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damnaation · 7 months ago

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A Sunless Place

A monster hunter ends up a little closer to a vampire than expected.

Soft, safe, slightly reluctant but willing vore. Monster hunter Phoenix & vampire Juniper.

There was no way her leg would support her, and there was certainly no way she would be able to climb out of this cave.

Phoenix had gone off alone, tracking reports of a missing teen and odd happenings—it had sounded like a spirit of some sort, inhabiting the cave they were now trapped in. They'd managed to dispel it, but not before taking a tumble into the blackness and quite possibly breaking their leg.

They were a sitting duck like this. No food and not enough water to last more than a day or two, and the forest the cave was in was inhabited by monsters. Their illustrious career would end with an ill advised solo hunting trip, their remains discovered in a few weeks when the next spelunker stumbled upon them-

The sound of rocks clattering jolted her out of her morbid thoughts. Clutching her knife tight, she peered into the sunless dark beyond the feeble glow of her flashlight—it had been flickering since her fall, and would likely go out before long. Nothing distinct caught her vision at first, but she couldn't shake the feeling of being watched.

With one final burst, the light died, leaving her in darkness that human eyes could never adjust to. But that one last moment had given her a brief glimpse of eyes in the dark, reflecting red back towards her.

Their blood went icy—they knew there was at least one vampire in the area, and red iridescent eyes was one of the telltale signs. Fumbling for their bag, they pawed for the vial of holy water they carried, but let out a pained gasp as they sliced their fingers on shards of glass instead. It had broken in the fall, just like their flashlight and potentially their leg.

“You're out of your depth, little hunter.” A voice called from the darkness—smooth and masculine. It echoed off the rock walls, leaving her disoriented and unable to track where it was coming from. The sound of footsteps and shifting rocks only added to the difficulty, leaving her completely discombobulated and unsure of what direction an attack might come from.

“Are you just going to sit there and toy with me, or get it over with?” The young hunter snapped, grip tightening on their knife. They wouldn't win a fight under these conditions, but they'd certainly leave more than a few wounds before they went out.

At least until a hand wrapped around her wrist, strong enough to keep her from moving but not tight enough to be uncomfortable.

“I don't see why I can't do both.” The voice murmured in her ear, making her heart skip a beat as he pulled the knife from her grasp.

“You fucking ass- real funny, John.” She snapped, but couldn't help sagging with relief at the familiar voice of her… well. She wasn't in danger, at least. Even if he thought it was funny to scare her. Their relationship was complicated, but she knew he wouldn't harm her.

“My apologies, little bird.” He hummed, still sounding a bit smug as he took their other hand to—presumably—inspect the cuts there. “But really, we have to stop meeting like this. I'm starting to think you like me carrying you out of danger.”

“I don't think the first time counts.” They responded dryly, before startling at the feeling of him licking their fingers—gross, but they knew vampire saliva was a coagulant—and then letting out a pained wheeze through gritted teeth as the motion jostled their leg.

“You won't be able to put weight on that.” A hand settled on her knee, just that faint bit of added pressure sending a sharp tingling shooting down their shin. “I’ll have to carry you out, and it will probably hurt.”

… Vampire venom had pain killing properties, she knew. But as banged up as she already was, it was probably a bad idea.

“What time is it?” It had been evening when she'd entered the cave, but she'd lost track of time. If the sun was up, it wouldn't be safe for Juniper to get near the entrance.

“You have bigger things to worry about than losing your beauty sleep, my dear.” He responded, making a shuffling noise that sounded like he was digging in her bag- oh, shit.

“Be careful- I broke a vial of holy water.” They reached out, blindly waving their hand until they touched him. “That's how I cut myself.”

“I could tell. Had a bit of a kick.” The rasp of a zipper accompanied his words, before they heard him hold the bag out. “That leg should probably be splinted, just to be safe. And you might have to hold your bag in your lap.”

“Ah- yeah.” That was smart, and she'd probably want something to hold onto that she wouldn't have to worry about digging her nails into—her leg was already bad enough just sitting there, it would no doubt be worse when he picked her up, even with a makeshift splint.

“Alright. Brace yourself, firebird.” The clunk of wood against stone sounded as his hands brushed against their leg—it took a moment for them to think of what he could be using, but the only things they had on them that could work were stakes. Ironic.

They shivered, suddenly feeling clammy as a wave of lightheadedness overcame them. “Should be rope, I think-” Their voice came out more feeble than expected, and their stomach churned nauseatingly.

“I found it. Just hold still, this might hurt.” Unable to see anything, she did her best to stay still, biting back a pained cry into a sharp whine as he tied the makeshift splint into place. Every little jostle felt like a white-hot iron being pressed into the bone of her leg, and a dull buzzing had started up in her ears by the time he finished, muffling his murmured apologies. “Okay. The hard part’s over. If you pass out now it's fine.”

Chuckling weakly, she flailed around with her fist for a moment before finally delivering a soft whack to some part of his arm. “C’n we get going? It feels like's been hours in here.”

“Hold on.” His arms wrapped around her, one behind her back and one under her knees—already sending a jolt of pain through her leg, and he hadn't even picked her up yet, but it wasn't as bad as splinting it had been. Clutching her bag tightly, she gave a tense hum, and after a moment he lifted her off the ground—getting a sharp gasp as her leg was suddenly left dangling, a hot, sharp ache settling into the bone. A profoundly unpleasant sensation, but manageable so long as she didn't dwell on it.

The typically off-putting undead coolness of his skin felt nice against their bruises, and they rested their head against his shoulder as it quickly felt too heavy to keep up on their own. He hardly seemed bothered by their weight, picking his way back out of the cave with careful precision.

After what could have been anywhere from a few minutes to a few hours, as far as she knew, she felt him pause, grip tightening slightly on her. Blinking her eyes open, she glanced up at him—and then realized she could see. But not in the dim, dull colors of moonlight—shady and indirect, perhaps, but she could see a full range of hues, from the reddish rock of the cave, to the cool blueish undertones of Juniper's skin, to the green of the trees outside.

“... Sun’s up.” She murmured.

“It is.” He responded, fingers digging into their side for a moment.

They were both stuck now, at least until nightfall.

“Should get away fr’m the entrance—don't want you gettin’ burned.” They could see a brief flex of muscle as he clenched his jaw for a moment, a look of frustration overcoming him at their words.

“I'm not going to just take you back down there, that's ridiculous.”

“John, f’you get hurt m’fucked either way. Not gonna be able t’get outta here on my own.” And this wasn't a common enough destination to count on anyone coming by and rescuing them. “We'll jus’ wait a little further in.”

“No. I think there was something following us. It stopped a while back, but I'm not keen on putting you back in danger, Phoenix. Whatever it was, I don't think it's much more fond of sunlight than I am.” The vampire murmured. “It's safer for you here.”

“One wrong reflection an’ we're both dead anyways.” She retorted, the foggy feeling in her head starting to fade in favor of frustration. “Unless you've got a portable darkroom in your pockets, it's not safe for you here.”

… Well, now that she said that, she might have an idea. An absolutely insane, ridiculous one, but still.

“... Put me down.” They just had to hope nothing they needed had broken in the fall.

“I know that look.” He gently set them down on a rock, kneeling down at their side between them and the depths of the cave. “You have some hair-brained scheme up your sleeve.”

“Yeah. I'm light proof.” They responded, digging through their bag desperately. There—the small grimoire was slightly damp from the shattered vial of holy water, but still readable. And the soft bundle of cloth with it seemed undamaged.

“... You're going to have to elaborate.” He eyed the book apprehensively, keeping his hands well clear but still staying close. “Did you hit your head?”

Oh, excellent—the little jars of materials had survived, wrapped in their fabric padding. She set them to the side before carefully starting to page through her book.

“I've been learning things that might be useful—protection, warding, that kind of stuff. And some things that just seemed interesting.” Hopefully him being a vampire wouldn't cause problems, but she hadn't had any issues before with non-human subjects. “One of which being a shrinking spell.”

Juniper tensed slightly at their side, putting a hand on their knee to pull them out of their thoughts. “Phoenix. What are you thinking.”

“I can shrink you and keep you out of the sunlight. I'm light proof—it might be a little gross, but if I swallow you-”

“Are you even hearing yourself?” He interrupted, a hand cupping their cheek to turn their head to face him. There was clear concern in his gaze, brows furrowed as he studied them carefully, along with a small amount of apprehension. “Doll, you need a hospital. You're not making sense."

For a brief moment his gaze drifted, settling on the old scars on their neck before flicking towards the mouth of the cave. Red iridescence flashed, overwhelming the rich hazel of his eyes for a brief second and making him look unsettlingly inhuman. With a soft sigh he leaned forward, hand sliding from their cheek to the back of their neck as he pressed a cool kiss to their forehead. “I will be fine. I've survived nearly thirty years on my own without a coven, one sunny day won't do me in. I doubt the sun would even reach this far, anyways.”

Phoenix leaned her head into his touch, reaching up to brush his hand as it returned to her cheek. “My head is fine, John. I know what I'm doing. And there's moss here—it gets at least a bit of sun.”

He looked nervous, glancing away before closing his eyes and sighing heavily. “Couldn't you just put me in a pocket instead?” His voice held a note of apprehension as he spoke. “That seems simpler than… the alternative.”

Her heart squeezed in her chest, and with a soft hum she turned her head just enough to brush a kiss to his palm. “It wouldn't be completely light proof, and I'd be worried about hurting you. But I promise, it'll be okay.”

After a few seconds he hung his head in resignation. They had extensively thought it through, but they also understood it was a lot to drop on him.

“... Fine. But be sure to use some of that protection for yourself—just in case our lurker decides to make a move without me here. And let me out as soon as it gets dark.” He still looked tense, but shifted to sit cross-legged on the cave floor next to them.

“I wouldn't be able to get very far without you, so that's not a worry.” She murmured with a bit of self deprecation—her leg would keep her in place quite efficiently. “It'll just be until sunset. And you can rest if you want—you're up late, for you.”

Juniper snorted softly, a half-grin appearing on his face for a moment. “Always trying to see the positives, aren't you. What all will your spell entail?”

Giving him a soft, reassuring smile, they turned back to their little grimoire and collection of materials, grabbing one of the bottles and holding it up to look at the label—yes, this was the right one. They handed it to him as they spoke. “Not much. It shouldn't take long. Drink this.”

“What is it?” He asked, peering curiously at the dark liquid inside before opening it. She could see him go still out of the corner of her eye as the scent hit him.

“One of the strongest protections I know.” Powerful magic required sacrifice. For this, not much—just a drop or two of her blood, along with several herbs used for protection. No silver, holy water, or wolfsbane, but still just as strong. They were both well aware he'd taken more than a few drops before, and she would freely give up more if asked.

He drank it without a word, like throwing back a shot before setting the bottle down, looking at them expectantly.

“Okay. Now for the other part.” Strictly speaking, the potion hadn't been necessary, as the shrinking magic had some levels of protection built in, but they would rather be safe than sorry. Even if he was a vampire capable of recovering from injuries that would kill most people, he could still feel pain, and they didn't want to run the risk of hurting him, even accidentally.

Pawing through the other bottles, she pulled out a few filled with dried leaves and such, setting them down on the book to hold the pages down. “Are you ready? It's a little disorienting.”

“As I'll ever be.” He murmured, gazing at them with a slightly apprehensive but still trusting look in his eye. They'd had plenty of chances to harm him if they had wanted to, and they both knew it.

“Alright.” With that, she began to read from the grimoire. The materials in the jars took on an eerie blue glow, along with the words on the page, eventually wreathing around Juniper’s body as well. She couldn't look up to see or she'd lose her place, but once she was done she blinked a few times, shaking her head to clear the odd feeling magic always left, before turning to look at- well, where he had been. He was still sitting there, of course, but now at only a few inches tall.

“You weren't exaggerating. This is weird.” His voice was quiet enough they had to strain to hear him, watching as he looked over his hands before looking up at them.

“Do you feel okay?” She asked, setting the book and now-empty jars aside before lowering a hand palm-up to the ground next to him.

“A bit of vertigo, but it seems to be fading.” Getting to his feet, he slowly made his way towards her hand, hesitating for a moment. But he eventually climbed on, a slight, cool weight settling into the center of her palm as he sat down.

They gave him a few moments to get settled before carefully curling their fingers and lifting their hand up towards their face. Raising their other hand, they cupped it slightly around their palm to block any potential stray reflections from outside as they peered at him.

Some part of her was amused at the abstract concept of a tiny vampire, even as the rest of her gently cradled him in her palm as he grabbed at her fingers for stability. He was tense, breathing fast—even though he didn't need to—, fingers digging into her skin in a way that was quickly becoming uncomfortable.

“John- it's okay. You're safe, I've got you.” They murmured, their free hand hovering behind him but not touching—they wanted to provide comfort, but they'd seen him like this before, and knew touch could just end up setting him off worse.

Still, she didn't want to just leave him like this. She bit her lip in thought, humming under her breath before carefully pulling him close and cradling him against her chest—hissing under her breath as she accidentally jostled her leg in the process. He squirmed for a moment, letting out a sharp hiss before stilling. The tension slowly drained from his body as her heart beat slow and steady in her chest.

“Phoenix?” His voice was somewhat shaky when he spoke up, and they peered down at him, shifting their hands to allow him to sit back in their cupped palms.

“I'm sorry—didn't mean to startle you.” They murmured, gently rubbing his shoulder with their thumb. He didn't look at them, keeping his gaze turned down at his own hands resting in his lap.

“I know.” She could only just feel him resting a hand against her thumb, leaning into the touch for the briefest of moments before he looked up at her—squinting a bit in the brightening light from outside. Still not direct, thankfully, but still likely uncomfortable to his eyes. “... We should get on with it. Wasting time.”

“Okay.” They were still worried about him, but he had a point. The later in the day it got, the more likely it was some stray reflection could find its way in. “... Take your shoes off though. S’gross.”

That made him snort, shooting her a somewhat incredulous grin. “That's the thing that bothers you? Really?”

Joking about it eased the tension. Returning his grin with her own, she lifted him up a few inches closer to her face, shifting him into one palm as she did so. “Yeah. Got no idea where those things have been.”

Juniper scoffed, but put his shoes in their free hand when they held it close. The tiny footwear was tucked into the pocket of their shirt, and another moment of silence fell.

“How do you want to do this?” She murmured. It was only fair to let him decide—she knew he hated being at the mercy of others, for entirely understandable reasons. What pieces he'd shared of his past, it rarely ended well.

“Ah, excellent question.” His voice was tense, even as he leaned into their touch. “Just… get it over with, I suppose.”

“Alright.” Lifting him to their face, they paused to brush a light kiss to the top of his head, causing him to flinch slightly before relaxing. After giving him a moment to calm down again, they opened their mouth wide and carefully slipped him inside.

The tiny vampire shuddered, letting out a little sound that she only barely heard as she pulled her hand back. She didn't close her mouth quite yet, instead giving him time to adjust and stop shaking before moving again. After a few moments he let out a breath, untensing and patting her tongue awkwardly, and she slowly closed her jaws—noting with mild curiosity that he seemed to relax a bit more once he was sealed in darkness.

He was cool in their mouth, and oddly refreshing—somewhat like mint. Not what they would have expected, but better than some of the alternatives that had come to mind. With a gentle hum they started to lap at him, trying not to spook him again but also knowing he was big enough it would be uncomfortable if not impossible to swallow him without it. He squirmed a bit, but it seemed more from surprise than distress, as he shortly settled down and allowed them to nudge him around their mouth freely.

After a few moments she paused—he'd told her to get it over with, but now she couldn't help but balk at the thought, her heart speeding up slightly from nerves. Even at this size, he could still do a lot of damage to her if he lashed out—vampires were dangerous, even if it had been a long time since he'd wanted to harm her. But keeping him in her mouth for hours until sunset wasn't much of a solution either—and he was trusting her not to hurt him, so she would return it.

Tilting their head back, they swallowed firmly, wincing a bit as he flailed for the briefest of moments before going still again—that didn't feel particularly pleasant. They could feel him slipping down their throat, a sensation almost akin to swallowing a too-large bite of food, though they supposed it wasn't particularly inaccurate. Not exactly unpleasant, but certainly odd.

He was still noticeably cooler than her body, and she couldn't help but wonder if he would eventually warm up or remain a chilly weight inside her for the entire time.

A gasp escaped her as he finally slid into her stomach, seeming much heavier than he had been in her hands. It was oddly satisfying in a way she didn't want to think about too closely, instead resting a hand over her middle and focusing on him. It took a little bit before he finally moved, which sent a shiver down her spine—not uncomfortable or nauseating like she would have expected, but… almost nice, though a little overwhelming.

“You okay?” They asked, unsure if he would be able to hear them, or they him. He went still for a moment before pressing a hand against her own.

“It's very slimy.” His voice was quiet and they had to focus, but they could hear him. A little huff escaped them at his response, rolling their eyes slightly.

“Better than you burning to a crisp. I'll let you out as soon as it's sundown, alright?” A yawn tried to interrupt her speech, the long, exhausting night starting to catch up with her. It would be several hours until then, she could doze a bit—though she did pull her knife back out of her bag to keep in her hand, just in case.

“Alright. You sound like you could use some rest too, little hunter.” He paused, before chuckling. “... That doesn't quite work right now, does it.”

She hummed, leaning back against the wall and allowing her eyes to drift closed to the sound of wind through the leaves and birds chirping outside the cave. “Nope.”

“Don't do anything stupid while I can't get you out of it. Which means staying put unless you absolutely have to move.” They could feel him poking them to make his point, and shifted in place slightly at the odd feeling.

“I know, I know.”

“Good. … Good night, Phoenix.” The feeling of him leaning back and relaxing sent a rush of warmth and a sudden protective feeling through them. They hummed again, leaving their hand where it rested over their middle—what he didn't know wouldn't hurt him. And they were ready to get whatever snatches of sleep they could.

#soft vore #safe vore #i expect you to vore #ieytvore #vore writing #willing vore #vore day 2024 #vore day

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stillcooking · 2 months ago

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12.29.24: To love her is to feel both liberated and chained, a paradox so acute it threatens to undo me at every turn. She is the axis of my existence, the silent force that pulls me from the void, giving shape to my formless thoughts, meaning to my wandering days. To say that I love her feels too feeble, too trivial, what are words but the scraps we claw at in an attempt to give voice to the unspeakable? She is not simply someone I love; she is the gravity that holds my restless soul to this earth. And yet, what is love when viewed through the cold lens of logic? What is it, if not a rebellion against the inevitability of solitude? We are born into this world as separate entities, housed in bodies that divide us from one another, prisoners of our own flesh. These bodies, though miraculous in their design, are also tyrannical. They confine us, limit us, reduce the infinite vastness of the soul to something that can bleed, break, and perish. And so, we reach out, not just with hands, but with words, with thoughts, with love, trying to bridge the gap that existence imposes upon us. She is my bridge. In her, I find the illusion of wholeness, the fleeting but exquisite sensation that perhaps this fleshly prison can be transcended. When I am with her, the weight of my own mortality feels lighter, less oppressive. Her presence is a kind of freedom, even as I remain bound to the confines of my body. I love her not just as a person, but as a symbol of all that is possible in a world that otherwise feels impossible. But logic, cruel as it often is, reminds me of the limitations inherent in this love. No matter how much I adore her, no matter how deeply I yearn for her, I cannot escape the truth that we are two separate beings, each confined to our own private cell. I can touch her hand but not her essence; I can hear her voice but not the unspoken depths of her thoughts. Love, then, is both a miracle and a tragedy. It allows us to feel connected, even as we remain irrevocably apart. Still, I love her. I love her despite the absurdity of our condition. I love her despite the knowledge that my love can never be enough to overcome the barriers of existence. If anything, this knowledge only makes my love for her more profound. It is a love born of defiance, a love that says, “Even if I cannot reach the core of you, even if I am doomed to remain an outsider in your world, I will love you still.” She has brought color to my misery, a light that pierces through the fog of my despair. Before her, I was merely existing, a being caught in the endless monotony of survival. But with her, I feel alive. Truly alive. She has awakened in me a hunger, not just for her, but for the fullness of life itself. She has reminded me that, even in a world as bleak and unforgiving as this one, there is beauty to be found. And so, I love her not just with my heart, but with my mind, my logic, my understanding of the universe. I love her as a human who recognizes the futility of existence but chooses to love anyway. I love her as someone who sees the flaws in himself but still dares to believe that he can be better, for her. If I am caged in this body, I will use it to serve her. If I am limited by my humanity, I will dedicate every fragment of my being to making her feel loved, safe, and seen. I do not love her perfectly, I am too flawed, too human for that, but I love her completely, with every broken piece of me, with every thought and breath. To love her is to embrace the paradox of existence. It is to acknowledge that we are limited, but to love as though we are infinite. It is to see the bars of the cage but to reach through them anyway, grasping for her hand, holding it tightly, refusing to let go. For as long as I draw breath, I will choose her. Again and again, I will choose her.

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y2kuromi · 9 months ago

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⭑ : 呪術廻戦 ❛ 𝗨𝗡𝗠𝗜𝗦𝗧𝗔𝗞𝗔𝗕𝗟𝗘 : satoru gojo x fem! reader

࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔 synopsis: you thought you’d never see satoru again, but those eyes are unmistakable

contents: sfw. angst to fluff. canon divergent, jjk 261 spoilers. my version of gojo coming back. est rel. they’re married & reader is pregnant. conflict. mentions of blood and injury. profanities. second and third person pov

summer isn’t over yet! collection, can be read as a stand-alone

shoko never cried. it was as immutable as hubble’s constant. not once — in the thirteen years you’d known her — had a tear fallen from her eyes. at most her brows would furrow and her pearly pink lips would quiver but she never cried.

she swore her lungs were too damaged from smoking and her eyes were too dry to sustain such ministrations, incapable of overflowing with bountiful water. but she was silent now and through your misted gaze you could see the tears in her dark brown eyes glisten like crystals as she choked back sobs. you could see the needle in her hands shaking as she gazed hopelessly at satoru’s body.

your hand is interlinked with his, and it’s so cold and lifeless in your grasp that you feel a fresh set of tears prickling your eyelids. his once bright blue eyes are pointed towards the heavens. devoted to the wispy clouds and pearly gates in a twisted prayer. a prayer to be free of the burden of being the strongest. a prayer to finally be human.

it’s selfish to press your lips to his hand and offer a mantra of pleas for him to come back — to hope the light returns to his infinitely blue eyes and his voice rings out as clear as day. teasing you for caring so much about him — but you do it anyway. you hold his heavy hand in yours and allow your thumb to graze the veins traversing his hand.

“please come back” the words sound feeble, and so weak as they fall from your trembling lips onto deaf ears “i can’t do this without you”

you couldn’t imagine what life would be like without satoru. there would be no more sunshine. no more meaning.

you were sure the universe would cease to exist. the days would blur into months, then years and it would all mean nothing if you could no longer feel the warmth of his love. the warmth of his lips against yours and his burning gaze fixed on you. not the heavens, just you.

“it doesn’t matter if you lost, i love you all the same” you whispered, “we both do”

it’s supernatural, the way you love him so wholly when your heart is broken beyond repair — the chambers are withered to a non-functioning pulp, the valves rendered immobile, and the tender muscle undeniably numb.

it hurts to breathe when satoru isn’t. when his eyes are out of focus and he’s frozen in time. it hurts but you allow your eyes to shift to the pool of blood on the operating table. shoko’s gloves are coated thickly with stains of red as she stitches meticulously. strong, neat crosses that bind what’s left of him together.

“sho” your voice comes out raspy, unabashedly raw from the consistency of the tears flowing from your eyes “is he going to be okay?” it made no sense to ask such a question, when you could see his corpse in-front of you. but none of this made sense.

he was supposed to come home to you.

“i’m trying my best” shoko said softly, wiping profusely at her heavy-lidded eyes with her free hand. “i want to bring him back. for you, for everyone, but i have to be honest, it’s not looking good”

“is there anything i can do to help?” you make a weak attempt to control your breathing. to still the ache in your heart, “supernova.. has this ability renewable energy. ‘toru called it a defibrillator on steroids but i’ve only used it twice”

“did it work?” shoko asked, rubbing her cheek nervously and smearing a sheer layer of scarlet blood on her chin. you shook your head. it had worked the first time you used it, but then it didn't work the second. tsumiki didn’t wake up.

“it's unreliable..” your throat felt immensely dry, and you swallowed desperately “but i want to try. i have to.”

“it might work with my reverse cursed technique” she murmured, “and with utahime amplifying it, it’s worth a shot”

your grip on satoru’s hand tightened. you felt the tingle of cursed energy spread through your fingers as they became shrouded in warm, orange light.

it felt foreign, to use your cursed technique after so many years of letting it simmer — a slowly dying ember — in your soul. you would dig up old wounds, and bear new ones if it meant having your husband back

the door creaked open and you couldn't bring yourself to peer and see who it was. you could hear three pairs of footsteps running into each other in quick succession.

“how’s it going shoko? okkotsu’s ready to take over go—” mei-mei asks, her voice trails off as her sharp brown eyes fall on you “oh (y/n) you’re here” her bottom lip is caught between her teeth as she runs a hand through her blue-grey hair

“i told you she was arriving soon” utahime says through gritted teeth. positively seething as her footsteps slow to a stop in-front of you “i’m really sorry (y/n), i wish things turned out different”

“i’ll say” mei-mei murmurs, leaning against the door frame “the live broadcast ratings have plummeted seriously, everyone wanted to see him go toe-to-toe with the king of curses and win”

you blinked. once. twice. before rage slithered through your veins like a serpent. your blood boiled, bubbling precariously and you were sure you were going to explode.

“you were broadcasting this?” it’s inconceivable to you. the extent to which she didn't see satoru as a person, but a god.

the god of wealth and the antithesis of weakness. the god who had to pay her to keep her as an allied sorcerer. the god that meant nothing to her but strength and money. “are you fucking serious? you wanted to profit off my husband risking his life”

“it was a good idea if i do say so myself” she muses, as she glances at her phone. “but considering the outcome i'd assume you want some of my earnings? that can be arranged”

your vision was clouded with an anger so strong you were sure you would short-circuit. your sensory neurones couldn’t receive the impulse of someone being so cruel and heartless.

you were blissfully unaware you were advancing towards mei-mei until utahime placed a calming hand on your shoulder. her brown eyes were sad and she shook her head fervently “don’t. it’s not worth it”

“if she can’t handle knowing this how will she cope with the plan for okkotsu” mei-mei frowns, “she shouldn’t be here, she’s not a sorcerer anymore”

“and you would know, because sorcerers run off to malaysia and sell all their assets while their peers fight for their lives” you scoffed sarcastically, “if it came down to it you wouldn’t lift a finger to help satoru if there wasn’t money involved but i would. i would die for him—”

“you didn’t. you quit and look where he is now”

“mei-mei try to have some respect you’re talking to his wife” ijichi finally snapped, shooting her a well-meaning glare, “you can’t seriously be this tactless”

“his body wouldn’t have been claimed so easily without ui ui’s assistance. she should be thanking me” mei-mei argued, folding her arms over her chest

it took a sheer amount of willpower to regain your composure and reposition yourself on the stool beside the operating table instead of firing off a stable star at her.

“what’s happening with yuuta?” you asked, peering at utahime through your tear-filled eyes. you felt your heart sinking further into the bottomless abyss of your grief as she averted her gaze. her hands found the scarlet fabric of her hakama pants and she wrung the cloth nervously

“he said he was going to tell you but i knew he wouldn’t” her lips curved into a deep-set frown. she pinched the bridge of her nose and exhaled softly. “ seeing him like this can’t be good for you or the baby” your hand fell to your stomach instinctively.

you could still feel his hands on the taut skin. you could still feel his fingertips trailing over the curved bump and hear him cooing to your baby — absolutely convinced it only moved when he spoke to it. satoru was prepared to give your baby the childhood he never got to have. the childhood you could only make together.

you couldn’t do it alone. you knew the baby would be the spitting image of its father. with little ivory tufts of hair and baby blue eyes that would rival the sky on a clear summer’s day. your baby would be beautiful. it was inevitable, even in death satoru didn’t fail to take your breath away.

you wanted to hate him, for leaving you again but you couldn’t. all you could do was hope he would defy all the odds and make his way home to you.

“it doesn’t matter. what’s happening with yuuta?” your eyes were pleading, it was torture being kept in the dark. you needed to know everything because ignorance wasn’t bliss. it was hell. you knew the gnawing curiosity and desperation would destroy whatever was left of your already shattered heart “hime, please tell me i need to know”

“i want to tell you" she gulped, "i can’t, it’ll be too much for you to bear. i can't have that on my conscience—”

“i’ll tell her” shoko said softly, “it’s the least i can do now that everything's gone to shit”

your eyes widened at how defeated she sounded. her voice was worn, as if she'd fought a million battles and lost each one. she had. you knew more than anyone how she felt. haibara, suguru, nanami, and now satoru.

“we’ll give you some privacy” utahime said, squeezing your shoulder lightly. it’s a gesture that seems to say a lot more than the sadness etched onto her face. it’s a gesture that says she cares.

the silence that follows as mei-mei, ijichi and utahime trail out of the makeshift infirmary is deafening. a silence filled with a magnitude of feelings and unspoken words.

“there’s no easy way to say this,” shoko inhaled sharply, “okkotsu copied kenjaku’s technique…and he’s going to take over satoru’s body to help yuuji finish this once and for all”

you didn't know whether to cry or laugh, the sound that escaped your lungs was a cruel combination of both.

“no” you said firmly, as if the singular world had the power to render the universe, fate and time itself motionless, “you can’t do that to him. i won’t let you.”

“please believe me when i say that we don’t want this any more than you do” her voice is subdued. the softest you've ever heard it. yet it does nothing to soothe your aching heart “but it’s the only way”

“there has to be another way” you cried, “he spent his entire life being used as a tool. i can't let him be used even in his death. satoru deserves so much more than that. how could you even be okay with this shoko? do you not care?”

you knew she did, in the murky depths of your shipwrecked heart and the wooden splinters you had for ribs, you knew shoko cared about satoru. none of this made a slither of sense.

“i’m not okay with this” tears brimmed at her waterline and she began crying again, cosmic beads trailing down her flushed cheeks as she looked at you helplessly, “but he said it was fine. he said he doesn’t care what happens to his corpse”

she doesn't believe the words for a second, even as they fall from her lips and fill the space between you. but she had to. the guilt would eat her alive if she didn't.

“he didn’t have a choice. no one has ever given him a choice” your eyes fell to satoru's unmoving body. you were positive a part of you was dying. a part of you was shrivelling up completely and this was the final blow. a part of you was dead.

“i can’t bring him back (y/n) i’ve tried everything” she said dejectedly, fumbling around for her lighter and setting a cigarette aflame, “i feel so useless, i would give up everything to bring him back to you but i can’t”

“i know” you said. it killed you to admit it. it felt like you were betraying satoru and everything he stood for. "what's going to happen to him?"

it would be fine, it was for a good cause right? once all of this was over satoru could finally be at peace—

“yuuta either dies after his five minutes granted by rika's manifestation are up or he lives on in satoru’s body” she muttered. you felt bile rise in your throat. you were going to be sick

“i can't allow that” you said shakily, “i can barely breathe without him.. but if i have to see okkotsu in his body.. shoko" your vision ran blurry and it felt like your throat was closing up

"he’s everything to me. i can’t live with that. i can't see his body alive and have my heart know it's not him. what about the baby? my baby is going to grow up without a father”

the realisation hit you like a splash of cold water. the picture perfect family you and satoru had just started to build came crumbling down in seconds, drowning in the uncharted waters of a future without him.

“i’ll be with you every step of the way” shoko promised, “ it won't be the same i know, but i’ll be right by your side when you give birth and i’ll be there with you until the day i die.”

she felt it was the least she could do after everything. after she couldn't save satoru. it would be hard and you would hate every second of it, "nothing will ever be the same without satoru"

your words seemed to be the final nail in his coffin. it was concluded. you would inevitably learn to live without him. you would inevitably learn to do the impossible.

“he wouldn’t want you to live the rest of your life being miserable” shoko sniffed, “he wouldn’t even want to see you cry. he loved you so much, it was sickening"

you withered noticeably, shoulders and morale deflating as you caught a glimpse of the hopeless look in her eyes. she really had given up.

and so had you. you'd wanted desperately to fight till the end, to cling onto the slim chance of bringing satoru back, but you couldn’t do it alone. you couldn’t face the monster alone. satoru was right about one thing, love truly was the most twisted curse of all.

“he told me he’d come back” you said quietly, a mere whisper amidst your heavy breathing and the sound of your choked sobs, “he promised”

you cupped his cheek in your palm once more. his skin was still cool to the touch and the pale grey undertones beneath it broke your heart beyond measure. you could barely make out his face through your tear-filled eyes. nor could you grasp the prospect of never seeing him look at you again.

you’d never see him gaze at you as if you’d single-handedly hung the stars in the night sky and crotched each slither of grass into the earthy soil again. you’d never have the pleasure of watching his beautiful eyes adjust to the morning sun again.

you wouldn’t have the pleasure of watching him cradle your child, watching him blow raspberries and nuzzle into your baby’s neck. you wouldn’t have the pleasure of watching him search for your traits he loved so much in the baby that would bind you together for infinity. and you had to find the strength to be okay with that.

you brushed back the limp white strands on his forehead and placed a desperate kiss onto satoru’s exposed skin. it sickened you to feel him completely still beneath your touch, unresponsive to your lips pressed against his temples.

you smothered muffled ‘i love yous’ to the expanse of his face. trailing kisses from his forehead to his cold lips. a last ditch effort to will him alive. to will his eyes to turn away from the heavens and look at you.

he does. in a moment that feels infinite, a flash of light beams in his eyes

you blink. once. twice. absolutely sure you were imagining the way his long eyelashes fluttered like a dove soaring from the cloying clutches of the ashes of death. absolutely sure you were imagining the pinkish hue returning to his porcelain skin. and his brows twitching as he regained what was left of his consciousness.

until you see the bright blue eyes you’d loved religiously, devotedly, for as long as you could remember fade from a dull blue into a beautiful mellowed grey-blue

it felt like the world stood still, the thumping of your heart reconstructing itself slowly, meticulously drowned out the ticking of the wall clock, the dripping of the intravenous fluids, and shoko’s breathless inhales of smoke.

“‘toru?” it feels surreal — the hand cupping your face, the thumb smoothing across your tear-stained cheeks, and the smile tugging at satoru’s lips. it feels like a dream, the hazy romantic grey eyes that drink you in. as if you’re made of every drop in the deep blue oceans that covered the earth’s crust. but the unadulterated love in his eyes is unmistakable. “shoko, he’s alive”

shoko rushes to your side and knocks over her stool in the process. it feels as though the heavens opened up and dropped you a lifeline. as if an immortal being heard your pleas and instead of casting away a god, cast a mere mortal, a human.

without the six eyes that had haunted him from conception. without the six eyes that made him the strongest. without the six eyes that took him away from you.

the heavens took the strongest away from you, and in return gave you satoru.

“how?” shoko spluttered, “i tried everything under the sun. how the hell did you come back by yourself, you vermin?”

a smile as bright as the sun itself is etched onto his face, and the dimples you loved to press kisses to are more than visible beneath the fluorescent lights. satoru mustered up the strength to pull you into his arms.

he was half the man he used to be, yet he felt so complete.

“binding vow” he hummed, pressing a soft kiss to the bone of your wrist, “it was a long shot but it worked, you’re looking at the new and improved satoru”

“the binding vow?” shoko queried, “i thought you gave up on that when you agreed to let okkotsu use your body” she propped her hand under her chin and looked at him sceptically.

"the heart wants what it wants" he shrugged sheepishly, "i thought it would be fine giving up part of the six eyes, turns out i needed to give up everything."

"are you okay with that?" you asked. he was more than okay with it. he would give up everything if it meant he could be with you. he nodded.

he didn't need the six eyes to see that you loved him. he didn't need to be the strongest, when he could be satoru with you

"don't worry about me sweets, i'll live" he said softly "besides nothing feels as good as coming back to you"

"nothing feels as good as having you come back to me" you murmured, allowing his hands to find repose on the small of your back. you buried your face in his chest, the tell-tale signs of tears soaking into his tight black shirt.

"would've been kinda funny if okkotsu took over my body" he said slyly, "you would've hated me"

"i hate you" you groaned, pushing yourself off his worn body, "i really hate you satoru gojo. so much more than you know"

"i know baby, i know" he laughed, lacing his fingers through yours and pressing a bittersweet kiss to your knuckles, "i love you too"

“how could you even agree to that?” you pried your hand from his grip and pointed an accusatory finger at him as you clambered off the operating table, “without so much as telling me ‘toru really?”

“‘s too soon to be mad at me sweets” he pouted, voice syrupy. too syrupy. for someone who had just risen from the dead, “i wanted to tell you. i should’ve told you. forgive me please”

satoru attempts to prop himself up on his elbows, and fails in quick succession earning an exasperated sigh from both you and shoko. you can't truly bring yourself to remain mad at him. not when he'd sacrificed the sole thing that shaped his existence to come back

“stay put you idiot” shoko snapped, “i have to make sure everything’s in order” she stubbed out her cigarette in a petri dish before slipping on a new pair of gloves.

with the naked eye satoru appeared the same —save for his newly grey eyes— but she was concerned for his wellbeing beyond that. he’d pushed his brain beyond his capabilities during his fight against ryomen sukuna.

satoru cracked an insufferable grin as he ran his left hand through his hair. the slashed scars on his face are equally as beautiful as the scars toji left on him. he's equally as beautiful as the day you met him.

“sho you look like death” he quipped, “you sure you’re not the one who needs a check up? ”

“funny” she deadpanned, a tight lipped smile tugging at the corners of her mouth, “you’ve been back for less than five minutes and you’re already riling me up”

"hah? don't act like you didn't miss me" he chuckled, "you've been crying haven't you? i knew you cared about me”

"please shut him up" shoko groaned, imploring you with her tired brown eyes. "or distract him while i run the necessary tests. considering the damage dealt by sukuna he should be on bed rest for a few weeks"

"mm i could do with a vacation" he grinned, "where do you feel like going sweets?" it felt like tempting fate to have such casual discussions with satoru when he had been gone mere minutes ago.

and you'd felt the weight of the universe and gravity crushing the embers of your soul — but you would always indulge him. it was your constant, forever unchanging, as immutable as the speed of light

"miguel said we'd like zanzibar" you said thoughtfully, plopping down on your stool as shoko pressed the diaphragm of her stethoscope to his chest, "what about your students?"

"they've got it from here" he hummed. he had the familiar glint of pride that flickered in his grey-blue eyes when he thought of his students. they would carry on his legacy, he was sure of it

they could be strong together.

#✶ .. mimi writes ?!#𓂃˖ letters from: satoru #❛ 五条悟 ❜#satoru gojo x reader #gojo x reader #gojo satoru x reader #gojo satoru x you #gojo satoru x y/n #satoru gojo x you #satoru gojo x y/n #gojo x you #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen #jjk x reader #jjk x you #jjk 261 #�� : boom copium!#wrote this on a whim #but i fw it heavy

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timelordlettuce · 4 years ago

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Plug me into a computer, I want to comprehend time

#and I’m only half joking #do it #plug me in #show me the shrimp colours #let me see the universe and understand #I have an insatiable lust to understand #to read the number “one million #and to grasp it with both of my feeble human hands #and surround it with my feeble human mind

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mikadosis · 2 years ago

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halloween decorations

roommate!heeseung x reader || genre: FLUFF, roommates to lovers, lowkey crack???? || warnings: none except for teNsiOn and the reader liking kids i think ???? || wc: N/A || written: october 30th 2021 || posted: november 1st 2022

[A/N: hello hello~! this is one of the first enha imagines/oneshots i've written so please bare with me here loool! sorry for any mistakes, this was written whilst i was supposed to be studying OOP,,, anyways have lots of fun reading !]

"ugh," you exclaimed, trying not to fall off the ladder you were standing on as you hung up fake spider-webs.

"do you uh.... need some help over there?" heeseung had barely stepped foot into the room but he could hear you struggle from outside.

"no- WHY WON'T THIS STAY ON- no, thank you. everything is going just fine." you stated, tongue stuck out in both frustration and focus.

heeseung chuckled at the sight of this. you looked funny. and cute? but more funny than cute.

"FINALLY!" you looked up to the now properly attached spider-web with such adoration- heeseung could've sworn it was your first love. not like the spiderwebs could reciprocate these feelings anyways.

"nice! now please get down before you break your neck," he waddled over and held the ladder with one hand whilst he held the other out for you to hold. you glanced at him and his hand before grabbing it- softly hopping off of the last stair.

"thanks. how's it look? it took me quite some time to do this."

"yeah, i heard." heeseung kisses his teeth as a feeble attempt to conceal his laughter.

"wh- wha-?" you blink up at him in confusion.

he starts imitating and mocking you, mimicking your little stomps in frustration as well as the grunts and moans you apparently let out when frustrated.

your eyes widened and you smacked his arm. "oi! shut it- that's not even true you have no proof i did all of that !"

he grins and yanks his phone out of his pocket, crinkling his loose trousers and making the fabric of his pocket stick out the wrong way in the process.

"would you like me to record next time?"

"HEE-" smacking him and your forehead at the same time, you decided to just lose faith in humanity (or at least in heeseung) for a minute whilst you check up on the cookies in the oven.

you walk into the kitchen and heeseung mindlessly follows you with a smile. you really did look nice in your oversized jumper, the one you swore to give back to heeseung that one time, the one he actually much preferred you to keep though he would never say it out loud. he'd give you more of his hoodies if people just didn't make it weird- he liked you as a friend! friends were allowed to like each other like this, right? the way he looks at you is how friends look at one another, right? he's allowed to want to hug you sometimes, right? he's allowed to have the urge to ki-

"NOOOOOO," you cried out, "MY POOR BABIES" heeseungs eyes grew in size as he heard you mourn over said "poor babies". he rushed over and glanced you up and down to see if you were hurt before anything else. once he had come to the realisation that the now burnt cookies were in fact "your poor babies", he sighed in relief and put his hand over his heart in worry.

you take the cookies out in a rush, almost burning yourself. "be careful-!," he grasps your arm in a rough manner but quickly softens his grip, tugging at your sleeve in concern. "you dumbass, you might burn yourself."

chuckling at his pouty remark, you brush him off of you. "i won't, i promise!" you shook your head as heeseung watched your eyes glaze over as you looked at him. he'd been much more caring towards you nowadays. you'd be lying if you said it didn't make your heart flutter ever so often- but that could happen to anyone! so it couldn't have meant anything. little do you know you're not the only one whose heartbeat quickens at the sight of their roommate.

you take the baking tray out of the oven and sulk. poor cookies deserved better :( leaning on the counter, you let your face sink in your hands as way to exaggerate your emotions. heeseung snorts at this and copies, both elbows on the counter while he leans over and gazes at the cookies in sadness.

he turns his head and stares at you and you can feel his eyes on you. you turn your head and make eyecontact as he smiles at you sweetly. (ngl your heart kinda skips a beat but we don't talk abt that in this pious household,,, no boyfriend until marriage /j) he scoots over a bit closer and he rests his hand on your lower back as he reassures you; "it's okay, we can burn the cookies together next time".

....

of course that was how he was going to comfort you. you groan and your head droops, hair falling in front of your face doing a great job at hiding it. heeseung's cackling at his own joke all the while but he's slowly calming down. you can hear him slump into the same position he was just now, yet again looking at you. and again, he scoots closer. but this time you feel the side of his thighs and upper body brush up against yours while your both slumped on the counter looking somewhat depressed. (omg having your depression arc together how romantic) his breath fans your face and the tip of his nose brushes against your hair. you can imagine him scrunching his nose at the feeling and you smile at the thought, but you're caught off guard when you feel heeseungs hand move your hair and tuck it behind your ear. slightly stunned, you blush and look at him with the same doe eyes he's giving you.

he leans even closer and his hand goes back up to your hair. he's about to say something when the two of you are rudely interrupted by a startling knock. blinking violently, you try to snap out of it after having stared at the fine man for a few more seconds and strut over to the door, opening it with newfound excitement.

"trick or treat!" boy oh boy is this friendgroup BIG or do you just not have friends. you mentally count as you smile at them, reaching over to the bowl of candy you had set out earlier. ....20, 21, 22, 23 kids ??? where are all these little spawns of [depends what mood they're in] coming from ???? who's having this many children let's have a chat ???? you silently wish you have enough candy in the bowl for all of them as you didn't expect this many children to show up- or at least, not at once. most of them grab one politely and you seem to have enough for all and maybe a few more kids after this, but not until one of them snatches a handful and dashes off. your mouth fell open at the interaction and your bowl of candy was now near-empty. the other kids smile at you apologetically.

"sorry miss, he's a bit of a troublemaker." one of them speaks.

you grin at this, shaking off their worries. "don't you worry! better tell him not to do that again, but go be kids and have fun. don't scare too many people out there!" you nod over at the other side of the street and they all give you heart-warming smiles, content with the advice you gave the. (and the candy of course, bu-)

gently closing the door with a click, you walk back into the kitchen almost having forgotten what heeseung and you were about to do before you were interrupted by those 23 (22) little sweethearts. and to be honest, you probably wouldn't have remembered tonight with the thought of those kids, if it wasn't for heeseung staring you with love-filled eyes. your eyes slightly widen and the blush you were able to quickly rid of now found its way back onto your face, maybe even stronger than before. you shake your head and decide to ignore the... obviously lovestruck boy as you grab more candy to fill the shallow bowl. (and your heart maybe)

for some reason, the bag of candy was in your cupboard on the top shelf- one you couldn't reach. you glance at heeseung and contemplate asking for help but once you see him still staring at you, not having said a word you decide it's probably better to struggle than to confront whatever's going on between the both of you.

you stand on your tippytoes in order to reach but no avail. only when you grunted in frustration like you always do, heeseung snaps out of it and realises you're trying to grab the bag of candy. he shifts and you hear him do so, so before he could approach you and mock you again you turn around and stare him down. a few seconds of silence pass.

"....i can hel-" at last, he tries to break the silence-

"no-!,, no! it's fine, i'm a strong independant woman i can DO this!" you exclaim and turn back around, ready for take two.

"no really i ca-"

"no i've got this!" you don't even bother to turn around, to stubborn to let him help you.

"listen-"

you don't listen to him and climb onto the counter to reach the bag of candy. he gasps out and reaches for your back as you turn, still on your knees on the counter. grinning in victory, you wave the bag of candy in front of his face and sit on the counter proudly.

"that was... dangerous. and also the most you-thing i've ever seen." he states, rubbing at his temples.

you snicker, "oh really?", you decide to sit on the counter and grab a lollipop from the bag, unwrapping it and popping it into your mouth while you swing your legs. "so i'm dangerous?"

heeseung looks up at you and tilts his head. this girl was going to drive him mad. he steps closer to your figure that's sat on the counter. "give me some time to think about that one...." he trails off, staring you down.

you freeze and gawk at him, the rate your heart's beating at rapidly increasing as the tension dawns upon you.

heeseung leans just a tad closer, now putting his hands on either side of you, trapping you. he straightens his posture but lets himself be at the same proximity, your legs almost touching his lower stomach as they dangle off of the rim of the marble.

you take the lollipop out of your mouth and he glances down at your lips, licking his own. you let your hand lay over his, and he shoots a quick look to the unexpected extra warmth. your hand slides up all the way onto his shoulder. he leans even closer and you do too, your arm wrapping around his neck and playing with the hairs as his nose brushes against yours. his eyes flutter shut at the sensation and he sucks in a deep breath as you internally panic at what's about to happen. opening his eyes one last time, he makes eye contact with you as you softly mutter out a "kiss me".

and he does. he shuts his eyes and closes the gap between the two of you. his arms wrap around your waist and he continues passionately, starting to smile into the kiss. you kiss him back just as passionately which makes his heart swell with more love for you, something he realises didn't know was possible.

knock knock!

you break the kiss and he immediately chases your lips for more, letting out a low whine. smiling at him, you lean your forehead against his. you start, "i think i should go open the door," "and i think you shouldn't" he replies in a sulky way, almost too quickly. "hee...." you look at him lovingly and caress the back of his neck and hair with your hand. he gives you his doe eyes once more before sighing and nodding in agreement, "yeah, okay. you looked cute when talking to those kids anyway" you glance down shyly, about to hop off of the counter. but as you try to do this, lee heeseung stops you, steals one last chaste kiss and your long-forgotten lollipop with it.

"go on. i'll wait, i'll take this in the meantime though." he raises his brows teasingly and gestures towards the stolen lollipop. "if i can't get kisses i'll take whatever i have left of you. it's only fair."

you roll your eyes playfully and hop off of the counter, making your way to the door. swinging it open, you are left alone to your surprise.

"huh?", you quickly checked around the corners, "i swear someone knocked on the door just now?"

heeseung took the lollipop out of his mouth with a pop! and walked up to you with a frown on his face. "i did too? that's strange,"

and you're glad you decided to check the corners once more, because you see the same mischievous kid who stole nearly all your candy run off in the opposite direction, giggling to himself. you didn't know whether to thank him for allowing heeseung and you to have this moment, or to curse him for also ruining it. you click your tongue and close the door with a grin.

"so there was no one there?" the lovesick boy inquiered over your shoulder, your back still turned to him. you hear him chuck something as you answer.

"nope," you sigh out and turn around, facing him.

"....so we're all alone again?"

"heesEUN-" but before you could finish your sentence, he had already pinned you against the door, leaving no time for you to take a breath as he immediately kisses you again.

hi hi! mika here. so, my writing style has changed quite a lot i guess.... i wanted to post something but didn't have any time and now i'm too late for halloween. hope you can enjoy this anyway, not proofread lol so sorry! it's an old draft as you can see, not sure what i was thinking lol

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imtheasssniffer · 4 years ago

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(Heads up: this story contains major scat, physical abuse, rape, and kidnapping fantasies. Read at your own risk. Sorry if this isn’t your type of story. It’s not even really my type of story. I just felt like diversifying my page for you sickos. Plus I was in a mood.)

Big Boy

You watched in fear as he flexed his bicep. You saw his muscle flex. Growing to an intimidating size. Same for the muscle bulging in his underwear. Slowly getting larger as he watched the fear in your eyes get stronger. He chuckled, knowing that you were completely terrified of what he’d do to you. He owned you. Ever since he picked you off the street. He’s been torturing you in violent and disgusting ways. Forcing you to endure every single aspect of his body. Not only the force it could exert, the smells it could produce, but also the waste he could excrete.

Everyday, ever since he stole you from the world, and completely robbed you of your humanity. He found even more ways to torture you. More creative and dehumanizing ways to put you down. He got off on making you feel like nothing. That’s why when you flinched at his flexed arm, his dick started to get harder.

“Kiss it,” he said slapping his bicep.

“Come on. I don’t want to wait,” he continued. You moved towards his arm, and planted your lips onto his muscles. Kissing him softly, afraid to be too harsh, or too lenient. He planted his meaty hand on the back of your head, and patted your scalp. Your fear somewhat subsided, until you felt him clench your hair, and pull you back. You landed on the floor completely shocked. The terror filled your eyes again, and he just got even more hyped.

He pounced on top of you. Using his left hand to crush the back of your skull against the floor, and his right to punch you in the face. It felt like your head was going to cave in from the pressure his body weight exerted on top of you. Not to mention the fact that his punch felt like it completely unhinged your jaw. You felt your cheek get warm, and start to swell up, but even before you could react he spit onto your face, and then slapped you hard. You gasped from the brutishness, and by the time you finished inhaling he had backed up, and let go of your skull. Before cupping both of his hands together, and forcefully punching your gut, like he was spiking a volleyball at the olympics. You wheezed as all of the air left your body. You heard him chuckle in ecstasy above you, and the slight anger you felt was quickly replaced by nausea, as the weight of the blow made you weakly throw up on the floor beside you.

“You miserable bitch. Now you’re making a mess on my floor?” He stated in a harsh, but somewhat joking matter. Before you could even react to him. He grabbed your throat and squeezed. You clawed at his hands, and tried to unhinge his meaty fingers from around your neck, but his grasp wasn’t letting go. After over a minute of laying there losing consciousness, he let go. Watching you gasp for air. He was so powerful. He even controlled the air that you breathed. He knew this. That’s why he pulled out his dick, and started slowly jerking.

“Yknow I gotta take a piss, and since you already messed up my floor. I might as well add my own mess to it,” he said menacingly. You already knew what this meant. It wasn’t the first time he peed on you. Hell it wouldn’t even be the first he made you drink it, but you were still completely disgusted.

He stood up above you. Forcing you to see how big he was, as he towered over your feeble, weak, wheezing body on the floor. You watched as he stroked his cock a couple more times, before pointing it down at you, and letting go. He wasn’t lying. He really did have to take a piss. It was warm and fragrant, and it lasted a long time. Clearly he was enjoying it. He rained down on your face at first. Getting some in your mouth, then he moved down to your chest. Going in little loopty-loops, and moaning at the release. He pointed down to where he punched your stomach. Further highlighting the warmth of the bruising he had caused.

“Damn, looks like I’m dehydrated.” He was enjoying making a show, of releasing every single last drop onto you. Spurting out just a little more. Over and over agin, until his dick ran completely dry. The room smelt like urine. It was devastating.

“I want you to clean this shit up,” he menacingly demanded. You started to painfully get up, but he squatted over you and planted a hand on your chest. He shoved you roughly onto the floor.

“Not yet!”

You watched as he peeled his underwear fully off, and then turned around. Hovering his ass over your face.

“Open wide!” You grimaced at the thought of what was about to happen. You begged,

“Please, no.” You heard a sinister chuckle, and then he demanded again,

“Open your damn mouth, or I’ll beat your jaw open!” Knowing that he had every intention of keeping his word. You complied. Opening your mouth widely. He looked back at you, and grumbled,

“Good.” He fell onto your face. Crushing your skull onto the hardwood floor once again. His asshole sat over your mouth, pulsing, pushing. You groaned into his ass, and he chuckled again. He did it. He made you a lower life form. You were his toilet now, and you had no say in the matter.

PPprRRTtTttT

A wet fart boomed into your mouth and echoed down your cheeks. It lasted 3 seconds and reeked. You heard him laugh, as his farts filled your mouth. He hovered over you again. Leaving a few inches between your face and his hole.

BblLaaRRtT

His fart was more wet this time. It was getting sloppier.

“Here she comes bitch. She’s a big one.” You didn’t want to look, but when you heard the squelching of his ass hole. You became compelled to see what was leaving his insides. Instant regret washed over you, as you saw a large brown log leave his ass. He let out a determined grunt, and then it started to rush out. It eventually touched your tongue, which caused you to instantly gag at its rancid taste. Before long. The huge, long turd plopped into your mouth. With a sick wet sloppy noise. It filled your mouth to the brim.

“Eat it up cunt. I got more for you.” You watched again as his hole opened, and another large, beefy, brown log began to push its way out. You couldn’t seriously eat that. Could you? His shit smelled like beef jerky and manure. Pretty much what you’d expect a truck stop bathroom to smell like. It was rancid, but the smell couldn’t prepare you for the taste. The intensity of the flavor, when it first touched your tongue was vile. Truly the worst thing he’d ever forced you to endure. You only grew more disgusted, as you were forced to chew, and swallow the disgusting shit. Begrudgingly sinking your teeth into the solid muddy slime. You swallowed in chunks, not wanting to chew all the way. You weren’t even able to finish swallowing the first by the time the second plopped into your mouth. You felt like you were drowning.

“Ahh. Fuck. Looks like there’s no toilet paper. Do you mind?” he asked just before scratching his hole on the bridge of your nose.

“Well shit, it looks like the toilet’s clogged.” He smiled over you. Further belittling you. He turned around and looked down at you again.

“Here let me help,” he said, as he stroked his clock and rammed it into your shit filled mouth.

“Aww. I didn’t expect that to feel so good.”

You felt sick. You could vomit again at any moment. What made matters worse, was that he was shoving shit down your throat. Using his dick as a ram for his feces to go deeper down your throat, choking you. He just kept forcing his dick into your mouth, deeper and deeper. You hated to think it, but it was actually helping you to swallow his shit.

“Ohh, damn.” He moaned above you,

“I’m one nasty fuck,” he giggled. As you finished ingesting his shit. His dick thrusted deeper into your throat. He wasn’t letting you catch your breath. You laid helpless on the floor, as he roughly fucked your throat. When he finally reached his climax, he pulled his dick from inside of you and erupted onto your face.

“Oh my god,” he exclaimed as he shot ropes of cum onto you. He panted softly over you, and then looked down into your eyes.

“Go clean yourself up, and then clean this damn room.” He slapped your face and continued,

“You did a good job.” You slowly got up and went to the bathroom. You immediately started to wash your mouth, and face, when you heard him say,

“Next time we’re doing it human centipede style. Less mess.” You began to silently weep, as you accepted that this was now your life.

426 notes · View notes

skzsauce01 · 4 years ago

Text

Hymn to Myself

Anniversary Request Special

Synopsis: The Goddess of Spring tells a mortal the story of her abduction by the King of the Underworld. Follows the Homeric Hymn to Demeter.

Warning: kidnapping

Word Count: 2.6k

Pairing: fem Persephone!reader x Hades!Hyunjin

Dear mortal, listen closely, for I have deemed you worthy to hear my tale. You have danced in my name, burned offerings to me. You shall be rewarded for your worship. Lend me your ear now, and perhaps I will lend a hand in the future.

You know me by many names — The Maiden, The Younger, the Goddess of Spring — but today I will be the Queen of the Dead. There is no need to be so frightened. Your time has not come yet, nor will I be the one to ferry you to the Underworld, as you well know. Trembling and bowing your head for mercy will serve you no purpose but do as you like.

You have heard the tale, I am sure. The Dark-Haired One seizes a maiden and makes her his bride, as her mother, holy Night-Mare of the golden double-axe, ceases the earth’s harvest in her despair. The story you may have heard prior is my mother’s version, without the details of me in the Underworld.

Like most stories, it begins with the Cloud Collector, my father. Seeing that the King of the Underworld had no queen and that no goddess or nymph desired him, he offered him a bride, the flowerfaced daughter of the Corn-Mother. The King of the Dead accepted.

As you may have guessed, I did not know about this arrangement. The nymphs I surrounded myself with then, daughters of the Titan God of Rivers, did not either, yet they braided my hair and wove flowers in. Roses, crocuses, and hyacinths entangled with violets and irises to make a crown of spring. I still remember the way they fussed over me, singing songs and pulling at my scalp. I hated it. I only wanted to pick my blossoms. Once they had finished, I walked through the meadow, leaving them behind, gathering as many of the flowers I could into my arms.

Then I spotted a narcissus, its center as radiant as the sun and its petals the color of fresh milk. Its honey-sweet fragrance filled the sky and enchanted me. I approached it with both hands, ready to hold the bud to my nose, when the earth beneath me broke open.

A golden chariot drawn by sable-black horses leapt out, and I was snatched by the gloomy Lord. I cried out for my father, he of the thunderbolt, but he was the one who promised me, and I did not know that then. The King of the Dead had me in his grasp. He refused to let go. But still I cried a piercing scream, begging the pantheon of gods seated at Olympus to help, pleading Lord Helios in his own golden chariot to come down and save me. No one heard a thing when the chariot descended back into the earth.

And when we finally entered the Underworld, my voice had gone hoarse, my body limp. The flowers I clutched to my chest were the only remnants of the sunlit earth I had, but their petals had scattered into the wind and their stems wilted in the dark. The Dark-Haired One kept his arm on me, making sure I would not be able to flee. The shades wandered in the fields below us, their moans a constant hum.

Soon we stopped in front of his palace, a cold and imposing labyrinth with a locked gate reaching to the sky. A three-headed dog stood guard, saliva dripping from its maw. The King stepped off first and offered his hand to me, but I remained frozen on the chariot. It was still warm from the sun, and I wanted to soak in every last piece I could. The hound growled and lowered its center head to sniff me when I latched onto the side, even as the Lord of the house tried to drag me off.

“Leave me be,” I cried, pushing at his chest. “My father will punish you for this. He is the king of the heavens, and you will be struck with his bolt.”

“At the behest of the Thunderer, you are now my wife. Come, my queen, into your new home.”

I had no tears left, and I mutely followed him, keeping my eyes on the back of his wine-dark cloak. He led me through the gates, the corridors of his palace, all the way to the throne room. Two chairs stood next to each other, both as black as the horses and the sky. His was obsidian, etched with bone-white carvings and lined with onyx gems. The other, the ebony one intertwined with asphodel and pomegranates, belonged to me now.

“Are you pleased?” he asked.

I said nothing, for the fight in me had died along with the flowers I left between the paws of the hound.

“Are you frightened?”

Again, no sound left me. He made me sit on my throne, and I did with my head hung low. He cradled my face, and I shut my eyes. If he desired a kiss, then he could take it. I was a wife now, to the king of the Underworld too, and I would let my husband put his mouth on mine.

“Tired,” he declared after some time. “I will bring you ambrosia and nectar, so that you may recover.”

He brought the divine foods to me, but I did not eat. He tried to make conversation, but I did not speak. The scent of the asphodels and pomegranates were suffocating, and the musk of death coated the air untainted by natural fragrance. The thick slabs of wood underneath me were unyielding, and so was I. The Dark-Haired One was dismayed.

“What is it that you require?”

“I require that I be returned to my mother and to the earth.”

He smiled. “I have all of the riches of the earth. See what I have made for you.”

Humans called him the Wealthy One on occasion, and I understood that it was not merely a euphemism when he presented my crown to me: a golden-leaved garland with apple-red rubies the size of hen’s eggs and emeralds as vivid as moss, not a hint of death clouding its elegance. It was magnificent and befitting for a queen of spring. He undid the nymphs’ braids that still remained in my hair and placed the crown on my head.

“Are you happy now?” he asked.

“I will never be happy until I see the sun again.”

He frowned and left me alone on my throne, hoping I would change my mind. The ambrosia and nectar laid on the moonlight-silver tray. They glistened and glowed, their dangerously sweet scent enveloping the room, doing their best to entice me. Instead, I sat as rigid as a tree for days, languishing in my misery. Color faded from my features, and I looked like the very image of the Queen of the Dead, with my soulless eyes and ashen skin.

Day and night, I remained there. The Lord of the House was patient, as his realm was eternal and as I was immortal. He brought gifts to try to sway me: diamond birds perching on bronze branches, amethyst crocus bouquets with delicate sprigs of roses the colors of ripe peaches. I left them on the ground. They reminded me too much of what I no longer had. The treasures around me grew, but he persisted with his prizes and his attempts at conversation.

“There are many souls arriving today,” he would say. “How lovely,” I would reply.

“What do you think of the sky here?” he would ask, and I would tell him, “It is like you.”

“Would you like to see Cereberus again? I think he liked you,” to which I would answer, “I am content here.”

It was his offer to visit the Asphodel Meadows that drew me out of my fog.

We took his chariot, golden and gleaming as before. This time, he held out a hand for me, and I accepted. The three-headed dog at the entrance of the palace whined when I did not pat his heads like his master. The flowers I left as a peace offering earlier were gone, not even a broken stem lingering. I could only imagine that they were played with and eaten.

“He does like you,” the King whispered. He placed one arm around my shoulders as he held the reins with the other. I shrunk as much as I could, burying my nose in my hair so not to smell the death radiating off of him.

“Yes, I suppose he does.”

We stopped in one of the many fields, the asphodel ghostly white and fluttering in the breeze. The shades kept their distance when I stepped off the chariot and into the flowers. My bare feet touched the Underworld dirt, my ankles brushed the stalks as I roamed the meadow like I did that fateful day, plucking the prettiest blooms from their roots. The Dark-Haired One followed closely behind, and I did my best to keep my eyes on the iron sky as I wandered through more of the fields. Lone petals circled in the wind, adorning the false flowers of my crown with themselves. I thought about the nymphs — their songs, their chatter, their life — and nearly wept. Then I thought about my poor mother, with the beautiful garlands in her hair, finding no trace of me among the meadow, and I dropped to the ground.

“There is no need to cry,” said the Dark-Haired One softly. “The shades will not hurt you.”

“I want to go home,” I replied in-between my gasps. I thought that picking flowers would somehow soothe me, but they only pained my heart. “Please, let me return home.”

He held me up, and I saw up close the famed black locks that framed his face. “Home,” he smiled.

My spirits soared, and I clamored onto his chariot, eager to see the wispy clouds and splendid sun again. But I had deceived myself. For the Queen of the Underworld, the palace was home.

The throne was too far for my limp body to retire to, so he set me down upon a funeral couch. There, I laid and stared out the window at the vast number of souls inhabiting the fields. He brought me ambrosia and nectar once more, a feeble attempt that even he knew was wasted.

He ordered entertainers to sing and dance for me, but I stared at them like one of the many skulls carved on his throne.

However, my prayers were soon answered months later. The mighty Messenger of the Gods, with his golden wand, came and relayed my father’s message: I was to be returned to my mother, for she was wrathful against the gods. The Lord smiled and did not disobey the Thunderer’s orders.

“Go to your mother,” he said to me, ��for I am not an unseemly husband. But you are my queen, and all those who do not perform your rituals with reverence, all those who do not perfectly burn offerings for you, will be punished.”

I did not care about those things. Still, I rejoiced and leapt from the couch with liveliness, my crown falling to the ground in my eagerness. To feel the warmth of the sun on my skin, to see the vibrant earth, to be with my mother — those were what mattered to me.

“Before you leave, I ask that you try the Underworld’s fruit,” he said, holding out a pomegranate. “As a blessing to us from the Queen of the Dead.”

“You have been nothing but kind to me, so I will,” I told him. I ate four of the seeds, red as the rubies on my Underworld crown and sweet as honey, before I could tolerate my impatience no longer.

The King’s chariot was already drawn with his sable-black horses. The dog eyed me curiously as I got onto the chariot with the Immortal Guide rather than his master. The messenger took the reins, and we ascended to the upper world. The taste of the pomegranate still coated my tongue when the earth cracked open.

We burst forth like a new sprout. The nymphs came out from the sea and flocked around, fussing like they did before. This time, I did not mind. I let them pull at my clothing and let them weave fragrant flowers in my hair.

My mother, with a dark robe, soon arrived. She saw me, stretched her arms out, and I ran into them, breathing in her familiar scent. She stroked my hair, all while murmuring in my ear about how I was safe now, how happy she was. I was happy too. I recounted my tale to her in a frenzy, words crashing into one another like the churning tides. We stayed together, roaming the fields, soaking in the sun and earth I had missed. I danced in the streams, playing with my nymphs in celebration, for I was home.

It was later that I learned that I was bound to the Underworld, having eaten the pomegranate seeds. I left with a heavy heart and arrived to the expectant Lord, smiling with his brows.

“You tricked me,” I said. I would not weep; I could endure my time here.

“It was a request you accepted,” he said as he strode to me with my crown. He adorned me with it, and I let him brush the loose tendrils from my face. “Welcome home, my queen.”

In the beginning, it was a partial home.

I left the palace as often as I could to roam among the asphodels and the shades. The shades grew acquainted with my presence and bowed to me, moaning cries of worship in that strange tongue of theirs. I learned to feed the horses with sweet pomegranate seeds to entice them into being obedient, and the golden chariot of the King became one of my possessions. I stayed away from him, for I still felt betrayed.

Despite my frigidness, he adored me like no other. The entertainers seemed to be a constant at his court now that I present. He offered to dance with me, to which I rejected every time. He played knucklebones with me on the rare occasion I was receptive. I suspected he let me win on several occasions in an attempt to open me up like a blooming flower. And whenever I returned from a walk through the fields, he would have a lavish bouquet of false flowers waiting on my throne.

However, over time I grew to recognize my stature. After all, not many goddesses could say that they had power like mine. I began to wear my royal title like a mantle, draping it around my shoulders and letting it trail behind me in my wake. I was not always merciful, as you may well know yourself, mortal, but it is nigh impossible to say that I was not fair. The Lord took this fervor of mine as a sign that I had forgiven him. I still do not know if I have.

I sit beside him, as his equal, commanding the dead just like he does. I let him kiss my cheek and sometimes return the favor if I am feeling kind that day. I dance with him, resting my head over his heart and breathing in his musk.

But he is the one who made me his bride and thrust the Underworld upon me.

It is difficult to say that I resent him. It is much easier to say that I cannot, and will never be able to, love him in the same way he loves me.

Thus, for four months of the year, I live as the Queen of the Dead, never as his wife.

Now, dear mortal, you have heard it all. Tell it to the world.

~ ad.gray

Extra: Sorry for the unholy amount of name euphemisms and epithets. The TL;DR is that I didn’t want the associations of the Greek gods’ relationships, and by extension their names, in this story because they’re a mess by modern standards, so I opted for euphemisms and epithets instead. I decided to not use names at all because consistency, I guess? This kind of works though since “Persephone” is telling the story to a mortal and mortals avoided saying certain god’s names, Persephone and Hades among them, out of fear or respect (source). Saying a god’s name gets their attention, and getting the god’s of death attention was considered unlucky (source). This story’s version of Persephone is pretty understanding, I guess. Also, I tried to mimic the style of the Homeric Hymn to Demeter (this was the translation I used), and the amount of descriptors is insane. Thanks for coming to my TedTalk.

Hope you enjoyed this! <3

205 notes · View notes

merakiui · 4 years ago

Note

hii could we get an angsty scenario/hcs of xiao and scaramouche/any characters you prefer! who are basically head over heels for someone but that person keeps getting with the wrong people and constantly getting their heart broken? Preferably with a good/fluffy ending but it’s up to you!

cw: angst + heartbreak note - decided to go for scenarios! (❁´▽`❁)*✲ﾟ*

[Xiao]

One Call Away—

The sudden shout of his name had brought him out into the open, where he finds you sitting in a field of wildflowers, your head hung and quiet sobs racking your hunched form.

“You called?” The gruffness in his voice startles you and your head snaps up. He notices your pained expression and the tears that refuse to cease, and it gives birth to a strange feeling within his chest. “What happened? Surely I am not too late.” And then he shakes his head. “No, I’m never late.”

“Ah... I’m sorry.” You sniffle, pitifully rubbing at your eyes. “I guess your name slipped out. I didn’t mean to bother you. I just didn’t mean to call for you either.”

Xiao raises a brow and then surveys the surrounding area. “Well, it doesn’t look like you’re in any mortal peril. In that case, I’ll leave you to—”

“No!”

Your sudden shout startles the both of you, with you drawing back and Xiao’s eyes widening ever so slightly. He wonders why you’re crying when beautiful scenery surrounds you. Are you truly that pathetic? Are mortals usually this weak-hearted? Xiao can’t wrap his head around the idea of grief; he’s an immortal who has seen plenty of hazardous scenarios worth grieving over. Yet with the passage of time he has learned to let such emotions drift away on a wind current. Emotions are useless to an adeptus.

But now he’s stuck with them.

“No?”

“D-Don’t go...” Your voice wobbles and you wipe at your reddened eyes. “I don’t want to bother you, but could you stay here with me? For a little while, at least. It’s all I’ll ask...”

He feels like he should decline your desperate plea before it spreads its perplexing roots throughout his system. The words are practically on the tip of his tongue and he struggles to verbalize them. If he could, he’d shake his head and vanish from your sight. There’s something about your expression that forces him to stay, and he truly detests the way his emotions run wild at the prospect of something he can’t quite comprehend.

“Fine.”

And so Xiao listens to you. It’s something he does best; his eyes and ears are open as he gives you his full, undivided attention. Half of him observes your reactions as you explain what happened and the other half zeros in on the way your subtle hand motions. While he might not be anywhere near a cupid—and he would never be caught giving out relationship advice to mortals, which is something he couldn’t do even if he tried—he is still a being of immense power. From what he’s able to understand from your explanation, your loved one decided to part from you because they believed it just wasn’t working. And you, having been struck with an immense sadness, failed to call out to them to clear up any misunderstandings.

Eventually, after internally wrestling with his own thoughts and feelings, he asks, “Do you want me to teach them a lesson? Should you need them to feel the same amount of despair you’re feeling—”

“Oh, no! No. No. They don’t deserve to be punished for that. I understand now that our feelings weren’t the same. We really weren’t working and that’s okay. It just...hurts.”

Xiao tilts his head, an innocently childish show of confusion. “Where?”

“It’s not a physical pain, Xiao. I mean, it could be. But...this is more emotional.” Your hand reaches out, fingers wrapping around his wrist. He stares down at your hand and he almost pulls away. Before he can even consider what’s happening, you’re guiding his hand to where your heart is. “In here. It hurts now, but I’ll overcome it eventually. I’m used to it anyways...”

The straight-faced adeptus remains still as he feels the fast-paced beat of your heart. Mortals have always been weak in his eyes: feeble beings who break at the slightest inconvenience. Although you don’t seem close to shattering and that confuses him more than he’d like to admit. Perhaps you are one of the more resilient humans he’s come across in recent years. It’s strange when he feels your heartbeat, so very certain and alive with the sour feelings a heartbreak brings. He’s never understood that either. Heartbreaks and relationships. The differences between friendship and romance. Both can be seen through to the very end, if fostered healthily.

So then why are you so sad?

Truthfully, you’ve always seemed sad to Xiao. As an adeptus, he’s never been able to fully grasp the meaning behind human emotions. They’re insignificant in his eyes, mere flashes of feeling that can hurt and blind. They’re troublesome and useless—certainly not something he would ever want to experience. But those emotions can heal and bring cheer. They’re not all entirely bad, nor are they as evil as he seems to think they are.

Xiao realizes his hand has been on your chest for a while now and he’s been staring at you so much that you’ve begun to shrink away, partially embarrassed to have him analyze you with so much scrutiny.

“Is...something wrong?”

He shakes his head slowly at first before retracting his arm. And then he notices you’ve stopped crying. He’s not sure when this happened, but he’s oddly relieved to see your neutral expression. Somehow your crying face is painful and it wounds him in a way he never would have imagined.

“Thank you for listening to my rant. I know this is probably meaningless to you, since you’re an adeptus and all, but it really means a lot. So I’m glad I was able to get these things off my chest. I feel a lot lighter now.”

“You’re not sad?”

“Ah. Well...” Your gaze flickers, eyes darting to and fro while you struggle to look at him. “I’m still sad, but I’ll get over it! Don’t worry! I’m resilient!”

Xiao’s brow furrows in confusion. As he has thought plenty of times before, mortals are far too complex. Eventually he sighs and says, “It’s okay to cry. Don’t keep that inside, okay? You’ll just hurt yourself even more.” Now he’s avoiding your gaze and there’s a barely noticeable tinge of pink dusting his pale cheeks. He’s really not good at consoling humans.

“Oh, Xiao.” You pull him in for a hug and he stiffens, trying to squeeze out of your arms like a cat near water. But then he feels your fingers digging into his arm and he realizes that you might actually need this hug. Despite the fact that he’s not used to freely giving out hugs—or even cheering up mortals, for that matter—he is definitely out of his element. “Really, thank you. I promise to make you an Almond Tofu as thanks.”

“There’s no need for that.” Hesitantly, as if he’s worried he’ll break you, he wraps his arms around your form. “I’m just helping you because you called my name. That’s all.”

But that’s not the full truth. Hidden in those words is the real reason why he even bothered to stay despite the false alarm. And it worries Xiao when he thinks about the implications. He really does like you and this admiration has surpassed platonic love. As long as you’re okay, though, he’ll swallow his feelings in favor of making sure you’re always happy. It’s one of his duties as your friend.

Friend. A word Xiao never thought he’d ever use, but it feels nice. He likes it.

Yet The Distance Remains Harrowing.

[Scaramouche]

To Mend a Broken Heart—

You’re spilling your emotional guts in front of the Sixth of the Fatui Harbingers, tears freely running down your cheeks like two faulty water faucets. It’s a pathetic sight, really. Scaramouche witnessed this exact show just a few weeks ago when you were so certain that that fisher was the one. Now, after meeting and getting together with someone else for a short time, you’ve come out of yet another relationship, unhappy and unsatisfied.

He’s jealous. There’s no denying the envy he feels when you talk so highly of these people and then wail about them a few days later. It’s a vicious cycle of mending a fragile heart and then breaking it into pieces all over again. With no end in sight, you fall victim to your own demise in the pursuit of love. He wonders if you’ll ever learn to choose your next partner carefully rather than settling for anything with a pulse.

“This is exactly what I said would happen, was it not?” he says with a sigh. “Oh, woe is you. If you were smarter, this last relationship might have lasted longer.”

“That’s rich coming from you. I’ve never seen you in a relationship before,” you mutter, wiping angrily at your eyes. His eyelid twitches at the not-so-subtle jab. “Ugh!I hate being so unlucky! This is the worst.”

“Rather than your foul luck, I think the problem lies within you and your taste in partners.”

Sniffling, you lower your head onto the table, hoping to just melt into the crafted wood before you end up making even more of a fool out of yourself. It’s rare to be in the company of Scaramouche, considering how often he’s assigned missions that require swift travel and a covert profile. But whenever you do find yourself sitting across from him, indulging in light snacks and tea, it’s always because you’ve lost your latest lover; and your own sadness requires the nullifying effects of Scaramouche’s cynicism.

“They’re good people! I just don’t know why it never works out. We’re happy and we both like each other—it doesn’t make any sense. Am I missing something? Is it my fault? They probably got tired of me because I’m not a good person.“

“Perhaps.” He takes a moment to sip his tea and you muster a weak glare. Only Scaramouche can delight in his beverage while you’re holding back another onslaught of tears. “Your crocodile tears are hardly flattering and your apparent need for consistent affection might come off as clingy. And you have a tendency to find flaws within yourself whenever something doesn’t go your way. Adding onto that, you doubt yourself a lot and you’re always quick to take the blame for things that are out of your control. In a way you are partially—”

“I get it. I’m not a good person.”

“I never said anything of that sort. Now you’re just asking for pity.”

Oh, how close you are to punching that smirk off of his face.

“Then since you seem to know everything, my oh so helpful friend, why don’t you tell me what I’m missing?”

“With pleasure.” His cup finds the surface of the table as he ponders your demand for a moment. “You’re missing someone who meshes well with your personality.”

“That’s not true. Everyone I’ve been with so far—“ His skeptical look makes you stop short. “Okay. Maybe we forced it because we thought it was love. But that’s besides the point! There was still an attraction! I think...” You huff and bury your face in your arms, nearly almost sprawling on the table. You’re too depressed to even consider how impolite your actions look, and Scaramouche scoffs at your poor display of manners. “Where am I even going to find someone who ‘meshes well with my personality,’ hm?”

“I’m sure you’ve already found them.” He clears his throat, tracing a finger along a sanded knot in the wooden table. “You’re sitting across from him.”

Whether he intended for you to hear that whispered part, you can’t say for sure. But your head perks up and you fix him with a lopsided grin. “You’re kidding.”

“Hm?”

“Me and you, a couple?” A small giggle escapes your lips and you swipe the remaining tears out of your eyes. “Don’t joke about that. I’m trying to be sad here!”

It wasn’t a joke, he almost says and he catches himself, suddenly self-conscious.

“I don’t think we’d work out,” you continue, motioning between you and him. “We’d hardly see each other and you don’t seem like the type for romance. Besides, I’m not attracted to you in that way. You feel the same, right?”

Scaramouche stares into his cup before he meets your gaze, a tight smile gracing his expression. “Of course. Your inability to settle isn’t all that attractive.”

Your eyes roll and you finally pick up your own cup to take a large gulp of lukewarm tea. The bitter Harbinger observes your actions with narrowed eyes. There’s a distinct pain that taps at his hardened soul, splitting it apart as your words echo within his spinning head. I don’t think we’d work out. I’m not attracted to you in that way. Why is he suddenly feeling...upset? He’s not one for pitiful emotions; he’s a Harbinger, not a lovesick fool! He ought to glare at you and storm off, demanding the two of you never speak again. But he won’t say that because he doesn’t want to hurt you. Because he cares for you. Because he loves you.

You feel the same, right?

No, that’s not right. This is the love he’s been wallowing in since he first got acquainted with you. It’s strange when he remembers every event that has led up to the blossoming feelings that reside deep in the epicenter of his heart, but it’s even more strange that he can’t find the courage to voice his own opinion.

“We wouldn’t mix,” he reaffirms your statement with a cold tone. There is no warmth in his eyes. “After all, your taste in tea is as bad as your taste in partners.”

And even though he wishes you could see through his walls—just this once he’ll allow you to tear them down for the sake of a half-baked confession—you just sit there and grin, no longer teary-eyed and forlorn. How odd. His heart feels far heavier than it’s ever been before. And you’re already scanning your surroundings, hungry for a love that will never keep you sated. Perhaps you weren’t even sad in the first place.

Upon realizing this, Scaramouche wants nothing more than to disappear into the wood like a feeble worm and never come back out.

You Must Break Another.

#genshin impact #genshin impact x reader #genshin impact scenario #genshin impact xiao #xiao x reader #xiao scenario #xiao #genshin impact scaramouche #scaramouche x reader #scaramouche scenario #scaramouche

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jjungkooksthighs · 4 years ago

Text

Claws of Carnality | jjk (5)

Pairing: alpha jungkook x omega reader

Genre: smut, fluff and angst, abo/werewolf!au, soulmate!au, fantasy!au

Rating: 18+ / nsfw

Word Count: 8.7k we really out here getting longer with every chapter because a bitch is hungry

Summary: Privation looms lingeringly without your mate of whom hunts for you deep within the wood. In his absence, he still manages to fill the void even if it is only ephemeral. The sun watches while you fall prey to your desirous natures and it is only when the golden orb has begun to drip lower along the sky’s body that it is time for you to then be guided by the hands of other omegeans to prepare you for your mate upon his return even when no one yet knows, beyond you, who has already staked his claim on you. When the call of your alpha announces his incoming arrival through the forest beyond, that’s when you heed his howl and go to welcome him home, but what will you find when you get there?

Warnings: alpha!jungkook, possessive!jungkook, jealous!jungkook, dom!jungkook, sub! reader, omega!reader, mentions of breeding/ruts/heats, mentions of a mark, slick and pre-ejaculatory production, scent marking, scenting, fingering, begging, praise kink, female masturbation, cunnilingus, breeding/impreg kink, character injury (someone gets hurt, but it isn’t serious)

A/N: My fingers are literally sore from writing so much. This one got pumped out in like a day and I’m honestly a clown because we really out here going from 1.5k with the first chapter all the way to 8.7k for chapter five. I think my hands are still shaking as I write this, but hey, this beast is finally out of the cage of my mind like it wanted to be! Seriously, this one did take some hours of sleep out of me in its need to be written, so please feed my soul and let me know that all this effort was deserving of the lack of sleep in the midst of it being midterm week at my university.

You guys have been so freaking sweet with your kind messages so far and I really am floored at how everyone seems to be enjoying this story, so please keep that up, y’all! I hope that I did justice to everything that has been written so far and more than anything, I hope to have been able to please you all with this next installment. Now, without further ado, I give to you part five of COC!

Part 9 Part 8 Part 7 Part 6 Part 4 Part 3 Part 2 Part 1

Feebleness fleetingly finds you under its clutches while it grasps you within the boscage of the woodlands.

It is commanded by the titillating tendrils of your alpha’s spiced scent and your fingers tug tightly around the fine furs without thought as you stare longingly at the mound of vestments that Jungkook had so torturously left in his wake, a whine releasing itself from the bowels of your body as you try to stand on dangerously debilitated ligaments that are still too weak to bear your weight after the satori that has swayed your entire being.

Too distracted in the pheromones of him that wrap yearningly around you, you don’t remember to pick up the abandoned silken necklace that your alpha had wantonly pulled off and away from you as your wobbling knees bring you to the forsaken garb he’d peeled so salaciously from his beautiful body.

Next to it are the shredded, tattered remains of the trousers he’d been wearing and, distantly, you wonder how many pairs he has ruined in the past through the multitudinous shifts he must have gone through as a purebred alpha that must have been so prone to surrender to his wolf and trade his human feet for the paws of his beast.

Your wolf bays at you to pick both up in the need to keep as much of him near to you as you can and, with embers in your mind burning only for him that are stoked by his redolence, you heed it as your knees buckle when you bend with effort to grab them.

Belatedly, it occurs to you that your alpha had not brought an alternative change of clothes given the state of his wrecked attire.

As you slowly run your fingers reminiscently over the destroyed fabric, there’s a thought that pushes at your conscience between a pair of golden irises that flash commandingly at you and through the smoke that hazes your mind, you remember what he’d told you.

“I expect my mate to be waiting for me before I let every wolf in this fucking compound know that you’re mine when I claim you at the ceremony tonight.”

The words melt away at your insides in the clear claim that they heat you with and you really can’t help it when you bring both articles that had adorned him close to your chest as you turn to tread through the woodland back from whence you came as your cheeks run hot with realization.

Your alpha would anticipatedly await you to receive him back from the hunt he was to lead in your honor.

He wanted you to be there to welcome him over all of the other bitches in the pack and, like the dutifully loyal omega you were meant to be, your mind had already set into its stone that you would later return to the greenwood upon the sun’s setting when all the alphas would rightfully reemerge from the forest’s foliage so that you could greet your own.

You would do so with open arms that would bear not only your warmly joyous touch, but also the mended clothing he’d damaged to hunt for you that would serve to preserve the modesty that he intended only to show to the pack. Beyond closed doors, you wanted him to shred it all only for you.

Beyond all of that, though, there’s the searing flame of possession that your wolf finds its rump sat firmly against in the calefaction of the emotion that is ablaze within you and you find that you’re willing to fuel it into a wildfire so that everyone will know that your alpha belongs to you should he wear the restored vestments that you would effortfully stitch back up with the hands that longed to caress and find themselves over his perfect aureate skin.

These are what have you promptly turn to leave with the flutter of bird’s wings beating against your bosom as you amble along in obliviousness to the pair of lupine eyes that observe you protectively in the distance.

It is only when you walk so far into the rays of the reaching sun that even your striking silhouette can no longer be beheld by them that their owner whirls around, his ears flicking toward the clang of antlers that must belong to two rearing bucks some ways off and without a moment to lose, he’s gone in the rush of the autumn leaves.

Lost in the sea of pheromones that wash over you as the spray of them pools around you while you press your nose greedily into his garment, you pay no mind to the mated alphas or betas walking about at the early hour.

What does demand your attention, however, is the sudden onset of sharp, panging pains that, with every step and breathe you take, sink their teeth deeper within the soft skin of your belly, a whimper caught in the fabric your mouth is held against as a vicious torrent of feverishness has your body temperature begin to lower without the warmth of your alpha as a vicious headache starts to pound against your cranium.

In the midst of it, your own musk pungently pervades the air only to draw the eyes of unwanted wolves to your sweet smell that is enhanced due to the starting symptoms that have already set your body off in the absence of your alpha that it pines for.

It is only when you manage to close the door to your chambers behind you, with your alpha’s clothes covetously pressed against your nose as if drunk on his ambrosial taste, that you shirk Jungkook’s furs from your body to throw them on your bed as your wolf yaps insistently to nest amongst the pelt until the scent clinging to it has rooted itself to your cot so that no part of it has gone unseeded by your alpha.

Once you’re satisfied with the assortment of dips and ripples of the blackened blanket of pelts that cover your duvet in its entirety, that’s when you lay down to nestle the furs, your baser being demanding that you lather yourself in its savory smell that you wish to soak in until you reek of your alpha.

The soft, downy pelage of the pelt caresses you against your exposed calves so very tenderly and, abruptly, the dress you wear is far too rough as it grazes against your skin in your movements as you quickly divest yourself of it. Somewhere in your maneuvers to take it off, your legs rub against each other only for you to widen both eyes at the sight that greets you.

There’s slick that all but drips from your sex and it glistens along your thighs in the thick coating that marks you there and you suck in a breath as you ascertain the afflictions your body has been wracked with.

You’ve just gone into the pre-heat acutely accompanied by a fever that every omega has intermittent interludes of upon finding their alpha.

As if to remind you of this, a sudden shiver falls over your skin in the frosted frigidity that freezes the air around you in how cold your boudoir has just become under your steadily decreasing internal temperature.

Without the physical comfort of your alpha, you whine, your fingers finding his garment that you’d thrown on the bed beside his furs to quickly lay it atop your bare bosom, your nipples hardening against the flocculent material that is softer than satin as it brushes against the sensitive buds deliciously.

You sigh shakily in satisfaction as the cloth along your chest coaxes your skin with its gentle warmth through its fibrous fingers while his furs embrace you as you silently thank your alpha for leaving such giving gifts behind to smoothly soothe you in his absence.

Your moment of respite is short lived, however, when an edged twinge of a cramp bites low into your abdomen as you grimace in pain, a fresh accretion of your juices finding your folds as you cry out the only name that could ever hope to free you from such sensations.

“Jungkook,” his name is whispered from your lips, an irrational need setting itself alight within you as the picture of your alpha half nude from the forest flashes provocatively through your mind.

He’d been so profoundly pulchritudinous under the morning rays and, with those dark eyes and wet mouth that had been so eager to welcome you to him, he’d only allured you more to him between his words of letch that had left you so parched after him. You can still imagine the way his hot tongue had laved at you, can still feel the deep press of his digit that had pushed down wantonly within your own lips as you’d sucked at it like a newborn calf.

His finger had been so obscenely long while his hands had been so lewdly lined with veins over the bones that bore so much strength and you wonder how those digits would have felt deep within your velvet depths while you ponder what those lustful lips of his would do to you if they found their rightful place along your neck. You cogitate how well his defined, chiseled body would fit against yours while he’d drive his cock without abandon into the silken home of your pussy while he’d utter lascivious indecencies to you born out of lubriciousness for you.

All of this has your hand sliding down your body without pause, your eyes closing as new need begins to burn hotly within your system in longing for your alpha.

Your fingers find your neglected bud of nerves while you imagine that it is him that stands before the legs that you spread without hesitation for him as hunger flares behind golden rises that sear cravingly into you. You envision that it is him that commands you to taint yourself this way as you breathe in the igniting incense of him that has the flint of desire smoke profusely with the heat that simmers there as he clouds your mind until there is nothing but him that lingers there.

“Touch yourself for me, pretty,” his hazily hallucinated voice demands within your mind.

Helpless to deny him even in your fantasy, you obey in the want to please him even within the imaginary realm your head concocts of him. Your brows pull together in concentration as a ring finger slips between your saturated sex to collect the slick that accumulates there before finding its place atop the neglected bundle of nerves that have been ineffective for years in relieving you of your deep desire that has only ultimately and uncontrollably grown throughout your years without the aid of the alpha that you belonged to.

Upon the first glide of a middle finger over your clit, you moan, your other hand closing compactly around the bed of furs beneath you as you envision that pink tongue of his darting delectably from his mouth to lick at his lips as he stares raptly at you before uttering,” Come on, my omega. Show me how those tiny fingers try to sate that pretty cunt that only your alpha could ever satisfy,” you imagine that he leans over you to plant two hands on either side of your hips as he sniffs, his eyes rolling back at your musk as he burrs, “Let me see how you’ve tried to give yourself the pleasure that can only be granted by the alpha you were made for, pretty.”

You shakily sigh in response in the thirst that implores the sustenance of him through another deposit of slick as one finger begins to slowly stroke your clit while your other dips between your generously wetted folds to circle and prod at the hole that woefully weeps its essence in the denial of what it craves most.

Helpless in the inability to disobey him, one digit breaches your sopping entrance while your other streaks over the bundle of nerves crowning your womanhood in a figure-eight pattern as you throw your head back while imagining that it is his lips that find your neck to leave behind marks that brand you as his.

“Gods, yes, alpha...please,” You cry out, your digits inadequate next to the ones that have sinfully set your soul alight.

Your finger sinks easily into your wet sheath as you drive it back and forth before your pace inevitably quickens, your hips pitifully trying to chase the elusive hand of pleasure as they begin to gyrate atop the bed while your other hand latches tighter onto the furs beneath you.

You envision that the mouth you wish would claim you as his travels torturously down your body until he’s peering edaciously at your glistening sex, the squelching sounds that grow louder in your fastening ministrations only beckoning him further in the drenched deposit of slick that amplifies it.

You envisage that he brings one plump lip between his teeth as he stares like a starved man at you behind eyes that glint with appetite as he hums, “Mmm, look at that cunt crying for its alpha. You really are desperate for me, aren’t you, pretty?” He lowers himself down to his knees to give you a piercingly hungry glare, “Tell me what you want, my omega, and I may be merciful and give you the release you want so badly. Obey this- obey me -and I will bring you to your end that was only ever mine to give to you, pretty.”

Your fingers hasten their movements as you bear more force down and over your rapidly engorging clit, the digit that lodges itself needlingly inside you still not enough as you whimper out, “A-ah…please, alpha. I want your mouth on me. Give me your mouth, alpha.”

The desperation for him flares as you imagine the smirk born of amusement before he descends down to your folds that shine with the sheen of your slick that has made a mess of your thighs and the bed of furs beneath you. You watch as craving of the likes in which you’ve never endured settles heavily across your abdomen only to coil tightly when, with his eyes still locked on yours, his rapturous tongue licks a long, languid stripe across the delicate skin of your inner thigh only to cause you to bite down on your tongue in effort to trap the sound of sin that yearned to escape you in the fervid felicity of that alone.

You envision your alpha lapping unmercifully at you until the only wetness draped across your thighs is his leftover saliva, your back arching with each flick of his tongue against the sensitive skin as you whine in spite of his teasing.

“Is my mouth all that you desire, pretty? I could do so much more to you with my fingers. I could fuck you so well with just my hands,” your alpha muses as one digit prods at your entrance unmercifully in the way that it nudges itself back and forth between the folds of your sex as you gasp out. It’s when he extricates it from you, with your juices still soiling his finger, that he takes it into his mouth as he groans only to have you throw your arm over your face as redness sweeps over your cheeks as you pule.

Your alpha releases his digit from his mouth with a ‘pop’ as heat winds you up when he urges, “Beg for me, my omega. Only then will I give you more. I want to see how much you need me.”

The words fall easier than the waters from a river as you visualize him smirking knowingly as he dangles your pleasure before you like bait on his hook as you babble, “Want your fingers, too, alpha. I want you to fill me up with them until I’m so full of you that I can’t think anymore. Please, Jungkook.”

Without warning, two fingers push pleasantly inside you as your mouth parts in an ‘o’ shape while your alpha licks at his lips, entranced in the sight of his fingers disappearing into your sex before he brings them backward only to bury them deeply within you again without prelude. Hot breath is blown over your pussy as he separates his digits in a scissoring motion that has your walls contracting around him as you press your lips together in effort to stifle the sounds he so easily draws out of you.

It’s when he furls his fingers inside you in a perfect motion to have your toes curling that your body trembles in the sensation, your alpha noticing this as he utters, “Take it, pretty. I know you can. You’re being such an obedient girl for your alpha. I fucking love it.”

The praise has you preening as you pant and when his tongue flattens over your womanhood to trail tortuously up so that no part of you is left untouched by him, that’s when you keen.

“Gods, you are so fucking delicious on my tongue. I could do this forever and never tire of your flavor, my omega,” you imagine that he replaces his hand with yours only to cause you to writhe when two fingers circle over your clit unrelentingly while he gives a light, chaste kiss to the innermost part of your left leg before, with lips still coated in your essence, he croons, “Because you’ve been so good in allowing your alpha to taste you, I will give you your reward, yeah?”

You hardly have time to think on the words he feeds you with before his lips are planted over your vulva, the wet muscle attached to the bottom his mouth sweeping along your slit while his thumb whorls over the bundle of nerves as his nose brushes against your clitoral hood to cause you to cry out.

“Alpha, please,“ Your voice waters down into a mewl as you envisage that Jungkook, without warning, pushes his tongue so far inside you that your eyes roll to the back of your head with a stuttered sound.

You envision that you can feel the way he grins knowingly as he watches you fall apart on him, his eyes narrowing heatedly as he plunges the appendage damningly with you as he utters, “That’s right, pretty. Call out the name of the only one who can make you feel this good. Gods, you’re so beautiful all spread out and bare for me just like you were always meant to be. Fuck, pretty.”

You do as he says, stammering out his name in labored breaths as you imagine that he thrusts his tongue into you without fail as the tip of it perfectly hits the cluster of nerves buried deep within you over and over again. Soon, your walls begin to clench tellingly around him and by this point, your knuckles have gone white with how tight you grasp the furs in the hand that you’re not using to sinfully stimulate all of this.

When you envisage that it is his fingers that splay possessively over one breast only to fondle it amongst digits that twiddle your nipple between them while he looks at you with a hooded gaze darkened only with the most carnal of desires, that’s when the coil of craving within you constricts as your alpha rasps, “You’re close, aren’t you, pretty? Fuck, when I take you, I can’t even imagine how you’re going to feel around my knot,” the last word has your walls closing threateningly around him as you moan out in the need your wolf bays at to be filled fully and completely by the only cock that you want to impel itself in your silken sheath and in response, he hisses, “What, you like that? You want my knot, pretty? You want to be bred until you’re swollen and round with my pups? Is that it, my omega?”

You nod, too far gone into your indecent illusion to care anymore as your back bows when he sucks your sex between his lips as you drawl, “Yes, alpha. Please, give it to me.”

There’s a devastating chuckle between your legs that has you trembling in anticipation and when the digits of his fingers roll your nipple between them as if he’s done this thousands of times before as he pairs it with an especially fatal propulsion of his tongue that strikes your g-spot so piercingly that it has your body convulse dangerously around it. It is only when you’re squirming that your alpha’s all-consuming irises flash commandingly as he growls, “You’ll get your fucking pups out of me only if you yield to your alpha,” he says with the eternal flames of voracity blazing through golden rises that devour you whole as he eats you like a deprived man while he professes,” Surrender to me, pretty. Submit to me and show me how bad you want your alpha.”

He pairs this with a catastrophic swipe of his tongue once, twice and three more times before you’re throwing your head back in blissful pleasure as you fall hopelessly apart while you plummet into your end that wracks you to a writhing mess atop soiled furs while your walls flutter fiercely around the two fingers you had unknowingly undulated against in your search for release.

When you extricate your digits from your body, a string of slick clings to your fingers and, longingly, you wish that it wasn’t your essence on your hand, but instead that of your mate’s.

Only your labored breaths break the silence that sets in the aftermath of your indecent deeds, your muscles aching from the awakening of new ones that have not been in use before amongst the old that have been afflicted after the strenuous strain that your alpha had wrought on your body.

It takes a few minutes to come down from your high and your headache is furiously fast in reemerging once the remnants of your climax have faded as you groan in effort to sit up. It is then that you notice the tattered trousers you’d neglected before in the ravenousness that had eaten away at you for your alpha and, with a new resolve that prickles past the prominent pounding of your head, you decide that now would be a good time to mend them so that you will have something to present to your alpha upon his return to the compound.

You stand on unstable legs that are beginning to become a familiarity to you in the wake of your alpha as you pull Jungkook’s garment over you and are completely content with the way the article of clothing covers your intimate parts as you fold it over your chest to tie it together with a silken cord that had been buried inside.

Finding your small sewing kit that you’d left abandoned in the corner of your chambers, you situate yourself along the cluster of plush pillows settled along the window seat as you set to work on fixing your alpha’s attire.

You try to mind your fingers that the needle had left you privy to numerously numbed fingers because of in the midst of the late hours of the night after stitching together the ripped remains of the clothing that the pups under your care would often tear with claws that protracted and retracted in the midst of their growing bodies.

It is a futile attempt, for the sharp spikes that shoot through your digits inflict themselves in you anyway. Your attention is far too focused not on the article of clothing, but on the one who had worn it.

You wonder what he might be doing right now and if he’s been thinking about you as profusely-or lewdly, mind you- as you have been about him, your wolf wanting to howl for him to beckon him back as you longingly caress the shredded trousers while you pine for the warmth of his skin and the radiance of his smile.

Sometime later, there’s an abrupt series of knocks at your door and you smile as you fold your finished work and place it on the table next to your window seat before rising with anticipation that energetically bounds through you.

It was time for you to be prepared and groomed so that you could be received by the alpha that no one yet knew had already staked his claim on you. Every omega went through this period before their Offering Ceremony to heighten the chances of finding them a suitable mate.

The door opens and in leaps your best friend, Niva, who was mated last spring as she happily greets, “Y/N! Are you so excited? Your time is finally here, darling!”

You laugh jovially at her energy as you easily question with mirth, “Good to see you, too, Niva. I am, very much so. Is it just going to be you that has the privilege of getting me ready?”

She enfolds you in an all-encompassing embrace and you mirror the sentiment, for it is in omegean nature to be close-knit and seek the warm arms of the dynamic that is known for their nurturing, compassionate nature.

You wrap your arms around her, but upon your best friend getting one whiff of the heavy pheromones soured by sex in every crevasse of the room, her nose wrinkles as her face twists, “Ew, Y/N, did you seriously already get bedded on the day of your ceremony? It stinks in here. Your grandmother is not going to take kindly to this. You’re supposed to be pure, remember?”

You stand back with a smile lifting at your lips, “I know very well, Niva. Have you considered,” you lift a brow, “that perhaps I am still the virgin you always like to mess with me about being and maybe that there’s an alpha who might have given me his furs so that I could have some kind of relief in his absence?”

Your best friend’s eyes widen in surprise, but that is soon replaced with a knowing glint of mischievousness in one eye as she takes in the visage of your disheveled appearance amidst the only article of clothing that is entirely too large in how it dwarfs your much smaller body as she queries, “Judging by the smell, whoever it is must be quite an alpha based on how strongly your room reeks of him. Judging by how that excuse for a shirt on you totally swallows you up, he must also be quite muscular and tall. Tell me,” she leans close, “has he touched you yet?”

Your cheeks turn red as the memories flash like moving pictures through your mind in a tale recounting what had just happened and all that had occurred before and within the greenwood.

You pull your lip between your teeth thoughtfully before you quietly admit, “In more ways than one, yes. Gods, has it been amazing, Niva. He is so…so attractively alluring in every way.”

Your best friend holds you close as she watches the emotion color your irises and, seeing that in combination with the way your very voice had lilted with the sentiments, happiness dawns on her as she cards a hand through your hair to declare, “Then I will endeavor to make you irresistible to whoever this alpha is, darling. When I’m done with you, your alpha won’t know what hit him before it’s too late.”

You blush when she calls in your other two omegean friends of whom carry a large assortment of oils, herbs and soaps before the three disappear into the lavatory through the adjoining antechamber in your boudoir to set to work on readying your bath.

You busy yourself in the meantime with thoughts filled only with your alpha despite the cacophony of chatter echoing excitedly off of the walls, your attention drawn elsewhere and when Niva comes to retrieve you, that’s when you look away from the window that you’d been trying to squint through in effort to locate your alpha that still hunts for you within the greenwood.

When you step into the copper basin that is much too large for your smaller body, the waiting waters wrap tenderly around your ailing body as the steam wafts around you in the heat of the fluid that births it. A long, drawn out breath leaves you as your tautened muscles loosen while your friends pour vial after vial of lavender, spruce and rosemary oil over you, the viscous solutions draping themselves over your skin to coax open your pores so that more of your pheromones are released to further attract prospective alphas with your scent.

Niva takes care to drizzle you in pink salt sold out of the exotic Himalayas that she’d acquired from an especially friendly merchant after being told it had the power to make the skin glow with the might of a goddess. After that, she then spritzes the waters around you with roses, passion flowers and red clover blossoms that decorate the watery landscape around you until its canvas has been painted a magnificent magenta while you’re lathered in the herbal bath, a sigh of satisfaction falling from your lips before your best friend starts her work cleaning your hair.

Usually, you would purr at the gentle glide of fingers over your scalp, but not today. Today, there’s only one pair of hands that you want on you and they are much too far away for your liking.

Once the suds of soap have been rinsed from your hair, that’s when you’re left to bask in the warm water that had been drawn especially for you, for each omega has their own variation of scents that they prefer to bedeck themselves with for their Offering Ceremony in effort to lure more alphas through an amplified air of pheromones surrounding them.

You ruminate on what Jungkook might do once he catches your naturally enhanced aroma that he’s already admitted to liking so much and, for good measure, your fingers find a floating rose and draw its soft petals over your shoulders before rubbing it along your neck.

When the water has gone cold and you’ve been immensely imbued with the essences of nature, that’s when your friends return to retrieve you from the depths of the basin that you’ve sunken into through your calming contentment.

Your hair is aired with oaken fans brought all the way from China before they twine and curl it around until it rests artfully in a braided bun along the crest of the back of your head, two twin strands nestled right in front of your ears to petitely frame your face.

You really wish that you could focus on the gossip that falls freely as leaves from the trees this time of year as they labor over you, but you can’t. Not when your head swims with thoughts only of your alpha.

Caught as you are in the tides of him that drag you along, you do not feel the bristles of a brush along your eyelids as Niva tips your head back to apply the powdery coloring that will accentuate your brilliant silver orbs before your best friend lines your lids with the blackened stick of kohl.

Even when a light smattering of the dust of crushed rose petals is painted over your cheeks, you do not look into the mirror, for your eyes are trained on the sliver of sun that begins to wane through the rays that begin to reach backward toward their parent as your wolf bays in expectancy to receive its mate.

Once Niva is done with her masterpiece, that’s when you’re made to stand and close your eyes before you’re walked over to the mirror that spans from the floor to the ceiling in the corner of your chambers as your other two friends produce the gown your grandmother had had made for you for this very day out of an ornately sealed box that had been left outside your door upon your return from the woods.

You hear the clicks of the chest that signal its opening, excitement enthusiastically running amok within you when there are three collective gasps behind you as they stare in awe at your gown.

It is lifted gingerly and delicately in its fragility and your friends help you into it slowly while slightly stiffened organza material skims your skin as it is pulled meticulously up and over your body. Once your arms have been lifted through the hollow holes and the pleated style sleeves rest atop your shoulders, that’s when the laces lining the back of the gown are pulled taut and the bodice constricts around you as you wince at the unyielding tightness that winds around your abdomen.

Once the ties to your dress have been neatly crossed over each other in a complicated complexity that you will never see, that is the moment that you hear the distinguishing groan of aged wood being opened in the form of another box. The contents within that are unknown to you, but upon the cold, heavy material that encircles your neck, you can surmise that it is a choker meant to conceal the area so untouchable to all but the alpha whose mark you would eventually bear in its stead.

Your best friend smiles fondly at her finished piece of artwork before stepping to the side to say, “Open your eyes, Y/N. It’s time for you to see how much the moon favors her most adored daughter.”

You open your eyes in questioning, but before you can turn your attention to your friend, the image in the mirror captures it first as your breath catches at the sight it bestows to you, your jaw falling open in wonderment.

Your skin all but glows under the gleam of sunlight that tries to tread over your radiance in its dimming dance as irises the color of moonlight piercingly stare back at you from under eyelids speckled with silver like the celestial body amidst the smudges of blended eyeshadow along the sides that beseech boldness in the color that matches the soils of the earth. It is set off by a cat-eye of kohl liner that is dappled thinly along the tips of your lids to demand attention in the way that it contrasts your irises. Even your lips have been streaked with the crimson of a rose to beckon beguilingly in the wish to be looked at.

Embellishing your neck is a choker made entirely of moonstone that is set between chromium on each side. Its base rests just above your collarbones and, its thickness, it extends about two inches upward to hide away your sensitive scent glands as it covers your skin.

Below that, though, that’s what really takes your breath away.

Your gown looks to have been crafted from the threads of the moon’s core in the white of it that adorns your body in its entirety. Layers of gossamer-like fabric compose your dress and set carefully between it all are specks that shine like grayed moondust in the light that glimmers off of them.

Your bodice is styled in a plunging ‘V’ that hugs your frame and is ceased only by the firm, fitted band that wraps around and hugs your middle well below your breastbone. Tied along its end is a very thin silver cord that twists into a knotted bow before your skirt loosely trails down and out, the train of it cascading like a sea behind and around you. Your arms are bare, but the sheerer and more translucent sleeves trickle over your shoulders and flow about to join the pool of fabric along your feet as you take a shaky breath.

The woman that stares back at you is one that drips with the waters of clarity in the confidence that she exudes as she stands tall and proud. She is every bit the omega you were always meant to be as she holds her head high, her hands clasped along her front as she angles her head at you to study you and you have to close your parted maw as you stare wondrously back at her, wholly unable to move at the sight of the stranger that has your body in the mirror.

When the familiar furs of your alpha are lowered over your shoulders, that’s when you look away, your irises finding Niva’s as she coos, “I don’t even think the ancient queen of the wolves could compare to you, darling. I really have outdone myself this time.”

You stutter, completely in awe of yourself as you tell her, “N-Niva…this is… how did you-“

Your best friend hushes you with a finger to her lips,” Shhh, that’s a secret, my dear. I cannot divulge my magics lest someone steal them away from me,” she teases as she puts both hands around your shoulders to encourage, “Look at yourself, my darling. You look positively radiant. Those alphas don’t stand a chance.’

You think that maybe it is all just a trick of your senses and that it is just a hallucination, for you surely can’t actually appear the way that the girl in the mirror does, right?

You find your visage once again on the mirror in an irrational need to confirm this only to widen your eyes at what greets you, for it is you that peers curiously back at yourself, your hand reaching out to run your fingers down the image of you that is set behind it.

Your friends step back from you when your hand lowers and you turn to them with joyous tears that threaten to ruin all the work they labored so much from as they quickly fan the air around you in attempt to keep them trapped within your eyes as you laugh, your arms shooting out to welcome them all in a warm embrace that you are sure to thank them incessantly within.

You enfold them in your arms until the sun’s rays strain to reach you, it’s descent into the night being announced with the raucously reverberating howl from the forest that has your blood singing in the familiarity that it is carried to you with.

It finds your ears even here and you perk up, your wolf barking in need to go and wait for the alpha that every fiber of your being tells you is near as your best friend looks to you in understanding as she says, “Go on, Y/N. Don’t worry about us. He’s waiting for you. Go to him.”

You need no further coaxing as your feet move of their volition, your fingers closing around the mended trousers while you pull the furs your alpha had given to you tight around you, for it was tradition that omegas were not to expose skin before the Offering Ceremony and to be wrapped in an outer covering that preserved their purity until they were ready to shed it upon commencement of the event and acceptance of their alpha.

The golden disk that once sat high in the sky now has dipped halfway below the horizon, but you need none of its light to locate the alpha that calls you forth as you tread tirelessly on until your nose brings you to the edge of the forest where an old trace of Jungkook still lingers.

You crouch to leave his fixed clothing by the bark of one aged tree as you walk on, narrowing your eyes as you attempt to see beyond the long line of browned stalks that stretch on as far as the eye can see.

Anticipation flaps with the fierceness of a black swan within you and when you hear the snap of a branch somewhere off to your left, you enter the thicket’s threshold without hesitation in your baser being’s need to relish in the warmth of your alpha.

The stench of death thickly layers the air as you wrinkle your nose and as you find yourself standing before the broken limb of the tree, that’s when the dark silhouette of a figure steps out from behind it.

The sun’s fading rays blind you to whoever you’ve found, but the voice that soon lathers itself all too heavily and viscously over your skin has your hair standing on end as it saccharinely presses, “Were you looking for someone? It’s okay, omega, you can tell me that you were trying to find me and profess your love to me. Everyone else does.”

You roll your eyes at his vain vanity, “Actually, Taehyung, I was just trying to find my alpha who happens to be nearby and if he finds you here, he’s not going to take too kindly to that.”

You turn away from the alpha, but Taehyung predatorily stalks after you and before you realize what’s happened, he’s in front of you to halt your movements, a twisted grin marring his features as he sniffs you, a tremor wracking his body as he does that has your blood running cold.

“Oh, but that’s where you’re wrong, omega,” he tries to reach for you and you take a step back, not wanting his odor nor his filthy touch to stain you, “See, Jeon won’t be back for some time, sweet thing. He’s still on the mountain hauling back his kills that he’ll be too late to bargain for you with.”

Your stomach drops to the recesses of your body as you try to move away from the alpha that hounds after you while your fingers tighten over the furs that cover you from his roving irises that roam all over you, your skin crawling everywhere that his attention slithers over.

In the eyes that are glazed over from the onset of a rut, there is no care there. There is only gluttonous greed that bats away anything and everything that is not you.

Your omega harks for you to submit under the alpha’s penetrating gaze, but you resist it as your own alpha’s voice traipses through your mind.

“I will not tolerate anyone that attempts to take what is mine.”

It is that thought that has you pushing past the instinct to yield to the alpha before you now as you shake your head, the surety set in your eyes amusing Taehyung as you spew its fires, “I would advise that you move away from me before you do something that you will regret. Your pack alpha has already made his claim on me and will not hesitate to punish you if you tarnish what belongs to him.”

Your defiance has the alpha’s cock harden impossibly more amidst the divine incense you emit from freshly opened pores. No omega had dared to talk back to him before and it was inebriating.

“Stars, you really are lust if it had a form, she-wolf,” the shadow convulses with dark laughter that has goosebumps growing along your skin as you back away, “Jungkook wasn’t lying when he said you were the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. You smell sweet as fuck, too…I wonder if you taste just as good.”

Fear has your body begin to lock into place when your back nears the rough bark of a tree, “Do not do this, Taehyung. You will face wrath the likes of which you’ve never seen if you so much as lay a finger on me. I want nothing to do with you, do you understand?”

A grin curls with malicious intent along its edges as he takes a step forward until he’s only inches away from you as he taunts, “Oh? You want nothing to do with me? Perhaps you shouldn’t be striding around smelling like temptation and sex in that little dress then, huh? You omegas always have a flair for driving us crazy when you present, but fuck, Y/N, no one holds a candle to you. I think,” his eyes glint dangerously when your back hits the thick trunk of the tree, “that you should be claimed by a real alpha that can treat you better than Jeon ever could.”

“Taehyung,” you try through a dry mouth,” Stop. I don’t want this. Jungkook is the one I wish to bear the mark of, not you.”

Panic sets in and seeps icily across every vein when one hand comes to rest next to your head, his eyes burning a hole into your neck as he makes a sound of consideration, “Such a lucky happenstance that the pack alpha didn’t think to mark what was his if he didn’t wish for others to taint it.”

The alpha nears and the ache between your knuckles warrants the incoming protraction of unguis, but before they can make their appearance, there’s a raged roar born entirely of aggression that threateningly thunders through the woodland. It is stormed by the fury that is set between the crackling of claws fulminating fiercely over the trunks of trees somewhere behind you.

It takes only one inhale through your nostrils to know who has joined you, your heart pounding faster in response as your wolf cries for its mate while his scent thaws the ice within your body that Taehyung had foolishly frozen within it.

“I thought I made myself clear to you, boy,” the sound bleeds into a menacing snarl from behind you and Taehyung stops in his tracks, seized as he is by the overpowering command of the alpha ranked higher even than him as Jungkook’s brooding aura pierces him like an icicle in the coldness of the familiar voice,” She’s mine. I would advise you back the fuck away from my mate before I do much worse to you than break both of your arms the last time you felt it wise to try to fucking disobey me.”

In the chill of the frigid air that has his beast wanting to tuck its tail between its legs, Taehyung tries to ignore it as he dissentingly jeers, “Is she yours? Unfortunate that I don’t see your mark on her then, pack alpha,” Taehyung sneers, his eyes still settled on yours, though your attention is far from him at this point as you stare longingly towards the origin of where nails scrape furiously into the skins of the trees as he dares to challenge, “You are not the only wolf that thirsts for a she-wolf as parching as this one, Jeon. I could get drunk off her scent alone and you expect me to just sit back and allow you to take such an appealing aperitif away from me? Sorry, but I want to taste her myself and there’s nothing that you can do to-“

The rest of whatever the younger alpha had been wanting to say never makes it past the confines of his mouth, for there’s a blur of golden skin that flashes before you and suddenly, Taehyung has been launched several feet into the air only for his spine to collide into the back of an old, stocky evergreen tree.

The bark screams against the contact in the deafening series of snaps as the foolish alpha is slammed so forcefully into it that, like an arrow, his body shoots cleanly through the aged integument as the oaken pillar that has been broken in half falls to the forest floor with a thud.

Golden irises find you under their attention as your alpha steps from behind you, your blood warming at his heated touch when he grasps your chin between his fingers to assess you for damage before laying his forehead against your own as you reach out for him, the pads of your fingers lightly trailing tenderly along his jawline as you quietly whisper,” Alpha.”

Jungkook nuzzles you protectively before he rumbles out, “My omega. Did he hurt you? Did he touch you?”

He’s like a furnace in the way that his skin is calefied with the intensity of the sun and you purr when he nudges at your neck as your palm finds its place where his heart beats like a drum against you as you tell him, “No, Jungkook. With you around to keep me safe, he never got that far. He was about to, but you didn’t let him, my alpha.”

Your alpha bristles at that, his irises dimming in light of your admission as he growls, “He nearly did. He would have if I hadn’t come when I did. I sensed your scent souring and it led me here. Had I been just a bit later, I nearly would have lost what was mine,” you watch in awe how his canines draw themselves out of his gums, captivated by the way that they lengthen and grow in size until they protrude out of his mouth in their large size that is much more massive than the average alpha as he pulls away from the nook in your neck to lay a callused palm along your jaw as he utters, “I need you to stay here for me, pretty. That fucking fool needs to be reminded of who is in charge here and I intend to jog his pitiful memory so that he never forgets it.”

He draws away entirely too soon as you whimper in his absence and you, with your eyes magnetized only for him, observe with interest the way that he strides heavily and imposingly through the cluster of trees to bear down upon the collapsed body that is a mess of tangled limbs under the broken arm of the oak he’d been forcefully thrown against.

Your alpha’s hair falls wildly over his face and, in the waning light of the sun, his eyes bear down balefully over the younger alpha as he stands nude save for the mended article of clothing covering his lower half that you had dutifully brought for him.

Fury is palpable in the way that it looms like a shadow off of Jungkook, in the way that it clings to his every muscle when he snaps with glistening incisors at the downed alpha as he seethes, “It seems that you’ve lost sight of who is at the top of the food chain, boy,” Your alpha towers intimidatingly over Taehyung, who hisses at him, “The one on top gets the pick of the fucking litter and that, Taehyung, has never been you. I am your pack alpha and I am the only wolf that can command all of you alphas beneath me. It’s time that I discipline you to make you aware of that fact.”

You hardly have time to process the popping sound of bones before your alpha has lodged five razor-edged, serrated claws deep into the recesses of Taehyung’s left shoulder as the younger alpha yowls out in pain that can be heard miles away in its dismal din.

Your alpha marvels at the crimson fluid that stains him as the red tears of Taehyung’s wounds pool around your alpha’s digits only to trickle sadly downward until they are one with the earth.

Jungkook snarls forbiddingly when Taehyung squirms underneath him to hound out, “What happened to that mouth you like to fucking flap all the time? Too scared now to use it, boy?” Your alpha leans forward with anger flashing in his eyes, “I would suggest that you don’t fuck with me again, little wolf. You’re going to get much more than the fucking claws next time should you be foolish enough to try.”

Your alpha draws his other arm back, your eyes widening in the darkness that is settling its dark shroud over him.

Before another set of claws can embed themselves within the younger alpha, you call for your own and through the cloak of negative emotion that has begun to suffocate him, your voice slips between it to caress the ire of his baser being.

When your smaller fingers enclose around the wrist of his bloodied hand, you gently coax his claws out of Taehyung, who crumples atop of the brambles along the woodland with a thump as you press yourself to your alpha’s back to offer with a soft voice, “Come back to me now, alpha. Your mate does not wish to see you so wracked by your fury. You’ve made your point clear to both him and to me.”

Jungkook inhales deeply only for his muscles to loosen while your sweet scent laces itself around him as he turns to utter, “My omega, it is because of my mate that I must resort to the animal within me,” You watch as the dark emotion recedes slowly from his irises as he imbibes you, entirely too parched of you for so long as an emotion you’ve yet to understand intensifies in its wake when he confesses, “I can hardly help that when you beckon me so, pretty.”

#werewolf!jungkook #werewolf jungkook #jungkook x reader #jungkook smut #jungkook fanfic #bts smut #bts fanfic #bts scenarios #jungkook #bts #dom!jungkook #btsbookclub #bangtanarmynet #bts abo #alpha!jungkook #alpha jungkook #alpha omega bts #alpha jungkook x omega reader #jungkook hot

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lothlaer · 4 years ago

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Proposal: Jaskier's got a fist clenched painfully hard one time when he's really really hurt and Yen has to force his palm open so she can tangle their fingers together and try to keep him from hurting his own hand. And they're both kind of like "oh" at some point idk 😳

Anon this apparently awakened something in me, so thank you for expanding on my post and giving me the inspo to write (checks notes) 1.7k. Hope you enjoy whatever this is!!!

Pre-yennskier, description of blood and injury, 100% hurt/comfort. Read on AO3

“Stop fucking moving,” Geralt hisses, pushing down hard on the hips beneath his hands to still the man’s squirming.

A choked off, muffled whine dies in Jaskier’s throat, his lips pursed tight enough to turn them pale and thin. He’s panting through his nose, clearly in agony, and too out of it to understand that moving will only make this worse.

Yennefer spares the witcher a glance, noting the anxiety and fear that’s obvious on his face, in the tension across his brow, the frantic not-focus of his eyes that flick between the bard’s half-delirious expression and the gaping wound at his side.

She’s done all she can to heal him, sealed up the torn and leaking insides that they all know would have killed him if they hadn’t been here – that still might kill him if they can’t stem the blood loss and prevent infection. She thinks of it like this; clinical, sensible, because she has to.

Jaskier’s heartbeat is quicker than it should be, his breathing equally fast, panicked and pained and shallow. She keeps her ear trained to its frantic rhythm, notices how Geralt’s heart thumps faster than normal too, almost human, almost matching hers. She’d laugh at the symmetry of it all, if it were funny. She’s sure Jaskier would write a poem, if he knew, but she won’t ever tell him.

He stills a little under the pressure of Geralt’s hands, though still struggles. He probably can’t help it by this point, too confused and the pain too intense to allow much rational thought. Geralt can’t work if he keeps kicking, shifting his hips to try to escape the discomfort.

“Yen,” Geralt growls, and she’d tell him off if she thought it would help.

She tells him off anyway, growling his name back as she presses her weight onto the bard’s chest, keeping him pinned. She watches his face, stares at the lines of tears down his temples, wrung out from his scrunched eyes.

The tight seam of Jaskier’s lips splits open, a deep groan and hitching sob forcing its way out as Geralt flushes the wound. He shifts again, and it’s only then that Yennefer notices his hands. The one nearest her grips at her skirt, tugging it towards himself, the other clenched tight enough at his side that the whites of his knuckles stand out even against his bloodless skin.

She reaches for it before she can think about it, dragging his hand over his chest, looking at the way he’s digging his nails into the meat of his palm.

Yennefer doesn’t say anything as she fits her thumb under his, prying it open like the hinge on a rusted box. There’s no treasure within as she does the same with his fingers, forcing them loose enough that his reflex to clench releases, each digit unfolding only to reveal deep indents in his skin like faint purple mouths.

She slips her fingers between his, taking the pressure into her own grip, resting their joined hands over his heart.

He blinks up at her, eyes wet with tears, then lifts his head to look down at himself.

“Don’t look,” Yennefer snaps, pointedly leaning forward to block the vivid red of Geralt’s hands from view.

She knocks her knuckles against his breastbone, drawing his attention back, and he focuses in on the press of their skin together.

She thinks that if he had enough blood left in his body to do so, Jaskier would be blushing. She feels heat rise in her own cheeks in sympathy. His lips part on an inappropriately dreamy sigh, and she realises she’s stroking her thumb back and forth over his clammy skin, then swiftly stops.

Yennefer checks his expression and discovers his eyes on her again, a long moment dragging on as she finds herself unable to look away, their faces closer than she realised and his short breaths puffing against her skin. She’s horribly aware of their entwined hands, the unpleasant sensation of drying blood and mud between them, the frantic heart mere centimetres away, trapped beneath only by fragile human flesh and bone.

Between another aborted cry of pain and a feeble attempt at another kick, Jaskier lets his head fall back to the ground, gaze swimming and dizzy as he stares up at the canopy of the trees above them, his grip tightening to the point of pain as the joints in Yennefer’s hand compress.

She loses track of time for a while, her knees and back aching from being folded over for so long, the quiet and sometimes unpleasant noises coming from Geralt working opposite her the only way to gauge how long they’ve been here, alongside the warbling beat that still echoes against her eardrums. It’s not like his usual music.

She looks back to his face after some time, catches his eyelids fluttering.

“None of that,” she scolds, loud enough to jerk him back into wakefulness.

She turns her head to look at the wound, relieved to find it closed with stitches, no longer sluggishly leaking blood down Jaskier’s side. He’s still covered in it, soaked into his shirt and the trousers covering his propped-up legs, even on the blanket they’ve thrown over him.

Geralt looks up and the relief is clear on his face; they’re not out of the woods yet, but it’s a step in the right direction. His eyes flick to Jaskier’s hand in hers, looking pointedly at where he’s still gripping her dress too, then walking away with a mutter about getting bandages.

Yennefer finds herself alarmingly embarrassed, and withdraws her hand.

Jaskier doesn’t complain, his fingers falling loose and curled where she leaves them.

Geralt returns quickly, begins packing the injury. Jaskier jerks again, then they begin the agonising process of winding bandages around his waist, having to manoeuvre him upright enough to pass them under his back.

By the end he’s even sweatier and paler than he was before. His noises of pain throughout have been quieter than Yennefer was expecting, the usual volume and raucousness of his voice muffled and contained. It’s simultaneously impressive and irritating – men, she thinks.

He groans long and low nonetheless as they shift him sideways onto a bedroll and prop another bag under his knees.

“It’s done, it’s over,” Yennefer finds herself saying quietly while Geralt resituates the blanket.

She wipes a tear away from Jaskier’s cheek with the backs of her fingers, and tries not to overthink the action in the seconds afterwards as his sobs subside.

He’s trembling, either from pain or shock or the cold, and Geralt wastes no time getting him water with some herbs mixed in. He drinks greedily, water spilling out around his mouth until the witcher urges him to slow.

Geralt lays him back down, calls his name softly until his wobbly attention wanders back to them.

“All better?” Jaskier murmurs after a moment, eyelids already half-mast.

Geralt lays a wet cloth over the bard’s forehead and holds his palm on it, steady and reassuring, long enough to lean over and catch Jaskier’s gaze.

“Good enough,” he says, beginning to wipe away the sweat and dirt from Jaskier’s face in gentle strokes.

“Bastard,” Jaskier mutters, eyes falling closed. He only settles for a moment before jerking awake, his eyes wide and alarmed. “Yen?”

He looks around blearily, waving an uncoordinated hand out – seeking her presence, Yennefer realises. She reaches for him, grasping his hand in hers. His gaze snaps to her, and softens.

“Okay?” he asks.

His skin is cool, his heart still racing.

“You’ll be pissing us off with your usual obnoxious poetics within a day, I imagine.”

He frowns at her and shakes his head almost imperceptibly.

“No,” he swallows dryly, “you okay?”

Yennefer opens her mouth, ready for a witty retort to manifest, but all that emerges is the escape of a surprised breath. She thinks of the way they’d been standing side by side when the attack had happened, the way the bard had fallen against her and brought her to her knees in the grass and mud, last autumn’s shed of rotting leaves compacting beneath her hands. The drip of red blending against the dirt. Her stomach twists, then releases.

“Rest, Jaskier.”

He still stares at her.

“I’m fine, you fool.” She squeezes his hand again, thinks of the indents on his palm. “Rest.”

He does, finally, slipping easily into something deeper than sleep. She knows she and Geralt will have their senses fixed on the pump of his blood for days yet, and that it’ll be a while before his body replenishes what he’s lost.

For now, the steadiness of his pulse and his breathing will have to be enough, even if they remain unnatural and fast.

Yennefer realises she’s been staring for a while when she notices Geralt bringing a bowl over, his hands and arms already washed clean of the mess from the past hour.

“Wonderful timing,” he says dryly, shaking the red-tinged water off his fingers with a couple of quick flicks.

“For what, witcher?” Yennefer says shortly, her nerves strung thin and dangerous.

Geralt snorts. Yennefer glares.

“For a realisation.” He smirks at her, smug.

“Fuck off,” she spits, not turning away quick enough to miss the way the man’s smile widens further.

She draws her hands away from Jaskier, his grip limp now, and washes her hands too, surprised to see the ripples on the surface from where she’s shaking. Geralt comes up behind her, his hand falling to her shoulder, and they both look down at the bard. The porcelain tinge of his skin is unnerving, his eyes bruised, and dirt and leaves still cling to his hair. But he’s alive, alive, and the knots in their chests release.

She thinks about leaving now her job’s done, the unpleasant warmth blooming somewhere in her gut making her want to run away, to flee from whatever the bard’s pain and gaze and hands have triggered in her, the feeling snapping sharp like a wire under her skin.

Geralt squeezes her shoulder.

“Stay with him.”

Yennefer feels the words rumble through her, less than an order but more than a suggestion. Her heart leans into it, giving way so carelessly to harmonise with the rhythm of his.

She stays.

#yennskier #jaskier x yennefer #yennefer x jaskier #the witcher #witcher fanfiction #witcher fanfic #hurt!jaskier #geralt is here too lol but i think he's just their Bro #loth txt #my fic #anonymous #ask #i'm gay i like hands ok

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maiz-of-light · 3 years ago

Text

@ghiralink-week, Day03, Scars/Reincarnation

The marks we are born with are often believed to be the scars of our past lives. – Unknown

“I can’t deal with this right now!”

The words, rasped through gritted teeth, carry the undeniable cadence of exasperation.

You can, that voice rings cold in his head, and you will, boy!

Indeed, the blade resting heavy against the Hero’s chest is plenty large enough to function as a shield, and is much sturdier, to boot. Splintered bark and pointed stubs prod infuriatingly into Link’s back, snagging on his tunic and scuffing his leather armor. Meanwhile, his thighs have already begun to cramp from crouching in so tight a slot. From his treetop perch, hidden among the thick boughs, he can just make out the faint orange glow of the hilltop shrine.

Although perhaps the cerulean, leaking luminous through the body of that guardian below, is a bit more of an eye catcher.

Steep as the rocky slates may be, it isn’t too far of a climb from Point A to B. The question is, can he dodge the guardian’s laser long enough to reach his destination?

Dark steel pulses in Link’s grasp, exuding the same scathing hostility as the chords growling low from its depths. Should Hyrule’s fate truly fall upon your feeble shoulders, then the scattered herds of humanity are a sorry lot, indeed! A sword is to be wielded, Champion, and wield me you shall, or else!

The boy snaps. How in Hylia’s blessed name is he to plot his next move through these constant strings of jeering?

“Do you ever shut up?!” he shouts.

Mistake.

Through the mottled curtain of oak leaves, blue flashes into violet, a thin red beam blinking in and out of sight as the ancient monstrosity perfects its aim. Bouncing along the walls of Link’s pounding head now is the sword spirit’s… laughter?

“Is something funny, my lord?” the human almost screams.

He doesn’t wait for an answer. Cover officially blown, Link leaps from the narrow nesting spot that had so briefly sheltered them both, sticking a landing that jolts him from the joints in his ankles to the crook of his jaw. When he raises his head, he finds currents of white rippling through an unblinking eye, his own blood racing in sync. Link circles the metal beast with burning arms, nerves ignited, inflamed with adrenaline and possibly something else.

Well, my beloved Hero, purrs that honeyed voice, if you must know, this turn of events can have one of two results: you will put my superlative make to proper use, or you will crash and burn as penance for your own stupidity. Either outcome is satisfactory in my eyes.

Suppressing an eyeroll, the Hylian secures his grip with both hands. It takes no small effort, lifting a weapon much larger than himself, but he manages to angle the blade into a high block. The tip plants into the dirt, its wielder meticulously following the guardian’s searing gaze-

-its eye flashes white-

-a low clink chimes fierce in his ears, and Link’s arms move on their own. Divine light, tainted with malice, rattles his bones, pulsing through his hands to his shoulders – and in an icelike explosion, the corrupted mass vanishes, felled by its own flame.

Corroded metal drops into the grass, otherworldly heat leaving a visible char. The silence that follows is eerie, but short-lived. Within seconds, the birds have resumed their meek bouts of chatter, as though nothing out of the ordinary had occurred.

Not a moment more before diamonds dance silver from the treetops, flitting from the leaves like so many drops of summer rain. They cascade according to the patterns of the breeze, a pleasant warmth on one’s face taking visual form. No obligation precedes this lavish display, prolonged with such blatancy. Still, Link doesn’t complain, rather admiring the surreal exhibition as the pieces of starlight gather, at last, where the guardian had stood mere seconds ago.

The pale demon’s towering frame, thin strands glistening like moonlight even beneath the afternoon sun, never fails to stun. Leather claps thunderously against leather as he showers the young Hylian in slow, sardonic applause, a wry smile playing on white lips.

Chest heaving, Link props the massive sword against his shoulder, lessening some of the strain on his tired muscles.

“Thank you, Ghirahim,” he chirps sweetly, pressing a blushing cheek against the leather-wrapped hilt.

“Honestly, Link,” the demon sighs, accentuating with an exaggerated flip of his hair, “one day you may find I’ve simply left you to time these maneuvers all on your own! Sink or swim, as it were.”

There’s nothing accidental about the way the man is tilting his hips, nor did he forget to don the mantle that typically covers those skintight garments. Once upon a time, Link would have reprimanded Ghirahim for such immodest behavior. Anymore, though, he’s simply learned to roll with it, now running his gaze brazenly over that scarcely-concealed, ashen form.

For once, sword spirit’s shameless preening cuts itself short.

“Come along then, little hero,” he croons, initiating their (hopefully brief) uphill trek. “The sooner we get this trial of yours over with, the better.”

---

The sky hangs differently over the Forest of Spirits, as though beheld through a thin tapestry woven by the gods themselves. Even whilst strewn through dawn’s pastels, the heavens grin immaculately, infinite glittering teeth flaunted proudly upon their admirers.

Of course, only one is awake to enjoy it at the moment.

Fireflies lilt through the treeline while the more raucous insects conclude their nightly symphony. Encircling the odd pair’s meager campsite chitter all manner of fauna, some species more docile than others, yet the clearing remains as safe a resting place as any: not too cumbersome a hike from their most recently discovered shrine, and not crawling with guardian filth. No, the greatest ‘threats’ prowling about here would be the ugly red hides of the Boko clans, frail as dried twigs and not half as clever.

Then again, any beast can prove deadly to the unconscious, presenting the necessity for a constant lookout – and who better than one who requires very little sleep to begin with? Yes, that’s why Ghirahim is so inclined to remain awake, eyes ever glued to the sun-kissed frame huddled beneath their weighty pile of blankets; why he so closely monitors the young man’s breathing, the gentle rise and fall of his naked chest peeking shyly through the covers, comfortably exposed to the cool morning air; why he strokes soft patterns along tangles matted against their shared pillow, flawlessly tousled into a golden mess.

The contradiction that is the Hylian Champion ever occupies the demon’s mind: a fearsome soldier whilst on his feet, possessing no less than the strength of ten of his kind; yet when lain on his back (or, better still, sunken to his knees), so meek and submissive, he proves time and time again somehow greater a force of nature. Even now, slumbering soundly by his companion’s side, lean muscle ripples gently beneath smooth, lightly tanned skin, every curve marked with colorful variations. It stands to reason, thinks the demon, that he ought to examine each for possible injury…

And so, tentatively, he begins peeling layer after layer from the sleeping human, careful not to bare any skin much lower than the waist. Propped as he is, Ghirahim maintains a thorough view, ranging from the top of Link’s golden head to the gentle curve of his hips. Grey, slender fingers ghost over varying paths: a clean slice just shy of the youth’s hairline, its origins hailing from childhood; a soft patch of yellow-green upon his collarbone, where a Moblin had recently landed a well-aimed kick; deep purple splotches along his nape, their cause far more, hm, pleasant; crimson hairlines, speckled along his left arm, that have since scabbed into a deep maroon, a result of having tumbled from the back of an untamed horse. With each gentle touch of claws upon skin, heat pools inexplicably in Ghirahim’s core, until he can almost hear the light crackle of flying sparks.

Arguably more intriguing is the white, sinewy pattern zagging across the young Hero’s ribs, slithering predatorily from the shadows beneath their quilts. Though lost almost entirely to the artful canvas of Link’s body, Ghirahim exercises special care, quickly finding himself fallen captive to a harping sense of nostalgia-

Oh.

As if to punctuate this rearing epiphany, a shudder runs through Link, the gooseflesh pricking his arms at once becoming visible. How easy it is, he observes, whilst succumbing to the lure of ancient memories, to forget that this incarnation is much lighter a sleeper than-

No.

Perish the thought.

He wills it to drown in blue eyes, not like ocean waves so much as slivers of luminous stone. They gradually peek through heavy lids, only to fall shut at twice the pace. As they do, the Hylian rolls stiffly into the other’s chest, groaning softly. He pulls Ghirahim closer, lush lips brushing bare pectorals.

“See anything you like?” he breathes, groggily, into warm cinder skin.

Prides swells momentarily within Ghirahim’s core – surely, the lad’s sharpened wit can only be credited to the spirit’s own tutelage – but is soon swept away by the blithe current of emotion ebbing from that silvery scar. It extends rather stylishly over the younger man’s side, tapering off towards a smooth, sunbathed spine.

“This bearing is aged,” the demon muses aloud, tracing the jagged elevations. What was once a spark fades to an ember. “It would appear to have been acquired prior to the beginning of our partnership. Why, it almost looks as if-”

He stops himself short, afraid to allow his mind to finish the thought – much less his mouth.

The Hylian Champion, lax as his body would seem, maintains a tenuously sharp sense of alertness. “It’s just a birthmark,” he sighs. “There’s no story.”

‘No story.’

Palled lips nuzzle strands knotted and coarse. “Oh, my dear Link,” purrs Ghirahim, breathing in the scent of campfire and crushed leaves and singed grass and clouds. “There is no such thing as ‘just a birthmark.’”

His reflection falls on deaf ears, the little Hylian surrendering once more to sleep’s siren. Sinking wistfully lower onto their downy spread, Ghirahim allows himself to cater to his own oncoming weariness, gingerly carding through Link’s tangles until rest should overtake them both.

Would that you knew…

… sky child.

#ghiralink #ghiralink week 2022 #skyward sword #breath of the wild #botw #botw link #ghirahim #legend of zelda #tloz

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plush-rabbit · 4 years ago

Text

Fugitives

Word Count: 6.6K

A/N: Diavolo has been on my mind lately and I want to take him out on a date

Summary: Just a nice, little day/night day with Diavolo

The Royal Academy of Diavolo looms heavily behind you, the book on your lap is opened, the pages still as the wind has died long ago. You stare at the foreign words, your head still fuzzy and beginning to hurt no matter how long you’ve stared at the words. You’re beginning to believe that the words on the page are part of some elaborate joke that any of the brothers or Solomon have failed to inform you of. The only thing that wrecks that thought is that you’re sure that the angels would have told you something by now.

The stone bench that you rest on is cold, a moss-like substance that creeps around the legs of the bench. The stone once light, ordained with intricate designs that you can never quite follow with your eyes, turns darker, the designs now eroded over time, are still ever present and you think that it might be some sort of demon magic. You frown at your thought and shake your head. Of course it would be demon magic.

Your finger grazes along the page of the book, sticky notes are bright against the paper, your notes written in ink that try to simplify the words You stare at the page, the words blurring together as your mind begins to wander. The moon looms overhead in a kaleidoscope of colors, illuminating the sky and shining onto you.

“You seem troubled,” a voice speaks beside your ear, breath warm and smelling of something sweet.

You jump, snapping the book shut and turning your body to make room from you the unknown stranger. You have a face riddled with horror, your body aflame and you begin to call the name of a brother, the book held tightly in your grasp until you meet the eyes of Lord Diavolo.

You breathe rapidly and his face, one that was no doubt held a pleasant smile falls. He waves his hands in front of him, apology spewing rapidly from lips and it takes a moment to recollect yourself. “Ah,” you smile nervously, wide and strained, “Lord Diavolo, hi.” your smile falls when his smile does and he stands straighter, blocking the rays of the moon from hitting you. “I- It’s my bad. I wasn’t- I should have been paying attention.”

His smile returns and it’s softer, almost pained, his eyes refusing to meet yours. “I’m sure I’ve made it a point that you nor the other exchange students have to refer me as-” he raises his fingers to make air quotations- “‘Lord Diavolo.’”

You chuckle nervously, tension light in the air but still making your face flush and legs bounce nervously. “Yeah, but if I don’t, Lucifer might pop a vein or kill me.” You tilt your head and shrug your shoulders. “It’s kind of his entire thing. You know-” you look at the soon-to-be king and smile politely at him- “rules and all.” The book is still held tightly in your hand and you look down at the cover, clicking your tongue before placing the book inside your bag. “I- uh. School is about to start, right?” You give a quick glance to the demon who continues to stare at you. His expression is quizzical, a furrow between his brows and lips pursed. “Lord- I mean, Diavolo?”

He breaks out of it quickly and you stand, a strap of your backpack sliding over your shoulder, the weight of it pressing into your shoulder. “How are you doing with the curriculum? I’m sure it’s much more different than what you’re used to.” He speaks slowly, testing each word on his tongue as if this- the interaction, the words and all, are new. He catches your guarded expression and adjusts himself. “It’s just that you looked troubled. What was that term that you humans use? A nickel for your thoughts?”

You smile and let out a soft chuckle. “Penny,” you correct. “A penny for your thoughts.”

“Penny,” he repeats. His eyes are on you and they burn. His gaze is strong and you come to realize that this is the few times that you’ve ever had a proper interaction with the Lord. It’s always been interrupted, always filled with the presence of others. Always stiff and formal. “A penny for your thoughts?”

Your hand tightens on the strap of the bag. You glance to the side, unable to decide if you can really worry him with such feeble troubles. You’re sure that he would listen to you, that he would take every word with caution and care, that he wouldn’t dismiss you so quickly. You wet your lips, your teeth grazing against your bottom lip and you think you can hear the voices of Lucifer and Barbatos lingering against a corridor.

You look back to Lord Diavolo and once more to the side. “Hey, uh-” he tilts his head, taking half a step towards you- “do you have anything important to do today?”

He shakes his head no. “Only review papers but when you have Barbatos as a friend, well, that can be done at any time.” His smile stretches, humor laced into his words. “Why? Were you hoping to join?” He almost sounds hopeful and it makes an awful twist at your stomach appear.

“I-” the knot in your stomach pulls taut and you glance up at him- “I was wondering if you wanted to go get something to eat. Like now? Like Akudonald’s or something.”

He brightens immediately. “Really? I’ve been meaning to try it but Barbatos has never been a fan of that type of food and Lucifer always denies going out.” His smile tightens and he looks down at the ground. “Something about being too busy,” he mutters, his eyes returning to yours after a moment. Your heart aches for the Demon Lord and your bag feels heavy. You take a step toward him, the stone of the bench scratching against your pants and he's quick to take your hand into his. As if also knowing what lies beyond a corner- because how could he not with senses like his- he pulls on you quickly, already turning around, hand in hand, ignoring the stray looks of demons and others alike.

Designer shoes click against the concrete, sullying the heel and making sharp noises while your worn shoes slap against the concrete, your body desperately trying to catch up towards his. A strong, heavy hand holds you tightly and you can feel just how fragile you are in his hand. You struggle for breath and soon you are crossing grass, ruining the impeccable lawn under footsteps and slowly, the reality of what you are doing sets in. You laugh, squeezing your hand in his, ignoring the way that your bag hits against your back in an almost painful manner. You’re laughing as you begin to ditch school to go with a prince to a fast food chain.

As if your laughter is infectious, he begins laughing as well, pulling you closer until the ground is nonexistent, the wind harsh against you and you’re struggling to keep up. It’s painful, an awful pain that you know will leave you sore, that will make you regret ever moving. But it’s fun. It’s freeing to just run hand in hand, to ditch school and laugh and for a moment, the worry of school and assignments, leaves you as you run with Diavolo though the school grounds. Never one to break rules- at least not under the watchful eye of Lucifer and the brothers- this is freeing, allowing yourself to break free from the tight hold they have on you and go and explore- even if it is just a simple lunch.

Grass turns into pavement, the pace slows down and your feet hurt, stinging above the harsh pavement. You’re doubled over, hands on your knees as you try to breath through your gasps. Your laughter is breathless, wheezing as you rise and let out a shaky laugh, lungs burning and mouth dry. You stare up at him, your body warm as he gives you a smile, not even the slightest hint of sweat on his brow and you scoff. The school blazer feels tight on your body, the dress shirt underneath sticking to your body and when you turn back, the school is far from where you both stand.

“Not tired?” You ask, rising, rolling your shoulders and adjusting your bag. He shakes his head no. “Figures- demon stamina and all,” you add when he gives you a quizzical look. “Anyways, now that we’ve escaped school, we’re technically fugitives.”

He laughs at your comment and you can feel pride swell in your chest. You’ve always been a fan of making people laugh, to hear them enjoy a joke- it’s something you take great pleasure in. “Fugitives, huh?” He looms above you, broad shoulders and piercing eyes that seem to glow under the moonlight and yet his laugh is loud and joyous, brash and full of something sweet. “I’ve never been a fugitive before. What does that entail?”

You smile at him and take a step closer to him, running a clammy hand through the ends of your hair. “Well Diavolo, that means we can do whatever we want-” you raise a finger and your smile narrows, turning kittenish, a slit of your teeth peeking between your lips- “so long as we don’t get caught.” You point your finger at him, your smile growing. “It’ll be fun, I promise! We can do whatever you want to do and-”

“You know-” he leas down, face relaxed, a slow smile appearing on his face- “as future king, I can technically do what I want without consequences.”

Your smile falls. You hadn’t thought of that. Perhaps you’ve been spending too much time with the others, so used to having to sneak around and keep secrets that you’ve failed to realize that you are standing on the outskirts of school with the future king. You open your mouth, ready to apologize for wasting his time or for- for something. Heat rises to your face- this was a horrible, impulsive idea.

You fail to realize the worry that crosses the future king’s face as your own expression falls. He can sense something negative brewing inside of you- something anxious and fear riddled and he forces a smile, standing straighter and in an attempt to remedy the situation, he speaks. “But I’ve never played fugitive. You know, if we get to do things that I’m not able to do, well the list will be short. I’ve been dying to try Akudonald’s. Will-” he meets your eyes, and there’s a skip in his chest- “Will you accompany me to Akudonald’s?”

When you smile brightly and nod your head rapidly, he lets out a sigh of relief. He walks beside you, knuckles brushing against each other and despite doing many dangerous acts in the past, this simple act of touching you is enough to send adrenaline spiking throughout his body. He listens to you speak, the way you talk about fast food chains from your realm and he’s delighted to hear about. He loves human culture, he loves the entire enigma that people- that humans- pose and while it might not have been loved at first sight, it was most definitely something at first for him. The young lord was intrigued by you, intrigued by the human that you are, the need to befriend, to stay close to somebody, the need to be alive and the excitement that shines in your eyes through the simplest things. It was the idea of you that he loved and then as he continued to invade parts of your life and you continued to live your life, to make the forced small talk with him, to laugh at a horrible joke he once read in a book. He knows he feels some type of attraction towards you and whether it’s romantic or a deep sense of platonic, he knows that it’s there and he doesn’t want the feeling to ever leave him.

You talk and you spiral from topic to topic, telling a story fast, speech slurring together and words being stuttered and he listens to you intently. He ignores the eyes on him as he walks through the city, knuckles against yours, trying to ignore the desperate, touch-starved part of him that wants to hold your hand in his. You talk and you talk and he listens until you both stand in the parking lot of the long awaited fast food chain.

“You know-” he pulls his hand away from you and he knits his hands together- “I’ve never been here before.” Something settles in his stomach and he hasn't felt something as intense in so long. He thinks he might die but it doesn’t fit in the schedule that Barbatos has prepared for him.

“Nervous?” Your voice is small and he can only nod. He doesn’t know why and he hopes that you don’t ask. He can hear you hum and he feels so silly. He’s a prince. He shouldn’t be nervous for a meal that won’t even make a scratch in his pocket and yet- “You know,” you voice startles him out of his own thoughts, “I’m always scared of trying new things. Even in the Human Realm. There are things that I won’t try due to how new they are. A lot of people are like that. I- You know-” he can see your reflection look up at him and the way your hand twitches at your side- “when I had to eat fried bat and this one stew with like eyes in it and a tail-” his eyes widen and he interrupts what he’s sure is an encouraging speech.

“Fried-” he frowns. “I was sure I had requested for the brothers to give you human food. Just something to start your adjustment here before you got used to all the food here.”

Your frown is deep and he can’t help but let out a soft laugh. “I-” you tilt your head and roll your lips. “I- You know, they are so lucky that I love them.” You shake your head. “I’m going to abuse my pact power.” His smile widens and he lets out another laugh, louder and enough for him to double over and feel his face flush.

“There are plenty of times where I’ve caught Lucifer doing something-” his eyes dart to the side- “rather something un-Lucifer-like. I’m sure I could send you a few pictures.” His smile is devilish and he enjoys the sound of your laugh.

“If you have any of Lucifer sleeping or in a bathing suit, I’d be extremely grateful.” You leave his side, going to grab the metallic door handle. You turn to him, gesturing with a jerk of your head towards the establishment. “Come on then.”

His steps are quick, walking the few feet that separate the both of you. The door is held open for him, a friendly gesture by you, allowing him to leave the fresh air of outside and enter the restaurant with cold air, the smell of grease faint in the air. He stands beside you, eyes on the menu.

“What are you-”

“I think I might get fried devil chicken and maybe a Little Devil’s Slushy Soda.” You turn to look up at him. “I’ve had one before. You could try the burgers but just remember to ask for no pickles.” His eyes widen and he's looking at you, his mouth parted to ask a question, only to be interrupted when you continue to talk. “You know, I’m surprised that out of all the foods that you have here, the one that Devildom shares with the Human Realm is pickles.”

“I’ll- uh-” he clears his throat and looks back up at the menu- “I’ll get the same as you except for the drink. I think I’ll get an Orange Acid.” He can see you nod in the corner of his eyes. “Should we-”

“I invited you out, I’ll pay.” You move to the front of the register and he’s quick to clear his throat and stand before you, taking in the attention of the attendant, eyes wide and a flicker of their tail, the slightest hint of fear emanating off of them. “Dia?”

His smile widens at the nickname. “Nonsense-” he turns his head towards you- “you’ve already invited me for a day out, the least I could do to repay you is pay for a simple meal.” His smile is sharp, eager to please as he turns back to the demon worker, their body stiff. “Why don’t you go and find a place to sit? I’ll take the food to you in just a second.” And with that, the prince turns and orders the food, his voice clear and precise, stiff and simple in his words and you can only shrug. You are in no place to argue with him.

You walk to sit at a booth, the bench solid underneath you, the table cold and free of any mess. You sit patiently, your legs bouncing underneath and hands meeting together in an awkward hand hold. It’s only until then that you realize you can remove the bag. Once free, your body is empty, the bag beside you, the blazer on your body scratching at your neck and you’re quick to remove it and stuff it unceremoniously inside your bag. You roll the sleeve of your dress shirt, adjust the collar and lean against the back of the bench, looking up and smiling when Diavolo holds a tray of food, the drinks carried by another worker with pale skin, ears pointed and lowered in an almost fearful way.

Diavolo sits in front of you, the plastic tray clicking against the table and the drinks are lowered, onto the table. The demon speaks lowly under their breath and gives a small bow before turning around and leaving the both of you to your meal. You give a roll of your eyes before turning around and grabbing at the small carrier box that holds your food. You pull your drink closer, the heaviness of it inside and pop your straw. Diavolo follows suit and takes a careful bite from his own chicken.

Even as he eats, he’s proper, holding the chicken with a plastic fork, taking careful bites. Granted you do the same, but only because the seasoning of it would burn your hands. How it doesn’t burn your mouth, you have no idea.

It’s quiet, the only sounds exchanged from between the both of you are the crunching of the chicken and the slurps from the drinks. It’s all so awkward. “So,” you start, bringing the straw to your pursed lips, the cold drink heavy on your tongue, “how come you don’t just come here on your own? Like without Barbatos or Lucifer? You are the future king-” your eyes trail on the condensation that lingers on your thumb- “I don’t understand why you have to wait for others permission.”

He’s quiet for a moment, his hands still, the food untouched and when you look up at him, you wonder if you’ve insulted him in some sort of way.

You frown, taking the final bite from your chicken. “I didn’t mean anything bad by it. I was-”

“No, no,” he’s quick to say, giving you a wave of his hand. “I understand. I-” he furrows his brows and his jaw gives the faintest twitch- “I am allowed to do what I please but I suppose I would rather not do things alone.” The silence lingers for a second after his statement before clearing his throat and returning to eat. “You know-” he places his hand in front of his mouth and talks- “I’m glad that I was able to try this. It’s actually quite good. You’ve had this before?”

You nod. “Yeah, I come here with Mammon or Levi. Beel likes it here too but the servings aren’t quite what he’s used to so he goes to Hell’s Kitchen.” Your foot begins to tap, your hand going to hold the drink as you pull it close, narrowing your eyes when the condensation outside of the drink drips onto your pants. “Neither of the others like it. Solo prefers to cook his own food-” you smile when Diavolo grimaces at the mention of the sorcerer's food- “and Simeon doesn’t want Luke to eat too much fast food. Which I’m confused by since I always assumed Angels never really faced any consequences of what they ate. They’re like ethereal-” you gesture with your drink, pointing it towards the demon across from you- “cholesterol shouldn’t be a thing with them.”

He smiles softly and shakes his head, putting down the plastic utensils, grabbing a napkin to clean his hands. “It’s not about cholesterol.” The drink is bitter against his tongue. “It’s more about sin and all that. Temperance playing part to not overstuff yourself, the avoidance of gluttony and taking what you want in excess. Angels are very particular about those sorts of things. You must have taken notice how Luke always offers the first batch to anyone else but him, how he gives and refuses to eat more unless offered or split with someone else.” Diavolo smiles at you, it’s tight, not quite reaching his eyes and there’s a feeling inside of you to press further. “While Luke is quite a good angel, he’s still young. He can be easily swayed with just the right words. Simeon is merely protecting the young one.” He fails to realize the heaviness of the conversation, only interested in sharing information with you, taking another sip from his drink and meeting your eyes, which are wide and almost fearful. He smiles gently. “You have nothing to fear. Luke won’t fall, Simeon is an old angel, he’ll take proper care of Luke.” His eyes glance down to your plate. “I’m done. Would you like to leave now?”

“I-” your eyes widen and you take a deep breath, releasing it slowly- “Yeah. Yeah, let’s uh, go.” You rise slowly from the booth, bag in hand and you wait beside the table, watching as he rises from the seat. “You got anything else you want to do? We can go to a store or get a snack?” Diavolo holds the door open for the both of you and you walk beside him, pulling out a bottle of hand sanitizer and cleaning your hands. You hold it out for him and he tilts his head, slowly putting his hands under the nozzle. He mimics your own motions. He brings his hands to his nose and takes a sniff. You smile at the reaction. “It’s peach scented,” you tell him.

“Ah, of course.” He lowers his hands, eyes glancing at your bag that digs into your shoulders. “Would you like for me to hold your bag?”

“Hm? Oh, no, it’s fine. It just has a notebook and my blazer stuffed inside, it’s lighter than it looks.” You smile up at him, waving your hand in front of yourself. “Thank you for the offer, though,” you chirp, pausing for a moment to look at his arm and with a deep breath, you hope what you are deciding to do is something that you are allowed to do. You link your arm with his, holding your own hand and he bends his arm, holding his hand in his, keeping his pace slow to have you beside him.

“Do you think we can stop by Madam Scream’s? I’ve been dying to try the skeletal muffins. I heard they have quite an exquisite taste, something akin to eating a soul if I heard correctly. But then again, nothing tastes quite as good as the real thing.” He looks down at you eagerly, his smile wide and a bounce in his step. “What do you say?”

“You’ve-” you furrow your brows. “I- Of course. I’ve been meaning to try to coffin cookies that they have there but,” you hesitate and purse your lips, “souls?” You look up at him. “You’ve eaten souls before?”

He blinks owlishly at you, only to realize what exactly he said and to who. He clears his throat, a nervous smile on his lips as he corrects himself. “Old souls, of course. Hell can get a bit too packed every once in a while so there’s often a day reserved to let demons and others alike to a- how should I put it? Go hunting?” Even he sounds unsure of his wording. Worry knots in your stomach and it must be evident across your face. “You mustn't worry. I have you and the others under protection. No one will harvest your soul anytime soon.”

You click your tongue against the roof of your mouth, slightly relieved but also slightly horrified that that was an actual fear that had never occurred to you before. “I- Thanks Dia-” your hand pats against your other. “Thanks for the clarification.”

“Of course!” His tone is back to his chipper self. “I’m doing my best to keep you happy while you spend your time here. I’m hoping that as time goes on, your voice will prove useful in how humans interact with us demons. I’m quite aware of the-” he pauses for a moment- “reputation that us demons have gathered. But I’m positive with you and Solomon here- along with Simeon and Luke- that that can all change, so if you ever need anything else, please feel free to recommend things to either Barbatos or I.”

“You know-” you look up at him, and he tilts his head downward, his eyes a shimmering gold that under the moonlight of the sky, seem to dance with hints of honey and intense devotion as they hold your gaze, only to look away after a second- “sometimes I feel intimidated by everything around here.” You can feel his attention return to you, and you look forward, ignoring the stares of the wandering demons, tightening your hold around him ever so slightly. “Shocker, I know,” you smile sarcastically, letting it fall for a moment afterwards. “But Devildom is so big, I feel like I haven’t explored it in full ever since I’ve been here. If I do have to recommend something to you Lord-”

“Diavolo,” he reminds you, his hand tightening around his own, eyes glancing down to yours, meeting your eyes for a moment that makes him unable to breathe. “Dia is also fine,” he mutters. “I quite like the nickname.”

You smile up at him and he’s drowning, digging his nails into the back of his hand, trying to resist the urge to cover your hand with his. He’s unsure where the line of the friendship is drawn, where the friendship can begin without worry or fear. You’ve taken the first step with linking arms and he is unable to do anything more than just stare occasionally at you and let worry nip at him.

“Dia,” you correct yourself. “If I’m able to recommend something to you Dia- Oh!” You press yourself closer to him when a demon walks too closely- something bold and an act of defiance to you or to him- he isn’t sure, but he’s sure he’ll remember the smug face. He’s sure he’ll remember the way you smell of orange blossom and lilac. “As I was saying. Dia if I could make a suggestion, it would be that-” you arm tightens around his- “we can spend a bit more time together. You always seem so busy and I- I know that we aren’t exactly close but you still offer the castle as a safe haven for me and I would appreciate knowing you a bit better before wanting to take advantage of your hospitality.” Your fingers dance against the side of his elbow, pulling against his coat jacket. Your breaths are shallow, your heart beating quickly and he can smell the nerves on you. He allows himself to feel a bit of joy in knowing that he can give you the type of feelings that you give to him.

Your arms leave his when you approach the bakery and he already misses your touch. “Of course, we can.” He watches himself in the reflection, trying to find a flaw in his appearance but unable to. “Whenever you wish to spend time with me, just send me a message.” His hand holds the beautifully crafted door handle and he turns to look at you. “I’ll drop whatever I’m doing if it means we can another day like this.” And with that, he opens the door, allowing you to enter, followed closely by him, his hand ghosting over your lower back as he nudges you inside the bakery that smells sweetly of death and bitter with the scent of candy.

You sit on a worn, stone bench. The rock faded and pale, the designs once intricate now nothing more than grooves along your fingertips. Beside you, Diavolo sits, his thigh against yours, a careful maneuver as he hands you your own treat, and carefully holds his in his hand.

It’s quiet as you both eat your sweets, the moon high against the sky, the colors now different in the sky, darker and cooler, the stars brighter, against the sky. The fountain in front of you is monotonous, the same design spat from the nozzles and splashing against the water on the lower level. Demons pass by, groups walking together, singular demons walking across the small park, and there’s a heaviness that sweeps across your body. Something so bitter and making your throat tight, the cookie, once sweet, is now bitter on your tongue and you hold the box on your lap, the cookie forced down your throat by your own hand, as tears prick your eyes. You swallow the cookie with a heavy feeling, holding the box in your hands, nails digging into the cardboard.

“It’s late,” you mutter, looking at the splashing water. “I’m surprised Barbatos hasn’t contacted you by now.”

“I put my D.D.D. on silent.” You can feel his eyes on you. There’s a soft crunching from him, the tension thick in the air. “I’m surprised you haven’t been contacted by the brothers either.”

You shrug. “I think they knew that I wasn’t feeling well. They must think I’m with Solomon and the others.” You turn to him, your fingertips nudging open the box of sweets. “Would you like a cookie?” You grab one, an oddly perfect circle, fingers pinched around it carefully as you offer it Diavolo. “They’re really good. A bit sweet and soft.” Your eyes soften. “Oddly enough, it reminds me of a chocolate chip cookie without the chocolate or chip.”

He takes the treat from you, bringing it to his lips and taking a bite from it, crumbs against his lower lip until his tongue peeks out and swipes it away. “Penny for your thoughts?” He takes notice of how your smile falters and then returns, the almost stiff, forced way that the corners of your lips turn and it leaves him with a sense of dread.

You turn from him, looking back at the fountain, the number of people slowly dwindling as time continues. “I have to be honest Lord Diavolo-” he frowns at the usage of his title- “the reason I invited you out was because I didn’t want to go to class. I-” you take a deep breath and in turn, exhale for a moment too long- “I just wanted to say sorry. For you know-” you look back at him shameful- “using you, I guess.”

It’s silent for just a second before he lets out a quiet laugh, shaking his head and placing the cookie down on the lid of the muffin container. He can feel your leg jerk against his and he waves his hand, eyes shut tightly as his snickering comes to a slow stop, only a few bursts breaking through. “I have to say, I’m surprised you’re still an honest person even after living with demons for so long.” His smile, playful and sharp, turns softer, teeth glinting between his parted lips. “That’s something I admire strongly about you humans- how resilient you are.” He’s slow to place the unfinished treat inside the container of muffins. The box clicks and scratches, the treat placed where a muffin lies and he pauses for a moment before carefully grabbing on in his hand, gentle to pick up the baked treat in his hand, before gesturing it towards you. He gives a nod of his head, prompting you to take it. When you take it, your fingertips brush against his and he’s almost remorseful to let go. “Truth be told, I had an inkling of a thought that’s why you invited me out. You seemed troubled in the courtyard when I had approached you.” He watches as you take a careful bite, your lips parted against the rounded top before coming to a soft close. “I also must admit that I had taken advantage of that. Rather than talking to you and your avoidance of class, I had taken an opportunity to go out and spend time with you.” Your gaze on him pushes him to continue further. “You see, I have wanted to go to Akudonald’s for some time now and not many others do and I don’t get along with the other brothers as well as I do with Lucifer. Solomon is rather particular about the food that he eats and Simeon and Luke prefer to not go out to eat fast food unless it’s a special occasion-” he glances at you- “sin and all. But you- I-” he sighs and looks at the fountain that you once stared at- “Everyone else gets to be your friend, everyone else gets to spend time with you and I suppose when I saw you alone and troubled, I took advantage of that.” He scratches his neck, nails pulling against the sensitive skin and his chest feels tight.

Your container opens and he watches you carefully place the unfinished treat inside. It’s a tight fit but it’s placed inside. “I guess,” you start, edging closer to him, letting your thigh rest against his once more, “we’re both guilty fugitives.” You smile at him, your hands slowly creeping towards him, your fingertips light on his burning skin, and he’s swallowing nervously, turning his hand to allow you to thread your fingers into his hand.

“I don’t think we’re cut out for this fugitive lifestyle,” he murmurs, golden eyes glued to how your hand fits into his.

“I think we are,” your fingertips ghost above his knuckles and with a gentle pull, you both rise. “We just happen to be fugitives with feelings- guilty feelings.” You smile up at him, and despite only ever knowing an artificial sun, he’s sure that you smile is the one brighter, something warm and forgiving, understanding to love and quick to accept. He’s sure that your smile is the closest he’ll get to sunlight itself. “You okay with the hand holding? I-” you bite your bottom lip, letting it roll between your teeth and he squeezes your hand tighter, leaving pale imprints on your skin- “I like holding hands.”

His smile widens and he nods vigorously. “I don’t mind it. I’m actually quite happy to hold your hand.” He’s still for a moment, standing before the bench. Carefully, he goes to hold the box in your hands, placing it in his hands, above his own box. “It’s a bit late into the evening, as much as I have enjoyed our time together-” he walks forward, pulling lightly on your hand- “I should return you back to the House of Lamentation.”

He calls your name softly, a whisper from him that you have never heard of from the jovial demon that stands beside you, hands interlaced together. “I really did enjoy our time together today. I-” he pauses for a moment, gripping your hand a bit tighter- “I had fun. I hope we can do this again. You know,” his voice tenses for a moment, “hang out.” Words stick and die in his throat. There’s so much more that he wishes to imply with those few words. A future king and he’s worried of how he might come off. A bitter smile graces his face, his face flushing and he’s grateful that the moon above isn’t as bright as the others.

“I’d like to hang out with you as well,” you reply, edging closer to him, until your arms brush by each other. “I think for the next time-” your thumbs brushes against his hand, leaving him shivering in its wake, a phantom touch unlike any that he’s known before, makes him warm and cold all at once- “we can explore a bit more of Devildom. If you’d like to, of course.”

Eager as always, his reply comes quickly, heart on his sleeve and emotion evident on his words. “Of course, I would. You name the time and place. I’ll drop whatever I’m doing for you.” He’d do whatever you would want him to, pact or no pact, he’d get on his knees and cup your face in his hands, giving you whatever you desired if it meant you could still be with him. “I mean it, you know. You mustn’t worry if you’re bothering me.”

The gates to the House of Lamentation creak open, the cobbled floor beneath you is rough and scraped from years of use. The trees loom overhead, branches casting shadows that give you an excuse to hold tighter onto him. The walk is silent, hands held, words spoken and shared, and when you stop in front of the door, shadows dance underneath. You hold his hand, unable to let go, wanting to hold it for a moment longer before you part. Inside you can hear muffled voices, and with a heavy sigh, he lets go before you. The box of sweets is placed in your empty hands, and you look up at him, eyes wide and lips parted. The moonlight that shines onto him makes him appear that much more otherworldly. His tongue wets his lips and you can feel your breath shudder in your chest.

He lowers himself, pushing away stray hair from your forehead, lips soft on your burning skin as he presses a feather of a kiss onto you. Your body stiffens and when he pulls away, his smile is almost sad. He turns and he’s barely down a step when you choke out his name. On the other side of the door, the voices cease. He turns to you, and you grab his hand, looking at him for a brief second, royal eyes that are heavy with the glow of hesitation stare at your hand that grabs his. His gaze doesn’t falter as the palm of his hand is pressed against your lips. He lets his hand fall to his side, watching as you give him a goodbye, telling him to message you when he’s gotten home- having him nod his head in a promise and you enter your home, leaving him standing under the pale light of the moon, his hand rising, and with his palm slowly cupping over his mouth, his lips pressing gently against where you kissed him, he walks home.

#diavolo headcanons #shall we date diavolo #diavolo swd #obey me #shall we date #obey me shall we date #obey me diavolo #obey me diavolo headcanons #diavolo x y/n #diavolo x mc #diavolo obey me #its been a while since i wrote a fic #ahh #hope you like it!!

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litfeathers · 2 years ago

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Well, here is a surprise to celebrate season three: I decided to record a scene from my Caleb/Wittewife fic, Damnation!

The music: Jigs: Eavesdropper's/Both Meat & Drink/Off We Go by Great Big Sea.

The fantastic album art was drawn by @magicwormonastring. It's part of a set they drew special for this fic! The set is absolutely phenomenal and you can find it here!

The dialogue is under the cut if you'd like to follow along!

Enjoy! 🪵🔥

PS Major apologies for my Caleb voice lol.

--------

Caleb would always remember the first time he ever danced.

It had been around a bonfire, at a party hosted by an older gentleman who had agreed to sell some of Caleb's better carvings in his shop. There was music, and merriment, and brightness, and feasting, and noise, and he had almost had to leave several times due to the sensory overload.

A young witch had taken pity on him, and dragged him towards the dance floor, ignoring his feeble grunt of protest.

“Oh, you are the human Father told me about!” she said, finally noticing his round ears. She flipped one of her long, red braids over her shoulder and grinned carelessly. “You look lonely. And lost.”

“I am neither!”

“Well, what are you then?”

“Independent and omniscient!”

She cackled, a warbling piercing shriek that made Caleb practically jump out of his new boots.

“Oh Titan, you’ve only said six words to me and I like you already.”

For one of the only times in his life, Caleb didn’t have a quick retort.

“So, Father failed to tell me your name. Mind giving it to me yourself?” She asked, staring up at him through thick eyelashes.

His heart skipped a beat.

“Caleb,” he finally said, sticking out his hand awkwardly. “Caleb Wittebane.”

“Right. We’re closing in on ten words, and I’m still invested,” she said, staring at his hand curiously. “Hmm.”

“Oh! That isn’t a…thing you do,” Caleb said, retracting his hand in a hurry. “My apologies, I forgot-“

“No, please show me if you have a strange human gesture you would like to perform!” the witch said, her green eyes glowing in the firelight. “I’m intrigued.”

“Oh, well, it’s…shaking hands? You…you hold your hand out and we shake them together.”

He stuck out his hand again.

The witch copied his movements, and allowed him to grasp her hand and give it a quick shake.

“It’s a greeting,” Caleb explained.

“Ahh! Human greetings! Fascinating!”

Her eyes twinkled.

“Do humans dance?” she asked.

“Oh…I…not the group of humans I belong to. We don’t. Dance, I mean.”

“Why ever not?”

“We…are not allowed.”

“Not allowed? Are you serious?”

She made a show of looking all over the party, shielding her eyes with her hand like she was peering from a crow’s nest on a pirate ship.

“Well, Caleb Wittebane. I don’t see any other humans here. And I’m assuming other humans are the source of that rule. Soooooo…”

She grabbed his hand and struck a pose, her cloak and skirt swinging around her small frame.

“I think if you would like to dance, no one will catch you. And I’ll certainly never tell on you.”

She winked.

“Hazel Clawthorne. Figured you should probably know the name of your dance partner for tonight.”

Caleb, almost in a trance, allowed her to drag him the rest of the way to the dance floor.

He started copying her sweeping, energetic movements to the best of his ability, and the music started to pulse through every vein of his body, and the fire threw looming shadows over the trees, and and before he knew it, he was twirling her and losing himself completely in the frenzy of sound and movement.

“I am cavorting in front of a bonfire with a witch,” Caleb thought faintly. “Does that make me a witch, too?”

He had the time of his life.

#Caleb Wittebane #Wittewife #The Owl House #this makes me want to find a Caleb so i can actually record a proper scene with them 👀#Wait is this my voice reveal on this blog? I think it is!#Witteclaw

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imagine-darksiders · 4 years ago

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Just like. Head canons. For our lovely Dad Guys. Whoever you want. Whatever you want. I don’t care. Just. The Fluff Beast. 😫 Getting too strong...! Help! (I’m sorry 😂 Seriously, just do whatever you want. It’ll be beautiful and I’ll love it regardless)

Well, I’ve had this little Eidad fic on the back burner for a while now, sitting in my drafts and not doing a while lot. This seems like a good time to post it <3 <3 <3

It’s a sick fic. Nothing too drastic, just an old maker getting worried about his human friend.

---

Eideard has always been an especially unflappable maker, a trait that tends to come with the territory of being the village elder.

He never gets flustered, and he always maintains the poise and composure expected of him.

Unless, of course, one of his fellow makers is under threat. Only then, by his own admission, does decorum fly out of the proverbial window and little else but worry takes over him, mind, body and soul.

Recently, he's come to discover that the same rule applies to a very specific, little human.

----

“I'm cold.”

That ought to have been their first clue.

You're sitting in the maker's forge, seemingly content to remain still and quiet beside the roaring fire whilst Alya and her brother, Valus, are hard at work at their anvil.

“Cold?” the former twin laughs incredulously, glancing up from the sword she's forging to turn and fix you with a raised brow, “You're sittin' close enough to that fire!”

Her brother though, always the more perceptive of the siblings, ambles around her and makes his way towards you, tugging at the green cowl that sits around his neck. You may be vastly smaller than him, but even behind that visor, he can see the shivers you're trying to suppress. Blinking, you watch him as he bends onto one knee in front of you and holds his treasured garment out, uttering a low, almost undetectable whine.

“I'm okay, big guy,” you murmur, sounding far from it, “Think I've just got a bit of a chill.”

At that, Valus doesn't wait for you to reach up and take the cowl from his grasp and instead, with a huff, he leans forward to drape it around your shoulders, his thick fingers tucking it up underneath you as carefully as he can. Once he's finished, he sits back on his haunches to inspect you, satisfied when you snuggle further into the fabric and give him a shy smile.

“Thanks.”

Pacified, the burly maker returns your smile with a nod and pushes himself onto his feet, turning back to his sister and the anvil.

With their attention elsewhere, you allow your smile to fade, burying your face into Valus's scarf.

You're loathe to tell them the whole truth, that accompanying your chills is a raw throat that feels as though it's been rubbed tender by sandpaper, and an ache in your limbs that only grows worse and worse by the hour.

There's no denying it.

You've come down with something.

At the very least, the makers don't know a lot about human biology, so you're relatively hopeful that you'll be able to pass this off as a mundane occurrence – definitely not anything they should be worrying about.

There is an unspoken rule amongst the giants, one that came about the moment they first laid eyes on you – a small, cowering little thing whose world had been destroyed only a few days prior.

The rule, never spoken aloud, yet understood by all, is that you are a youngling – despite your insistence to the contrary – and younglings are to be protected, especially those who have yet to reach their first century of life.

It also doesn't help that you're a human, and consequently only stand about as high as the makers' knees.

But for as endeared to you as they all are, there are none who are quite so taken as Eideard.

The village Shaman, Muria, speculates that their elder has seen more younglings and friends die off over the centuries than any of them, and thusly, that's where his protective tendencies stem from.

Thane, on the other hand, attests that Eideard has always been enormously tender-hearted, long before grief softened his edges.

If he were to find out that you're sick, you can't imagine he'd take it well.

Bottom line? You'd hate to worry him.

Unfortunately for you, there are some things that can't be kept from a group of watchful makers.

It's impossible to hide glassy eyes, tremors that rattle your whole body and a sudden, explosive sneeze that causes both Alya and Valus to jump out their skin, tools clattering to the stony ground.

“Stone's blood! Bit of warnin' before you go makin' noises like that, please!” Alya exclaims, resting a hand over her heart whilst Valus hurries over to you again.

“It was just a sneeze,” you try to protest, but the forge brother isn't buying it. Without a word, which isn't unusual, he clenches his fists and heaves himself about on a heel, marching purposefully towards the forge's entrance, deaf to his sister calling after him.

“Oi, Valus? Where are you off to?”

It's hardly a surprise that she doesn't get a response.

He disappears through the doors and you share a look with his sister, who hesitantly asks, “You.. sure you're okay?”

The fake smile you plaster on your face is apparently as unconvincing as it feels, judging by the flat look you receive from Alya in response.

A few moments later, the doors swing open once again and your ears pick up two pairs of resounding footsteps thumping through the forge.

Valus appears first, lumbering up the short flight of steps onto the raised dais where he's soon followed by the second maker, a particularly concerned-looking Eideard.

As soon as the elder's pale, grey eyes lock onto you, you slump forwards in defeat, any hope of riding this illness out in privacy now dashed. Of all the makers in Tri Stone, Eideard is the most well-versed in anthropology.

Shooting Valus a glare for his betrayal, you swallow your cough and groan, “Valus, I told you, I’m okay. You didn't need to bother Eideard.”

“I for one, am very glad he did.” From underneath his bushy, furrowed brows, the old maker studies you closely until you duck your head, weighed down by the heaviness of his stare, the whole while, your throat burns with the need to cough. Then, in a blink, his eyes widen again and the fingers clutched around his golden staff turn white as he breathes, “You're sick...”

At once, Alya shoots upright from where she'd been leaning casually against the anvil. “Sick!?” she blurts, her gaze snapping between you and her elder, “Why didn't you say somethin'?!”

“Because!” you argue, hating that Eideard’s face now appears almost twice its age thanks to the worry lines permeating his forehead, “It's not a big de-” As fate would have it, the raw spot at the back of your throat finally chooses its moment, and before you can stop yourself, you're lurching forwards into a vicious cough that burns at the tenderness like acid, bringing tears to your eyes and shame onto your clammy cheeks.

You become vaguely aware of a vast hand coming to rest on your back and fingers that pat you gently until you can catch your breath. Even after you've hacked yourself silly, you push Eideard's silken, blue sleeve away and try to get to your feet, hoping that if they see you standing, they'll be less inclined to fret. But the moment you begin to move, the same hand is cupping around your trembling body and you find yourself being lifted up and nestled against a broad chest by a maker who is wholly undeterred by your feeble resistance.

“I'm not a baby, Eideard!” you complain, trying to wriggle free as the maker presses delicately on your chest, forcing you to lay across his forearm, “Put me down! I can walk just fine.”

“Easy, now. You'll only hurt yourself further if you keep that up,” he rumbles in a tone that's far too gentle for your pride to withstand.

Embarrassed, you wilt down behind his fingers when you hear Alya's stifled giggles, but the old maker doesn't pay her any mind, simply turns away from the anvil and begins to shuffle down the steps, heading for the entrance. Almost immediately, you miss the fire's warmth and Eideard feels your shivers turn violent, his heart seizing at the sound of your teeth chattering together like rapid gunfire.

“You – you're not going outside, are you?” you croak, pulling Valus's cowl up to your neck, “It's freezing!”

“The weather is perfectly mild. You, on the other hand, are burning hotter than forge-fire.”

You open your mouth to protest but find yourself cut off when he continues, “I’ll not have this sickness turning into something worse. We may belong to separate species, but I wasn't born yesterday. A little fresh air will do you some good.”

“Ugh. You sound like my mum.”

His reply comes in the form of an affectionate, rumbling chuckle that you can feel travelling up through his palm and into your bones. Letting out a final huff, you flop backwards and turn limp in his hand.

It isn’t as though you can fight your way out of the Old One's grip, after all. For such an ancient maker, Eideard is powerful, and his age does little to detract from that strength. The meagre resistance you put up is also proven ineffective by the silken softness of the fur trim on his sleeves that you run between your fingers.

Perhaps if you'd been looking at Eideard's expression instead of the doors as he pushes them open, you'd take notice of the disquiet lingering at the edge of his eyes.

He plans on taking you to see Muria in the hopes that she might have a remedy that can alleviate the fever spreading through your delicate body, and, failing that, he will sit with you in the peace of the night air and keep you still and safe until your tremors cease and his old heart stops trying to beat its way out of his ribcage.

You're more than welcome to resent him for this, he muses quietly, but after seeing so many of his people lost to corruption, it isn't such an easy feat to quell the pervasive anxiety that writhes like an impatient, snarling beast in his stomach, and he would much rather endure your resentment if it means keeping you out of harm’s way.

The village elder is supposed to protect his own, and glancing down at you and seeing that you've buried your face into the fabric of his robe to escape the cold, Eideard realises with a sudden surge of paternal drive, that you fall under the scope of those he considers 'his.'

The old maker clutches you possessively against his chest and hurries as well as his tired legs can carry him up towards the Shaman's gazebo, knowing that his soul will never know peace until you’re well once again.

#darksiders #darksiders 2 #Eideard #Eidad #super rushed #sorry #Sick fic #reader #g/t

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