#his younger self staring at him in horror

[lilcetis]

viren's 2 episode long dream was kinda the most beautiful thing i seen in television,, like ever. like the dragon prince does dreams in such a unique way but viren's? single handedly changed my opinion on his character it was so so so good

[logaenhowlett]

THIS NIGHT HAS OPENED MY EYES - L.H.

Summary: Fate isn’t something Logan believes in. So what happens when he crosses paths with someone who has haunted his mind for nearly 50 years?

Pairing: Logan Howlett x Female Reader

Warnings: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, A desperate need to hug Logan

A/N: After weeks of pushing this fic aside, it's finally done. I'm happy with how it turned out, hope you enjoy! Title creds to The Smiths.

MASTERLIST

1983 - Alberta, Canada

Logan doesn’t stop running. Even after the soles of his feet turn an alarming shade of purple and blue, marring the once-soft skin with bruises and scars which will eventually fade away. Adrenaline carries him through the dense forest and its unforgiving terrain, but it’s fury - along with sheer horror - that courses through his veins. 

Red is all he sees. His heart thumps in his chest, feeling like an anvil dragging him into the earth. His breathing comes out ragged - the cold air, the newly metal-infused claws burning through skin - it all just becomes too much for him. The constant beat of dog tags hitting his chest echoes as he slices his way through the woods.

A million thoughts rush across his mind, none remaining in place long enough for him to grasp. Logan was never one to dwell on fantasies, always quick to shut down whatever illusions that little flicker of hope within him conjures. But now, he dreams of a world that isn't cruel, a world that doesn't wreck, shatter and destroy this innate sense of good he carries. A world that could never exist.

Glimpses of his childhood fight against the agonizing pain shooting through his body. For a brief second, Logan breaks free from the mental shackles of his survival instincts, enough for his mind to flood with memories he'd believed were lost to the disease of time. His knees falter as flashes of his mother, his father and even his brother momentarily hush the undying streams of insecurity and worthlessness that flow so deeply within him.

It's when he sees himself - that young child who dared to dream of a life worth living, a life he'd be proud to reminisce as he takes his last breath - he thinks it's the end. How would that little boy feel knowing this is what he'd become? A pawn in a game he'd never have a choice to deny.

His vision blurs, stinging in sorrow and heartbreak for his younger self. A tremble runs through his body and Logan wants nothing but to sink beneath the ground under his feet. To scream as exhaustion rips into his muscles, crumbling whatever resolve searing within. He'd give anything for it all to stop. The voices in his head to lull into a silence he desperately craves, even just for a second.

Fear was never something that infected him. Yet, at this moment, he truly is frightened. Terrified that he'd unknowingly sacrificed the only lingering shred of belief he held for himself and all that remains now is but a monster - a machine wired to do the very thing he refuses.

Logan thinks he's on the verge of crashing, to surrender to the plague poisoning his mind, body and heart. Just as he aches to cross that line, a soft gasp from someone nearby startles him. His eyes dart around, strides slowing down so abruptly that the sudden movement leaves his knees shaking. He can't even pull himself together long enough to properly focus on his surroundings, to absorb all the minute details he could once subconsciously catch.

His breath hitches as you reveal yourself, quickly studying you to determine whether you’re a threat. Even as the alarm in his head doesn’t ring, he’s still on edge when you approach warily. There’s just something about you he can’t quite detect.

“It’s okay… I’m not going to hurt you.” You whisper, hands raised.

Logan stares at you, tense and on high alert. Your gaze keeps dropping to the bloody claws between his knuckles, your expression twisting to one of shock and concern. His mind becomes a little hazy, the lucid part of him wants to run away, yet he's rendered frozen.

"I'm not going to hurt you." He hears you murmur once again, your hand slowly reaching towards him. The tone of distress in your words leaves Logan anxious, chest heaving in suspicion. A shiver rolls down his spine as your fingertips brush against his skin, goosebumps rising at the contact. Your eyes find his again, searching for any hint of resistance and when he gives no sign of hostility, you gently rest your palm against his shoulder.

The initial touch sends a current of sensations through his body. Immediately, a wave of calm washes over him and everything around him stills. Logan wills his mind to concentrate on the little bubble you seem to have created. And after what feels like forever, silence diffuses the noise in his head. A sob threatens to escape him as he grabs your wrist, he wants to say something, to question this strength you have over him, but he remains speechless.

He expects to recognise the unmistakable cast of terror across your features, staggering a little when he finds none. Not even the intimidating glare of the adamantium wavers your faith in him. And that realisation overpowers the gentle and soothing aura you seem to radiate. A broken hum cracks through the quietness, Logan drops your hand in an inexplicable panic. He shares one last look with you before sprinting off.

2029 - Eden, North Dakota

As the soft glow of light caresses his face, Logan shifts amongst the heap of blankets delicately wrapped around him. His muscles loosen in relief, finally content to rest after years and years of forcing him into overdrive.

There's a kind of weariness to him now, his movements slow, his healing even slower. He can't recall a time when his body wasn't fighting against him - against the adamantium. Pain becomes such an unceasing feeling that sometimes he doesn't register when one of his stitches pops open, blood staining his clothes with the reminder of his deteriorating state.

He sighs quietly, the conversation with Laura left a heaviness in his heart. Logan couldn't blame her, she’s a little kid after all, one presented with the chance of belonging to a makeshift family. But, he can't be the father she needs. The one she deserves. At least, that's what he tells himself. It's better that way, for her and for everyone who might get involved, to give them a fair shot at life untainted by his cursed touch.

Logan stops resisting his need for sleep, comforted by the fact that Laura's amongst her friends and away from danger for the time being. He drifts off almost instantly, the presence of someone in the room going unnoticed.

Leaning against the doorframe, you watch as his chest rises and falls, his soft breaths filling the air. He looks a lot older since the last time you saw him. Eyes a little sunken, wrinkles decorating skin, streaks of grey twisting into dark hair. Despite the physical changes, you can sense a weight that seeps so far into his soul, this aura of fatigue and defeat he exudes. God, he's so tired.

Feet moving at their own will, you slide onto the edge of the bed, tenderly running your hand along Logan’s arm. The slight shift of his expression as he subconsciously relaxes draws a small smile from you. Nightmares spare him this time.

Logan stirs awake a while later. As reality begins to settle once again, he stares at the ceiling, feeling a sort of peace and tranquillity that sparks only one memory. A brief encounter with a stranger who approached him with nothing but kindness.

The kids rush into the room, eager to see the hero they'd only read about in their comics. When has anyone ever been happy to see him? He wonders, uneasiness creeping into his thoughts.

"C'mon, let him rest."

It's the gentle tone yet one that carries a sway of authority that snaps his attention. The children hurry to leave, brushing past you in a fit of giggles as if they'd been caught doing something naughty.

Logan's eyes lock onto yours. His jaw twitches, chest caving as the realisation sets in. Of course, it's you. The reason why he'd felt such a lightness being here, his mind simmering in a state of serenity. The memory comes back in a sudden, the visions he's had of you throughout the years, ones that provided a fragment of bliss at times when he couldn't bear the misery - all of it comes back, overwhelming him.

Over decades, Logan convinced himself that you were but a figment of his imagination, concocted by his troubled mind as a last attempt at defence. As time went on, the mirage of you slowly dissolved. And now, here you are, standing in front of him - as real as he is. He sits, gradually lifting himself off the pillow, gazing at you in awe. You haven't changed at all.

"I can heal... like you." You offer, foreseeing the question that's lingering behind his lips.

He feels like the wind has been knocked out of him, all the dots in his head finally connecting. "You're one of us too." Logan says to himself, astonished, "That day - you did something to me."

Moving closer, you sink next to him on the bed, hand resting on his. A swell of tiredness spreads within him, he gasps under his breath at the sensation. It fades rather quickly, replaced by the inviting embrace of relief. Logan exhales softly, his expression riddled with wonder.

"I can't make you feel anything you don't already feel." Your whisper reaches him, "I can just... amplify it."

The fact sends jolts of shock through his body. Meaning, that day, you had found what little tendril of good he had so desperately clung onto. You saw it. You saw the good in him.

"I thought you weren't real."

Logan doesn't know why he's drawn to you. It just feels so natural to have you this close again - as if he'd found the missing part of himself he didn't know was tied to your soul. The voice in his head crawls to the forefront of his mind, polluting his desire to want you, to have you. He shouldn't be entertaining these wishes, everything he so hopelessly craves would just hurt you in the end.

"I wanted to find you," You tell him, sensing his internal battles, "But... I couldn't risk getting caught."

"Transigen?" He asks, despair slipping into his question.

The sound of laughter outside pulls your attention, "Gabriela. She told me about these kids. What happened... what those monsters did to them? I just - I couldn't let them fight this on their own." You see Laura in the distance, playing along with her friends. "She looks happy."

Logan follows your gaze, "I didn't... I didn't believe her. About this place." His voice wavers, the feeling of guilt clawing at him. He moves his hand away from yours, avoiding the flash of hurt across your face.

"You brought her here anyway. Some part of you hoped she'd be right." There you go again, managing to see the good in him. He shakes his head lightly, ignoring the choking weight in his throat. "You're not coming with us... I heard what you told her."

"Then you know why." He murmurs, eyes turning glassy.

"Logan - " You bring your hand to rest on his cheek, slowly turning his head, "I know you're not healing as fast... I can feel it." His eyes flick down to yours, a tangle of hesitation and longing behind them. "You don't have to give up - you don't have to be alone anymore."

Oh, how easy it would be to give in to you and the future you're promising. Yet, the shadow of agony looms over him. "I'm not meant for this - everyone around me dies." He spits out, angry at whatever higher being molded him this way - a man forever deprived of the simple pleasures of life. "I won’t let anyone else suffer because of me. The kids, Laura, you... you're better off on your own."

He shifts to lie down, too drained to continue this back and forth. The bed dips when you stand, a defeated sigh escaping you. As you’re about to leave, Logan's whisper makes you freeze.

"I'm not... whatever it is you think I am."

Sunlight beams through the windows, Logan scrunches his face as he rouses. It's oddly quiet, he notes, pushing himself off the bed. He takes a moment to focus his hearing on his surroundings - not a single soul around. A fit of coughs leaves him groaning, he stumbles his way outside, the raw intensity of the sun hitting him.

Empty is all he feels. A gaping crater in his heart as he understands what he'd given up by letting you slip away. Even Laura's absence strikes a chord, a small part of him had grown fond of the girl. He lets out a shuddering breath, this is what he intended. So why is every cell in his body yearning for your touch?

A swarm of drones fly overhead. Logan jerks his head at the noise, dread filling him once he sees the logo. He bursts into the room, searching for any medication to numb the pain burning through his organs. A green vial tucked away on the shelf gleams at him, he wastes no time, grabbing both the liquid and a needle before charging through the woods.

Everything within him seems to be on fire as he storms up and down the hills. He's out of breath in mere minutes, gasping for air while his lungs constrict. When the oxygen in his brain starts to diminish, Logan falls to the ground, coughing as his wounds reopen. His consciousness dances around the line between reality and illusion. Reaching into his pocket, he fumbles with the syringe, drawing the entirety of the vial - Rictor's warning rings in his head - and injecting the fluid.

It's almost rapid. The way the drug shoots through his bloodstream. Pupils blown wide, he roars, energy rushing into his veins. His legs carry him across miles towards the panicked screams of children and gunfire. Once the Reavers spot him, they direct their weapons at the bigger threat. Logan rips through them, unfazed by the bullets spraying everywhere.

Amongst the chaos and carnage, he spots you struggling against the soldiers' grasp. That momentary distraction sends him flying backwards as the impact of the railgun pierces his body. A primal rage erupts within him, his muscles throb violently, knuckles turning white. The effects of the drug wear off, knees buckling when he tries to stand, he collapses to the ground instead. His eyes glaze over, the wrath that had consumed him earlier now waning into hopelessness.

Laura stills in her tracks, her friends sprinting past her. "No! Run!" He yells, grunting. "Go to your friends, Laura." Logan stammers, knowing she can hear him.

He shuts his eyes for a second, every fiber of his being honing in you. With immense effort, he slowly rises, hand stained crimson while he clutches his stomach. He only moves a couple feet before he's knocked in the head.

X-24 glares at him ruthlessly, drawing his clawed-fist back to strike him again. Logan blinks wearily, catching the terror on your face as you attempt to escape from the soldiers' hold. An angry growl comes from somewhere behind him. Laura launches herself at X-24, slashing at him with all her strength. The clone staggers a little before grabbing her shirt and hurling her towards a tree.

The act makes Logan writhe in anger, but before he can attack him, X-24 lunges forward, extending his claws into Logan's side. Blood gushes out of him and your deafening scream is all he can hear. He doesn't know what's more excruciating - the pain or the look of sheer anguish on your face.

A bang echoes in his head. X-24 drops to the ground next to him, the remnants of a smirk on his half-exploded skull. Laura stands, a couple feet away, pistol in her hands. It's thrown away immediately as she runs to him.

The kids swarm around you, their collective powers thrusting the soldiers far away. In the corner of his eye, Logan sees you racing towards him. Weakly, he convinces Laura to go, to save herself. His words barely louder than a whisper as he gazes at her, pleading. She looks at you tearfully, torn between what to do. Muffled sounds of her friends calling her name reach her ears and with a heavy heart, she goes after them.

"Logan!"

You fall next to him, bringing his body to rest against yours. Your touch provides a sense of solace, a comforting warmth enveloping him. Logan knows you're willing your powers to take his pain away, to distract his mind from the agony tearing through him. All this time, even your indirect presence in his life was a beacon of hope amongst the shadows - a reminder that he was never alone. He whispers your name, faintly.

"No. No." You insist, shaking your head. "You are not dying. I won't let you."

Logan feels your hands press against his wound, your sobs breaking his heart. The emotion in your voice is a dagger to his spirit. He wishes to reach up and brush those tears away, to extend the same sympathy you do to him. Desperation fills your mind, your fingers fumbling with his clothes before your eyes shut, trying to channel your healing powers into him.

"Sweetheart..." A soft smile tugs his lips and his hand finds yours, gently intertwining them. "It's okay."

As his mind begins to finally relax, a vision spreads a surge of content through his body. You and him - on the Sunseeker. Tucked away in your own pocket of time, drifting across the seas without a care in the world. Perhaps he'd let you steer if you asked. He'd do just about anything you ask.

"No - Logan."

"It's all quiet now."

Despite only having one memory of you, he'd always cherished the compassion and tenderness you showed him. He realises now that, over the last fifty years, he'd fallen in love with you. In his own way.

"No... please..."

Darkness engulfs him as he takes his last breath. "I love you."

The world shrinks. A broken whimper leaves you, lost amongst the ringing silence. You don't let go of him, even as he goes limp against you. Your uncontrollable tears stain his clothes, everything loses its meaning. It feels like eternity stretches out before you, fuelled by the weight of your grief.

Then, Logan's finger twitches in your hand. You gasp, heart pounding as life returns to his body, a gentle tide washing away old wounds. The soft thumping in his chest makes your eyes widen in disbelief. You hold your breath as his eyelids flutter open, he lets out a ragged groan, matching your stunned look.

"You saved me..."

Hearing his voice again sends trembles down your spine, without sparing another second, you wrap your arms around him. Logan flexes his muscles, bringing you into his embrace, a mixture of emotions consuming his mind. As you whisper his name over and over again, doubting the reality of this moment, he pulls back slightly - nothing but decades of pure longing in his eyes.

His lips brush against yours, pouring every morsel of affection he can muster. Logan kisses you like a man starved, everything he'd bottled up rushing towards freedom. Tears ache to escape when the feeling of love grows within him and he smiles - that little boy would be happy.

"You saved me, sweetheart."

Don't worry, I'm not letting the story end here. Part two is in the works!

[euhla]

LIE : sunday x reader

yandere!sunday, manipulation, gaslight, kinda penacony spoilers, obsessive, power imbalance (reader is sunday’s servant), pet names. this is my first attempt for yandere :”

The sound of footsteps getting closer, as well as you feeling like your death is getting closer. Petrified? Beaming? You don't even know what you are feeling right now.

Trapped in a dark and gloomy room, you can't do anything except face the man in front of you— Sunday, The benevolent and self-disciplined head of the Oak Family.

“My dear, why are you running away from me?” The voice that used to command called you. Like a servant who always serves him, you happily accept his call.

“I’m afraid that i don’t understand what you mean, My Lord.” He wasn't satisfied with your answer, but still give you his signature smile.

One of his hand was on your shoulder as if that was where it was supposed to be. “Is this what I get after I put my trust in you?”

The trust of the head of the Oak family feels fake and like there is a hidden meaning. “Did your mouth stop working after helping the IPC escape?” Aventurine.. You wonder how he is now.

“He won't be able to help you.” One of his hand was still on your shoulder, while the other was holding a few strands of your hair. “No one can help you now.”

“It's not that I'm being selfish, Dear. I just don't want your fate to be the same as my beloved sister's.” The look on his face became sad, and for some reason it made you feel devastated. “You know how important she is to me, right? the only family I have.”

Lie, lie, lie, lie.. You tried to repeat the words like a mantra in your mind. It's all lies, no one locks up and restricts their younger sibling's movements because of affection.

“Perhaps, you think i’m lying?” His always correct guesses make you even more convinced that he can read your mind.

Staring in horror, you observed the movement of Sunday's hand now stroking your head. “No, i—“

“—can you imagine how scared I was when I found out the bullet hit her neck?” Stop it— “And now she has to cover it up.”

“Paparazzi and crazy fans who don't know their limits always terrorize my beloved sister. I did it all for a reason.”

Sunday's gloved hands felt cold as soon as he pulled you into his arms. His grip tightened. "I don't want to lose anyone who’s precious to me again.”

“I will forgive you if you continue to stay by my side,” he whispered. You can only be silent and accept his affection.

“After all, you’re my servant. You’re mine.”

[withonly-sweetheart]

but what about his younger self? sfw <3

<><><><>

re2(r) leon that just can't wait to get to the academy. he got up at unearthly hours just to get dressed, drive all the way down to raccoon only to get there ages before anyone else. all just to make a good first impression on his superiors.

so imagine his heart sinking when all he gets from his newly assigned t.o. is a scowl thrown at him, the praise he would've gotten at the academy pushed to the furthest corner of his brain when he makes it his goal to impress you.

you point out every little flaw, chastise him harshly when he makes minor mistakes, and your peers stand by with helpless smiles and nonchalant shrugs; "it's just your luck, rookie, you got stuck with her."

of course, and he complies with every little task you assign him, no matter how much he sees how easy the other rookies get it. you're young and eager, the easiest way to form you is from the start.

but your little game with shielding him from true horrors can only go so far. sure, being patrol and all, you've done your best to shoo him from real danger, keeping him safe, because that's the least you could do him. you failed in your last assignment, and you're not about to let it happen again.

in all your shouting, all your screaming at him, you really do care for your boot. your rookie. so your horror when you find him unconscious on a hospital bed surpasses the grief you felt when your first boot was killed in action.

when he finally comes home, you're notified immediately, courtesy of your fellow officer, and he opens the door, still bloody and battered, but at least he looks clean. his eyes are drooping yet still alert enough to recognize you, instinctively stepping to the side to let you in.

"what the fuck were you thinking?" your voice has never been this level, this calm with him. it surprises him just as much as it does you.

"i've been training my whole life for this-"

"trained cops don't disregard direct orders!" you fling the accusation out into the air between you, and almost immediately you can see the effects.

they come in the straightening of leon's spine, the batting of his eyelashes as he restrains himself from crying, because the last thing he needs is for you to think he's weaker than you already assume.

"i-i was just trying to..."

"trying to what, leon?" you hiss. the statement sounds sharper than you want it to, but backing down now would give him the chance to turn the tables.

"i thought if i did something right, for once, you might actually like me."

the silence between you is thick, heavy, like the burden just released from leon's shoulders. and your response is delayed.

"... what?"

"i said-"

"no, i heard you the first time. but what the fuck is that supposed to mean, boot?"

his eyes flit sideways, avoiding your steely gaze, a gaze you work hard to maintain. did he mistake your strictness for hatred? that's never happened before.

"i messed everything up, like i always do."

"you never... what?" your confusion comes through every single time in that damn word, because the placeholder for what you really want to say can't really be... well, replaced.

you take a step towards him, and he goes rigid, narrowing his eyes, preparing for the inevitable lecture he was hoping would be saved until your shift the next day.

but it never comes. you stare up into his eyes, gorgeous eyes, really, eyes that you had admired from his side profile. he's restless, you realize that now, fingers trembling like shaky leaves on a windy day.

"take a day off, leon."

"... ma'am?"

"you heard me, rookie. you need that injury to recover before you can hit the streets again."

"but-"

"no buts. that's a direct order, one that i hope you'll stick to this time, officer kennedy. you did well out there today. you held your will, did the right thing even though we decided against it."

"... you're really letting me off the hook?"

your fingers find the unfamiliar neckline of his white tank top, and you adjust it carefully, just as you would with his shirt collar. he flushes crimson, but your touch is nothing more than a doting gesture.

"just this once, boot. don't get too used to it."

series masterlist

[heavysighing-dreamyeyes]

hihihi!!!! i loveee the way u write angst!!!! could i please request a reader taking a fatal blow for jason? like some self sacrifice where reader protects jay? ahhh i just imagine the desperation and him running himself ragged to save reader before it ends with comfort!! thanks soso much! i hope u have a great week🩷

Set In Place

Hi, nonnie! Thank you, hope you enjoy! ~1.7k words

Slight miscommunication, but it's in the way they don't know how to talk to each other about feelings.

You weren't always a vigilante. You never planned on it, never wanted it. But when Jason Todd died you couldn't sit still, couldn't do nothing while the monsters that caused you to lose your best friend, your boyfriend, your first love, ran rampant.

You trained and trained until you were a shell of yourself. Until you and Bruce were both on a warpath that would only end with two more graves.

That was, until Tim came into your lives. Things got better, not much, but better. You learned to smile again, learned to soften your edges when you talked to the growing number of vigilantes patrolling Gotham's streets.

It scared you, sometimes, seeing kids no older than him fly around in the colors he died in. So you worked harder, got better, swore with everything you were and wouldn't be again that there will never be another dead Robin.

And then he came back. Jason– Red Hood, he called himself. It sends your world into a tailspin. You watch him become Gotham's most feared crime lord, you watch him leave all of that behind to become a hero. You watch as he slowly finds his place alongside his family.

You're just not exactly sure of what his place with you is. You patrol with him, you work with him. It's an awkward, unpracticed partnership, and you're sure he feels the same. You've told Bruce you don't want to work with Jason time and time again.

It's not that you don't miss him, don't feel envy at how easily he seemed to fall back into a routine with everyone else, it's just hard.

Hard when you catch him staring.

You know you must be unrecognizable to him, no longer the younger, civilian version of you. Hardened by the horrors of Gotham, scarred and calloused hands where skin used to be soft.

Bruce apparently didn't care about your complaints, because you find yourself on patrol with Red Hood more often than not. It's the same tonight, the two of you paired up to stake out some warehouse expecting a gun shipment for Falcone.

You can't help but watch him from the corner of your eye, he's different too, now. Bigger, sturdier, and willing to kill. A part of you wishes you had the courage to tell him that it doesn't make you hate him. That you miss him, and that nothing can change that part of your heart that's always been his.

You're tugged from your own thoughts when you see the familiar glint of a sniper rifle across the street. Your heart skips a beat and you're moving before you've even really connected that there's a gun.

You slam into Jason, a shot is fired. Pain blooms in your side as you both hit the ground.

Everything was different when Jason came back. It took a long time to settle, to try to find himself, to try to find his place in a family he doesn't know, a Gotham that's not quite what he remembers.

But he adapted, he carved out a place for himself that's undeniably his. He's really only left with one uncertainty, one place he doesn't know how to fit into.

You. His best friend, his childhood sweetheart, his first love. You're different now, but he is too, and he wants that to be okay.

Jason just doesn't know how to get to okay. He catches you watching him, he wonders what you see now. If you recognize the boy he used to be in what he is now. He can't help but watch you too. You're strong, brave, selfless and so, so beautiful. He's amazed about how much you've accomplished, how many lives you saved.

It's why he keeps telling Bruce to put him on patrol with you. It's worth the looks he gets if it means a chance to talk to you. He's currently trying to figure out the best way to get your attention during this boring stakeout. Should he ask what you've been up to? No, too general. If you're liking the weather? Ha, no. It's Gotham, that's stupid. The weather is bad.

If you have a partner? Oh, he definitely doesn't want to know that answer right now. He'd very much just like to be able to talk to you first.

Did you miss him as much as he missed you? Do you still love him like he still loves you?

He opens his mouth to speak, not having a plan but anything is better than silence, when you slam into him, crashing you both to the ground. The air leaves his lungs when he makes contact with the concrete, instinctively wrapping an arm around your waist and cradling your head to cushion the fall.

"Hey, what–" He starts, voice failing when wetness starts to seep into his gloves. You're bleeding. You're bleeding. You're shot. You're hurt because you saved him.

He's only able to react on the years of skill and training ingrained into his bones. Get you off of him and on the ground. Remove armor. Pressure on the wound. Where's the shooter? His eyes dart, he doesn't see anyone. Doesn't see who did this to you.

"Oracle," he chokes out "They're hurt, gun shot. It's bad. I need- we need an evac." He's tugging off his jacket, more material to slow the blood flow, something to keep you warm.

"Hey," You're reaching up to touch his arm with shaky hands, you sound relieved, "You're okay."

He tears up behind his helmet. It's not fair, not right that you're trying to comfort him when you're bleeding out on some forsaken Gotham rooftop. He vaguely hears the voices coming through the comlink, that help is coming, that he needs to tell them what's going on.

But, he can't respond to them, too focused on you, the way you seem to be getting weaker with each passing second. He's panicking, his breathing is shallow and fast as he tries to keep you alive.

"Why did you do that? Why did you do that?" He asks, trying to keep it together, but it's impossible when all he wants to do is scream and cry and hunt down whoever shot you.

You just offer a frail smile. "Glad you're safe, Jason," You murmur, words getting more slurred and quiet with each passing moment. He checks your pulse. It's getting too slow.

"Stay awake, stay with me," He begs, words fraying as he sobs your name, "please."

Something touches his shoulder, he has his gun pulled and pointed before he bothers to see who it is, face curled into a snarl behind his helmet.

"Woah there, Jason." Nightwing. His hands are raised, "we're going to help them, okay?"

Batman sweeps past him, crouching down at your side to pick you up. Jason launches forward, panicked and unable to think straight as he barks, "Don't touch them!"

Nightwing hauls him back as Batman carries them, his person, to the plane. "No, no, no, please. I need to be there. I need to. It's my fault!"

"I know, I know, it's not your fault, we're going too. C'mon." Nightwing soothes, letting go of him. Jason's on Batman's heels immediately, gaze locked on you, how your eyes keep sliding shut.

"The shooter–" He starts, anger building behind the guilt and panic.

"Spoiler and Robin have it handled." Batman tells him. Jason nods weakly and when Batman carefully sets you down in the plane, he takes your hand. Nightwing starts working over your wound, you barely make a sound in reaction to the pain.

"Stay awake. Don't go." He murmurs, begging, as he squeezes your fingers. He nearly sobs again when you offer him a feeble one in return.

Everything hurts. Which makes sense, you did get shot. It doesn't really bother you, at least not right now, not when Jason's holding your hand, his fingers resting over the steady beat of your pulse on your wrist.

You're not exactly sure how long you were passed out, but it was long enough that they got you into the medbay in the Batcave, stitched you up, and got you into a bed. Long enough that Jason's fallen asleep in the chair next to your bed, his head resting on top of the sheets by your hip.

You only hesitate for a second before reaching over to brush his hair back with your free hand. He's pretty when he's sleeping, but then again he's always pretty.

His eyes snap open and you draw your hand back. "Sorry, didn't mean to wake you up, Jason."

He sits up quickly, eyes darting over you, "Don't be. Are you okay? How are you feeling? Does anything hurt?" He hasn't let go of your hand.

"I'm okay." You promise, because you are. He didn't get hurt. He's here, and that makes everything okay.

He exhales shakily, studying you, "You shouldn't have done that."

You shrug, "Maybe, but you would have done the same thing." You know it's the truth, even if what's between you isn't the same, he's good. Always so good.

He frowns and runs his thumb over your knuckles, lost in thought, he can’t find the words to refute you, to make you understand what you did was wrong. "Do you– can I get you anything?"

You smile at him, teasing, trying to lighten the look on his face, "What? You gonna be my personal maid till I can get outta bed?"

You're surprised at how earnestly he nods, "Yeah, of course. Whatever you need, just let me know."

You blink at him and take a risk, "Maybe you could keep me company for a while? Not much to do in medbay," You ask tentatively, unable to ignore a real chance at being something– anything– with him.

Warmth blooms in your chest at the way he smiles at your question. It surprises you again, how thrilled your question seems to make him.

If you only knew what he was thinking now, how much he's been trying to find this moment that brings you two back into each other's lives, and the guilt he feels that it took you getting hurt to find it. "I'd like that," he tells you.

You squeeze his hand, and he looks down, as if he forgot he was even holding it. It feels right, familiar, something that used to be found again.

"I'd like that too." You say softly. It makes the two of you grin like two idiots in love.

You'll both figure out you are, eventually, but in this tender moment, it's a sweet solace to have found a place next to each other again.

[sodamnradd]

The lock snicked open and the rusty metal door groaned as Draco entered the room flanked by two Azkaban guards. His eyes were cold and guarded, his posture tense. He sat across the table from Hermione, looking unsettled without his magic. When the guards were satisfied with the state of calm, they left them alone.

“It’s nothing,” she said as his gaze lingered on the left side of her face. An inmate had hit her simply because she could, leaving an ugly crescent-moon bruise around Hermione’s eye. Part of her cheekbone was swollen. She twisted her hands together, handcuffs dragging loudly on the steel table bolted to the ground.

Draco stared at her weeping wrists in horror. “How did this happen?”

“I angered the wrong people,” she said vaguely. Then in a no-nonsense tone asked, “Will you represent me?”

“Why me, Granger?” He was clean-cut in his suit and tie, his expression glacial. “There are more suitable barristers willing to take your case.”

“I trust you,” she reasoned. “You know the bastards who are after me better than anyone. I need a pure-blood on my side, and you’re the most notorious one.”

“Wouldn’t hiring me go against everything you stand for?”

“Who cares what I stand for if I’m incarcerated and soulless?”

He scrutinized her, a grave expression on his face. Lowering his voice he said, “And if they find out about us?”

“They won’t.”

“It could negatively affect your trial.”

“It was a stupid teenage fling. Nobody even knew about it.”

The way he was looking at her confirmed that it was more than a ‘stupid teenage fling’ to him. If she hadn’t been through hell and back in the last few days, she might have mirrored his sentiments. But she was tired and in pain and desperate.

“Draco, please,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “Don’t let me die in here.”

Her plea seemed to spark something in him because he sat taller and gave her a nod, his cool grey eyes meeting hers with steely determination. He clicked his monogrammed briefcase open and withdrew a blank scroll and self-inking quill. She was relieved to find that familiar look of ambition on his face. If anyone could outsmart the corrupt pure-bloods who wanted her out of politics, it was Draco Malfoy.

It wasn’t just that Draco was intelligent and crafty, but he would go to war for her. A stupid teenage fling was putting it lightly. If it weren’t for Hermione’s plans to move to Australia after graduation, and Draco’s acceptance to the American Law Mastery he’d coveted, they might still be together. Sometimes she wished to go back to the start and tell her younger self not to let him go. That people like Draco didn’t enter her life as often as she’d think. Never at all, really.

She stared at his naked ring finger. Seven years later, he still hadn’t settled down. Neither had she. But Draco had familial obligations.

“I was waiting for you,” he said in a low voice, noticing the direction of her gaze. He formed a fist with his left hand and released. “Came as a shock when I found out my future wife was in Azkaban.”

Warmth bloomed beneath her skin for the first time since she’d arrived, fuelling her need for freedom. “If you get me out of here, I’ll marry you.”

For a second, he smiled, and his eyes turned into the same liquid heat she’d fallen for when she was eighteen. And then he schooled himself, pressing his quill on parchment and giving her a pensive look. “Tell me about the morning of your arrest, Miss Granger,” he began in a level-headed, professional voice, and she knew he wouldn’t let his emotions slip again. Not until she was free.

(630 words, prompt: Azkaban, Forbidden Love, "I wish we could go back to the start" from this prompt builder)

[syrupfog]

Zoro has always had a nose for alcohol. It’s how he’s always able to find it whenever the cook finds new hiding spots— 

Used to. Used to find new hiding spots. He’s not their cook anymore. 

But he’s got a nose like a bloodhound for alcohol, which is how he ended up here, at what looks like an abandoned shrine to a god he doesn’t believe in, on the outskirts of Wano. 

It’s easy enough to dig up a floorboard and find a veritable treasure trove of sealed bottles filled with purple liquid. Saké of some kind, surely.

If it’s good enough for some god, it’s good enough for him. The nap he takes after the first bottle, though, is… vivid. 

The cook is there. Why is the cook there? Fuck him. But Zoro watches as he paces. He’s in some ridiculous getup with a cape.

And suddenly, in the way dreams often go, they’re in the Sunny. And Zoro is watching the cook embrace HIMSELF. Another Zoro. He’s got him in a death grip so strong Zoro himself can almost feel it, watching as he is from a distance.

But then the Zoro he’s watching us pushing Sanji off of him, and drawing his swords, and yelling something about betrayal and disloyalty, and Zoro sure does agree with THAT. 

He watches as Sanji steps back, hands up, placating, and that Zoro growls and lunges at him.

When Zoro wakes up, he vows to forget about Sanji and move on. He’s gone, and no useless dream is going to bring him back. 

He lives his day as a ronin as is the plan, but returns to his secret stash of saké at night. It’s good, free and plentiful.

And the next night his dream is just as vivid. 

It’s the Merry this time. The Sanji in his dream has his hair parted the old way, and there’s a young Zoro with both his eyes, still. Zoro growls in disgust. Again with the cook? 

It’s night in the dream and they’re on the deck,

Sanji’s got a hand laid gently over young Zoro’s, and with the other he’s pointing out a school of glowing fish. Zoro has a vague memory of the real moment, but not of the hand over his. 

Then Sanji leans over and KISSES young Zoro, which— okay. So this is one of THOSE dreams.

The ones full of longing that Zoro’s worked to squash. 

But he watches his younger self kiss back, and get everything Zoro never got. He’s bitter, looking at them. 

And then young Zoro is pushing him off, and yelling. That he’s a liar and a traitor and royalty playing at pirates.

Zoro’s really not sure about where that last part is coming from. But he watches the horror wash across Sanji’s face and something inside of him twinges a little. He hears a whispered “I didn’t want this,” but it’s covered by the sharp sound of swords drawn, and then nothing.

Zoro doesn’t return for the saké for two more nights. He has no dreams. 

When he returns, sips, and sleeps, he finds himself in the Baratie. 

He really doesn’t remember much of the place, so the details of it now surprise him. The whole crew is there, even Brook, all except Sanji

When he appears, from the back, he looks haggard. Exhausted. Sopping wet. He’s wearing a waiter’s uniform, and has none of the bravado Zoro remembers from the Baratie. 

“Your favorites?” He asks, sounding almost hopeful. “Sea king curry? Mikans? Cotton candy?”

He’s met with silence, everyone stopping what they’re doing. Luffy breaks it. “Why would we want anything YOU make?” He asks. “A failure like you doesn’t even deserve to serve the future pirate king.” 

Zoro, watching from his table in the back, sees the way Sanji breaks.

He shrinks in on himself. “Please,” he says. “I’ll do better.” 

“You couldn’t even keep them safe,” says a voice Zoro recognizes as his own, sitting among them. “You left Luffy to starve.” 

“N-no,” Sanji trembles. “Please, I couldn’t— I had to keep everyone safe—“

Zoro can’t listen to any more of this. He stands, chair scraping the floor loudly. 

Sanji’s eyes snap to him. Not the him at the table, but HIM. 

As the dream fades out, Zoro finds himself glued in place under the weight of that shocked stare.

He thinks there might be something wrong with the saké. 

But, after one night without it, his curiosity gets the best of him. 

The dream is in a castle, imposing stone walls and dark lighting. Sanji is there, in front of a mirror, his face covered in purple and green bruises.

He’s playing with gold cuffs around his wrists. 

Zoro steps up, out of the shadows, and Sanji sees him in the mirror. His eyes are red and swollen. 

“Mosshead,” he breathes. His breath hitches and he swipes at his face with the heel of his palm. “Fuck. I’m sorry.”

Zoro doesn’t say anything. He’s used to another Zoro being here for this part. 

“I know you won’t forgive me,” Sanji says. “If— when I come back. I know even in my dreams it’s too late. But I need you to know I loved you.” 

“Loved?” Zoro questions.

“Love,” Sanji chokes out. “Love. Fuck. Always will, at this rate. Just— When I see you again, when we meet in Wano— please don’t pretend you forgive me when you don’t. I can’t— it feels like every dream I have you love me before you hate me and I can’t take that again. Please don’t even give me hope. I know this was unforgivable.” 

“Why’d you do it, then?” Zoro asks. This is a dream and can offer no real answers, but he still craves them. 

Sanji sobs, both hands on his face now. The bracelets rattle. “They said they had Zeff,” he says.

“They— you weren’t at Zou! They could’ve easily destroyed everyone there and I wouldn’t have been able to stop it! I just— I wasn’t supposed to live this long. I wasn’t supposed to live this WELL. I can’t keep being selfish.” 

Zoro scoffs. “Shut up,” he says, and Sanji flinches.

“Just fucking get back here or whatever. I don’t care about your excuses anymore. I’ll be waiting.” 

He turns to leave, and as he does, a pink haired girl with curly eyebrows runs into the room and says something about Luffy. Fucking weird dream.

Zoro wakes up, and he doesn’t drink the saké again. 

When he sees Sanji, it feels like it’s been a lifetime. The kimono he’s wearing is bright and his smile mirrors it. 

Then Sanji turns and catches sight of Zoro and his smile dims. 

Zoro feels angry all over again.

What was WITH all those fucking dreams? 

He ignores him as long as he can, until they’re together on the edge of a forest and Sanji’s sleeves roll up just enough that Zoro catches sight of two red rings, fading into brown, around his wrists. 

How… 

“Cook,” Zoro says.

Sanji looks to him. He looks almost… scared. “What, dumbass?” 

Zoro thinks about the cape with the silly outfit and the cuffs. He pauses. “Do you have a— sister? Pink hair?” 

Sanji looks BEWILDERED. “…yes?” He asks. “Is— has she been here?” 

Not physically, Zoro thinks.

Zoro takes a moment to recontextualize every dream he’s had since getting to Wano. 

“Cook,” he says. Slower. 

Sanji grits his teeth. “What,” he says. “Whatever you want to say, just spit it out.” 

Zoro’s not sure what he wants to say. He wants to say many things.

Things like “I don’t forgive you for leaving” and “you betrayed us” and “you betrayed ME”. But also now things like “what were those first two dreams? The ones with us?” And “did you stop having those dreams after I stopped” and “was it worth it” and “did you want to come home”

What he settles on is, “Is it all finished?” 

And maybe that was the worst possible question in the most vague way, but Sanji takes a moment and then nods, the motion a little jerk-y. “Yeah,” he says. “I’m— it’s finished.” 

“Good,” Zoro says. He steps up to him and Sanji flinches

Somehow, more than anything else, THAT is what convinces Zoro that the dreams were shared. That they were Sanji from the beginning. 

He ignores the flinch. He grabs Sanji’s wrist, avoiding the fading bruise, and squeezes to the edge of too tight. 

“You were a fucking idiot.”

Sanji goes to draw back but Zoro tugs him closer. “You were a fucking idiot and I did hate you for it. But I. Don’t.” 

Sanji freezes. He stares at the grass between them. 

“Don’t leave again,” Zoro says. “I don’t hate you. Don’t leave again.”

There’s tears on Sanji’s face that Zoro won’t mention. “Okay,” he says. “Shitty swordsman. Don’t get full of yourself.” 

But he leans forward. Hesitantly. Like a child waiting to be reprimanded. And when Zoro doesn’t, Sanji’s head lands on his shoulder.a

And Zoro doesn’t mention the tear tracks on his kimono or the way Sanji shakes apart in front of him. 

And Sanji doesn’t mention that Zoro doesn’t let go of his wrist. 

And maybe it’s a reoccurring problem, that neither of them mention things often enough. 

But today—

Today and tonight, it works in their favor. 

And when all this is over, no one else mentions is when they hold hands over the railing of the Sunny and watch the glowing fish pass by.

[after-witch]

When You Looked at Me, I Should Have Run [Mahito x Reader]

Title: When You Looked at Me, I Should Have Run [Mahito x Reader]

Synopsis: Your trip to Japan doesn’t go as planned, thanks to a monster in the forest.

Word count: 7400ish

notes: Yandere(ish); body horror, violence, vore and implied digestion, reader is transmasc

If there was one thing you could appreciate about getting lost in Japan, it was the fact that people were very willing to give you directions. So when the realization hit you--you have been unfortunately walking the wrong way for some time now--there is none of that stomach-churning dread that occurs back home, when asking someone for directions typically ends with someone telling you to “fucking looking it up on your phone.”

And sure, you didn’t exactly speak Japanese, but that’s what your secondhand “301 Phrases You’ll Need in Japan!” book was for! You’d also found that you could ask in English, and people didn’t seem to mind. Or at least, they didn’t say they minded, and that was what counted. 

Sighing, you grab the book out of your tote bag and begin to flip through. A few people veer to the side from behind you after the sudden stop, but you pay them no mind, instead focusing on finding just the right phrase you need. When you do, you repeat it out loud what feels like a million times before tucking the book away.

The map comes out next, and you unfold it haphazardly, searching for the hiking trail you’ve been searching for all morning. It was supposed to be really scenic, but a little off the beaten path. Perfect for photos, plus you could tell your friends back home that you weren’t on one of the annoying overcrowded tourist paths, which was always a bonus. 

Now, to find someone to help and--ah! 

A young man leaning up against the alley wall of a charming little storefront would do. He’s dressed unusually, wearing a flowing shirt with a striped pattern, and he was maybe in an accident of some kind, with stitches on his face. But you don’t stare (well, maybe for a second); because that would be exceptionally rude, Japan or otherwise. 

You smile, bowing (maybe too low, maybe too dramatically, but it was hard to get the angles right) and hold up your map. In very accented Japanese, you ask, “Can you help me find the…” And the word you had memorized from the book vanishes, so you tap the map, shaking the paper. “Mountain trail?” You complete in English. 

The man blinks at you, saying nothing, which is a bit strange. A bit rude, you might say. Maybe you pronounced the words completely wrong. You fumble for the book, finding the page again, and hold it up for him to see. “Mountain trail?” You ask again, still in English.

The man blinks again. 

You sigh, and point at the page where the phrase sits, not wanting to attempt a pronunciation in Japanese at the moment. 

He leans in closer, too close, really, and his silver hair ghosts your shoulder. Mismatched eyes--contact lenses? He was really trendy!--scan up and down before he moves backward, staring at you again.

Then--

The man grins.

Widely. Unusually so, among the people you’ve met. But perhaps since he was younger, he was breaking social norms a bit. I mean, he already was, with his outfit--with his hair, long and impossibly silver. And those contacts! 

His eyes roam over you--and you feel suddenly self-conscious of yourself, wearing a simple touristy t-shirt and trousers with hiking boots--and his finger finds the map even as his eyes never leave your face. 

The finger slithers down the paper, and you force yourself to follow it (geez, why was he staring so rudely?) as it lands on a particular sidestreet marked with a hiking trail symbol. It’s not too far off, thankfully, and you could probably cut across a few streets to get there sooner. 

He says something in Japanese, but you don’t know what. When you stare at him blankly, he grins again.

“Forest,” he says, in English. His grin gets even wider, somehow, and you swear one of his stitches twitches. “Fun.” 

“Thank… you very much,” you murmur, in your accented Japanese, before giving the strange young man another exaggerated bow. You wave--a habit--and don’t bother folding the map before you leave, walking quicker than you might have, to avoid wasting anymore time on this trip.

The wave seems to amuse him, and he waves back, beaming. 

A strange young man, sure. But just as helpful as anyone else you’ve met on your trip so far. And his hair was really pretty; it was a wonder nobody was so much as staring at him.

--

There is something in the forest.

There is something in the forest, wild and large.

There is something in the forest, wild and large--and it is following you.

You’re not sure exactly when it started; you weren’t paying much attention to the forest itself until it became too loud and obvious to ignore. There weren’t enough service bars on your phone to look it up, but it had to be some kind of bear, right? Japan did have bears--you think. 

Maybe it was a deer. But deer would be too skittish, wouldn’t they? To follow you around in the woods, despite all the noise you were making. Unless it was one of those deer that was used to being fed by people, though if that was the case, wouldn’t it have made itself known by now? Begging for an apple and bowing, like the videos you saw online.

Probably not a deer. Maybe a bear. Or a fox or something else large and rumbly and, you think, eyeing you as a potential snack. 

Whatever it was, it was staying hidden. In the brush and trees, with the occasional rustle and snapping branch to give away its position. 

What do you do? Your mind tries to trace back to those Saturday evenings spent watching the occasional “When Animals Attack” documentary with your family. There were episodes on bees and mountain lions and sharks and bears, too, you’re sure… should you play dead? Make more noise? Run like hell? 

How can you get help, in the middle of the woods?

There’s on one else on the trail. Your phone isn’t working. And you’re not entirely sure if you should retrace your steps or keep going on ahead, to make it lose interest. The choices are all too confusing, with the adrenaline steadily growing inside your body, and your heart beginning to beat altogether too fast.

A decision can’t be made, not like this, heart and brain buzzing too quick and too loud to be steady enough for a proper thought process. 

In the end, though–

It doesn’t matter.

Your choice is made for you, when the animal retreats from the camouflage of the brush and steps right onto the trail. Its body takes up the entire trail, and it’s a wonder it was able to hide amongst the leaves and branches at all. 

And–

And it’s not a bear, or a deer, or anything you’ve ever seen before.

The creature that has been following you for oh-so-many steps is deformed. A monster. Something you’ve never seen in your entire life and so entirely wrong in its construction that your brain doesn’t register it as being real for a few awful, agonizing moments.

What is it–

It--whatever it is--has too many limbs. That’s what stands out at first, because it’s the most bearable thing to look at--the limbs. There are at least 6, skin-colored arms sprouting from the torso on downward. Claws or… hands? Fuck, they look like hands; hands are at the end of each arm, fingers wiggling like worms.

The creature doesn’t just have too many limbs. There are too many mouths, all open and red, with white human-like teeth showing in the center. Opening and closing and there’s a sound being made, but you can’t register if it’s human speech. It couldn’t be, because this thing was not a human. The sight of it was making you crazy, that’s all, and that craziness traveled from your retinas to your ears.

The worst sight of all, and it’s the sight of this that finally unfreezes your legs, is the rippling underneath the skin. A solid mass worming its way around the body. Like there was something else underneath the flesh, waiting to burst out, slithering along like a gorged snake.

You couldn’t let it come closer. You wouldn’t let it. 

So when your legs feel like they can move, when your breath gets sucked in with a terrible gasping that nearly chokes you, you bolt.

The creature comes after you. Of course it does. You ran like prey, and you feel like prey; you are prey, here, in the woods. You hear the creature now in full force, no longer meandering in the brush of the woods, but chasing you. The sound of too many feet hitting the ground, the sound of the air whipping by its many arms, and its breathing. Steady, loud, increasing as it gets closer. 

Your own breath comes out ragged, desperate, wheezing. You weren’t made to run like this–or perhaps you were, and that’s the crux of this whole damn trip–but this creature was clearly meant to chase. 

Regret on ever coming to the woods courses through you every time your feet pound against the ground, but regret wasn’t going to save you. Thoughts whir together--don’t let it catch me, how do I get out of here, will anyone be able to help me?--as you rush down the winding paths of the forest trail.

But there’s no one in sight, and there surely wouldn’t be anyone to help you if you went deeper into the woods. The only chance for salvation, if there was a chance at all, would be to head back towards the city. Monsters didn’t live in cities, didn’t thrive there. There’s an almost prickling fantasy that blurs through your mind: cross the threshold of the trail and it will stop instantly, like a fairy tale creature unable to cross a magic bridge. 

You will be safe, if you can get back there. 

But how to get there, with a beast at your back? 

You’ve got to turn around, somehow. If you can turn around, you can go back the way you came, and get back to human civilization. If you get back to human civilization, where monsters are dreams and movie magic, you will live. 

If you keep going into the woods, you’ll only get lost, you’ll be so deep that no one will hear you scream. If you even had the lung capacity to scream, after all this running. Would the lungs the monster tears through with its claws, its teeth, have anything left in them? 

You can’t turn around the proper way. Your brain, frantic though it is, is steady enough to understand that fact. You’ll lose momentum if you try to pivot and go back the way you came, and who is to say if you’ll be fast enough to evade the monster at all? 

But you want to live. 

So you do what the signs at the beginning of the trail forbade you to do, and veer off the trail, pushing into the thicket of the forest. The branches snag on your clothes, and you’re glad you decided against wearing the fanny pack after all. You’re able to pull the fabric of your shirt and trousers free from the branches as they snap and rustle around you; a fanny pack would have been a death sentence.

And when you make your desperate foray into the thicket of the woods, something happens. Something that makes your blood run cold, despite the heat of your pumping muscles and the sweat beginning to drip down your back.

The creature stops running. Oh, just for a moment.  You hear the racket of its limbs, of its power and size, cease. And you hear a little sound, a bit like a chuckle. That can’t be right, though. It must be catching its breath. Even monstrous creatures get tired. 

It must have been a wheeze, that’s all. The alternative is far worse.

It doesn’t stay still for long. You hear its body pushing through the canopy of trees now, too. 

It’s faster than you. And stronger than you.

But you keep running. Desperate, human, wanting to avoid the horrible fate at the end of its teeth and claws.

Your thighs and lungs and chest burn awfully as you hop over branches, run through canopies of leaves that slap your face as you go through them, the sting of micro-scratches registering as if you’re experiencing them as a third party.

What does a few scratches mean, if you get attacked by some--thing? No one will ever find your body, probably. Or it will be so unrecognizable that they’ll never identify you.

If you trip now, you’re done for. If you trip now, that thing will be on you, with its many mouths and many hands and many teeth.

If you trip now, that is.

Somehow, sheer dumb luck or some otherworldly being guiding your burning legs, you don’t trip until you reach the very edge of the woods, when the beautiful sight of the trail’s entrance is within arm’s reach. 

“Fuck!” 

You shout out, hands catching you before you hit the ground proper and hurting awfully in the process. Your palms sting, you’re sure there will be blood and scrapes. Like when you used to trip on the sidewalk as a kid and you wound up with gravel in your palms for the trouble.

That doesn’t matter though. What matters is that you can feel the weight of the creature behind you, can imagine it rearing up, can smell something--its breath, its body?--and you know you’re about to die.

This is it. A lifetime, all ended with–

Ding-ding-ding!

The ring of a bicycle bell turns out to be your saving grace. Someone pulling up to hike or maybe they heard your distress or who fucking cares, really, because at the sight of the bell, you hear the monster retreat back into the woods.

The person on the bike seems appropriately concerned at the state of you, sweat plasteirng your hair and clothes to your skin, your face red with exertion. They offer a hand and you don’t know what they’re saying because the thought of getting your translation book out right now is the furthest thing from your mind.

They murmur in concern at the scrapes on your hands. Those scrapes are nothing, compared to what was behind you; what should have happened, when you tripped. Child’s play, in more ways than one.

You let this stranger–your savior, really–guide you on jelly-like legs that carry you away from the forest, back towards the little town and what must be safety. Safety in numbers, safety in humanity, safety in the knowledge that the streets are filled with buildings, bikes, cars; the smell of automobile smoke and food stalls. The chatter of people, car horns, all of it a far cry from the wild woods and the wild creature behind you.

As you walk away on unsteady legs, you swear you hear another sound from the forest. you swear–but no, no, the rational part of your mind bubbles you safely away from it; oh, it can’t be real it can’t be real it can’t be real.

Because--

It sounds like laughter.

--

You don’t tell the police about the arms, and mouths, or the laughter. Only that you were chased by some kind of animal--you don’t know what--that was following you on the trail. 

The police smile at your story, told to them in shakily typed app-translated Japanese, and one of them types into his own translation app that they will search the forest, but that it was probably an aggressive bear. 

It was not a bear. You know this. You know this, and you let them placate you with assurances that they will put up signs, and send out a forest warden. Despite the awful knowledge that nests in your stomach like a rotten egg: this was not a goddamn bear. 

It was a monster in those woods. 

But who would believe you, if you tried to tell the truth?

–

The stranger with the silver hair and mismatched eyes spots you that afternoon, sitting at a local cafe with what must be a shaken, sullen expression. You’ve hardly touched the food you ordered, instead keeping your hands wrapped around your warm drink, focusing on the way it spreads through your fingers. 

Not that he seems to mind your look or the clear tension surrounding you like miasma. In fact, he plops right into the chair across from you without even asking, all grins, and swipes one of the mini sandwiches you ordered for lunch.

The audacity. The over-familiarity. Honestly? You can’t help but find it refreshing, in this moment, your mind and body still shaken from the ordeal. It was better than the awkward distance between you and everyone else; it was like the monster in the forest had laid its scent on you, and everyone knew to keep a step back.

“Trail?” He asks, eyes glancing over your hair, cropped short and still sticking a little to your forehead from sweat. He smiles a little–at you, maybe. Or maybe he just likes to smile. “Fun?”

The word hits, but not too hard. Not as hard as it would have, if anyone else had asked it.

It’s not like he knew what happened. And maybe… maybe he would know something more? A local who knew the trail, who lived around here, might take you more seriously than the police. Especially since he was a little strange himself, he might be used to the idea of not being believed. 

So you shake your head and offer up your phone to this perfect stranger, with the translated story from the police station still typed in. An animal, but you didn’t know what kind; a chase through the woods. 

“Ah,” he says, after a while of staring unblinking at the screen. “No fun.” He smiles, when he shouldn’t. “Scared.”

“Yeah,” you admit, breathily, almost smiling yourself. A lighthearted confirmation for a terrifying experience. Something about this stranger makes you want to open up. Makes you want to trust him. It’s like he gets you, and considering the fact that you stuck out like a sore thumb in this small foreign town, you latched right onto it. 

Then, leaning forward, you type the eager words into your app before asking them out loud: “Have you ever heard of there being a monster in that forest?”

You’re not sure if he knows enough English to register what you’ve said before reading the phone screen, but your words make his eyes widen. 

So you continue, almost babbling a bit, describing it in more detail. You’re not sure how much he understands, how much he’s getting. Your fingers type frantically into the app, repeating a choppy version of what comes bubbling out of your lips, hoping it makes enough sense. App translators weren’t exactly known for their accuracy. 

But you want to tell him, need to tell him, all about the way it moved, the odd breathy sounds that almost sounded like speech, and the rippling under the skin. The primal feeling of being prey in the woods, the same as any rabbit, any deer. 

People are glancing over as you speak, as you show this stranger your phone and go on about the horrors of the forest; and you’re not entirely sure if it’s because he committed an awful social faux pas in plopping down at your table to casually or because of you. Your words, your clothes, the way you’re getting increasingly frantic as he actually listens to what you say and doesn’t tell you that you’re some crazy American tourist who might consider going back to your hotel and taking a nap.

He gets you, he gets this, you’re sure of it even before you’re finished with your story.

When you’re done, you can feel new beads of sweat dripping down the back of your neck. During the course of your conversation, his wide-eyed expression has gone somber. Seriously. Like he knows exactly what you mean and it makes your chest clench in sick hope. 

“Yes,” he says, finally; low, leaning forward. His voice is soft and earnest and you latch onto it in a sea of unfamiliarity. “I know about a monster.” He glances around, apparently now keenly aware of the stares, although they only make him grin. “I tell you… not here. At home.” 

Home? His home? Maybe you shouldn’t--lord, stranger danger--but the stares only seem to intensify when he stands up, and you follow suit on instinct. It makes you feel naked, judged. Frayed-nerves don’t do anything but amplify the sensation. 

This is stupid. You read enough travel articles before coming to know that you shouldn’t go to places with a stranger. Hell, you knew that before you searched “Japan travel tips” on your phone for the first time–how many times did your mother tell you to never be alone with a stranger, back when you were small and so very different? 

But you were an adult now. More sure of yourself, in more ways than one. And this stranger, this strange young man, might be able to help you. If someone else knew about the monster, well; it might mean you weren’t out of your mind. It might mean you could leave Japan with this part of yourself intact. 

It’s something of a relief when the stranger grabs your wrists and pulls you away from the cafe. 

Your stomach flutters equally with that relief–and uncertainty. 

--

His home, he explains in his own accented English, is at the edge of the forest. It’s enough to make you nearly trip over your own shoes, when he tells you. The stranger turns around, smiles, but he doesn’t stop walking. He doesn’t let go of your wrist, either, holding it with a gentle firmness that makes you want to avoid pulling away.

“Scared?” His smile is small and almost private. Whether it’s just for you, or him, you’re not sure.

You swallow. And nod. A knot of fear tightens in your stomach, but you try to remember that there is strength in numbers. 

He looks you up and down, and tugs you closer, so that you’re walking nearly side by side as he holds you close. The closeness is, you think, a comfort. 

“The monster lives anywhere,” he says. There’s a blend of solemnity and humor to his tone that you can’t quite place. It might just be his accent, you tell yourself.

You tell yourself a lot of things. Like that he sidepasses the forest trail and takes you through a shortcut in the woods because it’s quicker, and safer.

Branches and leaves snap underfoot, and the dead silence of anything but the noise the pair of you make as you walk is all too familiar. The quiet is unusual, in a forest like this. There should be the sound of animals, the sound of scurrying, the steady hum of insects.

Silence in a forest means something is wrong. 

You shouldn’t be here, your body tells you. Your heart begins to pound again, and you tug a little on your wrist--you should tell him that you don’t want to go to his home, after all. You’re fine with not knowing the truth about the monster.

You’re fine with not following this stranger into the woods, in a foreign country, after having just been chased by something mere hours ago. 

If he notices your tug, your apprehension, then he says nothing. He only maintains his steady grip, his steady smile. 

“The monster eats people,” he says again, with that awful casualness. There’s a thought in your mind--you, tripping, the monster over you, tearing you apart with its teeth. Nobody finding your body, or whatever was left of it.

Without warning, the stranger stops. His grip on your wrist loosens and you slowly pull it towards you, heart thudding in your chest.

He stopped, yes, but why? There’s no house here. Only the woods around you, without the comfort of the manmade trail as a guide. Not that the trail kept you safe the first time. And are you really at the edge of the forest? If anything, you walked deep into it, away from the trails, from the markers, from the tourist spots marked on the maps.

Oh. 

Something is wrong, something is wrong, something is–

“How do you know so much about the monster?” You ask, quietly. There’s only so much room for proper thoughts in your brain, and the only one that worms its way to the top is a sensible, naive question. “Have you seen it before?”

He doesn’t answer. Not in words, English or otherwise. You wish he did. You wish he kept talking, and you kept talking, and you found yourself at some run-down shack where he lived off the grid.

That doesn’t happen.

Instead, he tilts his head up, long hair almost slithering across his shoulders with the movement. As he does, he grins, the profile of it broad and then wide and then wider and then--

Then it’s so wide that it splits his face into two, revealing a mass of dark red colored flesh and teeth sharp enough to tear through your muscles. And oh, my, grandmother, what big teeth you have.

There are undoubtedly words within you, words that might express the primal shock and horror at what you're seeing. But all that comes out of your mouth is a squeak, a wheezing little sound that has him turning.

You wish he didn't turn. You wish all you saw was the profile of his split face, because as he turns it is no longer possible to recognize him as the young man from before. Except for that beautiful silver hair, cascading over his shoulders, beautiful and grotesque.

His body expands as he turns, and muscles beneath the skin rise as his height gets too tall, his arms grow too numerous, and you can't believe mere moments ago he was simply a quirky good looking stranger who was going to help you solve this traumatic tourist mystery.

It’s not enough that he has too many arms. It's not enough that he has too many teeth, and they are so sharp that you know without thinking that they are going to tear through your flesh and rip it like well-braised beef.

There is something underneath his skin. It was there before, and it’s there now, only you’re closer–and still–and its presence is not some shock to the system but a confirmation of an earlier, terrible scene.

Oh, yes, there is something under his skin, and it does not stay still. You can see it moving, like a worm or an alien. Only instead of bursting out of his chest it simply moves, rippling the flesh underneath. Is it separate from him? One and the same? Is this some solitary mass, or are there more–to go with the creature's many arms and many teeth? 

How can this creature be anything but a monster, something other? 

Unless--unless you're looking in his eyes. 

(His, or its? You don’t know, and you never want to find out.)

But those eyes, those eyes are just as pretty and human as they were before.

His human eyes are staring right at you. Your mouth is agape, and you wish you had something other than domesticated teeth designed for chewing and not ripping apart. Because there's nothing you can do in the face of this but run.

You are prey, after all. The rabbit. The deer. The thing that scurries and squeaks. 

So you do run. For the second time in so many hours, you run for your life.

Only now the sun is starting to set, and you are in a completely unfamiliar part of the forest, and you know the monster is real and that it wants you and that it played with you like a cat plays with its food.

Your breath comes out in sharp, short pants. There's something tingling in the adrenaline that courses through your veins, pumping straight from your brain to every extremity, making even the tips of your fingers feel numb and floating. 

It’s like you're high from the fear. 

"Why run?"

The monster calls after you, even as it gives chase. It doesn’t sound as winded now.

And fuck, his voice sounds exactly the same. Why couldn't he sound like a monster? Why couldn't he sound like some guttural beast with no connection to humanity?

Why does he sound like the helpful, if a bit strange, young man who sat with you in the café? Who cheerfully pointed out the spot on the map you ought to go? Who seemed kind, if odd, an unusual character you would surely tell everyone at home about once you got off the plane? 

But the resemblance ends at his voice, at these little things. It ends at the glimmer of silver hair and the too-human eyes that you can no longer see as you try desperately to lose it in the forest. Swerving here and there, stumbling and half-leaping over obstacles, whipping through tree branches that claw at you in the dimming light.

You’re bleeding, you know it. You think the monster knows it, too.

"I like you," the voice says, light and breezy, from behind you. He says it in English and you wish he didn't, because it means he wants you to understand. 

It’s better when you don’t understand the monsters that chase you. 

Your foot trips on something, a branch or a log or the bone of a dead animal, and for the second time today, your body goes sailing through the air. This time, you land on the ground with a thump, half-crumpled. 

You could lie down here. You could lie down and die; let it rip through your throat and hopefully it would kill you quick before consuming your flesh.

But you don't want to. You don't want to die and it's not fair and you're just supposed to be on a nice trip, the end result of an entire year's worth of paid time off accrual. But instead, you're panting and bleeding and being chased by something in the forest that wants to eat you and likes you in what may be equal measure.

So you force your exhausted arms to push up from the ground and you stumble into a run. Pitiful as it is. Pointless as it is. 

Behind you, the creature laughs. Or the young man laughs. You're not sure which is which, or if they were different to begin with.

"I like you," it says again. There's something lighter in its tone now. Or maybe you're imagining it, high on adrenaline and lack of oxygen from all the panting. The tingling in your body hasn’t stopped, even as you stumble forward. 

"I'll keep you," it--he? You don't know, fuck--says. "Always."

The silliest of thoughts worms its way through your fear-addled brain.  Did he learn English just to communicate with you? Did all monsters speak different languages? Or did he shove his face into a tourist phrasebook in between chasing you and finding you in the cafe?

It's this silly thought that sticks in your ear as you go sailing to the ground again. Pushed, maybe. Or maybe you tripped on the bones of a dead fox, its flesh long eaten away by predators then maggots, in that order.

Palms stinging, knees burning. Blood bubbling through a tear in your trousers--cut on a sharp branch, you think. 

Your thigh aches.

Your lungs ache. 

Your chest aches.

Behind you, there is only the forest-noise of the monster chasing you. Arms and legs and the presence of it, pushing through branches and bushes like nothing. It could kill you like nothing, too. Maybe there are claws at the end of those hands, too many hands and too many fingers, and the world makes no more sense than it did a few hours ago.

Still, you don't want to die. Not here, not like this. So you push up with your burning, aching arms, and force yourself into a wobbling, weak standing position. 

It halts when you stand. You don't turn to see, you don’t even register the cessation of the rush of brush and bramble--you just know. 

One step forward, on wobbling legs. Legs that can’t run anymore, no matter what is chasing you.

“Oh,” says the monster. A soft, sweet sound.

Another step forward, and your knees buckle underneath you. Down you go. 

“Oh,” it says again. You do register the lack of sound, now. Nothing but distant insects (you wish they were closer) and your own breathing, and a sort of rustling as the monster approaches you from behind. 

”Cute,” it says. And oh, now, you can imagine its wide mouth, all those teeth, cradling the word like soft candy. 

You stare, barely able to support your body on your arms, at the ground underneath you. This will be the last thing you see, you think. At least it’s kind of pretty--nature. Green and brown and there’s life here, some insects meandering along underneath you, uncaring as to whatever is going on up above. 

Maybe they’ll get to eat what’s left of your body, when he’s finished. The circle of life, and all that. 

But it won’t be the last thing you see. Because you’re turning--no, you’re being turned, four or five or six arms on you, cradling you in a sickeningly gentle way even as your weakened muscles strain against their hold.

Your lungs strain and your breath comes out in short, terrible pants. The soft, sad acceptance is a lot harder to keep up when you’re facing death head-on. 

The last thing you’ll see will be this monster, above you, silver hair almost shimmering in the dimmed light of the forest. His mouth too wide, his limbs and teeth and scars too many, his human eyes boring into you with a glinting fascination. A sickly sweet sort of affection. 

That something is still underneath the skin, too. Rippling. Like a tick burrowed underneath the flesh, straining, wanting to get out but being unable to do so. 

His stretched mouth opens and there are so many fangs--you imagine the pain--imagine the teeth boring down into your chest or your neck, the tearing of your flesh. 

But that isn’t how you die; that isn’t how he eats you.

Instead--instead--his mouth opens wide and you hear the grinding of flesh as he teeth retract further into his mouth, leaving only a gaping dark hole staring down at you. Above it, his nose, distorted; above that, those eyes, still human, still searching your gaze as he leans forward and your body is gently cradled into the open mouth and pushed down into the tight cavern of his throat.

He swallows you down, and pushes you forward into his throat, down his gullet, onward and onward. There are brief glimpses of the world outside just before you enter his mouth, and then everything goes dark.

But not because you’re dead. Oh, if only you were dead. Instead, you are alive–you are inside.

It’s wet, inside. Wet and warm, like an inside should be. But there’s a wrongness to it all. You were never meant to be pushed down a gullet, to be surrounded by this pulsating warm darkness that slickened your skin even as your mind began to constrict along with your lungs.

Too tight. Too warm. Too many limbs--and despite all those teeth, they did nothing to ease your passing, to tear through your arteries and let you bleed out before you were swallowed up. 

You were swallowed whole, instead. Like Jonah and the whale. Like Pinnochio. Like other characters in other stories, and you can’t think of them now, with the buzz in your brain getting both louder and weaker all at the same time.

You don’t want to die–and not like this; the buzz in your brain constricts, something primal, telling you to GET.OUT.

And you try. You really do try, through pure instinct alone. An instinct you didn’t know you had until you were in this forest, inside of this beast. That animal instinct to free yourself from the jaws, the very stomach, of death.

Your arms, pressed up against your side by the pressure of the moist muscles around you, begin to flail. Your legs, too, constricted by the space you’re in–but moving. Squirming and kicking, trying to get some sort of purchase inside your living prison.

Strange, dim thoughts come as your body begins to squirm. They are the only thing keeping you human, separating you from the mouse clawing from inside a snake.

The thoughts–Being in here is like the time you wrapped yourself up in a sleeping bag and got stuck; being in here is like the first time you went down the tube slide at the playground as an adult, drunk at midnight, and almost got stuck.

Being in here is like all those times you thought you were going to suffocate inside something tight and warm and wrong–only this time, there is no triumphant roll as the sleeping bag unwraps, no sigh of relief as you wiggle your body back up the slide to freedom

There is only the wetness and warmness and the feeling of the monster around you. He hums–oh God, you can feel him humming, feel the way his body rumbles. He says something, too, you think. Something with a cadence that you’re so glad you can’t understand.

You have to get out. You have to get out, damn it. 

There’s a sick sort of rhythm to it, and while your mind recoils from the slick feeling against your skin as you begin to trash, it also gives you hope. This is how you get out, how you get free. Somehow, squirming inside the beast that’s swallowed you–you’ll survive. 

If only you could move more. If you could raise your arms and claw at the warm, wet interior, it might hurt enough to let you go. Throw you up or spit you out or maybe you could burrow your fingers so deep it rips the beast’s flesh open, like a bear gutting a salmon.

A salmon is perhaps what you most resemble now as your thrashing becomes a spasm, reflexive, increasingly jerky as the oxygen in your lungs begins to dwindle. 

Get-out-get-out-get-out, your mind screams.

Your body does its best. Your breath comes shallow now, panting loud inside the tight space and its moving, living walls. It’s all too moist, too hot, too wrong.

Warm, damp limbs jerk and kick and get nowhere in particular for their troubles. The moving walls against you constrict and release, slowly, and you find your thrashing only helps move you down further.

Further into the body of the beast. Further away from the world outside, further away from everything that made you a living breathing tourist just looking for a pretty mountain trail to explore and winding up eaten alive for their troubles. 

It was just an hour or so ago, wasn’t it, that you were sitting in the cafe? It seems like a lifetime, a distant memory, a dream. You cry out, the sound all warbled and wrong inside the tight cavern of his body. 

You want out–you want to go home–but there’s nothing you can do but trash again, soft, bleating sounds pushing out of your increasingly constricted lungs. 

“Oh.”

The monster speaks again, and the rumbling against you is softer, somehow. Cooing and low. And oh, Jesus–you feel him now. Feel his hands on the outside of what must be his belly, where you’ve wormed your way towards with every thrash.

The press of his hands against his skin from the outside is nearly unbearable, sending the wet-hot interior of the inside pressing against your cheek, smearing something slick against your skin, against your eye.

It stings against your lashes and you can’t see, can’t move your hands up enough to properly wipe it away. It makes you jerk again, makes your breath come in tighter, faster, less thoughtful and closer and closer to pure instinct.

Thoughts don’t come as easily. There’s only that desire to get out, to break free, to get away from the wet heat that surrounds you. There’s more slickness now, and a strange sort of acrid scent. A bitter, acidic scent in the air that stings your nostrils. 

He presses against his belly again and you wail, and he coos, and there’s hardly any space left for you to thrash but you try as best you can.

One.

Two.

Three more times.

And then the world gets too woozy, too hazy. You can’t breathe in here. You can’t move, really, aside from the way your limbs still twitch on instinct. You can’t see, and the sounds are only the strange rushing, the warbled noises from the beast that are hard to distinguish. 

The last thing you can sense with any sort of human distinctness is another side, slick and slithering, the sound of something inside the beast with you–oh God, you are not alone in here–and this last thought is when you stop being a person. When the thoughts cease to come as distinct lines from your brain and turn into a low, humming, dying thing.

The twitches that send your body spasming are not that of a person trying to escape, but of prey, finally subdued. 

Undoubtedly, you were once a human being. A person who grew up and imagined a future, some distant thing you couldn’t conceive as a child but which grew more concrete with every passing year. Someone who wanted a girlfriend or boyfriend, and eventually got one. Someone who thought, yeah, maybe kids, some day, if you adopted. 

Who imagined going to school and getting a job that paid decently enough; who did just that, working your ass off, spending all nighters drinking shitty dorm coffee before examples. All to get a degree to get an internship to get a desk job, so you could take nice vacations like this one, where you saved for a year and submitted your time-off request 6 months in advance and everyone at work told you to have fun and take plenty of pictures.

You were a person with hopes and dreams, with a family, with a past, with memories both clear and fuzzy. Sitting on the beach as a child and getting pinched by a crab you tried to place on top of your sand castle. Pushing another kid off the swing when he refused to give you a turn. Coming out to your parents and your dad making a joke about father-son fishing trips and your mom laughing too loud because she didn’t know what to say about having a daughter and now having a son.

All of that, and so much more besides--all of that and everything you ever were, everything you are, everything you will now never ever be, is lost inside a warm void of a body, a slithering, living cavity.

There’s no buzz in your brain now, no lungs to draw in desperate sucks of air. Nothing to register the monster sprawling out on the forest floor, satiated, thinking of how pretty you looked when you ran and the warm, full with the feeling of you inside him now.

He’ll rest here, dappled sunlight warming his skin, letting you digest; breaking you down with acid, absorbing your nutrients into his own body. 

And you? 

You’re dead and gone and there’s no comfort in knowing that Mahito will think of you for a long while, even after you’ve been digested. You were such nice prey, after all. 

[yayakoishii]

Childish Mistake | Kalego x Reader

Fandom: Mairimashita! Iruma-kun

Pairing: Naberius Kalego x Fem! Reader

Word Count: 2.3k

Genre/Tags: Fluff, Married Relationship, Memory Loss + Deaging Potion Accident

Summary: You have an accident and end up losing your memory and reverting into your teenage self.

A/n: I'm starting to think that all my fics for this fandom will be spur of the moment, I-got-possessed type of fics lol. I read the Kalego Gaiden and caught up to the manga so, I obviously had to write for him~ I really want to write a teenage Kalego or Balam fic tho! so much fun to write about their Babyls days...

also available on ao3!

"Sensei!!" A shout had you pausing in your steps. You turned around to find a student running to you with a desperate expression and your admonition about running in the hallways died on your lips.

"Is everything okay?" You asked in concern. He stopped just short of bumping into you and panted.

"There's been some disturbance at the Magic Development battler!" He said immediately. "I think one of the potions leaked and students have become all aggressive. Fights are breaking out!"

"Oh no," you muttered under your breath and immediately dashed to the battler's room. You could make out some of the abnormal class students trying to subdue the aggressive ones; Jazz must have called for help. "Alright, break it off!"

You immediately cast spells to get everyone distanced as you joined the fray. With a snap of your finger, you bound up the students who were trying to lunge at the others again. There was still chaos and shouting and you turned to see the Magic Development battler wailing and getting angry– a lot of the potions and gadgets were now broken and spilled over the floor. You carefully tried to walk around them to where the battler head was but accidentally bumped into a shelf where only one bottle was remaining.

Your eyes widened as you watched the contents spill on top of you in slow motion, your reflexes only fast enough to close your eyes in time so that it wouldn't blind you.

Excruciating pain ripped through your body and you couldn't help but let out a bloodcurdling scream. It felt like your blood was on fire and like your skin was being stretched taut. You crumpled into yourself, balling up on the floor, too overwhelmed by the pain to heed the concerned shouts of your students as you passed out.

•

Kalego was walking down the hallways to the staff room when he heard the commotion coming from the Magic Development battler. A scream he had never heard before pierced the corridors and he immediately rushed over; he had never heard it before but it still sounded familiar. There were students shouting and he parted them with a wave of his hand, trying to get to the centre of the commotion.

The purple haired teacher was shocked to find you lying on the floor. Well… ‘you’ was a bit of a stretch. Because the one lying unconscious on the floor was not the you he talked to, but the you from your teenage, when you both attended Babyls as students. You had somehow reverted to that age and Kalego was glaring at the students in a silent question.

Everyone seemed relieved that he was here (a first, he mused) but it took a few minutes for them to properly tell him what the hell had happened. Kalego sighed and immediately called for more teachers to take care of the affected and bound students. He himself made his way over to your unconscious body and started to pick you up so he could take you to the infirmary but the moment he touched you, you woke up with a loud gasp.

Kalego froze and looked at you, finding it strange to look at your younger self. Your wide eyes were still the same and yet, teenage you somehow seemed more brighter and innocent. Like you had yet to see the horrors of the world.

"What's your name?" Kalego asked immediately in lieu of checking your memory after he had helped you sit up. You cocked your head at him, staring unblinkingly. He waited for a few seconds but you didn't respond. "Can you hear me? Can you talk?"

"Uh, yeah," you nodded and blinked, cheeks flushing. It did not go amiss by Kalego, who only now remembered something you had told him a long, long time ago. "I'm (y/n). What's, what's your name, mister?"

Kalego could feel the silent stares from the students all around him and decided that he needed them gone.

"Alright, get out of here," he shot everyone a glare and most of them scampered off, not wanting to bring on the wrath of the guard dog of Babyls. The Abnormal class stayed behind but Kalego glared at them too. "You won't get a special warning. Leave."

They were hesitant but agreed to leave only after Iruma asked, "Will she be fine? Can you fix this?" and Kalego had answered an unwilling "Yes." It appeased them for now and they left him alone with you, who were looking at everything in curiosity.

"List everything you can remember and are aware of," Kalego said immediately, not bothering to get up from where he was crouched next to you. You immediately straightened up at his commanding tone.

"My name is (l/n) (y/n), 16 years old, student at Babyls," you said quickly, eyes flashing over your surroundings. "You are… Naberius Kalego. Last thing I remember is watching my juniors' Harvest Festival before going to sleep. Judging by my surroundings, I'm guessing I am currently at Babyls but… this is an unfamiliar Babyls. I have probably lost a lot of my memory if I'm correct in my assumption."

"Yeah, it's a lot," Kalego sighed and stood up, offering his hand to you. Your eyes flicked to the hand and you blushed even more furiously. Now was not the time but Kalego couldn't help but be pleased at how flustered you were getting around him. You had told him long back when you got together that you had had a crush on him since your school days. He had only nodded and moved on but now. Now he could see its effect in action.

"Thank you," you took the hand and stood up. You followed him and Kalego could see you glancing at him with awestruck eyes as you walked.

"Is there something on my face, (l/n)?" He asked calmly, enjoying this. It had been years since he had called you by that name. It wasn't even your name anymore.

Your excited smile dropped immediately at his question and you looked heartbroken. It made him pause. Kalego hadn't noticed you in school days much. In fact, when you joined as a teacher, he just remembered you by virtue of you being one of the top scorers during your years. He hadn't got to see your younger face much and unexpectedly, he had the chance now– yet he had somehow made you sad.

"What's wrong?" He asked, failing to hide his concern. He wouldn't let it slip to anyone but you… you were different. He could let it slip because you would never tease him. You huffed and looked away, pouting.

"I don't know, Naberius," you bit back. Kalego had to bite down a smile threatening to pop up on his face. If only you knew that you were Naberius too. "I'm not stupid. I can tell that you're all grown up. You look pretty much the same. I can hazard a guess that I probably fulfilled my dream of becoming a teacher at Babyls too."

"What's the problem then?" He asked as the two of you started walking again. The infirmary was close now.

"I don't know," you said quietly, looking sad. "I thought… I thought we'd be closer now, I guess. I want to befriend you, you know? Ah, I mean, for you, it's probably in the past. I guess I'm just sad that I failed to do it."

"Who says we're not closer?" Kalego asked as he opened the door for you and gestured for you to go in. You went in and shot him another tiny glare. It really was cute.

"You're calling me by my surname," you pointed out. "Not even a bit different from my memories."

"I did that to suit your memories," Kalego answered, moving to the shelf to bring out certain ingredients. A quick and easy recipe to fix the problem at hand. "If you wanted me to call you by your new surname, you could have said that outright."

There was silence in the room as Kalego quietly worked on mixing the antidote. He waited a few minutes but with no response from you, he had to look up. You were staring at the ground in horror, looking absolutely terrified with tears in your eyes. Internally, he wondered how much he had fucked up to see you cry.

You never cried because of him. The only times he saw you crying was during the days leading up to your rare evil cycle. Even when he was mean to you, glared at you, or accidentally said anything hurtful, you had never cried because of him. You had looked sad and always talked it out like a mature adult but, he had forgotten that right now, you were just a teenager.

He was your husband but… he actually had no idea how to comfort you when you were crying. Kalego ditched the antidote to make his way to where you were sitting. He kneeled in front of you and took your hands in his own.

The action startled you and you stared at his hands in amazement.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly. A genuine apology was always a good start whenever he upset you. "I didn't mean to freak you out. I just wanted to tease you a little."

"Telling a 16 year old they're married to someone is cruel, Kalego," you huffed. He raised an eyebrow at the usage of his first name. You looked away, face flushed again. "What? Do I not call you that? What do I call you then? Darling? Love? Here, doggy doggy?"

Kalego's face scrunched up at that last remark and you burst out laughing. He let your hands go but you grabbed his, looking pleased.

"So I was right," you breathed out, looking a little amazed. You could tell from the way he was acting around you, concerned and teasing like he was very familiar with you. "You really… married me?"

"Yes, I had a lapse of judgement five years ago," Kalego stood up but didn't try to get his hands back from you. You tugged him to sit next to you on the bed, eyes still glimmering with excitement. You clearly didn't read into his attempt at seeming nonchalant.

"Shut up!" You beamed, eyes raking over his entire body. "I can't believe I convinced you to marry me. Good job, future me!"

Kalego didn't tell you that you had hardly needed to do any convincing. He was unfortunately quite in love with you. He was the one who had to do the convincing, actually. You had insisted on a romantic proposal and refused him three times before you finally deemed his proposal worthy.

"I can't believe I'm really living my dream life," you couldn't stop smiling, looking absolutely giddy. You had dropped his hands to cup your own face. "I'm sure I tell you this all the time but, you look very hot in your teacher uniform, Kalego."

"You sure got used to saying my first name quickly," he said dryly, trying to switch the topic. It was one thing when you said it to him before dragging him to bed. It was another if you said it in your teenage body with none of your memories. You grinned at his remark.

"I've been preparing for this ever since I met you," you said, a little shy at the sudden confession. Kalego felt like his heart was going to burst if you kept making new admissions to his face. He would never show it to anyone because showing he cared was showing weakness, but damn if he did not love you with every inch of his body. "I… I'm sure the me of your present is living a very happy and satisfied life."

"You are," Kalego smiled softly. You froze at the sight, body shaking in shock at the fact that this older Kalego had just smiled at you. Right. 16 year old you had never been on the receiving end of one of his smiles, right? "I try my best to ensure that."

"I- I see!" You squeaked, face fully red as you tried to hide it. Kalego got up and went back to finish making the antidote. There was silence again for a while before you spoke up. "Are… Are you happy too, Naberius?"

You had switched back to his surname in your nervousness but hearing you say it made him smile. It really had been so long since you had called him by his surname.

"The happiest," he confirmed as he finished making the potion to fix you. He non-verbally cast the spell on it and walked over to you. "I… don't know if I'm doing a good job but, I really try my best to keep you happy."

"You're silly," you smiled at him as you took the potion from him. You smiled down at it, more to yourself than him. "I may not have my memories, but I know I am the happiest too."

With that, you downed the potion in one go. Kalego immediately caught you in his arms as you dropped unconscious and started morphing back to your actual age. In a strange way, today's events had let him meet the you of so many years ago– a side of you he never had the chance to meet.

Even back then, when he hadn't noticed you, you were brilliant, smart and quick to understand your surroundings and yourself. Kalego smiled at the top of your head as he gently picked you up and placed you flat on the infirmary bed.

Today's mistake was unlike you but… that was okay. You weren't perfect and that was fine. As your husband, it was Kalego's job to ensure that you were okay even when you end up accidentally dousing yourself in age-reverting memory potions. Seeing you knocked out like this, trusting him fully, Kalego couldn't help but think. He was the guard dog of Babyls; that was his destined duty from the moment he was born.

But being your protector, your lover, the one who stood by your side– that was his choice.

A duty he was just as happy to fulfil.

°•❀•°

all likes, comments and reblogs are appreciated! ♡

[rottingcorps3s]

"Daddy Issues" - J.P.

John Price x f!reader

Rating: 16+ (no smut, just cute) Word Count: Like 800?? Notice: Hey Alexa, please play “Daddy Issues” by The Neighborhood. I feel as if the title is self explanatory. A/N: It’s been a while since I’ve posted! Had a few ideas I wanted to get out so I decided to write this while I waited for Skyrim to download lol This was written on mobile and not proofread. Might make multiple parts of this, might not. But hope you enjoy!

His grip was tight on your hand. His fingers having completely engulfed your own as he pulled you through the crowd of people. His other hand holding onto the few shopping bags you had accumulated throughout the day.

John was an older man, not much older, but still older. You didn’t mind, obviously, but other people seemed to. It was evident in the stares from strangers that would linger just a second too long.

Is that your dad? You’d heard a hundred times over.

Is she your daughter? They’d ask John, a defeated look crossing his eyes.

When people realized that the two of you were in fact a couple, it tended to sour their mood. Seeing a younger woman with an older man their mind immediately went to Sugar Daddy. Which was far from the truth…kinda.

Did John spoil you? Definitely. Who wouldn’t want to? The multiple Cartier bracelets you owned, the 24k gold necklace that sat delicately against your sternum and the fact that your nails were always done every 4 weeks were proof of his generosity to you.

But your relationship was so much more than that. To him, you had done more for him than he’d ever be able to pay you back for. Your warm touch and inviting smile was all he needed to be satisfied, but you had gone further beyond that.

Since you had entered his life, not a day went by where he wasn’t thankful. Making sure he always had a hot meal waiting when he returned from deployment no matter the time of night. A hot bath already prepared by the time he was done eating. Your warm embrace waiting for him in bed as he washed away the horrors of war.

God forbid he spoils his woman a little.

You felt it happen a few blocks back, your shoe having slowly dragged your sock down the back of your heel and under your foot. It was driving you crazy, but the car was only a few blocks away. John could tell something was wrong as you seemed to lag behind him and stumbled every couple steps.

You had been looking into the window of one of the shops you passed by, seeing if anything interesting caught your eye before you were met with the solid chest of your boyfriend. You looked up at him and met his gaze, his eyebrows raised and a questioning look in his eyes.

“Are your shoes hurtin’ you?” he asked, pulling you off to the side to avoid being trampled by people.

You looked down at the shoes you were wearing, they were a simple pair of white sneakers. A pair John had bought you.

“No,” you said simply, a small smile forming on your lips as you admired him for a moment.

“You keep tripping over yourself?” he said as more of a question.

“My sock rolled under my foot, but I was just gonna fix it in the car.” You said simply.

His eyebrows furrowed as he listened to you, his eyes scanning your form and ultimately landing on your shoes. He paused for a moment, your gaze having wandered back to the window of the shop, waiting for him to start leading the way once more.

He let out a small sign before moving the bags he was holding further up his arm and got down onto one knee in front of you. His knees popping as he did.

You looked down at him with a questioning gaze before he gripped the back of your calf and set your shoe on his knee. You quickly gripped onto his shoulder as you used it to balance yourself. He made quick work of untying the laces and slipped your sneaker off. His hands felt ice cold against your feet as he gently pulled your sock back over your heel.

For as big as John was, he was extremely gentle. His fingers were calloused over and rough, but his touch was the complete opposite. He was nothing but gentle, and caring, and soft with you (unless you requested otherwise).

You felt your face heat up from the interaction, a deep red blush covering your cheeks as he slipped your shoe back on and tied the laces. He set your foot back down on the ground before grabbing ahold of the other one and doing the same thing.

People were staring, you both knew that, but it was such a sweet gesture that you completely blocked out the existence of everyone else around you. John stood back up once your other shoe was on, his eyes lingering on your face for a moment before he turned back around and continued to the car. Your hand still gripped tightly into his own.

You had a huge smile plastered across your face as you pushed yourself into his side. Your other hand holding onto his bicep, your nails gently digging into them.

“Thank you…” you said appreciatively. John smiled in response.

“Anything for you, love.”

(someone please stab me, I love John so much)

[librababe99]

Moments Between Time: Part Three

CW: violence, emotional distress, angst, dystopian/apocalyptic imagery, Mutant!Reader, character death Word Count: 1948 Summary: Logan is pushed to his breaking point as he battles both enemies and haunting visions of a doomed future. The tension between young Charles Xavier and Erik Lehnsherr only adds to the strain. Will this be the end of the Wolverine?

Authors note at the bottom <3

(Part four)

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The weight of the mission was slowly grinding Logan down. The relentless march of time, the pressure of knowing what was at stake, and the constant strain of working with younger, unpredictable versions of Charles Xavier and Erik Lehnsherr—it was all taking its toll. Each day, the burden grew heavier, pressing down on him like an iron vice, threatening to crush him beneath its weight.

The Charles Xavier of this time was a shadow of the man Logan had known in the future. Broken by loss and drowning in despair, he was erratic, teetering on the edge of self-destruction. And Erik… Erik was a ticking time bomb, his ideals and anger clashing violently with Charles’s more pacifistic approach. Their constant bickering, their differing views on how to save mutantkind, only served to stoke the fires of Logan’s growing anxiety. Every decision, every word exchanged between them, felt like a knife edge, cutting deeper into the fragile hope that they could change the future.

As the day of the assassination approached, the tension became almost unbearable. Logan’s nights were restless, his sleep plagued by visions of a future he was desperate to escape. But the visions had started to bleed into his waking hours, haunting him when he least expected it. At first, they were just flashes—brief glimpses of the devastation that awaited if they failed. But as the day drew closer, the visions grew more vivid, more terrifying.

One evening, after a particularly heated argument between Charles and Erik, Logan found himself alone in a dingy motel room, trying to steady his racing heart. The small, flickering light above the bed cast long, distorted shadows on the walls, making the room feel claustrophobic. He stared at his reflection in the cracked mirror, his face a mask of exhaustion and tension. The man staring back at him was barely recognizable—eyes hollow, jaw clenched, every muscle in his body taut with stress.

As he splashed cold water on his face, the vision hit him like a freight train. He was no longer in the motel room; he was in the middle of a battlefield, the air thick with smoke and the stench of burning metal. The roar of Sentinels filled his ears, their mechanical voices cold and unyielding as they hunted down the last of the mutants.

And then he saw you.

You were fighting valiantly, your powers flaring with an intensity that took his breath away. But even as you fought, even as you took down one Sentinel after another, Logan could see the fatigue in your movements, the desperation in your eyes. You were outnumbered, overwhelmed, and the odds were stacked against you. The scene shifted, and Logan watched in horror as a Sentinel, larger and more menacing than the rest, bore down on you. He tried to move, tried to reach out to you, but he was frozen, helpless to do anything but watch.

The Sentinel’s massive hand swung down, and Logan screamed your name, his voice raw with anguish. But it was too late. The last thing he saw was your face, a mix of determination and fear, before the vision shattered, plunging him back into the dim light of the motel room.

Logan stumbled back, his breath coming in ragged gasps as the room spun around him. He clutched the edge of the sink, his knuckles white, his entire body shaking with the aftershocks of the vision. The image of your final stand was seared into his mind, a relentless loop that played over and over, driving him to the brink of madness.

“No,” he whispered, his voice trembling. “No… it can’t end like that.”

But the fear gnawed at him, a cold, insidious thing that wrapped around his heart and refused to let go. What if he couldn’t change the future? What if, despite everything, you were still doomed to fall? The thought was unbearable, a torment that threatened to break him.

Logan’s mind spiraled, memories of you flooding his senses. He remembered the way you had looked at him before he left, the silent plea in your eyes, the unspoken promise that had hung between you. He had sworn to protect you, to save you, and now that promise felt like a cruel joke, slipping through his fingers like sand.

But then, as if answering the turmoil in his heart, he heard it—a faint, almost imperceptible whisper, like the softest brush of a breeze against his skin.

“Logan…”

Your voice.

He froze, his breath catching in his throat as he strained to hear it again, his heart pounding so loudly he thought it might drown out everything else.

“Logan… I’m here…”

The sound of your voice was like a lifeline, pulling him back from the edge of despair. It was soft, tinged with a warmth that cut through the darkness threatening to consume him. He closed his eyes, focusing on the sound, clinging to it with everything he had.

“I know it’s hard… but you have to keep going.”

Logan’s chest tightened, a mix of relief and pain flooding through him. How were you reaching out to him? Was it a trick of his mind, a desperate hallucination conjured by his longing for you? Or had you somehow managed to connect with him across the vast chasm of time? It didn’t matter. In that moment, all that mattered was your voice, the sound of you, still with him, still fighting, still holding on.

“I believe in you,” you whispered, your voice cracking slightly, as if you, too, were fighting back tears. “No matter what happens, no matter how dark it gets… remember why you’re doing this. Remember what we’re fighting for.”

Logan’s hand tightened around the sink, his resolve solidifying into something unbreakable. He couldn’t afford to lose himself, couldn’t afford to let the darkness win. You were still out there, still depending on him, and he couldn’t—wouldn’t—let you down.

“I love you, Logan… never forget that.”

The final words were like a knife to his heart, the truth of them cutting deep, but also giving him the strength to keep going. He swallowed hard, his throat tight with emotion, his eyes burning with unshed tears.

“I love you too,” he whispered, though he knew you couldn’t hear him. “And I’m going to save you. I swear it.”

The connection faded, leaving behind a bittersweet ache that settled deep in his chest. But the message had done its work. Logan was more determined than ever, his focus sharpened by the memory of your voice, your touch. He couldn’t afford to fail. Too much was at stake.

The days leading up to the assassination passed in a blur of tension and preparation. Charles and Erik continued to clash, their arguments growing more heated, more volatile, as the day approached. Logan played the role of mediator, trying to keep the fragile alliance from shattering, even as his own nerves were stretched to the breaking point.

And then, the day was upon them.

The air was thick with tension as Logan and his team approached the site where the assassination was set to occur. Every step felt like walking through quicksand, the weight of the future pressing down on him with each breath. His senses were on high alert, scanning every sound, every flicker of movement. This was it—the moment where everything would either be won or lost.

As they reached the courtyard, chaos erupted. The enemy was relentless, attacking with a ferocity that matched Logan’s own. Claws extended, he moved like a force of nature, cutting through the ranks with precision and fury. Every strike was fueled by the memory of you—your voice, your face, your final words. He had to stop Trask. He had to prevent the creation of the Sentinels.

But then, amidst the chaos, a familiar and dreaded presence made itself known. Erik Lehnsherr—Magneto—hovered above the battlefield, his eyes cold and determined. He raised his hands, and from the distance, the ominous clanking of metal footsteps echoed through the air. Logan’s heart sank as the Sentinels, massive and imposing, emerged from the shadows, their eyes glowing with a deadly intent.

Erik’s voice rang out, commanding the Sentinels with a flick of his wrist. They moved with terrifying precision, their metal limbs whirring as they turned their attention toward Logan. He barely had time to react before the first Sentinel lunged, its enormous hand sweeping down to crush him. Logan leaped out of the way, his claws slashing through the air as he fought to keep the mechanical giants at bay.

But for every Sentinel he struck down, two more took its place, their relentless assault wearing him down. Erik watched from above, his expression unreadable, his power thrumming through the battlefield as he manipulated the metal constructs with ease. The ground trembled as more debris was ripped from the earth, swirling around Erik like a deadly storm.

Logan fought with everything he had, his claws tearing through metal and circuitry, but the odds were overwhelming. The Sentinels closed in, their attacks growing more coordinated, more brutal. He could feel his strength waning, his healing factor struggling to keep up with the damage being inflicted on his body.

And then, Erik made his move. With a cold, calculated gesture, he ripped a massive chunk of concrete from the ground, laced with jagged metal shards, and sent it hurtling toward Logan. The impact was devastating. The concrete slab struck Logan with bone-crushing force, knocking him off his feet and sending him crashing into the ground.

Before Logan could recover, Erik raised his hand again, and the metal shards embedded in the concrete shot forward like spears, impaling Logan’s limbs and pinning him to the ground. He roared in pain, his claws digging into the concrete as he tried to free himself, but Erik’s power was too great. The Sentinels closed in, their cold, mechanical eyes fixed on him as they prepared to deliver the final blow.

But Erik wasn’t finished. With a final, forceful gesture, he lifted Logan off the ground, the metal and concrete holding him aloft like a ragdoll. Logan’s vision blurred, the world spinning around him as Erik sent him hurtling through the air. He slammed into the side of a building with a sickening crunch, the impact shattering the wall and sending debris raining down around him.

Logan’s body, broken and bleeding, was thrown through the air one last time, the force of Erik’s power propelling him toward the edge of the crumbling structure. For a moment, he teetered on the edge, his claws scraping against the concrete as he tried to hold on. But the weight of the metal and concrete was too much, and with a final, shuddering breath, Logan plunged into the water below.

The world above seemed to slow as Logan disappeared beneath the surface, the cold, dark water swallowing him whole. The shock of it stole the breath from his lungs, and the weight of the metal pulled him down, deeper and deeper into the abyss. He struggled against the pull, his lungs burning for air, his vision blurring as the darkness closed in.

Above, the battle continued, but without Logan’s ferocious presence, the tide began to turn. The enemy forces, seeing their chance, pushed forward, forcing the remaining X-Men to retreat. As they fell back, eyes scanned the water, desperate for any sign of Logan. But there was nothing—no movement, no bubbles, no sign that he had survived.

“Logan…” someone whispered, the name carried away in the wind.

 And somewhere, in the depths of that cold, dark water, Logan drifted, his body still and lifeless, the shadows of the past closing in around him.

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A/N: Hi loves! I'd like to apologize for the inactivity the past few days. I was finally able to get into the doctor yesterday and ended up having an in office procedure done😕 my biopsy results won't be available until sometime next week---but please take it from me to regularly check yourselves for breast lumps... - Libra * .♡ *:･ﾟ✧ ⋆ ࣪.* ࣪.⋆

Taglist: @hughverine @itzyahgirllkita1 @nonamevenus @angelofthorr @swthxrry @ayamenimthiriel @charlyrmv @alex21705 @penguinsravioli @mxtokko

[xxsp3llb0undxx]

Ticking Time Bomb 1/?

Sweet Home Mini Series [1.37K Words]

Disclaimer: Please do not repost my work to other sites or claim as your own, this is purely written from my imagination and from the help of the series. All rights of the main storyline goes to the writers and producers of Sweet Home.

Summary: The world has been overrun by monsters due to our own selfish desires. Pride. Greed. Wrath. Envy. Lust. Gluttony. Sloth.

WARNINGS: SWEET HOME AU // GORE // BLOOD // HORROR THEMES // APOCALYPTIC // HEARTBREAK // MONSTERS // MENTIONS OF DEATH // MENTIONS OF SUICIDE // MENTIONS OF SELF HARM // USE OF Y/N // SHE/HER PRONOUNS // FEMALE READER // UNEDITED. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED.

It had started with a simple nose bleed. Blood cascading down the lower half of her face, caking her skin in a thick crimson layer. No amount of tissue could plug the stream gushing out of her nose, it was never ending.

Soon came the voices and hallucinations. It was different from the usual times she would hear herself talk, this time it sounded disparate - distorted in a sense. Degrading and belittling her, telling her to give in to her sins and to let it cleanse her of all the negative thoughts and feelings swimming in the deep, dark pit of her chest.

Then there was quiet. Peace. Not a single breath could be heard. But it seemed a switch had been flipped, the painful screams ripping from her throat as a burning sensation overcame her body. It was like her body was set alight, fire coursing just below her skin and deep within her bones. It was like no other feeling she had ever experienced.

Soon followed darkness. Just an empty void. Her consciousness was locked away deep inside her mind, like her brain had put her on pause until further notice. Floating weightlessly within the depths of her mind, free from the thoughts and torment her own subconscious inflicted upon her.

Y/n shot up with a gasp, her skin was clammy with cold sweat. Her clothes clinging to her body as she pushed the damp locks away from her face. It was just a dream. It wasn’t real. Or so she kept telling herself. Her eyes were still clouded with sleep, blinking a few times as they slowly focused. The young girl looked around, breathing a sigh of relief once she took in the surroundings around her.

The day-care, on the ground level of Green Home, was packed tightly with the residents from the upper floors, all spread out on the floor sleeping somewhat peacefully. Y/n pushed herself up off the floor, carefully stepping over stretched out limbs as she trudged out of the room. The air was cold, something she wouldn't usually welcome but it was a big contrast to her burning skin. The young girl had sat on the floor of the lobby, staring out of the main doors enshrouded by the shutters as she took in the destruction outside the complex. Monsters roaming around carelessly, cars tipped over on their sides, buildings barely standing. It was the complete opposite of how the city looked a couple days ago.

Shuffling could be heard beside the girl, it was quiet but she still heard it. Y/n turned her head slowly to look at what, or who, was making the noise, only to see the brooding Pyeon Sang-Wook leaning against the wall beside her; a cigarette perched between his lips. Burn scars littered the side of his face, travelling down his neck tucking itself away into the collar of his leaf print shirt. No one knew much about Sang-Wook, he looked like a force to be reckoned with and that was enough for the other residents to steer clear of him, though not the younger Lee sibling. Eun-Yu could be seen trailing behind the man every chance she had, it was endearing in an odd sort of way.

Y/n turned back around, ignoring him like she did with everyone else. She was an antisocial little thing, keeping to herself even while the world ended in front of her very eyes. The only person she seemed to tolerate was Cha Hyun-Su and still, it was to a bare minimum. The pair never really talked, instead she would sit outside the door to the room he had been locked away in, staring at him like he was some kind of science experiment. She didn't care he was part monster, no, she was intrigued by it.

Sang-Wook eyed the young girl, deep brown irises taking in the side of her face that was on view for him to see. Deep purple bags kissing below her eyes, making them look sunken. Her skin looked pale, but maybe that was just down to being locked inside the complex with near to no sunlight. The older man was quiet, observing her like she was nothing he had ever seen before.

"Even if the world has ended, you could still have some manners and not stare." Y/n spoke up, her voice a little gravely. She didn't need to look at him to know the exact look on his face. Eyebrows knitted together ever so slightly, his jaw ticked faintly that even someone with 20/20 vision wouldn't be able to pick it up. Sang-Wook scoffed, taking a long drag of his cigarette though he didn't speak, he never did. It was something Y/n loathed. The young girl huffed, turning her whole body to face Sang-Wook as she stared up at him.

"The scars. How did you get them?" She spoke up once more, this was the first time she had spoken more than one sentence to anyone in Green Home. Her eye's were trained on the older man, almost taunting him as she leaned forward on her elbows. Sang-Wook still didn't answer, just looking at her with a blank expression. The pair were interrupted from their mini staring contest by Lee Eun-Hyuk, the appointed leader of Green Home.

His glasses sat snuggly on the bridge of his nose as he looked between the two with a knowing gaze, his honey brown eyes locking onto Y/n's face for a moment before he looked away. "Why are you awake?" And there it was, the tone of pure annoyance. Y/n looked up at Eun-Hyuk quizzically, her head tilted to the side as if she didn't know what he was talking about. Though she didn't utter a single word, opting for staying quiet as she turn back around to peer out between the shutters once more.

It had been approximately four days since the outbreak. The residents of Green Home all crowding around together in the lobby as Eun-Hyuk explained the buddy system to everyone, telling them they always had to have their counterpart with them at all times in case a monster somehow got into the building. Y/n had the unfortunate pleasure of being paired up with Eun-Hyuk himself, saying something along the lines of "I don't trust you can take care of yourself." Which had earned an irritated grumble from the girl, muttering insults under her breath as she slumped back against the steps leading up to the now blocked stairwell.

It wasn't that she hated Eun-Hyuk, she just didn't believe in his views or entirely like how he lead the group of survivors but like she could do any better. The young girl trailed behind Eun-Hyuk, her hands shoved into the pockets of the dirtied hoodie that barely fit her. She followed the older Lee sibling everywhere, from the security office all the way to the bathroom where she stood outside tapping her foot impatiently, and yet she still didn't talk. That was until she saw fit.

Everyone was chilling in the day-care, opening the packages they had gotten before the lockdown had happened. Chatting away about what they would do once everything was back to normal. Just outside the room though, Eun-Hyuk was talking with Hyun-Su, Sang-Wook and Yi-Kyeong about going down into the garage to see if there was a way out. Y/n was leaning against one of the walls, listening in on the conversation.

"I want to go. I know where they keep the keys to the cars down there." She spoke up, her voice just loud enough for the group to turn around and look at her in shock. "Not happening." Eun-Hyuk was the first to say anything, his eyebrows knitted together as he scowled at the girl. "If you're going down there then I have to too, buddy." Sarcasm laced her tone as she spoke, her eyes glaring at Eun-Hyuk slightly. And just like that, she had been accepted as part of their little group of monster hunters.

[deathmetalunicorn1]

apollo, hades and hermes reacting to his fem s/o gets transformed into her younger self (around 12 lets say) and now grown so is just epitome of sweetheart and loving person but when she was younger, she was such a hater! like even maybe hate man because of unsaid stuff and just judging everyone around and them, with that “stink” face (i hope you know what face i am talking about lol), she gets back to normal after 2 weeks so how would they react to younger version of his s/o?

-(Love’s) eyelid could only twitch, staring down at his lover, you… well you from several years ago. You had somehow reverted to twelve years old, and you had no memory of him.

-He had called around, hearing that this had happened all over Valhalla, but the good news was that you would return to normal, like the others, after a few hours.

-(Love) smiled, coming back to where he had left you on the couch, scrolling through your phone, “You’ll be back to normal in just a few hours Y/N!”

-You rolled your eyes, your lip curling up for being interrupted as you scoffed, “Whatever.”

-Comical tears appeared in his eyes, he had no idea that you had been so…salty when you were younger. It didn’t fit as you were always just a sweet and gentle person; you would sometimes cry if someone would raise their voice at you, so to see you like this was… unusual.

-He just smiled, trying to be friendly and make the best of the situation, sitting beside you but giving you your space, as you made that very clear when he first found you like this, “Won’t you be happy to be back to your normal self?”

-You looked at him over the top of your phone, a slight glare on your face, “I’ll be happy to get away from you and your stupid haircut.”

-Apollo- The back of his hand lifted to his mouth, appalled by your words as he turned pure white in horror before he fell from the couch in slow motion, landing face down on the ground where he quickly was in tears. You weren’t bothered, putting your headphones on as you played your game. Apollo could only pray that you would change back soon- he wants his sweet Y/N back! When you returned to normal you weren’t allowed to leave his lap as he covered you in kisses, wanting you to be sweet like you always were.

-Hades- Ouch- okay that hurt, and he felt his eyelid twitching at your snark. He raised three brothers; this was going to be nothing!! Two hours later Hades was at the kitchen table, his head in his hands, two empty coffee cups before him. He didn’t know how your parents were able to deal with you as you broke him. He snuggled you extra hard when you returned to normal, taking out his aggression on you in the form of cuddles.

-Hermes- Had turned to stone, completely shocked that you were so salty and mean. He just thought you were scared, that’s why you were so distant from him, but to hear you insult him, being mean- his brain short circuited. Hermes was very pouty that evening, hugging you from behind while you cooked dinner, now back to normal and you smiled warmly, “You’re awfully affectionate tonight.” He didn’t respond, hugging you tighter, glad to have you back to normal.

[my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction]

My Lord

Prince John x F!Reader • Rating: 18+ pals Masterlist• ao3• want to be tagged? | request info • Kinktober 2023 Masterlist • Day 7: Slow and Soft

Summary: The ex-Prince is condemned to live out his days in exile.

A/N: Look, I know he’s got blue eyes in the film. But I have decided no. 

Warnings: one slap to the face, talks of marriage, oral (f receiving), dry humping, hand jobs, 'my love' as a term of endearment, typos, please let me know if I've missed a warning!

Word Count: 3178

Being exiled wasn’t as bad as he had thought. The weather was certainly better. 

No matter what he’d done, King Richard couldn’t bear to see his younger brother executed or locked up in some dank prison. So he’d stripped John of his titles and sent him overseas under the guardianship of the Marquess and Marquise.

Banished. 

Never allowed to return to England under punishment of death. 

It had taken weeks to get there, more than enough time for John to fester and drive himself to madness on the ship. Haunt himself with the imaginary horrors that were waiting for him. 

Instead, when they landed, he was treated well. Like a far-off, but still regal, cousin of the Marquess. Not that it stopped him from sulking for the first few months. 

However, the worst thing was, undoubtedly, you. 

At least at first. 

You were one of the head servants. Though you were treated more like one of the Marquess and Marquise's children, with the amount of freedom you were given. And the language you were allowed to use. The offhand and familiar way you spoke to them and him. 

It had driven him up the wall. Your snide comments. Your little eye rolls. The way you somehow managed to sidestep him, and challenge him, and completely get under his skin at every single opportunity. 

You had been the one to drag him out of his rooms in those first few months, not taking no for an answer. 

“It’ll do you no good moping around here all day, my lord.” The way you said the title always sounded like an insult. 

You took him on walks and rides, to markets and tailors, making him come with you to choose a horse. Demanding that he helped you prepare vegetables, making him carry his own bow and arrows when you both went hunting. Things that were beneath him. Things that he hated, dreaded. Until one morning, when you were accompanying the Marquise on a trip and had been away for a few days, he had woken up in such a foul mood. Realising only in the evening with a huff that he missed you. That he couldn’t remember a time when he had been happier than being in your presence. 

Not to say you still didn’t annoy the hell out of him. 

Originally, you didn’t even have much to do with the ex-prince. It was only when John’s spitefulness had upset some of the other servants, and in turn, the Marquess, that you had been sent to ‘deal’ with him. 

He had nearly been in exile for a year at the midsummer festival. Had become a little too intoxicated on barley wine and, as you helped him to his chambers, he had kissed you. Soft but demanding. Gentle but unyielding. 

You had pulled back like you had been struck by lightning. And smacked him across the face. Hard. Not some dainty brush of your fingers. Or a sharp sting of your palm, no, you had hit him with the heel of your hand. A bowl that would have nearly sent him sprawling even if he hadn’t been drunk. 

You had left without a word. Or look his way. 

The next morning John had risen late, memories of the previous night coming back in a rush, of him fisting his cock with tears of anger and self-pity on his skin. Quickly, he realised you had not come to wake him at the usual time. 

He had enquired after you, subtly of course. And the young servant boy, Lucas had told him that you had left instructions for the ex-prince to not be awoken, due to his previous intoxication and late night. That you had headed out into the woods early in the morning. 

He didn’t see you until late afternoon, having spent most of the day in his rooms, staring out of the window to the woods, waiting for your return. He bit at his nails until they bled, going back and forth with the idea of readying his horse and riding out into the forest after you. 

He had pretended to be in bed when you knocked and came into his room, bringing him white flower tea. 

You hadn’t looked directly at him, keeping your voice oddly cold as you explained that the tea would help with his hangover, and that the flowers were from the forest. 

His heart had nearly broken when he released you had spent most of your day collecting them for him. 

“I’m sorry.” He whispered. Pain running through his heart like needles through fabric. 

You looked at him then, a small kind smile on your face. “For what, my lord?” Your normal tone back. 

John beamed, his eyes shining. 

You swallowed. “I am sorry, my lord.” 

“For what?” 

You tapped your cheek, mirroring the bruise on his face.

His smile widened and he shook his head. 

When during the evening meal the Marquess asked about the bruising, John had simply laughed and told him that he had had a small disagreement with someone at the festival who had a ‘mean right hook’. He made sure he caught your eye as he said it.

You both went back to your normal routines. Dancing around each other, while simultaneously spending most of your waking hours together. 

Nearly a month after the festival you had accidentally walked in on him after his bath, his hair still wet from the rose water as he sat on his bed and fisted his cock. 

Apologies had slipped from his tongue, despite the fact that you’d technically barged in on him. But you had simply walked around and sat down next to him on the bed. He watched you in a trance as you took hold of his length in your hand. 

“Let me help you, my lord.” 

He had tried to kiss you again, but you moved your face away. 

Wordlessly and without looking at him, you coaxed him further onto the bed and sat with him between your thighs, his back against your chest as you wrapped one arm around him and used the other to bring him to his release. 

You had left silently, leaving him to the dark night and slumber. But you spoke to him the following morning as if nothing had transpired between you. 

The next evening, just before bed, you came to his room again and stroked him until he found his release with a sob in your arms. 

You did the same the next night, and the next, and the next. Never allowing him to kiss you or touch you in a way that could cause your own pleasure. Always fully clothed while he was stripped bare. Over the next weeks, you slowly allowed him to hold your hand, arm or calf as you touched him. Let him grasp onto you as his orgasm overtook him. 

It hurt. Though he didn’t want to dwell on why. 

However, no matter how hard he tried, his thoughts kept rotating back to you. Your soft skin, gentle hands and the sound of your heart when he pressed himself close to your chest. 

John leaned against the wall, looking out to the dark night sky. 

You came into his room silently, only looking to him once you’d reached the bed. You’d expected him to be sitting on it ready, unclothed. Instead, he stood, still in his attire from the day. 

You barely manage to raise an eyebrow before he moves towards you, taking hold of your hands in his. His skin is cold, desperate for your heat. 

“My lord?” You frown. 

He takes a step forward, his heart racing, eyes shining in the candlelight. Slowly he raises his right hand and touches your cheek, brushing over your skin with his thumb. 

His touch is soft, gentle. As if you were some precious thing that would break under the smallest pressure. Some skittish animal in the woods. 

You gaze back at him, his slightly parted lips, his dark eyes, unable to focus on any feature for longer than a second.

He leans forward, moving to kiss you and you step back, pulling your hand from his as if he burnt you. 

“My lor-”

“My love,” he looks at you imploringly. The thudding pain in his chest sharpening, beseeching. Like he had been gutted and strung out, his ribs broken and split outwards so that you could view his beating heart. 

“I am not your love.” You whisper, there is no heat in your words.

“You are.” He takes a step forward and drops to his knees when you step back. “You are.” He says brokenly, his voice thick. “Please, please, I do not need to be yours. I do not... I wish I was. But you are mine. My love. You will always be my love.” 

You swallow and stare at him, almost frozen by his words. 

“I... I...” he screws up his eyes, all the words he wanted to say mixing up and fleeing in the moment. “You do not need to return my feelings, but please, know that I will always love you until my dying breath.” 

You shake your head, pain tight in your chest. “I’m not,” you breathe deeply, your voice softer than he has ever heard it. “My lord, I am just your servant, I serve-”

“I love you.” His voice breaks slightly at the end. The weight of the words too much. “I love you,” he slowly takes hold of your hand, pressing his lips to your knuckles and palm. “I love you.” He kissed your wrist, staring up at you imploringly and kissing up your arm when you did not move away. “I love you.” Cautiously he stands so that he can kiss your collarbone, your neck, your jaw, your cheek. “I love you.” He whispers. 

You hold your breath, searching his eyes for something he’s not sure you’ll be able to find. Carefully he inches forward, closing the small space between you. 

You don’t move, don’t lean to him, but you don’t back away. Softly he presses his lips against yours, almost sobbing when you finally touch. 

He pulls back a fraction after a second. “I love you,” he whispers against you. “Please, let me love you.” 

You shake your head, agony tight in your throat. You can’t look at him. Not when his voice is so soft, not when your body and heart are crying out for you to give in to him. “There are plenty of others who could warm your bed for you my lor-”

John rushes forward, kissing you again. This time his lips are demanding, pleading as he cups your cheek and slowly opens your mouth with his own. He groans when you part your lips and let him inside. “I do not want someone to warm my bed.” He kisses you desperately, stroking your tongue with his. “I want to give you my heart.” 

You moan softly into his mouth, grabbing hold of his arms and pulling him closer, pressing your body up against him. 

He groans against you, moving you back to press you against the wall and hitching your right leg up over his hip so that he can grind his aching cock against your heat. You gasp as he presses against your clit, focusing all his attention on caressing you where it makes you cry out the loudest, happily swallowing down your mewls and whines. 

He squeezes your breast with his right hand, pinching the pebbled nipple and moaning when you whimper and arch into his touch. 

He ghosts his lips down your neck, sucking a love bite into your skin just below your ear. His beard scraps deliciously at your skin and sets your nerves alight. 

You bite down on your lip, trying to muffle your cries. 

“Let me love you,” he whispers, his voice low and heavy as he ruts desperately against you. “Let me show you, let me make you sing for me.” 

He kisses you roughly, needily, all tongue and teeth as he pulls at your skirts, snaking his hand under the fabric. 

You want to give in, want to let him pull sounds and sensations from you as his heart desires but panic grips you.

“Wait,” you pull back. 

He stops, stops his kisses and his roaming hands but still stays pressed close. 

“My lor-” you bite your lips together when you see the flash of pain on his face. “My...” you touch his cheek softly. You want him, you want him so badly. “I cannot, I haven’t...” You swallow. “I...”

“I wouldn’t cum inside.” He mutters, pressing his palm flat against your stomach. Even as he says the words a slight groan escapes him at the thought of you spread out under him, full of his cock and spend. “Not until we’re married, you have my word.” 

Your thoughts stop for a second. “Married?” 

He nods and smiles. “If you’ll have me.” 

“My lord-” 

He presses his lips to yours again, kissing you languidly before he drops down to one knee. 

Your eyes go wide. Words escaping you. 

“I have asked the Marquess and Marquise. They have given their blessing; I can marry you if you wish it.” 

Your heart hammers in your chest, the way he phrased it. As if he were the servant wishing to marry a lord. 

Slowly he takes off the jewelled ring on his little finger, one of the few things he had been allowed to keep from his time as prince. “Will you take me as your husband?” He looks up at you nervously. “Will you take me as yours?” 

You nod, not trusting your voice for a moment. “Yes.” 

His eyes light up as you speak, a wide smile breaking across his face as he softly takes your hand and slips the ring onto your finger. He kisses each knuckle, and then the back of your hand before standing and pressing his lips back to yours, slow and soft. 

Gently he guides you to the bed, freeing you of your clothes and pressing you back down against the mattress. 

Uncertainty bubbles in your veins as he moves his hands down your body, slowly feeling every inch of you. He pinches your nipples with vigour, dipping his head so that he can take one into his mouth. Lavishing your breast with attention before moving on to the other. 

He groans, deep within his chest, looking up at you through his lashes when you gasp and moan softly. So determined to pull every ounce of pleasure he can from your bones. 

Languidly he kisses down your stomach, pressing your thighs apart. 

You nervously go to cover your sex, heat breaking out on your skin. 

“My lo-”

“Let me make you feel good.” He murmurs, his voice laced and heavy with lust. His eyes hungry and wild. 

You barely manage a nod before he dives to your core, licking a long, flat stripe through your folds with his warm tongue. 

You gasp loudly, quickly covering your mouth with your hands as he does it again, flicking your clit with the tip of his tongue. 

He’s a demon, possessed and ravenous as he devours you. Slowly sinking his tongue into you and then inching up painstakingly slowly. Ending each movement with a swirl around your clit that has your thighs shaking and stars building at the corners of your eyes. 

You moan against your hands, the sensation all-consuming as he erases any other possible thought. You can’t stop squirming, simultaneously trying to get closer, nearer, desperate for more pleasure, and trying to back away from the heady onslaught of your senses. 

He doesn’t let you escape, pressing firmly against your thigh and keeping you spread wide for him, his hand on your stomach keeping your back flat to the bed. 

“You taste so sweet, my love.” He looks up at you, his eyes dark, blown wide and drunk. 

You open your mouth, moving your hands away to speak when he leans forward, sucking your clit into his mouth and revelling in your cry of pleasure. In how your muscles tense beneath him. 

He gently presses two fingers inside of you and curls them upwards to stroke your walls. 

You shake under him, your hips bucking up against him unthinkingly as you gasp and sink into pleasure. 

John watches you intently through hazy eyes, sucking constantly on your bundle of nerves, watching your every movement keenly. Desperate to lift you higher and higher before you come crashing down. 

He strokes against a spot that makes you sob and focuses all his attention on it, your slick coating his fingers and dripping down his hand. 

The pressure begins to build uncontrollably, pushing you right to the edge. You grope around for his hand on your stomach, grabbing it firmly. He squeezes back and groans against you as fresh wetness hits his tongue. 

You moan loudly against your fingers, trying your best to dampen the sound as lightning runs along your nerves, your orgasm rippling through every limb. You gasp, contorting in your pleasure as John doesn’t stop, keeps stroking, keeps sucking, prolonging your bliss for as long as he can. 

Finally, your legs stop shaking and he pulls his mouth away, slowly pulling his fingers from your dripping folds. 

You mewl as he licks them clean and pulls off his clothes. It’s not like it’s the first time you’ve seen him naked, but it feels different. Personal. A sight all for you. 

He leans down, kissing you hungrily and settling between your legs. 

The weight of his thick cock, hot against your core makes you gasp. You sink your hand into his hair, pulling lightly at his curls as he rubs his length against you, spreading your slick all over his aching cock and grinding perfectly on your clit. 

You sob against him, holding him close as he keeps moving, building up a deep and overpowering friction. That bottomless weight starts to settle in your belly again, the coil growing tighter and tighter as he rubs and ruts against you. 

You grab hold of his arms tightly and rock with him, trying to gasp out and warn him of your impending orgasm. “I... my lor-my love!” You gasp as he hits perfectly, his thick length massaging wonderfully over your bundle of nerves and through your folds and you gasp as you cum again. Pleasure blossoms along your spine, kissing every nerve as you cry out and are overtaken by ecstasy. 

John groans, moaning loudly as you call him ‘your love’. The look of bliss on your face, the fact that you are falling apart for him drives him to the edge and pushes him over. He kisses you sloppy, whining into your mouth as he spills against both of your stomachs. 

He doesn’t stop kissing you as you come back to yourself, breathing hard. Your skin is sweaty, hot, but you keep him in your arms as he presses close and whispers sweet words in your ear. 

____________________________________

Thank you for reading! (Using a different tag list for kinktober so I don't overwhelm anyone.)

@flightlessangelwings @steven-grants-world @lonelyisamyw-0love @eyelessfaces @angel-of-the-moons @campingwiththecharmings @minigirl87 @whatthefishh

If you'd like to be taken off the tag list please let me know here

[cheezeybread]

I feel no matter the character development, Kalim is still gonna struggle with doing what needs to be done to protect his family from everybody who wants him dead. I headcanon that his obliviousness is his coping mechanism for all of this and that he is in fact just as observant as Jamil, but that won't really be enough for this sunshine to face the evils of the Scalding Sands. So could I request Kalim with a lover who is just an absolute badass. As in before coming to twst they were the child of a diplomat/politician, so they're already very aware of how messy things can get and have no qualms about hurting the people who hurt them first. With Kalim and other loved ones they'll be cheerful and playful, but with enemies they go full maverick.

Specifically I'd like a oneshot of Kalim taking his lover to visit his family and papa Asim is asking them what they could provide for the family (since unfortunately they can't just let anyone marry into the Asims cause they're so rich and so powerful). All the s/o asks for is one month. They spend their vacation chilling with Kalim, bonding with his siblings, and chatting up fellow nobles.

Cut to one month later and the reader dumps this mile long report of every single person that wants them dead, all the evidence compiled against them, and plans for how they could be "handled" lethally or non-lethally. What was that they did in that one month? Create the Asim equivalent of the FBI and get dirt on just about everybody. They grew up in a modern day equivalent of the Imperial Chinese Court (meaning plots, scandals, endless assassinations, and just sooooo much drama), the Scalding Sands is like child's play for them.

I'm all for Kalim being more self-aware than people give him credit for! I mean, come on, he may be a silly little guy, but I believe 100% that he's choosing to be that way on purpose as a coping mechanism! I do the same thing, honestly.

───✱*.｡:｡✱*.:｡✧*.｡✰ ───

The head of the Asim household could be very imposing whenever he wished to be.

It threw you off guard, at first.

Kalim had been telling you about how great his father and mother was ever since he first proposed the idea of you coming with him over the break, saying how fun it would be, and how much his parents were looking forward to meeting you. He had hyped up the trip so much, emphasizing how nice and kind his family was. As soon as you walked through the door, you saw firsthand how right he was.

His mother embraced you with open arms, quite literally, wrapping you in a bone-crushing hug that would make Floyd jealous. His father slapped you on the back with the same bright, sunny smile that Kalim had- the same smile that first made you fall in love with his son. And the kids, by the Seven, the kids! The older ones were friendly and kind, but stepped away after initial greetings. But the younger ones were hyper and jumpy, all hopping in your arms and fighting for your attention. Even the youngest of them all, a small toddler who could just barely walk, managed to waddle up to you and tug on your pants until you picked him up.

Kalim was very pleased by all this, to say the least.

But then Kalim's father asked to speak to you in private, assuring your boyfriend that it was only to get more acquainted with you. So you had no unease about following the large man into a well-decorated room. As soon as the door was closed, the bright smile adorning his face vanished, replaced instead by the hardened, weathered look of a man who has seen horrors beyond comprehension. Or, at least, that's the vibe he gave off.

"I'm going to give it to you straight, Y/N," He said softly, his eyes narrowing as he looked at you with a calculating stare "In this family, there are...a great many dangers. I can't count the times my life has been in danger, and anybody who enters our family needs to be able to not only protect themselves and their spouse, but any potential children. I've had to kill men with my bare hands in these very halls...men who wanted to hurt my wife, my children."

He put a calloused hand on your shoulder, and you felt your stomach drop with a sudden well of nerves "I need my son to be protected, and I know that he can protect you, but I need to know that you have a...special skill set, let's say, to keep him alive and well."

At the end of the month, he said after a long spiel of the family's history, he expected to be shown what you could provide to the family and their wellbeing. If you did so, he promised, he would accept yours and Kalim's relationship with not only his blessing, but with the pride and acceptance of the entire family. Although, of course, you shouldn't speak of this conversation with Kalim, lest he attempt to help you in this endeavor.

After speaking with you, the bright and cheery look returned, and the two of you walked out of the room.

After the two weeks of break were over, you and Kalim (unfortunately) had to go back to the NRC campus, but you continued on in your personal endeavor. Two weeks after that, you nagged Crowley to give you permission to go back to the Land of Scalding Sands.

You stepped through the mirror with a sense of purpose, a thick folder stuffed with paper held protectively under your arm. To the house of Asim you went, requesting an audience with the head of the house to the guards standing outside. It took a while for one of the guards to go inside and fetch Mister Asim, all while the remaining guard kept his gaze fixated on you. Like you were here to hurt the family or something.

"Ah, so you've returned!" Greeted Kalim's father, ushering you to join him on the other side of the gates. At his approval, the guard opened the entrance, and you stepped inside gratefully.

"So," he began, placing a hand on your back as he began a slow walk around the estate, you assumed for privacy reasons "Tell me what you've brought."

"Let me first begin, sir, by telling you something that Kalim apparently forgot to mention that my family understands the plights that your faces. My father was a politician in his prime, and although he is retired at this point, his opinion still holds a great influence on those in higher positions of authority," You flicked a finger over the folder under your arm "As such, those who'd like to be rid of his influence, or simply disagree with the values he upheld while in office and the policies he enacted have had a great effect on the lives of me and my family. Homicide attempts were not uncommon growing up, although we didn't have the pleasure of being able to afford such high security," you chuckled, sticking a thumb back towards where the guards at the entrance were. You glanced over at Kalim's father, hoping to gauge some level of his emotions. But his face was unreadable.

"As such, I've gained some valuable skills to keep myself alive, and ones that may come in handy for yourself, as well, sir," You held up the folder, allowing him to take it.

As he flicked through the pages in the folder, his eyes narrowed, and his mouth opened slightly "What..is this?" he asked, although he feared that he already knew.

"I was in this land for two weeks, sir," You said, your voice gaining more confidence by the minute "During that time, I went out to eavesdrop and peruse through the marketplace. You know how much gossip is spread there-? Anyway, I learned of some names of those tossed around, claiming threats that didn't sound like they should be taken idly. Those who had plans set and in effect to take the lives of the Asim family."

"But these aren't just their names-" He started.

"I had two more weeks, if you recall," you interrupted, giving him a satisfied smile "Two weeks to find suitable...eh, let's say... punishments, for those listed. Ways to easily dispose of them without causing panic to the public nor cause any undue distress on their own families. As well as methods of getting them to talk and divulge information on any more conspiracies against you."

The head of the Asim household took a few more minutes to look through the papers before he began laughing, a deep, hearty sound. He looked up at you with a genuine smile, nodding his head gratefully.

"Welcome to the family, Y/N."

[strnsvt]

xu minghao — moonlit chronicles : memories & commitments.

the moon cast a soft glow through the windows, illuminating the cozy living room of your apartment.

minghao and you sat cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by a mountain of freshly laundered clothes. the repetitive sound of fabric being smoothed out filled the room as you worked side by side.

"can you believe how much laundry we go through in a week?" minghao chuckled, breaking the comfortable silence.

you smiled in agreement, "i know. it's never-ending,"

as you reached for another shirt, your hand brushed against something tucked away in the small cupboard below.

curious, you opened it and found a dusty photo album nestled among old magazines and knickknacks. minghao glanced over, setting aside the shirt he was folding.

"hey, look what i found," you said, pulling out the album and flipping through the pages until you came across an old school picture, where you both were no older that 6.

"wow, i haven't seen this picture in years," minghao remarked, studying the photo of his younger self surrounded by classmates.

"do you remember anything from that day?" you asked, curiosity piqued.

minghao paused, memories flickering across his face. "actually, yeah. it was the day of the puzzle challenge in class,"

"and do you remember what you did to my puzzles?"

"yeah," he chuckles, "you were so close to finishing it, and i..."

"complete the sentence, xu minghao,"

the scene shifted to a flashback of a younger you sitting in a classroom, surrounded by scattered puzzle pieces. the puzzle neared completion, every piece fitting snugly into place.

just as you were about to place the final piece, minghao swatted it away, causing you to gasp in horror as minghao grinned mischievously.

"...and i poured water on your hard work. hey, don't tell me you're still mad at me for that,"

"i'll never forgive you," you say jokingly.

"sorry, couldn't resist," he teased.

as you continued to flip through the pages of the dusty photo album, your eyes landed on another school picture. this one of you and minghao, holding hands and smiling brightly at the camera.

"hey, look at this one," you said, a fond smile tugging at your lips as you showed the photo to minghao.

minghao's eyes widened in surprise as he took in the image. "i remember this," he murmured, a nostalgic warmth spreading through him.

the scene shifted to a flashback of a younger minghao and you standing in the schoolyard. tears glistened in minghao's eyes as he held both his ears, his lower lip trembling. "i'm sorry, y/n," little minghao said, his voice choked with emotion.

"it's okay, minghao," little you replied softly, reaching out to comfort him.

with a deep breath, minghao wiped away his tears and took your hand in his. together, the two of you ran outside to where your parents were waiting, eager to show them that you had made up and that you were friends again.

minghao took the album from your hands, his fingers tracing the worn edges as he flipped through the pages.

memories, both cherished and forgotten, came flooding back as he scanned each photograph.

then, he stumbled upon a particular page, and his breath caught in his throat. there, captured in the photograph, was a moment that seemed frozen in time.

a soft chuckle escaped minghao's lips as he stared at the image. "i remember this," he murmured, his voice filled with nostalgia.

you glanced over at him, curiosity evident in your expression. "what is it?" you asked, leaning closer to see what had captured minghao's attention.

a rush of memories flooded your mind as you took in the scene.

there you were, a younger version of yourself, wearing a tiara and holding a delicate flower in your hand. with younger minghao beside you, leaning in to kiss your cheek.

minghao's voice broke through the nostalgic haze, bringing you back to the present. "do you remember the context behind this picture, y/n?"

you nodded, a soft smile playing on your lips as you recalled the childhood promise made in innocence.

"you will marry me when we get big," young hao didn't even ask. he simply declared, "promise me, y/n,"

"i promise, hao," little you said, "pinky promise,"

minghao's gaze softened, a tender smile gracing his lips. "you kept your promise, y/n." with that simple acknowledgment, a sense of warmth and contentment washed over you both.

hand in hand, you closed the photo album, knowing that some promises made in childhood endure a lifetime.

and as the moon continued to cast its gentle glow, you and minghao shared a moment of quiet gratitude for the memories woven into the fabric of your lives.