#inside a timeless cage au | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

seokoloqy · 5 years

Text

No Face | myg (m)

➳ PAIRING: demon!yoongi x reader

➳ GENRE: supernatural!au, smut

➳ WORD COUNT: 11k

➳ WARNINGS: mentions of hoseok in a car accident and in a coma, mentions of jungkook overdosing, blood, choking (not sexual lmao), fingering, dirty talk, wet dreams, voyeurism, masturbation, unprotected sex, loss of virginity, creampie, Yoongi’s dick... has ridges :)

➳ SUMMARY: Desperate to save your comatose brother, you make a deal with an ancient demon who wears the faces of his previous masters. When you refuse to wish for anything else, what does a demon do when he no longer has orders? He learns how to be human.

➳ A/N: this is my @bangtanarmynet partner collab w @softjeon!!! As always lemme know what you think!!! Maybe now y’all can get over hades yoongi lmao

—

The woods this time of night should be petrifying in the harsh dead of winter. Darkness entraps everything in the forest. You've been wandering through the desolate woods for an hour now, trying to find the exact location you were told about. The tree you’re in search of has been rumored to be a site where people's wishes can be granted for a steep price. Only meant for those who are brave enough to sacrifice everything for one wish.

And you are dumb enough to sacrifice everything.

You have to do this. Even if it means sacrificing your soul, your life, to save someone else's. You have to save your brother, Hoseok, and you’ll do anything—absolutely anything.

That’s how you stumbled across Jimin, an expert on all things supernatural, in a desperate attempt to find a miracle.

Of course, you thought the eighty dollar price for Jimin’s absurd secrets meant it was a hoax, especially when he started explaining how this deal you were about to make works.

“A demon,” the man said cheerfully, plopping down the thick book in front of you.

“A demon?” you echoed, becoming more and more wary of the man. “Like… Like the devil and stuff?”

If you weren’t so desperate and had exhausted all your ideas of helping Hoseok, you would have run out once he said demon, calling him crazy.

Jimin nodded, excitedly flipping open the book for a specific page. “This demon grants wishes. Anything you want, as long as you’re willing to pay the price.”

That sends chills through you. You look down at the yellowed pages, skimming through the text, none of which you understood because it was all written in a different language. “What kind?”

“Ten years. That’s all it gives you.”

You had a feeling after ten years nothing good would happen. Jimin flips the page and on it is an ink drawing of a haunched creature, grotesque claws, and the face was nothing but a black smudge.

“After ten years the demon will consume your soul and steal your face to make it its own.”

The whole time you wander through the woods, boots crunching against the thick blanket of snow, pushing aside dead branches. The day has come to rest over the horizon and the moon rose over the valley, you feel like you've ventured even deeper into the void and there's no going back to safety now.

The deeper you wander into the abyss, the more you feel something eerie watching over you. Its eyes crawl over you, stalking your every movement like it wants to steal you away and trap you in its grasp. It must be the demon watching over you, hoping you must be foolish enough to come looking for it.

The tree Jimin told you about is supposedly easy to spot. Twisted branches, ancient text carved into the trunk of the tree that was all dead language. The area around it is untouchable not even the freshly falling snow can touch it. The tree is timeless, years will pass and it will remain the same even as generations live and die.

Your boots sink deep into the snow with each stride you take, pulling you deeper into the forest.

There is a low hum, a haunting call echoing through the trees and ringing in your ears that guides you towards the edge of a steep ledge. At the bottom, you get a glimpse of the twisted branches, scarred trunk scrawled with carvings, a perfect dark circle around the tree that remains untouched by the snow.

You carefully move down the slope to the tree, nearly sliding down and falling in the fluffy snow below. Once you step into the circle it’s warm, almost like summer heat. You look back at the blanket of snow, taking off your glove and sticking your hand outside of the circle to feel the cold biting your fingers. The drastic change in temperature is startling. This is definitely the right tree.

The backpack on your shoulder slides off and you crouch down to retrieve the knife you brought along, carefully tucked away in the pocket of the bag. The intimidating silver blade gleams and reflects beneath the moonlight as you inspect it.

Should you really be bringing a deadly weapon to meet a demon?

It doesn’t seem like the brightest idea, but then again none of this is a good idea. You’ve gotten this far, so desperate to save Hoseok you don’t even care right now if the demon will take your life in the end.

"Here goes nothing," you say, taking a deep breath in before running the blade across your palm. The burn of your open wound is temporary, stinging at your flesh is cut open and blood flows freely and meets to open air. Red blood pools in your palm, your other hand wiping away tears that have sprung in your eyes. "Fuck this. Fuck all this shit."

The tree seems to glow, sensing the new sacrifice about to come. You hesitantly lift your bloodied palm, blood freely flowing down your wrists and dripping off your elbow, tainting the dirt ground below.

There's no going back if you choose to press your hand against this tree and tie the demon trapped in it to you, but you won't let that fear hold you back from saving your brother.

You press your hand against the trunk, wincing when the rough wood touches your open wound. Blood drips down the wood, sinking into the slits and crevices. Your hand tingles with warmth and you no longer feel the pain in your palm. When blinding light emits from the tree, it forces you to clench your eyelids shut and turn away.

Soon the light fades and you're left in the chilling darkness, but not alone. The hairs on your arm begin to stand as a warning. You're afraid to open your eyes and be met with whatever creature you've just summoned.

"Why so afraid, master?" The voice, not a singular voice, more like multiple distorted voices speaking at once, calls out to you. "You're trembling. Is it because of the cold or are you just afraid of me?"

You bring your hand back from the tree, still refusing to open your eyes. "The cold."

"Liar," the creature says, monotone voice lowering to your ears. "You're a liar."

"No," your voice betrays you by cracking and you wince, afraid that its volatile personality will snap at you.

"Then look at me, master.”

The oil lamp flickers in its glass case creating an ominous atmosphere surrounding you. You force yourself to peek one eye open, seeing the tree bark stained red with your blood. Slowly, you turn your head, met with the horrifying creature. The face you're met with is no face at all. Just a black abyss looking back at you. It takes everything to hold your tongue and not scream out.

"Are you afraid?" It asks again.

"No." The wavering in your voice remains the same and the no faced creature scoffs.

"You’re a liar, but then again, they all are."

You cross your arm, refusing to let the creature control your feelings. "Maybe I am a liar, b-but you’re supposed to answer to me.”

The creature stands taller, mimicking your crossed arms. "You're right, master. So what is it you want?"

You wet your lips, "I need you to save my brother."

"Save?" It sneers. “I’ve never had to save anyone.”

You find the strength to explain, “M-My brother, Hoseok, he was in a car accident. The doctors said he might not…”

You didn’t need to hear the dreadful news from the doctors when you went to first visit Hoseok. You could see him through the glass window at the hospital hooked up to wires and tubes and it was clear to you that he was on the brink of death. He looked so lifeless. You could hardly stand the sight of your brother that way. You were too afraid to go into his room—afraid you’d feel death lingering by his side waiting to take him away from you forever.

The demon inches closer, curious now.

You resist shutting your eyes to block out its dark ghostly face. You’ll never be able to stand in the dark without imagining it lingering in the corner, watching and waiting to drag you into the darkness with it.

“Fine,” the demon sighs, lifting its hand. A hand that looks so real, not the grotesque claws you saw in Jimin’s book, if you hadn’t seen its face you would have believed it was human.

You flinch in fear it will grab you, steal your face early, or rip you to shreds. Instead, it snaps its fingers. You don’t feel muscles being pulled to shreds, your insides boiling, or anything physically painful happening to you.

“He’ll wake soon,” it says, dismissively shrugging its shoulders. “So, when are we going to have real fun, master? What do you really want? Money? Power? Name it. I’m dying to know.”

“I don’t want anything else,” you say resolutely.

“Nothing?” it says, despite the distorted voice, you can tell it’s shocked. “You’re a liar. There has to be something. All you humans are greedy, pathetic creatures.”

“I won’t make any more wishes.”

It shakes its head, moving to the edge of the ring. It looks down, although you can’t see its face when it sticks out its hand to feel the snow for the first time in years you sense that it is remembering what it feels like to be free of its cage.

“Let’s go.”

It steps out of the circle and into the fresh snow, looking as its feet sink in. You trail after it, as it glides through the snow with ease while you’re lagging behind, trudging through the deep snow. You feel out of breath trying to keep up with its fast pace, nearly falling over a few times.

“C-Can you slow down a little?” You call out.

It turns its head, unsettling inky darkness looking back at you, teasingly saying, “if you can’t keep up why don’t you wish for better speed?”

You grimace and don’t reply. Luckily, it stops walking to let you catch up to it. You try and run through the snow to get to it faster because the feeling of that darkness staring at you is frightening. Running blindly through, your foot snags on a branch buried beneath the white blanket and you nose dive right into the freezing banks.

The creature laughs. Its laughter hauntingly echoing through the woods with its distorted voice.

“Poor human,” it mocks.

You look up from the snow, your entire face numb from the cold. You’re beginning to hate this demon.

You pick yourself up with no help from it, wiping off the snow and marching on as if nothing happened, quietly simmering behind the sauntering demon. You walk behind it once again, staring curiously at the back of its ‘head’. It’s not really a head, just darkness shaped like a human head.

"Is that your… normal face?" You pipe up.

"Yes. Does this face frighten you, master?” The demon stops, turning around to face you. “Would you like a new one? I have taken many over the years, and soon yours will be added to my ever-growing collection."

The thought of this demon taking your face and using it to cause harm is unsettling.

"Maybe you'd prefer a sweet innocent face," the demon says. His face begins to smoke and a real human face appears in a matter of seconds. The doe-like features of the young man would almost make you think this demon was an innocent human. "You might recognize this face.”

You’re surprised to see a familiar face. One that was plastered over billboards and television screens daily, a world-famous star that died suddenly.

“J-Jungkook?”

A roguish grin appears on the star’s face—one you never thought you’d see up close.

Jeon Jungkook was a household name, a boy that seemed to come out of nowhere and shook the world with his talents. You were a fan at the start of his career when he was just a humble musician that rose to stardom through the Internet.

“Ding ding ding,” he laughs, an all too familiar laugh you heard through the television during interviews countless times. “Bet you never thought you’d see this cute face again.”

“B-But you… you’re not him, right?”

It’s impossible. He died nearly three years ago due to an overdose, at least that’s what the media said.

“Yes, I’m not the golden boy you knew. He’s long gone.”

So the demon is just wearing Jungkook’s face.

“He made a deal too?” You couldn’t understand why he would want to make a deal with a demon. He had everything—the talent, personality, looks. It was hard not to love Jungkook.

“Do you think that video of him singing would have gotten recognition without my help? He wanted to be a famous singer so I gave him everything he desired. He was humble like you at first, then he began wishing for drugs, alcohol, and lovers. By the time I took his soul, it was like there was nothing left of it. He was too consumed by his own greed and became an empty shell.”

You know Jungkook’s story, the downfall of one of your favorite singers, publicized by the media. Not a day went by without hearing about Jungkook caught up in some drug scandal. You had no idea it was all because he wished for it.

Near the end of his life, you could tell how tired Jungkook was through the screen, he was no longer the energetic, lively kid you saw on talk shows. The dark circles under his eyes and bar fight bruises couldn’t be concealed with all the makeup in the world.

It broke your heart to see him that way. All because he couldn’t stop wishing for more. The circumstances of his death become clearer to you now. It wasn’t an overdose, he made a deal with a demon and paid the price.

What if that happens to you? What if you become too greedy? The thought of being consumed by selfish desires scares you. Who would you be in ten years if you were to continue making wishes? Just an empty shell like Jungkook, making wishes to fill the unfillable hole in your chest.

“I wonder what sins will eat you alive, master."

You shake your head, “No! No, I won’t be like that. I don’t want to.”

The demon scoffs, rolling his eyes as if to say ‘sure’.

“I guess, his face won’t do out there anyway. Too recognizable, I don’t want to cause a frenzy. Think of the headlines: Jeon Jungkook risen from the dead?” He laughs again.

It’s unsettling to see Jungkook’s face, knowing how tragic the end of his life must have been. Now he’s being used as a puppet by a demon who’s laughing as if his death was something to joke about.

What you’re really looking at is a mirror. This will be you in ten years time. The demon will take your soul, your face and parade around, wreaking havoc. A chill runs through you.

“Let’s try Yoongi’s face, shall we? I haven’t worn him in centuries.”

Soon the beloved singer, Jeon Jungkook, molds into a stranger. You watch in amazement as his features morph easily. Even his hair shifts colors, dark brown roots bleeding into bleach blonde hair.

“How about this one?” His voice is different—lower, much more mature. But whoever’s face he takes on doesn’t change what he is. He is still a demon. You can’t forget that no matter what face he wears.

“He’s fine,” you dismiss. You just want to get out of the forest and back to someplace warm. The cold is beginning to numb your fingers and bite at your cheeks.

“Yoongi it is.”

—

Your eyes dart nervously around the bar. It's not so busy tonight, unusual for this bar, but you're glad there are no roaring voices. This chance gives you time to think about what you've done.

Before you even got out of the woods, you received a phone call from your parents, tearful voices exclaiming that your brother woke up from his coma. Yoongi really had given your brother a second chance. But as soon as your joy had worn off, the realization came crashing down around you.

Sitting here, staring into a shot glass, you dare to glance over at the lounging demon haunched over the bar with his own drink. You're not sure what he ordered, your thoughts a bit clouded at the moment, but his glass is tall and filled with a clear teal liquid and topped with a maraschino cherry.

His finger drags up and down the stem of the glass, a bored sigh escaping his mouth. You eyes move from his hand and hesitantly drag up to his face. You nearly jump out of your chair, hairs standing up on the back of your neck when you realize he has been staring at you the whole time.

His eyes are brown, nothing like the vermillion red color they frequently flash whenever he feels up to no good.

"So," he drawls, picking up his martini glass, having a small sip. "What's on your mind?"

There are many racing thoughts going around your head right now. You've just signed the rest of your life away to a demon, saved your brother, and are currently sitting and having a drink with the demon that's going to end your life in ten years.

"Nothing," you lie, turning your head back to your drink.

"You really like to lie to me, don't you?"

You don't reply, glancing to the side and catching the eye of the bartender staring at you. He looks away, flustered that you caught him staring, continuing to wipe down the counter.

You, in a sort of dizzying state from alcohol, are keenly aware of how cute the bartender is. Your eyes trail down the name tag on his shirt. Taehyung, it says.

Eventually, Taehyung reaches your side and casually wipes down the area next to you.

"How's it goin' over here?" He asks.

"Good," Yoongi answers gruffly before you have the chance to open your mouth to answer.

You attempt to laugh Yoongi's curtness off, "Oh, yeah, everything is great."

"Well, you look lost in tonight, just wanted to see how you were doing."

"I'm just feeling a little conflicted."

From the corner of your eye, Yoongi looks betrayed that you chose to confide in the bartender instead of him even though he asked you the same question just two minutes ago. In your defense, you'd rather speak to the cute bartender than the demon who eats souls and steals faces. What kind of advice could a demon offer you?

"Feel like talking?" Taehyung asks, throwing the rag over his shoulder and leaning against the bar.

"Hey, cutie," a drunken slur comes from behind you and takes a seat to your right.

You involuntarily lean closer to Yoongi to get away from the stranger's alcoholic breath, grimacing when he smiles and winks in a sad attempt to flirt.

"Hi," you politely respond, turning your head to look back at Yoongi's now empty martini glass, the stem of his maraschino cherry sitting on the counter. You try not to give the stranger the opportunity to talk any further with you, but he's persistent.

“How you doin’ tonight?” he slurs.

“Great.” You offer him a close-lipped smile and that’s all he gets out of you.

You do your best to ignore the stranger continuously pestering your right ear, turning to occupy yourself with the Taehyung and Yoongi. Now, you'd rather talk to the demon on your shoulder than some creep at the bar.

It’s clear the stranger doesn’t appreciate you ignoring him.

“Hey,” the man barks, reaching over to grab your arm. You flinch away, consequently pressing yourself against Yoongi who instinctively wraps an arm around you.

"She said she's not interested," Yoongi interjects, holding you closely. He's more annoyed than he was with the bartender and the energy radiating off of him is burning. If he wanted to he could decimate the man with a snap of his fingers, but he doesn't. He doesn't even let his gaze waver as he stares down the drunk.

"What you gonna about it?" the man challenges

"Look, buddy," Taehyung says, "How 'bout one more drink on the house and then I call you a cab."

The man mumbles a disgruntled 'fine' and Taehyung pours him another drink. He slides off the barstool with his complimentary drink and stumbles over to another undeserving girl minding her business.

You let out a relieved sigh, "God, I wish guys like that would just drop dead. They’re so annoying."

"Interesting." Yoongi smiles and you blanch, sensing exactly what he’s about to do. He brings his hand up and snaps his fingers.

Easily, the man that you had just been talking to crumbles over, groaning in pain, eyes clenched shut. The agony on his face terrifies you. You wished for him to die and now Yoongi is granting that wish. You're the one who's killing the man.

You shouldn’t have let your words slip out so easily. You didn’t mean it literally. A note of carefully phrasing your words better is placed in the back of your mind.

Taehyung immediately runs around the counter, calling out for someone to call the police as he goes to aid the man.

You grab onto Yoongi's shoulder, shaking him and try to plead with him silently. "I didn't actually want him to die! Don't kill him, Yoongi!"

"This is what you wished for though," he says calmly, watching in amusement as the man suffocates on his own tongue. "I'm only granting your wish."

"I take it back! I wish he wouldn’t die!"

Yoongi rolls his eyes and already the man is taking his last breath, face turning a light shade of blue from lack of oxygen. You cling onto the smallest shred of hope that Yoongi will spare the man's life. You wished for him to live so he should obey, right?

"But I didn't really like him that much either," Yoong shrugs, "maybe I want him to die."

"You can't do that," you nearly shriek, "Y-You're supposed to do what I tell you!"

Yoongi sighs, eyes rolling over to the gasping man. “I hate when they say that,” he mumbles, but you can hardly hear it over the choking and patrons screaming for help.

It takes a full second before he snaps his fingers again and the man takes a deep breath, the air finally returning to his lungs and color bringing his face back to life.

Your shoulders slump, face clasped in the palm of your hand. Your hands tremble against your cheek, despite relief flooding your system, you know the man's fate could have turned out worse.

"You seem to care a lot about whether or not a scumbag like him gets to live to harass another girl."

"It's not like that," you whisper, "I-I can't kill someone."

Your thoughts are conflicted. Maybe Yoongi is right. Maybe the man will go on to hurt someone in the future and this is your chance to stop it from happening. But you can't kill someone because they might be guilty. You can't know if this man would go on to do despicable things or if he was just some old drunk in a bar. You don't want to play God and decide who lives and who dies. You shouldn't get to choose. This power that Yoongi gives you is too much.

“Let’s kill him, master, make him suffer."

"No." You won't take a life. You already told yourself won't make another wish ever again.

Yoongi frowns, disappointed in your choice. “I was so sure you’d ask me to kill him.”

You slide off the stool and grab your bag to fish out money. "Well, I won’t be like all your other masters. We're leaving."

—

You both arrive at your apartment near eleven while the moon is slowly falling towards the horizon. It was a quiet ride on the bus. You tried your best to sit as close to the window as possible while Yoongi lounged lazily in the orange plastic seat, a content grin on his face.

He quietly commented on the city as it passed by in a blur, the subtle scent of musk, and how he preferred this mode of transportation over teleporting. He spoke as if the mundane parts of life were a luxury to him.

You didn't speak once, letting him ramble to himself while you were lost in thought. You didn’t seem to care much about how much the demon seemed to be enjoying the peace.

When you reach your house, you head straight towards the couch.

"You're too quiet, master," Yoongi notes, looking around your apartment and comparing it to his previous masters'. He must have seen much more lavish looking ones than the humble one-bedroom apartment you own.

"I don't feel like talking," you mumble, moving to throw yourself onto the couch. You grab a decorative pillow and bury your face in it to muffle a sigh. The familiar smell of fresh cotton eases your nerves until Yoongi falls down next to you. Too closely for your liking.

You remove your head from the pillow, surprised by how bleary your vision is from the tears building up.

"I think your face will be a wonderful addition to my collection."

You gulp, shifting away from the demon lounging too close for comfort. You're glad he is wearing a face and it's not just a black abyss you were first met with. Somehow the handsome face he is currently wearing lessens your fear, but it brings you anything but comfort.

Yoongi slouches into your couch. "I haven't been able to relax like this in centuries. My previous masters always had orders, something they wanted and couldn't wait for. I was a dog at their beck and call."

You shy away from the arm that slings itself over the couch, holding your breath as his fingers loop through your hair to entertain themselves with the loose strands.

"I’m sure you had to grant bad wishes but I don't want anything else from you. So, you can relax as much as you want.”

"Oh, you will want something. I guarantee it," he says confidently, "maybe not today or the next five years, but eventually, you'll give in."

The plan was to get help for Hoseok, that's it and you got your wish. No way you're going to let yourself be tempted to ask for more.

But maybe one thing won’t hurt. Paying off Hoseok’s hospital bills would be a big help. Maybe even paying off your college debt. It doesn’t sound too bad…

No! That can’t happen. The more money you ask for the more you won’t be able to resist begging for more.

You push yourself off the couch and away from Yoongi. It feels as if the more you're around him, the more you feel the desire to succumb to those deep desires.

“I said no!” you yell, unaware of the demon’s rising temper.

Yoongi’s hand darts out to grab your wrists, pulling you back down eye level to him, eyes turning the deep shade of red. You twist your arm, but he refuses to let you go. His anger radiates through the air, you can feel yourself begin to sweat.

“Stop denying what you want, you foolish little girl,” he snaps, “just make a wish, go ahead, ruin your life! Just like they all did before! You’re already going to hell, make the most of your dwindling years.”

You don’t want to stand here and listen to him remind you of how long until you’re going to die. Instead of fighting, fearful he might lash out further, you speak curtly, "I want to go to bed."

He releases you and you nod goodbye, skirting off to bed, worrying that the demon will follow.

Lucky for you, he doesn't move an inch from the couch, remaining there for the rest of the night even as you toss and turn in bed, whimpering from the nightmares plaguing your dreams of a faceless demon.

––

When the sun rises promptly over the horizon the next day, it's Yoongi who hovers over you silently waiting for your eyes to open.

"Good morning," the demon coos, surprisingly softly as if he were trying to wake a child from a nap.

"M-Morning."

"Any wishes today?" His lips curl into a devious smile, taking any softness he held away. His finger runs down your chin and traces your collarbone, touching your skin gently.

"N-No," you answer, hoping this question doesn't become a daily occurrence. You swat away his hand, getting off the bed.

He moves away from the edge of the bed, letting you get up and start your morning routine while maintaining a safe distance. He quietly stands in the background while you brush your teeth and wash your face, but doesn't leave the room when you change. You settle for making him turn around while you strip into work clothes.

"I can snap my fingers and make you rich. You’ll never have to lift a finger ever again. Don’t you want me to help you? Isn’t that why you sold yourself to me?" he says, eyeing a spoonful of golden cereal flakes.

He asked if he could have some of your breakfast so you poured him a bowl of cereal. You're not even sure he needs to eat it. He's more curious if anything.

"I-I didn’t sell myself to you!”

He makes it sound so scandalous.

Yoongi smirks but doesn’t say anything else.

“I don't want anything else," you groan. "What do you want me to say? After you nearly killed a guy yesterday, there's no way I'm going to make another wish. Like you said most of your masters were awful people who became greedy and selfish and I-I don't want to become that."

You stir your milk around, watching as the leftover, soggy flakes of cereal swirl around the ceramic bowl. You promised yourself you'd never make another wish, no matter how badly you want to. If you ever became as sick and twisted as Yoongi's former masters, you'd end your contract early and have him kill you.

You look up at Yoongi who has been quiet for a while now, odd for him to sit and not taunt you about something. Staring at his face, you wonder about the person he’s wearing. Yoongi isn’t the demon’s real name, just the name of the person whose face he’s wearing. You wonder if Yoongi, the human, felt pain when he died.

“How will you do it?”

“Hm?”

You swallow, letting your spoon go and watching it sink into the milk. “In ten years, when you have to… take my soul, will it hurt?”

Yoongi blinks, cocking his head a subtle amused grin on his face. “I don’t know. They never scream if that makes you feel better.”

It doesn’t.

“So, you’ll wear around my face after that?”

"I will,” he says. The reply is short and you’re not sure you want to hear more about what he’s going to do once he has your face. And after that, he adds, “this cereal is really good.”

Blinking, you gape at him, not expecting that. "Uh, yeah, d-do you want some more?"

"Mhm."

Yoongi follows you to work—in fact, he follows you everywhere. He never leaves your side, always glued to you and making comments about your mundane life and how he can make it more exciting if you just make a wish.

“Why do you never leave me alone?” You ask, finally fed up with the sound of his footsteps pattering behind you incessantly. You feel like he’s doting on you. Without any orders or wishes to grant, he has nothing to do. He can’t entertain himself by wreaking havoc because you won’t allow it.

Yoongi sips on his fruity beverage, blinking at you tiredly. He waits a beat to answer, “I have to protect you until the day you die. Your soul is mine to have and no one else’s.”

His words are heavy on your shoulders. It doesn't make you feel better. You'll never get away from him, huh? You'll always be reminded of the clock counting down on your life.

Yoongi moves past you as if the brief conversation was nothing to him.

“Come on let’s go visit your brother. I’m dying to meet him.”

—

"H-Hi, Hoseok," your voice barely comes out as a whisper, afraid you might break down and cry if you speak any louder.

"Hey! You finally came!" Hoseok smiles brightly, opening his arms wide to gesture you in for a hug. He’s sat up in his hospital bed, light blue gown on and disheveled orange hair. You're startled for a moment. The last time you saw your brother he had a tube stuffed down his throat and IVs running through his arm that all connected to beeping machines.

Pale and cold, that's how you remembered him and how you would have remembered him if you had let him die. He was on the brink of death, but you brought him back. Now he's returned to the brightest ray of sunshine you always knew. The hand you touch is warm, full of life, just like his smile.

The cost of what you did for him will always be there, lingering in the back of your head. But you'd save Hoseok again in a heartbeat no matter the cost. There is no price high enough that would make you give up your brother.

"You weren't here when I woke up and you barely answered up my calls and texts," he pouts and another pang of guilt hits you. He must think you were neglecting him. "I think you owe me an explanation. And..." He pauses, eyes darting over to Yoongi lingering near the sliding door. "Who's the guy?"

Hoseok is asking too many questions and he always has a way to get you to spill your guts. If he finds out you made a deal with a demon, he'd try everything to reverse it. You're not sure how he could, but you don't want to risk it.

"Just… just," you struggle to find an explanation for Yoongi.

"Her boyfriend,” Yoongi speaks from his place near the door.

You can’t believe the words that just came out of Yoongi’s mouth. Where the hell did that come from? You certainly didn’t prompt him to say that.

Hoseok’s brows raise, his lips form an ‘o’ shape. He looks between you and Yoongi. “I missed a lot, didn’t I?”

“Yeah you did, but I’m here to see you! I wanna know how you’re doing!” You try and divert the conversation away from Yoongi. If he starts asking how you met him, you’re going to let something slip.

You pinch his cheeks, laughing as he swats you away.

“Come on,” Hoseok chuckles, “you don’t visit me for almost two weeks and then turn up with a boyfriend out of the blue. I gotta know what my little sister has been up to.”

“Forget him, Hobi, seriously,” you groan, stepping into his view of Yoongi. You wish that the demon listened to you when you asked him to wait in the cafeteria or the hallway, but he always insists on staying close to you.

It’s like he watches every detail of your life closely, mimicking the way you speak to others, do things like ordering food or going about your day. You assume he’s trying to learn about life.

“Can I at least say hello?”

You begrudgingly take a step aside and gesture Yoongi to come in. The demon crosses over the threshold with a wry smile.

“Hi, I’m Hoseok,” your brother greets your ‘boyfriend’, extending his arm out for a handshake.

“Yoongi,” the demon says, “I’m glad to see you getting better. It’s like a miracle.”

You laugh awkwardly, ignoring Yoongi’s last comment.

“I know, I’m so thankful to be alive right now. And glad ___ is finally here to keep me company.”

“You’re lucky to have such a dedicated sister, Hoseok. I hope you never forget that.”

Yoongi sounds far away, raw and more… human that you’ve ever heard him. The longing in his eyes, now disguised as a warm brown, burns dimly, but it’s there.

You wonder what the demon with no face yearns for.

—

You came to the conclusion that if you only have ten years to live your life, you were going to live it to the fullest. You try and go places you’ve always loved and end up taking Yoongi places he's never been, and for an immortal being that has existed for centuries, there are a lot of places he's never been.

You first start with the amusement park where he discovers cotton candy for the first time. His sweet tooth is automatically attracted to the sugar coating his tongue and he continues to buy more and more. You can't help but smile at the joy in his eyes when he receives his fifth bag of cotton candy and he can't help but smile back.

And when he takes your hand to pull you towards the ferris wheel, your heart beats a little faster.

Even on casual days when you stroll down the street with Yoongi while he follows you to the grocery store and ask him if there’s anything he wants which causes him to stall. You were the only one of his masters that had ever really cared about him and it gave him a weird feeling in his gut. He can’t remember a time a human bothered to ask him what he wanted.

He was only meant to serve, nothing else. He helped others indulge in their selfish desires, but what about him? Here he is, given the chance to be free, to do what he wants without human orders controlling his every move. And he finds that all he wants to do with this freedom is spend it with you.

On a separate occasion, you have a day off and choose to stay up till midnight watching Titanic with him. When Yoongi sees you crying over the human sacrificing himself to save his lover, he feels an ache in his chest and wonders why you would willingly watch a movie that makes you cry.

He just doesn’t understand it. You tell him that it’s because it feels good to cry sometimes, that it’s cathartic. He can’t say that he’s had much experience with human emotions, but he knows that he doesn’t enjoy seeing you cry. It makes his chest tighten when he sees the way tears streak down your face and the way your nose reddens when Jack sinks to the bottom of a freezing ocean, leaving his lover behind.

Sacrificing yourself for someone you love to live.

Where has he heard that story before?

It doesn’t take long until he looks back at you to realize. You sacrificed yourself to save Hoseok and he was just the iceberg that ruined everything.

“Stop staring,” you chuckle, wiping away the falling tears. You can’t help, but cry every time you watch this movie and Yoongi being here to judge you doesn’t make you feel any better.

You hold your breath when his hand reaches out to brush a tear away. His hand cools off your heated skin as he tenderly caresses your cheek.

“I’ll always be a monster, won’t I?” he mutters under his breath, a sigh following after. "I'll never really be like you—no matter how many faces I take, no matter how many souls I consume."

It never occurred to you that the demon with no face longed to be human so badly.

"Yoongi..."

"I accepted it a long time ago," he brushes it off.

Yoongi knows he shouldn't, but he moves closer, pulling you into his chest. He wants something—someone—to hold. He desperately wants to be human and feel normal—to allow this pain in his chest to be normal.

Your heart hammers in your ears. Normally you’d pull away from his touch, but now it only brings you comfort. You stay like that through the end of the movie where Jack and Rose reunite once again in the afterlife. If there is an afterlife, would you ever be able to meet Yoongi there?

He rests his chin atop your head, sighing, "yeah… I've accepted it."

Somehow you doubt that.

—

You visited Hoseok once again where he continued to grill you about your mysterious boyfriend. You never let anything slip, letting Yoongi take the lead on explaining how you two met and fell in love. The tale he weaves together is surprisingly romantic and you wonder if he’s been watching romcoms without you to better understand humans.

The air once you step out of the hospital is a refreshing break from the strong sanitary odor of medical supplies and the lingering chill of death on your spine.

You said goodbye to Hoseok, making a promise to visit him again soon. After tonight’s visit, you feel… good.

“You seem happier,” Yoongi notes.

“You know what? I am.”

“You should,” he says, pulling his hoodie over his bleach blonde hair.

“This is all I could ever wish for. Hoseok’s happy and healthy thanks to you.” You pause, letting Yoongi take a couple of steps further before he realizes you aren’t next to him. “You know… I never really thanked you for saving him.”

His brows raise, furrowing when he realizes what you’re saying and how genuine you sound.

“Thank you?” He repeats as if he’s never heard the words or spoken them. “No human has ever thanked me before.”

You’re not surprised to hear it. You’re not sure what crazy person would ever thank a demon. But you can’t help but feel thankful for him. He brought your brother back to you, and no matter what price you’ll have to pay in the end, you’re glad to have him.

“Then I’ll be the first.”

“That makes me feel…” he looks to you expectantly, silently asking you to fill in his blank.

“Good?” You try.

He mulls the word over in his head as if trying to remember what it means and what it would feel like. Then he smiles, “yes, that’s the word.”

“All I’ve ever done is cause pain and suffering. I’ve always expected my masters to ask for selfish things, but these past few weeks I’ve learned what it’s like to be human. To not have orders.”

Yoongi looks up at the stars, shining in the darkness. He’s looked up at this unchanging sky so many times throughout his existence. It stays the same just like him.

“I like this freedom. I like what you’ve given me. Thank you,” he smiles at the stars. “Thank you, ___.”

—

“Goodnight, Yoongi,” you say, retreating into your room, waving at him awkwardly as he settles down on his usual spot on the couch. You don’t know why you feel so different. He thanked you tonight. Something he’s never done before, you never thought he would. You had no idea he felt that way. You were both thankful for one another which sounds impossible, but it’s true.

“Goodnight, ___, sweet dreams,” Yoongi replies, falling onto the couch with a content sigh.

You disappear into your room and settle into bed.

That night instead of the usual nightmares about a faceless demon ripping your soul away, you find yourself lost in sanguine eyes, rich as wine and a raspy melodious voice echoing your name and writes fire across your skin.

The heat in your core ignites at his slightest touch over your bare chest. You have no idea how you got undressed or why you felt so breathless in this darkened bedroom. A face comes out of the shadows, the features you know all too well.

“Yoongi,” you say, but it comes out as a whine, so desperate and wanton it hardly sounds like you.

You say his name again, but it’s muffled by his lips, soft and gentle. It’s not what you’d expect, but you don’t fight it. You simply melt under his touch and his hands do the talking.

His fingers brush the underside of your breasts, admiring the shape before fondling one, fingertips coming to pinch your hardened bud, rolling the tip between the rough pads of his fingers. You bite your lower lip, taking his hand in yours, pausing his motions. You slowly begin to lower his hand, allowing it to press against your navel, hoping he’ll understand what you want.

It’s so hot, your body is on fire, scorching as he touches your skin and ignites it even more. You just yearn for him—his touch, his body. It’s like an addiction and you have to have him now.

“I’m here to serve you, master, to please you in anyway I can. What would you like me to do?”

He speaks, but his mouth doesn’t move. Your pleasure is too heightened to care. You want him, you want every sinful part of him that he can give you.

“I want it all. I want you. Please, Yoongi,” you beg, looking into his deep red eyes glowing with ardor.

“Anything for you.”

Yoongi uses both hands to part your legs, spreading you open for his eyes to feast upon, a hungry predator starving for a taste. His finger runs up and down your folds first, gathering up your wetness, teasing a finger past your lips.

“Yoongi,” you whine, grasping his hand and guiding him deeper between your folds. He allows you to use his hand to get yourself off without resistance. Your hand pulls his fingers into your clenching walls.

The intrusion feels like three fingers instead of one, you aren’t complaining, it stretches you so good and fills you up nicely. “Mhm, Yoongi,” you moan, releasing your grip to let him continue pleasuring you on his own. Your hand moves above your head where you clench the sheets beneath it, almost writhing.

Yoongi remains eerily quiet while your moans fill the room, crescendos of your helpless cries echo in the dark. He continues to assault your pulsing cunt, drilling his fingers deeper with each rough thrust. Every motion has you hurling towards a quick end.

Your breathless voice rasps his name, nothing else on your mind but him and his fingers. You shut your eyes, focusing on the feeling. Your back arches, hips grinding against his fingers.

“Wake up.” The voice sounds like Yoongi. What is he saying?

Your brows furrow, but your eyes don’t open, ignoring the voice to focus once again on your pleasure.

“Master,” his voice teases, “you must be having a pleasant dream.”

Dream?

Suddenly the hands on your core fade into nothing and you’re left empty, just on the edge of orgasming. When you open your eyes again, you’re in the dimly lit bedroom, sanguine eyes hovering above you. The sheets damp with your sweat. You can feel the heat and slick between your legs that pooled from your dream and an ache in your core that was never relieved.

Oh god, that dream.

Yoongi blinks, red eyes flashing at you and reminding you of whose fingers made you so wet while asleep.

“You were moaning,” Yoongi states.

Your cheeks burn from embarrassment. You bring the blanket higher to cover half your face. You’re praying you hadn’t let his name slip out in your dream state.

“Care to tell me what your dream was about?”

You lick your chapped lips, finding the courage to speak, “I-It was you.”

Perhaps you’re still feeling the effects of your dream, that desire manifesting itself right now, hoping that the true version of Yoongi could finish what dream him had started.

Yoongi cocks a brow, taking a seat on the side of your bed. As it begins to dip under his weight, you shift and sit up, ignoring how your shirt dips too low over your chest.

“Explain.”

His hardening gaze makes it difficult for you to think about anything but the way he looked at you in your dream, ready to devour you. A rush of arousal goes straight to your core and you cross your legs.

“Y-You were in it and you were t-touching me.”

“Touching?” He echoes, his eyes drift from your face down to your low neckline. “Touching you how?”

You really don’t want to explain it in detail. Doesn’t he get it already? Does he really not understand or does he want you to say it out loud?

“Well,” you wet your lips, “I was naked and you were above me.”

“Oh.” Is all he says. It doesn’t sound disappointed nor disgusted, that’s good at least. He nods his head as a sign for you to continue.

“A-And then your fingers… your fingers…they…” You clam up, suddenly recalling how deep and real they felt inside you, filling up your walls and making you scream.

Your eyes cast down, unable to look at him anymore, but that’s a mistake. His hands rest against the bed, propping himself up. The blue veins that run across his hands and slither up his arms, catch your eye. That hand, those fingers—your legs clench beneath your blanket.

“I should stay with you tonight,” his voice raspier than before. You’re not sure if it’s what you said that brought this on. All kinds of elicit thoughts run through your mind. In the same bed, beneath the same sheets, those veiny hands roaming your body once again. You’re dying to know what it feels like for real.

“It could be an incubus plaguing your dreams.”

And suddenly the fantasy is cut short.

“Incubus?” You've never heard of one.

“A sex demon that preys on women while they sleep.”

Well, that would explain the dream, but why would it appear as Yoongi? Did you really want Yoongi so badly a demon had to take the form of him to trick you?

“O-Oh, you really want to stay with me?”

“I won’t let anyone else have you, especially not another demon.”

With that, you allow Yoongi to stay with you for the rest of the night. The throbbing and want in your core never subsiding. He lays down next to you and suddenly you feel shy, scooting to the very edge of the bed until you’re threatening to tip off.

You know he doesn’t need to sleep, so you’re wondering if he will just lie there the whole night listening to the sounds of your steady breathing, or possibly more moaning if the dream returns.

“Did you enjoy it?”

Your entire body tenses, “y-yes.”

You don’t dare to turn over.

“Did you cum?”

“No.”

The bed shifts, his body moves to press against yours, molding together, fitting like a puzzle piece. His warmth envelops you, calming your erratic nerves.

What is he doing?

“Would you like to?”

Yoongi’s fingers sneak around your abdomen, trailing down slowly to cup your heat. His middle finger brushes against your clit beneath thin shorts and underwear. You chew on your lower lip, fighting back the urge to rub your legs together and whimper.

“I liked hearing you moan. I almost didn’t want to wake you. But now I wonder, what do you sound like when you cum?”

He brings his lips to the shell of your ear, hot puffs of air emphasizes every word he lowly whispers.

“Will you let me hear those sweet little whimpers again? I’ll fuck you good, sweetheart, I promise.”

“O-Okay.”

He takes his hands away to allow you to willingly roll onto your back. You watch as he moves to hover over you, his knees on either side of your thighs, his finger intertwined with a strand of your hair.

“Don’t be nervous, ___,” he whispers, oddly comforting. “I’ll take care of you.”

Those words remind you of his promise.

“I’ll protect you until the day you die. You’re mine to have and no one else’s.”

Your shoulders relax under his words like a spell cast over you. His finger releases your hair to drag down your face tenderly.

“You’re already wet, aren’t you? Did that dream take care of you well?”

His hands fall away from your face to the waistband of your shorts. Teasingly hooking around the elastic and tugging to get a peek at your baby pink panties.

“Answer me, baby girl.”

“Mm, y-yes, I am,” you answer, beginning to feel warm under your clothes despite how thin they are.

Yoongi snaps the waistband back and slides his hand up your shirt, tugging it off your body. Your breasts are exposed to him now and suddenly it feels real. This isn’t another dream. You’re really agreeing to give yourself to a demon.

His rich, sanguine eyes roam your body, memorizing each fine detail of your skin. You fight the urge to hide yourself. No one has ever seen you so intimately before nor looked at you as if they were ready to devour you whole.

Yoongi’s hand moves to touch your chest, but your reflexes force you to flinch away. You’re nervous about him touching you, thinking he’d be disappointed that you’re not everything he lusts after. He’s a demon, he must have been with—corrupted—countless humans.

“What’s the matter?” He asks, pulling his hand back.

“I’ve never…done this before,” you admit, looking anywhere but his face. Your eyes travel downward, the column of his neck, the deep pools of his collarbones, his loose-fitting wrinkled shirt, to his crotch. His bulge is prominent in his dark jeans, begging to be freed. You wonder how big he is. What if he doesn’t fit?

“Don’t worry, ___, I said I’d take care of you. Uncross your legs.”

You do as you’re told and Yoongi bends down slowly, pressing a kiss to your neck while his hand caresses your waist. He moves a hand up towards your breasts and brushes his thumb over your erect nipple. You squeak, a hand coming up to rest on his shoulder and squeeze out of nervousness.

“Don’t be shy,” he rasps, nuzzling his nose up to the shell of your ear. “I just want to make you feel good.”

His thumb rolls over your nipple again as he gets back to work marking your neck. You sigh, letting your eyes flutter shut, but still keeping one steady hand on his shoulder for comfort.

He sucks bruises into your skin that will stay as a reminder of this night and you don’t care what he leaves. You’re just enjoying the feeling of his lips on your skin. They’re so warm. You can feel yourself slowly getting addicted to his touch. It leaves you growing wetter than before.

His lips move wet kisses down your chest down to your navel. His hand leaves your breasts, trailing towards to your waistband once again.

Your hand falls from his shoulder and you rest it against your chest, feeling the pounding of your heart. You can feel it beating—boom, boom, boom—you’re so nervous about having someone so close.

“Will you show me how wet you are?” He looks up at you with a mischievous smirk. You can feel your heart racing even faster. One finger runs down your clothed slit, earning a quiet whimper from you. “Touch yourself. I want you to coat your fingers and show me.”

“Y-Yoongi,” you stutter, “I-I…”

“Don’t tell me to haven’t touched yourself before.”

You have touched yourself, but never in front of anyone else. Touching yourself in front of Yoongi sounds more and more appealing the longer his finger moves against your slit. You just want some relief for your aching core.

“Okay.” Your voice is barely above a whisper. Your hands move to slowly slide your shorts off, panties going along with it to the floor. Now you’re completely bare, left vulnerable to Yoongi.

He sits between your spread legs, watching your hands move. Enamored by your trembling hands, he can hardly wait for you to finally touch your wet slit. It’d be so easy for you to do it. You’ve probably done it many times before.

Yoongi could imagine you lying in this bed in the middle of the night, shrouded in darkness with quiet whimpers while you pleasured yourself. You’d think of faceless men, only focusing on their cocks filling you up, pounding into your cunt the same why your fingers did.

He feels himself get harder beneath his pants, the strain beginning to get uncomfortable.

Your finger brushes over your slit, gathering just enough of your arousal on the tip for it to shine in the light.

“You’re dripping already,” he groans, “fuck, I can’t wait to have my cock in that tight little cunt.”

You almost gasp at his sudden vulgar words. It’s nothing like your dream where he was silent through most of it, letting his fingers do all the talking. But you like this version better—much better.

“Bend your knees,” he orders. “Put that pretty pussy on display.”

You do as he says, the way his words sound like growls has you clenching, the throb in your core becoming unbearable. Your hand moves to your clit first, running over the sensitive bud. At first touch, you softly gasp, already feeling the jolts of pleasure running through your body.

“Want you to put a finger in.” Yoongi can’t look away,

You force your finger from your clit, running your fingers up and down your slit to collect all the juices that leaked out of you. Then, you ease your middle finger in, your walls already clenching around it.

Your mouth falls open with puffs of hot air coming out as you gasp. When you begin moving your finger in and out, you bite down on your lip to prevent any loud whimpers from escaping.

“Faster. Fuck yourself with your finger.”

Once you pick up the pace and move your finger in and out of your soaking pussy, you begin to need more. You want to be stretched full—so full of him.

“More, I-I want more, Yoongi,” you mumble.

“Slip another one in.”

You immediately respond to that and stretch yourself with another finger. Your mouth hangs open becoming parched and a moan almost escapes you, but you catch it in your throat before it becomes any louder.

Yoongi shakes his head, “I like hearing you. Go ahead and moan.”

“B-But the neighbors.”

You’re sure they wouldn’t want to be woken in the middle of the night hearing you moaning through paper-thin walls.

“If they like what they hear we can just invite them over,” he smirks, “and if not, I’ll take care of them for you, babygirl. So don’t be shy and let me listen to how good you fuck yourself.”

Yoongi takes hold of your hand, guiding your fingers into your soaked walls. His thumb presses against your clit and moves in circles, heightening your pleasure.

You whimper, releasing a breathy moan when he presses harder. Your hips buck, grinding helplessly on his thumb.

“There it is. What a good girl,” he praises while coaxing your fingers from your pussy. You whine when he refuses to let you stuff them back in, feeling his grip tighten around your wrist as a warning. His other hand fingers your slit, easing two digits in suddenly.

His fingers are much longer than yours and they feel amazing, prodding your pussy deeper than before. Your back arches, head falling to the side as you let out a wanton moan.

Squelches and obscene noises coming from your wet pussy fill the room along with your uncensored moans. Drilling his fingers faster, Yoongi releases your wrist to rub your clit.

“Ah, Y-Yoongi,” you whimper, digging your nails into the sheets.

“Do you like my fingers buried in your sweet virgin cunt?”

“Mhm,” you mumble, rolling your hips against his hand. “I like it. P-Please keep going. It f-feels so good.”

Tension knots in your abdomen with each thrust of his fingers, curling inside your walls. Your forehead is damp, hair sticking to the sides of your temple. Your legs fall open wider.

“You gonna cum all over my hand, babygirl?”

Whimpers and a simple nod of your head tells Yoongi what he wants to know. His voice is enchanting, a low hum, instructing you to meet your release and you do.

You feel yourself gushing and squirting all over his fingers, your entire body tense while your walls clench and unclench. His name falls hoarsely from your lips.

“You’ve made a mess,” Yoongi tsks, pulling his fingers out of your abused hole to play with your dripping cum. He traces your outer lips, rubbing cum all over.

Yoongi runs a finger along your thighs and over your abdomen to paint your body with your own sticky cum. “You’re all prepped and ready for my cock now.”

Your breath catches in your throat when his hands move to unzip his jeans. You’re anticipating the feeling of his cock sliding into you. How will it feel for the first time? You know it must hurt from all the stories. Nevertheless, you’re ready. You feel ready.

When he finally frees himself from his pants, throwing them off to the side, you’re left speechless, unable to think of what to say.

He’s big, so much bigger than you imagined. His fingers are nothing compared to his girth. It’s almost jaw-dropping. You’re afraid he won’t fit even with how wet you are.

And it’s not just how thick he is that’s causing you to do a double-take. Along his shaft, are smooth ridges dotting his length. You’ve never seen anything like it.

Your hesitant hand dares to reach out and graze one of the ridges. It feels just like skin, raised like a hard bump. Your hand flinches back when he gasps. You look up at him, a silent question hanging off your mind.

“It’ll hurt, I won’t lie, but I’ll try to go slowly,” Yoongi says, hoping to reassure you.

You lick your lips, glancing back at his hard xoxo once more. Your body is on fire and there is no denying how badly you yearn for Yoongi to be in you. You need this demon with no true face to fuck you.

“Go ahead.”

Yoongi pulls on your hips, aligning his rigid cock head to your swollen pink lips. He pushes himself in, the thick head of his cock entering your walls for the first time. He forces himself not to bury himself into you, reminding himself how untouched you are and how he doesn’t want to hurt you.

“Yoongi,” you whimper, grabbing onto one of his hands on your hips. “S-Slower, please.”

You lay there, breathing shallowly as he watches you carefully. You move your hips experimentally around his cock, trying to adjust to the thickness as it steadily pierces you. You can feel the ridges of his cock as it enters you. The ache is uncomfortable and you wince.

There can’t possibly be any more, you think until you choose to look down to where your bodies are connected. He’s just halfway in and you gasp. Not even with all of his length in you, you feel incredibly full.

“Such a tight cunt,” he hisses, pulling out partially and thrusting back in, keeping up the slow rhythm to help you adjust.

You’re beginning to feel pleasure instead of the uncomfortable pain and with each of his thrusts, he pushes himself deeper until you can take his whole cock.

“So… hng, full,” you moan, feeling him hitting your cervix. Your back arches off the bed. You can feel every ridge sliding against your walls. Sliding your hands from his, your nails rake up his back, making red scars that will remain until morning. You anchor onto his shoulders.

He drills into your cunt, no longer concerned with your pain, only focusing on giving you pleasure. With each of your whining moans, he rolls his hips until you’re flushed and panting.

“S-Shit,” he hisses, “you like this, babygirl? You like being fucked?”

“Yes, yes!” you cry.

“You can feel me all the way in here,” he smugly remarks, pressing a hand flat against your abdomen where you can see the bulge of his cock moving inside you. His cock feels like it’s stretching you open, each thrust threatening to split you in half.

You whine, wrapping your legs around his waist and pulling him in closer. You can feel your second orgasm approaching quickly. Your toes begin to curl in absolute ecstasy.

“I wanna-”

“Cum? You need to cum, babygirl?” He groans hotly into your ear.

Your fingers move to lace in his blonde hair, tugging at the locks. Your hips buck to meet his in a hurry to finish. “Yes! I need to!”

His finger moves between your bodies to flick your swollen bud causing you to shudder releasing a choked sob. His finger rubs your clit in circles.

Your muscles tighten, stomach and eyes clenching as all your nerves light up.

“Cum then, let go.”

You cry his name as you cum, back arching and your sweaty chest meets his. White leaks from your used cunt, gushing around his cock, and you’re absolutely spent.

“Good girl,” Yoongi coos, almost out of breath but not quite. Being a demon means plenty of stamina. “Such a good girl.”

Your eyes open, blinking—once, twice— and realizing he’s smiling down at you. His blonde hair pushed back, revealing his forehead and glistening sweat. You’re wondering how he’s feeling after this because you’re definitely confused. Do you love Yoongi, the demon, who only wants to be human? It’s hard to say.

“I might love you,” you admit. You might as well say it. You have nothing to lose anyway.

That forces his smile to fall. He has nothing to say in return, he can’t say anything. This is wrong—all wrong. His mouth sets in a hard line.

You're forgetting the inevitable. The inevitable moment when he's forced to take your life. Even if years do go by, even if he does allow himself to fall in love with you, it won’t end happily.

“And maybe I could too.”

#BAficexchange #bangtanarmynet #bts #bts smut #yoongi smut #btssmutclub #smutcentralnet #yoongi fanfiction #bts fanfiction #bts scenario #bts reactions #bts imagines

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hyacinthetic · 4 years

Text

[p5/FOREVERDUMPED WIP] you should know i’m temporary.

shuake loveless-flavoured fantasy au. dumping this here in its unpolished glory because my god, i’ve got to focus, i am so close to having an actual finished multichapter on the internet, GET THEE BEHIND ME, BEGUILING NEW-OLD FANDOMS.

"I'm sorry," the Academy boy says. His gloves whisper, gaunt under the silence. "Someone should have come for you much sooner. Sacrifices aren't permitted to meet the fighters before the day of selection, but—I trusted in the system. I should have known better."

There's a story in his words, an invitation, a point like the barb of a fish-hook. Akira keeps watching. The cold flush of his lips. His bowed and shining head. The arch of his outstretched hands, neat as porcelain, neat as paint, lit by the pixellated glow of the chamber like a projection of mercy.

"Do you," the boy says, "still remember your name?"

He's drowning when his sacrifice comes.

Hands haul him out of the dark water. Impact, sensation, impact. Light spatters his vision. The cold carves through him with a stroke that should split him open to bone. He's all limbs, all hurt; his heartbeat's thrashing in his ribs, veins roaring, whole body singing like iron under flame—

"What have you done—?"

He twists. Hits the floor. The fall punches through him. His body judders, coughing, gasping; his shoulder pulses in dying flares. Through the tiles, he can feel the simmer of footsteps, outrage, a voice cleaving down like a season.

"—didn't know that the Academy had resorted to human offerings in order to win the war."

"Partner-select Akechi. There is no need to shout. Arrangements for your fighter are as you—"

"My fighter. Please. Let me assure you: if he'd been mine from the beginning, it never would have come to this. Do you need further instruction? Well, then. Help him up, you trepanned tool."

A new voice; the snarl of it remakes the air. Everything before it was darkness; everything in its wake is a star. Steps flurry around him. He's wrenched to his knees. A servitor's cold hand glosses his cheek and throat, taking his pulse like an instrument.

When Akira opens his eyes, there's a boy crouched before him.

"Are you all right?"

His throat works. He is looking at an Academy creature: red-eyed and sleek, dressed in the crisp black suit of a senior student, all arrow-flight movements and a body as slight as mystery. Akira shifts. Water's still coiling around his wrists, dripping manacles. Its taste clumps in his teeth like resin, clinging. He holds the stranger's gaze, and waits.

"Do you," the boy says, "still remember your name?"

Water flickers in his ears: a whisper, an itch. For a moment, he thinks of saying so; but the faceless servitors have stopped across the floor, props scattered across the stage of this new clockwork quiet.

Everything's waiting on them.

His knuckles grind tile. Cold traces the curves of his bones. "Kurusu Akira," he says.

"Kurusu. Akira." The name cracks between them like a shell. "I'm afraid we don't have time for much more, as far as pleasantries go. My name is Akechi Goro. You're going to be my fighter, if you'll have me. The bond-title that I offer is Chainless. Do you accept it?"

Akira bites back a sound—tastes salt, adrenaline, a thickening bruise, the echoes of a snarl. There are moments that aren't scenes—moments that exist as a cluster of heartbeats and coincidences. This is not one of them. The question has a constellation of answers, but only one's been scripted for him.

He understands, then: no one in this room is dying. There's a reason for that.

His pulse churns. His damp hair prickles his skin. Breath after breath rasps between them in a slow, shackling line.

"Do I have a choice?" Akira says, and feels his sacrifice stiffen. A grin splits his mouth, stark as a stage-light.

By night, the Academy's deserted.

He follows Akechi across the grounds. Their footsteps overlap like whispers, trailing through courtyards and grainy corridors. The night lies icy and still; the halls have been scratched down to cold constellations. Only the wards are awake: a thrum in the shadows, a sense of something teeming along the spidering grey walkways, fishbone stitches and silken eyes.

"Don't test your boundaries too soon," Akechi says, two steps ahead. "Memory implants aren't uncommon in the final preparations before the fighter's awakened. If you have them, they may take some time to come to rest."

May. Akira opens his mouth, then stops. His reflection keeps going, head slung low, body set in steering lines, a ghost in the vindictaglass windows. "I know this place. I've been here before."

"I see," Akechi says. There's still a smile in his voice. "Do you remember the name of the room where they were keeping you?"

Memory jolts through his spine. He wants to answer the question—feels wanting with the clarity of hunger, honey glittering on his tongue. Akira tugs the lock between his brows. "The battle-chamber," he says. "It's where bonded pairs go for battle training at the Academy during their final year."

In memory, the room opens with a sense of endless vertigo. His throat turns against the taste of preservatives and spellwater. He remembers sickly light on flagstones; needle-slick silhouettes; the testing hollows, narrow as coffins, crossed with cage-bars. Nothing like the chamber that he'd left, moving towards the doors with Akechi's steady grip bracing him up. Rows of bodies suspended in a nameless, timeless dream.

"Hold on," Akira says, and feels a pang when Akechi stops. The heft of his own voice seems unreal. "What's happening outside?"

"You mean in the provinces. If it's news you're interested in, we can call a bell-runner in the morning."

His voice shivers down the hall, a wind before rain. The lamp-flames bow; the wards murmur a warning chorus. Akira ignores them. "There's been a war going for the last seventy years," he says, hooking fingers in a pocket. "Did you fix it while I was out?"

"Unfortunately not. The war goes on." But the question seems to settle something. Akechi's shoulders sink. He moves forward. "But if you have particular people that you're concerned about, I can arrange to have a few messages sent by bell in our name."

"Messages," Akira says; Akechi's inflection is clear as a spotlight. "Seniors sure get a lot of privileges at the Academy."

"The fortunate ones do."

"Is that all you are."

Akechi tilts his head. "I've done my best to earn my place," he says. "In terms of skill, I'm a little worse than my betters, and a little better than everyone else. Labels are difficult to apply beyond that. Drawn spellwork tends to be more precise in its effect, but spoken spells offer speed and opportunity for improvisation. Some students choose a style, then make up for its inherent flaws with their choice of school—the Kanshori system offers the opportunity for grounded shorthand spells, and there's a theory being passed around the Kanshoshi scholastic community in terms of honing verbal accuracy…"

It's clear that he could go until morning. His voice is a trained curve, answers swaying without root or end. Akira closes his eyes. Beneath his eyelids, he sees the gleam of a fish-hook again: bait and shaped steel, drifting over an unruly tide. There's a conversation that they should be having, a script as old as wanting; but he's already given the wrong answer once.

Inside the Academy walls, he knows, language is a blade and a mirror. Each word carries a double-meaning. A true student of the arts would say fallible, and mean trap.

He's fallible. It's unforgivable.

Akira picks at his damp trousers. "Can you show me?" he says.

Silence flinches down Akechi's stilled back. "It's fairly late to be practising spells."

"I don't see anywhere to sleep yet."

"We're nearly at the dorms, Kurusu. Are you truly so impatient? Or is this an issue with your endurance?"

There's an easy retort to that—but it's meant to be easy. He swallows, and feels the pull of Akechi's voice scathing across skin. "Whether or not I'm your fighter," Akira says instead. "You're gonna have to show me sometime."

One by one, every echo withers between them.

Akechi turns. His gaze is a phalanx, armoured in light and fury, a spell to core the heart out of anything it touches. "Your hand, then," he says. "Please."

Something crackles through him—livid, starving, magnetised. He doesn't mean to move. It's the only thing that he means. Akira stirs, and Akechi catches his hand before it strays too far. His fingertips lock against bone; he yanks and Akira pitches towards him, clean as a breaking fever.

A gloved hand catches his arm.

Akechi's brows have snapped down; his lips are parted, reddening. Akira breathes in. His lungs are heavy, cloying with the sweetness of cologne and worked wool. The heat of a breath drawn between them like a blade.

Akechi's grip clenches. Without looking, he sketches a line across Akira's palm: delicate, intricate, a circle that tangles then unravels again. "An elementary restraint," he says, as Akira shifts on his heels. "You'll have to tell me if I go too far."

He's moving in a faultless rhythm, mapping patterns across Akira's skin. Loops into lilies, a sine-wave, a tide of stars, a name on the cusp of sound. His heartbeat's thinning in his teeth. He knows this touch, this sense of gravity; his body's unraveling beneath the airless weight of it. If he shuts his eyes, he could follow the memory down.

All he has to do's shut his eyes.

Akira blinks. The walls sway around him, shimmering with hungry lights. "Huh," he says, and hears himself as if through spellwater. "It's taking a while."

"I did warn you," Akechi says. "In theory, it's possible for the presence of a fighter to stabilise the sacrifice's focus, and minimise the weaknesses of their spellwork. Unfortunately, I've yet to see those results for myself."

His voice's unraveling. Akira tenses, or means to—but he's gone. The spell's eating through his vision. Everything's blackening, fading, lost. All that's left is a memory: shape after shape flashing where his pulse had lain. A gamepiece, a constellation, the shudder of a ship's anchor tearing loose from its home shore. A spell like winter: terror, longing, grief crystallising into every breath.

He knows this ache. He knows its name.

Akira's shoulders flex. Through the cold, he reaches up. His hand hooks over Akechi's glove. Light prisms beneath his eyelids.

The spell shatters.

Everything comes flooding back: grey floors, white sills, shadows long as drowning. The lamps leap in their sconces; the hallways glow like bone. Only Akechi's still looking at him, fox-eyed, wordless, mouth clipped sharp as steel. His grip digs in. Akira feels every point of his fingers like a heartbeat.

"Better keep watching, then," Akira says.

Akechi lives in a modest space—pale walls with skeletal furniture, mendasilk sheets and a scholar's table, every surface as glossy as a shogi piece. The windows frame a spectral winter, towers and stripped black trees prickling through the white like ancient bone. From the threshold, it's almost impossible to see where the snow ends and the walls begin.

"Taking my bond-title," Akechi says, as Akira's stare swings from corner to corner, "means that you're assigned to my room by default. We won't be able to occupy separate beds until we've graduated."

"Do you cast a lot of spells in your sleep?"

"Supposedly it's a matter of adjustment," Akechi says as Akira crosses the floor. "Fighters aren't always comfortable with the thaumaturgical weight of the bond at first. Keeping the sacrifice close to the fighter seems to increase the rate of improvement."

He sinks onto the bed. His gaze drifts back to Akechi, still perched by the doorway. "Well," Akira says, rolling his head back. "Where do you want me?"

The distance beats between them, a spell on the tip of the tongue.

"It's strange for you," Akechi says. "Isn't it. I didn't know that a fighter could remember so much of their history after awakening."

"I don't need sympathy."

"No." It cracks in the air, sparks from flint; Akechi's mouth curls with a slow, brimming light. "I see that. Still, there must be something I can do to make you comfortable."

Akira looks at him: tense and coal-eyed, body drawn against the door like the string of a bow. But Akira isn't a sacrifice, and so he knows: there are no words that'll get him what he wants.

He waits.

In a certain light, silence is its own kind of spellwork. Akechi's frame tightens under the weight of it. His hands drop; his lashes sweep down. Step by step, Akechi trails over to him. His fingers slide under Akira's jaw; Akira tilts his head up with the touch.

"You're my sacrifice," he says, low, to the flicker in Akechi's shuttered eyes. "You tell me."

It's a guess, a goad, the kind of answer that's no answer at all. Whatever the Academy'd meant to make of him, they hadn't etched their commands deep enough. Sacrifice and fighter are only words, shrapnel that could scatter with a sigh. He doesn't owe anything to Akechi Goro; he has that lesson branded across his skin.

But it's Akechi who moves first. His hand drops. He turns with a gesture. "You'll find a change of clothes in the first drawer," he says over a shoulder, "when you're ready. Treat my rooms as your own."

Akira touches his own cheek. The ghost of pressure beats through his fingertips.

"Thanks," he says to the empty air.

He dresses in the baths. Sleeve by sleeve, the shirt settles over him, sure as fate. Like something measured and made for him.

Akira goes out. The lamps are drooping down to silhouettes. In the dark, there's only the floor, the bed, the curve of Akechi's spine under thin sheets, sketched in pearling light. He doesn't make a sound as Akira crawls in; but the last of the candle-flames dip, and then there's only night.

"You're taking all of this very well," Akechi says.

There's an edge to his voice under the shadows, loose and jagged as a puzzle-piece. Someone else might be able to feel out its place—but not him. Akira tugs the pillow. "You haven't killed me yet."

"I wouldn't."

"Right. You don't kill."

A laugh feathers across his lips. "I've been waiting for my fighter since the day I turned fifteen," Akechi says, with drowsy sweetness. "Much like any other sacrifice, I suppose."

Akira shifts. "Do you ever stop?"

"Hm. Talking?"

Akira closes his eyes. Visions are racing through every nerve: Akechi's fingers on the curve of Akira's palm. The last bitter throb of a spell, collapsing. All the words he's holding aloft between them in the dark. "No," Akira says.

The quiet sways in the air.

"Even if you trust nothing else in this place," Akechi says at last, "trust that you will never be an acceptable loss to me."

There's no good answer to that.

But he's awake long after the echoes of Akechi's husky murmuring melt into dreams. One night in, and he knows too much. The hard slope of Akechi's cheek, the star of his hand over the pillow, the haze of his body heat. Every line of him's a memory, a regret, a signal-fire burning on some promised shore.

Soundless, unseeing, Akira reaches out. His palm drapes over Akechi's knuckles; their fingers interleave. He knows better than this. Of course he knows. But it's this shape that follows him into dreaming: hand over hand, bodies curled like reflections. Fitted together, simple as a heartbeat.

It's different, walking the Academy as a bonded fighter.

For the first week, Akira does nothing but wander. He walks the circuit of its battlements; he counts the click of his footsteps through a deserted hall. Whatever scholars had laid the foundation for the Academy, their parchment hopes had been overwritten a long time ago, caged in towers, in stone worked with vindictasteel, in sigils scrawled across the bronze of the archive domes. The Academy's a garden for sacrifices now, coaxing them to bow, to bloom, to bleed themselves into spellwork. Anything else that lives in it's an afterthought, numberless as soil or light. He can speak, and be answered; he can move without drawing a single glance.

Invisible, knowledgeable, alive. It's a good combination.

They go on, apart and together. In the mornings, Akechi vanishes to study. Akira loiters in the bone-pale stairs, listening. Every powerful institution thrives on gossip; the Academy's no exception. Passing students argue over spell translations, new territories fallen to the Council's Own, the nature of the lingering sentience in the faceless servitors. They whisper over old flames and new romances, the sour young wines delivered to the Academy as a yearly tithe.

They tell stories about Akechi Goro, too.

Akechi Goro's an orphan. He's the secret heir of a Councilman, sent out under a false name to protect him. In his first year, he shattered an instructor's shields with a single ballista spell. He once foiled an assassination plot on the Academy's chancellor. No student's marks have ever come close to his since he entered the school. The head of the Demiurgic Council broke off treaty negotiations with the Suzhen Isles last year for the chance to offer him the school's first-rank prize in the spring ceremonies.

"They say he joined the Academy to keep his promise to his childhood love! Once he's covered in glory, worthy of our republic, he'll go back home and be married." "Well, I heard that he's a compendium project—like the servitors, you know, only sane. He comes from a long line of spellworkers. His whole family planted memories of their specialisations in his head before he ever set foot on Academy grounds." "And I know for a fact that he's a long-lost descendant of the old Emperor, smuggled out before the war, come to restore the old order—"

It's gossip, a nest of mysteries and fantasies without root or colour to them; but Akira collects them all the same.

He wants to know it all.

"You think he's going to trade out his bond-title soon? It's not like he's gonna get anywhere as is. Everybody knows the Council hasn't promoted a Chainless pair outta the advisory unit in, what, thirty years?" "Who knows how Chainless thinks. But I wouldn't want to be in his shoes. Half the senior class's titled and qualified for partner-select by now. There can't be much choice left in the archives." "Oh, be fair! Chainless's much too noble to turn against his allies." "He better not stay that noble once he graduates. You ever see him in a match? Even Kingless'd be hard-pressed to touch him. Put those two together, and they could end the whole war." "Well, if he's interested in taking someone else's name, he'll have to handle it while he's at school. Stripping the bond-title from another student's nothing compared to what they'd do to him for violating the thaumaturgical autonomy of one of the Council's Own." "Execution, you mean?" A round of laughter, ringing slim as porcelain. "Please. As if Kingless would ever let the Council waste a sacrifice. Worst come to worst—all they'll do's execute the fighter."

The days wing through. Lean winter starves down to spring. In the quiet, Akira listens, and waits.

"Oh. Welcome home."

Classes aren't over for the day; but partners-select aren't bound by the schedules of ordinary students. Now and then, he forgets that—Akechi splits his hours between the Winter Archive and the parlour rooms of the Academy; he comes back to the room late in the night, smelling of parchment and sweet, wasting smoke. But this isn't Akechi the scholar, or Akechi the society boy. His shoulders are braced hard against his chair. Sunset's tangling through his hair—a fever's halo, fire glimmering in the hollow of his throat, as easy as a touch.

Akira presses the door shut; its click snaps through the walls like a shot. "Thanks, honey," he says. "Long day?"

"If you needed a more extensive tour of the Academy," Akechi says, "you could have let me know."

"I'm not getting lost."

"I assumed that much," Akechi says as Akira heads towards him. "I have some faith in your abilities."

Spring's settling over the Academy, but not in any hurry. The bones of the school have barely started to thaw; its grounds are a riot of stinging winds and crumbling, icy drifts, a landscape bruised in stone and snow. Kneeling at the foot of the desk, Akira feels through the carpet for the points where the warming alchemy run thickest. "You're not afraid I'll get lost," he says. "So what are you afraid I'm going to find?"

A hand brushes his cheek. Akira turns, and lets Akechi tilt up his chin.

"You have a skill for drawing trouble," Akechi says, iron-eyed, with a voice that's all veneer. "In case you've missed it, I'd prefer not to see you hurt."

Akira closes fingers around his wrist. A wire of tension thrums into his grip, then goes still. "A lot of people in the school're talking about your bond-title," he says.

"They're uneasy," Akechi says. "They have a right to be. After all, my progress hasn't been following the standard timeline."

With Akechi, the best hook is always silence. Akira shifts in place, and waits.

"Twenty years ago," Akechi says, with a thin twist to his mouth, "the Kingless sacrifice simplified the Academy's steps for graduation. Every partner-select chooses a fighter at the beginning of the year. Generally speaking, fighters will manifest the marks of the bond-title somewhere on their bodies within a few months of the pact. It's then recorded in the Academy archives with all of its pertinent details. Whether the mark was ink, scarring, or ethereal. If it was located in approximately the same area as the sacrifice's mark. The predecessors who've held the title, and any pattern in their achievements. It's meant to guarantee that we'll have as a grace period—providing the bonded pairs with a chance to prepare for their initiation trial into the Council's Own."

"It's spring now," Akira says.

"And," says Akechi, "here you are."

He hasn't looked away. In the rusting light, his gaze is stark as coal. A look like a question—a look like burning. Akira swallows. "What would happen," he says, "if a sacrifice tried to take a bond-title someone else already had?"

The hand withdraws; Akechi settles in his chair. "That's precisely what the archives are intended to prevent. Every student's expected to have researched their bond-title, and to have it recorded within a few weeks of beginning their final year. But," he adds, all rue and unfaltering gold, "to answer your actual question: the original pair would notice over time. There's a sense of violation—a displacement. Paranoia, recklessness, and instability aren't unheard of—in both the usurper as well as the original claimant. Your title is your destiny. A destiny can't be shared."

"And your destiny's being 'Chainless'."

It hasn't been a season yet since he'd swallowed blood and spellwater, and bowed his head to a new name. But some things need less than a season. Akechi leans on a knuckle. The flex of his throat rolls through Akira's nerves like sparks. "I wonder," Akechi says, "what brought that question to your mind."

"You know why," Akira says. "Everyone sees what you can do. But no one who's taken the name Chainless has been sent out into the field for decades."

The room rings: empty, empty.

"Every sacrifice has secrets," Akechi says at last. His fingers skim the arch of a glove, restless as a spell. "It's our nature. I understand that mine may feel somewhat heavier than most. And if you can't live with that knowledge, I'm afraid the bond between us won't last for very long."

Less than a season together, Akira thinks—but he knows Akechi Goro. The uneasy prickle of his lashes when he's dreaming. The fall and rise of his voice working through a new translation. His hands at work, sweeping through line after vicious, perfect line: engraving patterns, chemical patterns, patterns taking shape like—

"That's not much of a threat," Akira says.

Akechi laughs. "Is that how it sounded?" he says—husky, startled. "Well, then. Let me be more clear. Fighters are used as amplifiers and vessels. No fighter should be able to overturn a sacrifice's spellwork on his own. You're a comet in a closed system. Whoever holds you at the end of next year will rewrite the story of the republic." His knuckle digs against his mouth; his shadow trembles like the fringe of a flame. "You understand, don't you. The bond-title hasn't manifested for you yet. You still have some time."

The pattern unravels. The world shivers into place.

I wasn't aware that a fighter could remember so much of their history after awakening, he'd said.

There must be something I can do to make you comfortable.

I've been waiting for my fighter since the day I turned fifteen.

Akira blinks, sharp and clearing. His heartbeat's pounding between his ribs, gutting, roaring, electric as a storm. "I thought a title was destiny," he says.

"If destiny doesn't bend to our choices," Akechi says, "I don't see how it's worth anything to us."

There's a mystery about Akechi Goro. It's written into his skills and mannerisms, scrawled like poison down to his roots. How a boy who entertains visitors in the Academy parlors every week could have drawn so few allies over four years. The way his voice turns with every word, clarity to knives, cynicism to certainty. What it is about Chainless that had drawn him—this boy bound by every title and grace that the Academy could grant him.

How he could have waited years for his fighter, and offer to give him up at a word.

Akira leans onto a knee. His hand clasps Akechi's; he ignores its stutter beneath his palm.

You will never be an acceptable loss to me.

"So," Akira says. "I'm choosing now."

Akechi stares at him; but he's learned by now. The flex of his hand; the way his fingers curl against Akira's palm. The triumphant surge of his smile, unsteady but pristine, like a blade drawn from the forge. Every touch a heartbeat, rising.

#real procrastination and fake prose

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roleplay-abiogenesis2 · 4 years

Text

[Muse Active] Ran ( C )

This muse is now active for roleplay on this blog!

Name: Ran

Species, World, Nationality: Human (Sorcerer), Earthling, Japanese

Date of Birth: Unknown

Roleplaying Age: Teenager (default), any other age if specified.

Headcanons: Click here.

Fandom: Clover (CLAMP)

Fandom Genre: Shōjo, Fantasy (magic), Cyberpunk.

Open for AU / “What If”s: Yes.

Wiki Link: Here.

Covered Sources: Manga.

Available for ships: Platonic, only with characters his age.

With Canon Characters (CC);

With Original Characters (OC);

With Cross-over Characters;

With Same-Muse Characters.

Canon Verses:

Clover Vol.4: C has just escaped the facility to separate himself from his unstable twin brother. He’s looking for a new home, while the Wizards are hunting him down.

AUs:

K Project verse: Ran is a strain of the highest class, who was kept inside the institute for ten years. He has escaped to leave his dangerous twin behind, but doesn’t know where to go. Timeless Palace and Scepter 4 are both trying to secure him.

Writing Sample:

“Why?”

“I wonder why.”

“What will you do?”

“I wonder.”

“You’re leaving?”

“I am.”

In the silent cage, nothing but their voices reverberated. Identical voices, from identical figures, sitting at each other’s backs, a thin wall of glass separating them. For the outsider looker, it might have looked like the cage hosted only one young boy, sitting against a mirror.

But there were no outside lookers, and when C stood up, the reflection behind him did not.

“No matter how much I beg you to stay?” His twin’s voice was empty, yet C could sense the turmoil bubbling inside him. And he knew that A could also feel his own.

“Goodbye.”

As he stepped away, he felt a pull on his arm. C looked back, slightly perturbed. On the floor, his brother held him by the sleeve, having quickly moved around the glass wall to get a hold of him.

He brought C’s hand to his mouth, and bit his finger. Blood drops tainted the immaculate white floor of the cage.

C didn’t move, beside the initial flinch of pain. An expression of pity and sadness on his face. He watched his twin kiss the wound he had just inflicted, his madness glinting through deep blue eyes as he rose them to look up at his identical ones.

“I’ll see you soon.” A promised.

Find my rules on my blog HERE.

#00A || Saru-mun is still alive! [OOC]#[archived]

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incarnateirony · 5 years

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"The real Sam and Dean" sure does point to the main world being there *before* Chuck, doesn't it? Interesting. God can't create souls (like the show has told us for YEARS), so, yeah, WTF are the people in the other universes? WHAT ARE SOULS???? (Lesser question, what is Grace? God's attempt at making souls? Since he made the angels? DOES CAS HAVE A SOUL?) 🤯

Wow multi part thing here

1. Not necessarily but I’ll expand on that.

2. Other souls even in similar bodies? Soulless constructs and duplicates like Gabriel’s grace worlds? (seems less likely with AU Bobby and Charlie). I’m going to go with an educated guess of “other souls in identical meatsuits” for now, expanded on more in the post below.

3. There’s also an answer for that, but no, not really souls.

4. IMO yes, and I can expand on why I believe Cas does.

—

So bundling an answer to all of these.

I’m going to need you to break your brain a little on this, dear reader. I know it’s difficult for some people, and some are just now even coming to grips with the idea that Chuck’s world is a simulacrum to the point I’ve seen based people belatedly go, verbatim, through the same existential crisis Dean spewed at Cas in 15.2. It’s gonna take some nonlinear thinking from here.

Let’s talk about, say, The Empty. What is Nothing? I want you to think about that.

Congrats, you’ve already failed.

The second you try to define oblivion, you fail. We can try to speak it as closely as possible, but oblivion before creation is itself a paradox. It is timeless, shapeless, colorless – best depicted, perhaps, by a black screen to communicate the idea to the human mind, or sometimes a white one, but people tend to affiliate that with light, rather than the absence of light; so a starkly lit (on actors) black background is our most efficient way to do it. But realistically? Black doesn’t exist yet. White doesn’t exist yet. Light nor dark exist. Nothing is there.

And yet somehow, Nothing birthed Everything.

This is the paradox humans struggle with eternally. The idea of the Big Bang, for example, still comes down to there being an infinitely dense mass that asplodied at some point and everything just kinda raveled itself together from there. Where did the dot come from in nothing? What is the dot? What is this paradox of Nothing Making Everything?

Hermetics propose, essentially, various grades of creation. Depending on the denomination and thought form this may manifest several ways at the upper levels, “Chicken or the Egg” as SPN death put it. Some will say death itself birthed creation and life, for example. Others say it’s a direct result of the human soul, and others say it’s grace.

Real familiar to our current Atomic Monsters, isn’t it?

So anyway, what I’ve been seeing out of SPN since about S13 is that souls themselves, in our structure, are the paradox of creation. After all, there was a “Before God, or Amara”, so how did God simply come to be? Good question, ain’t it?

So let’s take a look at the Shadow. Hermetics variably address The Inky Man or The Shadow (as Jung himself was part of the art) as a primitive aspect of the self, and also address the concept of a sort of group mind, a collective unconscious from which we all come and go, a First Man, or sometimes addressed as Anthropos, the collective spirit of man.

So The Thing That Rules The Empty, The Shadow, existed before God and Amara. God is Light. Amara is the absence of Light.

But God is also Grace. And The Word.

Does it really matter, respectively, how he branded his stuff? He might call it gak in another world for all we know. But Grace is the essence by which Chuck *does* create.

So let’s do another mental exercise here: If one were to remove all human souls from any of Chuck’s constructs, what makes them any different than the realms Gabriel makes where people mindlessly follow scripts he wrote? What makes them any different than the headspaces archangels have shoved their hosts down into? Or the place Sam went to inside his own head in Man Who Knew Too Much that was an entire expansive world, even with a few random hiccups here or there in it?

Chuck installed the world with aspects of himself to keep it tick tick ticking if he offworlded. I’m going to guess he had an oopsie or two in random worlds before he figured that one out KSJDfksjdf but that’s an aside.

But angels are tied to the divine spheres, and to grace. They were given minds and consciousness, but not souls. He can’t create nor control those, after all. And while in almost any form of study the mind is capable of Doubt and Question with or without a soul, I mean, plugging an angel with an installed soul just seems like a super bad idea.

After all, they are wavelengths of intent. HIS intent. They are the editors of his story that keep it running in lines. They are arbiters and heralds of his messages. They are the programs in the matrix that keep it running, until they corrupt and unplug from the central code and then fuck off into the operating system with the rest of people, even if they can never LEAVE the operating system. Except Cas. Cas can. Which I’ll address below.

“What is grace?” Well, we’ve been using storywriting metaphors in canon this year. Grace is the page on which the ink is set. The Word is the letters etched into it. Collectively, with some imagination, the end product, especially when run through your editors, is a complete and fairly cohesive story, with arguable interpretation of validity or merit.

So you’re probably realizing I haven’t really explained *how* then God or Amara came to be, yet.

Okay, so let’s think Big Bang, metaphysical edition. There was absolutely jack shit all nothing that defines our reality, be it light, dark, space, time, dimension, much less material or immaterialism. But somehow, at some point, Nothing woke up and went “Dafuq?” and then all kinds of shit happened. For example, it might have even Dafuqed its own paradoxical nature and birthed duality in it, of Presence and Absence. These, then, would be Light and Dark. So now, there’s Nothing Dafuqing and just wanting to go back to napping/not fucking existing alone, and then two ancient things crop up out of nowhere. And with the Shadow all but absent, they only have themselves and each other.

So Chuck builds his toy soldiers and Amara destroys them as his antithesis. But what does he build his stuff from?

Grace as a word even falls into several hermetic constructs as one of these cornerstones. If Grace is the page Chuck writes on, and his thoughts/intent are The Word, the result is that what he imagines is what is to become. Be that good or “evil”, though we find now just like in hermetics that evil isn’t really a thing, as much as the absence of good, and the absence of good comes with the absence of a soul.

So now we’ve got Chuck making a library of things trying to find something okay enough to do in non-eternity. After all, he can hop worlds, revert time, go when and wherever he wants, make whatever place he wants to go to, come up with spiderturtleducks if he gets bored enough, what the fuck ever. I totes have it on good sources that there was a universe somewhere with turtlemonkeys with eight arms. Don’t @ me.

Either way, hopefully that clarifies the idea of “What is Grace?”; the page was first proverbial, but made literal and manifest in the world defined out of the nothing, and by Grace are all things made, and by the Word all is known.

The idea of Anthropos, the Inky Man, or The Shadow – the First Man, the Great Adam, whatever the fuck any given denomination’s term is for it – varies slightly in perennial thought. Our humanistic show, however, and all signs seem to be pointing to an interpretation in which the shadow predates them and yet doesn’t in this ambiguous time space. It is simply a shadow of a place that did and didn’t exist yet at that point.

And that paradox is, very likely – I’d call it a *very educated theory based on the theology that inspires our mytharc* – what defines humanity.

So am I saying humans don’t even exist? Absolutely not. But they are the thing outside of and beyond creation while living in it, from which we do not truly understand the idea of in eternity if you believe in it. But whether it’s gnostic thoughts that say god like threw man into the universe and trapped him in a machine, bodies included; or the hermetic one where the forefather yearned for a meaning to its nonexistence, and by it made the demiurge we call YHVH or Chuck, respectively, in SPN – and by it found a world to fall in love with and fall into, much as angels fall into man – perennial thought aligns with humans being something far and beyond this cage, and the show supports it, as the most sought powersource that could even end God Himself – as the thing he can neither create nor destroy, just shove in boxes – as the thing he can not control.

Humans are a paradox in definition, and that paradox seeks a meaning to life, and in it, it essentially – by a chain of progress, mind you – creates the world. After all, He Who Has The Most Souls Are Become God, am I incorrect on SPN canon here? Be that S6/7 Cas’ Big Mistake (including not making any sort of chambers of contentment to keep them from fighting back, no leviathan mental headbars, no greatest hits of heaven tucked inside of him), or them recalling this in 15.3 /from two directions/ and by which Rowena became the authority in hell even after Cas beat the shit out of Belphegor to stop HIM from becoming that kind of king – if Chuck didn’t have souls, would he even actually have power? And why else throw men, now forgotten of their source and thrown into bodies, into places like heaven and hell? In hell human souls that went against Chuck’s will destroy each other until they lose their light; if Chuck can’t destroy them, let them destroy each other. In heaven, like in MichaelDean’s headbar, they’re given contentment and also cease fighting back. They don’t return to a source, they don’t amass, they’re carefully segregated and processed.

So anyway back to the Shadow. I’ve mentioned the hermetic ideas of Nous I and Nous II. They’re both God in a way, but completely independent beings. Nous II is what people commonly think of with “God.” The christian god, the creator of the universe, but also a spiteful god by his own words, in the bible itself. To many christians it’s even sacrilege to think of there being anything before God, he created the universe so clearly he yelled FIRST and licked it or whatever, and That’s That. But Nous I is the Forefather, the Shadow I’ve spoken of. And while it doesn’t necessarily dictate the world, it also manifests forward as Anthropos to experience the world.

If there was a collective vat of souljuice in oblivion, and those pieces fell into bodies by force or choice, it is the development of the id, ego, superego, and general self that then defines who we become as individuals. Until “The real Sam and Dean” line I was in conflict, wondering how the AU selves sorted out in mechanics. It seemed in conflict with the very nature of individual souls for them to be simultaneously across worlds but pent up in heavens. But then the answer became simple and remained true to form: we are what we make ourselves, and bond with who makes us complete as a great work that help us master ourselves. The very idea of mastering ourselves, however, is one of great relativity as we are, in the end, just trying to find a meaning to our existence, or nonexistence, or whatever else even if it’s by running through a matrix in a million billion parts that become a million billion different people with different stories, experiences, relationships, personalities all subject to it, but in the end, souls find each other, especially partner souls.

I hate the term soulmates, really. In the scale of it, it’s more like a 10000000000000000000000000 (or infinite) piece soul puzzle, but some pieces click together more than others and by it we find better selves.

*takes in a deep breath*

So aNyWaY

I still haven’t answered why I feel Cas has a soul, but it required getting that proposal out of the way first, and it’s simple really: minding what I’ve said, anyone notice anything? The Shadow didn’t reflect Lucifer. It didn’t reflect soulless Jack (though it did try to communicate with a creepy smile which lends me to believe there’s a smol soulspark left in Jack to compliment him touching Mary’s name on the table), it didn’t reflect Death. It only reflected Castiel. And in the end… Why Are You Awake? Nothing in the history of Ever has woken up here. You’re outside of the book. There is no book. Why is this page floating around in my Nothingspace, get the fuck out, stop littering.

The entire construct of this breaks out that existential crisis in fandom as much as Dean – does that mean none of this is real? No. Dean answered that in 5.18 long ago, even if he reflected his own words in his fear, terror, and panic.

You want to know what’s real? People. Families.

Nothing about our lives is real.

We are.

Castiel never forgot the reason he fell for Dean, that fateful day, and that fateful discussion. Chuck’s machinations are nothing new to Cas. Cas used to be part of that machine himself really.

How, exactly, he acquired a soul is a whole other topic for another post which has never been answered overtly, but it was either developed on or before the season 8 finale when Metatron referenced it. This later is augmented by the Shadow and by Cas NOT recognizing what it feels like to lose a soul and instead deferring to Sam for the experience, meaning he probably didn’t entirely lose it which also removes some of the old alien stick-in-assedness. There’s plenty of material that could be read as Cas having a soul, but the one that SCREAMS to me the most is The Big Empty, for entire like… cosmogenic construct reasons.

Hermeticism addresses the idea of three principles that, while they have many names, boil down to Mind, Body, and Soul. Soul is the Prima Materia, the essence by which All Things Come, even Mind and Body, and Mind and Body return to Soul and build them as well in this paradox. But the soul creates the prime material, and the mind perceives the material, which then becomes the body. This can be the literal human body or the idea of physical creation as a whole, eg, body of the world. The soul and mind are beyond these things and exist without them, even if the soul and mind are developed and fostered into individuals by the experiences they gain in this manufactured reality.

After all, Eileen’s ghost wasn’t suddenly Hearing, even though it’s not a matter of blown out eardrums anymore. We can just handwave it and say it’s being politically correct, which it also is, and bless them for it – but also, her mind and by proxy soul never really grew and perceived the idea of Sound as defined by the Created Universe as part of her experience. After all– sight, sound, smell, touch, taste – these are all things defined within our universal bubble. We can enjoy the trip through these worlds and learn from them and make memories and meanings, but … there’s no reason to “fix” that. Eileen was her own complete person as she was, hearing or not. WHY would her ghost even know what it means to Hear?

Why can cas, theoretically just a program, wake up in oblivion? Humanity. For agent smith to leave the matrix he had to corrupt and acquire a human body. But the perennial thought aligned with matrix symbolism makes that synonymous with a soul.

Cas has a soul.

So bigassed long answer but yeah– hopefully that– answered everything?

When it comes to id, ego, superego, etc– or in older hermetics shadow, animus, anima, self – I tried to break down the show’s use of it, and constructed realities, in this video here. Watch it a few times if you have to. It also includes both primitive shadow and individual shadows as well as Animus (the masculine ego, with daddy issues reflected through their designated archangels) or Animus (the more evolved feminine superego, as given to us by Dumah/Sam’s bartendress [same actress–] or Pamela).

youtube

Y’all are probably sick to death of me plugging that but I swear to god if you watch it through and think, even after a few attempts, you’ll start getting it – and what parts you don’t, just send me an ask like this.

And mark my words. Just as Cas figured out both the Empty and Michael were full of shit, the look he had after Rowena declared She Took It tells me he’s going to be key, if not THE key, in their resolution, mirroring her choice. Fight me. Which is one of the many topics I addressed in the new video (including divine masculine vs feminine, paths, lessons, the phases of awakening [black/shadow, white/animus, yellow/anima, red/self], whatever)

youtube

On an aside, I might propose dreamwalkers, born on identical days in different worlds, and able to travel across them, may actually somehow share a soul while living duplicitous lives and sharing experiences, but that’s a whole other can of worms.

But if Chuck built himself into the Body of the World to keep it together, well. It’s his one weakness, sure. But also the world itself on removal. Now the real question is how much of this TFW as parents, Cas especially, is going to let fall on Jack. Because they can’t be like the forebearers that made their cursed paths. chuck may be the key but he does not need to be the answer, these are not the same. So yeah, I’m still stuck on my Goddess/Empress-unbirthing-in-Binah-to-make-the-new-aeon spec. Hell, maybe it really just takes unplugging Chuck and sieging heaven and loosing all the souls in a giant rebellion, sure, but what then retains the balance? I’d stare into the camera, but I’m too busy looking at Cas.

It’s worth noting that depending on denomination, the variables may change in this; eg, Chuck and Amara as thoughts spawned from the Empty also mean a Return To God is completion in some Hot Takes, which would be for example going to heaven, whereas Amara removes them from chuck’s light/creation and theoretically drops them back To Live As One within, say, the Shadow again. But our structure does not seem to be pointing to the read of Joining God In Heaven As The Big Goal as much as I Am Become God.

#supernatural #spn #souls #pagan life #meta #my meta #the shadow #chuck #amara #paradox #long post for ts #amaah #cosmogenesis #shadow #demiurge

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c-rose2081 · 5 years

Text

Just a bit of story arc from my unpublished Elena of Avalor AU. I still don’t have a title for it yet as I haven’t had much time to flush it out. But I wrote this a while ago and I just thought I’d share.

•••

“It’s over Shuriki.”

“Oh I wouldn’t be to sure about that, Elena.” Shuriki spoke, sitting calmly on her throne of treachery as the smile on her face stretched from ear to ear. She was without her wand, and without her guards. How could she still be so damn confidant?

“You have nothing. Where’s my familia, tell me the truth.”

“Your grandparents are gone. I took care of them long ago.” Chuckling again, Shuriki waved to the man standing a few steps to her right, “and you remember your cousin, Estéban.”

“Estéban?” Her heart sinking, the man’s face crumpled unhappily as his eyes fell to the floor.

“He’s been a loyal servant to me,” Shuriki purred elegantly, the silk in her tone making Elena’s skin crawl as she kept an even tighter grip on the wand in her hands. “Your family is mine.”

“Where’s my sister.” Elena ground out, her whole body shaking in rage. Thankfully she had sent Sofia and her family out of the palace to rally the people of Avalor — no one needed to see her this way, “where’s my hermana, witch!”

“Ah, ah you best watch your tone with me, dear.” Shuriki growled, the woman’s smile never fading as she pulled a small bell from her pocket. Ringing it, the sound echoed across the palace walls as if a gong had been struck. Whipping her head around as a gust of wind blew through the open windows, Elena reeled backwards as a deep indigo cloud of colored smoke began to appear at the base of the throne. When it was done, and the haze had faded, an older girl with long dark hair was knelt at the woman’s feet.

“You summoned me, Mistress?”

“My pet. There’s been a change of plans.” Shuriki spoke, “your final test as a sorceress is now.”

“Now?”

Her head lifting, the stranger rose to her feet before her queen. Though grown up, Elena’s heart lurched hard to the bottom of her stomach. Isabel stared back at her, near black brows pulled together in confusion. Upon seeing Elena, those same brows went up, one of them arching elegantly as Isabel shook her head, “Mistress, I don’t understand.”

“Kill her,” Shuriki spoke simply, not harshly, but bluntly, “if you succeed,” rising from her throne, Elena wanted to growl as pale hands very delicately took Isa’s face and caressed it, “you will be rewarded with a place by my side as the most powerful Sorceress in Avalor.”

The optimistic part of Elena expected Isabel to fight this notion, to refuse kicking and screaming. But she just stood there, her lips pursed as she nodded.

“Yes, Mistress. As you ask.”

“And, since I know it means so much to you, my child.” Waving a hand again, Elena watched a small red pot emblazoned with bronze appeared beside her, “not only will you be my equal, I will give you your most prized possession.”

Elena didn’t quite understand, but Isa did as her eyes went from solemn to bright in a matter of seconds.

“You mean it, Mistress? I can keep it?”

“Only if you do what I say.” Shuriki insisted, pointing at Elena with her overly empowered smirk, “kill her.”

Not expecting the hard blast of black magic, Elena yelped as she was thrown backwards across the tile. Groaning in pain, the girl cried out again as Shuriki’s wand was easily tossed from her grip, skittering like glass against the floor.

“...I-Isa...”

A heeled sole coming to rest on her rib cage, the tip of a different wand pressed into the place just under Elena’s chin. Isabel’s eyes were dark and stormy, nothing like those of the happy ten-year-old Elena remembered leaving behind. She had truly grown up, only to be groomed into something dark and unfamiliar, “Isa...p-please.”

Pleading weakly with the girl, her position didn’t change. Shuriki had returned to her throne, fingers steepled as she watched from a distance, “I’m your sister. Your hermana. D-don’t do this.”

“I don’t have a sister.” Isabel spoke, even her voice a pitch lower then what Elena remembered as the tip of the wand pierced harder into her throat, causing it to sting, “she died. Just like my parents.”

“Isa. I’ve been trying to get back to you for so long. Believe me, please!”

“Pet! I’m waiting.”

Shuriki’s voice echoed across the ceiling, bouncing to Elena’s ears. Before she could try and reach Isabel again, the young woman spoke lowly.

“Otieho.”

Feeling the warmth from Isabel’s wand pierce her skin, Elena began to cry out in pain. It was like nothing she had ever felt before, like she was slowly being pulled apart from the inside out.

“Your majesty!”

The doors of the throne room flying open, the pain inside of her stopped as Isabel glanced up and lost her focus. This gave Elena a small moment of relief as Shuriki roared in anger and stood from her formerly thoughtful position.

“What you idiots! Can’t you see I’m busy.”

“They’re coming your majesty!” A guard spoke. Just as he did, the sound of music and song filtered through the open hall as Shuriki’s lip rose in irritation.

“What...what is that? Who is coming!”

“All of Avalor!”

Distracted momentarily as she flew to the window to look out at Sofia’s gathered army, Elena winced as she took a firm grip on Isabel’s arms. Clutching them desperately, the girl’s head turned back to face her. Caught off guard, Elena could see the scared little girl behind her eyes.

“Isabel, please...l-listen to me. I’m your sister, and no matter what happened, or happens, I will always love you.”

“...b-but you...you left.” Isabel whispered, as though Shuriki could hear over the increasingly loud singing approaching the palace, “...I thought you...I...”

“Isa, I’ve been working 41 years to get back to you. I don’t care about anything else, not the kingdom or crown. I want to save my familia first...I-I love you so much. You know that.”

Wincing and falling back against the tile, Isabel’s eyes were filled with tears that streaked down her cheeks in crystal rivers.

“Pet, you must do it now! Kill her now!”

Shuriki’s voice suddenly wicked, Elena let her hands drop from Isabel’s arms and onto her still aching chest. “Do as I say, girl!”

Watching the young woman, she was still staring down at Elena with huge eyes. But her body was ridged and unmoving.

“Prima!”

Of all the voices which broke through the ruckus of the air, Estéban’s was not one Elena expected. But looking past Isabel’s form, he had the red and bronze pot in his grip, clutching onto it as though it were priceless. This single image seemed to shift Isabel’s mind as her body whipped around in the direction of Shuriki who had regained her wand. Twin beams of magic collided in the throne room, one green and the other a brilliant blue. This sniffed out every candle, and the sunny day outside turned to a black night.

Scrambling across the floor as to avoid the crossfire, Elena hid weakly against a stone column as the magic exploded with sparks and fire.

“I knew you weren’t to be trusted!” Shuriki growled out loud, using both hands to grip her wand against Isabel’s steady stream of blue lightning, “you ungrateful little wretch!”

Surging forward, Shuriki’s green fire became the stronger of the pair for a moment as Isabel’s heels skidded across the tile floor. Her green skirt was quickly losing its emerald hues, turning to a vicious shade of blue and white as her eyes glistened with tears frozen in a timeless battle. “I who feed you, dress you and teach you! The one who cared for you like a mother!”

“You’re not my mother!” Isabel cried out, her eyes flashing a whitish shade as the magic continued to collide. The pressure of the battle itself was causing the very stone of the palace to crack and fracture. Any longer and it would begin to break apart. “You...you’re a monster! VALDISHMA!”

Watching from her place of safety, Elena heard Shuriki’s panicked cries as her glass wand shattered in a fantastic spray of sparks. The witch herself was overtaken by ice, the intricate designs forming from her chest outwards before she to shattered to bits. The wind stopped, the kingdom seemed to go quiet. Isabel stood in the middle of the mess, dress illuminated, eyes wide. Her entire body shivered, small bolts of electricity jumping and sizzling across her skin and hair. It took a moment before she wavered, falling to the floor with a limp thud.

Her wand rolled across the floor forgotten, its shaft splintered down the center as Elena left her small sanctuary. Isabel’s form was completely still, her body surrounded by large chips of paint which had fallen from the ceiling in the midst of the power battle. Crawling across the tile on her knees, Elena hurriedly pulled her sister’s limp head into her lap.

“I-Isa?” Breaths coming in short, quick gasps, Elena’s eyes filled with tears. She couldn’t be...gone. Not after all of these years fighting to come back. “I-Isabel! No...n-no...come back to me.”

Holding the young woman’s cheeks, they were still wet with tears and dirty with soot. But as Elena desperately clutched the girl, Isa’s chest rose suddenly. Coughing, dark eyes opened painfully. They were Isa’s eyes, large and round and clear. “Isa.”

“E-Elena?”

“Yeah. Yeah, it’s me. Hi.” Running a shaking hand through the older girls hair, Elena felt a new presence looming over her shoulder. Glancing up, Estéban very slowly knelt down. Gently, he set down the red and bronze pot. Up close, Elena herself realized it wasn’t just a pot, but rather an intricate urn. Struggling to sit up, Elena gladly assisted her sibling, holding her close as she gladly pulled the older man into an embrace.

“Gracías, primo.”

“I promised to protect you, prima,” Estéban mumbled, pushing the urn closer as Isabel very gently took hold of it, “I think it’s time.”

Nodding her head, Elena reluctantly let Estéban help Isabel to her feet. Stepping away a few paces, the once elder princess could see the guards of the palace being overwhelmed by both man and beast. The kingdom was once again theirs. Turning back to the situation at hand, Isa had her wand again. Holding it with a shaking hand, she pointed its tip at the pot.

“Usafieno.”

Watching the blue and white stream as it swirled around the urn, the top opened with a shallow popping noise. Before Elena’s eyes, her abuelo’s appeared, still hugging one another tightly. Jaw agape in shock, the urn dissipated into nothing as the two elderly rulers of Avalor blinked and came back to life.

“Abuelo? Abuela?”

Hurrying forward, the two adults barely had time to think before Elena had them in an embrace, “oh my gods, I thought you were dead.”

“Elena?” Luisa breathed, hugging the girl back beside her husband, “But I thought...”

“The amulet saved my life, just like Mami said it would.” Elena explained hurriedly, making sure to squeeze the two again just to make sure she wasn’t dreaming, “I can’t believe you’re here.”

“We’ve been in that pot for such a long time,” Fransisco grunted, stretching himself out.

“Where’s Shuriki?” Lucia asked, “and...and Isabel?”

“Shuriki is gone, abuela. And Isa...” turning to where the girl was formerly standing, Elena’s heart skipped several beats. She was once again on the floor, unmoving as Estéban gently cradled her in his arms. Scrambling with some haste over the mess caused by the battle, Elena fell to her knees by her sister’s side. She was completely white faced, her chest barely rising and falling under her dress. Streaks of crimson rolled from her nose and lip, creating a facade of death.

“...i-is she...”

“No, prima. But she’s close.” Estéban answered, “With great power comes great risk of personal harm. Isa want ready for such advanced sorcery.”

“You mean she’ll...s-she’ll...” eyes once again burning with tears, Esteban shook his head.

“No. Not this time. But she needs to rest,”

“I’ll come...”

“No.” Waving a hand sternly, Esteban glanced over his shoulder at the people who took him in. Wincing, he stood, pulling Isabel into his strong arms, “I will care for her. You must go and address Avalor.”

“Me?” Pointing at herself, Esteban nodded firmly again.

“Yes. You are the eldest child of the late King and Queen. The crown falls to you. I will care for Isabel.”

“But...”

“Estéban is right, mija.” Luisa spoke up, her caring hand landing on Elena’s shoulder, “we have a rather large mess we need to clean up.”

“Go, Elena.” Estéban spoke, smiling under his mustache as his eyes fell to the unconscious young woman in his arms, “Fulfill your destiny. Isabel will be fine.”

Not entirely sure what to say, Esteban turned and began the walk out of the throne room. Without her. Feeling the need to cry again, Elena clenched her hands in front of her as Luisa very tenderly wrapped her in a hug, both her and Fransisco leading the future Queen of Avalor out to address the people who had conquered the courtyard.

#elena castillo flores #elena of avalor #disney #cartoon #fan fiction #animated #stories #isabel castillo flores

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