike you, I don’t rely on luck.”

Ace grins “I rely on fire.”

“You rely on being reckless.”

“You rely on overthinking.”

The two of you stare at each other. Then both laugh just a little.

There’s something about him you can’t hate, no matter how frustrating he is.

He taps your notebook “We should compare notes.”

You raise an eyebrow “Are we teaming up now?”

He smirks “Nah. Just wanna beat you to him fair and square.”

You lean in “Then good luck keeping up, Hothead. I’m faster now.”

Ace tilts his head “I like a challenge.”

He finishes his drink, drops some coins, and walks away, but then he pauses at the door.

“I’ll see you at the next dead end, Lightning Bug.”

“Say that again and I’ll roast you.”

He laughs and disappears into the heat.

You stare after him, heart thudding like thunder in your chest.

You're not here to cause trouble. You're just passing through Scorpio Island, a busy port with cheap food and a decent information network.

It’s humid. Loud. Smells like salted fish and sweet rice. You’ve just finished questioning a dockworker who “might’ve seen a man with a weird black beard” which isn’t helpful at all.

Then the air shifts.

You pause mid-step. Hair lifts slightly from your skin. Not from your powers but from instinct.

You’re being watched.

When you look up, Marines start stepping out from the alleys. One, two, six, then ten. Boots clinking. Guns half-drawn.

You blink.

“What…?”

The nearest officer, a man with a square jaw and too many medals, steps forward.

“Y/N, right?” he says like he already knows “You’re coming with us.”

You take a step back, palms up “I don’t want any trouble. I’m not a pirate or anything—”

He tosses something at you.

A bounty poster.

It floats through the air and lands at your feet, face-up.

Your face. Your name. Wanted: 82,000,000 Berries. Alive or dead.

“What the—?” You crouch to pick it up. Your fingers spark from the shock of touching your own damn bounty “This has to be a mistake. I didn’t do anything.”

“You took down the Captain of the Blackjaw Pirates in Loguetown. Witnesses saw lightning. Saw you.”

Your jaw drops “I wasn’t—! That was self-defense! He tried to rob a ship I was on!”

“You blew a hole in the harbor.”

You groan “He exploded first! I exploded back! It wasn’t like I was trying to—!”

“Doesn’t matter. You attacked a pirate with a bounty. You fought on public ground. That makes you a threat.”

You clench your fists. Static dances around your knuckles.

“I don’t want to fight you,” you say again, slower, sharper “I’m not your enemy.”

But they don’t listen.

They raise rifles. They step forward.

And you flinch, not from fear, but from frustration.

“DAMN it,” you mutter “Why is everyone so STUPID—”

Suddenly, there’s a gust of hot wind and a blur of orange and freckles.

“Oi” says a voice you recognize, just before your feet leave the ground.

“What the—!”

You're lifted off the street in a flash of fire, bridal style, and the world tilts.

Portgas D. Ace is grinning, even as flames flicker at his shoulders.

“She said she doesn’t want a fight,” he calls to the stunned Marines, like he’s announcing a party “So back off.”

And then he’s like flying. No, blasting forward in a burst of flame, carrying you over rooftops, streets, and screaming civilians until the port becomes a blur beneath you.

After making sure you got far enough, he sets you down gently. Too gently.

You slap his arm.

“What the hell, Ace?”

“Ow.”

“You could’ve dropped me!”

“Sure, but then I’d have to carry you again. This way saves time.”

You glare. Sparks flicker from your hands “I had that under control!”

“Yeah, I saw,” he says, flopping onto a patch of dry grass like this was a walk in the park “Totally calm. Not shouting at all.”

You kick a rock “They’re saying I’m some kind of threat now. I didn’t even mean to take that guy down! He attacked me!”

Ace lifts a brow “Big guy, metal jaw, kinda ugly?”

“That’s the one.”

“You melted his sword.”

“It was instinct!”

Ace whistles low “That’s why your bounty’s that high. Not many people take down a guy like that without trying.”

You fold your arms, seething “This is so stupid.”

Ace looks at you for a long moment “You okay?”

You sit beside him “No. I’m not. I’m not even close.”

“...You’re not gonna cry, are you?”

You shove his shoulder “I will electrocute you.”

He laughs “There she is.”

You look out toward the ocean, your anger slowly cracking “I didn’t sign up for all this. I just wanted to find Blackbeard.”

Ace’s smile fades “Yeah. Me too.”

You don’t say anything for a while. The wind brushes past, carrying sand and silence.

Finally, you ask, “So. What now?”

Ace stretches his arms behind his head “We keep chasing. And maybe next time, I’ll let you save me for a change.”

You side-eye him “...You just want to get carried.”

“I’m just saying it’s only fair.”

It’s late afternoon on Mira Island, a laid-back little place known for its wind chimes, lazy bars, and fishermen who talk too much.

You’ve been here two hours and already heard five versions of “a pirate with a black beard stole someone’s boat.”

Typical.

You’re sitting outside a bar near the water, boots up on the railing, pretending to enjoy a bland cocktail. The sun hits the sea just right, and for a second, you forget the bounty, the chase, the Marines...

"Nice poster, Sparkplug."

You freeze mid-sip. That voice again.

You lower the glass slowly and turn.

Ace stands there, grinning like always, flipping something between his fingers.

He slaps it down on your table.

Your new bounty poster.

It’s the same damn thing from Scorpio Island… but worse.

Now it says:

WANTED — Y/N Dead or Alive — 142,000,000 Berries

And the picture?

You groan “Where the hell did they even get this photo?”

Ace leans on the table, chin on hand “Looks like a surveillance shot. Pretty high quality for Marines, honestly.”

You glare “I look good in it. That’s suspicious.”

He snorts “Right? I mean, hair’s all dramatic in the wind, eyes glowing. You look like you're about to declare war on God.”

You squint at him “Did you come here to bully me?”

“Nah,” he says “Came here to drink. Saw your face first thing at the port. Figured I’d come ruin your day.”

You grab your glass “Too late, it was already ruined.”

Ace sits across from you and signals the bartender “Then let’s make it worse.”

Two drinks later you're both laughing. You’ve moved on to shots.

It turned into a challenge somewhere between the third insult and the first real smile.

You’re trying not to slur. He’s trying not to fall off his stool.

“This island’s too quiet” you mutter, pouring another.

“You’re just mad it doesn’t have Marines to shock.”

“You’re mad I can outdrink you.”

Ace points at you “That’s not true. You’re just shortcircuiting, so the alcohol hits faster.”

You gasp “Did you just insult me?”

He nods “Twice, actually. You missed the first one.”

You slam your glass down “One more round.”

“Only if you ask nicely.”

You roll your eyes “Fine. One more round… idiot.”

He grins “There it is.”

Later on, you're both quieter. Buzzed, but not spinning.

You stare out at the sea, feeling the calm before the next storm. Because there’s always another storm.

You speak first “You know… maybe we should just make it official.”

Ace lifts a brow “What?”

You look at him, serious now “An alliance. You and me. Find Blackbeard together.”

He pauses.

Then he shakes his head, just once “Can’t.”

You frown “Why not?”

“He’s dangerous.”

You sit up straighter “You think I don’t know that?”

“He killed someone I cared about.”

Your breath catches “...Same.”

Ace doesn’t look at you when he says, “I can’t risk someone else.”

You stare at him, heart suddenly heavier “So what, all this time… you were just playing nice?”

He blinks “No.”

“Then were you feeding me fake info? Sending me in the wrong direction to keep me out of it?”

His expression hardens “I don’t do that.”

You cross your arms “Really? Because it kinda feels like I’m chasing a shadow and you’re chasing the real thing.”

“I gave you everything I had. Every rumor, every tip. That’s my style. I don’t lie to people I respect.”

You scoff “Respect?”

Ace leans in a little, face calm but serious “Yeah. You’re strong. Smart. Brave. You deserve better than chasing a monster into hell.”

You meet his eyes.

“I’m already in hell beacuse of him” you say.

Ace doesn’t respond. Just looks at you for a long time.

The silence between you is sharp. Electric.

And then he says, “...I’ll see you around, Sparkplug.”

He leaves before you can say anything else.

You sit there, staring at the table, fingers twitching.

The poster flutters in the wind, your own face looking back at you.

Wanted. Alone. Again.

It’s too damn hot.

You're holed up in an abandoned fishing shack on Gulliver Island, nursing a half-broken fan and peeling off your jacket like it’s trying to kill you.

Outside, the jungle hums with heat and insects. Inside, it’s just you, a damp rag, and one tall, shirtless idiot leaning against the doorway.

“Thought you’d be gone by now” you mutter.

Ace smirks. He’s barefoot, towel slung over his shoulder, sunburnt collarbone on full display.

“I was,” he says, stepping in like he owns the floor “But then I heard about a lightning girl terrorizing a squad of Marines a few miles up the coast.”

“I didn’t terrorize them,” you snap “They cornered me. Again.”

He raises both hands “Hey, I believe you. I just figured you might need a break.”

You glare “So you brought yourself?”

He grins “Thought you’d enjoy the view.”

Your eyes flick over his bare chest before you can stop yourself “Please.”

“Caught that.”

You toss your rag at his head. He catches it with one hand and chuckles.

Later, you sit across from each other at a short wooden table. There's barely enough space for two people, and your knees touch every time one of you shifts. You blame the heat for the sweat on your neck, not the way Ace’s eyes linger too long when you lean forward.

He slides something across the table.

Your bounty poster. Again.

You groan.

“They upped it,” he says casually “You’re at 170 mil now. Guess the lightning show made an impression.”

You snatch the paper “Why do they keep using this photo?”

“You look too good in it. Makes you more dangerous.”

You shoot him a look “I’m already dangerous.”

“Oh, I know.”

His tone is low. Too low. You feel it in your spine.

You set the poster down.

“So,” he says after a beat “What now?”

You shrug “Still chasing him. Still alone.”

Ace’s fingers tap the table. His knee bumps yours again and doesn’t move.

You meet his gaze. It’s hot in here, and not just because of the island.

“You ever get tired of being on your own?” you ask, voice soft.

He doesn’t answer right away.

“I’ve got reasons” he says eventually.

“I know. You told me.” You lean in a little “Doesn’t mean you have to like it.”

Ace watches you for a long moment. There’s tension now, real and pulsing. It builds between you like a charge in the air, like your own devil fruit is reacting to something deeper.

“I don’t want to see you get hurt” he says, quietly.

You look down, then back up at him “I don’t want to see you die chasing him alone.”

Your foot brushes against his under the table. Neither of you moves this time.

You could lean in. He could close the gap.

But neither of you does.

Instead, he stands, too quickly. His hand runs through his hair, like he’s shaking off whatever just passed between you.

“I’m sleeping on the roof,” he says “Too hot in here.”

You watch him leave, jaw tight, pulse racing.

The door creaks shut behind him.

You're left alone with the heat… and a storm you’re not sure you can keep holding back.

Weeks later.

The storm rolls in fast.

One second you're arguing with a stubborn trader about a Blackbeard sighting, the next you're sprinting through sheets of rain, your jacket clinging to your skin like a second, colder version of yourself.

Lightning flashes above. Loud. Familiar. Yours, or maybe not.

You duck under a hanging sign and shake out your soaked sleeves. Behind you, heavy footsteps squish through the mud.

“I told you to wait” Ace says, breathless.

You turn, rain dripping from your hair “I told you to keep up.”

His freckles are speckled with raindrops. His hair’s a mess. He looks unfairly good for someone drenched head to toe.

“Nice weather” you mutter.

“I swear, you summon this stuff on purpose.”

You smirk “Oh? Fireboy scared of a little water?”

He gives you a look “I’m not scared. I just respect the enemy.”

“What's that even supposed to mean.”

Thunder cracks above. You flinch slightly, but Ace notices. He steps closer, that infuriating grin back on his lips.

“Shouldn’t you be used to this?”

“Not when I’m stuck in it with you.”

He gestures to a shed nearby, half-hidden behind a fruit stand “There. Shelter.”

You glance at it. Small. Barely big enough for one of you.

“Great” you deadpan.

Inside the shelter it’s even worse than expected.

Dark, creaky, barely more than a shack. But it’s dry. Mostly. Except the roof drips in two places.

You stand awkwardly close. Too close. The space smells like rain and sweat and wood. His arm brushes yours when he adjusts his belt. You try not to react, but your skin’s already warm from the charge of the lightning earlier.

“You’re shivering” he says quietly.

“No, I’m not.”

He looks at you. Long. Serious.

“Come here.”

You stare “What?”

“I’m warm,” he says, and yeah, his Devil Fruit does give him an advantage here...

You hesitate. Just a second.

Then you sigh and step closer. He pulls you in gently, an arm around your waist, casual like it means nothing. But it does.

His skin radiates heat. His breath brushes your temple. You stand there, half-mad from how close his mouth is to your ear.

“Better?” he asks.

You nod, voice low “Yeah. It’s fine.”

“You sure?”

You feel his smile before you see it.

Then, softer “You know… I wasn’t trying to push you away. Lat time we met.”

You glance up.

“We’re not allies” you say.

“We’re more than that,” he answers “Aren’t we?”

The silence grows thick. Your heart pounds so loud it nearly drowns out the rain.

You tilt your head “You always this forward when you’re wet?”

He chuckles, low and slow “Only when I like the person I’m stuck with.”

You stare at him.

He stares back.

Your lips are inches apart.

And still… neither of you moves.

Not yet.

But the storm isn’t the only thing building.

The rain pounds the roof, wild and heavy. The wind howls through the cracks in the walls, but inside the shack it’s still.

Your breath hitches.

Ace hasn’t moved and neither have you.

Your fingers curl slightly into his shirt. He’s too warm. Too close. Too good at looking at you like he knows exactly what you’re thinking.

“Say something” you whisper.

His voice is rough “You want honesty?”

You nod.

“I think about you too much.”

You blink “That wasn’t the kind of honesty I was expecting.”

He grins but it's softer than usual “Then maybe you should stop expecting the worst from me.”

You don’t have a smart reply this time.

You tilt your face up. You’re done pretending the heat between you is just because of your devil fruits, or the jungle, or the shared goal of revenge.

This is different. And it’s real.

You lean in.

So does he.

The kiss is slow at first. Testing. His lips brush yours like a question.

Then it deepens.

Your fingers fist into the front of his shirt. His hand finds the back of your neck, thumb grazing your skin in a way that sends a sharp bolt of need straight through you.

You shift, pressing closer... hips brushing, mouths moving. The shack feels smaller. The air tighter.

You gasp when his teeth graze your lower lip.

He pulls back just enough to speak, voice hoarse.

“I’ve wanted to do that since the first island we met at.”

“You’re late” you murmur, tugging him back down.

This time, the kiss is rougher. More desperate. His hands on your waist now, yours sliding up under his shirt, fingers trailing over warm skin. He swears under his breath when you do.

You only break apart when a roll of thunder shakes the shack.

Your foreheads stay pressed together.

You’re both breathing hard.

Still wrapped around each other.

“Storm’s not letting up” he says.

“Guess we’re stuck.”

A small smile “Yeah. Real shame.”

Time pass and you’re curled up beside him, his jacket draped over you both like a blanket.

You trace a small burn scar on his shoulder lazily with one finger.

“You still want to find Blackbeard alone?”

Ace’s jaw tightens for a second.

Then he exhales “I don’t know anymore.”

You nod. You understand.

But for now, in this moment, neither of you are alone.

Weeks pass.

You and Ace keep crossing paths. At first, by accident. Now? You’re not so sure.

You bicker like rivals. Fight like friends. Flirt like something more.

“Lightning for brains” he mutters when you zap open a locked door instead of picking it.

“Matches-for-hands” you snap back, shoving past him.

But you don’t go separate ways this time.

It’s hot again. The island of Kota is all red dust and thick air. You’re sitting outside a half-crumbled tavern, nursing something too bitter to drink, when a kid, skinny, sunburned, eyes too sharp for his age, runs up to your table.

“You’re the lightning girl, right?”

You pause “Who’s asking?”

He glances around, then whispers, “I got news. About the man you’re hunting.”

That gets your full attention.

Ace looks up from his drink across the table. His whole body shifts, not much, but you feel it. Tension behind the ease. He’s worried, and trying to hide it.

“What kind of news?” you ask the boy.

“Blackbeard passed through Southshore two days ago. They say he’s headed to the mountains on Harka Isle. Big crew. Real big.”

The kid slips a folded paper into your hand and bolts before you can ask more.

You stare down at the message. Your pulse picks up. The handwriting is frantic. Names you recognize. Places that weren’t supposed to exist anymore.

“Let me see.” Ace says, reaching for it.

You snatch it away “No.”

“Come on.”

“No.”

“You don’t even know if it’s real—”

“I’ll decide that.”

He leans back in his chair, jaw tight “You’re not thinking straight.”

You stand “And you’re not listening.”

The fight doesn't end when the sun sets.

You’re pacing your rented room above the tavern, lightning buzzing faintly under your skin.

Ace leans against the doorframe, arms crossed.

“You’re acting like you’ve already decided to die.”

You spin “And you’re acting like I don’t have a reason!”

He walks toward you “I never said that.”

“But you think it.”

Silence.

His voice drops “I think you’re carrying something too heavy. Alone.”

You look at him.

And something breaks open.

“You want to know exactly why I’m doing all this? Fine.”

You walk to him close, but not touching.

“He killed my brother,” you say “During the raid on Drum Island. Not with his own hands... Blackbeard’s a coward. But it was his chaos. His madness. My brother bled out in the snow, calling for me, and I was too far to reach him.”

Ace’s eyes darken. He doesn’t move.

“I don’t care what it costs,” you whisper “I don’t care if I burn out, or if I die with him. As long as I take that bastard down into hell with me.”

He exhales slowly, like your words hit something deep.

And then he steps forward.

“I hate this,” he says quietly “Because I get it.”

You don't say anything else.

You just reach for him.

Later on, the sheets are twisted. Your skin still hums, but not from lightning. You’re pressed against Ace, legs tangled, his hand stroking slow circles on your spine.

Neither of you says much.

You don't need to.

It wasn’t rough. It wasn’t fast. Not this time.

It was everything unsaid, poured out in touches and breath and the way he looked at you like you were more than vengeance.

You break the silence.

“You really think I can’t do it?”

“I think you can,” he says softly “I just don’t want you to lose yourself doing it.”

You stare at the ceiling.

Too late for that. But you don’t say it.

You just stay there, in the dark, skin on skin.

Storms can wait. But not forever.

The sun is cruel when it wakes you.

You turn over, reaching across the bed.

Cold, empty sheets.

Your stomach drops.

You sit up, frowning “Ace?”

No answer.

You scan the room. His shirt is gone. So are his boots. His dagger. His hat.

You rush downstairs barefoot, wild with sleep and fear “Ace?!”

The barkeep doesn’t even look up “Left before sunrise. Didn’t say much.”

Your pulse pounds in your ears “Left where?”

No answer.

You push out into the sun-drenched street. A headache builds behind your eyes “Damn it. Damn it, Ace—”

“Hey” a voice says. It’s the kid from yesterday, standing near the edge of the alley. Same nervous energy. Same sharp stare “He left you something.”

You rush over “Where is he?!”

The boy just hands you a folded piece of paper.

You open it with shaking hands.

I had to go ahead. I know you’ll try to follow me. I hope you don’t. If I can end this, maybe you won’t have to. Don’t hate me for this. I’m not trying to leave you. I’m trying to save you.

You reread the words five times.

They don't sink in.

You press the page to your chest, breath shaking. But your mind grabs onto one thing.

He didn’t say goodbye.

He didn’t say he wouldn’t come back.

You chase every whisper. Every rumor.

Lightning burns under your skin as you cross sea after sea.

Someone saw smoke on Banaro Island.

Two men, one made of fire, one of darkness.

You go there.

You go to Banaro.

The island is scorched, like lightning and death danced a waltz across its surface.

Ash coats the wind. Trees splintered, rocks cracked down the middle.

Your stomach twists but your hope is louder.

“Ace won,” you whisper to yourself “He had to.”

There’s no body.

No blood.

You search until your knees ache. You find his hat, not burned, just buried under some rubble. You hold it to your chest and close your eyes.

Maybe he left it on purpose.

Maybe he’s coming back for it.

You smile.

You believe that.

You have to.

Three Days Later

You're in a small port town, hair damp from rain, scarf pulled tight as you sit in a dusty inn with a cup of bitter coffee.

There’s a newspaper crumpled on the table beside you. You’re not even looking at it.

Until you see the name.

“Portgas D. Ace: Captured. Now held in Impel Down.”

Your chest goes cold.

The mug slips from your fingers and shatters.

People glance over, but you don’t notice.

You just stare.

Captured.

Alive.

But for how long?

The newspaper says nothing about the fight. Nothing about what’s coming next.

But you know.

The World Government has him.

They’re going to make an example out of him.

You press your palms to your face and sit still for a long time.

Hope is still in your chest... But now it’s shaped more like panic.

You have to get to him.

You have to do something.

You will.

Because you can't be too late this time.

But you might be, if you don’t move... now.

331 notes · View notes

tfalpha88 · 5 days ago

Note

Can I have a case of red? Im tall but skinny. Wonder what efect the drink will have on me?

Thomas was on his way to work, cutting through the city stadium.He had just received his order of “RED.”

He’d seen a somewhat narcissistic YouTuber talk about it, praising the energy boost the drink was supposed to give.

Thomas was very tall and skinny.His body burned through energy fast, and he often experienced crashes during the day.So he figured it was a good idea to give it a try.

While sipping on his can of “RED”, he thought back to that YouTuber, boasting about all the positive effects the drink could provide, and wondered if he’d feel any of them himself.

More than anything, he just wanted to get through a workday without that usual, crushing fatigue.

He drank the can to the very last drop.

He enjoyed the sparkling red berry flavor.

As soon as the can was empty, Thomas started coughing up a cloud of red smoke. Completely shocked by what was happening, he saw his memories swirl around in chaos.

It started with his rough teenage years.

His height and thin frame had always been a source of insecurity.Like most teens, he hadn’t escaped ridicule. They used to call him “the pole” or even “the skeleton.”

He’d always struggled to gain weight. His body demanded way too many calories, and because of that, he constantly looked a little sickly.

After finishing high school, he had no real ambition for the future.He didn’t know what kind of work he wanted to do. It’s now been eight years since he started working at the small convenience store in his hometown. At first, it was just supposed to be temporary — a stopgap until he figured things out.But in the end, he never left. He hated the job. Seeing the same village faces every day, running into former classmates who had clearly succeeded in life… it made him feel a bit more pathetic every day. He lived alone.

He knew his life sucked. But unfortunately, his metabolism held him back in everyday life. Any motivation to change would quickly fade.

Then he felt a powerful surge of energy course through his body — like a wave of intense heat. He had never felt anything like it before. That energy… the one he had always dreamed of.

New memories began reshaping his reality. He saw himself as a teenager again, still mocked by others… but this time, he fought back. He started working out to change his body. After years of dedication, he managed to build a muscular frame. Still slim, sure, but no longer sickly-looking. He had gained confidence.

He still worked at the village convenience store… but no longer as just an employee. This time, he was the owner. Two years earlier, his boss had offered to sell him the place. It wasn’t his dream, but owning his own business was a solid opportunity.

He was in a relationship with a woman he had met at the shop. They had recently moved in together.

He wasn’t sure if all of this was real… but he liked these memories. This life felt good.

And as the memories settled into reality, his body continued to transform. He became more muscular, more confident.

He didn’t understand what was happening. But just as he was starting to grasp that his body had changed, that energy returned — stronger than before. It was like an adrenaline explosion. The sensation was incredible. He felt powerful. And while that rush flowed through him, the memories kept shifting.

He saw himself again in those teenage years, mocked for his appearance… but this time, he didn’t back down. He remembered the massive surge of anger, that moment he charged at the group of teens and beat the crap out of them. Adrenaline had taken over. He lost control. And he’d managed to scare them. In fact, everyone was scared now…

For Thomas, that was the turning point. He would never let anyone walk over him again.

He changed everything: his diet, his routine. He ate massive amounts of food to bulk up and threw himself into weight training. And now those rewritten memories were taking physical form. His body morphed into a mountain of muscle. He lost his hair from a flood of testosterone, but a thick red beard grew in, giving him an impressive look.

He owed that physique in part to the city’s rugby club, where he had enrolled. He quickly became a key player — a cornerstone of the team. They called him “The Mountain.” Few teams ever managed to beat them.

Thomas was fully dedicated to his club. He even coached the younger players.

He had bought the convenience store where he used to work, but had turned it into a bar. He wanted to transform the place he once hated. And he did. It became the team’s headquarters — always buzzing with people, full of life.

He lived with the woman he’d met at the old shop. But sadly for her, she had become the most cheated-on woman in the village.

Thomas had an endless sex drive. Probably another side effect of all that testosterone. He didn’t care if it was with women or men.

He’d already slept with a few of his gay teammates — they’d even given him a nickname: “ The Ass Breaker.”

The transformation came to an end. His clothes turned into a rugby kit. Old memories faded. New ones took their place.

And the new reality came to life.

The smoke stopped pouring from his mouth. The skinny Thomas was gone. Now, only the rugby-playing Thomas remained.

He grabbed his can of “RED” before heading to training, and with a smirk, wondered whose ass he’d be taking after practice.

#male transformation #personality change #reality change #tf gay #bodybuilder #growth #rugby #rugby players

77 notes · View notes

kanyerealdaughter · 29 days ago

Text

— ★ BLEACH MEN IN JAMAICA

characters - renji , ichigo , uryu , byakuya , kenpachi , shinji , aizen , gin , kaname , kugo , kensei , rose , hisagi , kira. | pt II here! | all around the world event! |

—————————————————————————

RENJI ABARAI - hits the sand like he’s walked this shore before bandana tied over his fuck up haircut, sleeves rolled, grin sharp as ever. you tease him about being too pale for the sun, and he throws his head back laughing.he belongs to the heat, to the salt, to the sound of reggae in the wind.

beach reaction - he challenges the waves like they owe him something. throws you over his shoulder, sprints into the sea. bbe lies beside you, wet and grinning. “ you’re glowing.” he mutters. “ must be the sun. or me.”

food experience - devours jerk chicken like he was raised on it. *he wish he was* drinks from a coconut and offers you the first sip.

“ you’re the only spice that ever hit me this hard,” he says, winking.

cultural experience - dances with you at a beachside drum circle, barefoot and wild.

lets a local braid his hair with beads. keeps one bead just behind his ear. “ so i remember this.”

—————————————————————————

ICHIGO KUROSAKI - serious at first, scanning the shore like it’s enemy territory. but when your laughter breaks through the waves, he softens. the way he watches you sunlit, free is reverent. like prayer.

beach reaction - quietly lays the towel beside you. won’t admit he burned his feet on the hot sand. splashes you once, accidentally starts a war, ends up laughing, breathless, soaked, holding you.

food experience - hesitates at first, one sniff, then devours. “ why didn’t you tell me food could taste like this?” lets you feed him plantains with your fingers. doesn’t complain.

cultural experience - he listens with respect to every elder you introduce him to. offers to help a fisherman mend nets, learns fast. you find him humming the same folk song all night.

—————————————————————————

URYU ISHIDA - his steps are measured, tailored, respectful. white shirt crisp despite the wind, glasses glinting with restraint. but you catch the way his shoulders drop when the sun touches his skin, even he can’t out-sew the peace here.

beach reaction - sets up a perfect umbrella shade, precise towel folds. ends up chasing you into the surf, pants rolled to his knees, smiling.

“ you’re a menace.” he whispers against your temple, wind-tangled.

food experience - compliments the presentation of every dish. surprisingly tolerant of spice.

“ it has… character.” lets you lick ackee sauce from his fingers flustered, but doesn’t stop you.

cultural experience - offers to help stitch costumes for a dance performance. shows local teens how to reinforce seams. gifts you a hand-sewn sash in the colors of the flag.

—————————————————————————

BYAKUYA KUCHIKI - stands still in the breeze like a painted god. his silence isn’t distance, it’s reverence. you watch him watch the ocean like it’s a poem he doesn’t yet understand.

beach reaction - never takes off the scarf, even as sand gathers at his feet. lets you guide his hand to the water. says nothing, but stays.

“ the waves are… patient he murmurs. you smile. so is he.

food experience - eats neatly. compliments the chef in perfect patois. his praise earns him second helpings.

“ didn’t know you could flirt with food.” you lean in.

“ i only flirt with you.” his eyes soften.

cultural experience - sits in quiet conversation with village elders. offers rare smiles to children who braid flowers into his sleeves.

“ i will remember this.” he says, fingers brushing yours.

—————————————————————————

KENPACHI ZARAKI - crashes into jamaica like a hurricane wearing boots. laughs loud, lives louder, and stares down the sun itself. but when you pull him into the sea, he stills, like the wild inside him found something wilder.

beach reaction - stomps through the surf like it owes him a fight. he lets a kid climb his shoulders. lifts you into the water like nothing.

“ you’re too light.” he grunts.

“ you need more rice.”

food experience - eats five plates. burns his tongue. doesn’t care. “ this curry could kill a man,” he says proudly. licks the spice off your lips without warning.

cultural experience - joins a drum circle and breaks one of the drums. laughs. fixes it. lets a group of elders teach him dominoes. loses, sulks. later he brags that they “ barely beat him.” they all know he let them.

—————————————————————————

SHINJI HIRAKO - wears the island like an old jacket comfortably, cocky, smiling sideways. his hat stays tilted, his charm turns local, and when you laugh at his bad patois, he grins wider.

he doesn’t need to fit in. he becomes it.

beach reaction - splashes you the moment you take off your sandals. challenges a crab to a staring contest. wins. ends the day sprawled beside you, hat over his face, pinkie brushing yours.

food experience - moans dramatically after each bite. “this is sin.” feeds you mango with his fingers, sticky and teasing.he begs the cook for the recipe. fails. “ they like you more.” he pouts.

cultural experience - joins a dance circle without hesitation. spins you around until you’re both dizzy and breathless. “ never want this night to end.” he murmurs, holding you close.

—————————————————————————

SOSUKE AIZEN - walks into the sun like it was made for him. no one questions his presence. even the sea hushes for him. but he’s gentler with you, always. your laughter is the only thing that stirs his composure.

beach reaction - stands at the shoreline, coat fluttering, watching birds soar. lets you tug him into the waves, his smirk softening.

you write your names in the sand. he traces yours over and over.

food experience - nods with every bite. he compliments the chef with words that make them blush.

“ but nothing here tastes as good as your lips.” he whispers to you.

cultural experience - you and him sits with elders, asks questions, actually listens. buys you handcrafted jewelry without saying a word.

watches you dance in the firelight, expression unreadable, but his hand never leaves yours.

—————————————————————————

GIN ICHIMARU - slinks into the culture like a shadow slipping through curtains. smiling always, joking sometimes, but only you can tell when he’s serious. and when you see him staring out to sea, face still, you realize: he feels this place.

beach reaction - sneaks up behind you with a cold splash of seawater. lets his smile fall for a second as you float beside him.

“ you look like a dream out here.” he says quietly.

food experience - he steals bites off your plate with chopsticks. claims he doesn’t like spice, eats the spiciest thing anyway. sucks mango juice off your fingers, grinning the whole time with closed eyes.

cultural experience - plays with kids, teaches them card tricks. trades riddles with a local storyteller. gives you a carved charm without explaining what it means.

—————————————————————————

KANAME TOSEN - moves like peace. even the waves hesitate for him.his steps are guided by more than sight he listens, feels, knows. the island respects him. and so do you, even more than before.

beach reaction - walks beside you barefoot, guided by your voice and the scent of salt. lets the waves touch his calves, his expression serene.

“ this place.” he says. “ has a rhythm. i can hear it in you.”

food experience - identifies spices by scent alone. thanks every cook personally, even in a language not his own. feeds you breadfruit slowly, reverently. you don’t speak just feel.

cultural experience - allows locals to rebraid his hair in their traditional style. listens to music with his whole body. teaches a blind boy how to read braille they talk for hours.

—————————————————————————

KUGO GINJO - arrives loud, shirt open, gold chain catching the sun. he jokes with every vendor, flirts with everyone. but only holds you. his voice blends with the waves, bold and hungry for experience.

beach reaction - cannonballs into the ocean like a child. shows off for you. fails. still flexes. holds your waist in the water like you’re made of treasure.

food experience - he eats with both hands, sauce on his chin. makes a show of rating each dish,

“ ten outta ten, baby!” he lets you wipe his mouth. kisses your fingers.

cultural experience - joins a street performance without being asked. buys you matching bracelets from a roadside stand.

“ we’re staying here forever!” he yells, then tries to build a hammock and fails.

—————————————————————————

KENSEI MUGURUMA - not used to warmth like this, not the weather, not the people. but with you at his side, he begins to uncoil. the sun softens his scowl. your laughter finishes the job.

beach reaction - awkward at first shirt on, shoes off. eventually lets you pull him down into the surf. rests his head on your shoulder after.

“ this ain’t bad.”

food experience - surprised by how much he likes it. “ okay, that’s the best fish i’ve ever had.” shares every bite with you. no words, just offers the fork.

cultural experience - joins a local boxing circle. throws light punches, grins for real. teaches a group of teens some footwork. stays behind to fix someone’s broken sandal strap.

—————————————————————————

ROJURO ‘ROSE’ OTORIBASHI - fits in like music smooth, deliberate, and full of soul. he hums as he walks, fingertips catching the rhythm of everything drums, waves, your heartbeat.

this place doesn’t change him. it reveals him.

beach reaction - strums a guitar he borrowed. plays until kids gather around. lets you rest your head in his lap while he plays. kisses your forehead between verses.

food experience - closes his eyes to savor. describes each flavor like poetry. feeds you with flourish, narrating each bite. the locals laugh, enchanted. you’re already spellbound.

cultural experience - he writes a song using local instruments. performs it under the moon. gets roped into a dance, waltzes you barefoot in the sand.

“ i’ll remember the sound of your laugh more than any music.”

—————————————————————————

SHUHEI HISAGI - tattoos contrast the bright sun, but he wears the light well. he’s being quiet, observant, he writes everything down, even the way you tilt your head when you laugh. he’s not chasing beauty. he’s archiving it, especially when it’s you.

beach reaction - sits beside you, back to the sun, notebook in hand. watches waves crash, then sketches them with you in the foreground.

“ i never want to forget this day.” he admits.

food experience - interested in everything, even helps cook. scribbles notes on spices and taste pairings. wipes curry off your lips with a napkin. smiles. “ messy looks good on you.”

cultural experience - records songs sung by a local elder, handwriting precise. gives a copy of your joint portrait to a child who liked it. you find him that night, still sketching you in the firelight.

—————————————————————————

IZURU KIRA - walks with shadows, but the sunlight softens him. he’s quiet, reserved but around you, he opens like dusk blooming. he belongs to grief, but he gives you his hope.

beach reaction - he is hesitant to take off his shoes. eventually lets the water touch him. closes his eyes, wind in his hair, hand in yours.

“ thank you.” he says. just that.

food experience - tastes everything politely. favors fruit. cuts pieces for you and places them gently on your plate. drinks ginger beer with a surprised laugh.

“ that kicked back.”

cultural experience - writes poetry with a local girl who lost her brother. reads aloud in the evening while you rest your head on his shoulder. carves your initials into a seashell and gives it to you in silence.

words - 1.8k

» , ᴀ ᴋᴀɴʏᴇʀᴇᴀʟᴅᴀᴜɢʜᴛᴇʀ

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oh-no-its-bird · 1 year ago

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Normal 'Izuna survives' au but he gets isekaid into canon founders era and doesn't notice for a week (everyone is convinced he's a ghost)

He literally lives in the same house as Madara but Madara acts like this is normal bc hes been hallucinating so this is clearly just another hallucination

He only realizes smthn is wrong with Tobirama sees him and immediatley goes "what the FUCK" and suddenly everyone is going "oh god you can see him too????"

Izuna is on a quest to convince people he's not a hallucination (it's a losing battle)

Realistically tho, in that era, wouldn't it be more believable that Izuna is a ghost / somehow came back to life than fucking dimension travel?

Cearly the ghost of Izuna just doesn't realize hes died (common enough in ghost lore)

Tobirama is the only one who believes Izuna bc he has the brain cells to think ab dimension travel / time and space jutsu

POV Madara starts to convince Izuna he's actually a ghost. Maybe... he did die? And he just doesn't remember?? Oh god is he a ghost??? Is he dead????

Tobirama is standing by watching this shit happen with a look of disgust on his face (I'm sorry Tobi the stupidity is genetic)

Madara really said gaslight gatekeep girlboss, starting with yourself first

@beatriceportinari :

hashirama is trying to be compassionate and get him to move on and izuna just. stays there (bc he's not a ghost)

hsrm so desolate abt it

tbrm he won't move on 😦 what if he's stuck forever 😦

SORRY IM JUST PICTURING LIKE HASHIRAMA AND MADARA DOING A FULL EXORCISM LIKE OUTFITS AND SAGE BURNING AND HITTING THE DRUMS AND ALL AS IZUNA STANDS IN THE MIDDLE OF THEM LIKE 🧍‍♂️

Tobirama is standing nearby watching this shit happen fully aware Izuna isn't dead but no one will listen to him so !!! Might as well watch the show

@fashionredalert :

Izuna standing there like

Tweak it slightly to turn it into a happy ending where they get to keep him bc he eventually has to go back home: there was no dimension travel, for some reason he survived or was revived (zetsu interference gone wrong?? Or right ig, for Izuna)

IT LOOKS LIKE HES WAITING PATIENTLY FOR IT TO WORK PLS

@mengfm :

He fr came back to life/survived but everyone's convinced he's a ghost and are trying to lay him back to rest

The idea of people trying to re bury him is so funny. Left and right he’s trying to avoid having funeral rights just said to him

@beatriceportinari :

PLS YESS

montage where they make him lay down in a coffin and he's just laying there fidgeting like "this feels weird is it working yet"

noooo asdfghjh he's letting them do it'

maybe i should be dead yeah' izuna!!!

@mengfm :

"No I saw you die"

"Ok convincing argument I guess" -Izuna, apparently

@fashionredalert :

I know there’s that trope about the Uchiha burning the bodies with funeral rites could you image…Bro having to run away from Madara trying to burn him alive to lay him to rest again

@mengfm :

IZUNA GET ON THE FUNERAL PYRE

ITS TIME TO BURN!!!

@fashionredalert :

Izuna running through the village with rope ties around his hands as he runs

ZUNA STOP SCREAMING AND LET THE FIRE DO ITS JOB

"IZUNA COME BACK!!"

THEY TRY TO DO IT BUT IZUNA GETS TWITCHY AS THE FLAMES DRAW CLOSER THEN JUMPS OFF THE PIRE

"NO I CHANGED MY MIND"

"THIS IS FOR YOUR OWN GOOD"

Madara is chasing Izuna through the streets with a lit torch as Izuna screams about wanting to try a different way and Madara screams about how it'll work if he just STAYS STILL

@instant-bull :

(Hashirama looks out his window and asks Tobirama if he just saw Izuna running through the streets and Tobirama tells him to stop making shit up to get out of work)

@mengfm :

JSDNJNFSDJNSDFKSNDJF HASHIRAMA THIS WON'T SAVE YOU FROM THE PAPERWORK

That’s just a lack of sleep hallucination back to work!!!

@instant-bull :

Madara trying to burn his brother alive isn’t real!

"You'll get used to them" Tobirama waved his hand, the years of insomnia experience making him sound particularly knowledgable

@mengfm

Hashirama’s already moukoton scrambled brain is going to feel even more insane. This is not helping his sanity

@instant-bull

Hashirama starts to believe he sees into some alternate timeline or the past or whatever that shit was

HASHIRAMA ON HIS OWN INSANITY KICK BELIEVING HE CAN SEE INTO ALTERNATE TIMELINES

The ending is literally just Tobirama hitting everyone over the head with a rolled up newspaper and yelling that they're all stupid, going "HES alive. YOURE not hallucinating. and YOU can not see into other dimensions!"

Only sane person in Konoha

(Then in the epilogue he goes home and has his own regular hallucinations of his dead brothers)

Parts of todays AU are brought to u with the help of @instant-bull @mengfm @fashionredalert and @beatriceportinari, everyone say thank you to them

#birds fic talk #naruto #izuna uchiha #uchiha izuna #tobirama senju #senju tobirama #uchiha madara #madara uchiha #founders era #naruto founders #hashirama senju #senju hashirama

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nonsensenook · 9 months ago

Text

Chapter 1 | Torn, Placed

Synopsis: An unapologetic take on you, the reader, appearing in the world of Black Myth to accompany the Destined One on his journey.

Word Count: 2,138

Warnings: Violence

Author's Note: I hope you enjoy and join me in the indulgence!

Read On AO3: Link

Ch. 2 - Ch. 3 - 3.5 (Optional) - Ch. 4 - Ch.5

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You felt your legs screaming as your inner shirt clung to you with sweat. It’s been hours since today’s trek began and you truly would do anything to simply sink to the forest floor and cuddle with some nearby mushrooms to sleep. Despite passing some very inviting fungi you refrained from asking to rest. After all, this wasn’t your journey. It wasn’t your place to halt its progress as you wished. You felt you were enough of a burden to have added yourself to a story already written. Tired as you were, you could always rely on your own stubbornness to keep you going.

The Destined One held out an arm, stopping you as he listened for any sounds ahead. Unlike you, his breathing wasn’t labored. You weren’t sure if he ever needed to sweat. He looked as he always did: composed, reliable, and ready with staff in hand. Watching him like this reminded you of the deep gratitude you held for him, one that came to be long before you stood by his side.

It’s been nearly two weeks since you appeared in this world. You don’t remember much other than vague flashes of memories. You were falling, tumbling, then a creature of unfathomable size found you. You remember bracing yourself as its claws promised a swift death. You saw a staff crash down on its head just as you fell unconscious. The next time you opened your eyes you were laying near a fire. Darkness and a lush forest surrounded you. Someone had draped a spare robe over you. That someone, you recognized, slept across from you sitting up; leaning against a tree.

You remember staring at him, hands running through your hair in stunned silence. He was a character turned to life, one that you knew too well. After almost burning your hand in the fire to test the theory of a dream you pieced together the only logical conclusion to this illogical situation. One that you weren’t ready to accept. Your thoughts and rising panic were interrupted by the Keeper of Blackwind Mountain.

He appeared in a whirl of smoke, waving the mist away and pointing towards you with the end of a backscratcher. He called you an “unprecedented interloper.” You couldn’t say you disagreed. The Destined One awoke to the two of you exchanging questions that neither could answer. There was the idea to have you dropped off at a human village, though this was quickly rejected as not only was it well off the course, but the Keeper had a sneaking suspicion that your presence, however “wrong” and “erroneous,” was tied to that of the Destined One’s. It was decided that you would accompany him on his journey, whether that be for a larger role you play or simply to keep you alive. You personally leaned more towards the latter. “Perhaps,” the Keeper said as smoke enveloped him once more, “once everything falls back into place, then so too would you.”

The Destined One initially traveled ahead of you so as to scout for potential dangers. This was remedied when you both were ambushed from behind. Now he keeps pace with you, never showing any signs or indication that your slower speed frustrated him. The start of the journey was a cruel leap from what you were accustomed to, but you soon found yourself adapting. You never allowed yourself to ask for anything, not even as your feet bled or how much your body screamed at you.

Today may be easier, but that didn’t stop your lungs from feeling like they were bursting. The Destined One let his arm fall. The path ahead was clear. You took a step forward and felt your foot catch on a tree root. The Young Sage reacted quickly, catching your arm.

“I’m sorry, let me just-” your legs took this golden opportunity to buckle under you. The Destined One put his arm under yours, shouldering your weight. He led you to sit on the root as you settled your breathing.

“I’m fine, I just need to catch my breath,” you explained, clutching at your chest. The Destined One shrunk his staff, stowing it away. He knelt beside you. To your horror you realized he was offering his back.

“Truly! I’m fine!” you cried out, flustered. The Destined One stood back up. This relieved you till you looked closer at him. You could read how utterly unconvinced he was the way his hand resting on his hip paired with his unblinking stare.

“You’re already carrying enough, I can manage my own weight at the very least.” You readied yourself to stand back up. In response he held up a pinky. You stopped, staring at him skeptically. He stepped towards you, hooking it onto your outer robe. He barely moved his arm before your whole body was lifted from the ground. Message clearly packaged, delivered, and received. Ever and always so silent, he placed you down and offered you his back. This time, you obediently let him carry you, ignoring the feeling of satisfaction that came from him.

The young monkey straightened up, making you instinctively move your hands from his shoulders to wrap around his neck. He quickly understood and angeled himself downwards before he started walking.

Your mind went from the way your chest was pressed against his back to your faces being much too close, then to the way his hands gripped your legs to support your weight. You felt yourself warming up. You weren’t sure that it was from the heat of the day anymore. With you on his back the pace quickened to where he was almost doubling the distance covered. You shoved away the feeling of guilt which nestled into your stomach. You ignored whatever dance your heart was doing in your chest.

Traveling with your silent companion had a difficult adjustment period. You appeared in this world with nothing but your clothing, which were shortly in tatters from your stumble into a Yaoguai’s territory. The Destined One fashioned you new clothing that could hold their own. He’d also lent you a staff, but your first attempt at wielding it had you either accidentally hitting yourself or dropping it. You thought you saw a humorous quirk of his lips when you had hit yourself on the head the third time, but that may have been the self-inflicted head injury. He had held out his hand and you wordlessly returned the staff.

The journey was initially silent, but you eventually began filling the air with light chatter. You talked about anything on your mind on that particular day whether it be a memory, story, or particularly interesting item from your world. You weren’t sure if he was ever fully listening. He never made any indication for you to stop. In one instance you were interrupted by an archer who was shortly intercepted and disposed of. When he returned to your side he made a motion for you to continue your story about a movie you had once watched, a delight you tried to settle down. It became easier to read his subtle gestures and little facial expressions. Sometimes, you would react to him as if he were speaking aloud. You never made mention of how you knew as much as you did about him or his journey. That was the one topic you avoided. There was this strong instinct never to mention this world’s origins. It was akin to how one would avoid eating ominous mushrooms or lick questionable stains.

With the knowledge you could share, you advised him when able. He eventually understood that telling him you’d be waiting for him at a shrine meant he was about to fight a rather powerful Yaoguai. He never questioned when you pointed out things he may have missed or the way you would let him know what sort of enemy to prepare for next. Whether he thought your instinct or intuition strong, he trusted your judgment.

At night, the Destined One would scout for a place to rest. On some lucky days he finds an abandoned home or building to stay in. On the cold nights where camp would be set outside, you’d sit closer to the fire. One morning you woke up to find your limbs wrapped around your companion. Your blanket twisted between the two of you. Your body had sought him out in the night. Even with you rousing from your stupor you found it unbearably difficult to separate from his warmth. Eventually, you did manage to unwind yourself. You had rolled over, pretending to continue to sleep for a bit longer before doing a very convincing rise and stretch. You avoided eye contact with him the first time you did this and your stories came sparingly. After the next few times you eventually realized that the days you woke up intertwined with him were the only days where he’d be the second to rise. You assumed he was graciously giving you time to leave without having to go through the embarrassed apologies you had prepared. For that you were grateful. In any case, neither of you brought it up.

As time passed you were soon able to keep pace with the Destined One without relying on him having to carry you. The speed at which you were adapting to this world felt too quick to be natural, but you were working with too many unknowns to be sure. You thought of giving the staff another try, but your skills were just the same as when you’d started. Learned behavior did not count, unfortunately.

The day had been sweltering when you and your companion made camp near a spring. The Destined One had scouted the area with you before it was deemed safe to stay for the night. You were excited to be able to bathe in such a beautiful area, especially after such a hot day. You left the young monkey at the camp before going to the water. The flora around it kept you private from one another. You stripped off your clothes, letting them rest on some rocks in the light of the setting sun. You tested the water with one foot, it was refreshingly cool. You waded in till the water reached your waist, then held your breath and ducked below the surface. You emerged laughing, feeling the droplets fall from your hair.

The water felt invigorating on your skin. You felt more than just the accumulated dirt and grime being washed off of you. You began washing your hair, trying to detangle any knots you found when you felt something squirming land on you from an overhanging tree branch. You cried out in surprise, quickly brushing off a curious little lizard. The lizard made its getaway just as the Destined One leapt into the spring, staff in hand.

“It’s okay, a lizard just surprised me,” you explained with a small laugh, hands raised in reassurance. He looked down. You looked down. You quickly covered yourself in a panic, going lower into the water as he turned on his heel to head back in the direction of camp. You lowered your head till it was submerged again so that only the fish could hear your cries of embarrassment. You stayed longer than you wanted to in the spring until your face stopped burning and your hands began to wrinkle. Drying yourself off, you did whatever you could to shake off the mortification of what just happened. You dressed yourself, hesitating to return back to camp. What do you say to someone who just saw you naked? Do you apologize? Make a joke of it? Pretend it never happened? All were answers but none seemed correct on their own. You settled your breathing. You can go with E: All of the above.

Back at the camp you found the Destined One sitting cross legged, poking at the small fire he had made. His tail was swishing left to right, making the pattern of a fan in the dirt. You hesitated again, unsure on how to bring up what just happened. You weren’t sure how long you stood there for when the Young Sage suddenly inhaled sharply through his teeth, tossing the stick he was holding aside. He had let it burn down to a stub till the small fire reached his fingers. Seems you weren’t the only one lost in their own mind. You smiled, somehow relieved in knowing that.

“Are you alright?” you asked, your tone light with humor. He turned to you, you saw him relax at seeing you smiling. You went next to him, then crouched down, holding out your hands. “Can I see?”

He held out his hand, you took it between yours, looking closely for any sign of damage. His hand was large with dark nails well pointed and sharp. You felt you were brushing past his fingers with your own more than you needed to. Satisfied at seeing no wound, you let go. He held his hand there for a moment before retracting it. Wordlessly, you both stood up. You refuse to let any awkward silences stretch on, being the only one who can actually break them.

“It’s your turn to use the spring,” you said, putting your arms behind you, “Watch out for lizards.” You mentally kicked yourself. The Destined One watched your expression for a moment, considering your warning. Then he gave a small nod and headed for the spring. You let out a held breath. This feeling will not be leaving you any time soon, but at the very least nothing’s changed as far as you can tell.

The next day, after untangling from the Destined One once again, the two of you continued onward as usual. Soon, the lush forests became bare sand as the two of you entered the next part of the journey.

#black myth wukong #the destined one #bmw #destined one #destined one x reader #fanfic #fanfiction #journey to the west #sun wukong x reader #black myth wukong fanfic

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theobsessedcookiefan · 9 months ago

Note

Oh oh I have a good one what if y/n cookies was lover of the five beast and they see them get corrupted as how is they reaction seeing them crying broken heart saying please please please PLEASE give him/her back give me back my beloved cookie of volition/ knowledge/change/ happiness/ solidarity I want them back to me I’m will do anything just please turn back to normal

NOOO.. NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO... Alr, I'll do it bc I like to torture myself and y'all need to suffer with me 😠😠😠

I'm going to make different names for the pre-corrupted beasts!! Bc I seriously doubt they were named that way before 😓😓

I read somewhere that Burning Spice was called Warming Spice before?? I'm not sure tho- but I'll use that name!! I'll try to be original in the names but if it gets too close to other names that other people give them then I'm so sorry bc I probably saw it and don't remember 😓😓😓

Ohboyitendeduplongerthanexpected

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘��⊱⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

Life is a bitch sometimes, it can give you everything you ever desired and take it back in an instant, were you too egotistical? Did you broke the universe balance by being too happy? Maybe it wasn't fair, you lived happily with the best Cookies you've ever met, compassionate, heroic and righteous, the whole package if you could say so, and they loved you oh so much, so much that they would sacrifice everything for your well-being and happiness, to protect your smile; the prettiest smile they've ever seen.

You remember when it started, the first warning came that damned week, you, Blueberry Milk and Saccharine Sugar were helping the locals to make a new orphanage, having a gift exchange game for the kids, at one moment the adults had to bring the food from the first location and left the kids with both of you, they were quite the handful if you were being honest but what could you expect from little cookies? You decided that maybe a little game would calm them down, but you were so busy, not noticing that your partners were getting stressed, when you came back with everything to play you saw half the kids laying down in the ground, obviously you panicked, trying to see if they were breathing or not but thank the divines they were only asleep. When you found the other you saw quite the scene, Saccharine Sugar was playing a melody with her harp and Blueberry Milk was helping the kids to lay down more comfortable in the floor, once he saw you she shook her a bit, she blinked and the music stopped, making the kids wake up, it wasn't that bad but you still told them not to do that again. If only you could've been there when they got the idea..

The second warning came at a perfect afternoon in White Flour's temple, it had been a busy day for her, many cookies came searching for her to make their wishes reality, she seemed extremely tired after all that work so you offered your lap for her to rest her head on, she ended up telling you about how greed changed some of them, how many of them wanted money and gems, it was disappointing really. If only you reassured her that that money could be used for helping people..

The third sign was the fights between Sea Salt and Warming Spice, those two had always been close and used to spar to improve their fighting skills so you were used to it, but that day it ended up with both of them badly injured, you remember running to stop the reddish cookie from using the sharp end of the blade, your worried expression and tone of voice seemed to snap them both of some kind of trance and so you told them to go directly to the healer of the village. If only you were there with them when they fought again..

Then it all faded to chaos, maybe they realized they held all that power or grew bored of the routine? Either way you remember standing in front of a destroyed village, cookie's screams sounding everywhere, it was such a horrible vision, you couldn't even start to comprehend what happened, that was until you heard that melodic voice, it was Saccharine Sugar! Was she hurt too? The virtues were the heroes of the village, they obviously fought against whatever destroyed right? Right..?. Without other thought in mind you ran to where her voice could be heard and what you saw was horrifying, her wings were creating big gusts of wind that were destroying the houses around and she was laughing at it.. She was actually enjoying it. It couldn't be! She was the most gentle of the five, she couldn't find pleasure in hurting others could she? No, not your Saccharine Sugar, not her. You ran towards her extending your hand to try and reach her, she didn't expect you to appear so the wind stopped and you were able to hug her, thing that surprised her.

━━━━━━ ◦ ❖ ◦ ━━━━━━

"Please.. Please stop, we can find a solution for this, just stop, we can rebuild the village, I know they'll forgive you, just stop please."

It was a desperate plea more than anything else, but she didn't respond, her face expressionless and soon everything faded to black for you.

When you woke up you didn't recognize the place you were in, that was until you looked up, it was night time already? You could've sworn it was afternoon before.. Before.. Oh no, without thinking it twice you got up as quickly as you could, starting to run, trying to see if you could identify the place you were in, you ran for a while until you found one of the villagers hiding behind a barn, a barn? Oh! You were on that area, you got closer to the Cookie hiding and they told you how the virtues started to destroy everything they saw, how many of the villagers didn't survive the chaos and how the remaining were trying to escape but every entrance to the village was guarded by one of them, that was good, at least you knew where your partners were now, you thanked the villager, telling them to hide inside the barn instead and that you would stop the virtues. Oh how wrong you were.

You found them? Yes of course you did, they were guarding the entrances like that villager said, but they were different, not only their appearance but their personality, you remember trying to get to each one of them, pleading for them to stop this madness;

"Please, don't you see you're hurting others? You're supposed to protect them! We can still fix this!"

"If you continue with this you'll only get far away from yourself, please come back, I'll talk to everyone and try to make them understand what happened!"

"I know you care about them, you're not as apathetic as you act, I promise we can solve this together! Just please.."

"Come on.. This is just cruel and you know it! Your plays are supposed to bring others joy, not pain!"

It didn't work, at the end they just looked at you as if they didn't had any idea what you were talking about, as if this was what they were meant to do. Maybe they couldn't be saved? Maybe they were supposed to end like this? Probably, maybe this was what the witches wanted all along..

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

#cookie run #cookie run x reader #crk x reader #beast cookies #beast cookies x reader #crk

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daemour · 10 months ago

Text

♡ Event: @pirateeznet 2nd Anniversary Event

♡ Pairing: Farmhand! Choi San x home aide! f! Reader

♡ Genre: Harvest Moon AU, slight slow burn, fluff, slight angst, T for Teen

♡ Warnings: Cursing, some sexual innuendos at the end, that's it

♡ Summary: Working as a home aide on a farm brings you some new trials...namely a certain attractive farmhand named San.

♡ Word Count: 9277 (im SORRY)

♡ Genre: Regular Life ; Prompt: Coworkers

This was supposed to be...a lot longer. LAMFIJGDFJKGHKJSHDF x) With both Hwa and Joong as other love interests...but I gotta learn how to restrain myself LOL. But I do have more planned with YN and San (and a little more spicy too hehe) so if you'd like to read that let me know!

it's a honker of a fic, so i really do hope you enjoy despite the plot holes LMAO

Thank you to @okiedokrie for beta'ing,,,the first draft lmaooo surprisee...its totally different lol

“Are you serious?” you mutter, standing knee-high in a mud puddle. When you decided to move out of the city and stay with an elderly man as a home nurse on his farm temporarily, you expected to get dirty. But not like this, and not that soon. The wagon was only able to take you so far before you had to walk the rest of the way since it was technically private property or whatever the guy said. You didn’t quite remember his reasoning, and it wouldn’t have been such a big deal if it hadn’t started pouring about five minutes after you started walking. Now you’re cold and wet, and mud is everywhere.

With a frustrated groan, you try and take another step, wincing at the feeling of the mud squelching in your shoes and soaking your socks through. You’re having regrets, but you’re sure the ailing older man is having worse issues than wet socks and shoes and you power through. After a long and gruelling walk, you finally see the cream building and connected barn and you sigh in relief.

“Oh, man, you look a mess,” a voice is heard from behind you and you shriek, dropping down to the ground and clutching at your heart. “Sorry! I didn’t mean to scare you. YN, right?”

You nod miserably. “Yeah. This is Aria farm?” You punctuate it with a sniff as you try to regain your dignity.

The man laughs, much more high-pitched than you expected. “Yup. I’m the farmhand, San.” He holds out his hand. “Need a hand up?”

With a shaky smile, you nod, grabbing his hand and letting him pull you up. His grip is strong, warm, and calloused, and you shoo away any unwanted thoughts. “Got caught in the rain?” San smiles apologetically like he was the one who brought the showers down upon you.

“Yeah, I sure did.” You return the smile with a weak one of your own. “Got dumped at the end of the road by the wagon, and not five minutes later I got poured on.”

San winces. “Oh, well, sorry that had to be your first welcome here. I’ll give that guy a talk later—he means no harm, just likes to play pranks.”

You grunt, not caring all that much about the villagers in the town, pranks or not. You have no doubt that the wagoneer meant no harm, nor that the villagers aren’t nice, but most of your days will be spent cooped up with the old farmer in his house. Plus, you decided to move away from the city to get away from people and let your introversion take over.

It takes a moment for you to realise he’s expecting you to keep up a conversation. “How is Mr Takeru doing?”

San shrugs, his eyes continuously flickering back to you. “He’s doing fairly well, all things considered. The fall left him physically incapable of a lot, but his energy hasn’t dwindled at all.” There’s a fondness in his voice. “He’s happy to hear you’ll be coming. He loves having people around and his kids barely visit. To no fault of their own, of course. They’re all on different islands, farming as well and it’s hard to get away.”

You hum. You’ve heard of their family situation, how Takeru’s kids all followed in his footsteps to become farmers, and that their children also went on to become farmers. It’s interesting, and you sometimes wonder if it’s something they all wanted. “It’ll be nice for him to have someone around,” you tell an attentive San. “It would’ve been great for him if some of his family could see him, but I’m sure he’s excited anyway.”

As you talk to San, you don’t realise how quickly the two of you walk until you are already at the house’s porch. San opens the door, stepping in, but you hesitate for just a moment. You almost turn tail if it wasn’t for the warm smile San offers.

“Don’t worry, I promise Mr Takeru is super nice. And I’ll always be happy to keep you company.” His eyes crinkle as his smile widens even further, and you can’t help but feel your face warm at how sweet he is.

“I’ll have to hold you to that, then.”

“Are you going to the flower festival tomorrow?” San catches you right when you go out to grab the mail.

You tilt your head as you flip through the many letters. Nothing of too much importance, just a couple of notices from the local stores. You see a letter from one of Mr Takeru’s kids and you smile at the sight of it before realising you hadn’t responded to San. “The what?”

“Flower festival,” San repeats himself, a smile growing on his face. It always seems to be there when you see the farmhand. “It’s a holiday where couples enjoy the cherry blossoms together and all.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “San, I don’t know if you noticed, but I’m not quite part of the couples demographic.” The farmhand’s eyes sparkle at your joke, but his gaze does not waver.

“You could go with me,” he suggests and you choke on the spot. “I’m being serious! It’s a really nice time and it’d be a shame if you missed it.”

You sigh, glancing behind you. “We’ll see. I might be busy tomorrow.”

San still smiles triumphantly at your answer. “If you do decide to come, I’ll meet you at the church grounds at seven.” And before you can even respond, he winks and walks away, making sure to flex his back muscles. If you can’t rip your eyes away, that's your own problem.

As the clock ticks closer and closer to six, you get more and more antsy. You’re still debating whether to go. One part of you wants to go so he won’t wait in vain, but the other part of you wants to avoid all sorts of contact with people. Every time you go and buy groceries for Mr Takeru, the villagers all stop to stare at you. And you know it’s partly your fault for never trying to get to know them, but you really would rather stay a hermit.

But San, he was different. Although you’ve only been here for a few weeks, San seems to have taken an interest in you. He’s always finding an excuse to talk to you, be it lunch break or asking to pass a message to Mr Takeru. You’re not quite sure what his motive is, but you’re not complaining. He’s good-looking, kind, and makes an effort to get to know you. Perhaps you should return the kindness.

When the clock strikes half past six, you know it’s the last moment before you can make your decision. After a moment’s hesitation, you call up the stairs “Mr Takeru, I’ll be going out! Do you have everything you need?”

You can hear the smile in his voice as he responds, “Mmh, I’ve got my cane so I’m all good. Going to the festival, I see?”

“Bye, Mr Takeru” You roll your eyes good-naturedly even if he can’t see it, grabbing your bag and practically launching yourself out the door. If you run, you’ll make it just in time.

You’re sure you look crazy, running down the streets while attempting to pull your hair away from your face to no avail, but time is of the essence. You manage to smile at the villagers who wave at you, but you’re panting hard and you think your legs might fall off as you take the church steps three at a time.

As you catch your breath, you can see San out of the corner of your eye approaching with the biggest smile you’ve seen on his face. “You came!”

You open your mouth to respond but all that comes out is a hack from the lack of air in your lungs. San laughs, reaching over to pat you on the back as you take a moment to catch your breath. “My gosh, I am not cut out for running,” you gasp, finally straightening up and brushing your hair out of your face.

San’s hands slow as he shifts them lower to rest at the small of your back. “Well, I’m glad you made it anyway. Come sit with me and my friends. They’ll be happy to see you came.”

Without giving you a moment to protest, San sweeps you away towards the back corner of the courtyard. The two people sitting on a blanket you recognise—the farmer you buy your groceries from and the bartender who walks past Mr Takeru’s farm on the way to work in the afternoon, and neither of their names you ever got.

“Guys, this is YN,” San introduces you and you give a little wave as they chorus your name with ‘hi’s. “This is Wooyoung, and that’s Yunho.” He points to the bartender and the farmer respectively.

“Good to finally get your name,” Yunho smiles at you, a bright smile lighting up his face. “You’ve been shopping with me for what, two weeks now?”

You laugh awkwardly. “Yeah, just about.” You silently beg for the topic to change because San is sensitive about how you buy groceries elsewhere since a storm destroyed most of the farm’s crops. “What does one do at the flower festival?”

Wooyoung and Yunho exchange a glance between each other, their eyes soft. “Generally couples sit together and watch the flowers fall and talk about each other. At the end, you pick up a blossom and blow it after making a wish,” Yunho explains, the corner of his lips pulling up as Wooyoung leans into his body. “I’m here with Wooyoung.”

He immediately realises this is not the best thing to say as your face heats up and your brain immediately goes into overdrive. “You don’t have to be in a romantic relationship to go, of course!” San immediately rectifies, his hands shooting out to smack Yunho in the shoulder. “I always go with friends.”

A smile pulls at your lips even though you’re still a little awkward at the revelation. “Well, thank you for inviting me anyway,” you bow slightly. “It’s nice to get a little scenery difference.”

Wooyoung laughs at that. “Yeah, I don’t think I’ve seen you away from the farm since you arrived, barring your visits to Marimba and Horn Ranches.” You duck your head shyly and San swoops to your rescue.

“Not that you’re any better, Wooyoung. All you do is work and go home to sleep,” San teases. “Except when Yunho makes you go outside, of course.”

Both Wooyoung and Yunho immediately blush red and you laugh at the sight. “You two are cute together though,” you compliment. “Hopefully one day I can have a relationship like yours.” You miss the soft gaze sent your way by San, but neither Wooyoung nor Yunho do and they exchange a look before smiling back at you.

“I’m sure you will one day.”

It’s pouring buckets out there and even San has taken the day off. There’s nothing to do on the farm other than feed the animals, and the day before San had put extra food in their buckets for that occasion exactly. Mr Takeru is fast asleep and all you’re doing is sitting in the living room and trying to focus on reading. But it’s not coming to you.

With a sigh, you put your book back down and move to stand near the window, staring at the bleary landscape. That’s when you see it. A little glimmer of light right by the bending tomato plants. You narrow your eyes, unsure if your eyes are playing tricks on you, but then it happens again. Now you’re sure something is out there, and against your better judgement, you’re going to find out what it is.

With another glance towards Mr Takeru, who doesn’t seem to be waking up anytime soon, you pull on a raincoat and open the front door. The wind almost slams it shut but you catch it just in time, slipping out of the house and closing it gently instead.

The wind is practically bullying you as you make your way slowly over to the garden. When you finally reach the plants, you squint but can’t seem to find anything, but you swear you saw something. Your eyes dart around to see if you can find it again, and another sparkle catches your eye further down the road.

You cast a glance back at the house, inner debate raging in you. But at heart, you’re forever a toddler and you go chase after the pretty lights.

The farther you go, the more you’re starting to regret your choices. But you’re too far to find your way back—although you’ve been here for almost a month now, you’re not all that well-versed in where things are around this island. Yet another point into why you should’ve just stayed at the farm.

With a groan, you take another step closer, making your way through a tunnel of trees. The rain only seems to get heavier but you can still see the faint sparkling but not much around it and you step closer.

Suddenly, the rain melts away to reveal a little grove and a giant tree standing tall and proud. The only thing that tells you were just in the rain is the fact that you’re soaking wet. You blink, step back, and the rain falls around you again. Another step forward, and the sun is shining again.

You rub your eyes, sure you must be going crazy. But the sunny area is still in front of your eyes. As much as your brain is screaming at you to turn back and make your way home, your curiosity gets the better of you. You take a few steps closer, marvelling at the old spring on either side of the stone pathway you’re on.

You’ve heard of the stories of the fae and magic surrounding this island, mostly from Mr Takeru himself, but you always chalked it up to him being old, as much as you thought it would be nice for it to be real. And here you are, standing in the middle of what can only be called magic surrounding you.

The area looks almost unoccupied, with more of the sparkles that drew you out of the house in the first place flitting around. You take a couple of steps closer when someone steps out from behind the tree. “What are you doing here?” You don’t recognise the figure standing in front of you, with perfectly coiffed hair and a frown upon his pouting lips.

You blink at him. “Uh, I was taking a walk and ended up here. What is this place?”

The blonde man blinks at you. “You don’t know? It’s the Goddess Spring, home of the tree that powers our island. Though…I guess you are new here.”

You frown, cocking your head. “Sorry if I seem rude, but I don’t think I’ve met you. Who are you?”

The stranger’s piercing blue eyes widen and he laughs, waving his hands. “Oh my, I can’t believe I forgot my manners. I’m Park Seonghwa, son of the mayor of this little island. My father speaks highly of you and how well you care for Mr Takeru.”

His hand is firm and warm although his palms are softer than San’s. “Nice to meet you, Seonghwa,” you smile at him warmly. “Your father speaks proudly of you as well.”

You can’t believe you haven’t made the connection. Seonghwa isn’t the spitting image of his father per se, but they look similar enough to each other, especially in their eyes. Mayor Gil and Seonghwa both have the same stare.

The young man smiles again, shaking his head. “My father can be passionate. Now that he’s older, he tells me he has less grievances against the world. But I am curious—what are you doing here? It’s still pouring out there.”

You shrug, a little embarrassed. “I was just following some…uh…sparkles.”

“Sparkles? Nothing else?” Seonghwa’s facial expression shifts to one of curiosity. Your eyebrows furrow at his intensity and his features soften as he chuckles. “Ah, I don’t mean to alarm you. This island has a rich history behind this little grove. Are you busy?”

You shrug, glancing behind you. “No, not really. I’m not really in the mood to walk all the way back to the farm in the rain. I’m a big history fan anyway.”

Seonghwa shrugs, gesturing to the stone bench up further on the stone pathway. “Come and sit then. The story starts with this tree.”

To be honest, you don’t understand much of what Seonghwa explains. Something about bells and trees powering the island, and how only the line of mayors and Mr Takeru’s family can see the magic. But Seonghwa seems so passionate about it, and you have no reason to disbelieve it, not when you’ve witnessed the grove itself, so you just smile and nod and do your best to comprehend.

Seonghwa is finishing up his story of how Mr Takeru single-handedly revived the island when he takes a glance at his watch and gasps. “I’ve kept you far too long,” he sighs, shaking his head. “I’m sure the rain has stopped, you should make your way back to the farm before it gets dark.”

Your brows furrow, glancing up to see the sun getting close to the west. “Oh, crap,” you gasp, “I need to start dinner. Do…do you happen to know the way back to the farm? I didn’t quite see how I got here.”

Seonghwa chuckles. “Yes, you can just take a left out here and follow the path down the mountain. It should lead you to the pond right by Aria Farm. I’ll see you around town, then.”

You nod, promising him to try and find time to visit him in town before booking your way out of the grove. He was right, the rain had slowed to a drizzle that hardly bothered you. You’re making your way down the mountain, rushing so much you can hardly enjoy the view you missed on your way up.

As soon as the blue roof of the farmhouse comes into vision, you can’t help but smile to yourself at the familiar sight. Your little adventure was fun but now it’s time to go back. As you unlock the door and swing it open, your vision is immediately blocked by a firm, warm chest and strong arms wrapping around you in a tight hug. “YN, where were you?”

San’s worried voice reaches your ears and your initial shock wears off as you tilt your head back to look at him. “I went on a walk and found some grove near the mountains,” you explain honestly, and San’s eyebrows raise into his bangs.

“A walk? YN, are you insane? I came around to make sure you both were okay and Mr Takeru told me he didn’t know where you had gone. It was a crazy storm out there too. You have to be careful, YN. I– you could’ve gotten hurt.”

San’s arms tighten around your shoulders and your face heats up as you pat his back awkwardly. “Well, I agree it was pretty stupid of me, but I’m fine and here! I won’t do it again, I promise,” you try and cheer him up while also doing your best to wriggle out of his grip. It’s embarrassing for you to be so close, you’re sure he can feel the heat radiating off of your ears. He’s too hot for you to be this close to and you need some space before you combust.

You finally manage to untangle yourself, offering a smile to ease the distance between the two. “How long were you waiting for me, anyway?”

San sighs, running a hand through his dark locks. “Maybe just about three hours? I think I was about ten minutes away from going out to look for you myself. I mean, the rain only stopped an hour ago, it’s understandable I was worried.”

He’s trying to convince himself more so than you, but you can’t really blame him. You would’ve been the same way in his shoes. You try not to think about what would happen if he had suddenly disappeared in the rain. “No, I really am sorry, I didn’t mean to worry you,” you shake your head, glancing away in guilt. “I just thought something was out there and went on a wild goose chase. Turns out it was just my eyes playing tricks on me. But in the grove I went to, I finally met the mayor’s son.”

San’s expression shifts to one of understanding. “Seonghwa? He’s nice, I’m glad you’ve met him.” He finally smiles back, softly, but shakes his head as if remembering where he is. “Er, I suppose I should let you go have dinner now. You must be hungry.”

He slips out of the door before you can even respond, the thought of inviting him for dinner only popping into your head as he’s already halfway down to the river, his form glowing gold in the sunset. You poke your head out to call for him, but your nerves get the better of you and you just watch him grow smaller and smaller in the distance.

“You should go for it.” A hoarse voice interrupts your swirling thoughts and you turn back to see Mr Takeru leaning on his cane and smiling kindly at you. “You’re young, and pretty. Anyone can see clear as day that San likes you. You know, he was quite worried when you were out.”

You swear there is steam radiating off of your face. “Ah, Mr Takeru, don’t get my hopes up,” you laugh. “There’s no way San sees me as much more than a friend. Now, let’s get dinner started, no?”

Mr Takeru just sighs, a melancholy smile on his face. “You should run right after him before it’s too late, you know. But yes, let’s have dinner YN.”

You stand in front of the door of the mayor’s house, debating whether to walk in or not. When you received an invitation for lunch from Seonghwa earlier this morning, he had assured you that you could walk right in without knocking, but you felt a little too awkward to do that.

“What are you doing here?” A sharp voice startles you and you jump, looking over your shoulder guiltily. A silver-haired man with sharp eyes and thick robes gazes at you with an uninterested expression on his face.

“Ah– Seonghwa invited me for lunch here,” you explain, glancing back at the door.

Before you can say anything, the strange, eccentric man brushes past you, the many bracelets and necklaces he has on jingling. “Well, then. He’s up to one of his schemes to get me to socialise again. He invited me for lunch too. Come on in.”

He swings the door open, stepping inside the house and you stare at him with wide eyes before scurrying after him. The outside of the house is filled with flowers lining the stepping stones, but the inside of the house is more mature in decor, with dark oak tables and brown wallpaper. The stranger glances at you, having noticed your eyes wandering the decor and he laughs shortly. “Quite the juxtaposition of interior and exterior, no? Mayor Gil’s late mother had designed the inside and so the mayor hasn’t had the heart to change it.”

You’re about to respond when one of the doors to your right slams open, revealing Seonghwa standing there with messy hair and a sullen look on his face. “Sorry, I’m going to have to cancel lunch. My father has fallen ill with cow fever. YN, I’m so sorry to have to turn you away but I don’t want you to catch it, or Mr Takeru for that matter.” He heaves a sigh, then turns to the stranger. “Hongjoong, could you do me a favour and bring me some medicine?”

The man—Hongjoong—nods sharply and spins on his heel, striding out the door without a moment’s hesitation. You falter just a moment, shooting Seonghwa a quick smile and ‘hope your father feels better soon’ before following Hongjoong’s steps out the door.

On your way home, you can’t help but wonder…what on earth is cow fever? You’ve never heard of such a thing. You’re too lost in thought you almost don’t see San waving at you from afar. “Ah, hey San!” you greet him with a quick wave and a smile. “Did you have lunch yet?”

A shrug is your answer and you laugh at San’s nonchalance. “Nah, I was just about to head out for some, though. How was your lunch?”

You shake your head. “It had to be cancelled. Mayor Gil came down with the cow fever, so we decided to reschedule.”

A pout forms on San’s face. “Well, I hope he gets better. Cow fever is no joke. But hey, since you didn’t have lunch, would you like to join me?”

Although it would mean you’d have to walk back to town, you can’t say ‘no’ to the smile on San’s face. “Sure, I’d be happy to,” you grin. “Inn? Do you want to get sandwiches and eat on the dock?”

The smile on San’s face widens. “It’s almost like you’re reading my mind. Let’s eat on the dock.”

Without another word, he hooks his arm around yours and pulls you in the direction of the barn. “Ah– San, the town is the other way, you know.”

San laughs again, loud and bright. “Yeah, I know. We’ll take Emma.”

It takes a moment to register. “The cow? San, are you crazy?” you gasp, but there’s still a giggle present in your tone. “First, we have a horse. Second, I don’t even know how to ride a horse, much less a cow!”

“That doesn’t matter,” San grins impossibly wider, his dimples deep. “Emma’s sweet, she’s an easier ride than Princess. Plus, I want Princess to have some more bonding time with her foal. Come on, I promise it’ll be fun.”

You groan good-naturedly but can’t keep the smile off your face as the two of you approach the well-mannered cow. “Fine,” you agree. “How do I get on?”

Instead of answering your question like a normal human being, San places his hands on your waist. For a moment, you’re lost in his firm grip, but it doesn’t last long as he lifts you and places you on Emma’s back, a shriek emitting from your mouth. “San!” you laugh, looking down to see San’s eyes crinkling as he chuckles and pats your thigh. “Warn me next time!”

“So there’ll be a next time?”

“You’re focusing on the wrong thing,” you scold lightly, turning away so he won’t see your flushing cheeks. “Come on, let’s go. I’m hungry.”

You can hear San laugh to himself one more time before hopping up behind you and wrapping an arm around your waist. Immediately, your mind is taken back to that rainy day almost a month ago when he hugged you and your cheeks burn even more. “Hold on tight,” San hums, leaning forward till his lips are right by your ear.

And once again, he doesn’t give you time to mentally prepare before Emma runs down the path towards the town. You’re terrified, hands gripping so tightly on San’s that you’re sure your nails will leave indents. But somehow, you’re enjoying yourself taking a wild ride on a cow of all things. Maybe it helps that San’s body is pressed against yours and you can feel the heat radiating off him.

You’re practically in a daze when you reach the town, San lifting you off Emma much more gently than when he put you on her. “You good?” he asks, and you snort, shaking your head fondly.

“God, I can’t believe I did that. I can’t believe you made me do that. But yes, I’m good. More than good, even. That was fun.” You chuckle mostly to yourself, brushing your hair out of your eyes. “Come on, let’s eat.”

It’s your turn to grab San’s warm hand and pull him in the direction of the inn, the little bell tinkling as you step inside. Mai smiles at the two of you, waving you both over to her station. “Hello, you two. Looking for some lunch this fine morning?”

“Yep,” San leans on the counter with his elbow, ignoring the glare the head chef, Chihaya, sends him. Mai hides her smile extremely badly. “Could I get the tuna sandwich? And whatever YN’s getting.”

Your head snaps towards him. “Oh, no, no, San, don’t worry about it. I can pay for my own,” you decline as quickly as you can, but he raises an eyebrow in response.

“It’s my treat, YN. Don’t fight me on this, I’ll win. I invited you out, so it’s only right I pay.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “But–”

“No buts, okay? Don’t worry, I’m perfectly capable of paying for the both of us. Let me do this, YN. Just order, okay?” San holds up a hand, and you know he’s won.

With a sigh, you concede. “Fine. But next time, I’ll pay, and no buts.” San raises his hands in defeat. Satisfied, you turn back to Mai. “Could I get an egg sandwich?”

Mai chuckles, writing down your order in her little notebook. “It’s cute to see you two together. Poor San has been lonely for a long time.”

“We’re not dating,” you quickly correct her, face heating up in embarrassment.

“And I’m not lonely!” San interjects, pout on his face, and his cuteness in that moment makes you forget how awkward you were about Mai’s statement.

“Okay,” Mai chirps, clearly disbelieving the two of you, but before you can refute any longer, Chihaya stalks over, handing the two of you nicely wrapped sandwiches.

“Mai, stop bothering them. You two, go eat. See you later,” he shuts down the conversation, waving the two of you away.

Both San and you exchange a look before quickly leaving the inn, Mai’s sweet giggles trailing behind the two of you until the door shuts behind you. “Well then. Dock?”

You snort, nodding. “Dock.”

You skip your way through town to the dock, empty aside from the local fisherman about to head inside for his own lunch break. The wind isn’t too harsh today, something you appreciate so that the sea’s waves don’t get close to your feet. Neither you nor San feel the need to talk as you work through your lunches, the food delicious enough to keep your mouths occupied.

You finish your sandwich much earlier than San, leaning back on your arms as you sneak a peek at his side profile while he continues to eat, unaware. Something about his focused gaze on his sandwich seems to draw your gaze. As you wait, you can’t help but think back to Mai’s words, unable to keep your mind from daydreaming about Choi San.

Ever since that fateful day in the rain, the hug he had given you keeps popping up in your mind at the most inopportune times…like right now. You can already feel heat rising to your face once again and you quickly focus your eyes on the horizon to do your best to rid yourself of such thoughts.

You can’t afford to like San, not like that. Not when you have no idea what you’re going to do after this job, or even where you’ll go. This little island feels more like home than the big city did, but you don’t know where your life could fit in here. Not when it feels like everyone already has their place in the town.

“What are you thinking about?” You blink yourself back to reality, where San has finished his sandwich and is looking at you with such a fond look in his eyes. “You look lost in your head.”

You shrug, bringing your legs up to your chest and resting your chin on your knees. “I don’t know…” you murmur, a melancholy smile playing on your lips. “Just the future, I guess. What I’ll do later.”

San hums, his hand coming to rest close to your own, and you push back thoughts of grasping his worn, warm palm. “I get it. Before I started working for Mr Takeru, I wasn’t sure what I wanted to do either. I bounced from ranch to ranch, even started over at Marimba Farm for a time until Mr Takeru offered me a job.”

“Is that where you met Yunho?”

At your question, San chuckles. “Yeah. He hired me at Marimba when it was first starting out, then recommended me to Mr Takeru after he was able to manage it with the help of Wooyoung. Yunho is one of my oldest friends here.”

“It must be nice to have that close of a friend,” you state, more to yourself than anything, but San hears you anyway, his brows furrowing with light concern. “Say…who’s Hongjoong? I met him briefly at Seonghwa’s before I had to go home. I’ve never seen him around before.”

San hums, tilting his head so he can look into your eyes more clearly. You fight to keep the blush of your cheeks. “Hongjoong runs the clinic, and does fortune telling on the side. He’s descended from a long line of wizards, and his paternal family has run the clinic for a very long time. Why?”

You shrug. “I heard something about him getting medicine for Mayor Gil. Thought it might be interesting to talk to him about the island’s medical practices. Since I’m a nurse and all.” You laugh, shaking your head. “Maybe I’m a little curious too. He dresses nothing like the other islanders.”

San chuckles alongside you. “His robes are the traditional wear for the wizards of this island. He does quite enjoy talking about the history behind them, so you should ask him about it some time. Any other trivia I can answer for you?”

His tone is light, teasing, and you snort and shove at his shoulder. “Shut up, can’t a girl be curious? I get it, you don’t like me.”

“You and I both know that’s the furthest thing from true.” San shakes his head, and you freeze, aware of what he’s implying.

“San–” You’re unsure of what to say. “I’m–”

“You don’t have to say anything,” San laughs, leaning in to tap his forehead against yours. “Not right now, at least. I’ll give you time to think about it. Now come on, let’s get back to the farm.”

Before you can blink, he’s already on his feet and holding out a hand to help you stand. After a moment's hesitation, you reach out as well, placing your hand in his. As he pulls you up, he leans forward to press his lips against the side of your head and you duck your head, heat rushing to your face.

The walk home is silent, but not uncomfortably so. Instead of riding Emma back, San lets her amble along the path on her own. You walk side by side, fingertips not quite brushing, stealing glances at each other and soft smiles. Maybe it's because he finally put words to what the two of you have, but you can’t help but wonder exactly why both of you are suddenly so open with how much you care for each other.

As he walks you to the front door of the farmhouse, he clears his throat, obviously wanting to say something. You turn to him expectantly, taking note of the nervousness in his eyes. “YN…” he mumbles, a far cry from the confident man he was on the dock. “No matter how you end up feeling, please don’t leave the island because of it. Everyone here likes you, even though you don’t really know them well. And Mr Takeru is terribly fond of you. Don’t let me influence your life too much, okay?”

You sigh, body visibly relaxing. “Of course not, San. I’ve grown to love it here. I don’t think even you can keep me away.”

San chuckles at your feeble attempt at a joke, out of pity, you think. “Okay, okay. Have a good day, YN.”

You close the door behind you, smiling to yourself subconsciously. “Miss YN, is that you?” Mr Takeru calls out, and you shake your head, willing your brain to clear up before quickly making your way to your employer.

“I’m here, Mr Takeru!”

You awkwardly stand at the bar, waiting for Wooyoung to finish up with a customer. The bar is the last place you would usually be, but you’re at a loss. San’s words have been replaying in your head since that fateful day on the dock, and you haven't spoken to him since. Not that he’s bothered by it. True to his word, San had been giving you space, only exchanging soft, sweet, ‘good morning’s and gentle smiles.

As each day passed, you knew what your answer would be, but then a letter arrived today from your agency back home. A reminder your contract was almost up. You knew you had to make a decision, fast.

“All right, what’s going on in your head, missy?” Wooyoung’s voice breaks you out of your swirling thoughts. “You look like you’re about to be sick, and I don’t want to have to take you to the doctor’s.”

You open your mouth, close it again, and then reopen. “Wooyoung, do you know if the clinic has any job openings?”

Wooyoung furrows his brow, frowning. “Well, you’ve picked the worst person to ask this question to. I’ve never gone to the clinic before, and Hongjoong never comes in here. But they might. Hongjoong’s grandfather recently retired, so as Mr Van takes his role, there might be a job opening soon. I think Mao was thinking about volunteering there, though. You’d have to talk to Hongjoong about it. Why?”

You hesitate, eyes moving from side to side. No one is close enough to hear you over the music. “Did San talk to you at all in the past week?”

Understanding dawns in Wooyoung’s eyes. “Ah. He told us what happened, but let me hear what you think of it. All our regulars are here already so I won't have to make any more drinks for a while.”

A sigh makes its way out of your throat. “My contract with Mr Takeru is ending soon. The easy answer is to renew, but what about after that? I don’t know where I could work, other than the hospital, and if Mao wants to work there, I don’t want to take that opportunity away from him.”

Wooyoung laughs. “I said he would volunteer, not work. He’s the fisherman’s son, the sea is in his blood. But even if you don’t work at the clinic, San would probably be happy to support you until you find something.”

You shake your head tiredly. “But I don’t want him to. He already works so hard, and I don’t want to make him feel obligated to help me, not when I’m capable of supporting myself and it’s just me overthinking.”

There’s a pause, and then Wooyoung dissolves into laughter. “YN, he would be helping you because he wants to. Hell, any of us would be willing to help you. Yunho could use someone to help him on his own farm, I’m sure Seonghwa would like to have a secretary, hell, I could use you as a server. You’re worrying too much about it. Things will work out if you want them to.”

You wince. “I know, I know. I just worry, you know.”

“Well, don’t,” Wooyoung teases. “Just talk to San. He’ll understand.”

“As always, your advice is impeccable,” you smile. “Thanks, Wooyoung, really.”

“It’s what I do,” Wooyoung winks, sliding a glass over. “Have a drink before you go, okay? I’m not getting paid to gossip, you know.”

You squint at him. “Don’t you own this bar?” All Wooyoung does is smile knowingly and nod towards the cup of…something. You take a tentative sip, and then another, and then it hits. The sweet but tangy flavour with a hint of bitterness from the alcohol. “Oh, this is good! What is it?”

“Raspberry cocktail,” he answers, way too proud of his creation. “I perfected the recipe today, as well as a few others. You should try those ones too.”

You laugh, downing the rest of your drink. “Sure, sure, go ahead. I’m almost never here anyway.”

Wooyoung practically vibrates in excitement, moving around the kitchen in a dash to prepare your next drink. You’re on your third drink and too busy laughing at Wooyoung’s antics to notice the presence behind you. When Wooyoung slides you your next drink, you ask, “Which one is this?”

“This one is your last drink,” a firm voice speaks up and you snap your head around, startled, to come face to face with San. “You still have work tomorrow, YN, you can't get too drunk.”

“Hey, Sanah,” you beam up at him, unbothered by his close proximity. You blame it on the alcohol. His eyes soften as he looks down at you, a smile tugging at his lips. “I was just talking about you!”

“Oh, were you?” San leans down, pressing his forehead against yours. “All good, I hope. Come on, finish your drink and let’s get you home.”

Without much further prompting, you down the rest of your drink and wave at Wooyoung, who is watching the two of you with an amused expression plastered on his face. “Bye, now,” he sing-songs, “get home safe.”

San rolls his eyes good naturedly, nodding at Wooyoung and sliding some money over to pay for your few drinks. “Have a good night, Youngah.” He wraps an arm around your shoulders, helping you stand and pulling you out of the inn. “What am I gonna do with you, huh?”

You hum, turning your head to press your face into his shoulder. “I dunno,” you mumble into him, breathing in the smell of his soap. “I don’t know what I’m gonna do if I end up out of a job. You’re too perfect, I can’t drag you down.” You don’t mean to say all this, but the alcohol is still coursing through your system and the courage still sits in your stomach.

San intakes a sharp breath. “What do you mean by that?”

You shrug. “You have a job, a life here. I’m here temporarily. When my contract ends next month, what am I supposed to do? I don’t want to go back to the city and leave you here, but I don’t have any idea what I’m supposed to do here.”

San sighs, letting his head sit atop yours, his cheek pressed against your hair. “Well, we’ll cross that bridge when we get to it. I wouldn’t mind if you went back to the city if you visited. I wouldn’t mind if you stayed with me until you get back on your feet if you decide to end your contract. Hell, I’m sure Mr Takeru would be happy to employ you on his own dime, or someone else in town would take you on. But I’m glad you came to me, okay? I want to help you.”

You can feel your eyes stinging, and you curse yourself for drinking so much that it makes you too emotional for your liking. “Okay,” you concede with a soft voice. “Thank you, San.”

He presses a soft kiss to your forehead. “Of course, YN,” he smiles, and although you can’t see it, you hear it in his voice. “Now let’s talk later, okay? You need to go to bed.”

“Later sounds good,” you sigh, letting your body weight lean even more against San’s broad shoulders. “See you later.”

“Not right now,” San chuckles. “We’re almost home, come on. As much as it’s safe on the island, it’s chilly tonight, and I think you’d probably prefer sleeping in a bed.”

“Hmm, bed,” you repeat, yawning. “I like the idea.”

“I’m sure you do.”

The rest of the night is mostly calm, save for San convincing you to go to the bathroom to change, and not undressing in front of him. As he helps you brush your hair as you sit on your bed, you can’t help but to reach up and put your hands on his waist.

“You know, I really like you,” you mumble. The alcohol has almost faded, but the tiredness has hit and you’re just as loopy as if you were still drunk. “I hope you know that.”

San chuckles, his hands slowing to a stop in your hair. “I do, YN. I do.” He leans down, pressing another kiss to the top of your head. “Get some rest, okay? I’ll see you in the morning.”

He turns to leave, but not until you grab his wrist. “Wait! What about here?” you pout, pointing to your lips, and San arches an eyebrow, a smile toying at the corners of his lips and a laugh threatening to escape.

“Maybe tomorrow, if you ask me, okay? Good night, YN.” And with that, he leaves you to sleep, a smile plastered onto your face as you dream of his touch.

When you reawaken, you feel fully rested, yawning as you slip out of bed quickly and easily. A quick glance at your clock tells you it’s almost noon and you curse yourself for drinking so heavily. You’re never letting Wooyoung talk you into such a thing again.

As you make your way out of your room, you find Mr Takeru sitting on the couch. “Miss YN, come sit with me, okay? I want to talk to you.”

You pause, heart freezing. “Ah– sure, Mr Takeru. Nothing bad, I hope.”

The older man chuckles, waving his hand. “Of course not. This is something both Wooyoung and San have come to me about.”

You blink. “Ah.” You’re going to kill Wooyoung, and think about killing San (You’re too attached to him to follow though).

Mr Takeru laughs again. “I said it wasn’t bad, child, don’t look like you’re about to faint, please. San had expressed his affection for you to me, and Wooyoung has talked about how, in his words, ‘both of them are dumb as rocks and won’t date yet’. I’m quite aware that your contract with me is ending soon.” He pauses to take in a breath. “I would like to offer you a job with me off contract. That means you won’t be with your agency anymore.”

You blink at him. “I…I’m sorry, it’s a lovely offer, and I’m quite inclined to take it, but can I ask why? I mean, it would be cheaper for you to hire from the agency, and I’m sure I could figure something else out.”

“Miss YN, I’m sure you’re well aware I am not in much need of money. San runs the farm beautifully, and even though he is paid generously, the earnings far exceed what I need. And, as I have talked to Mayor Gil, Seonghwa, and Hongjoong, the clinic is happy to contract you so that in the case that I no longer require your services, you may work with them.”

You blink at him, your lower lip quivering. It takes you a moment to compose yourself, and Mr Takeru waits patiently. “The offer is so generous, and I would be a fool to decline it. I really do appreciate it, Mr Takeru.”

Your boss smiles. “Don’t worry about it, okay? Think of it as a favour to San as well. He’s worked for me for so long, he’s like one of my own grandchildren.” He pauses, letting out a yawn. “Now, go find him and tell him the good news, okay? I’d like to take a long nap.”

With a moment to compose yourself, you stand from the couch. “Thank you again, Mr Takeru,” you repeat sincerely. “I’ll prep lunch and put it in the fridge for when you wake up, okay?”

He waves you away, already getting ready to lay down on the couch. “Don’t worry about it. Mayor Gil is coming around to have lunch with me, and he’ll bring me something from the inn.” With another yawn, you know your conversation is over, and you spin on your heel and race out of the house, only one thing on your mind.

“San, are you in here?” you call out as you reach the ajar barn doors. “I need to talk to you.”

“I’ll be right down, just filling up the dispenser.” You can hear San’s voice from the loft and you look up, squinting through the sunrays filtering through the holes in the roof. The carpenters have been working on fixing that before the next rain.

Your gaze is drawn away by San climbing down the ladder, an extra bale of hay perched on his shoulders. As he turns around and you catch a glimpse of his face, your breath catches in your throat.

There wasn't ever a time where you thought sweat and grime on a person could be attractive…at least until right at this very moment. Sweat is glistening on his face, dripping off his cheekbones and chin, and all you can think about is swiping your tongue over his lips to taste it. The sight of it only serves to remind you of your drunken request to San, and his one condition that you ask him about it the next day.

“YN? Is there something you wanted to ask me?”

You blink up at him, eyes wide. “Can I get my kiss now?”

That was not what was supposed to come out of your mouth, but it’s too late to rectify it, so you’re left looking up at a dumbfounded San. The silence goes on for just a tad too long and you’re too embarrassed to face him now, so you turn on your heel and start to exit the barn, hopefully to drown your sorrows and yourself in the hot spring.

Before you can even step foot onto the threshold, however, San grabs your arm and gently tugs you into his warm chest. “Now wait just a moment,” he hums, chest vibrating against your back. His smell fills your mind and you tilt your gaze up to see him looking right back at you with such warmth in his eyes. “I didn’t give you your kiss yet.”

“Oh–” is all you manage to squeak out before San’s lips are on yours and you immediately melt into the kiss. His arm pulls you even closer against his body, his lips soft and inviting. “San–”

He doesn’t give you a moment to speak, his mouth capturing every sound escaping past your lips. You can feel every breath against your lips, his tongue pressing against the seam of your lips. Slowly, you part your lips for him and he wastes no time to map out your mouth, taking the air out of your lungs at how desperately he kisses.

As you fall deeper into his embrace, your arms come to loop around his waist, resting by his hips as your hands grip onto his shirt. His own hands roam up and down your sides, gripping at your waist and keeping you pulled against him. One of them finds its way to your face, cupping it with a gentleness that rivals the roughness of his mouth.

You could stay here like this for hours, but your lungs disagree, and after they scream at you for some air, you finally pull away, gasping softly as you lean your forehead against San’s. “San,” you call his name again, although this time your words aren’t interrupted by his lips but your lack of air. You take in one more breath, San waiting patiently as he looks at you like you put the stars in the sky yourself. “San, I like you. And I’m sure I’m just stating the obvious, but again, I do. I want to stay here with you, and just this morning Mr Takeru has offered me a personal contract with him. That’s what I wanted to tell you.”

San laughs, his hand on your waist moving up to stroke your cheek. “I know, YN. I asked Mr Takeru to make you the offer. Or, to be more precise, I implied that he should make you the offer, and I did that because Wooyoung implied to me to do that.” He tilts his head to press a short and sweet kiss to your lips again, chuckling to himself at how you follow his lips when he pulls back.

“Of course he did,” you roll your eyes good-naturedly, nodding as you lean up on your tiptoes to try and steal another kiss. “Nothing will ever be kept secret with his big mouth. Can we go back to kissing now? It’s easier.”

You can practically see the eagerness shine to San’s eyes. Instead of an answer, he tilts his head down to meet your waiting lips. This time, though, your makeout session is sadly cut short.

“So you two are finally together?”

You’re not too embarrassed to admit you shrieked, jumping out of your skin and burying your face in San’s chest. You can hear both San and Seonghwa chuckle, San’s arm tightening around your body. “Thanks to you, Seonghwa,” San hums. “We both really appreciate your role in this.”

“It’s no problem whatsoever. And as surly as Hongjoong can be, he’s happy to have someone else on board. But I’ll let you two get back to…talking. I was just passing through to have lunch with the jeweller. Have a good day, you two.” With a wave that you see out of the corner of your eye, Seonghwa leaves.

“I’m never going back to the town hall again,” you mumble against San’s shirt. “I can’t face Seonghwa again.”

San rubs your back with a comforting hand, although you can feel his chest rumble with quiet laughter. “I’m sure he understands, YN. Plus, look on the bright side. At least he didn’t walk in on a more intimate moment.”

Your head snaps up, heat blooming in your cheeks as you slap his shoulder. “San! We’re in the barn!”

A smirk is the only warning you get before San wraps both his arms around you and hoists you into the air, ignoring your squeal. “My house is just across the creek, you know. We don’t have to be in the barn.” You swear he can see how flustered you are just by your expression, and it only seems to egg him on. His one hand moves down to hold you up by your thighs, and you don’t think your face could get any hotter. “Shall we celebrate?”

“San–” you start to decline, but then you pause, casting a glance over your shoulder. Seeonghwa is long gone, and you’re sure Mr Takeru and the Mayor will be talking for a good few hours. “...All right. But put me down!”

Laughing, San happily sets you on your feet, leaning in to press his lips against yours again. “I really am glad you decided to stay, YN. Thank you for choosing me.”

“And if given the chance, I would choose you over and over San.” You smile up at him, reaching up to cup his face and pull him in for yet another kiss. Although the future seems uncertain, you’ll be happy to navigate it with him by your side.

#2ndpirateezyear #pirateeznet #kvanity #wkcnet #ateez fanfiction #ateez fanfic #ateez fic #ateez fluff #ateez angst #ateez au #ateez x reader #san fanfiction #san fanfic #san fluff #san angst #san fic #san x reader #san au

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naomikozura · 11 months ago

Text

Love of My Life: Part 2

Heian Era! True Form! Ryomen Sukuna x Sorcerer!Fem!Reader

A/N: I want to put an actual paragraph warning in here. Remember this is Sukuna’s story during the Heian Era, using bits and pieces from what I've researched on JJK and him during this era.

This chapter shows INTENSE GRUESOME SCENES including torture, psychological torture, abuse, massacres, and burning buildings. This is a DARK THEME story, it is meant as a work of FICTION and its 18+ ONLY MDNI!!!!

Warnings: strong language, violence, mention of mass murder, angst, generational trauma, complicated family dynamics, family abuse, murder, emotional turmoil and abuse, manipulation, sadistic tendencies, corruption of power, dark themes, burning down villages, murder, masochistic tendencies, sadistic behavior, decapitation, prostitution, sex scenes (in a brothel), torture, psychological torture, (lmk if I missed any!)

WC: 10.2K Series Masterlist

Part 1 || Part 3

The night was quiet, the aftereffects of your fight still lingering in the air. You hadn’t spoken to them for the rest of the evening, letting yourself sit with the hurt of your father’s words. Your eyes were red, puffy from the silent tears you shed in the past hour.

Defective. Wasted potential. Disgrace.

Why has this been your life? Why were you born into one of the Four? Did you live a cruel existence in a past life, were you paying for the sins of your ancestors? Your father despised you being his daughter, hated that his claim was weakened because you were a daughter instead of a son, that you would never be as powerful as the sons of the other Families. You did everything to bring honor to your family. You studied, you trained, you focused on your inherited technique, you brought peace between villages with your kindness and political intelligence, you tried for the better part of your life to mold yourself into what your father wanted. You obeyed his demands, agreed to his greedy power tactics, even believed you were okay marrying Zetsubou Zen’in when deep down you didn’t want to. You were more than just a pawn in his game, more than means to an end, more than just something to solidify your family name in the realm and create a greater power.

Little did he know he was slowly pushing you to your brink. You believed you controlled yourself well, keeping composed in even the worst of situations but your composure slowly started to crumble with every new task he had for you. The pressure slowly built up and you couldn’t take it anymore, you didn’t want to sell your life away just for someone else to gain all the power.

What a cruel life you were given.

“Y/n”, you felt your heart skip a beat, a low rumble vibrating through you as your bones became hyper aware of who called your name. You turned around, your eyes meeting his deep red ones as he stood in your bedroom. You didn’t even begin to wonder how he got in, he was a gifted sorcerer, he could do anything.

“Ryo..”, you called his given name, not remembering when you had started but when he showed no distaste in your doing so, you continued to call him by name.

“Come.”, it was all he needed to say as you nodded, slipping on your night robe and your shoes before following him through the back door of your home. You stayed glued to his side as he led you through the woods, suddenly realizing he was using his technique to hide both your cursed energy. He’d put a veil over the both of you to camouflage from any scouts patrolling the woods.

Silence fell over the both of you, walking for about a half hour before reaching the end of the woods, a blue lake illuminated by the moon at the bottom of a slight hill. The water was bright, the moon reflecting beautifully to light up the water in a serene and breathtaking way.

“The ground here is loose.”, he said blankly before grabbing you, picking you up in his arms as you sank into him, letting your head rest in the curve between his jaw and shoulder. He had a musk to him, a woodsy smell that brought comfort over you and let you relax into his touch.

You wondered if you were the first person he’d touched like this? Deep down you knew he’d probably indulge in the company of concubines, he was a man with needs and one many couldn’t refuse. You were certain many of the women would jump at an opportunity to have the King of Curses in their bed. A sting grew in your chest at the thought.

Once he’d reached the bottom, he set you down on the grass, your body small in comparison to his. He stared at you with curious eyes, the dichotomy of your existence in contrast with his was a wonder to him. He was grueling, sadistic, had the body that would make anyone recoil on sight, and held no remorse in his actions towards others. Meanwhile, you were kind, intimate, beautiful, and gifted. You had three of the most powerful names in this era asking for your hand in marriage, every man in surrounding towns having heard of the L/n daughter who was the heir to the L/n bloodline and being gifted with the Eye of Aurora. He knew your ability was powerful, strong enough to possibly even go head to head with him once you’d reached its full potential. Deep down he already knew you’d be considered one of the strongest sorcerer’s in the Heian era once you reached your full ability.

He hadn’t come to terms with his reasoning for letting you live, for helping you, for feeling intense amounts of cursed energy at your distress. He wasn’t a man of emotion nor empathy. He saw emotion as a weakness, mundane, meaningless. He hated weak humans, despised the sight of overly emotional lackeys and often killed them on sight or elongated their emotional distress with mental torture. Emotion was something he disregarded and found useless, and yet it was the very thing that kept him from even thinking of bringing harm onto you.

Was this punishment for his track record of horrific slayings? Were you sent by some being to punish him with your existence?

“Why are we here?”, your red eyes met his gaze, something in his chest burning at the sight of your defeated stare. He could tell you’d been crying, he felt your distress from across the realm and it burned him alive. He’d almost crossed across the entire woods just to show at your home and end your father’s life for laying a hand on you.

“Your father.”, he started roughly. “He’s a pathetic excuse of a man, an insolent waste of human flesh.”

Your tired eyes widened at the hatred dripping from his lips, the words filled with venom as his eyes darkened. You’d heard about his anger and wrath among the scribes in your village, it was enough to wipe out an entire population and he’d done it multiple times before. You knew if he truly wanted to, he could end your father’s life with no hesitation.

You looked down at the water, watching as the water moved and the ripples distorted the moon, your chest hurting as it contracted. “He…”, you choked on your words, the break in your voice creating a rise of energy in him. “He thinks I’m defective, a disgrace to our family.”

His eyes looked over at you, the burning in his chest growing larger.

“He threatened to get the elders from the Zen’in clan to exorcize my ability and… let me die without our ancestral guides”

He wasn’t much for believing in spiritual practices, but you’d grown up believing you needed your ancestors to guide you to the next life. it was a common belief within the families especially when you came face to face with cursed spirits constantly. They’d always been exorcized and seeing them cry out as you did knowing they’d just die, you wanted to believe there was a place where your soul could rest easy in the after.

You felt a whirl of his cursed energy, feeling the rage boiling inside of him. A part of you feared what could happen to your father if Sukuna really wanted to get rid of him, but another sadistic, cruel part of you that you’d never encountered before told you that your father deserved whatever he had coming to him. After years of his grueling expectations, you started to hate your father for his greedy and selfish ways. You knew deep down in the hidden depths of your heart that you couldn’t bring yourself to feel remorse if he died.

The exorcism of cursed energy was painful, you could easily say that due to how spirits cried when they would get absorbed. The exorcism of an inherited special ability was far worse. You’d heard stories of Yu L/n. He’d been exorcized of the Eye of Aurora and executed after he’d wiped out an entire village because he couldn’t control his technique. It was a horror story, a gruesome tale, it scared you to no end at the possibility that the same could happen to you. An exorcism of a special technique meant death. It was the most grueling way to torture and kill someone, leaving them alive meant they’d be a shell of a human, struggling and living at a lesser quality of life. No humane person would allow someone to live in such agony. Inherited techniques were bonded to the inheritors soul, binding together to make the energy and the human soul one for whatever lifespan the sorcerer had. It was the reason manipulation and control was easy for those who inherited special abilities, because it was connected to them in every way down to the genetic makeup of their bodies.

You stood next to him in silence, your body numb of emotion as you recounted everything your father had said to you. Were you really wasted potential? Were you really defective?

“I’ll kill him.”, his voice vibrated, your eyes staring at him while he focused on the body of water in front of the both of you. “I’ll make him suffer, perhaps exorcize his cursed energy to give him a taste of his own ignorance”

“Ryo, please.”, your soft voice sent a wave of warmth through his body. “I don’t want unnecessary bloodshed.”

He realized then why the realm considered you the Princess of Peace. You wanted to fight for your rights to life, fight for what was fair to the realm without bloodshed. Every gathering you’d been to had always swayed in your favor and he knew deep down it wasn’t because of your family name. You were just logical and intelligent to showcase why your outlook was necessary in the development of the Jujutsu world. You truly believed deep down there would be ways to save jujutsu sorcerers and regular humans without having to create an all out war.

A part of him whirled in anger, another not understanding your stance. He disregarded human emotion at all costs, thought it to be weak, pathetic, unbeneficial, and a waste of energy. When he looked at the way people reacted first instead of thinking it made him recoil in disgust, when he’d see sobbing mothers or angry fathers at the villages he’d consumed he laughed, feeding off their distress and growing in power. He thrived off the negative emotion, yet he couldn’t bring himself to care for anything except gaining his right to the realm. He believed he was the pinnacle of jujutsu sorcery and everyone else was simply a lackey and weak.

He’d consider you one of them had you been anyone else, but there was something about you that made him hold you at a higher regard. You held every characteristic he despised of humans, of lesser sorcerers and yet he couldn’t bring himself to put you in the same category as them. It was like you had all immunity from his hatred, his wrath, his disgust. He didn’t know why you were different from the rest, he just knew you were and he couldn’t bring himself to figure out why. He didn’t want to.

“What do you suggest I do then? Sit around and feel your energy get more distressed every time he talks to you like you’re worth nothing?”

For some reason, his confession of feeling your distress made your heart skip a beat. You knew he could feel all the energy around him, the powerful, the weak, the unstable, the murderous, and he cared most about yours. He felt your distress and it made him angry. Something about that undeniable truth made you feel warm inside.

“You know what they tell you is true.”, he said, void of emotion. “I’ve killed hundreds of people, consumed their energy and left them to rot in the ground.”

Why was he saying this?

“I know.”

“I have no remorse, no morality, no human left in me”

“I know.”

It was all you could say, you couldn’t deny the painstaking truth. You knew he was immoral, dangerous, a murderer, you knew and still you ignored it.

“So why do you choose to stay?”, he bit out. He’d never wanted nor cared about the opinion of anyone but he wanted yours. Why after the past two months did you choose to keep his company? Why after two months did you find yourself enamored with him?

“Because you don’t care”, you confessed. “You don’t care about what others think, or what they say. You’re free to pass through every inch of this realm without any regard to what anyone has to say or what they think. In the end, you know you’re stronger, you go through life knowing your worth and position and… If I stay around you long enough maybe I’ll learn not to care either.”

Silence.

He had no words to say as he listened to your voice grow slightly louder. “I want to leave, I don’t want to be the heir to my family’s claim, I don’t want to be held to this impossible standard that my family has for me. I just wish I could’ve been born just a regular human being. I might’ve been weak, ignorant, and blindsided but I would be free of the torment of my family’s expectation of me. I would be nobody and that would be enough.”

That was just it. You could never be a nobody. You were forced into this life, born into a family of inherited techniques and forced to bring honor to your family no matter the cost. You were shackled to your prison for eternity and with no way out, you accepted the consequences of your position.

To him though, it was different. You could never be a nobody. Not when he saw you as everything that brought out a sliver of humanity from his black soul. He saw you as everything everywhere all at once. You were kindness and empathy, strength and resilience, he felt it in the energy he absorbed and saw it in the woods he wandered through. He felt your presence in every fiber of his being and he hated it. You consumed him in a way not even the strongest in this realm could even graze him in.

“He wants me to stop training in the fields and stay in the inner territory. He’s having the elders oversee my training.”, your mouth twitched slightly. “In the end, I'm still forced to develop my domain for him.”

A surge of annoyance whirled inside of him, forcing it back down in order to remain in control of his veil. He could be annoyed at the mundane anger of your father, but he wouldn’t put you at risk of being seen with him just because he wanted to rip your father into shreds. His thoughts seemed normal to him, but he knew if you’d heard his tactic of gaining your freedom you’d surely feel disgusted by him.

“We should go back.”, you whispered, another tear streaming down your cheek. You looked down as you swallowed a sob, the feeling of his hand wiping the tear away warming your skin. You leaned into his hand, your lachrymose eyes meeting him in a gentle gaze.

He stayed silent, grabbing your hand as he led you back through the woods and to your home. Your focus was on your intertwined hands, wondering if he’d ever let someone else touch him like this before. Has he ever been so gentle with others or were you the only exception to this?

When you arrived, you lingered outside for a moment, the silence occupying the space while you tried to find the right words for him. You couldn’t quite place how you felt, but you felt a pull towards him, an uncontrollable feeling that you wanted to get off your chest.

“Thank you”, was all you could say. He hummed in response before grabbing your hand, his skin rough and his touch gentle. You smiled through your hurt, a piece of your heart breaking at the fact that your freedom to roam had been stolen from you. A piece of you hurt even more than you couldn’t see him anymore.

You gave him one last smile before walking away, your hand still in his grasp as it slowly untangled itself from his hood and you walked inside your home. After you’d reached your bedroom, you felt the veil of his cursed energy release and his presence disappear.

Another single tear falling down your cheek while the pain in your chest overcame you, forcing you into a slumber just to escape from the agony.

Over the past few days, Sukuna came to visit you in your home, concealing his energy and yours in the process in order to keep you from being sensed by others in your family clan. After so much time, he created a body double of you to take your place in bed so that you’d feel more comfortable leaving your room empty in the middle of the night.

The nights were the only time you had with him now since your training was supervised by the elders, leaving you little room to actually train to create a domain and instead your time was consumed with training your ability. Every night you spent with him made your heart warm, everything about him made you feel whole, made you feel seen. It wasn’t often he’d speak fondly of anything, but he’d express himself to you in a way he’d never let anyone else hear. He preferred hearing you talk, preferred hearing your dreams of a future and a life that wasn’t surrounded by inheritance and power. He’d often disagreed, believing that power was the best thing in any lifetime that someone could obtain, but he found himself understanding your stance more and more every night.

The two of you would spend every night with each other, staying within reach of your home in case you needed to return quickly, visiting the lake every night. You didn’t know at what point you started to return to his home with him, but you had found yourself in his bed more times than not. You would spend all night wrapped in his arms, his gentle touch on your skin, his fingers running through your h/c hair, breathing you in as you slept in his hold.

He’d never expected a single thing from you. Your relationship with him was never carnal, he’d never let it get to that point because to him, he didn’t care for physical release anymore.

Before you, he’d spend the better parts of his nights in brothels, a different concubine each night and drunk on wine and letting himself dip into his pool of women whenever he wanted. A harem waiting to jump into his bed at the snap of his fingers and yet, when you came around it was like all carnal desire evaporated from his being. His sudden disappearance from the brothels left even the concubines in shock, wondering where he’d gone off to not knowing of his infatuation with the L/n heir.

Your emotional and mental capacity exceeded his beliefs and he found himself going against everything he once swore his life on, finding himself seeing you in a different light in comparison to every other living being. He respected you on a godly level, a level he never regarded anyone else in. You saw the world through a lens of profound clarity and grace, something he’d never wasted time on, something that made you connected to those beneath you but also made you so profoundly unique. You had embedded yourself so deeply into his being that even those around him started to notice the shift within the King of Curses. He found himself in awe of your perspective, mesmerized by the way your heart navigated through everything.

He felt utterly pathetic.

But you were content with him in every way. Where you held empathy and grace in your heart, he held control and selfishness. You were gentle and kind, he was merciless and heartless. Your eyes looked at the world with curiosity and he saw it as a kingdom to overtake, a kingdom where he would ultimately rule. A kingdom where he wanted you to serve next to him. To be his till his heart stopped beating and even beyond that.

You were a dichotomous pairing: heaven and hell.

Still, you felt content when you laid in his arms at night. You felt secure laying in his bed, sleeping next to him, existing in the same space he occupied, looking into his deep red eyes that the rest of the realm were too scared to look into. You loved the way he touched you, his hand gentle as it pushed your hair back while you laid next to him. You loved the way he held you while you breathed against his chest at night before inevitably having to return home before the sunrise.

That same morning you had returned home, you were preparing for a bath, undressing as you heard the group of maids outside the room.

“You don’t think he will have heirs, do you?”, one of them asked in a whisper.

“Someone like him has to have heirs. He wants to rule an empire, surely he’ll find a way to get them.”

“I wouldn’t mind giving him some.”, the final one spoke, making your ears ring in shock as she continued. “Have you seen him? He has to have a harem of women waiting to get into bed with him, not to mention he looks like he would be completely wild in bed.”

You felt your gut turn inside of you.

“I wouldn’t mind jumping in bed with him, even if it is only once. Just to know what it’s like to get fucked by a real man.”, the maid laughed as their voices disappeared down the hall, leaving you standing in your shock as you let her words sink into your bones.

You felt… insignificant. Insufficient. Inadequate.

Later that night when he came for you, a wave of silence covered the both of you. You knew he could feel your energy, the doubt bubbling inside of you as you moved through the woods. Once you’d reached his home, you stood in the middle of the room, waiting for him to break the silence.

He turned to meet your gaze, the emotion glossing over your eyes as he moved towards you. His hand reached up, pushing your loose strands of hair behind your ear as he caressed your cheek.

“What’s wrong?”, he breathed.

“Why?’, your voice shook, leaving him questioning why you were like this tonight. “Why me?”

He stood in silence, waiting for you to continue, knowing you weren’t done with the amount of energy he felt radiating off of you.

“Why me, Sukuna? You could have anyone, any woman you wanted, hell all the women you wanted. I know you’re far from being a saint, and I accepted that fact a long time ago because I couldn’t care less about who you’d been with before me. I don’t care about your past or how many women you’ve been with… I just need to know.”, you looked up at him with tears in your eyes. “You have so many women, so many concubines at your fingertips. I’m sure you’ve slept with some of them in the past few months, hell maybe even weeks. So, why?”, your voice broke. “Why me?”

Were you not good enough? Sufficient? Worthy?

His silence ate at you, making your gut fill with dread as he stared at you with a blank stare. You could guess that he’d probably taunt you, play with your feelings before delivering his ultimate blow. You wanted to believe that the past few weeks meant something to him in the same way they meant everything to you. You wanted to be enough for someone. Enough for him.

When his voice broke the silence, you felt your eyes gloss over with tears again.

“I haven’t been with another woman since I met you.”, his voice held the truth, reaching up to cup your cheek. “Since the first time I saw you, I stopped visiting brothels or entertaining the thoughts of other women.”

A shock sank into your bones at his confession. His eyes bore into yours with truth, with honesty. What he wanted to know was how these thoughts even entered your mind.

“Who put these thoughts into your mind?”, he asked in a deep growl.

You hesitated, swallowing the lump in your throat. “One of our maids… She..”

He let out a quiet shush, grabbing your face with both his hands as his thumb grazed over your lips, “You…”, his eyes darkening with what you could only place as lust and possessiveness, “are the only woman in this life and the next, the only woman in this realm and the hundreds of others that I desire.”

And hell did he want you. He wanted every part of you. heart, body, and soul. Down to the simple way your eyes looked at him to the way your cursed energy spiraled into immense power when fighting cursed spirits. He wanted every strand of hair, every piece of your soul, every inch of skin, every minute of your time. He wanted you to consume him in every way and he couldn’t care less about the gravity of your effect on him. If you didn’t exist to be with him, he didn’t want to exist either. He saw himself as the pinnacle of jujutsu sorcery, the king of this realm, and he wanted you to be the one and only thing that could bring him to his knees. If he was the most powerful sorcerer in the existence of humanity and jujutsu, then you were far stronger. You brought the King of Curses to his knees and he couldn’t stop it even if he wanted. He wanted you to have power over him, it meant you belonged to him in every way that mattered. He'd burn the world down if you asked, kill an entire nation to prove his undying loyalty to you, he’d stop his spread of cursed energy to know a moment of peace with you.

He didn’t know when he’d become so wrapped up in you, but it was too late for him by the time he realized the hold you had over him.

He was yours with the entirety of his being, with the intensity of his soul, and the remainder of his existence in this life and continue to let you consume him in every lifetime after this one.

His soul called your name in a way he’d never experienced in his entire life. For a man who didn’t believe in indulging in mundane emotions, he indulged in you and that’s all he needed.

Your lip quivered, a sob choked out of your lips as you looked at him in a deep admiration. You lifted your hands to wrap around his wrists, sinking into his touch as you whispered to him.

“I want to see you, Ryo.”, your hand on his face, your gentle lachrymose eyes meeting his hardened ones. “I want to see the real you.”

He would’ve denied the request had you been anyone else, but he was at your mercy, allowing his body to morph into his true being. The very form that left the realm fearing his presence, left them in agony from the overwhelming rush of cursed energy. His true form alone was enough to make an entire nation buckle under his presence. It was gruesome, wicked, twisted, ugly, and macabre. It was something so terrifying they’d used it in stories to children for them to be good for their parents. His true form was something heard about across all of the realm and left nations training for years in hopes to one day kill the King of Curses. And despite all of that wickedness, gruesomeness, and fear, you looked up at him with gentle eyes.

He showed his true form to you, waiting for the recoil of disgust, the shock of horror and yet none of it came. You looked at him with the same gentleness you had for anyone else in this realm. He had a deformed stomach, four arms, multiple sets of eyes and a plate on his face, teeth sharp like daggers, and body covered in scars and marked in black ink.

Yet, the only thing that flooded your eyes was admiration.

Why weren’t you disgusted by him?

Why weren’t you running in fear?

Bowing at his feet?

Why?

“Why do you hide your true form around me?”, you cocked your head slightly. “Everyone in the other families always say you show your true form to add to your dominance over the realm, yet you disfigure your body and make it different when I’m with you… Why?”

Who created you in such a way that you empathize with him instead of cursing him to hell?

Princess of Peace.

“Does it bother you?”

“I just don’t see why you have to hide it. You don’t have to do that. Not with me.”

You couldn’t explain the connection to him.

Was it an invisible string?

Fated soulmates?

You didn’t know what it was that his form didn’t frighten you or leave you in shock. You welcomed every being with open arms, perhaps it was your special ability to see cursed energy and gauge its threat to you. His energy never reached levels of threat when he was near you. You’d seen it around other sorcerers and the level grew astronomically. It was almost too much to wrap your mind around and yet when you saw it in the solace of his bedroom, it never pushed you away.

Inside these walls, no cursed energy existed to harm you. In fact, it was the complete opposite. His cursed energy manifested in a protective veil, ensuring you were guarded completely when you were with him.

You felt every question swirl in your mind, trying to pinpoint why he had you feeling so alive.

Was it the desire to leave your family out of spite?

The desire to know what being unhinged was?

The desire to not live within the bounds of the jujutsu code and live freely?

You couldn’t quite place it but you felt envious of his freedom and lack of care. You were always being watched, always monitored, the only moments of peace and freedom you got were when he would sneak you out of your home at night.

You grabbed one of his hands, rubbing soft fingers on the back of it and meeting his gaze. You’d grown to admire the depth of his gaze, the way they watched you with a calm intensity. You have laced his hand on your cheek, his massive palm warming your skin as you sank into him.

His body lowered to your height, bending over as he brought you closer to his chest while your heart pounded inside of your own. You knew he could feel your infatuation, your intrigue, your heart racing inside you. Your gentle eyes met his darkened ones, the closest thing to desire that he could get to while holding you. You felt his lips meet yours, the roughness of his mouth as he claimed you as his. You melted into him, your hands on his chest as a pair of his landed on your waist and the other held your face, deepening the kiss.

He lifted your body, placing your frame on his lap as he laid against the headboard of his bed. You felt the burning of his skin as his grip tightened on your waist. Your skin ignited under his touch, running a hand through his hair which caused him to groan against your mouth. You could listen to him all day, forever.

If your father or the realm saw you right now, what would they say? What would they think? Would they accuse Sukuna of brainwashing you? Imprisoning you? Did you need saving?

No.

You didn’t need saving; you were far beyond it for anyone to consider it. You were too far gone in him and you didn’t want to turn back. His muscular arms picked you up, laying you on your back against the sheets as his overwhelming form covered yours. You were tiny in comparison to him, your hair splayed out in a halo as his eyes stayed focused on you. A hand brushed your stray hairs back, rubbing small circles against your temple.

You focused on his body, admiring every muscle, every ripple of skin, every scar, every black marking. You admired his form regardless of the fact that most would consider him a devil. It never occurred to you in any sense.

An angel entrapped by a demon, an angel falling in love with the devil, an angel stolen from heaven and dragged to hell.

You didn’t give a damn anymore. You wanted him, needed him like you needed oxygen. He helped you feel free, helped you escape the confines of your familial name, helped you feel worthy. He helped you see life in a new light, in every way that you couldn’t before because of your father’s controlling ignorance. You didn’t care about the opinions of the village or the families, deep down they were only looking out for themselves even if everyone else denied it.

The King of Curses completely ruined you: the Princess of Peace. The two of you were a dichotomous pairing, chaos and peace, yet still found balance in each other. It was the balance of life and existence and the both of you knew exactly how the collision would end: one of you would gain everything and the other would lose it all. But neither of you would have anticipated the depth of your connection, the intensity in which he consumed you and you him. You no longer cared about the consequences of being with him. Your father could disown you, exile you, have the entire village and the other families against you, but as long as Ryomen was at your side you didn’t care.

His rough lips made their way down your neck, kissing and licking every inch of your skin as your hands held into his arms. The sound of your muffled cries made him feral, making his instinct and possessiveness kick into overdrive. He needed to feel you, needed to taste you, to breathe you in and have you take over all his senses.

Your hands gripped his arms, your toes curling against the bed sheets as he continued to kiss down your neck and swirling his tongue around the delicate skin. You tasted like a heaven he never believed in, made him feel euphoric in ways beyond comprehension.

Your body was on fire at his touch, you wanted more. More of his touch, his kisses, his groans, his everything. You just wanted more of him.

You wanted to give yourself to him in everyway you could. He knew you were still a virgin, he wanted to be the one to wreck you, to be the only one to know your body so intimately, wanted to be the only man you’d ever end up with. His hands gripped your hips as you felt his buck slightly against you, your moans filling his mouth as he kissed you sloppily.

He forced himself to stop, gaining a small whimper from you. His eyes met yours, his voice deep but low as he pressed his lips against yours once more.

“Not like this.”, he muttered, his tone vibrating in every bone in your body.

You knew what he meant with just a simple phrase, Your body relaxing against the bed, letting him collapse next to you as he wrapped you into his arms. You soaked in his warmth, letting your body be held by him as you fell into a slumber.

This was all you could ever ask for.

It was all you wanted.

One Week Later

You woke up just before the sunrise, your body sitting up as the bed sheets fell from your form. You looked next to you, seeing Sukuna in his sleep while his arms were lazily thrown over your torso. Another night with him in peace left you feeling content, feeling a soreness overtake your body from the training you’d done with him last night. You felt his arms tighten, your body almost bare against him only wearing one of his oversized wool shirts.

You pushed yourself out of his embrace, swinging your legs off the bed and looking out the window. You still had time to get home before everyone woke up, though you needed to head home soon. You felt his energy shift as he woke, raising a hand while still laying in the sheets and looking at you while caressing your cheek.

“I have to get home.”, you whispered as you melted into him. He grunted in response before sitting up and cracking his neck to relieve the pressure he’d gotten overnight. You follow his as he stands, letting him help dress you in your clothing as you felt his lips along the side of your neck.

Both of you walked out of his home, walking through the woods until you reached your room, his veil keeping you hidden and camouflaged both of your energies. You gave him a final kiss, smiling at him before he turned and left, leaving you alone in your room.

During mid day, the sun held its highest position and the food was being prepared for lunch, you heard mention from your father that the Zen’in would be joining your family for lunch.

Everything was fine at first, everyone coexisting together, talking about family matters and everything normal, atleast it seemed normal at first.

You looked up to see Zetsubou Zen’in walk in the door, one of the maids accompanying him to the table as she bowed and walked back to her post at the front door. He was the heir to the Zen’in clan. A remarkably talented sorcerer with the gift of the Ten Shadows technique. Everyone was sure he would soon manifest the shikigami Mohoraga, making him the first to manifest it since the family’s establishment to the realm.

“Now that everyone is here, there is some news we must share.”, your father spoke as he stood, watching as Zetsubou’s father also rose to stand next to his son. Everyone else remained seated, you included as you cocked your head in confusion.

“Y/n, come stand.”, your father motioned towards you, your gut churning in suspicion before you stood next to him. You watched your father before turning to Zetsubou and his father, his dark eyes staring into your e/c ones.

“We are to celebrate the new union, the meshing of two family names into one great clan.”, your father spoke, your mother and the Zen’in wife staring in silence. Even the maids seemed to be on edge of what your father was saying. “Zetsubou, Your father and I have agreed in accepting the conditions of betrothal that you both have given to our family.”

Betrothal?

“Y/n, you and Zetsubou will meet in union in two weeks' time. Two Clans becoming one in matrimony.”, your father smiled as he shook hands with the Zen’in leader, smiling at Zetsubou.

You stood in silence, your energy growing grimm at the declaration your father just made. Your body overwhelmed in shock, your heart racing in your chest, your mind swirling with a million different possibilities. The chatter around you blurred into a jumbled mess, nothing comprehensive due to your anger radiating from your body.

“I look forward to getting closer to you through our marriage, Y/n.”, Zetsubou smiled at you, your eyes staring at him mindlessly. “Y/n?”

“I’m not marrying you.”, you said silently, almost inaudibly but you knew he’d heard you since you saw Zetsubou’s eyes darken.

“What?”, his voice came out clipped, sharp. Dangerous.

“I am not marrying you.”, you repeated, your eyes void of any emotion as you held

“Y/n!”, your mother let out a warning call, but you ignored her. You didn’t care about anything other than making it entirely clear that you were not going to be wed to the Zen’in Clan. “Forgive us, she doesn’t realize what she’s saying.”

“I know what I’m saying. I am not marrying you, Zetsubou. Not even if you held my life at sword's edge.”

You suddenly felt the energy that radiated off of your father, his anger growing tenfold as he glared at you with intense disappointment and resentment. Your father already hated you, and already felt disgraced by your presence. Why not give him another reason to see you as less than good enough.

“I think there needs to be some time to process our agreement. Surely we can come to a suitable agreement that will benefit both of our clans.”, your father forced out, his voice clipped. “Our maids will clean up, let me walk you out.”

You watched as both the Zen’in leader and your father walked out, your eyes glancing back at Zetsubou, holding his glare before he scoffed and followed behind his father. You heard the lowered voice of Zetsubou’s father, his voice full of annoyance.

“Get your daughter under control or else we will take care of her for you.”, and with that, the Zen’ins left your home. You stared blankly as your father walked back into the room, his energy radiating in waves like a tsunami. He walked up to you, your blank stare meeting his eyes as you felt your head snap to the side, the sting burning your cheek as he snarled at you.

“You are a disgrace!”, he screamed, your mother gasping at his sudden burst. “How dare you embarrass our family name in front of the Zen’ins!”

You raised your head, looking at the pure fury displayed in his eyes, still not saying a single word as he continued to berate you.

“Why can’t you just do your duty and save yourself the embarrassment. Save our family the dishonor of having you as its heir.”, he bit out, each word dripping with acid. “You’re to marry Zetsubou Zen’in in two weeks' time. For once in your pathetic life, do something honorable for this family.”. He left the room, your mother following closely behind as the maids started to clean the dining room.

And still, you stood in the middle of the room with no emotion behind your eyes, just the sting of your cheek and the emptiness in your chest at your father’s words. Your life, your future, your dreams, it all was reduced to being the wife of a man you did not love. A man you did not care for and despised.

You were reduced to nothing.

The night was silent, the wind howled softly in the background causing the trees to move, leaving nothing but a tranquil aura in the air. You stared blankly at the wall as you laid against Sukuna’s skin, the warmth flooding your body as you felt his arms wrap around you. You felt the growing pressure in your chest, an unavoidable truth you couldn’t keep from him anymore.

“Kuna…”, you whispered gently. HIs body moved, looking at you as his eyes fell on your heartbroken form. “I..”, you choked.

How could you possibly tell him this?

“What is it?”, his voice was deep yet soft, the words ringing in your ears.

“I… My father..”, you sucked in a shaky breath. “He arranged for me to marry Zetsubou Zen’in.”

“He arranged for you to marry Zetsubou Zenin.” he repeated back to you, the lingering darkness hanging in his tone.

“He says it’ll be good for our families. That I have a responsibility as heir, as does Zetsubou, to continue our bloodline and make our abilities stronger.”

“Do you love him?”, the question made your blood run cold, even kicked you in the gut, but you knew why he asked. You could read in between the lines and hear the unanswered question he truly wanted to ask.

“No.”

A hum was all that escaped him, the silence casting over the both of you causing a small blanket of tension to rise.

“I can kill them.”, he replied finally. “I can give them a reason to call off that sham marriage.”

He could do it easily, there was no question about it, the only thing keeping him from carrying out his plan was his loyalty to you. He wouldn’t do something you asked him to not do. You had that power over him to stop him from doing anything. You heard the hidden meaning in his words. You weren’t ignorant or naive. You knew who he was and what he was capable of and yet, you lay in his arms falling deeper into what he was, or rather, who he was with you.

“I don’t want bloodshed. Besides..”, you sank into your sorrow again. “I don’t think there truly is a way out of this.”

“Do you really believe they could possibly keep me away from you?”, he asked in a serious, deep tone, his question full of every emotion he’d never said out loud. He didn’t know what kindness was, what admiration looks like or what love felt like but to him… you were the closest thing to that that he’d ever felt and seen in all his life.

You brought out what little humanity he had in him, he showed it only for you. the tiniest sliver reserved for you but disappeared when it came to anyone else. You were the only one who deserved that small minuscule part of him. He had little regard for human life, he believed himself above all beings all gifted, cursed, and boring.

Then there was you.

He didn’t believe himself above you in any regard.

In every way you were his equal and he’d burn the world to ash to prove it to you.

“I can’t deny them… My father… he already hates me.”, you muttered against his skin. Ryomen slowly sat up, his arms helping you move with him as he brushed your hair back, tucking a strand behind your ear and letting his hand rest against your cheek. Your eyes glossed over, a hurt in your heart flooding every vein in your body. You didn’t want to be forced into a life you had no interest in, why did this have to be your life’s path?

You wish you could just speak to whatever greater being ruled over your world and beg them to change the prophecy known as your life. Beg for a time where you didn’t exist within the confines of your familial name, your duty to pass your legacy through your bloodline, your fear of disgracing your family, who could ever change the end result for you?

“I’ll find a way.”, he whispered before leaning towards you, pulling your lips against his as he let all of his emotion pour into the kiss as the tears fell down your cheeks. He was gentle even in his destructive touch, he let himself completely off guard with you. Your lips moved gently against his, soft and delicate, making his other hands wrapped around your waist as he kissed you deeply. You felt weak at his touch, your heart openly his without regret or second thoughts.

“Ryo..”, you whispered, your voice shaky as he kissed you again, this time more possessive and full of desire. His teeth nipped at your bottom lip, pulling it before letting it go as it swelled.

You let yourself sink into him, his arms wrapping around you in a secure embrace. You fell asleep to the sound of his heartbeat, it was even and strong, proof of the life inside of him.

He watched you carefully, his gut churning in a whirlwind of emotion and suppressed energy. He needed an outlet and soon, he’d spent the better part of the past month with you in his embrace and presence. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d gone so long without releasing his cursed energy, it was starting to make him twitch at all the pent up power he had. He’d waited until you fell asleep in his arms before lowering you into the sheets, your body laying perfectly in his bed as he covered you with the blanket. He pushed the curtain away, closing it as his eyes lingered on your body, the blanket laying over you as he moved out of the room.

He found himself wandering through the woods late, moving to the outskirts of the village territories and making his way deeper to territory he knew a little too well. He sensed an energy that stood out to him, his focus moving towards the waves radiating towards him until he reached his location. His veil did good in keeping him hidden, but he released a small wave of energy to send a flood of chills through every being in town within his proximity. His body moved through the homes, the worn down tavern, and the trader booths until he found exactly what he was looking for so late in the night.

The sound of moans echoed in his ears, the energy he was tailing radiating from inside the brothel at the very end of the town, hidden amongst the trees for a more private ambiance. He knew exactly what was taking place inside the brothel, but it wasn’t that that bothered him, it was the person inside that did. He sensed Zetsubou inside with multiple women, all of them taking their place in his bed, taking turns pleasuring him or even doing it all at once. His grunts sounded out as the moans that escaped the concubine echoed through the walls. The other women were touching him, their hands on his body as one of them rubbed their body against his while another kissed him in a sloppy manner.

He would be lying if he said he’d never been in a similar, compromising position. He’d visited these brothels long enough to know exactly who and what he wanted every night he visited. His lust filled ways long gone, no longer causing a rise in him, especially after meeting you. That was the exact reason he was here. For you.

An anger rose inside of him seeing your supposed future husband laying in a bed being pleasured by concubines just weeks before your wedding. His groans sounded out at the pleasure he was receiving, the moans of the concubines filling the air as he fed into infidelity. He knew all too well that men were never loyal to their wives, always frequenting the brothels for a good time. The sound of Zetsubou slamming the headboard against the wall as he fucked one of the concubines, his curses filling the air as her moans ripped through the night, it all made Sukuna’s anger run deep inside of him. The lack of respect, the complete disregard Zetsubou held for you made him want to snap his neck in half. It would be the perfect way to get you out of the betrothal.

Even the sounds of the whores in bed with him drove Sukuna mad. They had to know the great Zen’in heir was to be wed to the L/n heir, yet they still chose to lay in bed with him, to be absolutely and disgustingly fucked by the son of a bitch. He listened to the sounds, letting the anger grow inside of him, allowing himself to plot every way he would maim Zetsubou Zen’in alive for ever treating his betrothal as disposable. Something to be disregarded. Disrespected.

After a while, the moans and the slamming of the headboard stopped, Zetsubou’s voice ringing out as he laid in the sheets with his whores wrapped around his naked body.

“You ladies definitely know how to show a man a good time.”, he breathed as he let them touch his body, his muscled flexing under their touch.

“Of course, always special treatment for our best man.”, one of the whores said in a sultry voice. “It’s good to get a good fuck while you still can.”

“Trust me, even in a few weeks I’ll be back. Don’t you worry.”, the sound of Zetsubou kissing one of the women made Sukuna fill with disgust. “You have the best of the best here. Can’t stay committed to some virgin who doesn’t know how to please a man, let alone know how to fuck one.”

His energy spiraled, shoving it down as he continued to listen.

“That’s right, you need real women, not some uptight spoiled brat.”, another woman spoke out.

“You can get all the good pussy you want here, baby.”, another called. “We know how to treat a man right. Make you feel everything.”

“That’s all I want.”, his voice vibrated as he kissed the woman again. “C’mon baby, let's go for round two.”

And just like that, the sounds of moans and deep grunts rang out again. The knocking of the head board and the panting of hot breath filling the room. Zetsubou Zen’in was scum. Bottom of the barrel. A fucking no body.

Sukuna bided his time, waiting deep into the night as he watched the Zen’in heir leave, heading back in the direction of his clan’s territory. Sukuna’s red eyes watched him from the shadows, his anger rising into flames around him, waiting long enough for the worthless son of a bitch to be far enough away before letting the release come.

Fire consumed the village, everything burning into ash, the smoke filling the air as the sound of screams echoed into the night. The taverns, the trader booths, the homes, all of it catching on fire and burning every single person to a crisp. He saved the brothel for last, waiting for the sound of panic cries to ring out before walking inside and seeing all the concubines who were with the Zen’in heir trying to get out of the burning building. He forced them to stay in place, his presence overwhelming them into fear. He watched as the panic settled into their eyes, their lungs begging for air, their bodies getting burned as the flames licked the walls around them. One of them tried to run out past him, but never made it as he blew her head off in one swift slice. They screamed out, begging him to let them out, crying as he watched in emotionlessness. It wasn’t until their lifeless bodies collapsed on the ground that he left, leaving the burning village behind him as he wandered into the night. He’d burn the whole world down for you.

Even if it meant starting with those who wronged you first.

“Our entire livestock was burned! We have no more land to grow food in!”, the sound of the Zen’in leader’s voice ringing out during their meeting with your father rang out. You listened in silence, letting yourself sink into the reality of what they were discussing. A small part of you laughing internally at their misfortune.

Another village burned into flames just two days ago, and last night, the Zen’in’s lost all of their livestock, fertile soil, and sustainable crops. They were all burned to nothing, not even the soil or the seeds were salvageable.

“We need to get this monster under control. We have to speed up training with our sorcerers and find our strongest men to be put into units to take him out. We cannot let him roam so freely anymore, especially not now that he’s making hits closer to our clan lands.”, the Kamo Clan leader spoke out, his voice soft as he marked the map where Sukuna made his last raid, your eyes peeking in through the slit in the door. That village.. It was right outside the Zen’in borders, it was where Zetsubou frequented the brothels.

Ryo..

You stepped back, moving back into the hall before making your way to your bedroom, closing the door as you sat on the floor. Did he burn the village down in some act of honor for you or was it just a coincidence?

The thoughts spiraled in your head, letting yourself undress and change into your dinner clothes, the silence still filling your home ever since your fight with your father almost three days ago. You were a week away from your marriage to Zetsubou, a gnawing in your gut as you stepped out of your room and faced your father. You stood in the doorway before making your way to the dining table and sitting in your regular spot at the very end while your father and mother sat next to one another.

Then, a rush of energy consumed you all at once. The sensation floods your senses as you feel your body tense. You look at your father, noticing his sudden change in demeanor as one of the maids let out a cry of fear, her shaky voice barely audible as you could hear her motion towards the dining room.

In all his glory, Sukuna stood tall and unmoving, his body adorned with fine robes and his true form showing as he occupied the space. Making the air impossible to breathe, making everyone except you suffocate in fear.

Your eyes widened at the sight of him, why was he here?

You watched as your mother raised her hand to her mouth, covering her quivering lips. “What is the meaning of this?” she asked in a shaken tone, your eyes filled with worry as you watched your father fill with anger.

“Sukuna”, he bowed before the King of Curses, before lifting his head and asking his question. “What brings you into our home this evening?”

Sukuna stared your father down, his true form standing tall and in overwhelming sense of dominance that made your mother cower. Although you showed no fear towards him, you could see why everyone else in the realm did. He was massive, muscular, deadly, his body taking form of a cursed entity. It was no secret that Ryomen Sukuna held an energy that defied all existence, he was far above all beings.

You tried to stay focused, holding your shock at his sudden appearance back, not wanting them to see your reaction.

What was he doing?

“F/n L/n.”, Sukuna’s deep voice echoed. “Leader of the L/n clan. For such a highly renown sorcerer, you sure don’t seem to realize where your greatest assets lie.” He walked further into the room, your father’s jaw clenching noticeably. “You’re ignorant and naïve, choosing to force such a gifted sorcerer, your only daughter and heir into a marriage of mutual gain, of political power.”

“Our family and Clan matters shouldn’t interest you. Now why are you intruding on our home?”. You had to applaud your father’s boldness, asking Sukuna such a demanding question.

“You’re too mundane, worldly, pitiful.”, you watched as he moved and sat at the table, in between the head where your father and mother sat and the opposite end where you sat. He sat with his legs crossed, leaning his head into his hand before speaking again. “Why arrange for political gain when you could have real power, L/n?”

“What are you talking about Sukuna?”, your father’s words shook slightly.

“Look at the bigger picture. L/n may be a part of the four families, but in comparison, your poor judgment and lack of support is the reason your family will fail. You seek what humans want. You’re greedy over mundane things”, Hid deep red eyes held your father’s gaze intently, overwhelmingly. “What if I told you that you could have the power of gods?”

“Power of gods?”, your fathers hands fisted in his lap.

“Yes”, you noticed Sukuna’s red eyes glance at you, softening only when he met your gaze and immediately hardened and dropping when he met your father’s. “You could have real power, real influence, real claim to the realm. It would put you far above the rest of the families, perhaps make you greater than the Gojos.”

You didn’t miss the glint of intrigue in your fathers eyes. Of course bed listen or spare a moment for someone like him. Anything for power, anything for more claim to the realm. Your family wasn’t weak but any means, but your father had slowly started losing connections thanks to his selfishness. It truly would be the end of the L/n family if he didn’t get it together.

“And how would I possibly gain that? I have nothing to give you in return.” , your father smiled weakly.

“Simple”, Sukuna leaned his head on his hand, staring at your father blankly before extending a hand and pointing at you.

“I want Y/n as my bride.”

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