#but i will get back to this point and do justice to Dip once more | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

ruskaroma · 2 years ago

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ordinary, corrupt human love. | chapter 1: written in blood.

Warnings: this series will include highly disturbing/dark topics such as stalking, unhealthy obsession, graphic descriptions of violence, blood and gore, manipulation, gaslighting, large age gap, emotional/psychological abuse, dom/sub undertones, bad BDSM etiquette, etc.

this is a dark fic, written in john's pov and a glimpse of how his mind works. if you still continue to read and get triggered, that is not my responsibility.

Summary: John finds himself a new obsession.

Author's note: this is my first ever fanfic for this fandom and i am beyond excited to share this with you guys! though i must say before you begin, english is not my first language and there might be a few errors in my writing here and there, so i apologize in advance.

but either way, i still hope you enjoy this piece, and i can assure you that once i finish writing this series there will be more to come! i really enjoy writing john wick be a merciless bastard who kills everything that breathes, and i hope you enjoy it too as much as i did.

please, please, PLEASE tell me what you think in the comment and reblogs and likes would be so appreciated. it motivates me to write even more :)

(also this is not edited so all mistakes are on me and i apologize)

Word count: 8.1k

also read on ao3.

It’s one of those days again.

The sound of his watch ticking is the only thing keeping his car from being too quiet. His eyes watch every single movement of his target, never leaving his sight. It won’t be too long for John to finally strike, he just doesn’t want too many civilians seeing the horror that’s about to happen right before their very eyes.

His mind is thinking of many things he could do with this target in particular. A lowlife thug that got himself involved with a very dangerous Italian mob, but then again that’s not the reason why John’s murderous intent is at its peak at the moment.

He’s angry at something, he just doesn’t know what. And this target of his isn’t helping his situation at all. Reading his criminal record made John think this could be a chance to cure his boredom. This man is not only a sex trafficker, but also a pedophile who has a history of targeting teenagers to rape and sell to the black market that’s as fucked up as him.

He doesn’t normally take his time thinking of ways to kill his targets. He points, shoots, leaves. This one in particular though, got him facing a side of him that John himself doesn’t want to face.

He would start by breaking every single one of the man’s fingers. And if that doesn’t do any justice, he’ll cut them off.

One by one, let the man savor the feeling, let John relish the nightmare.

He could slit the man’s throat, watch as life drains away from his body, watch as the man clings to his legs for mercy. John could even pull out the man’s dick, step on it, fucking cut it off and shove it so far down his own throat that he couldn’t scream for help if he tried.

It’s John’s version of Colombian Necktie. A classic, only ever tried it out four times, hopefully this would be the fifth.

John is never the one to take pleasure in killing people, but these past few months have proved him otherwise.

Maybe it’s because of Helen’s death, and the way he was basically forced to sculpt the demons he buried back into himself. His only remaining bit of humanity was taken from him, and he’s coping in the most unhealthy way possible. Perhaps Winston was right about dipping his pinky a little too much into the pond, but it was inevitable.

John has gone back to his old ways. Taking contracts here and there to distract himself from the void in his heart. He remembers how burying a knife into someone’s throat for the first time in many years has ignited something in him he didn’t even know he had.

That’s why he’s here, exiting his car in a swift move, following his target as quietly as possible into a narrow alleyway that stinks of garbage in piss. This would be a nice place to kill a guy like him – right where he belongs.

John’s movements are so discreet the man couldn’t even sense him until John wrapped his right arm around his neck and his other hand went to cover the man’s mouth. He walks them both to the back of a building as the man struggles, where John’s sure no more people are present, and he kicks him on the jaw to stop the man from making any more noises.

John can make this quick. Pull out his gun and blow his brains out. But there’s that sinister glint in his mind that’s telling him to do something unimaginable – grotesque even – a death a man like him deserves.

The man tries to swing his arm at John but misses pathetically. The poor guy’s already shaking and John hasn’t even begun.

John doesn’t respond to the pitiful attempts of questioning who he is and who sent him here, he simply pulls his knife from his pocket and wastes no time slashing it against the man’s throat, the blood spraying all over his face. The man tries to stop it by shakily covering the deep cut with his hand, but it’s useless.

He’s gargling, choking on his own blood, and John’s watching it all unravel with a familiar glint in his eyes.

John is contemplating if he should follow the plan he made in his head or just leave it like this. Somehow, the sight looks rather incomplete to him. He knows what he’s done is not enough, but that could be just the rage talking. The man’s already dead, and surely cutting off his dick and shoving it so far down his throat it comes out of the wound would leave an ugly reputation on his name.

Would that be a good thing? John is already feared enough, would it be a good thing to make people fear him even more? But then again, this won’t be the first time he’s done it. Doing it again one more time wouldn’t make any difference.

He glances down at the dead body on his feet before he kneels down to do the unforgivable.

Slicing off a man’s cock is easy. Too easy. John’s knife is perfectly sharpened and stoned, he merely uses any strength to cut it off. The sight is so fucking ugly, too much blood, but nothing he can’t handle.

Once that’s done, John uses his other hand to force the dead man’s jaw open, immediately greeted by the foul stench of blood as he shoves the unpleasant dick into the man’s open mouth. The genitalia is definitely not long enough to reach the throat, but that won’t be any problem for John.

He grits his teeth as he forces his hand in there, not bothering to care even if the jaw breaks and the hole becomes even wider, his goal is the only thing in his mind.

The blood continues to drip and he has never been so grateful for wearing an all black uniform for this occasion. Soon enough, after a few minutes of such a brutal wrongdoing, John sees the tip of the cock reaching the deep wound on the man’s throat as it continues to peak its way out.

A sick, small smile spreads across John’s face. The smile is barely there, but he’s fucking enjoying this more than he’d like to admit. He can only imagine how the news would spread across the assassin underworld like a wildfire.

The Boogeyman’s back in business and he’s scarier than ever.

Perhaps this might be the way to lay his point across. This is a way to show them that it was not a good idea pissing him off, killing what’s his, and bringing him back in business. They’d regret it, but it would be already too late for that.

John uses his other hand to pull the cock right out of the man’s throat but not completely. Half of it is hanging out and John thinks he could even consider this as a masterpiece. There’d be flies and maggots that would make the scenery better, but the cleaning service is there for a reason. He can’t just not use it.

John stands up from his position, pocketing his knife back into his pocket before retrieving his phone with the other. He dials a number, waits for them to pick up, all while admiring his work on the ground.

His previous contracts these past few months all ended in such an unimaginable, ugly way. He figured that by showing them that he’s capable of such brutality, it would increase the numbers of people calling him in for more jobs, because this is exactly what they wanted. They wanted Baba Yaga, the ruthless killer of the underworld who stops at nothing to finish his job, and he’s simply giving it to them.

Someone picks up the call and he straightens his posture, checking the time on his watch before speaking.

“This is Wick. John Wick, yes. I would like to make a dinner reservation for one.”

The news spread faster than anticipated.

The notorious man John Wick, the hot topic of the criminal underworld at the moment, even gained the attention of The High Table, and it all happened in the span of one day. That’s how quick the news spread amongst his fellow assassins, though that’s exactly what he was going for.

John expected it so he isn’t surprised when he receives a call from Charon saying Winston wants to meet him.

He inserts a coin in the door and the small window opened briefly. The guy on the other side immediately recognized him, not wasting a single moment to open the door and let the man of the hour in. All eyes are on him the moment he steps into the club, but no one dared to murmur anything to anybody – not when the man himself is here.

They know better.

John spots Winston at his usual spot drinking his usual order, signaling John to sit beside him where a glass of bourbon is already present.

“Jonathan,” Winston greets, raising his glass. “We have a lot to talk about, don’t we?”

“I figured,” John replies, though not interested. He slides himself to the booth and takes a sip of his own drink. “I don’t understand why though.”

“Are we really playing this game, Jonathan?” The manager raises a brow.

“I was just doing my job.”

“In a way you don’t normally do,” Winston then adds. “Or should I say, in a way you don’t even do.”

John gives him a look, but he could tell Winston doesn’t know how to interpret it. His face remains emotionless, not letting the mask slip and grant Winston the privilege to take a peak. John will continue to play this game until he’s satisfied, until he feels something again. Surely he’ll find what he’s looking for while doing the only thing he’s ever good at – slaughtering.

“Let’s just say I was trying out a new technique,” John says, voice deep and almost sinister. Winston’s scared, though he doesn’t show it, John knows.

“I have known you ever since you started, Jonathan. Not once did it cross my mind you would do something so.. horrifying as this. You discarded the body like he was some sort of pig, so believe me when I say I couldn’t believe it at first.”

John has no idea why Winston’s whining about him being horrifying, when that’s all they’ve been saying about him ever since he joined. He didn’t gain this reputation for no reason, now he’s just simply showing them what more he’s capable of.

“You should’ve seen his record.” His tone is menacing, swirling the drink in his hand as he stares deeply at Winston’s eyes. “He’s worse than a pig.”

The drop of the curse word takes Winston by surprise. “So is that what it is, then? You killed him that way because you think he deserved it?”

“Not really,” John simply sighs, leaning back on the leather seat as he takes another sip of his bourbon. He really isn’t planning on staying longer, but Winston seems to be taking his sweet time asking him a bunch of stupid questions. “I couldn’t care less of what he’s done. I was simply… bored. Saying that I did that because I think he deserved it gives people a reason to think that what I did was justifiable.”

The look on Winston’s face says enough. He’s afraid of John, afraid of what he has become. Hearing John say he did such an unforgiving thing just because he was bored is beyond frightening. No man has ever inflicted so much fear on him before – at least not until John.

“I think we’re done for tonight,” Winston finally says, not wanting to hear any more disturbing thoughts of John, but he remains polite and calm for the sake of their friendship. “You have a good night, Jonathan.”

John gives him a nod, standing up from his seat and downing his drink in one go. “Goodnight, Winston.”

He exits the club with an eerie aura following behind him, not caring about the way people are looking at him like he’s got Death himself walking beside him.

It makes him wonder that maybe death doesn’t follow him after all.

Maybe it is him.

Someone offered him five million to fuck up a man who allegedly stole a fuck ton of kilograms of cocaine from their warehouse, and really, who is John to decline the offer?

Hunting the man is easy. It didn’t even take a day to locate where the man lives, and John’s already breaking into his apartment to shoot the guy and leave. There’s no point in rummaging the place for the cocaine, all of it is already up the man’s system by the looks of it, and killing him is John’s job.

John wants to finish this one fast, he’s got other business to attend to. As he backs up the frightened, pathetic excuse for a man against the wall, he takes his gun out of his holster and aims directly at the head, right between the eyes, and he watches in great pleasure as the residue of his brains splatter against the walls and the floor.

This man didn’t even put up a fight. John thinks this is a waste of time.

He exits the apartment with disappointment heavy on his shoulders, slamming the door shut. Although the gun he used has a silencer, the rooms are too close to each other. He’s sure there might be other people who heard the shot of his firearm.

The apartment building is located at the filthy side of New York, where most known drug dealers and junkies do their nasty deals. It’s no surprise that as soon as John steps a foot out of the worn out building, all eyes are on him, but mainly on the clothes he’s wearing. They’re planning on mugging him out, and John would like to see them try.

Just as he’s about to walk to his car, his phone rings abruptly in his chest pocket. He retrieves it in one swift motion, not noticing that a gold coin fell out as he does so, and he continues walking to not waste any more time.

“Sir! Excuse me, sir, you dropped something!” John hears from behind. He doesn’t bother looking.

The call isn’t nearly as important as the business he needs to attend to, so he hangs up the call and pushes his phone back into his pocket. As soon as he does that, he feels a small hand touching his shoulder.

John’s hand immediately flies to wrap his large hand around the person’s wrist, turning around to see a young woman with a bewildered expression on her pretty face, little fingers holding his golden coin that looks far too big on her hand.

She looks scared, terrified, and oh how fucking awful that makes John feel. Like he’s been punched right in the fucking gut. He’s enthralled.

“I wasn’t–you dropped it and I’m just giving it to you, I promise!”

She’s looking at John with big, doe eyes. She also looks freshly showered, wrapped in a black puffy jacket that makes her even smaller than she already is. John lets his eyes linger on her lips, so plump and glossy. Her voice sounds sweet, soft, something John isn’t used to hearing.

John can’t help but to stare.

“Are you–are you gonna let me go, mister?”

The way she stutters triggers a hot feeling in John’s guts, and can’t help but to rub his thumb on the girl’s dainty wrist before slowly letting her go.

So delicate, he could snap them in half.

“Sorry,” John apologizes, taking the coin from her hold, and his fingers itch at the way her skin feels so soft against his rough hands. “Force of habit.”

“It’s okay,” she smiles a little, and there goes that hot curl in John’s stomach once again. “That thing looks expensive so be careful next time.”

Just like that, John doesn’t get the chance to reply back. She makes her leave and patters away from him, and he watches. He watches until she’s out of the view, taking a turn to a corner, leaving John with something he can’t quite figure out yet, but he soon will be.

For the first time in a while, he feels something new.

Suddenly, everything is too good to be true.

John will find himself staring at his hands for too long, still feeling the ghost of her soft skin on his fingers, fantasizing about her pretty face and soft, plump lips.

It’s scary for him to feel something again because that only means destruction. John likes to believe he has a gift of ruining everything he touches, especially the pure ones – like her. It’s a proven statement. Just look at Helen and Daisy.

This little one won’t be any different, he’s sure of it. John’s whole body is heating up everytime he thinks about her. The look on her face when she saw John’s chilling expression, her wide eyes, so glossy and innocent.

John wants to see her again.

His fingers itch, yearning to touch her again.

Why he’s suddenly interested in a young woman he just met a few days ago, he has no idea. John’s a bit confusing – fucked up, even. He long accepted the fact that his mind is nowhere near healthy years ago. He tried to push those thoughts away when he met Helen, but now he’s out of his shell and back in business, there’s no need to.

He’s always been one of the wolves, and now that he’s laid his eyes on his next meal, he will make sure there’s not a single thing that will get in his way to hunt her down.

He had a crisis for two days before doing the unexpected. It didn’t take long for John to find her.

Now, John has been following her around for a week, and he noticed a certain pattern his little one likes to follow as she goes on her day.

The very place where they met is where she lives, surrounded by a bunch of goons who have no idea what to do with their lives. John begins to wonder why she’s living in a place like that. He could take her, put her somewhere safe, under his care and protection. Make sure no one will dare to lay a finger on her.

John knows where she works. At a veterinary clinic not too far from her apartment, which is why she walks to work every three in the afternoon, but not without stopping by in her favorite deli and getting a large order of her favorite sandwich. She’s a part-timer. She’d be at school from seven to twelve, and at work from three to eight.

John finds the little things she does amusing. He’d be seated in a cafe right across from her work, watching how she moves around her office through a big window, petting and cooing at the animals who come and go.

She’s so perfect, so pure, so naive. She has no idea that a monster is lurking ten feet away from her, watching her every move like a hawk, thinking about the ways he could destroy her, make her his.

John is not delusional. He’s fully aware of what he’s doing and he’s aware of what people might call him.

Stalker.

Creep.

They don’t know him though. They don’t know why he acts this way. They’d do the same if they were him, that’s for sure. He’s not the bad guy here, he’s simply just protecting her little one, even from afar. John went as far as destroying a whole Russian Bratva for a mere puppy and a car, he’d do even worse if she’s somehow taken away from him.

John sees her exiting the building and his first thought is to follow her. He stands up from his seat, the cup of coffee long forgotten as he makes his way out of the café and keeps a safe distance between the two of them. It’s risky, especially in the broad daylight, but John knows she’s too oblivious to notice.

She’s with her friends this time, and it doesn’t go unnoticed by John how she clings at the shirt of her co-worker as they cross the street, small hands fisting at the fabric. He thinks about how he won’t ever let go of her hand once she’s his. He’s not big on physical affection, having to grow up with no parents and a rather strict orphanage, but maybe he could be gentle. Engulf her hand in his, stroke it with his thumb, tuck her hair behind her ears, show everyone that she’s already owned.

They wouldn’t dare to lay their hands on her again.

John walks in the middle of the sidewalk, not bothering to move away despite seeing people approaching. He doesn’t need to, the look in his face is enough for people to give him the way. It’s interrupted however, when someone does try to get in his way, placing a hand on his chest and pushing him back a little.

John clenches his jaw, pissed. He takes his eyes from his little one and on the person who so rudely interrupted what he’s doing – it’s Marcus.

“John? I was just looking for you at the Continental.” Marcus has a small smile on his face, clearly not aware of John’s expression.

His eyes dart behind Marcus, where his little one is supposed to be, but she’s gone. John feels something curl in his stomach, his fingers itching again, eyes rapidly searching for her in the sea of people.

He looks at Marcus again, deciding he’ll just find her later, but he worries that something might happen to her now that John’s attention isn’t on her.

“Why?” he almost snaps, voice deep and laced with no emotion.

“Why? Because it’s been quite some time, John. I haven’t heard from you since the Iosef situation, but I did hear you’re back in business,” Marcus replies, but when he sees how distracted John looks, his voice falters. “You working?”

“Yeah.” The lie comes off smoothly. “I’ll see you around.”

John taps Marcus’ shoulder, trying to sound as polite as possible even though he badly wants to break a couple of his teeth for taking his attention away from her. He knows Marcus is probably noticing something, but John’s never the one to care.

Marcus drops the subject. “Alright, John. I’ll see you around.”

With that, John disappears in the crowd with no looking back.

It’s been awhile since John last took a job.

He can’t seem to take his eyes away from his little one. He can’t stop fucking stalking her from morning to night time.

John’s afraid that once he takes his attention from her even for a second, something bad might happen to her. It’s engraved in his mind that she can’t protect herself and he’s solely there to be the protector.

No one would understand. He’s doing this for her own good.

John’s absence at the Continental doesn’t go unnoticed by Winston and Charon. They’re his favorite, after all. Watch his every move carefully ever since that ugly murder John did. Perhaps he could make his next kill even uglier. To them, it’s vile and grotesque. For John, it’s special and unique.

This time, it took a good self-beating before John decided to take a contract. Three million to hunt down a rival crime lord, nothing he can’t handle, but somehow it brings an unusual feeling on his shoulder he isn’t fond of. Perhaps because John’s leaving his little one for a while and he isn’t quite sure what to feel. Worried and pissed – but mostly worried.

That is why he hired someone to trail his little one on his behalf. Everyone in business would do anything for a coin despite how fucked up disturbing it is. John offered a generous amount of coins to keep the assassin’s mouth shut, but he also held him at gunpoint and gave him a good talk before he sent the dog out in the field.

His only job is to keep an eye on her, report everything he’ll see to John, and maybe even take pictures for safety purposes.

John has been overseas in the last three days, and everything that’s been sent to him has been his only form of entertainment. There’s videos of her giggling with her friends, videos and photos of her in the library, outside her school, her work, and even in her apartment. There’s also information sent to him about the background of her friends – every single one of them, because John didn’t pay so much for nothing.

There’s one particular friend that ticks off John in all the worst way possible. He’s young, around her age, and the way he hugs and touches her just fucking sets him off. John wants to break his fingers in half. He reminds himself that once he’s home, he’ll make sure to take care of that boy himself.

“What else have you got?” John questions through the phone, and it doesn’t take long for his precious dog to respond.

“Oh, he is one creepy motherfucker. I’m starting to understand why you’re so riled up with this guy, boss. The urge to strangle him every time he gets in the picture gets stronger and stronger everyday.” He hears a laugh at the other end. The guy that’s working for him – Alex, if he remembers correctly – is young, new in business, knows not to fuck with John so he keeps his job adequate. If Alex ever notice how fucked up John is for making him follow a young woman to keep his life in order, he doesn’t say anything about it. “Just tell me when I can shoot this guy and I’ll do it in a heartbeat.”

“Leave him. Keep an eye on him, but don’t kill him,” John advises, his tone leaving no room for discussion. “I’ll handle him myself when I get back. For the meantime, focus on Y/N and keep any troubles out of her way. Fail that task and I’d serve your head hot on a platter.”

“You got it, boss.”

John is playing nicely.

He’s not going to force his way into her life. He’s gonna be welcomed, with open arms, desired.

There are times he’d thought about giving in to his desperation and act with his dick instead of his head. There are times he’d thought about following her to a dark street, where no one’s around, he’s on the prowl and ready to pounce. He’d put a fabric against her mouth and nose, laced with enough chemicals to make her pass out and for him to carry her in his car with no problems whatsoever. John thinks about how he’d make it look like he’s just picking up his very drunk and passed out girlfriend and no one would know a goddamn thing.

John would keep her in his house where she won’t need anything but him.

But of course, he’s not that cruel.

They’re only thoughts. Thoughts that he tries hard to keep away, but at the end of the day he reminds himself that he’s better than that.

John is not going to force his way into her life.

He’ll make sure to get her addicted enough to come crawling at his feet herself. She’ll be dependent on him, won’t be able to live without him. John will make sure his plan will go out smoothly or otherwise he’ll be the one bringing Hell with him on this land and seek as much havoc as he possibly can.

The death emissary himself will strike tonight.

A Friday night out with her friends has John on high alert. That’ll only mean she’s constantly surrounded with people, god knows what could happen if John even takes his eyes off her for a second. He lurks on the side, blending himself with the crowd as much as he can all while keeping his gaze on her.

He doesn’t need any drugs to keep his mind insane, because the sight of a specific man getting very close to what’s his is enough to make him visualize all the ugly and twisted ways to kill a man.

She’s wearing a thin silky dress that’s low on her cleavage and shows her perky breasts. She’s currently the flame in a room full of moths, John included. Everyone’s eyes are on her, observing the way she sways her hips and sings along to the loud music – John’s fingers itch.

The itch to kill is back again, driving into his veins, his hands twitch on the table. John wants to pull out his gun and shoot everyone in this fucking room. He wants to stab them in the eyes one by one and make them feed it to themselves. He wants to grab this guy on the neck and slam his head against the wall repeatedly until his brain scatter all over the fucking place and there’s nothing left for him to ruin.

This guy is getting on his fucking nerves.

John watches as the man smoothly brings his arm on her shoulder, whispering something in her ear that doesn’t make her look so impressed. In fact, she looks disturbed, uncomfortable, tense. Despite the guy being her friend, John could tell she doesn’t feel comfortable with the way he’s showing her affection.

It’s hard to see her like this, but he knows he can’t just jump in between the two of them and beat the shit out of the guy until he chokes on his own blood. He’ll have to wait, maybe after this party, he’ll strike and discard the body in a way that’ll make even Winston spook in his sleep. It’s not a major offense to kill a man that’s not in the game anyway – or at least that’s what John tells himself.

This guy wouldn’t be able to be three feet near his little one once John’s done with him. He’ll be six feet under.

John sees her swiftly moving away from his touch, trying to make her rejection look as polite as possible, which receives a not-so-amused reaction from her little friend.

This guy doesn’t deserve her at all. No one does. Except maybe John, but that’s because he knows he’s capable of actually taking care of her and keeping her safe. Nobody would understand what he feels, what he yearns, what he wants.

Good girl, John thinks. Walk away.

His gaze follow her as she makes her way to the backdoor and out to the cold air of the city. John follows in a hurry, keeping a safe distance between the two of them, then opens the door as quietly as possible so he wouldn’t let his presence known.

There are a few people on the street, either having a smoke break or making out against the piss stained wall, but she stays just beside the busy road as she wraps her arms around herself.

His gaze burn daggers on her exposed back, the urge to cover her up with his jacket and take her home. A drunk man comes stumbling out of the club, accidentally tripping over his steps and he pushes her hard enough to make her yelp as her heels lose balance and almost making herself get run over by a passing truck.

Almost.

Everything happens so fast. One moment John is standing five feet from her, the next is he’s grasping her wrists in his hand and pulling her back to her feet and dragging her back to the curb. He was already on the act once he saw the man exiting the club, he knew exactly this would happen.

The scene looks strangely familiar, one John could never forget. The same position, same hand placement, same rough fingers around her wrist and dark eyes boring into hers – their very first meeting.

“You!” she gasps, not caring about the fact that she almost just got hit by a fucking truck. “I know you! You’re the guy outside my apartment that day! What are you doing here?”

John stares. Predictable. Of course she’s talking to him like they’ve known each other for years. She’s too friendly.

“Hello to you too,” John replies, though his tone is blank as well as his face. “You remember me.”

“‘Course I do,” she giggles, a little tipsy, pupils dilated and licking her lips nervously. “You’re pretty hard to forget. I remember asking my neighbors around the area if you’re new there, turns out you were just visiting.”

John furrows his brows, hand still not letting go of her wrist. What does she mean by she’s asked around the area about him?

His face must’ve looked confused, he sees her grinning childishly. “It’s a coincidence that I see you again!”

Not a coincidence, but fate.

John doesn’t believe in a lot of things, but he believes in fate. Fate brought him Helen, and now fate is bringing him another angel. If she really went as far as asking the neighborhood about his existence, then it must be fate.

“I’m Y/N. I figured if we keep bumping into each other then you should at least know my name,” she says, completely oblivious that John already knows everything that has to be known about her. From her little mannerisms to the last name of her fucking grandmother. “May I know yours or are you just gonna stare at me all night?”

“It’s John,” he gulps, not wanting to look like a loser in front of her, not after everything he went through for her. “It’s really nice to see you again.”

He sucks at this. He fucking sucks at this.

“You haven’t answered my question, by the way. What brings you here?”

It hangs in the air, John lets go of her wrist. Luckily, he thinks fast enough and says the first thing that comes to his mind. “Work.”

“Ah, work,” she nods. “You work here? In the club? What are you, a bouncer or something?”

“I don’t. Someone I work with is in the club.” A lie, but it’s not like she would know. “We had a talk.”

“Not really a man of words, eh?” she raises an eyebrow teasingly.

“This is the most words I’ve said in the past few days,” John says. “I’d say you’re special.”

The look on her face is enough to make his entire night even better. Blushing, lips opening and closing, not knowing what to say. John wants to graze his thumb on her lips, thinking about how good it would feel stretching over his cock.

He blinks. Where did that come from?

“For someone who doesn’t talk much, you sure make it sound smooth when you do. Are you always this slick, John?” she giggles again, music to his ear. “That’s actually better than what I heard from my friend earlier, so thank you.”

“That’s good to know.”

Before she could say anything back, the door of the club opens once again and her friends appear, waving a hand at her and beckoning her to get inside. She looks at John, gives him a sympathetic look, as if apologizing that their talk gets cut off too soon.

“I’m really sorry but my friends want me back in there. Hopefully we can continue this again, yeah?” she smiles cheekily, tucking her hair behind her ear. “If you want, you could give me your number so we can talk someplace else? You know… with no one bothering us and all that.”

There it is. John didn’t think it would be this easy to sink the hook in. All he needs to do is pull and take what’s meant to be his.

“Sure.” He enters his number swiftly, feeling that familiar burn in his guts once again when he sees the wallpaper being her pretty face. “Feel free to message me whenever you want. I’ll make time for you.”

She looks at her phone and smiles before starting to walk away from him, waving a hand goodbye, but it doesn’t feel like a goodbye. John knows it isn’t. She’s already his the moment she started talking to him again.

“Of course! Get home safe, John! I’ll see you soon!”

“You too.”

She doesn’t know John won’t be heading home any time soon until he knows she’s safe and sound in her apartment.

Jay Lopez.

The name burns on his tongue. Bitter and resentful. He stares at the photos his precious dog sent to him and he has to stop the impulse to burn every single one of them.

Jay Lopez is the guy that’s been leeching on his girl since the dawn of time, and thankfully John is here to put an end to it.

He’s hideous. It’s interesting how John stooped this low that he’d be willing to kill a college student for being too near his little bambi, but alas, he’s never the one to care for such things. Morals and righteousness have never been in his book, not now, nor ever.

It’s only a matter of time until he gets rid of this pest. He’s fucking creepy, follows around not only Y/N but a bunch of other women.

John doesn’t want his death to be quick and simple. He wants to do it in an ugly way, make sure his body will never be found, make sure he’ll never get to lay his hands and eyes on what’s his. The way Jay stares at her in these pictures ignites something evil within John’s veins. It’s been awhile since he felt something like this.

“Alex.” he looks at his pet standing by the door, waiting for the next command. “Bring him to me alive.”

“Can I at least rough him up a bit?”

John doesn’t answer at first, looks back at the photos on his table. “Do what you want, just make sure he’s still breathing when you bring him here.”

“On it, boss.”

Truth be told, John doesn’t need a pet to order around for this job. He has himself – a labeled attack dog of the Tarasovs for years, their hellhound, chained and muzzled unless they need him to kill. He’s a one man army as some would say, he doesn’t need Alex running around doing tasks for him, but it sure does make the job a lot faster.

It’s not a way to downgrade his reputation nor skills to hunt, he really just needs this Jay guy gone as fast as possible.

On the same day, Alex manages to haul a very brutally violated Jay to the floor of his basement. He stinks, pants wet from piss and a face John is having a hard time recognizing.

“You said rough him up a bit, not make him look unrecognizable.”

“Same thing.”

Jay is sobbing his eyes out, his cries of pleas falls to deaf ears and John just wants to fucking bash his skull with his own foot. “W-who are you guys?! What the f-fuck did I do?! Get me out of here or I’ll tell the fucking police–”

John kicks him on the chin hard to stop the goon from rambling. “You’re not telling anybody any shit, tough guy.”

“So, what are you planning to do to him? Can I watch?”

“Can you handle it?”

Alex shrugs. He’s in the presence of the most dangerous assassin in the underworld, wouldn’t hurt to learn anything from his skills and techniques, doesn’t matter how fucked up it is.

John nods towards the chainsaw sitting at the corner of the room, and Alex turns to face him with wide eyes. “Jesus Christ, man. You serious? Last time I heard you’re a hitman, not a serial killer.”

“Same qualifications. Same thing.” John grabs the man by the arm then drags him to a chair. He takes a rope from the table and swiftly ties him up securely. “We start with the head, then arms and legs. It would be hard to put his entire body in a drum full of acid, so we need to cut him off one by one.”

Alex looks like he’s about to run off somewhere safe from what he’s witnessing. “You’re talking like you’ve done this before, holy fuck.”

John gives him a look, and Alex immediately shuts his mouth. Right. He’d done this before. This is completely normal.

“I’ve been following you for a while, Jay. You’re a creep who befriends pretty girls, then you’ll drug them and make them have sex with you,” John taunts, the sound of his heels hitting the concrete floor is enough to send shivers down his spine. “Is that what you’re also planning to do with Y/N? Be her friend and fuck her once she’s drugged up and vulnerable?”

It’s a bold statement coming from John himself since he’s no better man than Jay, but at least his intentions come from a different place.

“You-you’re fucking sick!” Jay spits.

“I’m sick? I’m not the one going around making girls uncomfortable now, am I?” he picks up the chainsaw, then watches in enjoyment as Jay widens his eyes in fear. “We’re going to have a lot of fun, Jay. You won’t be able to use your pathetic little dick of yours to any woman ever again, and most importantly –”

John fires up the chainsaw, adrenaline coursing through his veins when he sees the horrified look in the man’s face as he tries to get up and scream for help.

“I can finally sleep well at night knowing you’re not in Y/N’s life anymore.”

As John steps into the light, a roaring chainsaw in his hands, Alex could only watch in horror as the basement gets painted with blood in mere seconds.

There’s a vacant apartment just across her room, giving John the perfect view of what she’s doing while she’s alone.

Most of the time, John will pull up a seat beside the window and take pictures. The other half of the time is just him staring, observing. It seems that she’s too comfortable knowing there’s no one across the building so she doesn’t close the curtains, leaving John no choice but to keep his eyes on her.

He found this place just three days after following her. He couldn’t help it. Following her to school and work suddenly wasn’t enough for John that he had to find a way to somehow watch her even in her sleep.

He should be ashamed of himself. He should feel guilty for what he’s doing – he should stop, but he just can’t. John’s already done too much. This is like being pulled back into the underworld all over again but this time, there’s something good that’s waiting for him on the other side.

Maybe it’s the delusion that comes with it that’s not stopping John from whatever he’s doing. Lately, he’s been thinking about how life would turn out to be if his plan goes out smoothly. They’d live happily ever after, she would end up loving him just the way he planned it out to be, and John will make sure no one will ever dare to take those peace away from him again.

He’d make sure no one will ever come close to her again once she’s his. She’d be isolated but protected. Just how John likes it.

It’s been two days since John gave his number, but he knows she’s just giddy and nervous to text him. He’d seen her staring at her phone, biting her bottom lip anxiously, thinking if it would be a good idea or not. He knows she’ll give in one way or another because he sees it in her face. She’s too easy, too gullible, too naive.

She’s lonely, just like him.

John could tell she’s waiting for someone – she’s desperate, no wonder she asked for his number the second time they met. She wants someone to take care of her, to hold her, tell her that she deserves the world. That someone is John whether she likes it or not.

This isn’t just any unhealthy obsession. John finds himself too deep to get out. He knows her little mannerisms, studied her every action, has a red room full of her pictures and no one can’t say he’s not ready to give up anything for her. John has already given up his sanity ever since he mutilated a man for being too close to her.

She’s his life now, his everything.

John watches intensely as she shreds her clothes in her room, baring him the full view of herself naked, and John grips the side of his chair too hard his knuckles turn white. This is the first time he’d seen her naked, it’s so sudden and so… perfect.

His cock fattens in his pants as he observes every curve of her body. Her waist is fucking perfect and her body is thick yet delicate. John thinks about bruising her sensitive skin, leaving a mark that will show everyone that she’s owned. He would love to see her in a collar, hear it jingle when she crawls.

She’s completely fucking naked that John wonder just how naive she is to think there would be no one seeing her like this. What if John isn’t the only one watching her? What if somebody else sees her like this? His fingers itch, jaw clenching.

He’d kill them. He’d kill them in front of her, and the thought somehow made his cock hard even more. He grimaces, disturbed at the reaction of his body.

John doesn’t really understand the sexual aspects of killing, but now he’s thinking about how she would react if she sees him working. He’d kill someone in front of her and he’d see the look of disgust and betrayal in her face. He can already imagine how her eyes would well up with tears and fuck, his dick shouldn’t be this hard.

She’d fear him, and John would be turned on. How fucked up would that be? Just how fucked up can his mind get?

He resists the urge to wrap his hand around his cock because fuck no. He would not stoop this low, he is not a teenage boy. No matter how strong the thoughts get, the thoughts of wrapping his own hand around her neck, squeezing it hard and cutting off her airflow as John forces his cock in her cunt, hearing her mewl and scream and beg to just –

John sucks in air, eyes back on her in her room, wrapping a robe around herself and heading to the bathroom. This is fucked up. His cock is incredibly hard and leaking, and his mind won’t stop thinking about how good her pussy would feel around him.

He’d talk her through it. Whisper sweet nothings in her ear as she releases around her cock, praising her for being such a good girl. Then he’d fuck her again, in a different position, debauching her in different ways not even the devil himself could think of.

John would ruin her, and she will have no choice but to accept it.

He brings his hand to his face as he sighs deeply. He wonders what Helen would feel of what he’s doing. Disgusted, no doubt. This is not the same man she fell in love with years ago. He would never do something like this, but fate has its plans, and John believes everything happens for a reason.

She was brought into his life for a reason and it’s up to him whether he takes.

John doesn’t realize that he’s been staring at nothing for too long until she comes back in his view once again. Her hair is still wet, still wrapped up in a fluffy pink robe, and John’s fingers itch to grab, squeeze, possess.

He sees her picking up her phone, staring for a moment before her fingers start typing. John has been anticipating this moment for so long, the time has finally come.

In his chest pocket, his phone buzz silently, the vibration sending excitement in his whole body.

There it is.

13.06.15 11:46 PM UNKNOWN NUMBER : hello! this is Y/N from the club the other night

13.06.15 11:46 PM UNKNOWN NUMBER : also that Y/N who returned your super expensive looking coin hehe ;) i hope you didn’t forget about me!

There it fucking is.

John’s lips curl into a small smile. His efforts are finally paying off.

All he needs to do is to get what’s his.

#john wick #john wick x reader #john wick fanfiction #john wick imagine #john wick fanfic #john wick chapter 4 #john wick x you #john wick 4 #keanu reeves #john wick smut #ochl #my works

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springsylph · 6 months ago

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// hello, neighbor

modern day arthur morgan x female reader. mdni. voyeurism (oops), masturbation (m & f). reader is in college. brought to you by: my phone! again!

“with the blinds open?”

“...with the blinds open.”

a two-way confessional on the campus plaza turns into a harsh spotlight the second the admission leaves your lips, though you suspect that the heat would have driven you down this road at some point.

the next page you turn in your textbook is a little harsher than necessary, and you take the slight tearing noise as a sign to shut it. you could hardly focus enough to digest it, anyway. you turn to your friend, their work long since abandoned next to the half-empty bottle of soda gone flat.

"i mean," and you pause, trying to build your next sentences with the utmost care. "it doesn't seem like he's got malicious intent. he's...he's a nice guy, you know?"

"did you come to that conclusion before or after you caught him jacking off with the blinds open?"

before, without a doubt. you're not sure you can bring yourself to dislike someone who'd helped muscle your furniture up four flights of narrow stairs.

running into arthur morgan on the street that day had been the closest you've come to justice in a while. he hadn’t made an offer to help—just pulled the cardboard boxes right from your arms and told you to point him in the direction of your apartment door, and you’d said yes, because the shame of knowing he’d seen you struggle for the last hour had been too much to bear.

after the first trip up, your reprieve turned to torture. not because of the tremor in your thighs, or the burn in your lungs, but something far more sinister: the trail of hair dipping into the waistband of his jeans. the rivulets of sweat dotting the back of his neck. the flex of his back each time his grip shifts to accommodate the weight of the boxes.

his cheeks, flushed with a pretty scarlet, had deteriorated any semblance of self-preservation you could ever buy off of amazon (pepper spray was getting rather expensive), and the lopsided smile he’d given you—a meek little thing—nearly sent the glass of lemonade you’d poured for him sliding to the floor.

it was embarrassing. and more importantly, pathetic. but the only feeling with the balls to surmount your shame is that eager throb of unadulterated lust.

it’d only grown worse once you’d started pestering him with questions. turns out, he lived in the apartment right across the street from yours.

“s’only temporary, though. just till an acquaintance of mine gets back from overseas.”

temporary. that was fine. though, you do feel a little uncomfortable at the thought of fucking him in someone else’s apartment. not that you were planning on it. but…his “acquaintance” would have to have some heavy pockets though, right? so you find out one relatively non-invasive question later that arthur actually worked as a security guard—because of course he does.

you think it might have to do with the way his fingers drum against the cold countertop as he speaks. the sag of his t-shirt collar doesn’t help much either. but some harebrained part of you convinces your synapses to fire just enough to ask for his number.

to help with…appliances.

it only hits you after he leaves that working in security didn’t mean shit when it came down to appliance repairs, but you thank your lucky stars arthur was nice enough to hand over his number anyways.

from there it’s straightforward.

or, it should have been.

flirting doesn’t exactly fall under your area of expertise, but you do know how to observe. not stalk—that would be weird.

observe and observe only. just until you can work up the nerve to talk to him again.

arthur couldn’t seem to close the blinds, which made it a little easier. he was a creature of habit: he’d leave in the early morning, returning just after the sun sends the last of its rays to cascade down the walls of the building. he always seemed to return more weary than the day before, which did at least put your envy of the condominium complex to rest.

but you weren’t quite sure just what you were getting into until around two weeks after your move in.

your apartment is submerged in darkness when you finally manage to jiggle the key into the lock. the only source of light comes from the warm glow of arthur’s apartment, the sun to the moon of your window, spilling out over your desk and onto the floor.

changing out of your clothes is a quick and efficient affair, as per usual; an oversized shirt and underwear are all you can manage with the faulty air conditioning. you’re about to shut your blinds when you catch familiar skin.

your pulse is tapping out a strange rhythm in your throat.

no. he couldn’t be, could he? but that definitely was—

you clap a hand over your mouth with a shiver. creep just close enough to the edge of your window to avoid being spotted without losing your vantage point.

arthur is splayed across the couch, one leg draped over the side while the other remains bent on the cushions. you can see how you’d nearly missed it—he looks strangely relaxed.

but you’ve committed that flush in his cheekbones to memory. the rapid rise and fall of his chest. his eyes are pinched shut, and you trace down the length of his body to where his hand works in languid strokes over his cock.

oh god.

this was wrong on so many levels. but you can’t help the way your thighs rub together, or the pulsating heat of your cunt.

you slide your hand away from your mouth, snaking it lower and lower till you’re pushing aside the gusset of your panties, paying no attention to the angle of your wrist. your fingers find you already wet, clit throbbing with assured interest.

a moan snakes its way out of you as you follow the pace of arthur’s hand. he’s still pumping lazily on the couch, but his hips have begun to undulate in slow circles, punctuated by the occasional jerk.

fuck, this was getting bad. but you follow his lead, stopping when he stops, exhaling when he exhales, and there comes a point when mirroring him is no longer a conscious effort. a lock of hair falls over his sweaty forehead and you nearly cry; you’d have been able to brush it aside in a heartbeat. it only reminds you of how long it’s been since you’ve been touched by someone else like this.

you reach a fever pitch when the two of you begin to increase the pace, and you have to brace a hand against your desk for support. your eyes haven’t left arthur once. wouldn’t leave even after you catch that scrunch of his crooked nose, the tightening of his fist. but your eyes flutter when his head tips back, and his mouth falls open (so wide you can almost hear him in your ears), and shit, you think you’ll be right there with him—

—until fingers snap in front of your face.

you open your eyes. turn your head.

"hey, you good? you're drooling."

#EARLY MORNING HORNY!#don’t ask me how i got here #it’s a long story #arthur morgan #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan x you #red dead redemption 2 #rdr2 fanfic

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aurawrawr · 1 year ago

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Cremate me in your arms

King of Curses Ryomen Sukuna x afab! brown reader

Too much confidence and simping has led to this second part. And I hope to do it justice. The following fic features an established relationship so to understand the dynamics and origins, find the first part here.

Minors, DNI. Word count: 4k

CW: generalized themes of death, murder and the likes, established relationship, dub-con, sex with Sukuna's true form, breast play, PIV, creampie, oral (m! receiving), mutual orgasms, worship, devotion, insecurity, jealousy, arguments, breeding kink, pregnancy, major character death, mention of sati (the ancient Hindu ritual of the very alive, and likely young, wife walking into the funeral pyre of her dead husband)

it gets really dark and angsty towards the end; i'm sorry

King of Curses Ryomen Sukuna who is astounded by how well you take his true form. He stuffs you with one of his cocks while the other slides along your puffy lips. He holds your breasts in two hands, toying with your pebbled nipples, while the other two keep your body in place as he rams into you. He loves your fluttery kisses, the way you grab on to his beyond broad shoulders, struggle to keep your head from lolling, back arching. He has a devilish grin on his face and abs as he empties his heavy tight sacks inside you. Again and again.

Now that he has seen your face at the height of your pleasure, he wants it no other way. He doesn't need a surface anymore, he carries you around as he fucks. And you don't complain. You'll take him as he presents himself to you, human form or curse. You're his to have. But is he yours?

King of Curses Ryomen Sukuna who makes you look at him in front of Uraume-hime, because he knows you're insecure about them. Although, he does get a kick out of when he summons you to his chambers after locking himself in with the Oiran for hours. How needy you become. How territorial. And he pretends he didn't hear your soft pacing outside his doors only moments before, didn't see your shadow pass over the patio. They don't do anything that'd challenge your relationship with your Ryo-sama. In fact, most of the time, he makes Uraume do their books in his chambers just to see your flushed face afterward, your impatient grinding against his bulge, your willingness to take him in your mouth even though you choke every time you try.

King of Curses Ryomen Sukuna who is luminous with bliss about his playful belle. You are ticklish on your tummy and he makes avid use of that when waking you up in the mornings. His extra mouth licks around, dipping occasionally into your belly button, making you laugh and squirm.

"What is this mouth for, Ryo-sama?" You ask once, feeding it potato fritters you had made that evening.

"It's to eat you out a second time when this mouth is tired." Ryo-sama is goofy now. You're no more scared of him like you used to be.

"Ryo-sama!" You've even been given the liberty to rebuke him every now and then, and you take full advantage of it.

He laughs. "It's my mouth, Paro." He points to his face. "This mouth is my brother's. Everything about me that's remotely human is my brother. The monster is the real me."

"Brother?" You've never heard of one before.

"Yes, my love. The brother I ate in my mother's womb. You see, I was supposed to be one of twins but when they pulled me out, I was covered in blood. My mother's, of course, and that of my brother. He reincarnated when I changed, finally enacting his revenge and locking me in this unsightly form."

You drop the chopsticks from your hand, and lean into his frame to kiss his mouth, the one on his stomach. Then, rise to kiss the un-human part of his face, the skin rough to your lips but it doesn't matter to you. To you, it's an act of reverence. He closes all his eyes and you place pecks on the lids of the ones he calls monstrous. "You're the most beautiful man I've ever seen."

Ryo-sama laughs, his whole body shaking. He rests one hand on your shoulder while two others pull you down on him. "That's because, for some inexplicable reason, you're in love with me."

King of Curses Ryomen Sukuna who whole-heartedly supports your new project. It strokes his ego when you show your excitement about your new religion with him as the God. Cult, to be completely honest. Regardless, you've painted him, the form you most wish to worship. Where you see a benevolent guardian deity, he sees a grotesque monster. Really, beauty must be in the eyes of the lover.

"What do you want from me, Paro?" He asks one day, smoking opium from his pipe, blowing it out of the open window. You are writing an essay in Hiragana for your tutor to go over later. Your handwriting has improved a lot; even Ryo-sama acknowledges so. When you look up at him questioning, he sighs. "You know, if you want to leave, I won't stop you, right? I could never bring myself to harm you."

"Why would I leave, my Lord? I want to be by your side. Do you not want me here?"

"I have used your body for my own pleasure since your first day here, demanded that you learn a language to better my experience in the bedroom. I have been miserable to you for several weeks before suddenly springing a confession and my true form upon you. Putting up with me must be exhausting. And yet, you stay. There must be something you want. Fame, protection, wealth, what is it? Tell me. I promise I won't be disappointed."

You're speechless. For as long as you've been with Sukuna-sama, this is the first time his words have hurt you. "You doubt my devotion, my Lord." Your eyes water as you try very hard to keep looking at him. But you can't, so you concentrate on the wavering shadow on the wall behind him. The tears fall anyway.

"Paro, that's not... Please don't..."

Your writing equipment clatters as you get on your feet, running out of his room. The ink spills, seeps into the silk of your sitting mat.

King of Curses Ryomen Sukuna who would kill for you, burn the world for you, and he knows better to do it behind your back because you shouldn't have to deal with the guilt. So he crushes the heads of mortals who speak ill of you, choke to death those who plot to maim you, and put your life in danger. Uraume-hime may not be too fond of you but they're loyal to Sukuna-sama and will execute his orders with precision; they keep an eye out for you, sneer at you when you look their way but protect you nonetheless.

When Ryo-sama finds you that night, you've already been in your bath for far too long. Your skin has pruned, your eyes are red-rimmed from all the crying; your newly appointed lady-in-waiting has requested you to come out several times lest you catch a cold but you've paid her no attention. You want to catch a cold, you want to suffer. If Ryo-sama wants you to leave, then you'll go away for good.

"Kiero." He orders the woman before settling himself beside your tub. Resting his arms and chin on the edge, he looks at you but doesn't say anything. You don't either; you only sniffle and wipe your tears and snot away with the back of your hand.

"Can I get a few days' time to find a job elsewhere before I have to leave?"

"No."

Your exhales are shaky. "In the morning then, Sukuna-sama."

"Sukuna-sama? Is that how mad you are at me?" He holds your face in his hand. You want to flinch, turn away, deny him any touch but you crave for his skin too. If you are to leave in the morning, you will never have it again so you might as well let him take you one last time.

"Who am I to be mad at you? I should have known this was going to happen."

"What should you have known?"

"That you'll lose interest in me. I'm not strong, after all. I don't have Uraume-hime's curse techniques. I'm just a puny, filthy—"

He sits up, offering his lips to you but you don't give in. "I don't want you to leave." If he really doesn't have a heart, what is this tightening around his chest? What is this fear?

"But if I do leave, you won't stop me. That's how unimportant I am to you. That's how disposable."

"I lied. I won't know left from right if I lose you. I have a plan for when, and if ever, you try to leave. It's from that story you told me about your Goddess of Destruction." He smiles against your lips. "I will lie down on the ground, in front of you, like her husband did. And you can't step on or over me, so you won't leave."

"I'll turn and walk in a different direction." You know your heart is softening. You're putty in Ryo-sama's hands, under his manipulations.

"I'll stop you, Paro. I'll change positions, get up and lie down in different spots every time you turn. Can I kiss you now?" His lips are so close but you must hold your ground.

"What about when I die?" You've always known he'll outlive you, and that's the dream of every devoted lover, is it not? But there's another dream you have. You don't want to leave him completely alone when you die. You know he's too strong and doesn't really need anybody, but that doesn't mean he has to be lonely.

Sukuna-sama sits back. There's not a day when he doesn't think about this, when he doesn't shudder just from the thought of seeing your lifeless body, your once beautiful face cold and pale from having your breath snatched from your lungs. The only answer that he comes up with is to use his Reverse Jujutsu and revive you but how many times can he do that? He is stuck in an invulnerable form but you will eventually be too old and frail to want to live any longer. "Whatever you want, Paro. I can bring you back, or let you rest."

You pretend to toy with a thought while he stares at your face. You've had an idea for quite some time. Back home, you'd have had to step into the blazing funeral pyre of your dead husband. But what can you do if he's an undying God? "Fire doesn't harm you, my Lord?" You know the answer, but you still ask to confirm. He shakes his head, wondering where you're going with this. "Cremate me in your arms then, Ryo-sama. I don't want a pyre; I want to be in your arms when I die."

King of Curses Ryomen Sukuna who comforts you, holds your shaking body with all his arms and rocks you when you cry for your mother. Unbeknownst to you, he has sent many of his people — curses and curse users alike — to the brothel in Bengal you had mentioned your mother worked at. But to no avail. He never told you this and doesn't plan to, ever, unless he actually finds your mother. You shouldn't have to know that your fears of never seeing her again might be true.

King of Curses Ryomen Sukuna who knows no real God would ever listen to him. Still, he whispers a soft "Kami-sama" in your name every morning. He doesn't need a God to protect you but why risk it? Your new project has harbored a lot of attention, and not only the good kind. It makes him worry about your safety. He sends two of his most notorious curse-users with you every time you step out of his palace. He throws a fit every time he notices you're dressing for grocery shopping or to go oversee the building of his shrine. He can always send someone else, why do you need to go?

He impatiently paces the yard when you're on one of your trips until he hears the slow drag of the heavy front door, and your cheerful chattering with the guards. How you maintain your optimism and enthusiasm even while living with the epitome of negativity is beyond him. He needs you for this, to clear the smoke of his desolation, the stillness of his immortality.

"Ryo-sama." You walk up to him. "There was good cow meat in the market. What kind of curry would you like, my Lord?"

"You don't have to cook cow for me, my love. Aren't they your God's pets?"

"Yes, my Lord, but for you—"

"It's decided then. We won't consume cows in this household anymore."

You smile wryly. "After I die then."

You have been speaking of your death every so often, to the point where Sukuna-sama has had to summon the medic that he calls a quack several times over a month to evaluate your physical health. And every time, the charlatan has informed him that you're perfectly healthy. So he's decided that every time you say something about dying, he will medicate you in his own way.

He seizes your wrist and pulls you to his bedchamber. He strips you down to your breast band and loincloth. He transforms because he knows you enjoy having him touch you with so many arms that it feels like he's consuming you. But then you say something that makes him stop in his tracks. "Is there something wrong with me, Ryo-sama?"

"Did somebody say something to you?" His voice goes cold. You shake your head but refuse to meet his eyes. "Tell me the bastard's name and I'll send them a nice present."

"It's nobody, my Lord. Just me."

"What's wrong?" He tilts your face upward. He sounds demanding.

"It's... It's been over a year since... since you've first been with me, my Lord. And yet..." Your voice quivers, tears starting to gather on the cusp of your eyelid. "And yet, every month... on the night of the waxing gibbous, I bleed. Why can't I give you a child? What's wrong with me?"

King of Curses Ryomen Sukuna who is bothered by nothing. He's squashed many an eyesore under his thumb. Nothing gives him the ick, except for the water pooling in your eyes. This is the second time he's made you cry and he hates himself for it. For, it's not you who's wrong, inadequate, unfit to have a child. It's him. He's been so afraid of harming you with his cursed essence, he's been manipulating it so as to not impregnate you with a cursed womb.

"We're different, my dear." He tries again. "It's not that there's something wrong with you. It's our union that won't bear a healthy child."

Your heart breaks. Even though you try to hide it, Sukuna-sama sees it on your face. "I see, my Lord. I guess I was worrying for nothing." You put a smile on your face but it doesn't stay. With every passing day, you grow sadder. He notices it in your destitute of smiles, your limp enthusiasm in his arms, your shaky silhouette after he puts you to sleep.

King of Curses Ryomen Sukuna who never, not even during his human life, wanted for a family, but your words have moved him. For a few years of his eternity, he can see himself being a loving father, and a doting husband. So this time, he approaches you.

"Paro." He pulls you to him one night as you two are resting after dinner. You have been fixated on making an army of origami swans but when he seeks your attention, you give it to him easily. You drop your half-folded swan and he springs the question on you. "Will you be my bride?"

You say, yes, because there's no reason to lie.

The ceremony is chaste. You follow rituals of both your cultures. When flakes of his sindoor fall on your nose, you smile. He already loves you; you don't need more proof.

His chambers have been extended to accommodate you and when you get to your bedroom, you notice the flower petals on the sheets, just like you had once told him happens back home. Sukuna-sama takes you by the hand and makes you sit on the bed. He kneels in front of you, like he had the first time he had shown you his reality. By the warmth on his usually hardened face, it's clear he has something to tell you. "Paro," he whispers, "do you still want to have my child?" Again, there's no reason to lie. "It might hurt you, my love."

"I can take it, Ryo-sama." You take his hand. "I... I've seen women in the throes of labor. I can endure that."

"It won't be the labor of a human birth, my love. Or have you forgotten who your Ryo-sama is? It's true that the heart I don't have in me is compensated by the kindness of your spirit but our child will be a monster at its very core."

"You and I will raise them right, my Lord."

King of Curses Ryomen Sukuna who has never been soft in bed but for you and for the child you wish to bear, he is willing to change his ways. He envelopes you with kisses, keeps your hips lifted with a pillow beneath your rear. He whispers your name and you whisper his. You touch his arms, his strong, protective arms, his chest, the heart behind it that only you've seen, his waist thrusting into you so lovingly. "Harder, Ryo-sama." You're aching for him, for the warmth of his seed. "Harder, please." He increases his pace, buries his face in your neck, groans as he releases inside you. He has done this before, every time, but this feels different, it feels fruitful.

King of Curses Ryomen Sukuna who expects himself to keep his calm always. But when you tell him you haven't bled in two moons, he is beside himself with joy. He picks you up in his arms and twirls you, wants to run out and tell the whole world what a miracle you are. But he knows nobody would rejoice in the news of him furthering his lineage. Only you. And that's enough for him.

As the months pass and you grow heavier, his happiness only increases. He makes everything perfect for you, caters to your every need and want. He tends to the ache in your back, relieves the soreness in your breasts, even massages your feet. But he notices changes in your mien. You spend longer outside of home. He knows you're in the new temple but what you do behind the closed doors of the shrine, nobody can tell him. Not even the guards he sends with you. When he asks you, you only shrug and tell him that you've been praying. He knows you have an idol of your God situated in the same chambers as the idol of him and there's also a priest you’ve met recently, so he doesn’t question it anymore.

But when you decide to walk out the night you’re supposed to deliver, he panics. “Where are you going?” He calls out as you’re about to step out of your room. “Shouldn’t you be getting ready to go into the labor room? I’ve arranged for midwives from your home, priests to handle any rituals you want to partake in and yet… It feels as if you have other plans.”

“I’m only going to pray, Ryo-sama.” You drape a robe over your bump.

“Pray here. I’ll send Uraume to get your God.”

“No.” You lose your usual softness. “I’ll only be gone for an hour or so.”

“And what if your liquor breaks in that one hour?”

“The priest will help me.”

“The priest you don’t allow anyone to meet?” He is losing his calm too.

“I’ve told you the reason, haven’t I? It'll be futile meeting the priest who's supposed to carry out rituals in your name.”

He is exasperated. He shouldn’t have let you have this much power over him. “At least let me come with you. I’ll wait outside.”

“That doesn’t look good for the King of Curses, my Lord.”

“Who’s going to tell me that?”

“I will. The mother of your child. Please, my Lord, I beg of you. I know the labor will be easier if I just spend some time with my God alone.”

King of Curses Ryomen Sukuna who knew love is worthless. Then why did he ever let himself love you? Why did he give in to your wishes? Why did he not force your hand when you acted against his orders? Why did he let you be the only human who could make him kneel?

When the hour is up and you’ve not returned, he storms out of his palace, trident in hand. If he has to threaten you for you to come back to him, he will. But he doesn’t get the chance to. When he reaches the steps of the shrine, the dread in his chest rises to his ears, ringing like bells of a temple in the storm. The establishment is in ruins, the guards who were with you had been slashed through their necks so brutally, their heads had tossed away from the rest of their bodies. He rushes up the stairs, trips. His weapon falls from his hand when he looks inside. The walls have been painted with blood. He can tell it’s your blood from the scent. A terror-stricken groan rises from his throat. His chest is even more hollow now.

“Paro.” He finds your mangled body up against the wall furthest from the door and scoops you up in his arms. “Paro. My love. My heart. My miracle.” He cries out. Long gone is the King of Curses; these are the desperate howls of a grieving husband. “Who… who did this?”

There’s some life left in you. And even if there isn’t, he is more than willing to bring you back. Not only because you must live, but also because they who did this to you, must die. And he will do it, he will go to the ends of this world and the next, and find the lowlife who dared to touch his Paro, the love of his immortality, his Queen of Blessings.

He touches your chest to revive you but you seize his wrist. “Ryo-sama.” You gurgle up through the seas of blood in your throat. He leans into you to let you touch his face, rub away his tears like you have removed the darkness from his soul. You manage a smile at the end of your breath. “You were right, Ryo-sama. I birthed a monster. But... he's still... my son.”

“Who did this to you? The brat?”

You slowly shake your head. “I was… so blind, so foolish. The… the priest. He was… after our son. Promise me… Ryo-sama. You will avenge… me. You… will… protect our son… for me.”

“Avenge you, I will. But right now, I’m bringing you back.”

“No.” You cough up, splattering blood across his face. “I’m… your weakness.”

“No, no–” You shush him with a hand over his lips.

“I am… your weakness. I am your disease. Let me go… and become what you must. For Yuji.”

“Yuji?”

“Our… son. Find him… please… and protect him. Make him… a little human. The priest…” You cough again, clutching the robe at your empty womb. “He had… stitches… across his forehead.”

Sukuna-sama knew him, the curse with stitches on his forehead. He will find him and kill him, even if it takes him a thousand years.

“You… promised me… one more thing… Ryo-sama.”

His eyes water at your request, the bloody smile on your lips he knows will haunt him for all of eternity. Love is worthless but you are not. You’ve taught him hope, you’ve shown him kindness, the selfless love that he knew was not for him to have. You’ve proved to him that to love and be loved is to change. “Must I?” He asks and you nod. He loses to you. Once again.

“I love you. I’ve loved you before I knew you, and I will love you after you’re gone. I will find you if you’re ever reborn but I will pray to any God that listens to me that they don’t send you here again. This world doesn’t deserve you. And I will punish them for it. Sleep well, my love.” He kisses your forehead.

King of Curses Ryomen Sukuna, feared by all, respected by some but loved by one. His atrocities are well-known, written and spoken about through ages. Even years later, people remember the villages he burned that night, the blaze crimson red like the petals of spider-lilies, the screams of the people louder than the crackling of the fire. He did that out of mindless rage, everyone says. They are wrong. He did that out of love.

please don't copy my work, or publish it elsewhere without my consent. all banners are from pinterest.

i'm sorry i had so much fun writing this

tagging (because you guys seemed to like the first part): @ghostslillady @iwonmx @kariatenoh @pearlsxandxpeonies

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lost-in-fandoms · 3 months ago

Note

a loose thread on a jumper sleeve, for the fic prompts

hand picked this ship just for you <3 hope I somewhat did it justice

Max tugs on the jumper, seeking comfort more than warmth, before curling up on the couch, unlocking his phone before giving up looking for something to watch or someone to talk to even before starting the search.

He knows who he wants to see, but he also knows that he's going to have to wait a little longer before GP gets out of his last meeting and gets home.

Max sighs, unlocking his phone and locking it again. His eyes feel dry and scratchy from the long hours spent on the sim, driving the same track over and over, looking at the data and running it back.

He doesn't think that he's ever felt this discouraged before in his whole racing career.

Before becoming a world champion, he always had that objective to look forward to, everything he had been working for his whole life, and the two years after that had been a dream, wins and records making every obstacle look like nothing more than a speed bump.

But now. Now it is hard.

It isn't only not winning, even if he isn't very fond of that either, it is everything else. The unbalanced car, the team not listening to him, the people leaving, the tension at the top that sometimes manages to bleed even into his relationship with GP. It is a lot and it is exhausting and he hates it.

He closes his eyes, letting his head drop against the back of the couch, fingers fiddling with a loose thread on the jumper's sleeve.

He doesn't really fall asleep, but he lets himself drift off, brain blissfully empty for what feels like the first time in days, until he hears the lock click and the door open.

He doesn't open his eyes as he listens to the sounds of a jacket being hung up, shoes being put away, keys being dropped in the little ceramic holder at the entrance that Max always forgets the existence of.

Then there are steps on the carpet, and finally the couch dips, a warm hand wrapping around Max's ankle.

"Are you okay?" GP asks, voice quiet, but not a whisper.

Max doesn't know how GP is always able to tell when he's awake or asleep, but he knows there's no point in faking.

He cracks an eye open, nodding wearily, not really feeling like talking after such a busy day. GP seems to understand that too, because he doesn't force him to answer verbally, raising his arm in invitation instead.

Max shifts around until he can tuck himself under it, throwing his legs over GP's lap and laying his cheek against his shoulder with a sigh.

"I saw your data before leaving," GP tells him, voice rumbling pleasantly under Max's ear. "You did good work today."

The praise does a better job at warming Max up than the jumper had, but he still shrugs, awkward from where he's trapped against GP's body.

"It's still shit," he mumbles. He doesn't like complaining like this, when it's not productive, but he knows that this is the only space where he's safe to do so, where he can allow himself to mope around a little and not be judged for it.

"We'll fix it," GP says, as confident as when they're on the radio. It makes it easier to believe, when it's said in the same tone Max has trained himself to not doubt for years. Sadly, he's never managed to fully do it.

He shrugs again, not really feeling like being positive at the moment. He wants to be held and to mope, and then tomorrow he'll get back to work, and the day after, and the one after that, until things will be better or something will break.

But not tonight. Tonight is for curling up tighter, fingers twisting the loose thread again, and letting GP kiss his hair with a sigh.

They stay like that for a while, listening to the ticking of GP's watch, until Max uncurls slightly, picking his head up from GP's chest to be able to look at his face.

"What's for dinner?"

It's a clear request to move forward, move away from racing for once, instead of towards it, and it's no surprise when GP accepts it, picking up his phone to let Max order take-out.

That in itself is a sign that Max isn't the only one feeling bone tired tonight, but they both manage to pick their energy up a little, bickering over restaurants and meal plans, and then over what to put on the tv, and then over who should go to the door to get the food.

Unsurprisingly, again, Max is the one who finds himself standing up with a grumble.

"If this is what I get for being in your lap, I hope you know I'll never do it again," he says, stomping towards the entrance.

"Yes you will," GP calls back, clearly smiling, "and don't think I haven't noticed that you're wearing my jumper!"

"No, I'm not!" Max is, but he is not letting GP win that too.

And if he brings it up to his nose to smell their combined scents and hide his smile, then at least nobody can see him.

#my writing #i dont remember what my max/gp tag is #max/gp #i think?#the ending is shit yes i know my brain is starting to go off the 'i slept too little and too badly' cliff #i hope it's still okay <3 #and as usual if there are typos no there are not #also i've had your fic open and i've reread it multiple times to try and get in the gp voice but idk how i did

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luvteyams · 10 months ago

Text

TAG YOUR MINE

Characters: Neteyam Sully(26) x Fem Omaticaya Navi Reader

Warnings: none, just sweet fluff

Word Count:

Synopsis: Childhood friends play a game…could it lead to more?

Neyrali begged and pleaded as you gathered more sweet berries, popping a few between your lips as you plucked more. She had been rambling for a while about a much needed break from the heat, proposing to stop down by the stream after harvest was over.

“Please just come with us, I promise it’ll be fun and relaxing”, she pleaded, pushing her body into yours.

You could feel the blistering sun burn against your skin as you weighed your options, which weren’t many at this time of day. Going back to home tree meant your mother would be fanning over your every move, and heading back with the harvest group meant being hunched over as you peeled the thick skin from many of the fruits to get the sweet flesh inside.

A sly smile raised as Neyrali began pestering you again, “it’ll only be us girls, and you can even finish that cute little top you were making”, her smile wide now as she grasped your working arm, shaking it gently.

You could feel your resolve slipping, with no real objection except that with Neyrali, it was never just us girls. Neyrali was popular, loud and energetic as she worked within the clan. If Neyrali and Tili came then of course Tanu and Bexti were not far and with Kiri, it meant the entire Sully gang was not far behind either. Causing the peace to be upturned into hormonal chaos and pending trouble.

As you stood stretching high into the thick leaves of a yovo fruit tree, you pulled your final fruit for the day, laying it to rest along the variety of other fruits in your picking basket. Scanning for the other harvesters you could see Neyrali’s long forgotten basket back at the small bush of sweet berries in the distance.

“Okay, fine Neyrali…we can go,” you huffed as Neyrali shrieked, jumping into the air. Her happiness was short lived as you sharpened your tone “BUT only if you promise, no. funny. business” jokingly pointing your long fingers into her chest with a deadpan face.

She rolled her eyes hard as she began to pull you along, further into the thick vines of the forest. You stumbled after her, adjusting your heavy sac, that carried all your weaving tools and even pieces of your pending top, back onto your slim hips. It wasn’t long before you could hear the rushing water splashing against the nearby rocks and rippling back out into the forest.

As you entered the familiar clearing, the sounds of laughter could be heard coming clearly from Tili as she fended off Loak and Tanu from drowning her. A flurry of emotions fluttered within as you scanned the rest of the clearing, many more Omaticaya your age resting all along the bank of the stream. And as your eyes landed on the bulk form of the future Olo’eyktan, sitting atop one of the much higher rocks along the stream, you could feel your body begin to tingle all over. He was a sight to see, the crush you harbored from childhood burrowing deep into your chest once again. All those years of carefree playing as friends had slowly slithered away as duty became more important. And although always sweet and respectful in passing, that really was just Neteyam.

You were extremely hot now, your eyes downcast as you made your way toward the water, farther away from the crowd.

As you settled onto the waters edge allowing your feet to dangle into the calmest part of the stream, your eyes naturally began to wander back to Neteyam’s form. He really was gorgeous in all his glory, Olo’eyktan training doing his body justice as he filled out. As your eyes trailed up his torso, you could feel the burn within your stomach,perspiration building a slick layer onto your skin. His chest, full and round as it rose and fell, his neck stretched back as sweat begins to pool in the dip that meets below, up past his soft pink lips, you could now admire his bright amber eyes, intense and focused as he gave his full attention to his surroundings. And usually he was focused on everything, observing his comrades, sweeping for potential danger, and keeping a watchful eye on his rowdy siblings, but now his eyes were only focused on you.

He was always so intense, his eyes quickly tracing your form as his lips quirked into smile, and before you could feel the tingle spread from your stomach to your burning cheeks, he was walking over.

His stride long and quick as he shuffled through the playful hunters and dancing healers. You could feel your heart quicken, thumping against your ribs as it began to drown out Neyrali’s insistent plan to get with Bexti after eclipse.

She abruptly stopped feeling Netyams strong presence behind her, a sly smile spreading across her face as she eyed his body up until she was squinting up at his face. The sun outlined his body in a heated glow that made your mouth go dry and you palmed at the moss below, grounding yourself in its cool feel.

“Hi”, he spoke softly keeping his eyes solely on you, his shoulders creating a dark shadow for you to look back up at him.

An awkward pause stretched between the three of you and you could see Neyrali roll her eyes with a small giggle pulling from her lips. She was the first to leave, not even so much as a goodbye, swaying her hips towards Bexti, who waited for her with open arms.

The silence was almost deafening, only the beat of a nearby drum, and the loud crash of water filling the space between you two. You could feed him shift down, not towering over you but hovering close as he eyed you with a smile.

“You know we haven’t spoken in a while, I miss playing with you”, he was confident as he flirted, his attraction seeping into you. His confidence made you giggle, but no response would come.

This wasn’t unusual. You know Neteyam, at least you used to. When he was young and oblivious, a playful boy, who only dreamed of becoming a mighty warrior. He spent more time with you then, playmates who spent from dawn to eclipse together. You both the same height, him taking your slightly smaller hand into his as he guided you to the small fishing pond he liked, or teaching you and his siblings how to swim on a warm day. A big brother to the small and weak, picking you up when you fell and encouraging you to run a little faster when you were almost in his grasp.

He was still that Neteyam, just taller, broader, handsomer- you smiled, but still confident and forward.

Your face turned a hue too purple and you could feel his heated gaze all over you now, burning your neck, chest, and thighs as he gaucked shamelessly.

Turning your head down back to the flowing water, you mimicked his greeting,” hi, sit with me ‘teyam”, you grinned as that childhood nickname slipped past your lips.

He was bright now, glowing as he made room for himself next to you. Leaning back into the wet earth to bask in the sun.

•

Eclipse was beginning as the hot sun began to dissipate. A slow progression as your skin began to cool and a slight chill began to slither across your skin.

Your body still slightly pressed up against Neteyams as he watched your work intently. A quick learner always as he began to twists and braid some of the extra twine you carried in your sac. Every so often pulling small beads from his hair and weaving them into the dainty jewelry he was making. Working alongside him was easy even when your ears spiked and a shiver ran down your spine at the touch of his thigh against yours. No words were exchanged as the sounds of everyone around drowned out seemingly into the distance.

Your hands had begun to ache as your nimble fingers worked simultaneously weaving the brightly colored beads onto the waxy thread. The multiple hues of purple shimmering as you twisted them tightly together creating a contrast to the dark blue feather tangled into hanging vines. The top was coming along nicely, and a smile graced your face as you worked along.

Every so often you could hear the giggles and shrieks from the frantic Navi playing in the water, but overall it was peaceful and you could feel your tense muscles relax as you laid along the waters edge, the small fish kissing along your legs.

The cool breeze blew against your back, a stark contrast from the heat that consumed you every so often from his amber eyes dancing along your exposed legs.

His eyes had been glued to the side of your head as you worked, sitting up against him to hold yourself up from the long day of harvest. And as you relaxed, you sunk further into him, like you once did as a child.

The seemingly serene peace was broken as a sopping wet Loak landed near you, setting himself onto the mossy edge with an obnoxious sigh. His lanky form crowded over you, his beaded hair dripping water all over your lap as you rolled your eyes, you knew it was only a matter of time.

“Loak, always the charmer”, you slipped as your eyes rolled back harshly. He was truly a show boat, even in childhood. Calling the attention of anyone who’d look to showcase his itty bitty muscles, or running through the village creating a path of chaos for all the kids to follow.

His smile was wide, canines on display as he chuckled loudly. Resting on his forearms, laid back he hadn’t so much as acknowledged his brother until you felt his arms reach around you, pulling you into his warm chest and away from his soaking wet little brother. Scolding him for his lack of manners. Neteyam ever the gentleman was still as protective as you remembered.

“ Bro, don’t be such a buzzkill, I just missed my girl”, he charmed with a toothy grin.

Now he was hovering over you, pushing you further into Neteyam’s sturdy chest. You gasped feeling smothered by the large brothers.

“Loak, please, I’m not your girl or anyone’s for that matter”, you snapped, shoving his tawny body from your personal space. You could smell the sweet scent of yaku berries and healing paste seeping from him and so you teased “even after a bath you still smell like Sati”.

It was Loak’s turn to stutter, a purple blush spreading across his face as his flickering ears burned a painful looking red. You giggled, a sharp cackle spreading through the clearing as a low rubble of Neteyam’s chuckle soothed against your back.

Loak was so easy to tease, even as he had grown up with a quick mouth, you had a slick tongue that was quick with retort. His gasps halted as he eyed you with sharpened eyes, and you had returned to weaving, knowing that he would have much more to say.

“Well at least I’m not cuddled up with the next Olo’eyktan,” he quipped and now it was your turn to choke.

Neteyam’s solid body was now hovering over you from behind, rubbing your back, and pulling you back into him further as he scolded his brother.

Without looking you could hear the bright smile he held and it felt like old times. Loak teasing you about the very obvious crush you had on his older brother, and a Neteyam’s gentleman like nature allowing you to hide within his chest as a blush creeped along every point of your body.

Now he was pushing his younger brother back into the shallow waters edge, a loud splash crashing against both your legs as he surfaced back up for air.

“So low bro and you know it”, he gasped with a roll of his eyes.

Neteyam’s boisterous laugh sounded out into the crowd calling the attention of the few people still left as eclipse was ending.

The darkness had begun to descend upon Pandora calling the bioluminescent flora to glow with the absence of light. You began packing up your bag, placing your almost finished top at the bottom of your satchel.

“Neteyam were you able to finish”, you inquired with a small smile and he began fishing through the moss where he left the forgotten project.

As his large body turned back to your own reaching out for your long arm. His fingers clasping onto your own as the feeling of wooden beads gliding up past your fingers and then onto your wrist. A tiny bracelet with turquoise pebbles woven tightly between flower shaped purple beads you had stuffed at the bottom of your own collection of pebbles.

Your entire face lit up, a now pink blush creeping along your cheeks as you recognized the gleaming teal beads that matched the many beads within his own hair and jewelry he wore everyday.

You didn’t imagine the small project to keep himself occupied as he relaxed at the river would be for you, but like Loak he was still a confident charmer, and you smiled knowingly as your eyes admired his work.

His notable skill as a warrior trumped any of the other skills he had learned within his 23 years of living, but still his weave-ship rivaled a few of the skilled weavers within the clan.

“It’s gorgeous teyam..is this really for me?”, you gushed as he fiddled with his work wound around your wrist. His response came much later, a small bubble of silence that made you look up into his awaiting eyes.

“Of course, love”, his smile gleamed the same bright glow as the surrounding flora and he pulled you into him, crushing you against his warm chest.

“ Alright lovebirds, how about a game before we head back” you could hear Loak snicker from behind you, his soaking wet body making the moss below mushy.

Now he was yelling, calling attention to the few who were still lazing about the clearing. You could make out the pile of Neyrali, Bexti, Tili, & Tanu near the edge of the clearing, laying against the massive tree that shaded parts of the pond. They seemed to be in a relaxed conversation with slight smiles as they flirted with each other.

Over the years you knew that each pair was endgame, but no one was in a rush, our youth consumed with finding our place with the traditions of the omiticaya and excelling to live up to our proud parents.

As Loaks voice sounded out into the clearing again, competing against the howls of nightly creatures lurking far within the distance, the group had made their way up and over the waters edge near us.

The boys hollered as some much needed fun was suggested and you could feel yourself being pulled up to stand, Neteyam pulling you close against his chest again.

“how about a game of truth or dare?”’ Loak suggested a smirk forming as he stared down Sati. Her dark hair hung in waves, flowing against her back as she rested against a nearby rock.

Everyone tracked his eyes, landing on her form as she sat oblivious to the many eyes resting on her. She was a great warrior, following after her father to be a notable scout and guard in the late hours of the night. Loak and Sati had been partners sinde she passed her iknimiya. His training had proved fruitful and they were a noticeable pair within the clan.

You called out to her, adding to the crowd of young Navi looking to have a little bit of careless fun before trekking back home.

Although many people were all up for the teasing fun that accompanies playing the human game introduced by the current Olo’eyktan , Toruk Makto.

You had personally played the game with the sully kids many times. Always in the comfort of the sully families hut, as the game always seemed to get out of hand when played within the forest. The first and only time we played in the forest lead to baby Tuktirey being lost for hours, only being found long after eclipse. Loak having dared her to stay hidden within the forest until she was found. The brave Tuk had blindly completed her brothers dare, giving her father a “heart attack”, as he berated Loak once again for such dumb antics.

As you began to decline the game, in respect for the rule, Neteyam’s deep voice beat you to it, “ you know we aren’t allowed, plus we need to ALL be making our way back to Hometree”, his stern voice seemed to pierce everyone standing around and many had begun to disperse, slowly heading to the path that led home.

Loak huffed loudly, stilling everyone,” we’re literally all adults Neteyam-“ he retorted harshly but continued.

“-but fine how about tag” he suggested with roll of his big eyes.

You remembered the game fondly, your small legs racing through the forest, your skrawny limbs being thrashed by whipping vines and harsh roots sticking up from the ground. Your short body was still a bit clumsy, as you tried to leap from branch to branch. You rarely lost even with that disadvantage and you smiled boldly as you knew you could win again.

“we haven’t played that in so long”, you gushed, jumping up and down in a giddy childlike manner.

You could hear Loak and Neteyam snicker as they gaped at your excitement. Neteyam’s body had jostled a bit as you jumped against him and as his hand smoothed itself over your head, with a light pat, you grinned harder.

As if on autopilot, the crowd began to disperse. Female Navi shifting to the edge of the clearing, readying themselves in the direction of hometree.

The warriors still left, huddled at the waters edge, eyeing up the female Navi, picking their prey. The human game of tag had many years been morphed to a game of hunt. Young Navi learning to track and flow with the movement of trees, eager to become revered warriors within the clan. In all it’s fun, it had given many of them the confidence to begin training at a young age and pass their rites early too.

Hometree, our safe haven was base, and every prey who made it to its thick roots at its base was safe from the strong grip of their hunters.

If caught you were subjected to whatever desires your hunter requested, and most caught female Navi ended with courting gifts and shared whispers of love in the glowing night.

In much younger age you remembered the chase to be just as exhilarating as it was scary. You’d forgone playing many times, and only when Neteyam pinky promised to be your hunter for the game did you relent. With watering eyes and a bobbing poked out lip, you begged against his chest to go easy on you. His soft eyes and calm voice always reassuring you that he would protect you no matter what.

You smiled brightly every time you barreled through the thick vines covering the entrance to Hometree, spinning around to jump against Neteyam’s unwavering form right behind you. He was always so close, but never close enough.

“We’ve picked! Does everyone remember how to play”, a young hunter by the name of Tsu’mey called out into the clearing.

He was eyeing up another young harvester, Juma. The intense gaze of every hunter was cascading over their prey and you could feel the weight of Neteyam’s gliding over your skin.

His intense stare caused a hot prickle to begin crawling up your skin, every hair follicle on edge as your body turned over to fight or flight.

Your chest began to squeeze, tightening around your beating heart. Your widened eyes, pinching into slight amusement. The game was about to begin, and as you readied your shaking body, steadying it against the solid ground beneath you, you called out to him, loudly amongst the overlapping calls of daring hunters, “so close, ma teyam”, pausing for dramatic effect, “but never close enough”.

He was crouched now, his looming body morphing into the form of a beast, his eyes as daring as a palulakan itself.

Your sharp eyes had began to search for his form among the hunters. They had crowded around at the ponds edge, waiting for the countdown to begin for our headstart.

Neteyam must have stood at its center, his bulky form hidden well amongst the others so you crouched, tensing your body to prepare to run. 10 seconds. That’s all you get before he’s behind you, you reminded yourself.

“READY”, was what silenced everyone. The one word calling out into the clearing, jolting your body for the rush. Your toes dig deep into the soil below, a slight breeze chilling your wet skin.

“SET”, a low voice called out, stilling all the surrounding Navi. The silence was palpable, even the surrounding foliage and native creatures stilled to a pause.

You could hear your heart beating against your rib cage. Knees bent and hands outstretched to pull against the cascading vines.

“GO”,a deeper tone sounded out, the familiar accent sounding out into the clearing. You sprung into a sprint, pushing off the soil as soon as the Navi next to you did.

The load chants from the hunters spurred you on as you knew they would be barreling behind you any second now. Surely their eyes were tracking their prey, seeing the direction and scenting the path.

You pushed on, past the clearings bordering foliage and up into the trees for hopefully an added advantage. Home was not far and you knew you could swing further up higher so you pushed on.

The vines were twisted, forcing you to pull against them to make way for your slim form. Desperately clawing at the air to keep your head clear of the heavy leaves blocking your view.

You could hear the loud calls of hunters on the loose. In every direction they called familiar chants, as if they were hunting tailoang, in the night air. A slight burn was creeping up into your thighs, the soles of your feet beginning to ache as you landed harshly on a giant branch, high in the air.

You could feel him, he wasn’t close just yet, but his presence was easy to pick out many paces away. His adept body moving through your cleared path smoothly, catching up to your form, in less time than usual.

Your fingers were stinging now, small scrapes adorning your nimble fingers as you pulled against some particularly strong vines.

This may have not been a good idea, you thought. On the ground you only had to worry about the deep roots sticking up out the earth. Hopping over them with ease, and avoiding the chaos of other avoiding prey and hunters.

As you pulled against a thick cascading vine , pushing your body into the air to land against a branch further ahead you could feel the soft touch of his fingers.

He was way to close now. Neteyam was insanely fast, well past his peers in agility, speed, and strength but your head-start should have afforded you a good distance.

You could hear his harsh breathes now, almost as if he was right on top of you. Pushing your sore legs further, a harsh burn began to ripple through them. The thump of your heart beating against your ribs pushed you on, your wideshot eyes seeking out a quick escape.

A sigh of relief left your lips as the pink glow peaked around the corner of a large branch up ahead. Slipping down the slim branch you began to jump down quickly. Hopping clumsily from branch to branch, as you closed in on the landmark, the bright flora of (pick one) growing against a tall tree, almost as tall as kelutral??. Its roots spiraled around the tree in a magenta hue covering.

You were close.

Pushing forward the quick whips of branches and vines slicing against your skin stung, twisting within your braids before being snagged out. You could hear the path behind you shuffling loudly, tree bark scratched and leaves ruffled to make way for his opposing frame.

The loud hoots and calls of hunters surround you, as you closed in on Hometree. Your rapid breaths pushed out between your lips, heart beating harshly against your chest. But you could see your home insight. Just a few feet before you would be passing the grand threshold of the tree winding branches.

And then you felt it.

Warm hands tugging against your strained arms pulling you back from the winding roots leading to the entrance of kelutral. His hard chest pressed firmly against your back as he forced your body to come to a sudden stop. The air rushing from your lungs halted and a harsh gasp pushed past your lips as you swung around to face your predator.

Then his lips are covering yours, a passionate dance of tongue and clashing teeth. His bulky form pushing you over until you were leaning uncomfortably far back and holding onto his shoulders tightly.

As his lips began to pull away, you could feel your body following, begging to be kissed again. You could feel his hands all over now, on your cheeks, neck, shoulders, waist, and lastly your ass. His musky scent mixed with the sweet scent of moss surrounded you and you feel into his body comfortably with your eyes closed and head tucked into between his pecs.

“Your mine now”, he rasped. His lazily flicking tail wrapped around your thigh, holding you flush against his form.

Authors Note: Finally posted my first writing so I’m excited and happy I could finish it. There might also be another chapter for this story but nothing more than that. Let me know your thoughts plss!!!

💗 @pandorapromises @pandorxxx @thewalkingwillowtree @theblueflower05 @neteyamsyawntu @vivid-ink

#neteyam sully #neteyam fic #neteyam of #neteyam smut #avatar series #fiction #neteyam romance #loak sully #avatar

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lana7779 · 22 days ago

Note

Hello! Since you sent me an ask, I’d like to return the question.

Speak freely about Break please! I love reading your opinions on things, so I’d love to see more of your opinions on him. When/Why/What exactly do you love about him? ❤️

OOOOOOH BOY! Permission to yap about Break obtained!

Cracks knuckles...

Actually...

Cracks them extra hard!

Alright, here we go!

With Break, it was honestly love at first sight. I fall in love with design first and then personality once the series goes on. So how it happened was, this person in a Blue Exorcist server (back where I was hanging out with my first husbando, Mephisto Pheles), just casually dropped the question, "hey, do you know Xerxes Break from Pandora Hearts?"

When I said 'no', he sent me fanart of Xerx, Meph and the Undertaker, and he said that he could see Meph and Xerx getting along and he'd love for me to draw them drinking tea together or something.

Now, knowing nothing about this character, I was like, "well, if he'd get along with Meph, then that means he's oughta be a cool dude!" So while I could not draw a character I was unfamiliar with, I decided to check out the series, solely based on the fact that Xerx looked interesting from that fanart, and someone asked me to draw him, so I felt obligated to do him justice.

Picking up Pandora Hearts, I figured I'd be interested in the plot, but man, I was not prepared for just how much this combination of lines will take my breath away from his very first appearance. I was extremely looking forward to finally see him in action, and boy did he not disappoint!

After that, I will admit, the entire plot of Pandora just kinda went over my head because I was just looking forward to the next time he would show up.

Now, I have loved characters before. (My 100+k word fic about Meph is testimony to that..). HOWEVER. I have never purely and utterly fell madly in love with them to the point of letting them consume me and become my entire personality. I was sure I'd just dip my toes in the PH fandom and quickly come out, but a year later I'm like somewhere in the bottom of the ocean still absolutely swimming in the same feelings from when I first fell for the character.

So that was the initial "holy shit" moment. Literally just love at first sight, with no hindsight about anything, just... pure devotion right out of the gate.

So now imagine how those feelings just kept getting intensified the more we found out about Break.

Now, I love my goofy silly characters, but I love them strong, and I love them even more when they have emotional depth. My friends keep laughing at me saying "you always fall for the villains" (see Meph and Hisoka), but I mean... not true? Xerx just falls into this certain type like the other two where he's morally grey, but ultimately, far from a villain, and actually provides a lot of support for the main cast. Like, good luck trying to imagine PH without Break. They'd get nothing done.

So not only is he morally grey, just a guy with his own agenda that helps the main guys, he's also super bloody strong, with a mysterious past, a layer of masks, and just a silly little guy at the end of the day. What's not to love?

It was incredible to go on this journey with him when we find out about Kevin, about what actually motivates him, what he used to be like, getting glimpses into his soul where he's extremely self conscious. I love that emotional depth to him. So he's not just a silly little guy, he's an amazing lil guy that you just want to squeeze and kiss all his troubles away because you grow to learn that he deserves that.

I love that he ends up smacking some sense into some notable characters like Gil and Vince. I love that so much about him, that he's a catalyst to their own growth. He used his shitty past experience and not only grew from it himself, but also taught others how to grow as well. He's just amazing like that.

At the same time, we know his past, we know he went on a murder rampage, and we're shown that he's no stranger to inflicting pain on others for his own entertainment. That's the kinda darkness I enjoy in a character, so he's not all sunshine and rainbows. No, that's main character shenanigans. As a secondary character, HE gets all the cool character development and dark attributes that are just inexcusable.

(I mean... with him though, I'd totally excuse any of his behaviours, see little comic I drew below for proof) I know killing people is wrong, don't come at me! Not my fault he looks like a snack while he does it...

The more we found out about him, the more I was like, "this man just cannot stop getting better and better..."

His nonchalance regarding his health drove me absolutely wild. I just wanted to shake him and slap some sense into him, but it honestly tore at my heart. And at that moment I realized just how attached I was to him truly.

I believe that's around the time I might have started drawing him... I just... could not get enough of him.

Not to mention that he just kept looking better and better as the series went on, thanks to Jun's style improvement.

I mean, he went from this janky looking fellow:

To this absolute darling:

And there is no better word to describe him other than "darling" because he's so sweet, and he's so caring, and he's just so good, and wise and strong, I wanna weep when I think about him because he's just too gosh darn perfect!

And weep I did when he died. Frankly, I was in denial up until the very end, and to this day I choose to live in blissful ignorance of his demise.

As a grown woman, it was most certainly not okay for me to be weeping in the shower that night over him and cry on my drive to work the next day. The level of attachment to this man is just beyond me at this point. It felt like a new low to be googling "how to get over a fictional character's death", but, as a result I ended up creating copious amounts of fanfiction and fanart, just to feel a shred of normalcy that he's alright.

And can we just talk about how wonderful his design is, and how lovely it is to draw him? I mean, from his hair, to his eye, to his clothes, it's all just so perfect, I cannot even begin describing it. It sucks that he's missing an eye, but the bangs add so much uniqueness to him, and that eye style is the most unique thing I've ever seen in my life, and I just love it to death. Not to mention the outfit. Also, so incredibly unique. I just love unique things I guess, and Xerx fits that definition.

All in all, I'd say he meets all the definitions of perfections for me, from looks to back story, character development and personality, he's just... *chef's kiss* perfect! That's why I literally cannot stop drawing him, writing him, thinking about him for a single moment for more than a year now.

I thought it would be just a phase, but... it appears I'm in it for the long haul. I can yap about him all day and all night, and my discord presence is proof of that. As well as my tumblr one I guess... hahah but on tumblr I cannot show too many of my true nsfw thoughts about him, but boy are they ever present.

With that said, this is just a personal headcanon of a delusional fangirl, but I think he'd make a great partner. I hear a lot of people talk about loving him but they'd rather never meet him irl. I dunno... I really enjoy writing and thinking of reader interactions with him (see an entire 5 chapter fic about that). So, I really do think he'd be a fun and silly partner to have, but also one that would know when to calm down and take things slow and easy. Thinking about him that way makes me truly and genuinely happy.

So thank you so much for letting me yap about him. I really cannot get enough of him. He's my everything right now. My precious darling who I just want to hold and cherish forever and ever. He deserves love. I wish more people would give that to him. <3

In conclusion, I love him, your Honour.

#xerxes break #pandora hearts #my thoughts #ask #yapping #can yap about him all day #my blorbo #he's so precious #how can you not love him #best character ever #i love him #pandora hearts fanart #technically #mini sketch #this isn't even scratching the surface of all the thoughts I've had about him over the past year #just so you know #more asks are in order to truly explore all these thoughts

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silvfyre-writings · 11 months ago

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I'm tired, hold me (BSD Fanfic)

Silver, I know it isn't Christmas yet, but I am impatient and it's close enough LMAO

My first time writing daran, and it was fun. I definitely want to write them again at some point, but I hope I did them justice enough here!

Thanks for being a good friend~

===

Gift for @beastranpo, the overseer of all things daran.

Enjoy!

Edogawa Ranpo was arrogant, he was confident, he was proud, and his sense of justice was so skewed it had many wondering just why he was in the business of being a detective that was supposed to help people. Truly, Edogawa Ranpo was an enigma to those that didn’t know him, and he was also one to those that did—even to those that had known him for well over a decade, although they did have a better understanding of the man than most. But despite Edogawa Ranpo’s faults and quirks, he was still human and well…

… right now, the genius detective was sick.

Ranpo had, unfortunately, been caught in the rain that had hit Yokohama a few days ago while out on a case, and even though he’d returned to the office and drunk a copious amount of orange juice at Yosano’s urging, the detective hadn’t been able to escape the cold that befell him the very next day. And rather than rest at home, Ranpo chose to continue coming to the office, and refused to listen to any attempts to get him to go back to the dorms and rest, although he never gave a reason as to why he wanted to be at the office in the first place.

Regardless, all they could do really was wait and see what happened next.

Dazai watched from the comfort of his own desk, the one he was supposed to be doing paperwork at, but was instead watching his colleagues move about the office, as Ranpo once again, dozed off at his desk, head dipping towards his chest over and over until it finally settled there. This was the fourth time that day that Ranpo had fallen asleep, and while it was better than the coughing fits that’d been echoing throughout the office periodically, Ranpo certainly hadn’t fallen asleep in a comfortable position.

“Again, really?” A sigh from Kunikida beside him drew Dazai’s attention, and he let out a hum as his eyes slid over towards the man.

“Again, indeed.” Dazai commented, leaning forward to rest his head on his hand, eyes sliding back towards Ranpo’s sleeping form. He made a noise. “Ah, Kenji’s going to wake him this time.”

“Maybe Kenji will have better luck convincing Ranpo to go home.” Kunikida said, the both of them now watching—although Kunikida was still actively trying to complete his work—as Kenji approached Ranpo, and shook his shoulder until green eyes flew open and coughing broke the silence that had fallen over the room momentarily.

Dazai watched intensely as words were spoken between Kenji and Ranpo, although he couldn’t hear what was being said in the first place on account of being across the room, and with Kenji facing away from him, and Ranpo wearing a mask on his own face, he couldn’t even read lips to know what was being said. But he could still read body language, and with someone as expressive as Ranpo, that was more than enough. “I don’t think Kenji’s having much luck. Besides, didn’t the President try to send him home the last time Ranpo dozed off?”

“He did, and somehow Ranpo convinced him to let him stay.” Kunikida said, and then sighed. “I don’t understand why he wants to hang around when he’s not even doing any work. Surely being at home, in his own bed, would be much better than constantly falling asleep at his desk.”

“You were the first one to try and send him home, weren’t you?”

“Yes, and regrettably, I allowed him to win that argument. But I did manage to convince him to take some medicine.”

And that was big, convincing Ranpo to do something, even if it was as simple as taking medicine. The oldest member of the Agency was notorious for only doing what he wanted to do, regardless of who was at his feet, begging—unless you were a certain silver-haired swordsman, then Ranpo would do anything. Which was still a mystery to that day, although Dazai suspected it had to do with Ranpo’s… unknown past.

He says unknown, because for the most part, Ranpo’s life before the Agency was unknown, with only a select few people being privileged enough to know the truth and entirety of it.

And Dazai was one such person, but only after jumping through every hoop imaginable.

“I think I’ll give it a try. Maybe I’ll have better luck” Dazai flashed Kunikida a sly grin when the man looked at him incredulously, and he pushed his chair back, rising to cross the room. He didn’t wait to hear his colleague’s response, already focused on the man across the room who already looked two seconds away from falling asleep again.

Not a sound came from Dazai as he approached, sliding up until he could drape himself over the back of Ranpo’s chair, one hand coming to poke at the elder’s forehead. Ranpo’s face scrunched up in response, and his eyes opened just enough to look at Dazai before they slipped shut again, a groan escaping him. “Go away, and let me sleep.”

Dazai ignored the request, and moved to run his hand through Ranpo’s hair, allowing his face to soften a little when he relaxed into the touch. “No, I don’t think I will, because sleeping in your chair is going to make you sore, and while I love to hear you complain, neck pain from sleeping wrong isn’t one I do enjoy hearing.”

Ranpo let out a hum, and said nothing, just leaning into Dazai’s touch even more.

In response, Dazai trailed his hand from Ranpo’s hair down to his cheek, and tilted the other’s head up to look at him. Ranpo’s eyes were bright, as they usually were, but the fever that he was ailed by currently made them look even brighter than normal. And accompanied by the flushed cheeks that were peeking over the mask he wore; he truly looked the part of someone that was ill. Dazai pulled his hand back. “If you aren’t going to rest at home, at least go and sleep on the couch instead of your chair.”

“What, aren’t going to try and convince me to go home like everyone else is?” Ranpo grumbled, turning away from Dazai to stare at his desk.

“Now why would I do that?” Dazai raised his eyebrows in fake shock. “You’ve already said no to everyone else after all. I am merely compromising with you. You want to stay in the office, and we all want you to rest.”

For a long time, Ranpo stared at him, eyes narrowing as he thought over Dazai’s words. Just the fact that Ranpo was even considering his suggestion told Dazai that he’d won this fight, so he stepped around to the front of Ranpo’s chair and grabbed the detective’s hands, wrapping his own around them, tugging and squeezing until finally, Ranpo sighed and stood. “You’re so annoying. Why did I ever agree to date you.”

Dazai snorted at Ranpo’s words, and let go of one hand so that he could drag the detective over towards the couch. “Because you fell in love with my good looks, obviously. And am I really annoying, or is that just your inability to accept help from others talking?”

“I’m not going to answer that.” Ranpo huffed, and then broke out into a coughing fit that had him hunching over, clutching at his chest, which gave Dazai the opportunity to push Ranpo down onto the couch none too gently—although he did make sure that Ranpo stayed upright so that he didn’t choke as he coughed, because he wasn’t that mean. He did actually care. And when the coughing didn’t immediately let up, he put a hand to Ranpo’s back and moved it up and down to try and encourage him to breathe through the fit.

Eventually, the coughing died off, and Ranpo slumped against the back of the couch, looking even more exhausted than before. Ranpo’s eyes flicked up to look at Dazai, and in an unusually affectionate manner, reached out with his hands and made grabby motions towards him, which honestly, Dazai hadn’t expected. Although it wasn’t out of the norm for Ranpo to become a little clingy and affectionate whenever he was injured or sick, usually it was done in private, away from the prying eyes of their colleagues, so for him to be doing it in the middle of the work day, he had to be feeling awful.

So who was Dazai to begrudge him that comfort?

Removing his coat first, Dazai then sat on the couch beside Ranpo, and managed to count to four before Ranpo threw himself across his lap, curling up and burying his face into Dazai’s stomach. Dazai let a fond smile cross his face—only because Ranpo couldn’t see it from his current position—and reached down with one hand to run his hand through Ranpo’s hair, and used his other to drag his coat over Ranpo’s body so the other could use it as a makeshift blanket, which just made Ranpo cuddle even closer.

Dazai tugged lightly on a stray strand of black hair. “You know, if you wanted my attention, you could’ve just asked for it. I would’ve stayed home with you.”

Ranpo shrugged, and blinked tiredly up at him from where he was laying.

“Well.” Dazai moved back to smoothing Ranpo’s hair. “I say, you take a nap, and then we use your illness as an excuse for me to escort you home, and then we huddle up underneath your futon and call it a day. That sounds like a good idea if you ask me.”

Ranpo chuckled, and Dazai knew that if the other was in a much better condition, he would be rolling his eyes. “You’re just trying to escape work again, aren’t you?”

“Maybe I am, but are you going to refuse cuddles with me?”

“Hmmm… well you are warm, and I am quite cold right now.” Ranpo said.

Dazai rolled his eyes and shifted so that he was lying down on the couch, dragging Ranpo up until his head was resting on his chest. “Better?”

With one hand, Ranpo pulled Dazai’s coat around him tighter, and with the other, he wrapped it around Dazai’s waist and closed his eyes. “Much.”

#bsd #bungo stray dogs fanfic #daran #edogawa ranpo #dazai osamu #bungo stray dogs #bsd fic #sickfic #writing #fanfic #fluff #comfort

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themummersfolly · 6 months ago

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Mr. Harley

Inspired by that bit of meta by @lesbianpraetor.

There must be justice, if a new world is going to rise from the ashes. And in the Wasteland, the only justice is retribution.

Bullet Farm is in shambles. A quarter of the foremen are dead, killed first thing by Dementus to make a point; the rest, along with the miners, are being held underground, cowed but hardly cooperative. Add to that the loss of cranes and mining equipment, and the ruin of the refining facility, and Dementus’ great strategic coup has left them with little more than a hole in the ground. It’s taken an even greater expense of fuel, but they finally have the two responsible for it all: Praetorians, Immortan Joe’s errand boys.

Dementus rants and raves, beating on the overturned ute as they drag the semiconscious road warriors out. He’s shot; her arm is bloody, sleave torn to pieces, a new elbow halfway down her forearm.

Mr. Harley holds them up, kneeling in the dirt, as his boss continues his tirade. He’s tired. The seizure of Bullet Farm took all night, and keeping the population under control meant he’s had no chance since then to sleep. It’s not as though it’s better at Gastown; for the past six months it’s been a different riot every week, and they’re all exhausted. He’s talked it over with Mr. Davidson more than once.

“Seems like the Octoboss had the right idea, cutting his losses. He always was the first to see the writing on the wall.”

“Yeah, and look what happened to him and the rest of the Mortifiers. If they didn’t stand a chance, then we sure don’t.”

“Die out there with our boots on, or die here, strung upside down from a gibbet.”

It always comes back to resources. The Citadel, Gastown, Bullet Farm: food, guzzoline, ammo, and plenty of them. In leaving, the Octoboss had given up easy access to them, and it was starvation that ultimately led him to attack a war rig. As long as they stay in the triangle of the three fortresses, they have a shot at building their own place of abundance. If only Dementus can get everyone else to cooperate.

“Where were you going, so full of hope? There is no hope!”

It isn’t directed at him, but it still stings. Hope was the only reason they’d followed Dementus: hope for protection and stability and a full belly, hope for abundance. Beside him, Mr. Norton helps jerk the two apart with vicious glee. He wishes Dementus would stop talking. A bullet in each of their heads, and then back to the Farm to unfuck this mess.

No one is getting that lucky today.

“String her up, I want her to watch for a while.”

Mr. Harley does what he’s told, as he’s always done, but he’s barely begun to wrap the chain around her wrist when Dementus is in his face.

“No, the other one!” Dementus jerks the chain out of his hands and hands it to Mr. Norton. “You losing your touch?”

He doesn’t meet his boss’s eyes, doesn’t point out that her mangled arm probably won’t hold her weight, doesn’t ask why they’re wasting time and fuel when Gastown is on the verge of conflagration. A real hard man, he might have. Mr. Harley doesn’t dare.

Dementus turns away from him as the winch engages and lift the captive to her tiptoes behind the Six-Foot. Mr. Norton grins at her handywork. Shards of bone are visible, the shredded flesh barely holding together. Mr. Harley has seen worse, but for whatever reason the sight make him want to puke.

“You’re revving on an empty tank if you stay here,” the Octoboss had snarled the last time they had ever seen him. “That dropkick Dementus, everything he touches turns to shit.”

Round and round the riders go, long past what’s needed to kill a man. Even Mr. Norton gets bored, putting her head down on her bike to nap. The sun dips lower. Gas tanks slowly empty.

There is no hope!

There can be a lot of satisfaction in making your enemy suffer, and Dementus has some good ideas about it. But after a certain point, you have better things to do.

“Goddam bitch,” he mutters, and goes to check on the captive. She’s still breathing, and steadily enough that he knows she’ll keep doing it. Her damaged arm looks longer than it did; her feet are now resting full on the ground, and he knows the winch wasn’t lowered. There can’t be much holding it on at this point. He ties a kerchief around it, twisting a shank in the knot to tighten it, then draws his knife. The girl lets out a sound like she’s choking, but once he’s finished cutting she gets back to breathing more or less regularly. He holds her upright by those flashy praetorian leathers.

The boys are still playing ring around the dead fucker with her partner. Mr. Norton lifts her head from her bike, too-bright eyes landing on him. He jerks his head toward the outside of the circle; no trouble, he’s just going to rape her a little before the others join in. The oncoming bikers slow to let him pass.

Ten paces away, she’s woken up, or at least gotten her feet under her. The wrecked ute lies upside down in a ditch; one of the dirt bikes lies on its side, undamaged. Mr. Harley gives the girl a shove and she lands on her knees. He reaches down, rights the bike, and drags her back to her feet. There’s a wrench in her utility belt, clearly something meant for the war rig. He plucks it out and walks away, leaving her propped unsteadily against her means of escape.

If there’s no hope, then he’s got nothing to worry about. If there is, well, then Dementus can get fucked.

The circle of death continues around him, precious guzzoline turning to exhaust as the sun dips toward the horizon. Mr. Norton is back to napping on her bike. He gets to work on the rear wheel of the Six-Foot.

Like what I'm doing? Buy me a coffee!

#furiosa a mad max saga #furiosa #praetorian jack #dementus #mr harley #mr davidson #mr norton #octoboss #implied mr harley/mr davidson #cw: violence #cw: gore #cw: rape #he doesnt actually he just lets them think he is

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immortalbutterflycos · 7 months ago

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For the WIP ask game:

💾What is your document of your wip/ a wip called? (not the stories actual title but what you’ve saved it as)

And:

❤️❤️❤️

Good morning~ (it's 8 am here when I'm writing this) I meant for this to be my first post of the day, but while trying to find the information I have, I found out that the summary section of Google Docs was deleted along with all of my "summaries" (which are, because my brain simply cannot function on a "normal" level, actually extensive plot notes that I now lost forever. Which is super cool~ ^.^ <3 Just another reason why I prefer to write on paper I guess...

Anyway, sorry about that, I'm not in a super fantastic mood rn.

BUT! To answer your question, unfortunately, I don't have an extremely fun one for this for the main fic that I've been working on. But that is primarily because I literally have -and I'm not kidding because I went back and counted them all- Ninety-nine docs relevant to this fic and I'm about to start on #100 because I just thought of a new plot point yesterday (that I thankfully wrote on paper since I was at work) and I need to give it a home.😂

And that is JUST for 'The Art of Running for Our Lives' (aka TAoRfOL since writing that title out every time is exhausting 😂)

I had to make a whole-ass Masterlist of docs with their links so that I could keep track of them and all of the titles are more spoilery than anything so that I know that what information I need to find will be in that doc before I click on it.

I started writing this fic in March, 2023 and I wish that I could tell you that this was all simple overkill, but I wish it was. It's not even posted yet but this plot has a grand total of 8 main characters and the AU I'm doing is so niche that I'm trying to merge magic systems (to an extent) and keeping track of timelines is wild in this one even without my ADHD getting in the way of things.

I'd say I do this because I hate myself, but this is very much a passion project and I really just want to do it the justice it deserves. 💜

That being said, I do have a few doc titles I'm willing to share because I think they're silly (I know, it took a WHILE to get here. Have I mentioned that I have really bad unregulated ADHD? 😂)

"TAoRfOL Cheat Sheet: [insert character name here]"

"James isn't doing well (TAoRfOL)"

"Post-[redacted] Dorlene Heist"

"I was in my feels..."

✨Bonus from other AU's:✨

"The cat distribution system but the cat is Regulus"

and finally,

"this was supposed to be smut how did I get here..?"

TL;DR: I have ADHD so there is no 1 specific doc for my fic. And also because I apparently need to dip my toes in every pond I find, (write too many fics/AUs at once), most of my docs are titled "[blank] AU" with a small description of the contents in the title.

Also apparently I can't give a simple answer to any of these ask games. Hope this is okay because I have no self-control and I'm very passionate about this fic.

#the marauders #the black brothers #jegulus #marauders era #starchaser #wolfstar #rosekiller #dorlene #regulus black #james potter #sirius black #remus lupin #TAoRfOL #The Art of Running for Our Lives #WIP #ask game

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nemesis-is-my-middle-name · 11 months ago

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Well about the perception of Volo vs Kamado thing, and why more people don’t hate Volo, I have my own reflections (pretty privilege is absolutely a factor tho let’s be real 😂)

Everyone growing up has at least one story of an adult being super unfair to you, even though you were doing everything right. Their own biases and experiences could be understood later once you were older and calmer reflecting back on the incident, like a teacher who snapped at you maybe had a super long day of wrangling hundreds of children. But we never forget how it feels in that moment to have those who should be guiding us be unfair and seemingly unreasonable. So naturally that’s gonna hurt when you get kamado being paranoid.

Volo on the other hand is just absolutely delightful I’m sorry maybe if Kamado put on a silly outfit and hair for his boss battle instead of plate mail he’d have more art. Like you said Volos betrayal is one and done really, he acts like a theater kid and then dips. You have to keep seeing kamado being in charge in the game after his blunders for a while which can rub people the wrong way. (Also this is maybe just me but I never trusted Volo just like I never trusted Cynthia as a kid, and finding out he was evil was a great moment of vindication I CANT be the only one who experienced this)

TLDR we see unfairness way more than we see someone betray us while making their hair like a god horse

well, you heard them, kamado. time to go get the jester outfit. cmon chop chop it's to redeem your image

yeah, the point abt getting burned by adults in authority is also very fair. most of us were not scarred for life by theater kid antics lol. the other thing abt it is that often those same adults never really face any consequences. you were always just expected to move on, suck it up etc. cause that's life as a kid right. sometimes ppl will use their power over you just to flex their limited authority, or to vent whatever's going on in their home life, and this doesn't really stop when you grow up it's just that when you're a kid basically every adult has that authority position. so it's just expected that there's nothing you can do. i mean unless you decide to be the karmic force of justice in your own life by being the most stubborn bitch of a child to walk the earth. not that i would know anything about that cough

uh anyway. the thing is the thing btwn you and kamado isn't about about child vs adult. you're more or less considered an adult yourself by jubilife, albeit a rather young and more importantly low ranking one. like we've said (a million times already lol) kamado's not doing it just to grasp at a sense of control, he's reacting to what he perceives as a very real threat to his village (and also because the writers clocked him in the face with the idiot ball for plot advancement reasons lbr).

and the thing is kamado DOES, kind of, face consequences and own up to his mistakes by the end of the game. also after the red sky event he's like, REALLY nice to you lol. not just briefly either! imo you can tell that he sincerely respects you and regrets his actions in the red sky. go look at his late game quotes-

"Perhaps you are a divine being yourself, sent to bring us gifts from above... "I know I've no right to say this... But we are truly fortunate to have been able to count you among the Survey Corps' ranks. If you had not joined us, we would have fallen on Mount Coronet. We would have lost our home. We would have lost our future." "I'm grateful to you for showing me what a heartening presence Pokémon can be. We must spar again sometime!" "<player>, forgive me for taking so much of your time [telling you about the Galaxy name.] Please accept this as a sort of apology."

like he's trying to make up for the way they were treated earlier and give them the proper treatment they're owed for all their help.

idk i don't have a good way to conclude this i guess. i just think he's a cool character

#the nemesis speaks #the nemesis answers #trudivination #pla analysis #i should really be tagging these kamado posts #but with what ugh #kamado apologist hours #that's what i tagged a previous one with i think. sure good nuff #i say the idiot ball thing bc like #kamado's PERCEPTION was semi reasonable but his ACTIONS kind of weren't #but it's also kind of unreasonable for such a seemingly competent person to get that straw-graspy that fast #like they purely did his character dirty bc it was the easiest way to get you to follow volo to cogita's house #imo at least. you (general you) may disagree. there's space to make an argument there

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faelune-home · 2 months ago

Text

FFXIVWrite 2024 #19: Taken

(A/n: So i say I'm focusing a lot on the magic questline, and yet here's anoter entry into the magic questline rewrite. Again, I just really like writing Alisaie's perspective on this matter, and at this point I've realised that figuring out the magic plot could roughly let me figure out the whole timeline for the other quests as well as msq. Plus I did say I want to see one of these rewrite quests finished before the month ends, so at this rate it's gonna be the magic one.

Having this one be a friendly chat with Artoirel before Ali rejoins msq, and Fhara dips off for Elpis, so this is also the separation point where the quest ending will have to wait till after that msq point. The actual prompt inspiration being the discussion on Aymeric and how infatuated he is with Fhara its hard to miss, but in turn, Fhara's waning mutual feeling also stands out in how she clearly doesn't match him anymore.

Spoiler warning in play now as we appraoch the second half of EndW msq and the later magic role quests, the narration will mention the msq event a bit more now as these entries go on.

Word count: 1403)

Alisaie could only sigh as she packed up her things. There really wasn’t anything left to do, at least at that point. Aymeric had arranged for a council to be held to address the feelings of disconnect between the church and the populace, but that would require time and all sorts of bureaucratic red tape to get through, and there hadn’t been any other sightings of Profane Fafnir since.

And with the death of the bishop, despite even more unrest amongst the clergy, no-one else had reported any other turnings. It’s like his passing had cowed enough of the faithful into silence, hiding away to avoid the same fate.

She could just hang around Ishgard waiting for news, but as it was, Krile and Y’shtola had called everyone back to help with matters in Thavnair, especially as people were beginning the process of migrating to Sharlayan to prepare for the exodus.

And Fhara would be making moves to try and travel back to the ancients’ time…

Alisaie’s fist curled up to think of Fhara still at work, barely taking any time to rest. Mostly of her own volition, which frustrated her to no end, but it was just as much the fault of everyone else needing Fhara’s assistance, the world dying and the people suffering, and of course Fhara would never deny the call to help people.

Always equal parts inspiring and infuriating.

Alisaie sighed again to ease the tension, not even realising her shoulders were practically up to her ears, and releasing the poor clothing garment that had been victim to her clenched hand.

There was a knock at the door. She packed away the piece and called for the person to enter.

“Good evening, my lady,” Artoirel said, offering a small bow as he entered, leaving the door behind him slightly ajar, “I hope you don’t mind my intrusion.”

“Not at all ser, I’m just packing up,” Alisaie responded, gesturing to her pack. It was only a light one anyway, for easy travel, with a mix of clothes suited for both Thavnair and Garlemald given the Scions most recent activities. “Mostly finished by now.”

“I see,” he nodded in acknowledgement, “I must say, while this certainly isn’t the last we’ll see of each other once the council is ready to commence, it has been an honour to work alongside you so far. Your brother’s tales didn’t do you justice.” Alisaie folded her arms and tried not to look too smug at the praise.

Apparently her brother had sold her as a passionate and headstrong person that would almost certainly bite back against people she deemed too overconfident or self assured. At the time, Alisaie had been admittedly rather wary of that description - it wasn’t wrong per say, even if it was mostly about how she treated Alphinaud himself, and before they’d reunited properly - but Artoirel had acknowledged himself that he was relishing to chance to meet her. In his own words;

”You were going to be the better person to counter Ishgard’s own stubborn ranks.”

Returning to the moment, she nodded back.

“I’m glad I could be of assistance. And that I could live up to my reputation. I still have to thank Alphinaud for being so lenient in his description.”

She almost dared think he cracked a smile at that, but if he did, it was lost again in his ever professional demeanour.

“I’m especially glad to have you here as it took a lot of the pressure off of Lady Fhara. Although I suppose that means nothing when she simply stretched herself thin helping damn near every nation on Aldenard instead. When Aymeric and I sent our delegate to seek her aid, we weren’t expecting her to accept every offer sent her way.”

“Unfortunately I did,” Alisaie frowned, “But while she’ll never take a moment for herself until she’s about ready to sleep on her feet, I am glad she enlisted our help with these matters. If this is the closest we can get to taking some of the burden off of her, then I’ll put in 110% of the effort for her sake.”

This time, he was definitely smiling. It was only small, but it was there.

“You certainly have. The Scions are ever working tirelessly but I shall hope that you can keep up that same effort once we finally move to face Profane Fafnir with your return.” She nodded firmly.

“I can only hope Ser Aymeric manages with Fhara being away again,” she suddenly mused, the man’s ever attentive behaviour playing on her mind, “I know he’s quite…fond of her.”

“So I’ve noticed. Though I’m rather surprised to see Lady Fhara not quite matching his enthusiasm,” Artoirel said.

“Really? I simply took her for trying to remain professional. Or simply her exhaustion leaving her a touch disconnected,” she responded.

“I can assure you, even during her days here in Ishgard with Master Alphinaud and Lady Tataru, Lady Fhara was very obvious with her mutual affections, and it never hindered her capabilities.”

Alisaie wasn’t going to argue against that - after all, she didn’t have much of an idea of Fhara’s relations beyond the Scions, especially during the time she wasn’t with the group. All she knew of Aymeric and Fhara’s courting was Fhara ultimately deciding to put it to the side since the threat of the ascians was too great to ignore for such dalliances.

But Fhara’s behaviour had stood out during their time in Ishgard - never quite meeting Aymeric with the same energy, always keeping space between them, and the few times Aymeric had tried to approach her with talk of something other than their mission - light small talk about the state of the city beyond the church, her own wellbeing, even a quickly dashed attempt for a moment alone - Fhara had immediately put up the wall of civility, focusing on the duty at hand.

It left Alisaie wondering about her friend’s feelings for the other man…

“Well, no matter what it is, I hope she is well. Perhaps once the matter is finished, they can discuss it between them,” Artoirel nodded, catching her attention again.

“I didn’t take you to be the type to mind others' relations or rumours,” Alisaie asked, though with a more amused tone of voice. And for all his scoff in response, again he had that small smile.

“Please, that’s my brother’s occupation. Lurking about the Crozier minding the whispers. Though I can’t deny he’s able to keep above the news and the secrets of the other houses, as deplorable as an act it is, it has some use.”

“I’m unfortunately quite aware. Maybe you didn’t know, or perhaps he dressed it up in more palatable terms, but Alphinaud can be quite the same, always with his ear to the goings on of others and ready to stick his nose in where it might not be wanted.”

His response was a semi-stifled huff of laughter, which at this point Alisaie realised, might as well be Ser Artoirel’s equivalent of an outright bark of amusement.

“I was not aware, but in hindsight that would explain much. Always interfering indeed.” A chime sounded from the door, a clock going off somewhere else in the inn. Since when was that the time?

“Well, I wasn’t aware it’d been so long. I have other work to be getting on with,” he mumbled below his breath, coughing to recollect himself and pulling himself straight. That straightlaced expression once again on his face.

“Once again, it has been a pleasure to fight alongside you. My apologies for keeping you, and I await your return to finish matters,” he said, bowing to her.

“Until then,” Alisaie said, bowing in turn, picking up her travel bag. The borrowed coat lay untouched on the bed. She didn’t really need it if she was returning to Thavnair, but she picked it up all the same and handed it back to him.

“Thank you. I shall keep this waiting for you at the manor. Would you care for me to lead you out?”

Ever the professional, ever the dutiful lord, ever keeping up appearances. Even if she knew he had a bit more to him behind that stern front. In a way, maybe she was glad to have met him - straightforward but never quite feeling like she had to talk in circles like most diplomatic matters.

“Please, lead the way my lord.”

#ffxivwrite #ffxivwrite2024 #alisaie leveilleur #artoirel de fortemps #endwalker #role quests #fufu's writing

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