#he does not have a single violent bone in his body but he’s not weak | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

bitsandbobsofwriting · 3 years ago

Text

Arthur throws a tantrum that has severe consequences;

Merlin suffers, and Gwaine just about manages to stop himself from killing The King.

TW: Extreme body horror and blood and grossness.

They're in a cave.

It's dark, and damp, and far too quiet, so despite the fact that their quest was successful, The King, his manservant, and Camelot's six best knights are still slightly on edge.

The traps had been circumvented, the artefact had been collected, the curse had been broken, and they were on their way home, but the buzz of dark magic hums through Merlin and Sir Mordred’s skulls, and the uneasy looks they keep sending each other worry Sir Lancelot and Sir Gwaine, which in turn worries everyone else.

Gwaine doesn’t know about Merlin’s magic, though he does know that the younger man has a lot more to do with Camelot’s (and Arthur’s) continued survival than he lets on. He won’t push, he won’t ask, but he’s an observant man who places all of his faith in Merlin, so if covering for him whenever Arthur casually asks if he saw the servant at the tavern, or supporting Lancelot whenever he makes a loud comment based on Merlin’s subtle whispered suggestion, is all he can do? Fine. He’ll do it.

Merlin’s face when he does so is always a little bit heartbreaking. He’s clearly grateful, for the trust, for the back up, for the belief, but Gwaine can see the desperation in his expression. Guilt and fear and apprehension all rolled into one, covered with a weak smile and a cheeky wink. Gwaine always pretends not to notice, and he can tell that sometimes Merlin is more grateful for that than he is for the original help.

Merlin’s stiffening back and faltered step finally persuades Gwaine that it’s time to step in again, but before he can loudly ask the group if anything feels off, a deep rumble echoes from below their feet.

It’s quiet to start with and the whole group freezes, gazes shifting sharply back in the direction they had come from; it’s only when the rumble suddenly morphs into a loud series of crashes and dust begins falling from the ceiling in aggressive swirls that Mordred yells:

“Cave-in!! We need to go!”

They all begin sprinting down the corridor, desperately hoping that their memory was serving them well; if they were right, if they hadn’t made any wrong turns or miscalculated the distance, the cave exit should be just around the corner. The rumbling only grows louder as they run, and within seconds, pebbles, and soon larger rocks and boulders, are falling from the ceiling.

It’s only Merlin, pushing himself faster so he can catch up to Leon, grabbing his cloak and pulling him to a halt, that stops the older knight from being crushed by falling debris. The curly haired knight widens his eyes for a fraction of a second before taking Merlin’s hand in his own and pulling him to catch up with the others, resigning himself to thanking the servant profusely when they were no longer running for their lives.

Everyone coughs the dirt from their lungs and rubs it from their eyes, hands out in front of them to stop them from running face first into a wall; Arthur’s victorious yell when they turn a sharp corner to see bright sunshine spilling into the tunnel about fifty feet ahead of them spurs the group even faster.

The ground somehow begins to shake even more viciously, and Elyan trips. He trips, and suddenly finds himself lifted in the air, only for a second, before he lands solidly on his two feet again. The knight knows magic when he feels it, and the others know it when they see it, so when the shaking stops all of a sudden, the dust frozen in the air and boulders shaking above their heads, they halt in their tracks.

Merlin, at the back of the group, lets out a pained groan, and all of their heads whip around, every single one of them panicking at the thought that their friend had been crushed or captured by some evil sorcerer. Their view of him is quickly blocked by Lancelot, though they can all see the servant’s shaking arms above his head, palms facing the no-longer-crumbling ceiling.

Gwaine is the first to step forward, cautious but quick, and he takes in a gasp at Merlin’s golden eyes. Lancelot doesn’t even spare him a glance, hands on Merlin’s shoulders as he lets out panicked whispers:

“Fuck. Fuck, fuck. Merlin, come on, you can’t hold this.”

Merlin just groans again, the sweat gathering on his brow as he grinds his teeth together, barely even paying attention to Lancelot, and paying even less attention when Arthur finally steps sideways, sharply inhaling at the obvious display of sorcery. Everyone seems to have gathered what’s going on now, and their gazes are ripped from the struggling servant when Arthur clenches his fists and harshly sneers:

“You’re a sorcerer! How long? How long have you been betraying me?!”

When the King takes a threatening step towards him, Gwaine moves to be in his way, landing a strong hand on his shoulder and responding with equal anger:

“He’s not betraying you, you arsehole, he just saved all of our lives.”

Arthur throws his hand off violently and it’s only Leon’s quick reaction that stops him from punching the knight, though Gwaine looks as if he’d rather enjoy the fight. Lancelot turns his head quickly, scowling at both of them but not releasing his hold on Merlin as he rushes out:

“We don’t have time for this, we need to figure out how to get out.”

The King doesn’t seem to take in his words, just stares at him with disgust as he notices the way he’s practically holding Merlin up:

“And you knew? You’re a traitor too then?”

The ground shakes, only briefly, but it’s enough to remind everyone of the situation at hand, and Percival jumps in, ignoring Arthur’s anger and Gwaine’s mistrust as he puts a supporting hand on Merlin’s ribs:

“Can you move whilst holding it up? We’re about thirty feet from the exit.”

Merlin just shakes his head, eyes clenched tightly shut and jaw so tense that Lance worries about the state of his teeth. He takes in a ragged breath, sounding as if he has gravel in his lungs, as he stutters out:

“Can’t... you leave.... run.”

Arthur lets out a loud growl, and Gwaine turns to him in anger, but before he can throw an insult (or a punch) the ground shakes again; Mordred only just manages to grab Percival’s hand and sharply pull him down before his skull is caved in by the ceiling falling half a metre.

Merlin lets out another loud whine, and Lancelot releases a sharp breath at the trickle of blood coming from his nose. The knight’s voice is desperate as he speaks:

“Come on, Merlin, use that big brain of yours, how do we get out? You’ve dealt with worse.”

Merlin can only shake his head again, and a crack echoes down the corridor as he screams. One of his arms falls limply to his side and the knights notice with growing horror the odd angle of his collar bone and the lumps of bone under his skin. Tears leak from his eyes as he groans and his breath deepens, only managing to yell one word in his agony:

“RUN!”

The shout jolts the knights out of their terror, but Arthur seems to ignore him again:

“You’re a fucking trai-”

Gwaine does manage to throw a punch this time, but Leon pulls Arthur back before he can retaliate, dragging him back a few steps. Mordred grabs Lancelot’s arm, muttering so only the knight can hear:

“He’ll be fine, remember? We will not, we need to go.”

Lancelot gives Merlin a tender kiss on the forehead, muttering whispered desperate apologies to his best friend before turning and shooing Percival back down the corridor:

“Go, go! We need to go, he can’t hold it much longer!”

Arthur is suddenly reminded of the collapsing cave around him, anger at Merlin morphing into anger at the universe for both making his manservant a traitor, and making him find out in the middle of a life-threatening emergency. He stumbles towards the exit, hand covering his mouth against the dust and pebbles that are falling through the air once more.

Percival and Elyan follow reluctantly, looking back at their tortured friend with tears in their eyes, but move towards the sunlight regardless. Gwaine moves in the opposite direction, planting his feet in front of Merlin and cupping his jaw softly with both hands, resting their foreheads together. He ignores Merlin’s whispered “Go...” and digs his feet in when Leon and Lancelot attempt to pull him away.

It’s Leon that yells:

“Gwaine, come on, there’s nothing you can do!” as the two of them finally manage to force him back, but he thrashes in their hold, screams echoing down the cavern:

“NO! I’M NOT LEAVING HIM!! LET ME FUCKING GO!!”

They only manage to drag him back a few feet before he breaks free, sprinting back towards Merlin. The servant opens his bloody eyes, glancing over Gwaine’s shoulder to see Mordred, Elyan, Percival, and Arthur falling out into the sun. He looks back to Gwaine when he feels his warm, calloused hands on his cheeks again, letting out a pained sob before grinding out a cracking:

“I’m... I’m sorry.”

He lifts his broken arm with a loud yelp, placing his violently shaking hand against Gwaine’s chest and pushing. His eyes flash brighter for a second, his scream guttural and horrifying, but all Gwaine can focus on is the way his body flies through the air with a force he’d never known; within seconds, he, Lancelot, and Leon are having their falls broken by sunlight and soft grass.

He whips his head up, wiping the hair from his eyes with a hand shaking from adrenaline. He can still see Merlin, now on his knees with agony scrawled across his face and blood pouring from his mouth; Gwaine’s brain supplies the explanation that the servant had probably bitten his tongue clean off, with the way his jaw was clenched so harshly. He stumbles to his feet, an outraged shriek bursting forth when Leon and Lancelot rush to grab him once again, stopping him from running back into the collapsing cave. He pulls against them, but it’s no use, and the last thing he sees before the dust blinds him is Merlin’s tired, bloody smile of relief at seeing him safe.

The impact of the mountain falling, even only a few feet, was felt across the entire Kingdom. The sudden earthquake threw all of the knights to the floor and it was only when the shaking stopped that they could finally stand again. It took a few more moments for the dust to settle enough that they could clearly see, but Gwaine’s breath is snatched from him when he looks to the cave entrance to see nothing but rubble.

He immediately rushes towards the cliff face, managing to evade Leon and Lancelot’s grabbing hands and uncaring of the danger of unstable debris. He hands land roughly on the stone, digging the fingers of one hand into cracks, and thumping his other hand, curled into a fist, against the rocks repeatedly:

“MERLIN!!”

His voice almost cracks, but he doesn’t care, continuing his desperate attempt to dislodge the boulders despite the others’ shouted warnings. Percival manages to grip his shoulder tight enough that Gwaine can’t slip free, and yanks him away from the caved-in entrance, but the shorter knight just whirls around in anger:

“What are you doing? He might still be alive in there!”

Percival shakes his head, tears in his eyes, but before he can respond Arthur pushes him out of the way and lands a hard punch to Gwaine’s cheek. The knight’s head rocks to the side, but he’s whirling back again within moments, being held back just in time by Percival before he can retaliate:

“You fucking knew, didn’t you?! You knew he was a traitor!”

Mordred clenches his hands and jaw in anger, but manages to keep any attacks in, verbal or otherwise. Leon and Elyan seem to be ignoring the fight entirely; the past few minutes had seemed to catch up with them as they stare despondently at the fallen debris. Lancelot stands back, looking an odd mix between heartbroken and frustrated, eyes darting around the clearing as if he were waiting for something.

Gwaine squares his shoulders, shrugging Percival off and taking a threatening step towards the fuming King, fists tightly clenched and eyes blazing:

“No. I didn’t know. But he just saved all of our lives, and I bet not for the first time.”

Arthur throws up his hands and turns in a short, angry circle before facing Gwaine again, his voice rising with every word:

“With fucking sorcery!!”

Gwaine takes another step forward, stopped only by Percival’s soft hand on his shoulder as he responds in equal anger:

“Who gives a fuck? Gods, Arthur, get your head out of your arse, he’s been by your side for ten years, sacrificed more than we will ever know for you, and you turn on him in a second when he saves your life!-”

He takes another step towards The King, desperately trying to ignore the tears that suddenly slip down his cheeks, leaving tracks in the dust, as he gestures roughly at the mountain behind him and jabs Arthur in the chest:

“-He’s dead, Merlin is dead, because of you! No wonder he didn’t fucking trust you, look what you did!”

Arthur recoils at that, anger melting from his face in a split-second as his wide eyes move from Gwaine’s face to over his shoulder. His shoulders sag and his eyes finally, finally fill with tears as his gaze darts from one boulder to the next. He gulps, slowly stepping around the grieving knight as his hands begin to shake; Leon finally breaks out of his stupor, stepping towards Arthur and putting his own shaking hand on his shoulder:

“There’s nothing you- we could’ve done.”

Arthur shrugs the hand off, moving closer to the debris as his breathing grows deep and he mutters to himself:

“He... can’t be. No, he’s... he might be alive in there, we... I-”

Mordred, his anger finally boiling over, steps in front of Arthur. The King looks down to his youngest knight and takes a stumbled step back at the snarl on his face and the gold in his eyes:

“My Lord has suffered, once more, at your hands. Part of me wonders if Morgause is right, perhaps there’s no hope left for you.-”

He takes a deep breath and steps slightly away from Arthur again, schooling his face into neutrality as he speaks on a monotone voice:

“-Help is on the way, do us all a favour and keep your sword to yourself when they arrive.”

Arthur is frozen in his shock, as are Leon, Elyan, and Percival, but Lancelot just looks mildly disapproving and Gwaine is too busy unclasping his cloak and unbuckling his belt to notice. Arthur turns around again at the clanging sound, only to see Gwaine dropping his cloak and sword at his feet:

“I quit. I thought you were the exception to my belief that all nobles are corrupt, hypocritical, tyrants... I guess I was wrong.-”

With that, he pushes past the distraught, frozen King, to stand in front of Mordred:

“-What do you mean, help is coming?”

Mordred raises an eyebrow but doesn’t answer, instead nodding over Gwaine’s shoulder pointedly. Everyone turns around, only to take in surprised breath at the group of fifty or so golden-eyed Druids making their way through the trees towards them. Mordred and Lancelot push through the others and jog over to meet them, bowing briefly in greeting and ducking their heads to have a whispered conversation. Arthur is still staring at the cave-in blankly, but Leon stops the others from joining them with a firm wave of his hand. The rest of knights were clearly not in the know, and they definitely weren’t in charge; best leave this to the people who actually knew what was going on.

Lancelot nods to the mountain and Mordred gestures to his own collarbone, a look of confusion on his face. A few of the Druids gasp quietly, staring at the mountain in grief, but their leader, a man that Leon recognises as Iseldir, sighs and nods, looking as though he was giving a short explanation before patting Mordred on the shoulder and finally beginning to make his way to the other knights.

Leon walks up to greet him, and Iseldir smiles and clasps his forearm as if they knew each other far better than they did:

“Good to see you again, Sir Leon, though I regret the circumstances.”

Leon sniffles slightly and nods, trying desperately to keep his professional façade up by ignoring his red-rimmed eyes:

“Indeed. Mordred said you were... here to help?”

Iseldir nods and moves towards the cave-in, sending a short glance to the still frozen King, his expression an odd mix of awed and patient an contemptuous, before gesturing the other Druids forward.

They all raise their hands towards the rubble, eyes golden as they chant lowly. The mountain begins to shake again, though it’s clearly a lot more controlled, and the knights can’t feel it even from only a few metres away; nevertheless, Percival and Lancelot still have to grab Gwaine to stop him from pouncing at them in his confused grief.

The knights all hold their breath, Leon, Gwaine, Elyan, and Percival in confusion, and Mordred and Lancelot in apprehension at what they would see. They know of Merlin’s... abilities. But this... a small part of them prayed that he had died, or that he was at least unconscious. A mountain as a blanket can’t be...comfortable.

After a few more moments the shaking becomes uniform, and boulders slowly begin to extract themselves from the cave entrance, floating through the air serenely and piling up a few metres to the side. The knights all hold their breath as the Druids strain, and Lancelot walks towards the cave with caution. His steps are slow and his hands are held out in front of him, ready to bolt at a moments notice, but he gets to the cliffside just as a narrow walkway through the middle of all the rubble opens up.

He looks back, waiting for Iseldir’s nod of approval before making his way into the darkness. None of the knights follow, despite their desperation to do so, knowing somehow that it wasn’t their place to rescue Merlin. Not this time.

Lancelot is gone for maybe twenty seconds before the others hear his wretched yelp, and it’s barely a few seconds later that he stumbles out of the cave again, pale as a sheet with sweat gathering on his forehead. He quickly staggers to the side, one hand using the wall to hold his weight up and the other resting on his bent knee as he leans over to vomit in the bushes. The knights are frozen in their shock, but tears gather in their eyes once more when Lancelot quickly turns to face Iseldir, wiping a hand sleeve across his mouth haphazardly, ignoring the tear tracks on his cheeks as he speaks desperately, his eyes manic:

“Please, please tell me he died. He... he can’t have lived through... lived through that.”

Iseldir gives him a mournful smile, but before he can say anything, Gwaine makes a dart to the entrance cave. Lancelot quickly steps in his way, digging his heels in and using all his strength to hold the bulkier man back:

“NO! Gwaine, you don’t want to see in there, ok? I swear to you, you will regret it for the rest of your life if you go in there.”

Gwaine pushes against him one last time, but quickly gives up, stumbling back and dropping to his knees with his face in his hands, muffling his cries. Lance’s distraught gaze finds Iseldir again, and the Druid nods:

“His body dies like any other, though we can only pray that it was quick. His resurrection will be incredibly... agonising however; I can appreciate the difficulty in what I’m asking, but might I request you stay at his side as he wakes? Myself and my group have strength in numbers and can hold the passage open for hours if needed, but I imagine he will begin to wake soon.”

Lance nods and moves towards the entrance again. No one mentions his uneasy steps or the way his hands shake. He pauses and looks back briefly at Arthur’s croaking question, but just gives a pointed look to an equally pale Mordred before continuing his journey:

“He’s... he’s still alive?”

Mordred steps in front of The King again, unwilling to let him run anywhere like Gwaine had tried, but it’s Iseldir that cryptically answers:

“No. But he will be.”

The Druid turns back to the cave without another word, re-focusing his magic onto the task at hand.

An odd silence deafens the knights, but if they listen hard enough, they find they can almost hear Lancelot’s gasping deep breaths as he once again lays eyes on... what’s left. Time seems to drag on, the silence getting heavier and heavier, though a long, low groan cracks through the atmosphere like a knife.

Percival lays a comforting but strong hand on Gwaine’s shoulder as everyone tenses, but no one manages to hold in their tears when the low groan gets louder and louder, rising in pitch until it’s an agonized screech.

Leon looks to Iseldir in horror, his eyes wide and his mouth open as he stutters over words he can’t force himself to say; Iseldir looks back at him, and the First Knight sees tears shining in his eyes at his Lord’s pain:

“The vital parts of his body, the skull and brain, the heart, the lungs, the spine, will have repaired themselves first, then he woke up. He will remain conscious whilst the rest of his body stitches itself back together; it is agony like no other.”

The screech halts all of a sudden with a sickening gurgle, the sound distinctly reminding the knights of someone choking on bone and blood.

Lancelot’s shaking voice echoes down the stone corridor:

“You... you can do this, Merlin. It’s ok, I’m not leaving you. Everything’s.. everything’s going to be ok, you can do this.”

At the horror and grief in his tone, Elyan stumbles forward to kneel behind Gwaine, covering his friend’s ears with his hands and pressing his forehead to the crown of his shaking head. Percival also sits with them, closing his eyes against the tears and attempting to breath slowly. Mordred stands still, but his hands and jaw are clenched tightly as he stares blankly at the grass at his feet, flinching ever so slightly at every groan and scream and cry that emerges from the darkness. Leon takes Arthur’s hand, and though The King doesn’t look at him, the tight way he squeezes his fingers is all the acknowledgement that he was still somewhat present that Leon needed.

The sound of Lancelot hiccupping through his sobs can be heard, but that’s quickly drowned out by sickening cracking sounds and more screaming.

Time seems both to drag and to fly by; anywhere from ten seconds to ten hours could’ve passed by the time Merlin stops screaming for good. The knights can’t help but feel selfish for how grateful they are that they didn’t have to watch it; listening to it was enough to give then nightmares for a long long time.

They finally hear a scuffling sound from within the cave and everyone’s eyes comes back into focus as they look up, not bothering to clear their faces of tears as they see Lancelot struggle to walk through the debris, Merlin hanging from his side with his arm over the knight’s shoulder.

Leon is the first to react, darting forward to help the exhausted, blood-soaked knight take Merlin’s weight. Everyone is frozen in horror at way Merlin’s tattered clothes hang off of him, absolutely drenched in blood; not even an inch of fabric has escaped being stained. Leon and Lancelot lay the groaning servant down in the soft grass as the Druids begin filling the tunnel with debris and rubble, wanting to make the structure as stable as possible before they stop holding the mountain up.

The golden-eyed sorcerers step back slowly, untensing when the mountain settles straight away; there must’ve been some sort of old magical trap in the stone, it would be best not to disturb it again if they could help it.

The knights gather around Merlin’s red form, noticing absent-mindedly that it was almost dark, so they must’ve been here for three hours at least. Mordred pushes to the front, his skin pale but his expression blank as he takes a clean rag and some water from his pack (the horses had been left at the entrance to the cave, so they thankfully hadn’t lost any supplies in the disaster). He made quick, but gentle work of cleaning Merlin as best he could, getting the blood off his face and hands and out of his hair. Lancelot pats him on the shoulder with a shaking hand before standing again and stumbling towards Iseldir; the knights barely pay him any attention as he walks off, focused entirely on Merlin’s limp body. No one attempts to touch him, not with the possessive glares Mordred is sending to anyone who gets too close.

The Druid cups Lance’s elbow, his grip surprisingly strong and supportive as Lancelot tries to gather his thoughts and force some sort of sentence out of his mouth. After a few moments, the quiet question eventually comes:

“What now?”

Iseldir smiles at him mournfully, glancing over his shoulder at the gathering of knights before looking back to Lance:

“That is up to The Once and Future King, I suppose. Emrys is exhausted, now that the pain has passed I imagine he’ll be asleep for several days. Look after him until he wakes, won’t you? I have faith that everything will work out in the end, but remember, Emrys, Sir Mordred, Lady Morgana, and yourself always have a place among us, should you want it.”

Lancelot gives him a small smile and steps back, nodding his gratitude at the other Druids before turning around and going back to Merlin, not looking back as they make their way from the clearing and back into the forest. He comes to stand behind Mordred, putting a hand on his shoulder and waiting until the younger man looks up at him before saying:

“It’s almost dark, we need to set up camp. He should have a spare set of clothes in his pack so you and I can take him to the river to wash and change him whilst the others get set up.”

Mordred takes a while to reply, but finally nods. He goes to pick Merlin up, but Gwaine beats him to it, gathering his unconscious form in his arms with more care than the knights have ever seen him exhibit before; Mordred freezes for a second, about to pounce on Gwaine for daring to touch him, but quickly relaxes as he remembers Gwaine’s reaction to... well... everything.

It doesn’t take them long to find a camping spot, Mordred and Lancelot leading the way back into the forest towards the river with Arthur bringing up the rear. Out of tactical necessity or guilt, no one knows, but no one bothers to ask.

Soon enough a fire is roaring and Mordred, Lancelot, and Gwaine have disappeared into the trees with Merlin. Elyan, Percival, and Leon share the occasional worried glance, both at the events of the day and Arthur’s disturbing stillness. It was maybe half a candle-mark after the others went to the river that Arthur cleared his throat and spoke, his voice croaky from tears and disuse:

“How... how long, do you think? How long as he been a sorcerer?”

His gaze stays firmly on the fire, even as the others bristle in slight anger, mistaking his questions for continued animosity. Leon is the first to answer, his tone slow and measured:

“To be that powerful, and to have Druids at his beck and call... a while, I imagine. Sire.”

Arthur nods, but doesn’t reply, and it’s Elyan that speaks next, his eyes narrowed and his tone far less regulated that Leon’s:

“Still plan on punishing him then? Trying to figure out how you should execute the man who just went through hours of endless agony to save your life?”

Leon looks to him sharply but doesn’t say anything, surprised by the normally-gentle Percival’s nod of agreement. Arthur looks up quickly as well, though his expression is one of shock and pain:

“What?! No! I wouldn’t.. I don’t... I just meant, how long has he had to hide? You... Gwaine, he was right. He’s probably saved our lives, my life, a dozen times pulling stupid stunts like that,-”

Arthur’s cut off by the others walking back into camp, Mordred giving him a blank stare as he says in a monotone voice:

“More than a dozen, Sire. Many more. He’s saved your life directly and indirectly hundreds of times. And never has he sought any credit. The two of you together are meant to be the saviours of this world, or so the prophecies say.-”

They all stare at him blankly as he sits down by the fire, Lancelot settling Merlin in Gwaine’s lap before covering them both with thick blankets and settling next to them:

“-Though I find myself running low on faith in you, My Lord.”

Arthur gulps, but stays silent, turning back to the fire again as the other knights stare at Mordred in confusion. He just huffs and rolls his eyes when he notices their questioning expressions, looking to Lancelot and frowning when the knight just nods at him knowingly. He sighs again, glancing to Merlin, still protectively wrapped up in blankets and Gwaine, before looking to The King and beginning to explain in a tired voice:

“Druid seers have been having visions of The once and Future King, that’s you,-”

Mordred points at Arthur, waiting for the blonde to look up and acknowledge the conversation before dropping his hand and continuing:

“-and Lord Emrys, that’s Merlin, uniting all of Albion under your shared rule, ushering in a Golden Age where the magic and the non-magic are once again in balance. Merlin was made aware of his role in these... fates, when he first arrived in Camelot. I also have a role, as do a few others, though no one else is aware of the... specifics.”

Arthur nods slowly, glancing worriedly to Merlin and Gwaine (who is paying absolutely no attention to the conversation, focused only on stroking Merlin’s hair and periodically checking his pulse) before looking into the fire again:

“The magic and non-magic in... balance?”

Mordred nods, the crease between his eyebrows growing slightly deeper as he slowly responds:

“Hmm. Magic is natural and necessary for the universe to function. You though the Gods wouldn’t intervene when your father started culling it?-”

Arthur blinked and sat up straight in his shock, but otherwise didn’t kick off, which Mordred was taking as a good sign, and continued:

“Magic is not evil, nor is it good. It just... is. Merlin is immortal, some say blessed, I say cursed, to be stuck on this earth, forever alone, until balance is achieved. How long, Arthur, are you willing to force him to wait?”

The knights all hold their breath in suspense, staring at Arthur who in turn is back to staring at Merlin. He gulps, blinks a few times, and shakes his head, before looking to Leon:

“How quickly can we make it back to Camelot?”

Elyan scoffs and Percival frowns, looking to the floor, the two of them obviously thinking that Arthur was dealing with this the same way he deals with his emotions: by ignoring it entirely until it became someone else’s problem (usually Merlin’s). Lancelot and Mordred just stare at him blankly, and Leon tilts his head in question before answering:

“About... five days? If we ride fast and don’t detour to the village like we said we would.”

Arthur nods, takin a deep breath as he stares into the fire again:

“Five days, I’ll make him wait five days. We can send a patrol back to the village when we get home, we’ll be too busy planning a... Golden Age, apparently.”

Elyan and Percival look up in wonder, Lancelot and Leon smile proudly, Mordred nods and grins, and Gwaine... well... Gwaine snores.

Merlin shuffles in his sleep, his look of pain morphing to a gentle smile as he curls into his knight’s chest, his soul, for the first time in a long time, finding peace.

THE END!!!

I think the ending might’ve been a little anti-climactic, but I’ve written so many magic reveals and “magic isn’t evil it just is” speeches that... I didn’t really know how to make it interesting or different😅

I hope y’all enjoyed it!! It took me way longer than I’d hoped to get it finished because I’ve been so busy with work, but I’m relieved I finally got it done :D

My Ko-Fi, which is where I post sneak peaks of upcoming works, check it out and consider donating!!

555 notes · View notes

koqabear · 3 years ago

Text

hit me with your killshot, baby (C.YJ)

Summary:

It was a small, quiet town you had decided to move into. One that you could help with any healing or magical needs. What you didn’t expect, however, was to face a demon too powerful for your own good. The worst part? Seems like he’s gotten attached.

Yeonjun x reader/ demon!yeonjun x witch!reader

Genre: fantasy, enemies to ?? thriller(?), angst if you squint me thinks

Word count: 3.0K

Warnings: general physical fighting/violence, mentions of scars, burns, bones breaking, knives, blood, fire, descriptions of pain (let me know if I should add anything!)

a/n: This might get another part if it gets a good response <3 Writing fantasy is rlly fun for me as well, I’m so glad that this is the story that got me out of my writers block lmao

comments and reblogs are always welcome and much appreciated, hope you guys enjoy! <3

Disclaimer!! Absolutely nothing about this story is accurate or real, anything and everything that mc the witch does is made up!

It was about three in the morning when you got the call.

“Hello?” You said, eyes squinted as you had just been woken up from your sleep. The line remained silent for a moment, leaving you to wonder if this was a scam caller. You spoke again, only to hear hasty footsteps becoming louder, presumably running towards the phone.

“Hello?!” The voice called out, the loud exclamation causing you to jolt awake. “Oh my god, oh my god!” Their exasperated voice rang through your line, and you stood to get properly dressed, already anticipating their request.

“Where do you live?” You asked sharply, grabbing the keys to your car and waiting for their answer. They stuttered out their address, the sounds of the rain coming into your ear. They were now outside.

“Please come quick, this spirit has been bothering me for weeks now, I could have sworn they were harmless-“ they cried into the phone, only to get cut off by your stern command.

“Leave your home. I’ll be there in about ten minutes.”

They agreed, their voice quiet and shaky, and you hung up, beginning to drive to your new task.

It was no secret your town had a problem with the supernatural. That was the whole reason you lived here.

‘The town witch’ was what they called you. You remember moving to this small town the moment you turned eighteen, the rumors of the paranormal town beckoning you to help. With potions and incantations by your side, you were the best damn thing this place had ever gotten. But that was six years ago, and you were young and naive. The scars and burns that riddled your body only served to prove your progress, marking your place in this town permanently.

You sighed, your grip on your steering wheel weak. You were, after all, the only help these people had. Late night calls like this were beginning to become much too common recently, leading you to wonder if something, or someone, new was beginning to pester this poor town.

You arrived at the house, the thunderstorm only helping to provide a stereotypical atmosphere for you to work in. You got out your car, pulling your coat tightly against your body, the wind around you strong enough to hinder your footsteps.

The two story home before you rattled in protest, the front door swinging open the moment you got close enough. You felt your heart begin to race, beginning to question if this was truly worth it. It seems that whatever had been pestering the homeowner was no small ghost. Walking inside, you were met with the dark and empty home, the hardwood floor beneath you creaking in protest as you carefully walked around, the house seemingly calming the moment you entered.

You breathed in slowly, attempting to steady your mind as you surveyed the house, recalling what the homeowner told you before hanging up. This had been going on for a while, but it seems that it only recently became too much for them. Whatever was in this home really liked the attention.

Before you were able to take another step forward, you were thrown off your feet, slamming into the wall to your left, the many picture frames and decorations falling before you with a loud crash. The door slammed shut, and you covered your head, bracing yourself as you felt the glass shards begin to be directed towards you.

It’s here, and it’s angry.

Just as the chaos around you finally dulled down, you were met with the sight of the trophy shelf in front of you beginning to shake, your eyes widening as you began to run. You muttered a quick incantation to help shield you, the dull sounds of impact that began to pound against your shield only serving to make you run faster.

The hallway in front of you suddenly seemed never-ending, it’s violet wallpaper becoming harder to see the more you ran. Was the house layout always like this? The hallway suddenly ended, leading you to an open room, quickly recognizing it as the living room. The lights suddenly flickered on, disturbing your concentration as you noticed a shadow walk past one of the doorways.

Seemingly knowing you perfectly, the spirit took this small wavering to throw a book in your direction, narrowly missing your face as you ducked to the side, only to get knocked to your knees as you felt a kick to your back, your disturbed concentration causing your spell to be broken.

You turned around in a haste, summoning your shield once more as you unsheathed the knife you had in your coat pockets.

“Show yourself!” You barked out, standing up as you surveyed the room. “I know you’re here.”

Silence.

The howling wind outside stopped, the flickering lights suddenly still at the sound of your voice. You gripped the handle of the knife harder, trying to not let the exhaustion seep into you. The lights began to slowly dim, a lit ember flickering in front of you, only to be followed by many more, swirling into a raging fire directly in front of you. You jumped back at the heat, the familiar sight making you frown in anticipation.

“You look tired,” the voice said, as smooth and elegant as you first remembered it, “Maybe I could fix that.”

Standing in front of you was no other than Yeonjun. Clad in black, his dark eyes stared into yours as he towered over you, his platform boots shining underneath the dull lights, his hair slicked back and pushed away from his face save for a few strands that hung to frame his face.

“Yeonjun.” You said, a feeling of anger stirring inside you the longer you stared at him

“It’s so nice to hear my name come from you again,” he sighed, taking a step toward you, only for you to step back in retaliation.

Yeonjun was none other than the first demon you tried to expel when you first came here. You had fought with every single potion and spell you spent years perfecting, only to leave hospitalized and unsure that he would return. However, as the years passed and no sign of him appeared, you had assumed that you had succeeded in your battle against him, any signs of hauntings or poltergeists disappearing after that day.

“You,” you snapped, everything finally piecing everything together. “You’re behind everything that’s been happening recently, aren’t you?” You took another step back as he began to laugh, throwing his head back as if you had just told him the funniest thing in the world. Slowly, he calmed himself down, his eyes playful as he took his sweet time responding to you.

“Maybe, why?” He said, beginning to walk towards you slowly. You held your ground, concentrating on keeping your shield steady, they grip on your knife tightening. He stopped centimeters away from it, the aura of the shield humming as his clothes grazed the perimeter, shocks emitting on impact.

“I missed you, you know,” He muttered, head leaning towards you teasingly as he stood just far enough to not be blasted away from your shield. “It wasn’t fun hopping from town to town, trying to mess with other witches that resided there. They were just too…”

“Weak.”

You were barely given a moment before the sight of Yeonjun’s bright eyes filled your vision, the feeling of a scorching heat overtaking your senses.

Yeonjun had trapped you in a ring of fire.

A pretty small one, too.

Slightly panicked, you looked around for any place you could escape, the memories of the last time you got so close to Yeonjun warning you to get as far from him as you could, only to find that it was just you and him, trapped in a space that wouldn’t even allow you to shift backwards.

“What’s wrong?” He asked, his voice taunting as he waited for your next move, “Claustrophobic?”

The weapon in your hand began to heat up, your mind working its hardest to form a plan that would work and let you come out alive. You already knew what this fire around you would do; It wasn’t a simple flame, and the scar on your chest that throbbed painfully in this demonic presence was enough proof of that.

The moment you had healed from your first encounter with Yeonjun, you had put all of the knowledge you had acquired from experience and older, more experienced witches into putting a weapon that would help you with violent demonic problems like him. It had taken you weeks of pure isolation and meditation to engrave the correct energy into the weapon, afraid to make any mistake that could lead to something drastic. By the time you were finished putting the last few touches on the weapon, (a protective incation; the words engraving themselves in fine print letter by letter as you poured the last of your energy into it,) you could barely stand, landing yourself at the house of a medic that specialized with witches.

“You’re lucky that you managed to come out of this with just drained energy,” He had told you one day, standing next to your cot and handing you a homemade medicine; its taste was horrendous, but it did the job.

“I’ve dealt with witches, succeeding or not, that had come out in a much worse condition. You’re very powerful, that much I can tell.” He confessed, his face sobering as he remembered why it was that you were there, “Whatever it is that you’re dealing with, I wish you luck.”

And now here you stand, the results of all your hard work and patience vibrating the more you concentrate on defeating the demon in front of you.

“Don’t tell me you’re going to try and hurt me with that,” Yeonjun laughed, watching the way your grip tightened the moment he landed his eyes on it, your knuckles turning white with the force, “You know your little knife can’t hurt me, right?”

While it was true that regular knives were nothing more but toys to him, you knew that what you were holding was not a regular knife.

But he didn’t.

You remained silent as you stared at him, quirking a brow to silently challenge him. He scoffed, rolling his eyes at your demeanor.

“Giving me the silent treatment now?” He said, pausing for a moment before looking back at you, “Fine. You think you can hurt me with that little kitchen knife?” With a single movement of his hands, the fire dwindled, going down until it was no more,

“Go ahead. Give it your best shot.”

You suppressed a smile.

Yeonjun was a lot of things. Strong, powerful, smart, hell, he was a bit attractive too.

But above all, he was cocky.

Slowly, and as subtly as you could, you adjusted your stance, your eyes never leaving his, ready to let your shield down to attack him.

“No games?”

His lips quirked up, his hands coming up to his sides to show you his full vulnerability.

“Fair and square. Here, I’ll even let you make the first move.” His pitch black eyes twinkled with his signature playfulness, his thoughts displaying to you loud and clear;

I thought you were smarter than this.

You fought the urge to scoff, and instead surveyed him for a moment, stepping back to give yourself a bit more room. He watched intently, his body language open and relaxed, clearly not threatened by you.

You lunged forward.

Before Yeonjun could move away, you swung your knife towards him, your stomach sinking as you missed your target, his neck, and sliced at his face instead. His head turned to the side, a hiss emitting from him as he turned back to you, the slash on his cheek burning into his skin, going deeper into his face as he began to bleed.

Except that wasn’t blood that came out of his face.

A thin liquid, pure black and mixed with the poison of your blade, trickled down his face. Slowly, he brought up a hand to his cheek, touching tentatively at his wound, observing the black substance that poured out of him, before turning back to you.

“Come on, you little vixen,” he groaned, the nickname that he called you from your first meeting rolling off his tongue smoothly, “Not the face!”

Cocky bastard.

But now that your first move was over, Yeonjun took a minute to crack his neck, the black liquid trailing down to his neck as he slowly rolled his head back, pausing for a second before straightening up, smiling at you sweetly.

“My turn.”

Right as you were going to activate your shield once more, Yeonjun ran to you, landing a solid punch to your stomach, sending you flying to the wall behind you, the wind being knocked out of you on impact as you crumbled to the floor. Looking up, you saw him lunge at you once more, mumbling your incantation for your shield, successfully knocking him back at the last second. Tumbling backward, Yeonjun layed on the floor as you slowly got back up, using the wall behind you as support, the wild and unhinged sound of Yeonjun’s laugh echoing off the walls.

“Oh, my little vixen,” he began, sitting up as he watched you regain your composure. “I missed this. I must admit, you have gotten stronger.” Standing back up slowly, you felt the room slowly heat up. You shifted, knowing what it was that he was about to do next.

“It’s exciting.”

Running towards him, you did your best to avoid the trail of fire that was now after you, ready to swing your knife at him as you got closer. Just as you were close enough to him, you swung towards his neck once more, the predictable movement allowing Yeonjun to step aside, only to get a kick to his chest, successfully knocking him down and allowing you to dive down, the fire that was about to pierce the center of your back flying instead to the wall in front of you, the loud boom barely covering Yeonjun’s scream as you dug your knife into his shoulder.

“Fuck!”

You towered over him, straddling his waist and putting as much weight as you could to keep him down. His hands immediately reached up to clasp over yours, attempting to pull the weapon out, only to have you retaliate by digging it into his skin more, his cursing filling up your ears as he struggled against you.

Your jaw clenched and you felt yourself begin to sweat, the same ring of fire from before beginning to enclose around you slowly with no signs of stopping. Your hands began to burn underneath Yeonjun’s touch, obviously his doing as he seemed to concentrate on attempting to scare you off with the same fire that landed you on the brink of death from your first encounter.

But you refused.

You refused to allow the demon to live any longer, to continue to terrorize innocent and defenseless people in your town, or in this world at all. And now that you had him under your grip, your hands struggling to successfully behead him, you weren’t going to let a little bit of pain scare you away.

Your hands began to numb under the heat of his skin, popping noises emitting from under his iron grip. He was attempting to break your hands, to render them useless, but with the adrenaline coursing through your veins, you pushed on, biting back your own groans of pain and trying to concentrate on your current task, and nothing else.

“Come on my vixen, give it up,” he said, his voice laced with pain and false confidence that he attempted to use in order to make you believe that he remained unaffected. But as your knife inched towards his neck, piercing through his skin and emitting a loud sizzling sound, you knew that it was all a bluff by the way he winced, a low grunt of pain escaping him.

“I really don’t want to hurt you, you know,” he confessed, the ring of fire snapping angrily at your legs, the heat making you want to faint from overexertion. But you continued to push on, much to Yeonjun’s annoyance. “Fine, you asked for it.”

He screwed his eyes shut, the ring of fire slightly calming down, along with his iron grip on your hands. Just as you were about to take this chance and behead him, you felt something coming.

You turned around.

A ball of pitch black fire, resembling a pure void, flew towards you.

It all happened so fast. Throwing you off of him, Yeonjun staggered away from you, watching silently as the void of black washed over you, your screams of agony causing him to look away, the slightest bit of pity washing over him.

This was it, wasn’t it?

You couldn’t move as this void of fire washed over you, a feeling as though every bone in your body was being broken and you were being turned inside out coarsed through your system, your screams ripping through your throat, the wish for death appearing in your heart.

But right as you felt as though you were going to black out, it stopped.

And Yeonjun stood over you.

He watched as you lay there, completely paralyzed with pain. It took a bit before you began to breathe again, your chest barely rising, the air flowing into you causing you pain. Slowly, you opened your eyes, Yeonjun’s face inches from yours, the dark liquid from his wounds dripping onto you.

“I almost feel sorry,” he whispered, his lips grazing yours. You tried to hold on, to finish your job, but the very effort of having to breathe exhausted you beyond belief. Slowly, he pressed his lips to yours, the kiss more of a half hearted apology as he lingered there for a second, his lips still against yours. His mind reeled at the feeling, and he pulled away, a soft smile on his face as he slowly brought his hand down, hesitating before caressing your exhausted face slowly, spreading his own blood on your face.

He grinned.

“I look forward to our next battle.”

And he was gone.

Tears pricked at your eyes, and you collapsed.

#txt fanfic #txt imagines #txt ff #txt fanfiction #tomorrow x together #yeonjun fanfic #yeonjun imagines #txt reader #txt x reader #txt x you #txt x y/n #yeonjun ff #yeonjun x you #yeonjun x reader #yeonjun x y/n #fanfic #reader insert #txt oneshots #yeonjun oneshot

427 notes · View notes

dirt-cup-draco · 3 years ago

Text

In His Touch- Fili x Reader

Prompt: Casually reaching out to play with someone’s hair

The sting in your eyes from the abrasive smoke was nearly as permanent as the ache in your bones but you couldn’t find yourself bothered with either as you sat on the dewy grass, a bowl of Bombur’s stew in hand. The fire before you was raging, casting violent shadows against everyone’s otherwise gentle features. Thorin’s hard expression was made further sinister by the flickering of the light and your heart panged in sympathy for the leader you had come to respect so fiercely.

The dwarves and hobbit around you laughed, hollered, and hooted. Each of them speaking over each other and sending their voices bouncing off of the tall trees above you. Tonight the weather was mild and there was no danger present or near, so much so that Fili and Kili were not stopped even as they shouted and fought playfully. You sighed happily as you leaned against the felled tree stump at your back. It was nearly as wide around as the horizontal span of your arms and made for as good of a backrest as anything.

Your contentment could not only be attributed to your, nearly, carefree friends and the fine weather. Nor could it only be Bombur’s stew which was often enough to lift your spirits on even the worst of days, especially when the company’s resources became low and rations had to be cut short. Tonight, your joy was brought upon by the beacon of light who was not quite two yards from you, sweat glistening on his brow as he grappled with his brother.

Fili’s smirk was sharp at the corner but his eyes were bright with mirth and you longed to see that joy directed at you, because of you. It was no secret to many in the company where your heart was being kept. Thankfully, the dwarf himself wasn’t aware of how twisted around his finger you were. You’d spent many of your nights on this perilous journey frightened that you wouldn’t see the next morning and that Fili would never know of your dedication to him, yet when you found yourself with the words on the tip of your tongue the fear of losing him to rejection became more terrifying.

You could survive anything so long as you could keep Fili in your life, no matter in what capacity it would be.

Unaware that you had drifted off into a dreamy state, eyes glued to your loved one, you startled easily when Bombur sat beside you, bumping your shoulder with his.

“If ye stare much longer, I fear your eyes won’t be able to see anything but him,” Bombur chuckled lowly, keeping his voice subdued so the others around you would not hear. You were grateful for it, even on the off chance any of them tuned into your now private conversation.

A warmth crept into your cheeks and it had nothing to do with the fire that was now quite a bit shorter than the last time you’d taken notice, the crackling of the wood now a pleasant instrument in the night’s symphony.

“I hadn’t even realized I’d been looking,” You admitted truthfully. You were certainly the dedicated moth, but Fili could never be the flame. There was not a single bone in his body that could ever cause harm to someone he cared for and you were gratefully someone he called “friend”. To be more accurate, he was the sun and the moon. You were dependent on his warmth and his light and without him you were certain you couldn’t go on.

“I think it’s time to tell him, lass,” Bombur spoke gently but firmly, velvet laid over steel. It was one of your favorite traits of your best friend. He was unmovable in many things but he was also tentative and caring. You were grateful that he hadn’t pushed you more on this subject but you could tell he was growing wary of your pining.

“Now is not the time,” Your voice sounded weak in your ears, the argument flimsy in the face of Death, whom you met with nearly daily.

“Let us hope nothing keeps you from the future you wish for,” Bombur sighed, lips curled up in loving melancholy. You knew he didn’t mean for the words to bite at your skin and pierce your heart but you also knew he was not wrong in voicing it.

You lived an uncertain life and “now” was the only certainty you had.

Fili and Kili had tired themselves out by the light of the moon, their playfighting dying down into insults wrapped in brotherly love and the repetitive bump of a shoulder and now the two had come to sit at the end of the very trunk you found yourself leaning against. Bombur had left you with your thoughts for the better part of an hour and now the very topic of your worries and hopes and feelings was seated a foot away and you were surprised to find his eyes already on you.

“Gehyith, what is it that has you frowning so?” Fili asked, his mustache twitching at the ends as he smiled gleefully, “Could it be Kili’s stench? I told him we’d all die from the severity of it if he does not find a lake soon,”

You couldn’t help the laugh the bubbled up from deep in your stomach, your head thrown back with the force of your amusement- especially once Kili let out a dignified and offended gasp, shoving his brother off of the stump before he took his leave with only an eye roll. Fili couldn’t help his own chuckle, knowing Kili wasn’t bothered by his comment.

Kili’s absence brought you relief and a swirling anxiety all in the same breath. Alone time with Fili seemed a precious gift, yet you feared every second with him would lead you closer to your end. Now, you were certain tonight- this stunning, perfect, night- would be your last. For Fili had taken it upon himself to slide closer to you, even going so far as to slide off the stump and sit beside you, his thigh and shoulder warm against yours. Not sure what to do with your hands, you folded them lamely in your lap.

“How was-”

You were cut short, a pitiful whimper falling from your lips when Fili’s fingertips drifted delicately against your cheekbone, a strand of your hair pushed behind your ear. His skin was well-worn leather and your stomach was in knots.

“Come again?” Fili asked innocently, his brow quirked up towards his hairline. His fingers trailed down your neck, his nails making a shiver break out down your spine despite the balmy air.

“J-just was wondering how you are fairing today,” You mumbled when his path continued to the ends of your hair, his fingers tangling easily there as he played with the loose and wild strands.

Those rosy lips of his were upturned, his eyes molten gold. “I think it has been one of the best days I’ve experienced yet,”

Growing comfortable in his affection, you were able to contain yourself enough to jest. “You are ancient, so that must be quite the feat,”

Your love’s boisterous laugh was your most favorite noise and you felt your smile grow painfully wider. “Y/N, you are so cruel to me,” Fili teased, pulling the ends of your hair and then returning his hand to your scalp to lightly massage your aching head- another permanent sensation you had grown used to on this adventure. His strong and determined hands eased the dull throb for a short while and the relief was so wonderful you let yourself lean against his open hand.

It was not strange for you and Fili to be close, he was a dwarf who cared deeply for his friends and he was not above pulling each and every one of them close to share hugs, shed tears, and celebrate. You felt some pride, however, recognizing that you had never seen him play with anyone’s hair but yours. It was a treat for you alone and even though it nearly rendered you speechless every time, you were glad for his continued practice of turning you to mush.

“You know I love you,” You spoke honestly, but the words themselves were innocent enough to Fili’s ears as you had told him this sentiment time and time again without revealing to which depth you loved him.

“Aye, I know it, gehyith,” He hummed, head leaned back and eyes closed. The low firelight flickered against his throat and you wondered what he would taste like if you placed your lips there.

“One day I will get Bombur to tell me what insult you have chosen as my nickname,” You giggled, giddy off of his presence. It surely was no help to you when he brought his arm around your shoulder, only to keep his fingers twister in your hair- his hand now cradling your head.

“One day I will tell you myself,” Fili said with suddenly certainty, his eyes capturing yours with an intensity that made you feel as if you had missed something.

“One day,” You mimed back, your gaze only parting from his quickly enough to peak at the inviting curve of his mouth.

It was a promise to yourself, and him, that one day in the future you would tell him that your chest had been empty for months now, your heart having stole away to find a home in the palm of his hand.

For now, you could not jeopardize the slice of heaven you found yourself in.

Your future was not promised, yet in his touch, the present seemed to be a gift worth holding onto.

Gehyith = Little Dove My guide to Khuzdul found----> here

#fili x reader #Random Idea Folder #fluff #yes i used a celine dion song for the title #thank you to everyone who voted!#draco and bucky came verrryyyy close but our lovely fili came out on top #;)#she's rusty #but happy #the hobbit #fili durin #fili durin x reader

315 notes · View notes

besotted-eros · 3 years ago

Text

taste of ale and towers

Eren Jaeger x F!Reader (PoC)

Summary: Your favourite patron finally makes a move, and it takes you into the sky.

Content: Unabashed fluff, some jealousy, mentions of alcohol, jealous!Eren. Scouts getting to be stupid.

You liked your job.

Drunkards, vomit, and brawls aside. You enjoyed the warm atmosphere of the tavern, with its brick walls and its crackling fire. You enjoyed sorting through the clinking glasses and bottles, hearing the bar tales from old regulars and new faces. You were meticulous about cleaning, ensuring that this was one of the only taverns in the town that didn't reek of bile and piss. Instead the scent of soft hay, spiced mead and warm bread filled the room, fighting for dominance with the crowing laughs of the patrons. It was pleasant.

Yeah, you liked your job. Especially on nights like these.

"There is NOOOOO way you're taking credit for that one, that's all me." Connie's hand pushed into Sasha's face, his brows furrowed as the tall girl slapped his hand away and shoved a finger into his cheek.

"Yoush need ta shut up, Conster. Ain't a little tyke like you ever gonna get a titan THAT big. It was HUGE!" She burst from her seat, rocking the table and throwing her hands up to the ceiling. "IT WAS THIS BIG!" the table roared with laughter as Mikasa struggled to pull her back down. You smiled along with them as you filled a tankard. You'd have to cut her off soon.

"Stop knocking over drinks Sasha, you're going to give y/n more work."

The voice cut through the thrum of conversation. You could have picked the sound of him out of a storm, or a symphony. And it made your heart race every time.

You could feel him walking towards you through the crowd, and kept your eyes down. There was a deep scratch on the counter, and you dragged the rag over it repeatedly, until a hand entered your vision. His fingers were long, the skin taunt against bone and tendon. They were the hands of a soldier. But when he rested his it over yours, they were gentle.

"Hey, do you mind if I take this for a second?" Eren asked, his mouth twisted into a rueful grin as he nodded his head back towards his friends. "Don't want things to dry up and get sticky."

He was your most faithful patron. You knew that if he wasn't off saving humanity, he would be in your tavern after dinner at the barracks. But he never drank much, nursing a single beer, maybe two over a few hours.

"Oh, I can clean it myself!" You chirped, and his lower lip twitched slightly, head tilting.

"You're busy, it's okay. Let me." He pulled it away firmly, shooting you a small smile as he turned back. You were happy to see it. It seemed as though he smiled less and less these days. But there always seemed to be at least one for you. You regretted that you weren't able to sit with him tonight, have his gaze upon you as you leaned into his heat. He had been away for a few weeks, and you missed him. Even though he wasn't yours to miss.

"God, you might as well work here 'ren" Jean drawled, and the pale haired man's eyes flicked to yours. Eren scowled at him, wiping the table clean. "Would have pretty co-workers at least." You flushed at the compliment, turning on your heel to busy yourself with needlessly sorting bottles in the shelves. You could tell the group was appraising you now.

"Watch it." Eren snapped, flicking the rag quickly to snap against the scout's cheek. Jean grinned, smelling Eren's weakness. He snatched at the rag, tugging it from the green eyed man's grasp.

"I'll return this for you." Jean grinned, sliding out from the booth and padding through the crowded chairs and bodies. Before Eren could even formulate a way to get him to stop, he was at the bar, pushing his hair back and fixating you a handsome grin.

His friends stared with awe, even Sasha hushed by the sight of quiet rage in Eren's face.

"He's just blatantly making moves on your girl huh?" Connie commented, eliciting a glare from Eren.

"Don't have a 'girl', idiot. No clue what you're on about." Eren dropped into his seat, but his eyes were glued on how Jean was leaning over the bar, long arm outstretched to gesture to a jewel coloured bottle on the shelf. He was crowding you, leaning in so close. He could probably smell the scent of vanilla and rose, and see how prettily a lock of hair curled by your jaw.

"Oh puhlease, Errrren." Sasha took a sloppy swing of her ale, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. "You look at her with those big ol' cow eyes, and you're here, what? Every night?" She looked around the table for validation, only met with an angry green stare as eyes of grey, blue and black averted strategically. "You don't even drink!" She rested the glass against her face, eyes closed and expression pulled into a caricature of mourning. "Oh, how will your love ever withstand this distance of 9 feet? How will you ever cross it?"

"Can you shut up and eat some peanuts or something?" Eren snapped, his face red. Armin's mouth was twitching as he fought back a smile, and Mikasa had pressed her wineglass to her lips for an uncharacteristically long amount of time, eyes twinkling over the rim.

"We're out of peanuts." Sasha was truly mournful now, pulling the bowl towards her with both hands.

"Yeah, maybe we can ask Jean's new girlfriend for a refill." Connie murmured into his hands. Sasha roared with laughter, and even Armin couldn't hold back a chuckle, looking sheepish when his best friend glared at him.

"Sorry, 'ren. But Sasha has a point y'know. You have to make a move eventually." His fingers were knit around the tall glass of mead in front of him. But his eyes were still sharp, and his smile kind.

"I'm not going to "make a move"." He replied, crossing his arms in front of his chest. "You guys are making a big deal of nothing."

"Oh come on, just admit it." Connie exclaimed, rubbing his fingers over his dark buzz. "It's obvious she's crazy about you too. She doesn't sit with anyone else, literally just you. And it's not for the conversation, because you suck at that." Eren glowered as the table nodded solemnly. But he couldn't deny it made his heart beat faster.

"She looks at you the same way you look at her. Have you noticed that?" Armin asked, resting his chin on his hand.

Eren watched as you tucked a raven lock behind your ear, nodding as Jean spoke softly to you, his finger tracing the rim of a glass you had filled for him.

He hadn't noticed the way you look at him. He was too busy noticing how soft your eyes were, how you would always keep a place for children to sit behind the bar in case the room got too rowdy. How you'd stand your ground against men twice your size, sneering up at them in a way that was honestly intimidating. How gentle your hands were when they'd rest on his arm, laughing at some stupid joke or comforting him when he'd appear with bags under his eyes and ghosts on his breath.

"Do it." Came Mikasa's soft encouragement, nudging him from his seat. "Before Jean does."

Right as her voice met his ears, you laughed. It wasn't overly vibrant, or loud. But it was a laugh, Jean was making you laugh.

"He might kill him." Armin mused as they watched Eren elbow his way to the pair. Connie grinned, downing the rest of his drink.

"I always loved a bar fight."

"It's not that hard, when you get used to it." Jean was saying, the caramel of his eyes melting into yours as he attempted to hold your gaze. This wasn't the first time you had spoken to the tall scout, but it was the first time he had flirted so blatantly. "I could even show you sometime, could get on my back, or I could stra-" suddenly Jean's was on the ground, staring up in bewilderment as Eren made himself comfortable in the now empty stool. You blinked with confusion, lips rounded into a little o. It seemed that Eren had violently hipchecked the man off, and stolen his seat.

"You talk too much, Jean boy." He muttered. Jean scrambled up, chest expanded as he leaned in close to Eren's face.

"Say that again, Jaeger." He growled, threateningly.

"No." Eren's eyes refused to break from yours. But you could see that telltale bristling, and practically smell the pent up rage wafting from the men.

"If you boys fight in my bar, I'm going to have to throw both of you out." You warned, earning a sheepish look from both of them.

"Sorry, y/n." They said in chorus before glares snapped to each other again. You watched as Eren held Jean's gaze, and something unsaid passed between them. But finally Jean's face turned to a smile.

"Took you long enough." He scoffed, bumping the dark haired youth's shoulder as he walked back to his seat.

You looked at Eren, confusion making your lower lip press forward in a way that made his heart jump.

"Sorry about that." He mumbled, touching the back of his head. "We just... Fight a lot." You arched an eyebrow, a smiling playing on your lips.

"I can tell. But you're close."

He nodded, staring down at the drink Jean had abandoned.

"Can I get you anything? Tempt you into actually getting drunk tonight?" You removed the old glass and slid a new one into his hands. "You look like you need it."

He smiled, mouth twisting wryly. "I uh, can't get drunk."

"Oh? Why's that?"

He flexed his jaw, eyes refusing to meet yours. "Since I'm... Well a titan shifter. I regenerate too fast. As my body metabolizes it, I'm already healing. That's why Armin doesn't get drunk either." He motioned his shoulder towards the table, and as you looked over all their heads snapped away.

"That's fascinating." You said it sincerely, and met his gaze when his eyes raised. He had seemed timid to tell you. It's not that you didn't know, everyone knew. But not everyone accepted it.

"So, do you just really like the taste of our mead then?"

He chuckled, shrugging. "Yeah." His eyes flicked to yours, regarding you from under his dark lashes. "And the company."

You flushed, dragging your teeth over your lower lip. "Yeah, heard it's good here."

Eren grinned, running a hand through his hair. The fire caught the glossy chestnut of it, and you tried not to imagine what it would feel like under your fingertips.

"I like it, seeing you here." You absent-minded wiped a glass as you spoke, needing to channel the growing energy. "Makes me feel a bit..." You trailed off, biting your lower lip in earnest now. "Safe? Normal? Like things are going to be okay if I see you come through the door. The world hasn't exploded yet."

The youth had fallen silent. You wondered if you had overstepped, and raise your eyes to offer an apology. But his expression silenced you.

He looked at you with shining eyes, lips parted slightly with shock.

"I-" you began and were cut off by his hands slapping down on the counter as he leaned forward, gaze cutting through you. He was red, his cheeks like burning embers in the warm light, pretty mouth scrunched slightly to the side.

"Y/n, go out with me." He said, voice pitched and loud. You felt the tavern hush slightly, the loud drone muting as eyes turned to you. He blinked in surprise as you did, both of you caught off guard by the sudden intensity. He sat back on the stool, smile sheepish. "I uh, sorry. Will you go out with me?"

You let him stew for a moment. It was only fair, he made you wait so long for him to say those words. His smile faltered, eyes searching your face. But your lips curled into a smile.

"I'm off tomorrow."

The rap at your door was firm. You had wondered when it would happen, as you had seen Eren arrive at your door a little over ten minutes ago, staring nervously at the entry way. You had leaned out your window to watch him, the normally perceptive man oblivious to your wandering eyes. He had paced, wrung his hands, adjusted the backpack that weight on his shoulders.

"I'll be down in a second." You called, making him start and stare up at you open mouthed.

"Y/n,how, how long-?" He called up, but you shut the window quickly, holding back your laughter as you ran down the stairs, pausing to take a breath before throwing open the door.

"Hi," you said breathlessly, fixating him with a smile. He looked at you with mouth agape, eyes wracking over your form. He had only ever seen you in your typical work attire, a dingy apron tossed over an old puffed skirt, a modest button up to finish it off. So when you brushed your dark hair back off your shoulders, allowing his eyes to alight upon the soft skin of clavicle and chest. The blouse you had picked laid prettily off your shoulders, gripping onto the flesh of your upper arms. The soft cream complimented your brown skin in a way that would make Eren associate the shade with you forever.

"You... You look really beautiful, Y/n." He said finally, giving you a rougishly handsome half smile.

"You clean up well too." You replied, and he shrugged humbly The white button up was ironed with a soldier's precision, and the jacket he wore over it hugged the muscles in his arms temptingly.

"We match." He commented, gesturing to the dark green of your skirt and how it complimented the fabric of his jacket. You had chosen it because it reminded you of his eyes when the fire had gone down, right before you'd have to ask him to leave. He'd be heavy lidded, hair mussed and smelling like smoke. But would insist on helping you put up the chairs every time.

"So, where are we off to?" You asked, he turned quickly, face excited as he took a step. But then he paused, turning back around sheepishly. He offered you an arm, straightening his back. You held back a laugh at his excitement and containment of it. It was endearing, you thought as you took his arm and he began to guide you towards the outer wall.

"I uh... Made us a picnic." He said, helping you over a puddle. "Well not just me. Sasha, she made the sandwiches. But I helped." It made you flush to think that the whole regiment was probably aware of what you were doing currently. It didn't help that Eren took you over wall Rose, the basket pulley system making you cling to him under the gaze of the soldiers manning it. You stood together at the top for a moment, staring over at your district. He pointed out the barracks, and you pointed out your home. He moved closer to you to follow your pointing, needlessly close. But you liked it.

"We don't usually let civilians over like this." He whispered as he helped you into the basket on the other side. "But I told them you're special." He gave you an easy half smile.

"Trying to squeeze free booze from me, Jaeger?" You teased as he climbed in beside you. His arm was around your waist instantly, bracing as the descent begun.

"Yeah." He responded, and grinned back at him. He made the fear lessen.

You admired him as best as you could, stealing glances as he walked beside you through the forest. The dappled shade touched his high cheekbones, made his green eyes flash like emerald caught under a jeweler's light.

"Here!" He exclaimed finally, grabbing you by the hand and pulling you towards a clearing. In the middle of it was a tall, tall tower, a wooden outpost made for guards to keep an eye out for titans.

"Wait one second, okay?" Eren asked, holding your arms and placing you against the leg of the structure. He draped his jacket over you before climbing up the ladder, at a speed you thought was almost showoffish.

You leaned against the wood, listening as the tower creaked above you. It sounded like the trees that surrounded, a part of the landscape. You hugged Eren's jacket tighter to you, dipping your head to your shoulder to inhale the scent of him from the collar. It was clean, vibrant almost. A sharp smell that made you think of knives and the edge of his jaw. The fabric was coarse against your nose, obviously military grade, utilitarian in its design. But you thought of the way it would hug his slim shoulders, his muscular arms, how it would -

"Having fun?" Eren's voice called and your head snapped up to see him grinning from the entry hole. "I'm ready for you up here."

You pulled yourself up, hoping the exertion would hide the embarrassment. He helped you onto the platform, large hands firm on your body to hoist you up.

"Ta-da." He said, gesturing to the blanket laid out in front of you. On top of it he had arranged sandwiches, two glasses that had been filled with deep red wine, and a loaf you recognized as sweet bread, soldiers "desert" rations for special occasions. He had even bought candles, perched delicately in a spartan holder. "It's not much but..." He guided you over, shrugging slightly. "I hope you like it."

"I love it, Eren." You sunk down onto the blanket, grinning up at him. "Didn't know you were such a romantic."

He shrugged again, but his cocky grin told you he was pleased with himself. It became somber as he sat across from you, reclining back on his hands.

"Just don't get the chance to do this, y'know." He said softly, voice gentle enough to be carried away by the breeze. The walls were low here, and even while sitting you could see over top. The forest seemed to go on forever, a sea of shimmering greens. You felt an intimate fondness for them and with a start realised why, as you looked back towards the man sitting across from you. He held the colour of life in his eyes, verdant and vibrant.

"I'm honoured that you're using it on me, then." You replied, earning yourself a warm smile. Your heart leapt at the sight of it, and you decided that even if this was the only time you'd get him to yourself, you'd make the most of it.

"There's no one else I'd rather." His voice was genuine, and seemed to even catch himself off guard. He blushed, prettily. "Uh, dig in." He grabbed his sandwich, quickly stuffing it into his mouth.

You pretended not to watch him eat, how his tongue would dart out to wet his lips or how you could see his Adams apple bob with every swallow. And he pretended not to watch you drink, how your lips pursed on the rim, how you'd hold the cool glass against your cheek as you listened to him speak. Hours passed like that, the food long reduced to crumbs and fuel to press the conversation forward.

He spoke mostly about his friends. Stories that showcased Armin's smarts or Mikasa's fortitude. You liked how he looked when he slipped into fond memories. Eyes glossy, smile crooked. He spoke with his hands, painting scenes with every movement of his fingers. Sasha grasping Mikasa by the shoulders, Jean being bowled over by an over excited Connie. The wind would wind it's fingers through his hair. It was long, not long enough to pull into a ponytail but long enough that it stroked the nap of his neck. The sun reflected the golden threads in it, and you wondered if there was any part of the forest that wasn't a part of him.

And he listened to you as though you were a preacher saving his soul. Eyes wide, leaned forward and nodding intently. You felt seen in a way you hadn't before. Sure people had looked at you, long and hard and even leering. But no one saw you like Eren did.

"The view is beautiful." You commented after some time, standing to walk over to the ledge. The sky had painted itself an orange peel, with a glowing lemon for a setting sun. You peered over the low wall, swallowing your vertigo. Eren followed you, and after a small pause placed an arm slowly around your waist. You felt his warmth glow through you, and were comforted.

"Yeah," he said, gazing at you as though you had hung the moon. "It is."

You let your head drop, leaning it against his shoulder. Intimacy was a stranger to the soldier, something that had no place in his life. In fact, Eren was almost scared. After titans and gore, after horrors that would rise bile for even the most hardened veterans, it was your soft figure that made him speechless. He didn't know how to hold you, didn't know what to do with the elation that filled his heart at the sensation of you soft and compliant in his arms.

Should he kiss you now? He thought as your face turned towards his. Your eyes were sparkling, smile so sweet it was almost saccharine. He could see peace in your face. A soft rest, head nestled somewhere warm with only the sound of heartbeats. But before he could close the space between you, a loud squak startled you away. Eren's grip on your waist tightened and he stepped you back from the ledge cautiously. In front of you a bird burst through the canopy, rushing towards the sky as another followed hot upon its tail. You watched as they cartwheeled through the sky, shrieks loud and grating.

You placed a hand over your heart, letting out an airy laugh. "Thank you, I would jumped right over."

"Glad you didn't. " He murmured, reflecting your smile. "It would suck to have to jump after you." The look on your face was unreadable, and Eren worried that he said something wrong. He was afraid of that, to love you wrong. What else would be expected of someone like him? He didn't know how to treat a woman, let alone someone like you. What was he thinking of, trying to kiss you. You, with your radiant smile that cut through the subdued warmth of the tavern and straight into his chest.

"Should probably pack this up," Eren began, turning back to the blanket. A soft tap on his shoulder made him turn back to you, eyebrow cock with question. Only to be met by your lips, crashing into his. The force made him step back, catching you by the waist. For a moment he feared you would actually topple over the side.

You kissed him exactly how he had dreamt. Like a stormcloud, soft but full, wetting the desert of him. Your hands cradled his cheeks, tender in how you held them. Eren couldn't remember the last time he had been touched so softly.

When you broke away, he was blushing.

"I... Wow." He managed to get out, chest rising and falling with the force of his breath. "I didn't expect that."

"I'm sorry," you murmured demurely, making to step back. "It's just that..." You chewed on your lower lip, and he thought about how you were most likely tasting him. "You meant it. That you would jump after me. I liked that."

The smile spread like a wildfire across Eren's face. "I did." He said breathlessly, pulling you back towards him. This time he kissed you, fingers sliding their way from your jaw into your hair.

When your lips broke again, you wondered how you were still standing. Your heart felt as though it could break through the canopy itself, and your knees fragile enough to give under the next strong gust. Eren was in a similar state, all red face and gentle hands, feeling their way through the length of your hair. He ran his fingers through it, from root to tip, repeating the motion has the wind fought him for the chance to stroke your locks.

"Been wanting to do this." He whispered, hand going still on the back of your neck. "From the moment I first met you."

You rolled your eyes, trying to quell the fluttering that grew in your stomach. "Use more lines on me, Jaeger."

His dark brow furrowed, and he used his grip on your hair to pull you closer. It embarrassed you how heat ran through your body as he did it. "'ts not a line, y/n. I mean it." He dipped his head to rest his forehead against yours, green eyes boring into you. His hands slid down you, moving like a landslide. You felt the topography of your body would be forever changed by him, born anew by the fact he was touching you. They came to settle on your hips, and he hummed into another kiss.

"You were fighting someone." Eren said finally, and you let out a quick laugh. "No, really. When I first saw you, you were fighting someone." You felt like you were falling when you saw the expression on his face. He recounted seeing you like he recounted his friends, eyes soft and full of adoration for the memories that made him whole. "I had gone for a walk, just needing to clear my head. And all of a sudden in front of me this door swung open, and a man stepped out. Nonchalant, holding it open as he checked his watch. And all I could hear was this... Yelling." He laughed, squeezing you slightly as you leaned into him. A part of you wanted to press your face into his neck, to find how the curves of your body fit. But you needed to see his face as he spoke about you. Commit it to memory. "And then this fucking hulk of a man stumbled out, and he was *blabbering* like a kid. Just apologising, over and over again. And then you," he paused for a moment to press another kiss to your lips. "You come out holding a broom like I've held a blade, just ready to kill. And you had it up against his chin, right here." Eren dipped his head and nudged yours back, exposing the expanse of your throat. His lips found the thin skin of where your neck curved into your chin, and he kissed it. "Your hair was a mess, and the light made it look like you had a halo. No wonder the man ran." He held you by the small of your back now, dipping you slightly. Your eyes had fluttered closed as he clung to him. "And you caught my eye as you turned, God I must have looked like an idiot. But you caught my eye and you smiled. Apologised, and then thanked the man holding the door so sweetly. And I thought..." He pulled away now, blushing.

"You thought what?" You pressed, pressing into him.

"What mouth you'd kiss with. If you'd kiss hard and passionate, or soft and sweet." He gave you a boyishly handsome smile. "It's both. "

You pressed your lips to his again. And again. The sun set against your entwined bodies, and Eren had a feeling the night watch wouldn't be impressed with his request to come back over. But it didn't matter, he thought as you pulled away to smile up at him, brighter than the moon. Because this was worth it.

176 notes · View notes

angeli-marco-writes · 3 years ago

Text

Sebastian Stan - Prinţesă (Part I)

A/N & WC - I decided to make this a two-parter to save it being too long, but I’m not sure when part 2 will be up. I do not know Sebastian, nor do I claim to: this is a work of fiction. 3.1k.

Warnings - Mob!Dad's best friend!Seb, implications of an age gap relationship (Seb in his late 30s, reader early 20s), bad Romanian, mob talks, mentions of sex and firearms, swearing, talk of an abusive relationship.

Summary - Seb always has your back, and you hope he'll do the same after fleeing your boyfriend to find safety in his mansion. His job is misleading, but you're the only one who sees the darling underneath. The monster begins to rear its head when you arrive in pieces, but maybe that's a good thing.

Ringing this doorbell is one of the most threatening things you’ve ever had to do. The hulking mansion towers above you, glimmering chandeliers flickering with light in rooms up to three storeys high. The amount of times you’ve stood out here, rapping your knuckles on the door, bouncing on the balls of your feet, even in your youngest years… and never once has the house looked this threatening. Your entire body heaves with sobs, your cheeks damp from tears, your throat hoarse and begging for something to drink from all the screaming. Icy rain lashes ruthlessly against your back, soaking through your already sodden clothes. At this point, along with your teeth chattering, your bones are beginning to creak in protest to the incessant chill. The very last of your cash went to the cab driver, and whatever excess you were unable to pay, you told him to charge to this address, despite the driver's derisive scoff. Seb would spot you, wouldn’t he? If he ever comes out to you.

He’s inside, you know he is—as are the many men he keeps around to swarm the premises —and yet he isn’t answering the door. He always answers the door. Unless… Unless it’s date night.

“Mmm, baby, who’s at the door?” the girl asks him sultrily, her red lipstick smeared halfway down her chin as she sits, legs wide open for him, on his very expensive, custom-made, marble kitchen countertop.

“Dunno,” Seb responds.

He doesn’t waste another second before fumbling for the zip at the back of her barely-there dress, yanking it down with a particularly harsh tug. It’s already rucked up to her hips, anyway. His swollen lips crash straight down onto hers with a feverish voracity. Seb has a lot that he needs to get out of his system, and he certainly plans to if that doorbell ever stops fucking ringing—

“Stefan! Get the fucking door,” he commands one of his Hench-men.

Sebastian’s patience is thin at the best of times, and on the single night he has off a week, he likes to spend that with a pretty, brainless girl who’ll have to sign an NDA come morning. It’s easier this way: no commitment, no relationships. The only person he’ll break his free time for knows just to call and he’ll be there in a heartbeat. He isn’t the sort to break a promise.

“You gonna fuck me or what?” the blonde asks, twirling her fake hair around one cheaply manicured finger.

He barely resists the urge to roll his eyes and instead kisses her almost violently, with such intent that it knocks the air from his lungs. The shout from Stefan does that for him, though.

“Boss, need you at the door now!”

That panicked tone… one he hasn’t heard from Stefan even after all he’s endured. Something must be very, very wrong to elicit such a reaction. Sebastian’s movements with the girl stall, and stepping away from her, his Louboutin's squeaking on the expensive granite floor. He doesn’t answer, doesn’t speak to the girl but instead gestures for her to get her clothes on and get behind him very, very quickly. Throwing open one pristine white drawer, he plucks out a Glock, double checks the ammo, and clasps it in both ring-clad hands.

“Fii atent, fii brutal dacă este nevoie,” he says to himself, repeating it over and over again. Be careful, be ruthless if necessary. A weak promise, but one he promised you to ensure your peace of mind.

“Stop speaking Polish!” this girl hisses.

Even despite the pressing moment, he finds the time to turn back and look at her with eyes full of disdain. She can leave now, provided there’s no threat at the door. Even if she is rude, he’s not in the business of putting women in danger no matter the circumstance, which seems to be exactly where he went wrong with you, his fights to save you from danger so futile against your iron will.

When he reaches the door, though, his heart shatters into a million pieces. Curled up in Stefan’s hesitant grasp, shivering, your complexion a sickly pallor, your eyes redder than he’s ever seen them. Stefan’s deathly pale, but instead of noting the clear issue of the situation, this bird—Jenny, Jessy, something, he doesn’t particularly care—scrunches her nose up and pushes past him.

“Who’s this bitch? Take me to bed Sebastian, come on…”

He shrugs off her incessant grasp without a second thought, shouldering away from her as he nocks his gun away. Why are you weeping? The question rushes through him like the sharpest sting of pain he’s ever had to endure. If something’s wrong, you always call him first: this is worse than ever before.

With a grave face, he takes a sharp stride out of the ornate hallway and into the porch, his posture relaxed. “Stefan, get this lady paperwork, I’ll take it from here.” And without a second thought, he sweeps you into his arms, allowing you to break down those barriers.

—

You can still hear the girl’s protests following you, echoing in your head as she fumed, cried, fought and kicked, outright refusing to leave the premises until she ‘got what she was owed’ before it was ‘stolen by this whore’ in reference to you. As though you were anything but a helpless puppy, soaked to the bone, crying your eyes out, begging Sebastian to help you.

“Who the fuck is this? Why are you choosing her over me?” she spat, making you feel like nothing.

They follow you even as you curl up on Seb’s sofa, hot chocolate in your hands, a blanket draped around your shoulders, a fire crackling in the great gold hearth in the centre of the room. You watched, against Seb’s orders, over his shoulder as she was restrained by two bulky bodyguards, pulling her kicking and screaming, arms flailing and legs bucking, into the work wing.

His threat is the only thing that made you feel even the slightest bit better, “Never speak to me, or her that way again, or we’ll do a lot worse.”

The cold fire of wrath kindling in his crystal blue eyes terrified her into silence, and she left without a scratch. It’s a pity your conscience didn’t.

“Seb, I’m sorry, I should go…” you pipe up, the haunts in your head overriding any sanity so much after everything you’ve already faced today, “she can’t be far, go and fetch her and have a good night. I— I shouldn’t have come…”

He darts across the living room carpet—a pristine cream he regrets choosing for the amount of times he’s had to have it industrially cleaned—and settles on the arm of the sofa, a suit-clad arm around your hunched shoulders. He’ll have a much better night with you rather than her, even if it isn’t in the same capacity it once was.

He shushes you gently, allowing you to relax further into the crease of the mocha loveseat that’s always been your favourite. Even when he did the room out, he refused to get rid of it, saving it for when you came to visit.

Instead of bootlessly reassuring you, since he knows it won’t sink in, he jokes, “She was a bitch anyway.”

He’s always been your first port of call, no matter the situation. You lost your mascara? Probably in his spare bedroom. You got a bit too drunk? He’ll pick you up. Your world falls apart? He’ll be there to pick up the pieces: he always has, he always will, that’s just the kind of man he is despite the assumptions due to his line of work. It’s why your father got along with him so well. Sebastian is a family man, fiercely proactive, and that’s what makes him so good at his job.

“Seb?”

“Yeah Prinţesă?”

Your heart flutters at the pet name before you can stop it, and you shuffle a little further along the couch cushion that’s now moulded to the curve of your spine, allowing Seb to sit beside you. He only left to get you some marshmallows for your drink, which he sprinkles in as he sits down, cuddling you.

“Just wanted a hug.”

He chuckles, the sound vibrating through you, prompting you to nuzzle further into his tailored suit, “You don’t need to ask for that. But…”

Before he can continue, you’ve dissolved into tears, and are fisting at the cotton of his shirt to draw him closer. He wraps you in a cocoon of warmth, taking your mug from your hands to settle on the coffee table just feet away, upon which is a book of yours. You need to go soon, get into some dry clothes instead of getting the sofa wet, but you need a hug more than warm pyjamas.

You run a hand through his chestnut locks, and hot tears press to the skin of his neck. “Doll, I don’t wanna make things worse, but I need to know what you’re doing here. You know you’re always welcome here whenever, but… you have a key.” That’s true, you do, but you didn’t have time to grab it before— “Please, when you’re ready, can you talk to me?”

You nod, but don’t withdraw from him. Why would you ever want to escape his bear grip? You didn’t that night, those years ago, but once you let go of one another, you feared you’d never find your way back.

“Why didn’t you call?” he asks, “how did you get here?”

This time, you have to move, guilt flashing over your features as you ferret around in your pocket, withdrawing your phone, or at least what’s left. It’s little more than a scrap of glass and metal, held together by wires it’s so smashed up. Sebastian’s face has never held such confused anger.

“I found a phone box with cab numbers pinned inside and got a taxi here. I had nowhere else to go,” you sob, a sorry, choked sound that drives Sebastian to hold you even closer, pulling you into his lap without a second thought.

He coos sweet nothings in your ear until your breathing regulates a little more, but then tugs away, brushing a kiss to your temple. Concern laces his features as he searches your face for any sign of harm, and he proceeds to ask the inevitable question, to which, dreadfully, he already knows the answer. Only he dreads to hear it, if you even dare.

“Who did this?” he demands softly.

You don’t dare, but only avert your red-rimmed, swollen eyes, your throat bobbing viciously as you gulp. He already knows it’s that piece of shit boyfriend he told you time and time again to break up with, months before you got serious or moved in together. The day he helped you shift those boxes into a shared abode… his heart died a little.

“Did he lay a finger on you?”

Hesitantly, you shake your head. “Not in a while.”

“I’ll fucking kill him,” Seb mutters under his breath, clenching his fists.

He knew the bloke was an abusive twat, but to know he touched you on top of breaking your phone, causing you to run away from the place you were supposed to feel safe… it drives him to new pits of fury. But Sebastian, after everything he’s seen and done, finds himself on the verge of tears at your cautious revelation. He’s never been so angry, shadows wrapping around him, his mind retreating into that dark place full of destruction and vexation. He promised your dad when he died that he’d protect you, and all he’s done is fail, but this primality, this burning need to cuddle you and coddle you and keep you safe from anything and everything that isn’t him, it’s something else.

He knows deep down that if he doesn't let you go now, he never will, so instead of doing anything more, saying anything that reveals his true heart, he strokes your hair and draws away from you, handing you back your mug.

“Stay here as long as you need. The bath is run, you have a soak, your pyjamas are out.”

Sipping your hot chocolate, you nuzzle contentedly into him, wrapping one arm around his neck as he stands. He carries you up the stairs and into the guest wing, one floor above his, and you let him help you out of your soaking clothes.

“Are you sure you’re okay, Prinţesă?”

You nod, forcing a smile, even if you don’t feel it. “Thank you.”

“Anytime.” He kisses your hairline, barely restraining from your lips, and departs only when you’re safe in the bathroom, but sinks against the door, his head in his hands—his plotting stance. “I’m gonna kill that măgar myself.”

—

A knock on the hulking doors to your suite stir you from your daydream, lost in a new book, supplied by Sebastian’s endless library.

“Come in,” you call, your voice a little wary.

You spent what feels like hours shouting earlier on, followed by all the bawling that tore at your throat. It’s nowhere near as nice as the last time you had a sore throat at Sebastian’s mansion. It feels like you went to a concert, combined with the lethargy and aches and the fear. But you’re safe now, a fact you have to remind yourself every few minutes to prevent yourself from looking over your shoulder.

“Hey Doll, just me. How are you? Do the pyjamas still fit?”

You left them here a while ago for the odd night you spent here, but they seem to be looser, something Seb instantly notices when you kick the duvet off to show him.

“Did he starve you? You need to eat, y/n! They fit you perfectly three months ago,” he says.

He stalks to the bed, settling at your feet. His touch causes you to close the book and say, “He didn’t, but my appetite has been lacking…” your inflection says enough, you know it does. “Maybe we can get breakfast tomorrow? A proper breakfast.”

“And every day after that.” He smiles at the slight colour returning to your cheeks, adding, “I’ve got something for you.”

Your ears almost visibly prick up, your posture settling into one of attention as you push your book onto the bedside locker. His warmth seeps from his hold into your skin despite the layers separating you, it’s always been Sebastian’s specialty, to warm you up from a mile away, your heart and all. You expect a pretty necklace—he likes to get you those, or maybe some more food to add to the huge platter of your favourite foods he had laid out for when you were done with the bath, but it’s something you definitely can’t accept.

“Seb…” you murmur.

The shiny, brand new iPhone 12 is heavy in your hands, glowing under the golden chandelier suspended above the bed, but when the screen flashes on, you realise it’s already got your lock screen on it. You tap in your passcode, and find not only your sim card loaded, but also your iCloud with one fundamental difference: everything about your boyfriend has been erased. Number, Instagram, photos…

“Seb, where have they gone?”

Reluctantly, he pulls a memory stick out of his pocket, holding it just out of your reach. “You get this back when he isn’t a risk to you anymore. For now, you’re forbidden from seeing him. A restraining order and lawsuit are already in the works.”

His men work fast, you think to yourself, somehow truly believing that they’re doing this on the right side of the law. If you knew the truth, that his men were already over there right now you wouldn’t catch a wink of sleep. Seb can’t be having that..

“You can’t do that. You’re not my dad,” you protest, but even you know that there’s no point in fighting. You’re relieved beyond words for the proceedings now in action.

“I know, but…” he swallows, taking your hand in his, “I swore to your dad that I’d protect you until the day I die. I intend on keeping that promise, I won’t let him hurt you again.”

When you still say nothing, he comes closer, his suit pants getting static from the duvet, but he edges closer. His hair is flopping over his forehead, the gel beginning to wear out, and he looks so human this way. His rings send chills through you.

“You okay, Prinţesă?” he inquires, moving to softly stroke your hair.

“Yeah, thank you Seb. I don’t know how I can go back...”

“You won’t be. You’re never going back to him.”

Your chest deflates with sheer relief, and in this moment, you know you’ve never been as grateful to have Sebastian in your life. “Stay here as long as you want, honest.” Part of him hopes you’ll never leave, and a kernel of you pleads for the same thing, too. “I’ll get all your stuff together tomorrow. Just sleep, yeah? I’ve got you Doll, your dad would be so proud of you for leaving.”

Would he? You chose to be there in the first place, you endured it for so long when you should’ve left so much earlier, and instead of surviving on your own, you came crying to Seb.

“No.” His hand cups your jaw, the tough pad of his thumb catching a tear before it can fall. “Don’t go to that place. Don’t doubt yourself. You are so brave, and you have a place here for as long as you need. I’m so glad you came to me. It’ll all be ok, yeah?”

It’s crazy, but… you actually believe him. Every word he says is the truth, it always has been. He’s never shied away from brutal honesty, why should he when you need it the most? A stinging begins behind your eyes, and more tears threaten to spill, but sleep is pulling at you every which way. You don’t even know what time it is, how late it must be after hours of hell, and you really should sleep, especially if you’re getting breakfast with him tomorrow.

Your final request? “Stay with me? Don’t wanna be alone...”

It wouldn’t be the first time, but he hasn’t stayed since that night, and the circumstances couldn’t be further contrary. But his face; that adorable face, worn with age, scarred, those eyes that make dreams feel real, so clear and beautiful, and those petal pink lips…

He nods, and seems to forget he’s in his suit as he lets you curl into the side of his body, wrapping you under the duvet, tucking you into his side. He says a silent prayer, one he hopes will carry to whoever may be there to help him. To help you, the most important thing in his life.

Please, please keep my Prinţesă safe. Whatever it takes.

(PART II COMING SOON)

253 notes · View notes

weelittleweasley · 4 years ago

Text

Amnesia (p1) | Draco x Reader

Prompt: The Battle of Hogwarts was one that was hard on everyone mentally and physically. During the war, you took a brutal fall, hitting your head, which caused you to lose your memory, amnesia if you will. You forget a solid chunk of your life, specifically your last few years at Hogwarts and the relationships you made with certain people, including your romantic relationship with Draco Malfoy. What happens in Part One of this multipart series?

Warnings: language, violence, blood, memory loss, death, mentions of PTSD, anxiety

Word Count: 5.5k

A/N: This story is not about romanticizing mental health issues. These are serious conditions and this story is not meant to romanticize or fantasize these topics. It’s used as a vessel to convey a different story. That being said, please take care of yourself and sending everyone lots of love. Enjoy part one :)

Flashbacks told in italics!

War, chaos, violence, and then silence. Peace. The rubble had fallen, the chains had been broken, and the dust had settled. But things weren’t over. No, quite the opposite. This was just the beginning of it all.

Hogwarts, as you knew it, was falling to the ground. Everywhere you looked around you saw stones falling, students running, flashes of light and fire, the echoes of screams, yet the only thing on your mind was finding him. Finding the blonde boy who you loved so much your bones shook and you heart ached. You ran through the halls, dodging falling stones and avoiding spells, curses, and hexes from wands. Your breath was uneven as you ran down the stairs, screaming at the top of your lungs, your throat burning, “Draco!”

As you ran down the hall, your body collided with that of your closest friend. “(Y/N), you have to run, get out of here, Draco is gone, there’s no use searching for him,” Ron grabs your face in his hands, desperately trying to shake some sense into you. He searched your eyes for any sense of hope; he needed it now more than ever. His face was covered in dried blood and fresh blood, his hands covered in dirt and his eyes full of panic. He needed you to survive this war, if it was the last thing he could do. “Listen to me,” he shakes you as you let a sob escape your lips. “Draco is gone. Okay? He left.”

You shake your head ferociously. “He wouldn’t do that, he’s here. He’s waiting for me. He told me he would wait for me and he’d see me at the end of this,” you yell at Ron, your ribs aching and knees weak. You’d recall when Draco furiously kissed your lips hours before this all dissolved into madness, telling you to stay where you were and he’d come back for you. Draco promised that you both would run away from this and go somewhere you couldn’t be found. Away from his father, away from the Dark Lord, away from magic, away from it all. He wanted to escape just as badly, if not more than you. “I need to find him,” you pushed Ron off with all the might you could muster in your frail body. “Draco!” you scream again, your voice cracking, too weak to echo anymore.

Ron grabs you by the waist now, pulling you away as you kick and scream in his grip, demanding he let you go. “I’m not letting you get killed!” Ron yelled. “I already lost Fred and I’m not losing you too!” he screams, his voice cracking with anger and fear. “Hermione, help!” Ron calls to Hermione who grabs your fists that pound on Ron’s chest.

“Let me go!” you sob, breaking down under the grip of your two close friends, completely losing yourself to your emotions. “I need to find Draco,” you manage to speak in between sobs, choking on your own tears and cries. “He could be dead for all I know! Please let me find him,” you grab onto the collar of Ron’s shirt, begging him, staring into his eyes as tears pour out of yours. “I need to find him. He could be out there, looking for me, calling for me. I need him, Ron, let me go, let me go find him!”

Hermione wraps you in her arms, trying to get you to stop crying as they pull you behind a wall. She whispers in your ear that you needed to protect yourself. You couldn’t worry about Draco anymore. He was a lost cause. But how could you forget about him? This was the man you loved so violently that you would die before you let anything bad happen to him. He was your one and only and you knew that the day he kissed you for the first time. “You need to stay here. Right here. You understand me? This is a matter of your life and death, do you understand?” Hermione scolds you. “Under no circumstances do you run for anyone. You run for your life if someone tries to kill you. You fight back. But under no circumstances do you do anything else, do you understand me?” she yells at you, needing you to understand that you needed to survive this.

With a shaky breath, you nod. Hermione looks at Ron before Hermione runs back to the chaos, flicking her wand, sending beams at Death Eaters, protecting the students. Ron looks at you, tears still in his eyes as you hold back your sobs. Ron engulfs you in a large hug before pressing a firm kiss to your forehead. “I need you to live. Please,” he begs you, clinging onto every last bit of hope he has. “I’ll find you at the end of this and we’ll be okay.” You shake your head, giving him a tight hug again. “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” you tell him before he joins Hermione, running off protecting her and fellow students.

So there you stood behind the concrete wall, looking around as others fought and got struck. People were getting killed all around you and you were being suffocated by the sight. Why were you just standing here not fighting back? Deliberately disobeying Ron and Hermione’s orders, you run from the wall, flicking your wand swiftly, pushing back Death Eaters, defending yourself and other students. You stood proudly beside your fellow classmates, slashing your wands, casting spells and fighting the good fight.

As you fight alongside your classmates, you turn your head, keeping a 360 on the area. But that’s when you see him. His blonde hair covered in dirt, his concerned face looking behind him as his mother and father guide him away from the scene, across the bridge. From a distance, you see him look in your direction as your heart sinks. He was leaving without you.

“Draco,” you whisper, forgetting about everything in the world and focusing on him. “Draco!” you scream with every last fiber in your body. You launch yourself into a run down the stairs and towards the bridge. You push people out of your way in a beeline for your love, hoping that he’ll stop for you, but he doesn’t. His parents keep an iron grip on him, pulling him along the bridge. Draco turns around, seeing you run as he tries to writhe out of his mother’s grip. His face is full of concern, but he can’t escape. His father puts his body in front of Draco’s as Draco screams out in pain and fury. “Draco!” you yell.

Your feet carry you as fast as possible as you run toward the bridge, trying to get to him as quickly as possible before it was too late. Draco claws at his father, trying to get past him. As you run you feel your breath becoming short and your lungs burn, but you ignore the sensation and push. You need to get to him. He needed to get to you. You needed to save each other.

But that all came to a screeching halt when you name being yelled out in horror by Draco. “(Y/N), watch out!” someone screams a blood curdling scream as you look up to see a large rock come crashing down.

And that’s when it went white. Your hearing gave out. You went numb. There was silence. Deafening. Palpable. The silence screamed for a million years and then a million more.

But then there was a roar. Your ears rung and yelled. Your brain thumped against your skull, your lungs burned like you swallowed ash, and your mouth tasted of metal and dirt. You repeated told yourself to open your eyes, but you couldn’t. You tried again and again, but nothing. All you could sense was ringing in your ears and muffled voices. Who was it? Who was talking? You couldn’t understand anyone or what they were saying. It all sounded like a different language. What happened?

Even though your brain was running at a thousand miles an hour, you crashed. Your senses gave out and the silence was back. Deafening. Palpable. The silence screamed again for another million years.

But this time there was a roar and your eyes shot wide open. You sucked in a large breath like you couldn’t breathe before. Your lungs swelled with oxygen, but hurt when you took deep breaths. It took you a second before you felt the rupture of pain that carried from the back of your head to the front. You sucked in a sharp breath, placing a hand where it hurt the most.

As you looked down, you noticed the white sheets covering your body and the small hospital bed you lied down in. Thin hospital robe on your body and on your arm stuck out multiple IVs and monitors. You heard your heart rate monitor picks up speed as your anxiety grew with every passing second. What happened to you? Why were you in the hospital? Who brought you here?

When you try to remember what happened to you, you can’t recall a single thing. You can’t even pinpoint what your last memory was, they all just mesh together. Before you can think about what is going on, the door opens up and a Healer’s assistant walks in. “You’re up,” she smiles. “Hello, (Y/N). How are you feeling?” she has a bright grin and calming eyes. This puts you at ease.

“My head hurts,” you respond.

She gives you a knowing smile. “I’m sure it does. You got severely concussed a few days ago,” she grabs a clipboard from the side table and starts scribbling down notes and checking your vitals.

Your eyes go wide, “A few days ago?” you speak bewildered.

The Healer’s assistant takes your temperature with a muggle thermometer before handing you a glass of water. “Yes, a few days ago,” she confirms. “You were in and out of consciousness a few times before you woke up today. Just to put your mind at ease, you have a few broken ribs, that’s why it may be a little hard to breathe and a sprained wrist. We administered you a healing potion, so you should be fully recovered in a few days, but you should still monitor yourself. Your brain, however, is still bruised.” She places down the clipboard and walks back to the door. “Let me tell the Healer that you’re awake. In the meantime, I think there are some people who want to see you.”

You sit up in bed and patiently wait for your visitors. The door swings open and in floods your mother and father. “Mum, Dad,” you smile as they both have tears in their eyes when they see you. They hurry to your side, crying into your hospital gown, kissing your face, thanking Merlin that you were alright. You hold onto them tight, afraid to let them go, as you let a few happy tears fall from your eyes.

“We thought you were dead,” your mother looks at you as you wipe her tears away, holding onto her and your dad’s hands. “Thank Merlin they got you to the hospital as fast as they could. Madam Pomfrey had taken good care of you before they brought you here,” she tells you. “I can’t believe you are alright.”

You spent a few hours with your parents, the Healer coming in a few times, speaking about how you had to take it easy and how you are lucky to be alive. Your father and mother, however, were acting a little strange whenever they spoke to the Healer. One would get up and speak to him in hushed tones as the other distracted you with conversation, but you couldn’t help but be curious as to what they were leaving you out of. What was going on?

“Mum?” you ask her as your dad whispers to the Healer. “What are they taking about?” you question. She just brushed it off and says he just wants to know how quickly your recovery would be. You knew she was lying, but rather than implore for answers, you let it be. You were tired.

A few more hours past when the Healer’s assistant from earlier came back in. “Hi, (Y/N), visitor hours are almost done, but you have a few more people who came in to see you,” she tells you as you furrow your brows. She motions her hand to let the visitors in.

When the visitor’s step in it takes you a second to register who they were. Your brain was trying to put names to their faces. You knew that you knew them. You felt your excitement grow when you saw them. You could tell that you had a deep connection to them because when they saw you, both of them started sobbing tears of joy. The girl with fluffy brown hair covered her mouth to conceal her sobs, but a large smile was on her face. Beside her the ginger boy stood, taller in stature but tears running down his face as he silently cried when he saw you. “You’re alright,” he whispers.

Your parents give you and these visitors some privacy, leaving the room so it’s just you three. You stay silent, but a smile is on your face. What are your names? The boy slowly approaches your bedside, sitting next to you, and gently grabbing your hand. He squeezes it and brings another hand to brush the hair out of your eyes. His touch was loving and delicate, handling you with the utmost care. That’s when it hit.

“Ron fucking Weasley,” you laugh as he joins in, pressing his forehead against yours. Ron laughs and cries against you as you cup his cheek gently. It felt like forever since you saw him. You give his hand a squeeze before pulling away and looking at the girl. “Thought I forgot about you, Granger? Get in here,” you speak as she laughs and joins the small group hug, still making sure not to hurt you. The three of you sit and cry and laugh for what feels like hours. “Where have you all been?” you ask with a smile.

Hermione laughs, “Well, for starters, you’ve been out for four days since your injury.” She rubs your arm. “We’ve all been really worried about you. Harry, too, but he’s also in recovery right now. You’ll see him as soon as you’re discharged from the hospital.”

You nod, the image of Harry Potter popping up at the mention of his name, significant memories flooding back into your brain of him. You think of year four when you had a crush on him briefly during the Triwizard Tournament and you smile at the memory. You also remember Ron teasing you about it after that crush died out, Harry laughing along with you both. Then a question pops up in your mind. “You guys,” you start. “How did I get injured? The Healer told me it’s mostly a head injury, but I don’t remember it. Did you see it happen?”

Ron and Hermione uncomfortably shift in their seats as Hermione shakes her head to Ron, letting him explain what happened. “During the battle, you were running for Draco when a piece of rubble came crashing down and hit you in the head,” Ron explains gently and slowly, making sure not to disturb any trauma that could be sprung up from the horrific scene. Ron recalls watching it unfold and the wind being knocked out of him as it happened. Ron remembers running to your side, screaming for someone to help pick you up and get you to Madam Pomfrey. Ron shakes the memory away and breathes in deeply. Recalling the day was too emotional for him and it happened to recently for him to relive it. He was careful with his words, stroking your hand as he explained what happened.

You furrow your brows in confusion. “Wait, hold on,” you laugh. “Battle? Is that like a new name for a quidditch match or something? I know that I play quite aggressive during games, but I didn’t think it was going to hospitalize me.” As you attempt to crack a joke, Hermione and Ron’s eyes go wide before they look at each other in fear. It was worse than they had thought. “What?” you asked, the concern raising in your voice. “What are you hiding from me?”

Hermione gulps, “Do you not remember the war?” The scoots closer to your bed, seeing if you were playing a joke on them, but you were deadly serious.

“War?” you repeat. “About what? Is He back?” you question, wondering if the Dark Lord was back. You remember Cedric Diggory’s death like it was yesterday, Harry yelling on the field over his dead body that the Dark Lord had returned. Hermione and Ron stutter, trying to find the words. “What’s going on? Are you guys playing a sick joke on me?” you start to frantically ask. “Did Fred and George put you up to this?” At the mention of Fred’s name, Ron instantly tenses and his breath hitches in his throat. Hermione rubs his back, comforting him, holding him close to her as if something happened to Fred. What was going on? Confusion darted through your brain. “I need to go take a breather for a second,” Ron sighs, rising from his chair. “I’m glad you’re awake, (Y/N).” Ron kisses your forehead before walking to the other side of your hospital room, opening the window for some fresh air.

Hermione looks back at you and grabs a hold of both of your hands. “(Y/N), I need you to be completely honest with me like I am being with you right now. What do you remember from Hogwarts? List out the last few things you remember. I need to know,” she pleads, looking deep into your eyes searching.

Your breath picks up as your lungs fill with oxygen, burning from the rapid movement. Your heart rate sky rockets and the back of your head starts to tingle in pain again like it did when you first woke up. Trying to recall your memories, your brain feels like it’s being squeezed. Not much comes up. “I don’t know, ‘Mione,” you tell her. “I remember Cedric’s death, I remember going home for the summer that year, I remember coming back to school and Harry being on edge because no one believed him about the Dark Lord, I remember that twat Umbridge,” you tell her, “but after that the rest is a blur...” Hermione looks at Ron who’s eyes are wide in disbelief. It was much worse than they thought. “What in the bloody hell is this war you’re talking about?”

Ron looks to Hermione and then looks to you and says, “(Y/N), what year of Hogwarts are we in?”

You take a second to think. If your memory and your timeline serves you right, you were in year five. “Year five...it’s 1995...why?” you respond. Wasn’t it obvious?

“Bloody hell, this isn’t good,” Ron runs his hands through his hair. Your eyes widen and your heart rate picks up, lungs burning from the rapid inhalations you were breathing in and out. Your head was pounding now. What was happening? Were you wrong? You were sixteen, right? How could you be mistaken? Ron paces back and forth as Hermione remains deadly still. Did your parents not tell you?

The more you think, the more your head hurts. “Wait a second,” you stop the small chatter between Ron and Hermione. “You said I hurt my head because I was running to Draco Malfoy?” you ask as your close friends shake their heads. “Why? I’ve had a total of four conversations with him. Why would I be running after him?”

And that’s when the severity of the situation hit Granger and Weasley. “Go get the Healer,” Hermione commands Ron as he dashes out of the room. “You are being honest with us, right?” she asks as you rapid shake your head. Why would I be lying? “(Y/N), you cannot freak out about this, okay?” she looks at your heart monitor as it beeps quickly, picking up the pace with every passing second. “Okay,” she breathes out. “Listen to me,” she grabs your hands, squeezing them. As she does so, Ron enters back in with the Healer from before. They observe what Hermione does. “(Y/N), you are eighteen. Hogwarts had a battle against Voldemort where many people died and sacrificed themselves for the greater good. That’s where you got injured. You were running to Draco to find him because he-”

“Hold on,” the Healer stops Hermione. “Don’t overflow her with information, she can have an aneurysm from the anxiety and overstimulation.” Hermione rises from her chair as the Healer replaces her seat. “(Y/N), I need you to look at me and breathe. Try to relax yourself.”

At this point you are hyperventilating. “What is going on? Did I miss two years of my life? How long was I asleep for? What war happened? Is this what you and my parents were talking about before? Are you all lying to me?” you start to panic. You look around, needing to get out, out of this room, out of this gown, out of your own head. You felt like you were being tortured from the inside out. “Get these fucking tubes out of me,” you claw your arm as the Healer grabs your hands in attempt to cease your manic movements.

“I need you to listen to me, I will give you the answers you want, (Y/N), okay?” he attempts to reason with you as you try to wiggle out of his grip. “I will tell you what you want to know. Hermione and Ron will be with you the whole time. None of us are lying to you, okay? You just need to trust us,” the Healer speaks slowly as not to rile you up.

Slowly, you let your breathing even out as you lay back in bed, looking at Ron and Hermione. You give them scared looks as Ron grabs your hands, giving them a squeeze, Hermione sitting herself next to you on the bed. “Okay.”

The Healer takes a deep breath in and starts. “You are eighteen, recently graduated from Hogwarts. Hogwarts went through the second wizarding war, which you fought in very bravely. In the midst of it, you saw someone you loved and you ran over to him and got a nasty head injury. The head injury has caused you to have something called temporary amnesia or memory loss. That being said, you can’t remember the past two years of your life,” he tells you.

Your heart drops to the pit of your stomach. You don’t know what to say or do. You just sit in shock as your mouth goes dry. You feel like you’re going to vomit, pass out, scream, cry, or all of the above. How could this just happen to you? You just forgot everything that happened over the past two years? So much could have happened and yet you couldn’t recall an ounce of it. You only remembered up to year five and then your brain just shut you out. Your body was working against you. “What?” you ask breathlessly, tears starting to pool in your eyes as the Healer gives you the sorriest look you have ever seen. “I-I-I don’t understand how can my brain just forget?”

“I’m so sorry you are going through this,” the Healer tells you as you look to Ron and Hermione who are starting to cry now. This couldn’t be happening. “But that being said, this amnesia is temporary. It will wear off, but we don’t know when. It can just come back one day and that can be scary, I know. But you have great resources and friends and family and a boyfriend who will help you navigate through this. I will give you a minute to talk to your friends,” the Healer squeezes your arm before leaving the room.

As the door closes behind him, you erupt into sobs. Hermione cradles you in her chest as violent sobs rippled through your body, causing pain to shoot through every fiber in your body, but you didn’t care. Your brain didn’t work like it should and that was a horrifying thought. Why you? Why you of all people? Why was this happening? Who did this to you? How could this happen? Who let it happen? Too many questions danced in your head that you were unable to answer.

Ron pulls your head up to look at him. “We’re going to get through this,” he tells you. “You have me, you have Hermione, you have Harry, you have your parents, you have our friends,” he smiles at you.

“What did the Healer mean when he said I have a boyfriend? Who? Why can’t I remember him?” you speak through sniffles. You had a feeling that your boyfriend was a certain someone, but the thought of him being your romantic interest made your stomach churn.

Your two friends gulp, trying to figure out how to navigate this situation. “You know how I said you ran over to Draco Malfoy when you got hit?” Hermione says. “It’s him. Draco Malfoy is your boyfriend.”

That’s when you think your heart is going to fall out of your stomach. You could only pinpoint a few memories of him throughout what you can remember. You remember Draco being cruel and mean to you and your friends. He called Hermione a mudblood, he teased Ron relentlessly, he always had a bone to pick with Harry, and he made fun of you until you cried multiple times. How could you love someone like him?

Almost as if one cue, the Healer’s assistant came back in and said, “(Y/N), visitor’s hours are over in twenty minutes, but there is someone in the waiting room for you. He insists that he knows you and he’s your boyfriend. The name is Draco Malfoy.”

Everyone and the air freezes. He was here. He came to see you. He didn’t forget about you, but you certainly did with him. Although he was one of the last people you wanted to see right now, there was a feeling in the pit of your stomach that told you to let him in. He may have the answers you need. Ron and Hermione insist that she turns him away, but you halt their demands, you saying, “Bring him in. I want to see him.”

She nods and leaves the room as Ron and Hermione just look at you shocked, knowing that this is not going to end well for anyone. “Why did-”

“Because I want to know if he has answers,” you simply state, eyes not moving from the door. If Draco really was your boyfriend, then he should know you better than yourself. Maybe Draco could bring back your memory. Maybe he could help you recover quicker. Then his nightmare would be over.

The door swings open and there he stood, in all black, hair disheveled, a worried look on his face. Draco looked sick. He was pale and looked thin, almost sickly. When his eyes meet yours, tears fill his eyes and a soft smile appears on his face. “Darling,” he breathes out as he steps closer to you. Ron and Hermione instinctively stand up to protect you as he looks over to them, at first angry, but then he sees the looks on their faces and that’s when his fear worsens. He understands with just a look. The situation was worse than he had thought. He thought you would wake up and you would pick up from where you left off. He had explaining to do, but he was ready to work it through with you. But this situation was one he was not prepared for. Draco looks back at you and says, “You...don’t...”

“No,” you shake your head. “I’m sorry, Draco, but I don’t know you like you think I do.”

In that moment, all of Draco’s memories of you flooded his mind. The first time he remembered thinking that he liked you. You were in the room of requirement when Umbridge busted Potter and you had a horrified, yet angry look on your face. As you left the room, you pushed Draco out of the way, looking at him with a disgusted face.

“You’re despicable, Malfoy,” you spit at him.

Draco let a smirk appear on his face as he bit his lip. “If you want me that badly, (Y/L/N), you should just come to my room tonight,” he spoke, eyes raking you up and down, knowing it would annoy you.

You rolled your eyes before stomping on his foot, him wincing in pain as the boys around him laughed. “If you want to get slapped next time, you should have just asked,” you mimic him. “You’re deplorable.”

Although the memory was not a happy one, Draco was fond of it because he knew you were hard to get and Draco lived for the chase. He knew you could hold your own and not depend on him for everything; you were independent and he found that irresistible. It wasn’t long after that that he had asked you on a date, starting a rollercoaster of relationship. You were there for him in his darkest times, in the hours where he felt himself slipping away, but you were always there to pull him back out and show him the light to which he was forever indebted to you.

Draco knew that he had no greater love than the love he had found with you and if he had to fight like hell for it, then he would, the rest of the world be damned.

So there he was, standing in front of you in a hospital bed, the sight already making him sick to his stomach. He looked over to Ron and Hermione as if to ask them to give him some alone time with you. Your two friends looked back at you, to which you nodded, them giving your hands a squeeze before leaving the hospital room.

Now you were alone, staring at the boy in front of you who you were supposed to know everything about and him to you. But instead, your mind drew blank. You couldn’t remember anything about him besides what you had known up to year five. You got no feeling of excitement when you saw him in comparison to the reaction you had when you saw Ron and Hermione. You didn’t feel like you had a connection with him. You just felt numb. Tingling from exhaustion and burning with pain in your head and lungs. So badly you wanted to close your eyes and go to sleep, hoping that this was a sick dream and when you woke up things would be okay.

“You remember nothing?” he asks, blue eyes like the ocean brimming with tears that threatened to pool over, but disappeared when he took a deep breath in, his attempt to remain strong in front of you.

“I remember up to year five,” you correct him. “I don’t remember any of our relationship,” you confess.

This makes Draco’s heart plummet into his stomach, but he tries to not show it on his face. He slowly tries to approach your bed and reach for your hand, hoping that his touch would make you remember something, anything. But when he extends his hand out to touch you, you pull away, looking at him way too confused and scared to touch him back. You barely know who he was, why would you want to touch him? As if this whole situation couldn’t get any worse. He had run away from his mother after his father was taken to Azkaban, in hopes to find you and fulfill the dreams that you two had of running away from this place and magic to start a new life together. A clean slate. But his dreams came crashing down from around him. Now Draco had to pick up the pieces and build everything back up exactly as it was. Or else he didn’t know what he’d do. Draco had poured everything into this relationship of yours just for it all to be thrown away due to a nasty head injury. This had to be a sick joke crafted by his father in some way shape or form. But he wished it was that simple.

Draco shakes his head, “Right.”

You look at the deeply broken boy in front of you and you feel sorry for him. Even though you cannot remember anything about your romantic history, your heart aches for him. This must be difficult to go through. Someone you love not know who you are. What kind of sick torture. “I’m sorry,” you tell him. “I wish I could remember.”

He offers you a sad smile, “Don’t apologize. It’s not your fault.” You just nod your head as the two of you stay in this silence for a moment. “It’ll come back, right? Your memories?”

Nodding gently, you speak, “That’s what the Healer said.”

Draco sits in that moment, knowing that there was hope for you and your relationship. But it was just a matter of if he was willing to fight for it.

To be continued

#draco #draco imagine #draco malfoy #draco x female reader #draco x you #draco malfoy imagine #draco malfoy oneshot #draco malfoy fanficiton #draco malfoy x female reader #draco malfoy x reader #draco x reader #draco malfoy x y/n #draco x y/n #hp #harry potter #harry potter fanfic #harry potter imagine

392 notes · View notes

thgreatestblue · 4 years ago

Text

hoax

➜ pairing: kaigaku x gn!reader ➜ warnings: manga spoilers, outdoor sex, toxic relationship, dubious consent, mention of death and blood. ➜ words: 4k ➜ a/n: i always loved kaigaku’s design and i would’ve loved to see more of him, but well. i had a lot of fun writing this and i hope you like it as well! (also, i highly recommend the fic breath of reincarnation) ➜ ao3

summary: Never in a million years you thought you would let him break your heart again. But here you were; not only with the broken pieces but with the one who smashed it.

When the sky turned into a greyish shade, everything lost its colors. It brings a melancholy feeling to the landscape; twisting every single tone in an ocean of nothingness besides the tinted red of your cheeks, still hot from the burning of your tears which had long disappeared, but the trail was still there. If you could, you would still be crying, but there were no tears left.

Crestfallen, you wipe your face again with the sleeve of your kimono, it was damp and gross against your skin — a cold memory of the past few hours that you wanted to wake up from. If this was a nightmare, it was the worst you’ve ever had; and you had had a quite few ugly ones. But this one takes the spot, nothing could compare to the tragedy that was unfounded right in front of you.

You could still feel the phantom sensation of Kuwajima’s blood on your hands, cold and thick, staining your skin, running down your arms and dripping from your elbows. Even after hours scrubbing, until everything was so red you didn't know where the spots of blood ended and where your skin began. The endless stream of tears fogging your vision didn't help either.

Fogged, that’s how it felt. A dense mist filled your mind, putting you in a mechanical state where you couldn't remember half of the day, half the things you had said and done - you nod to something, you hug someone, the water came out red. Although the haze clogged your mind, the image of the dead body of Kuwajima burns bright and vivid; even when you closed your eyes.

You can’t think straight; can’t bring yourself to feel anything other than sadness. As you look at his grave, the dull turquoise color of the flowers make you sick, it reminds you of eyes that you wish you had never met; that you wish you had kept closer. Does it matter anyway? If fate was this cruel, then he would’ve slipped through your fingers nevertheless.

Your head hurts just thinking about how you are going to tell Zenitsu about this — if the blow was fatal to you, it would be deadly to him.

Although Kuwajima didn't take you under his wing, he always took care of you, making sure you knew the basics and was talented enough to enter the Demon Slayer Corps. Sometimes you would even train besides Kaigaku and Zenitsu, always coming out bruised but with a content smile on your face.

However, those memories of better and easier days now sat wrong in your mind; they lost their colors, scenery becoming sinister as the faces twisted into something demonic. The shadows fell into those memories just like when clouds cover the sun, and you suspect it was going to be an endless rain, soaking every single frame until there's nothing left to save.

The necklace on your neck still has the yellow Magatama that Kaigaku gave you on your birthday, and it’s heavy — carrying the weight of treason and deception on its tiny form. Like habit, you grasp the pendant on your hand, holding it so tight it might break. It won't though. No matter how many times you threw it on the ground, step on it; it was still intact — it would always come back to your neck as well, no matter how many times you tried to let it go.

The sound of a thunder startles you, and you laugh sadly at the irony. You look up to the sky which was painted a dark grey, casting darkness upon the living — you could say it was fitting for the day. After that, It only takes a few seconds for the first drop of rain to fall on your face, cold and violent — if there were no tears left, then the raindrops would do the job.

“Y/N.”

The voice comes from a spot next to you, but you don’t look. Not yet. You can’t bring yourself to turn your head, to see what Kaigaku had become — what monster he had turned into. You had wondered for hours, for days, the whys and the reasons. It corroded your heart, eating by the borders until it reached the center.

Never in a million years you thought this was even possible. Not after everything he went through to become a Demon Slayer. Not after all the training, the scolding, the bruises and the cries - the joys and the pride. Never in a million years you thought you would let him break your heart again.

But here you were; not only with the broken pieces but with the one who smashed it.

Your lips tremble before you can bring yourself to speak, “What are you doing here?” It comes out tiny and fragile, your throat closes with the amount of grief you’re trying to hold.

The rain starts to pour more heavily, soaking you to your feet. The sound of it would’ve been soothing if you were at home, but here in the open it’s disturbing, frightening. The fat raindrops hit your skin like bullets, they run down on your cheeks, damping your clothes and leaving you shivering.

“Aren't you going to look at me, coward?” Kaigaku mocks, his voice closer now.

His words stings, injecting poison on your veins. You should be used by now, to have your insides burning with humiliation. However, it was always a back and forth with him; one day he was arrogant, enraged, almost bitter. Then, on rare days — the ones that you used to treasured the most — he would be eager, intense, almost romantic. The switch of emotion kept you on your toes; it was a lost battle though, he has always been unpredictable.

You press your lips together, taking a deep breath before slowly turning your head to the side, but nothing could prepare you for what was right before you.

“So, what do you think about my new look?” Kaigaku spins on his heels; the rain doesn't stop him from opening his arms, showing off his new clothes, baring his new sharp teeth, a devilish smile dripping from his mouth, “Much better, right?”

It is, in fact, much worse than you thought; eyes widening in disbelief. His skin that you had once touched with tender fingers was now pale and dull; the milk shade of it turned him into a ghost, and you'd have believed if you didn't know better. The dark stripes around his face were aggressive, twisting his face to a sharper and more dangerous look; and you hated seeing his beautiful face corrupted like that.

And then there was his eyes. Once a charming hue of turquoise that you had lost yourself so many times; due to anger, due to love. Now, a hideous shade of greenish blue, surrounded by black sclera. A perfect portrait of a corruption of nature, a Demon. It makes you want to puke.

Instead, you say, "You look terrible."

Kaigaku laughs, throwing his head back as if you had told the funniest joke, and you notice the many blue Magatamas he’s carrying with him, around his neck and wrist. Once yellow, now it was corrupted with evil. He still carries his katana on his back, which you thought was an outrage; an insult to the Demon Slayer Corps. You clench your hands in fists, but still don't reach for your own katana.

"Oh, Y/N. You wound me." He mocks, running a hand through his wet hair, so casually you can’t register the moment as real.

Rage sets down in your bones, even with him right in front of you, you couldn't believe it. Not a single word of apology, he doesn't show remorse, nor guilty. He looks satisfied with the turn of events, as if he had planned this all along. It’s disgusting, his pointy ears and long black nails; for once, you are glad that Kuwajima isn't here to see what he had become — you wish you weren't either.

"Do you know who found him?" You shout, eyes burning with fury and sorrow, you approach him with heavy steps, your lips tremble as you continue to scream, "When I arrived there was blood all over the room, his death was slow and agonizing because no one was there to cut his head! All because of you!"

You hit his chest as hard as you can; but you are weak — nothing was able to stay on your stomach and you couldn't even think about sleeping. He doesn't move an inch. “I keep seeing that scene every fucking day, even when my eyes are open!”

Your voice sounds shaky, but your hands clench his clothes in a tight grip. The sound of thunder is loud in your ears as the rain falls heavy between you two. He’s not laughing anymore, the grin on his face fading into a scowl.

"You're a disgrace."

Kaigaku’s eyes darken, almost pit black. Your senses scream for you to prepare to fight, but before you could even think about making a movement, he grabs you by the collar and throws you against the first wall he could find. The air is knocked out of your lungs, head spinning with the pain spreading throughout your body.

He holds your clothes in a tight grip, pressing against your frame so you wouldn't be able to move. Your hands reach to grab his; a failed attempt to loosen the grasp around your throat that is starting to suffocate you. Head still fogg with pain, the only thing you can see between dark spots are his eyes. Your eyes widen in shock as you see the indentation of a kanji in his iries, Upper Moon Six.

"I wouldn't say that ever again if I were you." Kaigaku warns, the pointed nail of his index finger digging in the flesh of your throat.

You swallow down, feeling the nail cutting just a tiny bit of your skin, but not enough to draw blood. The rain still pours unforgiven, but at least there’s a roof over your head now. You’re completely soaked and yet, you can feel his strong body against yours, his breath on your face makes you shudder.

“Why?” You cry out, not knowing exactly for what you were asking.

Kaigaku was a taker, and even though you gave everything you could and more, it was never enough. You gave him your soul, let him consume your body and break your heart as many times as he liked — And still wasn't enough. You don’t know what he wants from you anymore; there was nothing left to play with, he had shattered all your pieces.

Yet, here he was. There wasn't a single reasonable reason that he could give to you that would explain all this, that would justify the catastrophe of his choices. Though, deep down you knew it was for his own amusement, seeing you suffer for him yet again. He wouldn't let you go, eternally pulling the strings of your life.

“I’m stronger,” He hums, “More powerful than I would ever be if I continued to be just a a mediocre demon slayer.”

You shook your head in disbelief, after everything that’s all he has to say? For years you wished; no, you actually believed that underneath the tough facade he was a good man, that he in fact was just prideful and wanted to be the best Demon Slayer out there.

You saw when he would train until his body couldn't take anymore. You saw when he would let a tiny smile spread across his face when Kuwajima praised him. You saw when he was gentle when you two were intimate. You saw so many things and yet, those black eyes staring at you said the very contrary.

“I'm on the winning side.” Kaigaku whispers, licking a trail from your neck to your chin. You shiver from the feeling of his tongue dragging across your flesh.

"Let me go.” You hiss between gritted teeth. You hold his forearms in a weak grip, trying to push him away.

Kaigaku’s laugh vibrates through your body — it’s cruel and cold — leaving you trembling on the spot. He tilts his head, one hand grips your waist while the other reaches down for the pendant on your chest. He plays with the Magatama between his fingers, a vicious grin spreading through his face. Your face heats up, caught in the act.

"I don’t know why you bother to try. We both know it never works."

Kaigaku’s lips come crashing into yours, hungry and eager. You fight back, pressing your lips together — miserably trying to stop him from invading your mouth. His teeth sinks in your skin, his nails dug on your waist. Your clothes are damp from the rain, but rather than feel cold, there’s a warm heat emanating from Kaigaku’s body that you can’t ignore how familiar it feels.

You don’t want him.

Out in the open, you felt over exposed. More than that, you were just a few meters away from Kuwajima’s grave. It was a dishonor, not only for him, but for everyone Kaigaku killed to be this high in the rank. How many lives were destroyed by his treason. You try to push him away, weakly forcing him to step away. Instead, Kaigaku presses closer, making your head hit the wall.

You didn't want him — not like this, at least.

His hands travel down your body as he slides his tongue along the seam of your lips, and even though your body screams for you to open your mouth, you don't. It was a never ending battle that you fought almost everyday; wanting him, needing him more than you should. Kaigaku has always been a constant in your life, for better or for worse — you can’t see him out of it, at the same time that you need desperately to let him go.

Noticing that you won’t budge, Kaigaku moves down to violently kiss your neck, sucking dark spots without mercy; his touch clouds your head and you don't notice when his hand disappears inside your pants. It’s only when he touches your sex that your eyes snatch open.

“Don’t—” As you open your mouth to protest, he shoves his tongue inside.

And you know it’s a lost battle then. Your hands grips his shoulders as you let him kiss you, suck your tongue, run the tip of it across the routh of your mouth. It has always been like that, once he touched you, it was over. Like a drug, you could never withdraw completely. No matter what. No matter the situation.

His fingers play with you, knowing exactly how to touch you to drive you crazy. You have to grit your teeth to not make a sound, jaw stiffening as a moan threatens to escape. Kaigaku traps your bottom lip between his, sucking hard enough to bruise.

“Don’t forget, you’re mine.” Kaigaku growls, his breath is hot against your neck, “And I can do whatever I want with you.”

Shivering, you grip his shoulder as the first finger enters you. His pointed nails hurt a little, however, the feeling of his finger dragging and scratching you open is enough to make you gasp. You feel overwhelmed by his touch. It has been some time since he touched you like this — each thrust of his finger making you pulse and throb for more. He devours you, swallowing each tiny whimper you make as another finger enters you.

Kaigaku's cruel, unforgiving fingers thrust deeper, curling in the right places that makes you see stars. You bury your head on his neck, letting a shameful moan escape your lips as he hits the right stop inside you.

"That's better.” He hums in your ear. The heat on your belly is starting to burn, your body betrays you as your hips start move, fucking into his hand.

You finally give in, completely by kissing him. It’s desperate, raw with emotions you can bring yourself to say, holding into him as your life depends on it. It’s useless now, but you can’t help it. He kisses you back with the same intensity, lips crushing on another, sucking and devouring each other — and for a moment you wonder if there’s something between the lines you’re failing to see.

You feel Kaigaku groaning when you brush your thigh against his crotch; he’s already fully hard and you know what’s coming next. He sucks down your neck, and you shudder between moans — your mind starting to lose track of your surroundings, thinking only about him and his touch, how you shamelessly want to go all the way.

Kaigaku abruptly pulls his fingers out of you, and you whimper from the loss. He teases you a little, dragging his fingers over your sex, making you squirm in his arms. When he pulls his hand out of your pants, there’s a bit of your fluid on his fingers, and he doesn't hesitate putting it on his mouth. You suck in a sharp breath, watching him suck his fingers.

"Now, I don’t know if i want to fuck or eat you."

A strong shiver goes down your spine, paralyzing you in place. Suddenly, the reality of the situation hits you like a train — that what’s happening right now is wrong on so many levels — you open your mouth to put an end to whatever this is, heart beating so fast you might faint, but he stops you with a finger over your mouth.

“Hush now, we don’t want to ruin the moment, do we?” Kaigaku grins, his eyes are a shade darker now that the night took over the day, but those disgusting indentations are still there, the black sclera is haunting in this light; you can’t bring yourself to look him in the eye.

You feel trapped, the same way you felt a long time ago. And even though this time the reality is a lot worse, it was the same feeling. Before, when things were easy, it was still hard to make him hear you — it worked once or twice — but it all came down to what Kaigaku wanted in the end. Oh, you were so blind, so stupidly blind.

And even now that you can see clearly as the day; acting on it is a completely different thing.

You stay frozen in place — hands still clutching his shoulders, eyes heavy-lidded — while Kaigaku reaches past his kimono, pulling his cock out of his pants. You feel one of his hands pulling down yours just enough so he could position his cock at your entrance. He hooks his hands under your thighs, lifting you from the ground. And you wrap your legs around his waist like you did so many times before.

If your mind isn't working, frozen in a dilemma you couldn't bring yourself to come to a conclusion — your body on the other hand, knew exactly how to proceed.

Kaigaku nose bumps into yours, drawing circles around your cheek, and it’s so gentle it makes you want to cry. There was always a bipolarity to his actions, it would jump between extremely violent to insufferable gentle and you didn't know which one was worse — his true self or the shadow of what could’ve been.

He enters you quite easily, cursing under his breath. Your walls throbs around his cock as he pushes deeper and deeper. Moan muffled by his shoulder; your entire body is consumed by his fire, each nerve lighting up as he hits the deepest part of you — the fog on your mind comes back, intoxicating you for once and for all.

Kaigaku starts with smoother strokes, making you feel all of him; every inch of his cock. It’s cruel, how slow and deep he goes, almost painful how much force he puts on his thrusts, staying buried inside you for longer than necessary — as if he hasn't already left enough marks on your body, on your soul.

Slamming your body against the wall, you hold onto his shoulders for dear life, each thrust making the bumping noise of your body against the wood louder and louder; if it wasn't for the rain, you are sure that someone would have heard you two by now — the thought makes you blush even harder.

However, today the night is darker, the shadows are peach black as his eyes. Kaigaku changes the pace as he changes emotions; and since you were already stretched, he picks a roughless pace, fucking you against the wall. You moan louder when he hits you just right, you clench around him; the space below your belly asking for release.

“Ah,” You gasp as he continues to fuck you, “Fuck—Ka—ahh—” He shuts you up with his mouth, kissing you hard enough to suck all the air of your lungs.

And you desperately kiss him back, hanging into something unreal. To a feeling that would never be the same, stained by the blood he shed. To someone who would never be the same, twisted by the blood he chose to drink. This isn't him, but it looks so much like it that you would indulge yourself as much as you could — even if these mere minutes are going to leave you broken beyond repair.

Kaigaku moans in your mouth, and you drink every single one of them. Those sounds never failed to make your stomach flutter — at least he was enjoying this as much as you were, getting lost in your flesh as you always got lost on him. You kiss his neck, sucking the spot right below his ear, it wouldn't bruise but you could try.

Your hips move to meet his thrusts, not bothering how hard his nails dug into your thighs — wrongly enough you want his marks, as many as you could get, since you didn't know when you would be seeing him again, or if ever.

“Kaigaku!” You cry, surprised when tears start to form in the corners of your eyes. You thought you had drained all of them, but of course he would be an exception.

"That's right, scream my name." Kaigaku growls, sucking in a sharp breath. The sound of skin on skin muffled by the rain.

"Fu—mmph—” A white-hot pleasure shoots through your body, the first tear runs down your cheek as Kaigaku continues to thrust into you with no mercy.

"So everyone will know that I fucked you," He whispers, biting at the lobe of one of your ears. "That a Demon fucked you."

His words are harsh, making you shudder harder against him, trying to come up with something but your mouth only hangs open, breathy moans escaping as his hips snap forward, sinking so deep you cry out again. Then, his mouth finds its way to your neck, lips sealed over the flesh, he bites down, drawing blood to the surface and drinking.

On a broken moan, you terribly realize you came from that.

It pulses through you, feeling the rush reach the tip of your toes. Kaigaku continues to slam into you, thrusts starting to feel erratic and desperate as he chases his orgasm. You hold onto his shoulders, gripping his clothes so tight your knuckles go white. He growls, spilling inside you.

Kaigaku slowly stops his movements, pulling out of you with a filthy sound. Your head is still clouded with the aftertaste of your orgams — so that must be the reason why you seek for his mouth, kissing him so gently you can’t recognize what’s real or what’s not anymore.

“Now I just need to eat you for real.” His grin is twisted with something evil and cruel underneath; you can’t take it anymore.

You push him, this time he steps away and you fall to your knees. You try to cover yourself, pulling your kimono over your chest, but the damage is already done. His come drips down between your thights — you shudder from the feeling, shame settling down your bones so heavy you can’t breathe.

He squats down, gripping your chin, you try to look away but his grip tightens and you have to look at his demonic eyes, “Don’t worry, you are better alive for me, darling.”

He laughs as another tear runs down your cheek.

If he was a disgrace, so were you.

#kaigaku #kaigaku x reader #demon slayer #kimetsu no yaiba #kny x reader #kny #sometimes i write #this song ranked 3rd place on my spotify 2020 wrapped #i'm just a little bit obsessed with it #just a little

175 notes · View notes

fairlyspnfanfic · 4 years ago

Text

The Ties that Bind Us

Summary: When your past comes back to haunt you, who will prevail? Hunting had been your life since your were 4 years old. The monsters that started you on that path were resurfacing, and you knew what you had to do. But nothing is ever truly secret, and nothing is ever that cut and dry with the Winchester’s in tow.

A/N: This is a new one that is coming from a few requests. I’m not going to post the actual requests because...well because it would spoil the story line and I’m pretty into this one.

Words: 2826

Tags: Angst, Fluff, nightmares, all the fun stuff.

I wrang my hands together nervously. They were all sweat; clammy and cold while simultaneously uncomfortably hot. My breathing was deceptively calm, though every other part of me shook as my anxiety climbed. I closed my eyes, pushing my hands down on the mattress on either side of me and took a deep steadying breath. Talking myself into pushing my body into a standing position, I opened my eyes and left my room, consciously putting one foot in front of the other.

“Guys?” My voice rang out in the echoey halls, shaking and hoarse. I cleared my throat and ran my hands through my hair as I continued making my way into the main room. There they were. Dean, his feet kicked up on the table, a large, brown dusty book sprawled on his lap and a beer firmly clasped in his hand as he focused on the words on the page. Sam, pacing back and forth silently behind him.

It had been weeks since we had found a job. The last actual gig we had been on was pretty small-fry. A pair of ghouls wreaking havoc in a college town that we had taken care of in less than a weekend. The local fraternity parties didn’t even notice, and the drunken sorority girls went on with their lives none the wiser.

But this? This job was going to be huge. If not in scale, then in emotion alone. Not for the boys. They wouldn’t have any clue; I’d make sure of that. The pack had been on the prowl for decades, maybe longer. Long enough to have destroyed my life, killed my family, and upend everything I knew to be true when I was only four years old. And now they were back. I rubbed the sweat from my palms that would have given me away on the back of my jeans, before grabbing the chair opposite from Dean. The wheels moved faster than I expected as it began to roll behind me. I lowered myself quickly into the seat, as if the mishap was entirely intentional, but the smirk at the corner of Dean’s smile let me know my attempt had failed.

I hated the chairs in the map room. The side armrests dug into my hips and I was never quite comfortable in them. But who was I to question generations of decorum? I crossed my legs as eloquently as I could, adjusting so that I was practically sitting on one hip in order to keep the bars from digging into them.

The laptop Sam had out on the table was still booted up. I reached out, grabbing it and quickly pulled up the article that I had found this morning. “Woman’s Body Found Mangled in Historic District.” I spun the screen around, allowing Dean to see. He skimmed through it quickly before sneering. “Doesn’t really scream monster there, Y/N.” I rolled my eyes, returning control of the computer to myself and pulled up three more articles, all within the last two months. “Teen Killed in Apparent Pit Bull Attack,” followed by “Couple Maimed in Forrest Preserve” and “Missing Child Found Had Been Attacked by Unidentified Animal.” I pushed the screen over to Dean again.

“Well, maybe that does merit a look-see.” His tune changed. Whenever there was a lapse between jobs, Dean would get antsy. His temperament changed, he was jumpy, and nothing could make him happier than a new destination and a big bad to gank.

“What’s that?” Sam said as he practically skipped up to the table like an excited puppy.

“Get this,” I began before Dean cut me off.

“Y/N,” he chastised. “That’s Sam’s line.” He winked at me as a smile spread widely across his face. That smile. The one that could bring world peace as far as I was concerned. At the very least, it made my knees weak, breath hitch, and I lost all train of thought.

I quickly pulled myself back together and pushed my daydreaming mind back to the task at hand. Dean pushed the laptop over to Sam, allowing him to read through them quickly. “So, what are we thinking, Werewolves? Hellhounds?”

“Werewolves,” I said definitively. My face was deadpan, and it didn’t seem to go unnoticed. “Look at the descriptions. There’s something they aren’t saying. The bodies were all attacked at night, and each one was during the full moon. Plus, the missing kid? He was 8. That’s not enough time for any demon deal to go down and a Hellhound to get involved. No, it’s a werewolf. No doubt in my mind.” I was all seriousness and they knew it. Sam simply nodded, his eyebrows creased suspiciously, but he didn’t question me.

“Well then,” Dean said, clapping his hands together as he all but jumped to his feet. “Let’s get on the road. It’s a little over seven hours to Missouri. You’ve got fifteen minutes to get ready.” He was like a kid at Christmas as he bounced down the hallway to his room.

“Only guy in the world to get the warm and fuzzies from a bunch of dead bodies,” I laughed, shaking my head, closing the laptop, and uncrossing my legs. I stood up slowly and stretched my arms above my head.

Sam didn’t take his probing eyes off me as he crossed his arms. “Y/N?”

“Yes, Samuel?” I mocked him in response.

“What aren’t you telling us?”

I did my best version of shock and outrage, looking around as if I wasn’t quite sure what he was alluding to. “What?”

“You’ve never been so adamant about a job before. Hell, you’re usually the one trying to talk us out of taking jobs. What gives?” I rolled my eyes as dramatically as I could.

“Nothing. It just seems like a pretty clear gig to me. And if bodies are dropping every month, and more bodies each time?” I shook my head. “Then the next ones are on us.” I locked eyes with the younger Winchester, attempting to convey my point with a look.

His expression still seemed doubtful, but he nodded his head and walked towards his room, patting my shoulder as he passed by me. “Whatever you say, kid.”

Half an hour later, we were all piled into the Impala. Dean driving, Sam riding shotgun, and I lounged across the backseat, scouring the news for any updates. The next full moon wouldn’t be for another week, but I wasn’t willing to allow anything to be missed. Not when I could stop it.

A couple of hours later, my eyes began to droop, and my cell phone slipped from my hand, crashing to the floor between my feet. But my exhaustion won out over my need to secure the phone.

I looked down at my hands. They were sticky and coated with a thick layer of blood. I had no idea if it was mine or someone else’s, but the terror that rose in my chest didn’t care. All around me, the only sounds I could hear were the violent gnashing of teeth, the moist squelching of flesh being torn from bone, and the small, muted whimpers from someone that I had yet to lay my eyes on. I looked around but everything around me was coated in darkness. Only my hands were visible in a dim red light that seemed to come from nowhere. I took a step forward, feeling my foot slip as the wet floor beneath me was coated in that same tacky liquid that was all over my hands. Looking in front of me, I came eye to eye with a single pair of vibrant yellow orbs that seemed to stop me in my tracks. Paralyzed with fear, I froze, unwilling and wholly unable to continue forward. A low grumble began emanating from those same eyes as they moved closer to me. The grumble turned quickly to a growl; vicious and hungry with a deep, bone chilling timbre. Suddenly, the eyes were directly in front of me, inches from my face. So close that I could feel the hot, rank breath on my cheek before a loud, piercing snarl rang in my ear.

My eyes snapped open and the sweat running down my neck sent a chill down my spine. My sharp inhale was the only sound made and I did my best to calm down before making any further noise. My nightmares had always been the same and had always been my own. Nobody had ever found out about them, especially the boys, and I fully intended to keep it that way.

Stretching my arms to my sides as best as I could, I made a dramatic show of waking. “Where are we?” I asked.

Glancing to the front seat I could see Sam slumped against the window, his head tilted back, mouth open, and very much asleep. Dean was still in the driver’s seat, bobbing his head and mouthing along with Steven Tyler as he belted out the lyrics to “Dream On.” His eyes met mine in the rearview mirror, giving me that same world-peace smile that only he seemed to know how.

“About 100 miles outside St. Charles. I’ve gotta stop for gas though. You hungry?” I nodded back to him as I rubbed my eyes, clearing out the sandy bit of sleep that had formed in the corners.

“Do you need to change out? I can drive the last of the way.” I offered, knowing he’d never go for it. He never had before.

“I’m good. Got a solid three hours of shut eye last night.” He winked at me in the mirror. Pushing down the butterflies in my stomach and doing my best to suppress the blush that I was sure was creeping to my cheeks, I looked out the window. The sun had just come down, creating an orange sky with just a hint of pink. I took a deep breath and turned back to facing the driver.

Dean pulled off onto an exit ramp and turned into a QT Gas Station. “What are you in the mood for?” he asked me. I shrugged.

“Surprise me.” The glint in his eye and the devilish smile that he gave me in return elicited an exaggerated eye roll from me. “Just go get some road food.” I waved him away. “I’ll pump.” I opened my door as quietly as I could and stepped around to the gas pump. I twisted the gas cap, put my card in the machine, or rather Stacey Abrams’ card, and began filling the tank.

I watched Dean walk up and into the convenience store, his bowed legs taking long strides as he did so. He grabbed the door and held it open, making a big show as he gestured for the woman coming out the door to pass before him. The leggy blonde walked by, tucking her perfectly silky hair behind her perfect ears as her perfectly perky tits bounced their way out of the shop. I watched as Dean’s eyes followed her out, obviously and lustily eyeing her up and down, appreciating the view.

The sharp stab to my chest wasn’t new. The jealousy mixed with disappointment happened pretty frequently after all. But each time felt like ripping off a band aid before the wound had begun to heal.

The gas pump stopped, the telling “clunk” of the machinery drawing my attention back to my task. I tapped the spout on the edge of the tank before fully withdrawing it and hanging it back up on the pump. I ripped the receipt off quickly, shoving it into my back pocket as I walked back around the car and settled into my seat again.

“You know, you could always just tell him.” Sam’s voice rang out, surprising me, from the front seat.

“Shit, Sam.” I said. “I thought you were asleep!”

“I’m serious, Y/N. Tell him.” He had turned around now, staring me dead in the face as if we were locked in a staring contest that I hadn’t agreed to participate in.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said a bit too defensively.

“Right.” He rolled his eyes at me. “You do realize I know every tell you have, right?”

I shook my head at him, chuckling. “Samuel, I think you must still be dreaming.”

“Like that.” He pointed at me. “You’re biting your cheek. You only do that when you’re lying. Next, you’ll be pulling on your ear lobe, just like that.” He accused me as I did just as he said.

“No, I’m not.” He glared at me in response. “Shut up.” I bit at him, jokingly, sticking my tongue out at him as I crossed my arms.

Dean opened the door and slid into the driver’s seat.

“Dude,” he said excitedly, holding up a white paper bag. “Taquitos!”

A little over 100 miles later, we were pulling into the local motel. Sam had gone to check us in while Dean and I grabbed the bags from the trunk.

“Peartree Inn?” I said, dejectedly. Dean looked at me, a curious expression on his face. “Just once, it would be so nice to stay at a 5-star hotel. Hell, I’d settle for 4 stars if it meant a comfy bed that didn’t have my back aching in the morning and a hot tub to soak in at night.” I closed my eyes and sighed, dreaming.

“I’ll be sure to get you a hot tub at the next place we stay in. Long as I can join you,” he said, cocking his head towards me with a smile. I rolled my eyes and playfully shoved his shoulder.

“Hey,” Sam said, running up to us both. “So, they only have rooms with two beds max. No roll-away’s or cots. But I got us two rooms. Best I could do.” He handed a card key to each of us. A small sticky note was attached to each. “Dean, we’re in 213. Y/N, you’re in 436.” I nodded my head, handed Sam his bag and headed inside.

The front desk clerk waved at me as I went in and pointed towards the elevators. Thanking her, I walked over and pushed the call button. The doors opened instantly, and I stepped in without waiting for Sam and Dean to catch up. Once I dropped off my bags and went to the bathroom, I planned on heading to their room anyway to go over our plan.

But just after I’d used the restroom and rinsed my face, there was a solid knock at the door. “Gimme a second,” I shouted as I grabbed a hand towel and dried my face off. The peephole on the door was small with a silver dongle covering it up until you swung it to the side. I checked to see who it was before unlatching the deadbolt and opening the door.

“Bad news, Y/N.” Dean said as he walked in, making himself comfortable on my King size bed. He was lounging back, his head resting on a combination of my pillows and his own hand as his legs sprawled out in front of him. “No hot tubs in the whole joint.” I laughed at him, throwing my hand towel into the bathroom.

“So, where’s Sam? I figured we needed to get our plan of attack sorted.”

“Oh,” Dean said, straightening up a bit. “He’s down in our room. We didn’t get the fancy penthouse view you did.” My eyes wandered over to the balcony and the sliding doors that lead out to it. I pointed to it and tilted my head, silently asking if he’d like to join me outside. He all but leapt out of bed and over to the door, yanking it open. The track was rusted and in desperate need of some WD-40, but he was able to grant us egress.

We walked onto the balcony and looked down. The penthouse view as Dean called it wasn’t the greatest. A moderately busy highway for as late at night on a weeknight as it was, and some unkempt trees just barely allowed us to see the airport beyond it. But the fresh air and the sounds of the cars rushing by was a tonic to the anxiety that had been eating at me all day.

I leaned on the railing, my hands clasped together, as I inhaled the fresh air and felt my hair blowing ever so slightly in the wind. I could feel Dean walk up and join me. “Feels pretty nice out here,” he said softly.

I smiled. “Yeah, it does.” I opened my eyes and looked down again, remembering the reason we were here. As peaceful as it felt right now, there were monsters just down the road. The very monsters from my nightmares. And no matter how terrified it left me, I wouldn’t be leaving before I drove a silver bullet through each of their hearts.

To Be Continued......Part Two

Taglist (Tag requests are open):

@vicmc624@waywardprincesa @heyyy-hey-babyyy @carissime72 @deans-baby-momma @formulafun @woodworthti666 @yetanotherreader @crashlyrose @hobby27 @gabby913 @jxackles @polina-93@supernaturaladdictsblog @fandomoverdose666 @deans-baby-momma @deanwanddamons @tazzi-baby @acertainhero

119 notes · View notes

spencers-renaissance · 4 years ago

Text

The Colour of Waiting is Purple

Summary: Spencer's just trying to get home as quickly as possible when a bad decision to take a shortcut down a back alley leaves him broken and bleeding into the night. // Hotch thinks it's a new case when his phone rings at 3 in the morning. It isn't.

Tags: whump, hurt/comfort, physical assault, major character injury, hospitals, dad hotch, hurt spencer, angst with a happy ending, eventual fluff

TW: graphic descriptions of violence // physical assault (no rape/non-con)

Pairing: Gen, Aaron Hotchner & Spencer Reid

Word Count: 3.7k

Masterlist // Read on AO3 // Bad Things Happen Bingo

Disclaimer: I'm sure there are some medical inaccuracies here, everything I know comes from google, whump tumblr blogs, and my embarrassing obsession with medical dramas. I also have no knowledge of the US medical system aside from what I know from the aforementioned sources so excuse any issues there.

Spencer doesn’t think anything of it when he leaves work at his usual time, the clock pushing midnight and the offices deserted. He packs his few personal belongings up and turns off his lamp before nodding to the janitor, the only other person to be seen, and taking the elevator down to the ground floor where there’s a little more sign of human life at least.

As soon as he steps out into the crisp winter air, he feels the exhaustion of working close to 18 hours straight on far too little sleep hit him. They haven’t even been working a case, he just gets so caught up in his reports and consults that he doesn’t notice the hours whizzing by until he looks up and the bullpen is deserted, dark except for his desk lamp.

Inevitably when spending the day at the office dealing with banalities, he finds something that captures his interest. It tends to send him on a trawl through the internet — or, occasionally, to another part of the building — looking it up in every journal he buys a subscription to until that itch is scratched.

The others always gently touch his shoulder or call out to him as they leave, which he tends to hear about 50% of the time, and Hotch especially tries to make him leave at a more sensible time, but he can’t help the way his brain works. Once it latches onto something it’s not letting go until it’s satisfied.

His feet carry him to the Metro station while his brain absently thinks over his most recent fixation, and soon enough he’s at his stop and back in DC. The streets are slightly more lively in the city, and the noise and light snap him back to reality enough to remind him of his bone-deep fatigue. He usually walks down the main streets to get to his apartment building, occasionally catching a bus if he’s earlier than usual or a cab if he’s later, but tonight he’s just longing for a quick microwave meal, a shower, and his bed. So, he dips down an alleyway and takes the shortcut home.

It’s stupid.

He knows pretty much every statistic there is to know about his city, and at the forefront of his brain are those concerning crime. DC has one of the highest crime rates in America, and a person’s chances of being a victim is 1 in 18, and although it’s slightly lower in Adams Morgan which is one of the safest, violent crimes are still 36% higher than the national average. This is decidedly increased when you take stupid risks like walking through the backstreets in the dead of night when you’re on your own.

Sadly, this does not occur to Spencer before he’s deep in the back streets of the city, being slammed ruthlessly against a wall by two men he didn’t see coming.

He’s winded immediately, and before his brain can catch up with what’s happening, a knife is being held dangerously close to his neck. All his self-defence training, all the moves Derek had spent hours teaching him when he’d first joined the BAU fly out the window and he can only breathe heavily with what he knows must be a terrified expression on his face.

“Well, well, well,” the man holding the knife leers, his arid breath hitting Spencer’s face, “look what we have here.”

The other man doesn’t speak. He’s stood slightly further back, arms crossed as he stares Spencer down. Although he’s physically the lesser threat right now, something about him has ice pooling in Spencer’s stomach.

“Here’s what’s gonna happen, you fucking pansy,” he continues, pushing Spencer further into the wall, pain blossoming across his body, “you’re gonna let us look through your gay ass purse, and we’re gonna take whatever we want from it. And then, you’re gonna let Paulie here do whatever he wants to you. He’s had a real bad day, and a pathetic little queer like you is just the punching bag he needs, you hear me?”

It’s all Spencer can do to nod his head frantically. He wants to open his mouth, to negotiate, to talk them down, but this is nothing like when he’s faced with the FBI’s most wanted. He’s in control there, he’s on his turf, his playing field, it’s his game and he knows every rule, every bylaw, every exception.

Right now, he’s completely at these men’s mercy.

“Paulie, take his bag.” The man doesn’t take his eyes off Spencer’s face, scanning his expression and body language for any sign he’s about to bolt, for any reason to put his knife to work.

He tries to calm himself down a little, enough to catch his breath at least. He’s taken countless beatings throughout his life, he knows how to survive, just… please, don’t let it be anything more. It’s all Spencer dares to hope for.

The other man steps forward and snatches his messenger bag, unceremoniously dumping the contents of his bag on the pavement. Spencer’s just grateful that he doesn’t have anything in there that hints towards his career. He knows this type: they’re intimidating but they’re easily scared. Right now, he’s a weak twenty-something on his way home, he’s not a threat to them, but who knows what they’d do to him if they realised he’s a fed?

They take his wallet and his phone before they rummage through his pockets to find some spare cash. His badge is tucked in an inner pocket in his blazer and his Quantico ID is still hanging around his neck, hidden under his scarf, blazer, and thin overcoat; he’s so glad he never took it off.

An icy tear drips down his face as he stands there, pressed against the wall, awaiting his fate. All he wants right now is to be back at home. No, that’s not right. All he wants right now is Hotch. As soon as the thought of his father-figure crosses his mind, the tears start flowing faster, desperate to feel safe again, knowing Hotch is the only person to really let him feel that way.

The man holding the knife has turned to watch Paulie sift through his bag and rummage through his pockets, but as soon as his steely grey eyes return to Spencer’s face, his face splits into a shit-eating grin. “Aw, are you crying?” he mocks, starting to laugh. “Are the big bad men making you feel scared? You gonna run home to Mommy?”

He knows that it’s exactly what the man wants, but he can’t stop the tears from devolving into full-blown sobs at his words. The whole terrifying experience, the implications, the realisations of what might be coming for him in the next few minutes start to catch up to him and he’s violently shaking as he cries uncontrollably.

“You’re pathetic,” the man spits, releasing his grip on him slightly, letting Spencer’s shaky legs collapse under him and send him crashing towards the ground. “He’s all yours, Paulie. I’m gonna enjoy this.”

His position is quickly taken over by Paulie as the other man leans against a dumpster close by to watch the show, and Spencer looks up at the intimidating man with fear blazing in his eyes as he hangs in purgatory, knowing the hell that’s about to rain down on him.

Paulie doesn’t take long to get started and he doesn’t hold back, his sturdy, black boots kicking him relentlessly in the stomach and his thighs before moving up to his chest, slamming the toe of his boots into each individual rib. Spencer can hear the other man laughing maniacally over the sound of his own bones breaking, over his own choked pleas for mercy, but it’s like Paulie doesn’t hear either of them. His face is blank as he gives Spencer the beating of his life, and it only makes him more terrifying.

He quickly gets bored of kicking Spencer and bends down to yank him up by his scarf, only to land a hard, brutal punch on his jaw, then his cheek, then his nose before dropping him down again, this time so his back is vulnerable, at the mercy of Paulie’s cruel feet.

The torture continues for a few more minutes, and Spencer doesn’t know how no-one hears his desperate cries, but they’re left alone in the alley as he coughs up blood and feels his bones break under the tread of Paulie’s boots. He’s deprived of air as his chest is stood on, as his windpipe is crushed, but finally, finally it’s over.

“I’m bored,” Paulie grunts, giving Spencer one last brutal kick to the base of his back before walking over to the other man. They both saunter off down the alleyway, not casting a single look back at Spencer lying curled up on the ground, surrounded by his own blood.

Soon, the men have left, and he’s alone with only his ragged, painful breaths for company. He can hear the hoots of a bachelor party just a street over, but no-one’s coming to save him. No-one else is stupid enough to venture down the backstreets of DC. Not with crime rates like those of their city. Not in the small hours of the morning. Not alone.

He doesn’t even have his phone to call for help.

⭐️

Hotch expects it to be work when he picks up the phone at 3am. By the time he’s sat up in bed and sliding the bar on his phone to answer it, he’s already half in work-mode, ready to call Jessica and drive Jack over before racing into work to beat the others on the team. He can already taste his first coffee of the day.

“Hello, is this Aaron Hotchner?”

It isn’t work.

“Uh, yes,” he says hesitantly, shifting upright a little further, sleep-addled mind trying to guess who the caller could possibly be, “speaking.”

“Hi, my name is Mary Kutner, I’m calling from George Washington University Hospital. I have you down as Spencer Reid’s emergency contact, is that correct?”

Hotch’s heart plummets, and he leaps out of bed immediately, ready to get dressed as the shock wakes him up. “That’s correct. What’s happened?”

“I’m afraid I can’t divulge much information over the phone, sir, but we’ll need you to come to the hospital urgently.”

He isn’t usually an emotional person, but he can feel tears springing to his eyes already. Spencer is a surrogate son to him, and knowing he’s hurt without knowing what he can actually do about it is an atrocious feeling. Please don’t let me watch another member of my family die, is all he can think as he tries to gain enough composure to reply to the nurse on the other end of the line.

“Can you tell me his condition?” he asks, somehow managing to get the words past the lump in his throat.

“He’s currently in theatre, sir,” Mary replies as gently as one can in such a professional tone. “If you come down to the hospital and report to the ER a doctor will be able to tell you more. I’ll need you to bring identification with you, please.”

“Okay,” he breathes, trying to keep as calm as possible, “okay. Thank you for letting me know. I’ll be right there.”

He throws the phone on the bed as he finishes throwing his clothes on. He packs two bags: one for him (mostly filled with things Spencer might need) and one for Jack, pulls on his coat and shoes before creeping into his son’s room and lifting him out of bed gently, carrying him down to the car.

Jack is a heavy sleeper — he frequently wakes up the next morning tucked in his room at Jessica’s, sometimes in the car on the way — and he’s endlessly thankful for that now. Explaining why he’s dashing out of the flat with a panicked look on his face to a seven-year-old is a conversation he’s glad to avoid.

He rings Jessica on the way who, used to his early morning calls waking her up, has no problem with looking after Jack.

Somehow, he manages to make it to the hospital only forty-five minutes later, and he didn’t even have to park illegally. Thank God the hospital is at least a little quieter in the dead of night.

“Hi, I’m Aaron Hotchner, Spencer Reid’s emergency contact,” he explains shakily to the woman at the front desk, laying down his FBI identification bag down as ID. He could use his driving licence, sure, but… if knowing they’re FBI agents will make any difference to Spencer’s care then he doesn’t give a damn if this could be construed in some way as abuse of his position. He’d rather lose his job than lose his son.

“Oh, hi Agent Hotchner,” the woman says with a tone of recognition, glancing at his ID before typing something into her computer, “I’m Mary Kutner, I spoke to you on the phone. Dr Reid is still in surgery but I’ll go and find a doctor who can explain the situation to you.”

He nods absently, face stern and pinched as furious anxiety toils inside him. He feels like the last forty-five minutes have been a daze, and now the bright lights and noisy machines and bustling action of the Emergency Department at a major trauma centre are slowly snapping him out of it, the implications of ‘urgent’ and ‘surgery’ and it being the middle of the damn night finally catching up to him.

Some number of minutes pass by — he’s too anxious and caught in his head to keep track of the linear passage of time right now — before he’s approached by a young doctor, wearing a mask carefully constructed of confident professionalism and reassuring compassion.

“Agent Hotchner?” She’s clarifying uselessly, she knows it’s him. He knows she probably has to confirm for some stupid HIPAA rule, but he just wants to know what happened goddamnit.

“Yes,” he replies shortly, “what’s happened to Spencer?”

He doesn’t miss her almost perfectly concealed wince, and he feels his stomach sink further. “He was involved in an assault on his way home from work. A passer-by found him in a back road not far from the hospital and called for an ambulance. Luckily we got him into surgery quickly. Upon admission’s initial assessment, he had a ruptured spleen, a collapsed lung, a double kidney contusion, and he suffered a pelvic fracture along with multiple broken ribs, a fractured jaw and cheekbone, and several severe breaks in his left forearm, wrist, and hand.”

Hotch stares at the doctor in disbelief as she lists Spencer’s injuries: he feels like he’s going into shock. How could anyone want to hurt the sweetest person he’s ever met? How could anyone be so brutal? He’s worked with serial killers for nearly two decades and still, nothing could prepare him for this. He sits down in the seat behind him as the world spins, his brain trying to piece everything together.

“Are you alright, sir?” the doctor asks, sitting down in the seat next to him. “Do you want a glass of water?”

“What?” He turns to look at her before her words sink in and he realises what she asked. “Oh. No, I’m fine… I— is he going to be okay?” As soon as the first tear spills down his cheek, he can’t stop them from falling one after another, dripping down his face in his most public display of emotion since Haley died.

“He’s going to need a lot of care,” she reasons, “he’ll need to stay in hospital for at least a week depending on the outcome of the surgery, but we have every reason to believe he’ll make a full recovery.”

“What’s— what’s the surgery for?” He feels like he’s having an out of body experience.

“They’ll address the internal bleeding first by either fixing or removing the spleen and making sure we didn’t miss anything else on the scans. The surgeon will also assess the damage to Spencer’s kidneys and make sure they aren’t contributing to the internal bleeding. They’ll address the pelvic fractures and the collapsed lung as well. You need to understand that Spencer may need further surgery and he’ll definitely need very close monitoring over the coming weeks and months.”

“What about his broken bones?” Hotch asks. “How bad is it?”

She sighs. “They’re bad,” she admits. “The pelvic fractures are likely going to have a big impact on his mobility, and he won’t have the use of his left arm for a long time. We’re looking at a long recovery, Agent Hotchner. But we have every reason to believe that he will eventually recover.”

She pats him comfortingly on the hand before getting up. “Someone will fetch you as soon as he’s out of surgery.”

It’s not until she’s halfway across the waiting room that he realises she never even told him her name.

It’s close to 8am by the time a surgeon walks over to him, still dressed in scrubs. There’s a smudge of blood on his shirt and Hotch winces at the knowledge that it’s Spencer’s.

“How is he?” he asks, leaping up. He doesn't want any screwing around. He just wants to know if Spencer’s going to be okay.

“He’s stable. The surgery went well. Unfortunately, we had to conduct a full splenectomy to stop his internal bleed which does put him at risk for serious infections, but otherwise, it’s good news. His kidneys will need support but should heal in a timely manner, and we were able to set the rib that punctured his lung and reinflate it, although we’re going to keep him on oxygen to be safe. His pelvis was severely fractured but we managed to reposition the displaced bone fragments and inserted a screw and metal plate to hold them together.”

“Oh, thank God,” Hotch sighs with relief. The worst, immediate threats have been dealt with, and it settles a small part of the anxiety he’s feeling.

“He’s in room 338 if you’d like to go and see him. He should be waking up shortly.”

⭐️

Wasting no time, he races up to Spencer’s floor where a nurse lets him onto the ward and leads him down to 338. He pushes the door open apprehensively, swallowing his emotion at the sight of the man he considers a son lying in a hospital bed. He’s lost count of the number of times he’s been rushed to the hospital, but it’s never been like this. It’s always after a case: Spencer knows the risks of the job, they all do, and he puts himself deliberately in harm's way for the sake of others.

This time, though… this time he was just walking home from work. This time he had no say in the matter.

His left arm is in a cast and his face is bruised and swollen, chestnut hair matted and tangled. Opening the bag he packed, he pulls out a comb and gently teases out the tangles until he can comb through the curls completely unobstructed. There are undoubtedly more knots at the back of his head, but those can wait until he’s woken up at least. It just makes him feel like he’s doing something.

It’s only when he sits down in the chair by his bed that he realises it’s Thursday morning now; he’s supposed to be at work today, they both are. No-one except Jessica knows what’s happened.

The first thing, he supposes, is to ring Strauss.

Once that’s out of the way and she knows that neither he nor Spencer will be in today and he’ll inform her of the latest updates as soon as possible, he messages Rossi. He’s the only one who will be able to remain objective enough to inform everyone, and he’s enough of a dad to the team to help manage everyone’s emotional responses.

Just as he hits send on the message, his head snaps up at Spencer’s quiet whimpering as he comes around.

“Hey, hey, Spencer,” he says as soothingly as possible, “it’s okay, I’m here. You’re in the hospital. Are you in pain?”

Spencer blinks his eyes open blearily, wearing such a pained and vulnerable expression that it goes right to Hotch’s gut. He nods in response to his question, his good hand reaching to hold Hotch’s.

“Okay, there’s a PCA pump right here, I’ll turn it up a little. Is that better?”

“Yeah,” he whispers, tears springing to his eyes. Now he’s not in as much physical pain, Hotch knows this is pure emotion, and he thinks that’s somehow worse. Spencer’s been through a horrifying physical ordeal, but the emotional recovery is going to be just as gruelling and last years. If there’s one word he’d use to describe Spencer, though, it’s resilient.

He shushes him gently, bringing a hand to his hair and caressing it lightly. “I’m here,” he repeats. “You’re safe. I won’t leave you, okay?”

Spencer nods and relaxes into his touch, eyes fluttering closed as he calms down a little.

“You rest now,” he murmurs. “I’ll be here when you wake up. Everything’s going to be okay.”

They’ll deal with the fall-out later. They’ll deal with the team coming to visit, with the paperwork for his sick leave and the frustration of government bureaucracy. They’ll manage their way through processing the trauma of what happened to him, the physical, mental, and occupational implications of the assault. They’ll stay glued at the hip while Spencer’s interviewed by the police, while doctors explain to him just how serious his injuries are.

Right now, though, Spencer will sleep and Hotch will sit by his bedside watching the rise and fall of his chest, listening to every steady beep on the heart rate monitor, searing the living breathing proof that Spencer is alive into his mind. Spencer will sleep and Hotch will cry silently over the cruelty of the world, he’ll grieve for the man he said good-bye to 12 hours earlier, knowing he’ll never quite be the same again.

Spencer will sleep and Hotch will be there, holding his hand, waiting for him to wake up again.

taglist: @criminalmindsvibez @strippersenseii @suburban--gothic @takeyourleap-of-faith

#criminal minds #criminal minds fic #criminal minds writing #criminal minds whump #whump #spencer reid whump #aaron hotchner #hotch #spencer reid #aaron hotchner & spencer reid #criminal minds gen #criminal minds gen fic #criminal minds angst #tw violence #tw assault #tw beating

106 notes · View notes

starlightrows · 4 years ago

Text

Sleepless

Pairing: Boba Fett x reader

Word Count: 1k

Trigger Warning: PTSD, processing trauma, disturbing dreams, hurt/comfort

Summary: Boba comforts you through a bad night

AN: This is not what I was originally planning on posting today, but I needed to get this one off my chest. This story is extremely personal to me. This past summer I purchased my first car, and drove it up to college for my senior year. On the first day I had it up there, I got into a violent car accident and totaled the car. The last 6 months have been an ongoing process of dealing with the physical, and mental/emotional consequences of surviving a trauma. On Friday night I was driving home from work, in my new vehicle, and I was almost in another collision exactly the same as the previous one. I’ve taken quite a few steps forward since the initial accident, but this near miss has really knocked me back more than I am even ready to admit to myself. So this fic really is just me, processing what I’m going through, and giving myself the emotional support I wish I had to help me cope in real life.

My heart is pounding in my chest and my whole body is flushed and sweaty. I tear myself out of sleep, unable to take another second of seeing, feeling, or hearing the sounds that plague my mind and crowd my dreams. I open my eyes, the room is dim, illuminated only from the night of the full moon coming through the window. The desert air is chilly and bites at my overheated skin. Beside me Boba is sound asleep, looking peaceful in his slumber. I don’t often get to wake up beside him, he’s such an early riser, and I’m... well... not.

I really want to be able to slide closer to him, nestle myself in his arms and fall back asleep for the remaining few hours I have him to myself, but the mere thought of falling asleep again has my heart hammering away against my rib cage. I can feel myself getting worked up and upset, but I refuse to interrupt Boba’s rest. I have to take care of him, especially when he works so hard to provide for me. It’s the least I can do, to give him the peace and quiet he deserves to sleep.

So I slip out of bed as silently as I can, and wrap my robe around myself. My feet carry me out of our bedroom, and I find myself directionlessly turning down hallways and ducking into open doors as my breathing starts to get shallow and gaspy. I feel like I’m trying to escape something, but there is nothing to fear... just the impending panic that follows me like a dark cloud.

Finally I find myself in the kitchens, vaguely I think to myself about making a cup of caf. But instead my knees give out, and I am forced to sit against the cabinets and ride out this storm of terror and bone shaking sobs that wrack my body. I cry so hard I feel as though I may start gagging, or potentially crack a rib from the pressure. I can only hope I made it far enough away from our room so Boba won’t wake up.

Realistically I know that Boba would so much rather I have woken him up in bed on purpose, and asked him for help. But in my sleep deprived, broken mind, that is unthinkable. I sit with my head in my hands, unable to stop the ugly moaning sobs that have more control over my body than my brain does. The wild, untamed, intrusive thoughts and fears and exaggerations of my suffering roll over and over in my mind. Unrelenting in their torturous presence.

The sound of footsteps breaks the feedback loop of fear, and fresh tears stain my cheeks. Boba is coming into the kitchen on swift feet, immediately dropping down in front of me. I’m so embarrassed he’s found me in this state, and so upset I’ve woken him up.

“I’m sorry,” I sob

“Cyare,” his low rumbling voice seeps into my soul

“M’ sorry... so sorry... I’m sorry,” I keep repeating, unable to look him in the eye. He catches my wrists in a firm, yet loving grip.

“Cyare, please. It pains me to see you this way,” he says “And it pains me more when you run and hide when you’re suffering so greatly”

I can’t bring myself to speak. I launch myself into his arms and allow the pain to flow through me. I sob and shake until my body is completely worn out. Boba shifts me slightly, wrapping my legs about his hips and rocks me gently. One arm locks around my back, holding securely to his chest, while the other cradles the back of my head and tangles his fingers in my hair. He whispers sweet things to me.

When the sobs seem to have fully subsided, and I’ve calmed down enough. He stills his rhythmic rocking, but continues to massage my scalp.

“Cyare, I know this isn’t easy. And I know these things take time, and patience to heal. But I must ask you, don’t shut me out of this,” his words are gentle and sincere, but his tone is serious.

“I feel so helpless Boba. I feel like everything is out of control. I am so afraid of it happening again, I can’t sleep,” I want to start crying again, but there truly is nothing left in my body to cry out. So I cling to him, and keep my eyes squeezed shut as my head rests on his shoulder. “I feel so weak. I’m not strong enough....”

“That’s okay,” he says “You don’t have to be strong every single day. Let me be strong for you when you’re feeling weak. Let me help you through the harder days,”

I don’t say anything, but I squeeze him gently with my arms and legs. Boba resumes his rocking. I know he can not promise me that nothing bad or scary will ever happen to me again. I know he can not take away what has already happened. I know he can’t prevent me from having bad nights, and rough days. But I know in my heart, he wants to do this for me. Be strong for me. Protect me in the ways he can. He wants to help me heal, and grow.

“Can I take you back up to bed Cyare?” He asks. I wonder if he can feel my heartbeat quicken.

“Will you stay with me?” I ask. I hate how childlike I sound in this moment. But it’s really what I need from him right now. Sleep would befall me eventually, even if I try to avoid it. What I really need is just to be held.

“Of course,” he says carefully beginning to start the process of standing the both of us up “I’ll stay until you wake up again if you’d like”

He’s got me tucked back in bed before I even realize we’ve left the kitchen. Perhaps I’m already fading back into sleep. He climbs in beside me once more, and brings me to his chest so I can hear the steady beat of his heart. In the back of my mind, I still want to resist sleep. Sleep is where the vividness of my memories live and haunt me. But with Boba’s firm embrace, and his promise of love and support, the wall of fear seems less high. And I feel a little stronger. Strong enough to allow my body to rest.

#Star Wars #Boba Fett #Boba Fett x reader #The Mandalorian #PTSD #Trigger warning: PTSD #Hurt/comfort #Comfort

96 notes · View notes

savethelastdan · 4 years ago

Text

Sesskagu Week Day Six: Future (White)

CW: child death, grief

DISCLAIMER: This was written weeks ago but no one outside a Discord has seen it, and I thought it fit the prompt.

When he is fourteen, Sesshomaru’s son, Akinori, goes to see a fortune teller.

His mother advises against it; claiming to have killed many witches in her time, she declares that, with a sweep of her fan, “all they tell you is what you want to hear.”

Akinori laughs, but in the end can neither agree nor disagree; for when he arrives, the woman bars the doors and refuses to give him answers.

When will the panther king fall from power - this year, or the next? (Sesshomaru hides a smile, recalling the sword that awaits his son’s birthday to be claimed.)

Will my parents give me siblings, or have I already achieved the height of perfection in their eyes? (Kagura laughs boldly, but her smile is as soft as a feather as she runs a hand through her son’s hair.)

Which will be greater -- my father’s legacy, or my own? (The fortune teller cuts him off, her voice shaking as she tells him to please, please go away.)

It is not the first time that he has lost a child. But Sesshomaru could never say that the experience prepared him for the sight of the broken body stretched before them.

The panther king has shown little care in his work; Akinori’s limbs bend at competing angles, like a tree ravaged in a storm. His mokomoko lies limp in the grass, drenched with blood. Pink replaces the gold in his lifeless eyes.

The youth’s expression is peaceful; not that such a thing could bring comfort in this moment.

“Do something!” Kagura screams; the side of her fist connects with his shoulder. Her other arm drapes over their son’s mangled body, as though to shield the heart that sits still beneath the tattered ribs. “Bring him back!”

Jaken’s eyes meet Sesshomaru’s, frozen with horror. He knows exactly the memory playing in the kappa’s mind: The night of Akinori’s birth, where the child had come from Kagura’s body blue-faced and still. He hadn’t thought twice of wielding Tenseiga in that moment, while his wife was still lost in the throes of a final bloody contraction.

They had never told her -- had never thought it would matter.

“Sesshomaru! ” The raw desperation in her voice - that which she’s always managed to shield from him, before, even when begging for her own rescue - he can not bear it.

He stands, the blood and poison pouring from his own wounds forgotten. Jaken’s head bows at his silent command - stay with them.

The panther king’s demise is neither swift, nor merciful.

“Happy birthday, little brother.” Rin bends before the memorial stone, hands pressed flat together. The surface of the rock is not yet wind-worn, and it’s nice to finally have a place in the village where she can go to remember him.

Akinori’s true grave is at the peak of a tall mountain, chosen by his mother. Lord Sesshomaru searched for weeks to find it, and Rin has never felt comfortable asking him to take her.

She hasn’t seen Kagura or Jaken in years. Somehow, she believes they are together.

A breeze rustles against the back of Rin’s bare neck, tickling the strands of closely-cut hair at her nape. She hunches her shoulders in response, wondering not for the first time if Lady Kagura stays away because of her - knowing that Rin has escaped death twice, a prize that cannot be given to anyone else.

Could I trade one of my lives for yours, Akinori? To see you smile again?

She doesn’t want to judge; Rin has no children of her own, as much as she likes them.

Both hands fall to her side as she stands. Tonight, Lord Sesshomaru will arrive to sit with her. When Kohaku gets home, the three of them will drink, and talk about anything other than what is the only thing they can truly think about.

Rin’s glad he comes, instead of wandering the woods alone.

On the dark night of the winter solstice, something calls him to Akinori’s mountaintop.

Part of him (the weak part, the one that pulled him through the Meido in search of a lost wind goddess’ soul and made him want to smile when his brother pulled a girl out of the Bone-eater’s Well) doesn’t want to go. It’s easier to grieve on the ground, where he can walk a mere ten yards to find some creature to tear apart in order to calm his racing heart.

But he’s long past the days when he would ignore his instincts. When his boots settle in the snow atop the grave’s peak, he sees that he is not alone.

“Lord Sesshomaru!” Tears flood Jaken’s eyes. He trips over the edge of the memorial stone in his hurry to bow. “How I’ve missed you!”

Kagura hunches her back and refuses to acknowledge him. Sesshomaru stands frozen - stunned that she and Jaken have remained together for this long without his servant’s demise, and at how little she has changed in the years since their last meeting.

“How is Rin? And Ah-Un? And Kohaku - oh, I’ve practically forgotten their foolish little faces!” Jaken continues to wail, waving the staff of two heads to emphasize the enormity of his struggles. Kagura clicks her tongue loudly, but the kappa soundly ignores her, and she tosses her head with a dramatic huff.

Sesshomaru resists the almost overpowering urge to embrace her. To do so would be foolish. The rejection would be swift and violent - most likely in the form of throwing him off the mountain. And why not? This particular failure of his has been the ultimate betrayal, far worse than simply allowing Naraku to destroy her. This had been a life she’d nurtured, suffered to bear - one she had cherished.

She swears under her breath in exhaustion, curling herself even tighter against his chest. Their newborn son is pressed safe between them, drooling against her collarbone. “I wish he looked more like me,” she mumbles. “Ah, well. Spoiled little prince...”

“Lord Sesshomaru, forgive me for my impertinence, but...” Jaken steps back slowly, in preparation to avoid punishment. “Are you well?”

He supposes he is not. Food and rest seem rather pointless; times when he can slow down enough to breathe, are also opportunities for memories of his loss to seep in. Other than a few visits to his human wards, and one to his mother (which ended quickly enough, when she used the meeting to make an offer of condolences that he does not wish to accept), Sesshomaru has not engaged socially with another creature since that terrible day. Much of his time is spent as it was in his adolescence - wandering the earth, searching for beings to challenge.

It is not as fulfilling as it once was.

“Oi.”

He blinks slowly in surprise, before turning his gaze to Kagura. Arms crossed over her chest, his wife (if she can still be called that, several years after having abandoned each other) appraises him with a cold stare.

“It’s going to snow tonight.” She nods towards the graying clouds. “We have a cave nearby, if you want to spend the night.”

Jaken squawks, vocalizing the disbelief that Sesshomaru himself feels. Kagura’s face reddens.

“Only because you look like shit,” she spits, words cracking in the air like glass. “What would it do to your reputation, to keel over from a little storm?”

The insult smarts, as though she’s taken Bakusaiga in hand and thoroughly tenderized him with it. Sesshomaru used to be strong, proud. The kind of being that others would come to for help, long ago, only to be dismissed for his own purposes.

Now, he is simply a father with two children who have grown up, and one who never got the chance to.

Now, Kagura is the one who curls her lip and turns away.

Jaken fusses over him. It is a strangely welcome reminder of the old days. Kagura acts as though she doesn’t care, but it’s clear the two have developed a routine of sorts on their own - Jaken’s staff has place beside her fan, and they set up a small fire within the depth of the cave together without a single pause in their bickering.

The sense of unbelonging is uncomfortable. Sesshomaru sits as close to the entrance as he can, cold wind bearing against his back, to mute it.

“Eat this, my Lord!” Jaken bows his head, holding out a hunk of steaming meat. “There are tons of tasty creatures roaming around the mountains. It would be my pleasure to prepare as many as you’d like!”

He eats silently, ignoring the nausea that simmers under Kagura’s gaze. He does not know how to diffuse the unbearable tension between them, and so he will not try.

But when Jaken heads to the rear of the cave to sleep, there is no one else to put between them as a makeshift shield. And, despite his fervent prayers, Kagura does not leave her place on the opposite side of the fire.

It feels like centuries pass before she speaks.

“You left us.”

It’s three little words, but he knows exactly the moment of which she speaks. “I did.”

Outside, the wind screams as it drags snow from one side of the mountain and piles it against the other. Kagura pulls her kimonos tighter around her body, glaring into the fire.

He clears his throat. “I destroyed the panther king that day. Eradicated his tribe and his allies.”

She nods stiffly.

“And I have not known peace for a single moment in the past three years.”

Her eyes flick up. “Do you think that’s what I want to hear?”

“It is the truth.”

Fingers crush the edge of her sleeve in a fist. In one swift moment, she stands and marches over to his side of the fire. Sesshomaru braces himself in expectation for a fighting blow.

Her palms slide against the side of his face, thumbs resting against the spot where his skin purples. Up this close, he can see lines of grief darken under her eyes, as the fire’s shadows bounce against them. The purple crescent moon on the side of her neck, tattooed during their wedding ceremony, has turned blood-red in the light.

“This doesn’t mean I forgive you,” she murmurs.

Then, she wraps him in a tight embrace. Her heartbeat thuds loudly in his ears, drowning out the roar of the snowstorm outside.

He doesn’t know it yet, but for the first time in years, Kagura sleeps soundly through the night.

This doesn’t mean I forgive you.

She is wounded while razing a village, and does not object when Jaken calls him for aid.

This doesn’t mean I forgive you.

Sesshomaru travels to meet Kohaku on a slayer’s trip, and a gust of wind floats by his side the entire way.

This doesn’t mean I forgive you.

On the anniversary of the day Kagura lived again, they meet one another in an overgrown forest and don’t part ways until half a week later.

“Please?” Rin begs, tugging on Kagura’s arm. Though she’s well past the appropriate age for such childish actions, no one objects when she spends her parents’ visits practically glued to the wind witch’s side. “Lord Sesshomaru won’t tell me.”

“Ah.” Kagura glances over to where he stands in the corner, inspecting a weapon that Kohaku has mounted on the wall. “So you were listening to me, for once.”

“You said you wanted to keep it a secret,” he drones, carefully obscuring the relief that still arises in him that they can speak like this to one another, again. Things have progressed between them more than he could have ever imagined in the past few months; some days, he can almost believe that things will be like they were before.

Rin sighs in a long, guttural motion that sounds too much like his brother for Sesshomaru’s liking. “Please? Jaken said it was good news.”

“Oh, of course that stupid frog would be the one to--”

“Kaguraaaa.” “Okay, fine.” The witch’s hand travels up to her hair, picking nervously at the feathers twisted into the base of her bun. “You’re going to have a sister by the time it’s autumn.”

Rin’s mouth drops; her head snaps over to where Lord Sesshomaru is trying very hard to look too busy to participate in the conversation. “What? But I thought you two were still--how did this even--” Her hands grip Kagura’s shoulders tightly. “Are you okay?”

He’s apprehensive about the same thing. When everything on Earth still reminds them of Akinori, would another child only bring fear and resentment into the picture? Only by some strange miracle had they salvaged what tragedy had broken - the stress of another birth could easily rupture the wound again.

“I’m okay.” Kagura shrugs in a poor attempt to hide her discomfort. “Definitely didn’t miss the morning sickness, though.”

Rin sticks to her even more closely after that.

Mirai is born during a storm, a week and two days earlier than she is supposed to arrive. Despite the timing, she is red-faced and lively, screaming from her mother’s arms the moment she can breathe.

When she is old enough, her parents will take her to meet her older sister, and the grave of her older brother. Her grandfather’s sword and her mother’s fan will be her sixteenth birthday gifts.

But for now, she rests in the crook of her mother’s arm, lulled asleep by the wind.

“She sure is loud,” Kagura mumbles, tracing a tiny ear with one finger. “Guess we should prepare for a sleepless winter.”

Sesshomaru hums wordlessly in agreement. As he shifts, to shield them both from the cold seeping through the nearby window, Kagura grabs his arm with her free hand.

“I don’t blame you anymore, by the way.” Her words slur with fatigue. “I haven’t for a long time.”

He could tell her that her forgiveness is not necessary to keep them together. That, regardless of what she does, he will always blame himself first and foremost.

Instead, Sesshomaru leans over to rest his chin atop her head. “Sleep, now.”

“Right, right.” Her eyes close, lips turning up in what is unmistakably a smile. “You better stay where you are, or else...”

He would not be able to step away if he wanted to.

#sesskagu #kagura #sesshomaru #inuyasha #sesskaguweek #sesskaguweek21 #savethelastdan #shespitsfire

51 notes · View notes