#my brain keeps clamoring for all of them to face their mortality in the form of a permanent injury

[allalrightagain]

I cannot write an Alanna disability fic. I cannot.

[maladaptive-ninja-returns]

Dawn (5)

Loki x fem!Reader

ONE/TWO/THREE SHOT

Warnings:hurt, danger, wild beasts

Summary: A truce to end all wars leads to an alliance between Earth and Asgard in the form of Loki marrying a mortal. None of them what this. None except fate.

Word Count: Whenever my brain is excited I dance. Today I danced- it was the worst but I had fun- because I had an off from work. And because I knew I was going to write :D Yayy!!! People should not see me dancing when I am alone. Especially when I am in the kitchen waiting for the water to boil. No wonder that stray cat has a weird look on her face whenever she comes by for some milk and I am in the kitchen.

MASTERLIST in bio, darlings. Tags are open (check bio)

"You do realise I am being kept alive for negotiations. So, it wouldn't kill to give me a cloak at the very least! I am freezing here!"

"Then why did you rip your skirt apart!"

"Are you kidding me?! Can you not see my legs?!!! They cannot handle the itchy fabric, you dumbfuck! Look at all the redness! Now get me a goddamn cloak!"

The stubborn stares go on till the guard decides to give up and get out of the tent for five minutes of silence. "Do not run because we will-"

"Do I look like I am in shape to run? DO I?!!"

The orc gurgles in irritation before stomping out and you get down to work.

It was not easy to tear into the fabric with the hidden knife strapped to your thigh. But once the first slit was made, the ripping was easy. Something you had learned while hanging out with Sybll was the sturdiness of the Vanaheim fabric that you were wearing. It has three layers. The first one being cotton harvested in the local fields that lets the legs breathe. The third and the innermost one is the silk woven by the silkworms cultivated by the royalty. But the second layer is the most interesting one. This used thin stretchable threads to wire a protective sheath around the cotton and thus the body. The thread work is done almost like body armour, loose enough to breathe in, tight enough to leave no room for error. But there is another thing about these threads that is the most crucial thing to getting you out of here. They have high tensile strength.

Your hands have already got to work to get those threads apart. Surprisingly it is easy to do so once you realise it is all one huge strand going about. It is hard to slash it into multiple pieces but your knife seemed to have done half the job for you. One end of the strands go to the end of every lamp and candle- even the oil lamps- in the tent, tied together by the other end to meet one thread that you tie around your fingers just when the orc enters the tent.

You are quick to straighten your back and look down on him. “Well?”

“Master says you can survive the night. If you don’t he’ll get you a coat.”

Son of a-

“Okay,” you shrug, getting up and picking the remnants of your dress in your hand before walking towards the opening of the tent, “come on then.”

“You are not going anywhere, missy,” the ugly creature growls, trying to stop you by placing his arm in between you and the path to the opening.

“Thanks to your master, now I have to pee because of the cold. And trust me this won’t be the first time I do it tonight.”

The orc has a shade of confusion and fear colouring his face that is followed by hues of hesitation. “Unless you want the tent to reek of piss,” you add, making it easier for the orc to huff and growl before walking in front of you.

Wrapping the remnant of you the poofy part of your dress around your shoulders, hiding the string in your hands that are thin and transparent enough to not be seen.

The cold air outside brings some relief along with a pit of anxiety in your stomach as you watch many more orcs sitting around the fire while many other armoured ones roam about other tents, growling, gambling, drinking and causing as much of a ruckus as they could. 

A couple of wild eyes look at you from one corner or another, forcing you to tuck the ripped fabric closer to you. Some try to stand in your way and watch as you squeeze through whatever narrow passageway they leave for you, all the while letting you curl a few more strings by the poles that housed the burning torches.

A couple more tedious steps and a racing heartbeat, and you are by the edge of the forest, searching for a good vantage point.

"Don't go too far. I will catch you," the orc grunts at you. 

You give him a stink eye before taking a few more steps uphill within the trees. "Keep an eye out for any perverts or animals," you order the creature, who in turn scoffs and spits on the ground.

"Great. I would rather be eaten by a wild boar than be kept prisoner," you mutter loud enough for the orc to hear and scratch his bald head, ponder upon it and then turn around in disgruntled annoyance.

The moment his gaze has averted, you drop the fabric from around you and pick up the mess of the threads. It is a miracle that none of the connections seems to have broken yet. 

Okay, here goes nothing.

Wrapping the bunch around your palm, you gather enough air in your lungs and yank the strings running down towards the tents, trying your best not to grunt or scream in agony the threads put on your palm.

There is some movement. And then there is a faint sound of something snapping. What follows is a ball of fire going up in the air where you were being held against your will. And yelling. Lots of yelling.

Gradually the fire is being seen in more tents, orcs and white elves running around trying to make sense of the mayhem.

The orc that has accompanied you watches the fire, a layer of a certain fear building in his eyes. He starts to turn around but is stopped with a dagger to his throat.

One blow to the throat and then make sure you take the weapon out. Let them bleed to death. Just like Natasha taught you. You hesitate to take the dagger out but are promoted to do so- with a light scream- when the orc tries to claw into your arm, bringing his own death unto himself faster.

It is disgusting; the gargling, the trembling body that collapses on the ground, the failed attempt of him reaching out for you with eyes that are about to pop out while he drowns in his own blood. It is disgusting but you cannot seem to take your eyes off the helpless figure of that creature. With zero ideas about what your subconscious is thinking, a step is taken towards the writhing body till you can hear cries coming closer to the edge of the forest, forcing you to come out the trance and run into the deep for your life.

.

Sybll does not see it coming. The orcs or their attacks. She knows she isn't alone in the forest but she does not realise it will be the orcs that she will run into while searching for Y/N.

No words are exchanged. No greetings or warnings. Just the exposed dirty fangs of the emotionless creatures bared at her as she tries a protection spell. It does work, but only against the first attack. She knows the only option she now has is to run.

Oh, spirits of the forest, help me!

It does not take much time for them to catch up to her, surrounding her to play with her before they can feast on her in whatever sense they want to.

The first orc to step towards her- while the others howl and hoot with a sense of victory- disappears with a black whirlwind that comes and goes in the blink of an eye.

It confuses the orcs, making them look all around them before one of them tries to go for Sybll. This time too, the black whirlwind comes and takes this one. Now, the fear in those yellow eyes is real. The fear of the unknown striking from the darkness.

But it doesn't take a while for them to witness the golden eyes glimmering in the darkness at them, seemingly floating in the black as it watches them, their every step, every little ounce of fear trickling down their murky bodies.

The strikes happen without a warning. Before she can blink, the orcs are gone. All that is left of them is an arm dumped at her feet.

She never sees it coming. The predator or the prey.

.

It is getting harder to breathe. The running and the fear that is burning you inside out are not working too well with your tired limbs. It is hard to suppress the clamorous breathing when you hide yourself behind a tree. The cacophony of the party searching for you comes and goes from a distance, adding certain minutes to your life. It is a boon that the moonlight cannot reach down to the ground in here, making it easier for you to hide or walk about without being seen. What your frail little heart does not contemplate is that the enemy has thought of the same.

Once the silence seems to have returned around you, you get up and make your way towards the edge of the cliff where the moonlight seems to be filtering through the leaves and trees. Need to find a way back. Need to find a way back. Oh, Gods, I hope Sif and the others are okay. I’m sure they’re okay. This idiot just wanted me. Yeah, yeah, they are definitely okay. Didn’t see them back at that camp so-

A snap of a twig sounds somewhere behind you just when you reach in the clearing, realising the vulnerability as the moon makes your skin glimmer under its borrowed light.

“I love the attempt, my dear,” Torbarik’s voice comes from the edge of the forest before he steps into the light, “but you should have thought this through.”

Six elves just like him, three on either side come out behind him, their weapons thirsting for some blood in those itchy hands.

“I did, actually, think this through.” You did not. “Either I reach back to my family safely or you, Torbarik, will die by their hands when they come for blood for my death.”

Torbarik’s thick brows rise a little in mild surprise, his eyes moving between you and the thousand feet deep valley behind you. “Do you really want to kill yourself?” he mocks you, chuckling at your futile attempt to threaten him.

“I would rather die than live in your-”

“Is that how badly you want to get out of your marriage?”

That hits a nerve.

“Excuse me? This has nothing to do with my marriage.”

“Did he chuck you out of his room on your wedding night?” the elf guffaws and his men follow suit, rubbing you in all the wrong ways.

The fear that his elf had been inculcating inside you till now seems to be fading away as something else is starting to take place. Rage, probably.

“Stop it.”

“Is that what you said when he tried to have his way with you?” The laughter that follows itches every part of your brain.

You do not utter a word till they are done holding their stomachs. “What happened? Cat got your tongue?”

You do not blink and Torbarik, for the first time that night sees something feral shine from inside your eyes. “Say another word about Loki from your maggot-filled mouth and I will personally cut your tongue and feed it to you before slicing your throat and driving a blade right through your skull.”

They try to chuckle at the threat but the perilous aura surrounding you makes it difficult to do so.

Torbarik smiles and takes a step towards you, closing the distance enough for him to run a finger on your cheek. He does not show it but he can feel his insides tremble when you do not so much as change the pattern of your breathing on his touch.

“Turn a smidge more ferocious and I might start to do things to you that I have been thinking about for a while my dear,” he whispers to you.

It is hard to keep up the rock-like facade but you are lucky to be interrupted by a voice from the edge of the trees.

“Stop!”

All eyes turn to the voice, not being able to handle the shock to see you stand there.

“What in the nine circles of Hel?!” Torbarik is shifting his gaze between you next to him and you standing close to his guards. “Guards!” he yells at the elves to capture the one that just came out of the forest while you are stepping away from this one as your brain tries to take in your doppelganger.

The guards barely get close to her when they are thrown back into the clearing by huge black clouds growling and snarling at them.

Wolves!

With their teeth bared and their golden eyes sharp at their prey, they have their claws dug in the ground, waiting for something.

Oh. Oh, Gods. Oh my-

The doppelganger looks right at you and gives you a knowing smirk before softly declaring, “Árás,” and breaking all Hel loose.

The wolves jump at their prey. Agonising screams and cries fill the night and Torbarik watches with a newfound fear the end of his greatest men, his mouth agape, his skin whiter than it was before.

That is when he watches- from the corner of his eyes- your figure starting to run in the direction where your mirror image stands, giving in to his impulse and catching hold you buy your waist, before restraining you with a hand around your neck and the other arm around your torso.

“Let me through or she dies!” It is yelled more like a command than a request, of course.

The doppelganger takes a step in your direction. You can feel Torbarik’s erratic pulse in his hold around you when he pulls you a step back towards the edge of the cliff with him.

She steps, watching him before turning to you.

“I think,” she starts, looking down at your legs before catching your eyes again, “you do not realise how dangerous she is, Torbarik.”

And then it hits you.

Struggling with one hand, you use the other to fish underneath your dress, going for your thigh holster and feeling the cold hilt of your blade under your fingers.

The next bit happens in a flash. The distracted elf never sees the rage-filled stab coming for his thigh and ends up screaming. The pain loosens his grip on you, allowing you to stab back right by his lower rib cage and stepping away from him.

Even in the agony, his curses at you do not stop but for the moment in which green and yellow glow emanate from your doppelganger and in her stead stands Loki.

Torbarik is on the ground now, bleeding as he looks up in shock at Loki.

“Loki, my Prince,” he utters, wincing through the pain while trying to crawl towards the God, “I think there *grunts* might have been a mis-*inhales*- misunderstanding.”

Loki watches the elf with a blank expression before turning his head to watch you. Within a few steps, he is standing in front of you, looking down at your face, taking in every little scare and every bruise that has started to form. You can feel his gaze on every wound and spots of dried blood on you, unsure what he was going to do.

Loki’s hands are in the air around you as a black fur coat appears in his grasp that is wrapped around your trembling frame, restoring some warmth within an instant.

He does not shift his stance, but he does turn to look at Torbarik hiding a knife while trying to make his way to Loki.

“You hurt my wife,” Loki declares into the wind that has started to blow, “there is nothing we can work around now.”

With that declaration, he whistles, and the wolves come back already hungry for some more violence.

“Loki, n-no,” Torbarik stammers at the sight of the fanged beasts slowly making their way towards him, “we can have a t-truce!”

“Taka hann í burtu,” Loki announces to the wolves, stopping Torbarik’s heart.

Torbarik begs for mercy as the wolves drag him into the forest by his legs, the sounds going away with them; for good.

Once the silence resumes, Loki turns back to look at you. The wind is bringing with the smell of moist soil from a place that seems to have witnessed fresh showers. He does not realise soon enough that you are still in a little shock, looking at him to make sure he really is standing there.

“Y/N,” he finally speaks, “are you all right?”

The pent up emotions have no place for a release but the eyes. And so they rise up with the moisture, waiting on the edge to fall at a moment’s notice.

“You came.” Your voice trembles and it scares you that it does, forcing you to take in as much air as you can.

“Why would I not?” he is surprised. “Did you have doubts?”

You stop breathing, going blank for a few seconds. “A little?”

All he does is smile, giving you soft eyes. “Come on, let’s get you back to the pal-”

“You’re wearing black. Is this a stealth suit of sorts? Is that a braid? In your hair?”

Your voice is soft and filled with curiosity. Loki realises you have never seen him in this attire before. Neither have you seen those braids in his hair.

“Yes. And yes,” he answers patiently, not realising how much he is liking this.

“I like it,” you reply, your eyes still stuck on his braid running from one side of his head down the length of his hair, “it looks really nice.”

Your voice says that but your face somehow feels it is in pain. And just as Loki is about to ask you, he feels his body jerk back a little when you step in to wrap your arms around his torso.

You do not know if he approves of this, but you do know that you need this right now. Just a few seconds till your body calms down and regains some sense. And the will to walk without any breakdowns that you are not made aware of beforehand.

It is a need for you but it is a confusing surprise for Loki. He does not remember the last time he was hugged. He is sure it must have been Frigga on the other end some ages ago though any memories of that love are nothing but a blur. He has never had a touch stop his breath like it does today. And this? Your gesture of embracing him as tightly as you can, leaning on him for some sort of comfort after being chased by danger sends his conscience into a slow whirlpool of its own. That whirlpool, instead of sucking something in, seems to bring out this unexplainable warmth in his chest that he has never felt before. How could he? He has not been hugged like this before. And so, the God of Mischief is left speechless, standing at the edge of the world with a human, making him do the one thing for which he cannot give himself a rational explanation.

He wraps his arms around you, hugging you back; feeling the glow in his chest grow denser and brighter by the second. His hand rests on your head, caressing it, feeling lighter just by that action. At that moment he knows.

He knows what is the one thing he is going to care for till the end of his life.

[outroshooky]

whatever in heaven | knj

⇢ genre: series; part three (mafia!au) (angst, fluff, smut)

⇢ pairing: kim namjoon x reader

⇢ word count: 5.8k

⇢ warnings: smut (soft d/s dynamics. grinding, oral [m receiving], brief use of the word daddy, marking, gentler dirty talk [praise]) angst (implied usage and mention of knives, nightmare), some fluff. this fic is a bit of a mind-fuck; there are darker themes here, so please read with caution.

⇢ a/n: i’m so excited for you guys to read the next installment of verses & vibes! a huge, huge thank you to my beta readers @sunkoos​ (go check out nas’s work!) and @hobiswitch​; an even bigger thank you to @guksheart​ for not only beta reading this fic but posting this for me because of laptop difficulties!

...which leads me into, unfortunately, some bad news. my laptop crashed permanently over the weekend and i may have lost all of my files. i’m working to get them back, but this also means i have to buy a new laptop. thus, verses and vibes (and my writing in general) may go on hiatus until i can figure out a way to keep writing and posting new content. more updates forthcoming— for now, enjoy whatever in heaven!

“i know not if i could have borne

 to see thy beauties fade;

 the night that follow’d such a morn

 had worn a deeper shade:

 thy day without a cloud hath pass’d,

 and thou wert lovely to the last,

 extinguish’d, not decay’d;

 as stars that shoot along the sky

 shine brightest as they fall from high.”

⤷ and thou art dead, as young and fair; lord byron (george gordon)

It is always the same in the beginning.

He is kneeling on a concrete floor that goes on as far as he can see, cold and callous against the skin that peeks from the stringy rips in his pajama pants. A single light flickers above his head, murky cream, faded with age. His arms are bound behind his back with braided rope, biting vengeance into his tender wrists. His exhalations wisp pale smoke, rushing from his lips to touch the folded legs of a woman sitting just out of the ring of wired lamplight.

The supports of the chair are metal; he momentarily ponders how her skin isn’t dotted with gooseflesh through the thin fabric of her dress, but her cherry-red heels catch the light in a way that has his breath hitching. Something in him presses to reach out to her but he can’t, straining against his bonds like a feral cat caged. He snarls, a gritting sound in the silence of the warehouse, and she hums something seductive in return.

It is a dark heat that kindles in the pit of Namjoon’s stomach when he realizes he is staring at temptation herself, clothed in cherry pumps and scarlet lipstick. She is the antithesis of everything he should have and yet, yet—

He craves her more and more with every second that goes past. He doesn’t need to see her face to know that she is hauntingly beautiful, a devil crafted from memory, sent from hell to tempt him in all the ways she knew how. The blooming lust in his veins climbs with viney fingers straight to his brain, his head spinning, flying high; he barely knows what to believe. Somehow, she’s pulling on the strings of his thoughts, a marionette and his master dancing on the brink. One wrong string and the puppet collapses in a heap of cloth and kindling.

He groans, the sound of frustration and need echoing on and on in the dim room. She laughs velvet rich, sickeningly sweet. He wishes he could rend the binds from his arms, crawl to her, worship her the way she deserves; he shuffles forward an inch, two—

A plain black combat knife skitters to a stop in front of him, twirling once before coming to rest, just grazing his left kneecap. Resting potential against the crook of his leg, and he sucks in a breath when he feels the chilled edge level against the puckered scar on his knee.

She doesn’t speak, but Namjoon knows exactly what she means to say.

Thoughts clamor at the base of his skull, hissing seduction like a writhing mass of coiled snakes snapping for attention. They strike at one another, seeking dominion, and he’s nearly consumed by the din. A choice, cut out for him by the hands of fate, burned in the ashes of every decision he’s ever made. It boils down to this, to him and her and everything in between.

At one pellucid flicker of insanity, his hands are freed.

The ropes fall frayed to the floor and he straightens, rubbing at the burn in his forearms, rolling his neck to loosen the strain. His eyes flicker to her mass in the darkness, the shape of her just touched by the faintest tendrils of light. She is just out of reach, but so close, so far when her head tilts, a hint of fascination. He is mortal, she is eternal— a man reduced at the end of the day, stripped of money and power and the demons that lick at his heels. Greed is his master, but she is his, coveted in the secrecy of this cushioned nightmare.

He knows though, in the deepest reaches of his twisted soul, that only one of them will leave the warehouse alive.

In this horrible, shattered husk of reality, only one of them is destined to live.

And somehow, the choice has fallen to him.

Pick up the knife. Pick it up, feel it in your hands, smooth and weighted, perfectly balanced. Everything you’ve ever wanted is in the palm of your hands. Make the right choice. Do it for me, baby. For me.

Namjoon is pitted against his own self-preservation, warped desires clamoring for attention, needy yet sick. Needy, he is so fucking needy, but for what? Anticipation itches the back of his neck; he can barely think when the handle melds into the curve of his palm with such a sinful fit. The metal glints promise of things yet to come, but when he tilts the blade towards himself, he sees only the industrial struts that crosshatch the ceiling, the dust that hovers thick in the clogged, choking air. Emptiness and fulfillment, hand in hand, only a breath away.

You know what the answer is, Kim Namjoon. Do it. Do it for me.

Does he know? He must know, deep in the recesses of his bones. Deep inside the fucked-up mind of his, playing tricks on him; a trickster, what trickster? The last of his sanity is threatening to drip, melting like liquid wax onto the cool, callous cement. It’s bubbling in his hands, pouring through the gaps between his fingers, but when he shakes his head, a mad dog, it solidifies molten silver, black titanium.

Do it for me.

Do it for her.

He must.

Namjoon’s eyes flicker to her calf, following the silk of her skin to the hem of her saccharine dress; it flutters scarlet just out of reach. He’s on his knees now; there’s something pulling at him, some indeterminable force dragging him through the floor. The blade slips; the knife twists in his hands as he falls forward, and—

The air rushes out of Namjoon’s lungs as he writhes himself awake, mouth agape in an silent scream. He’s wheezing with the first rush of oxygen into his lungs, his lips swollen with gnashing of teeth as he twists away from the warmth settled next to him in the sea of rippling sheets, curling in on himself.

“Namjoon, are you alright?”

The broken man lifts his head, taking in the naked form upright in bed beside him, hair awry, concern bleeding every word.

It’s you.

He’s safe.

Indeed, Namjoon has had many dreams, but none quite like this one.

It is as if the very breath was sucked from Namjoon’s lungs when he first wrested himself awake in a cold sweat. Control is something he craves, something he owns save the late night hours when it is ripped from his hands by the sick desires of his own brain, playing tricks on him. He exercises his grip on every minutiae of his life, but when his eyes flutter shut and his conscience takes hold, it wraps a silken tie around his thoughts and begs him to pay attention.

You’re calling his name in a voice burdened by drowsiness. He knows you were awoken because of him but he can’t seem to think, to do anything else but sit here in this bed, in these rippling creamy sheets, and feel his lungs fill, empty. Fill, empty.

“Namjoon, love, breathe with me, okay?”

Breathing. Breathing is all he has been reduced to, a creature of the night with oxygen in his lungs and demons in his head.

You take his hand in your own, feels the slim digits trembling against your skin. You rub gentle circles into his knuckles and it somehow grounds him in the midst of the chaos, the overwhelming flood conjured from his worst nightmares. He watches as you carefully trace every crooked angle of his fingers with your own.

It is this simple motion that produces new thoughts, a mental clamor not of his own demise but for his own safety, the protection that he seeks. You are so much more than the sum of your parts: you are safety in the midst of a den of ruby-eyed cobras simply begging for a chance to strike. He’s never thought of anybody the way he thinks of you; there is no one else who comes close to you, and that’s saying a lot when it comes to his line of work.

“Namjoon, you’re safe, okay? You’re safe with me. We’re in our bedroom. You’re still the head of the most feared crime ring in the country. Nothing has changed. Yoongi is just outside the door; I’m right here. Nothing has changed, baby. You’re safe.”

Your words are warm against his skin, dotted with the press of lips to his temple, his cheek. You’re burning up against him, sweat beading at the roots of his hair, the silver strands falling low into his eyes. Somehow, the heat only serves to make him cooler, and he’s nestling into your arms before his mind catches up to his body. He’s safe. Somehow, in the roaring din of his mind, he is safe. His demons won’t follow him here, locked outside the door, palms scrabbling at the windows. The windows. Namjoon’s eyes flick to the glass and find the shades drawn, blocking out the ambient light that hovers thick on the other side. Bulletproof, he insisted, and for good reason. But Yoongi would have called if there was a problem, and he’s got Seokjin at the front gate, and it begins to seep in, sweet relief, that he truly is safe.

He is cradled to you like a child, a position compromising for a man of his stature, but he knows you won’t judge. Your hand trails from his thigh to his hip, his ribs to his shoulders, and your fingers nest in his hair, gently scratching his scalp. Lord knows he won’t be able to close his eyes until daylight breaks over the dark oak floor of your shared bedroom, but he hums and noses at your neck. You smell like sage and lavender with a touch of his own cologne, a memory of last night, and he inhales deeply, tries to savor the muskiness.

“You’re okay baby, I promise.” A kiss to his temple, another grounding touch. “I’m not going anywhere. I love you; you’re safe right here with me. Just let me love you, okay baby?”

Love. Love, a concept Namjoon knew better by verbal parry than by any real, tangible memory. It was wielded by a father he barely knew, an absent mother who preferred the company of socialites to the company of her own son. It was really a wonder he found it in him to love at all, really; he’d assumed he’d leave such an emotion to those who built a life out of a 9-5 day and mediocre sex. He’d been proven wrong, however, when you came along— you, once a high-profile escort in the dirty underworld he’d built for himself, proved yourself a worthy companion when you stayed beyond his guttural moans and dirty secrets. It was in fact, a moment like this when he realized he quite enjoyed your company, and there was something more to it than just a good fuck, an easy pussy.

You were the closest thing to real love he’d ever experienced, a home to come back to that wasn’t a prowling security team and a clean gun barrel. He’d exposed the grittiest parts of himself to you, the most private secrets and still you came back for more. You were just as fucked up as he was, really, and that was his favorite thing about you. You’d killed for him and he knew you’d kill again, and that was, very plainly, the matter of things.

Plus, that mouth made him see the stars more times than he’d willingly brag about at the poker table.

He presses a kiss to your shoulder, exposed through the lip of your shirt (his shirt, actually). It’s a careful kiss, chaste for him. Your fingers rub comfort into the base of his skull and he swears he could purr, an alley cat sleek and pleasured.

“You doing okay, Joonie?” Your eyes tell him everything he needs to know and he nods, unsure if he trusts himself to speak. Fear still gnaws at his bones, muted terror of a red-heeled succubus and a silver blade that gleams in the lamplight. Somehow though, you know, scraping the blunt of your fingernails against his roots. “You don’t have to talk to me about it if you don’t want to. I’m here regardless of that, you know me.”

Namjoon noses the column of your neck in reply, folding his sizeable frame until it molds against yours. Some things he’d never let the boys know about, but some things, he thinks, they knew about already. He is hard and cold and calculated yet soft and warm and comforting, a living contradiction unto himself; you’d never believe it if you hadn’t seen it yourself. A complexity of men who prefers to live by the simplest of rules, but you’d learned long ago not to try to understand something that was fucked-up from the start. Some things in this world were just fucked up, and that was the way they were meant to be.

Neither of you know how long you sit there, adrift in messy sheets, dry eyes gritty with the lateness of the hour. Your hand weaves through Namjoon’s hair as the vines around his heart flex, their thorny stems unraveling. He stopped shaking minutes before, but if you know anything about him, the internal tremors never cease, not outside of the safety of this bedroom, impossible with the life he lives.

He stirs a little, murmurs your name against your neck, his lips brushing bare skin and the small freckle that dots just above your collarbone. There’s something so intimate, so human about it, screaming vulnerability that hangs open and aching in the silence. His hands slide smooth across the breadth of your back, your waist, palms settling atop your thighs as he draws back slowly, slowly.

There’s a question in his eyes, one you meet with your own.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

He hesitates.

“Namjoon…”

He swallows, tilts his head, steals a kiss. “I’m sorry.” Then another.

With the third you’re pulling away, chest steady, finger to his lips. “Namjoon, you’re not thinking clearly. We can’t do this right now—”

“Says who?” He is breathless with the thought. “I wanna make you feel good, baby. You deserve that.”

The sweetest words wrap themselves around the breadth of your bones, melting between the gaps. He’s always been so good with his tongue.

“Namjoon, I wanna make you feel good too, but not when you’re like this.” You shake your head. “Not when you’re waking up screaming about death and knives and all sorts of horrible things.”

His hands brush your curves. “If this bed is an ocean, I wanna drown in you.”

“Joonie…”

It’s so easy to work at you, the sharper edges that he can dissect piece by piece. He knows exactly how far to push, what little to say to reel you in hook, line, and sinker. “Just go with it baby, alright? Just trust me.”

It’s easy to fall into Namjoon, collapsing every time as he folds around you. His head tilts to the side as he leans in, his nose brushing your own. He tastes like mint toothpaste and something uniquely him, an element you can never place but when he’s exposing the most vulnerable parts of himself to you like this. His mouth moves easy against yours, just tender lips, warm kisses. His hand smoothes up your spine to cradle your neck, thumb brushing at the nape, the soft hairs that tickle the back of his hand. “Just relax baby, relax.”

Once more. “Joonie, are you sure you’re okay with this?”

He nods. “I want this.”

He’s never been one for kissing but tonight he craves it, the simplicity of two mouths and hands that fit themselves perfectly against the curves and the edges. Musk curls under your nose as your eyelids flutter shut, dusting the apples of your cheeks a pinkish hue. Your hands meet his chest, burning with heat through the oversized Grateful Dead shirt he wears to bed with you, and they slide to his shoulders when he slips an arm underneath you to tug you closer.

You settle atop the apexes of his thighs, legs folding around him as he gazes up at you. The utmost adoration he has for you, written in the stars and in two hearts that beat as one, rattling against their cages with a need for closer, closer, closer. Fear melts underneath practiced fingertips and patience; he’ll be damned if he doesn’t return the favor. His eyes, usually tawny and mellow, burn blacker than charcoal but sweeter than syrup, running with emotion. It’s evident in every brush of his hands against your bare skin when his fingertips edge under the hem of your shorts, the gleam in his eye that warns of everything that is about to come. One hand supports your back as the other squeezes your thigh, and you can’t help but smirk down at him with the easy smile that tugs at his own kiss-bitten lips.

You aren’t smirking, however, when he leans in and nips a bite at your neck, teasing with his teeth, making you whimper and whine atop him. His tongue pokes between his lips, assuaging the pain, and your own mouth falls open as your fingers clench at his shoulders, nails sliding a lazy path along his spine. He licks once at the bite, then once more until he’s satisfied with the petaled violet that blossoms across the breadth of your throat. He nibbles a matching purple rose on the other side; you can feel the smile on his lips when your mouth shamelessly tips open and you stutter out his name.

“Hm, what is it?” When he draws back, you moan a singular complaint. “What do you want, love? I’ll give you anything you want.”

“W-Wanna make you feel good,” you pant, eyes fluttering. “Wanna make you feel so good.”

“I wanna make you feel good too, baby. Let’s just focus on the now, yeah?” Namjoon’s hand squeezes your thigh but you’re already pressing your body flush to his, kneeling over him. You cup his face and he strokes your wrist lightly, the most tentative of touches, thanking god that somehow, in the midst of the lion’s den, you’d found him. He had you and he knew he could trust you, trust the smell of your shampoo and the heat of your skin. “Focus on me.”

You lean down to kiss him, brushing his cheekbones, tangling your hands in his hair, but apparently, Namjoon had other plans. His lips graze your own, trailing the edge of your jaw to pepper the lightest kisses at your ear and move lower, lower. When his mouth lavishes the column of your neck with the utmost pleasure, you can’t help but feel your core ache, the purest whines permeating the thick air as you beg. He’s definitely hard now, weight against the inside of your thigh, and the temptation— no, the need to grind down on him sparked the fuzziest pleasures in your mind, the most sinful ideas.

“Please Joonie, please feels so good, please, w-wanna—”

When Namjoon mouths wet at the shell of your ear you writhe, losing control with each second that slips between your fingers like sand. His lips burn fire against your already heated skin, sizzling and crackling like a live wire under his touch. You hiss and he growls deep in the back of his throat, continues his ministrations.

“I forgot how much you liked that,” he breathes shakily.

“You’re so fucking hot,” you gasp, releasing your iron grasp on his roots. Luckily he’s unfazed; damn lucky you to be with someone who actually enjoyed their fair share of kinkiness. “So fucking hot and you’re so thick, I can feel it—”

When you grind down on him, pressing yourself onto the growing bulge in his slacks and swiveling your hips with practiced ease, he groans feverishly. With every brush of the head of his cock, he’s harder than before, memory weighty in the palm of his hand. He chokes on the breath in his lungs, his nails blunt on your back, and he moans once in content. Feels so fucking good.

“God, baby, you’re gonna ruin me like this,” Namjoon chuckles.

“Maybe that’s the intention,” you trill.

“Fuck.” The word lies heavy in the air, heavy on his bated breath.

You smirk, sinful seduction in his ear. “And what if I did this?”

As his eyebrows furrow, you ease yourself onto his thighs, so strong and sinewy. Your fingertips slip down his shoulders, trace every muscle that strains under his loose sleep shirt. Beneath the fabric is the coiled power of a lethal creature, a tiger poised to devour his prey. And he is utterly wrapped around your finger, letting his head tip back against the headboard with a  sigh. He’s lost in your touches, an angel fallen from heaven, no idea which way is up or down.

You rub circles into his hip bones; he twists under you. Practically begging with his gasps, knowing what awaits him. Your fingers toy with the hem of his boxers and he’s hissing between his teeth. “Baby…”

You hum a response, press a kiss to the shell of his ear.

“Please…”

“Oh Namjoon,” you coo. “You’re a mess, baby.”

He is. Hair sticking to his forehead, sweat gleaming at his temple; he’s a model for destruction, the dirtiest of kinds. Hips arching underneath you, and there’s a wet spot that stains the fabric. He smiles somehow, teeth flashing in the low light. “All for you.”

You withdraw, spit into your palm. “Then you get all of me.”

Your hand slips beneath the waistband of his boxers, finds his cock, thick and hard. At the first stroke, lazy and full, he can’t stop the raspy grunt that leaves his throat. “Shit, baby. Feels so good.” When you lower your head to mouth at him over his sweats he practically writhes, begging, needy. So unlike him, but a welcome change to see him falling apart, falling apart over you. The fabric is soaked with saliva and dotted with a pearl of cum, a carnal work of art.

You rub slowly down his length, thumbing the swollen head leaking his seed. It’s messy and wet and he’s moaning and it’s all worth it, worth it to see him wrecked like this. His balls are heavy in your palm; when your eyes flutter up to meet his, wide and expectant, Namjoon hisses. That sound enough jolts burning heat between your thighs, twisting devilishly in your stomach. “B-Babygirl?”

There’s question in the word, question that makes you pause. You moan against his clothed cock; he chokes on his words.

“Can I make you feel good too?”

A sloppy kiss pressed to his member. “Later, okay? I wanna focus on you right now, Joonie.”

His hand strokes through your hair, flyaway, disheveled. “You’re so good to me. So fucking good—” He chokes on the downstroke, fingers tightening out of reflex. “Want you so bad.”

You press. “How bad? Bad enough to want my mouth?”

“Shit, your mouth,” he whines. “Want your mouth, want you—”

“Joonie,” you murmur.

His heartbeat resounds like gunfire in the ringing silence.

“Lift.”

He lifts his hips as you tug, pulling his sweats down to his thighs, the fabric ridged underneath your perch. His cock falls free, standing slightly crooked against his still-clothed abdomen, rippling with tension. It twitches under the heat of your gaze, steadily seeping liquid bliss, and your mouth waters at the thought. It’s been so long since you took him like this; when it’ll happen again, who’s to say.

You pepper kisses along his thighs just to hear him whimper, feel the predator writhe in his own constraints. His hands burn their own trails along the curves of your body, spreading heat in their wake as you cave to your own desire, slipping a hand between your thighs when you take him in your mouth with practiced ease. He’s firm under your fingertips, lithe and sleek and powerful in all the right ways, but he falls apart when it comes to you, crumbles like rock under the breath of the tidal wave. He grunts sin from between gritted teeth but whines complaint when you pull back to tease, to draw things out. He’s gentle in his touches but firm in his demands, even through the cottony billows of his neediness.

“I-I’m close,” Namjoon stutters, skin crimson from lavished attention. There’s saliva smeared down your chin and tears twinkle liquid starlight on your lashes, but you’ve never felt more electrified, burning up at the seams for him. From the heated confines of your throat you withdraw his cock with a firm touch at the base, his fingers running through your mussed locks.

“Where do you want to cum, baby?”

He squirms. “Fuck. Wherever you’ll take m-me—” He shudders, ribs heaving. Your fallen angel, shattering under your touch. “Oh shit, I’m gonna cum for you, babygirl.”

“Cum for me, angel. Cum for me...” you murmur, gaze level with his own as you wrap your lips around his member.

“Gonna cum for you, fuck—”

“Daddy.”

The cavernous heat of your mouth is a slick warmth, so wet and warm and utterly divine. He loses himself in it, lets himself go, pushing towards that edge of no return, riding the crest of the wave as it rolls faster, harder, heavier. “‘M gonna fucking cum. Oh god, fuck, shit, babygirl, I’m cumming, I’m—”

A drawn out groan fills the air, raspy and thick and throaty as he thrusts into your mouth once, twice, spills over. He’s bitter on your tongue, acrid but you take it, swallow it all. It’s worth it to see the pleasure overtake him, to see him let go of every capacity and capability to fall drowning, dizzy. Whatever in heaven, above or below, he’s tumbling headlong into it, collapsing into himself like a burning star falling from the cosmos.

He’s the first to break the silence that falls, withdrawing himself and tucking his softening cock back in his sweats with a remarkable amount of composition for a man who’d just seen the very sparks of the universe behind closed eyelids. He chuckles breathless, bated. “Fucking hell, angel.”

You try to speak but merely croak at first, throat grating dry. He hushes you soothingly, easing you back on the pillows now soaked with sweat. “Let me get you some water, yeah? Just stay here for now.”

You whine a complaint— shouldn’t you be taking care of him?— but he’s insistent and already on his feet, legs shaky as he heads towards the bathroom. There’s a pang in your chest watching him go, the reality of the situation settling in, and vulnerability flowers in your heart.

The tap squeaks; the faucet runs. Room temperature water, not too hot but not too cold to soothe the burn in your esophagus. He knows you better than anyone, knows how to take care of you when you fail to take care of yourself, life spent always on the run. You’re the one holding him when his nightmares consume him, the steel that he draws from his belt to wield before him, the ultimate weapon. Yin and yang, black and white, blooming nebula and neutron star. The water turns off, a grating complaint.

It’s been too long; you’ve delayed too much. Play to his fantasy; he has no idea what’s coming.

“If the water’s not enough, I can send Yoongi for some tea— oh.”

Oh.

You are no longer prostrate, the limp rag doll exhausted from her play. No, you are stretched out on the bed, ass up on your hands and knees, silver glinting between your teeth as a pair of handcuffs dangles in the air. You are looking at him with fire smouldering deep in your eyes, blazing a burning glare straight through him.

The predator has become the prey.

“Daddy,” you purr, right on cue. “Come here.”

It’s automatic, the way Namjoon moves towards you, glass forgotten on the nearby dresser. He’s completely transfixed, fascinated by the possibilities, and when he reaches the end of the bed, you stop him with one outstretched foot, bare with the lateness of the hour. “Turn around.”

He’s so submissive, so compliant simply by the force of his own surprise. It’s hard to keep going, hard to push through the adrenaline thrumming through your blood, the underlying current that threatens to sweep you away, too. But you mustn’t listen, mustn’t feel.

“Hands behind your back, Joonie, baby.”

He’s perfect, perfectly whole in the way he follows each command that falls from your lips like silk spun thread. He surrenders himself so willingly to you, it stings raw.

You rise to your feet, level with the back of him. Your fingers make quick work of the cuffs and with a firm click, the deed is done.

With a tender motion that surprises even you considering the brevity of the situation, you wrap your arms around your torso, bury your face in his skin, inhale his scent. Amber and citrus. Musk and spice. Whole contradictions that somehow manage to summarize him perfectly. You whisper against his spine like it’s a secret. “I’m so sorry.”

“What, baby?”

You can feel his heartbeat against your cheek, thudding rapid with excitement, wonder at what lies ahead of him. Guilt roars its ugly head and you beat it back with double the force.

You stiffen, step away from him. Four years you’d waited to formulate these words, to hear them drop from your lips, plummeting on high. Four years and now the moment is here, and you swallow past the lump in your sore throat.

“Kim Namjoon, you are under arrest for charges of extortion, murder, murder-for-hire, drug possession, and arms trafficking. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you…”

“...Do you understand the rights I have just read to you? With these rights in mind, do you wish to speak to me?”

You’re sitting in the open door of a police cruiser, more specifically a SWAT cruiser, an aluminum blanket wrapped around your bare shoulders. The air is warm, but you can’t stop shivering.

Seokjin paces fifteen feet away from you, ever more handsome in his suit and tie. Hoseok is finishing his interview of the conclusion, anticlimactic for the better. Yoongi’s legs dangle from the open doors of one of the ambulances called when your colleagues expected the worst. Thankfully, no casualties had occurred but a sprained ankle, a fight between one of your fellow law enforcement officers and that guy that manned the back gate. Everyone can go home, rest easy.

After Seokjin’s interview is yours, and you realize by the time Hoseok is asking the last question that you don’t remember a single word of what you’ve said. Elite agents taking down the biggest crime boss in the country are not supposed to feel so empathetic, so broken. Guilty. Regretful.

Four years, the longest and most dramatic chase of your career. Justice fell, a swift hammer; you’d saved the day once again, added another face to the chalkboard in your sterile office a thousand miles away. You’d won. Hadn’t you?

There’s a faraway look in your eyes that Hoseok somehow understands, a glimmer of something more than success. He straddles the age gap between the members of the team, incorporating Jeongguk’s youthfulness with his elders’ experience, the glue of it all handed the most important task. He calls your name. “You’ve been out of it the entire time I’ve been interviewing you. What’s going on?”

“It’s nothing.”

But there’s no bite to the words, no whet of passion. They fall flat below the crackle of radios, the mist that reflects red and blue through the evergreen trees scraping the stars winking high above.

Hoseok puts his pen and clipboard aside. “Hey,” he says. The kindness in his tone pierces daggers through your heart. You somehow would’ve been more comfortable if he had yelled at you. “You did the right thing. He hurt a lot of people. Killed many more, and did so without remorse.”

That’s what you think, you want to scream. Because to you, he is some foreign criminal, far removed from any last dregs of humanity. He is a monster and a crook and a fiend, twisted into something unrecognizable, but you didn’t see what I saw. Did you see the warmth in his eyes when he rolled over and buried himself in my arms all those mornings in bed? Did you see the way he saved those dogs about to be euthanized in a shelter, because those pups reminded him of how he used to feel, staring death in the eyes every day? Did you see the way he loved me?

Hoseok pats your shoulder. “I’ll put in a month and a half of vacation time for you when we get home. Lord knows you’ve earned it. And we can rest tonight, rest for the first time in a while. We’ve got a nice hotel an hour away from here, top floor. We’re not done flushing out the rest of his boys, but that can wait for now. We can handle that on our own; they’re scattered all over the continent anyways. It’ll take time.” He picks up his supplies, turns to move on to Yoongi. The look in the elder man’s eyes, the special ops agent thinks, is exactly the same as your own. What had you two seen in that hellhole?

You tuck the blanket tighter around yourself and nod once. It’s the most you can do.

Hoseok smiles, but it’s not quite the beaming, sunshine-filled glow he usually carries about himself. “You did good work and I’m proud of you. Get some sleep, agent.”

Sleep does not come for a long, long time.

When it does, it eats away behind your eyelids, filling your mind with visions of a man adrift in an ocean of bedsheets, rocking on the waves of an endless concrete floor that goes for miles and miles, whispering promises of things to come that never would be.

Kim Namjoon is sentenced to life in prison for six counts of murder, fifteen counts of extortion, three counts of murder-for-hire, six counts of drug trafficking, three counts of arms trafficking, and two counts of drug possession.

He never makes it to see his twenty-sixth birthday.

[early-sxnsets]

When Are We Not Dreaming

Archive Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15747540

Word Count: 21,648

Summary: This is the tale of two lovers, existings in two worlds and meeting only in their slumber. When dawn breaks, away the sun leaves the moon to rest and sulk and await the return of his starshine. When the day trickles away, the warrior of the land returns to the darkness to only find warmth. One a war machine built to slaughter, and one a dark creature built to survive, and both exist to kill. Bloodshed shall end when lovers find paths within each other.

-

Simon Snow is the greatest warrior of his time and he’s sent off to slay the Bloodtaker, a demon who has been terrorizing the lands. He falls in love with him instead, and falls out of himself in the process.

TW: Suicide Attempt (Not graphic; Romeo And Juliet-esque).

Notes: Mega thanks to my betas, @ravenclawbaz @jessethejoyful @thedrag0nqueen and @wisest-girl for their efforts on this work! Also, I am not publishing the whole fic under the cut; I’m only posting the first section because it’s quite large. Also, I have art of Demon!Baz, if you’re interested in my interpretation. Anyway, enjoy!

A man steadily approaches a broad opening, fingertips dragging against the crumbling stone walls surrounding the village. They seem to deteriorate at just a glance, raising high and towering as ghosts hiding away an abandoned land, splattered with dried blood and fresh fear of a village now gone.

The bravest warrior, from water-tip to water-tip of England, Simon Snow, stares at the barren wasteland of a previous town, brain buzzing with energy, with ability, with skill to be the one man to finally defeat the Great Bloodtaker. There’s only rumors of his true form, yet when he comes to the mortal realm, he’s bursting with charm; a dark man, tall of stature, with a gentle voice, upturned lips, and a handsome face.

Soft-spoken. Ruthless.

A demon.

A demon walking the land. A demon who’s said to be akin to vampires. If he pleases, he’ll suck the life from your neck, provoked only by a broken deal. He uses favors as an exchange of currency, posing as a poor man. Only a true fool would resist the pleas of the attractive trickster, one that asks for home, for food, for care. The figure then makes deals around, promising good health for a dying man’s wife if he can provide anything of his wishes. All fall for his tricks, all being unable to provide the small things he wishes (a single red shoe, a young pheasant hunted by hand, all differing according to the victim). He sends a curse upon them, continuing to each family until the final night of bloodshed and destruction. The night he attacks.

And now stands Simon Snow, the one chosen to take down the Bloodtaker, to end his path of destruction and blood consummation of the great people of the lands. He takes in the aftermath, hand clutching the hilt of his sword while utterly unsure of what he’ll face.

But alas, as he descends into the crumbling town, he faces nothing in the empty homes and discarded shops. All but rotting food and a pet or two, left untouched and crying for help, have been emptied out. Snow lets the animals smell him. He has nothing to offer but small pieces of bread, and even that runs short too quickly.

The bodies are gone, most likely dragged off somewhere to be burnt to hide the evidence of bloodless carcasses, but it was too late. The word spread far and wide of another town culled by the cannibalistic beast.

It has been occurring far too often, and for far too long. It’s time for this to end.

It’s the time that Snow has been trained for.

With every clash of the blade, with every strike in the heart of his enemy and cry into battle, he grew stronger and more capable. With every training day, The Grand Mage tutting aside at every sloppy movement Snow makes and reminding him countlessly that he was chosen for a reason, and the reason was not to make a fool of him and his country.

He was chosen because he’s magic with a sword; his energy explodes out of him. He’s a killing machine, stronger than the largest brigade threatening the lands. Snow’s choosing was one of tradition, one passed from the previous Grand Mage--the one who found him, who built him to become what he is. Brave. An honor to look upon. The country’s unbeatable weapon.

Despite his reputation, Snow hasn’t completely proven himself without a final challenge.

His challenge is proving himself absolutely, once and for all, as the greatest warrior to come to man. The destroyer of all creatures, human or beyond.

That could be proven, of course, if the demon would step out of his shadow.

Which does not happen. At least, not within his daylight hours of searching. This prompts Snow to set up camp, laying in an abandoned bed in an abandoned house. Drinking ale until he sends his lone body spinning into a spiral of sleep, waking only in the depths of a pit of his mind.

Only his mind doesn’t exist. Purgatory only holds enough, and not one's’ mind.

Yet there stands Snow, clamored in armor and sword in hand, in a strange place with only one staircase as an exit, leading him into an unsure descent.

With nowhere else to go but down, Snow goes. Sinking into the world, into the depths, into the new land he’s unsure of. Steps taking him deeper and deeper. It’s burning hot, as if flames licked at the wall from behind the thick stone.

Hotter and hotter, into the lair of the Bloodtaker.

As Snow’s decline continues, the walls slowly compress, pressure squeezing the air out of the man’s lungs as the world reeks of fire and blood.

Then, as if someone flipped a lever, it’s clear. Open.

A long hallway to an open room, flames crackling beyond his sight.

And there, Snow finds the Bloodtaker, lounging in his seat and swirling a glass of something unknown, something dark. The creature sips it slowly, watching the gold speckled man enter his realm. His piercing eyes following his every move, like a hunter watching its prey. Yet, he doesn’t advance towards him. Not even as Snow draws his sword, hand shaking in the slightest. Snow feels… scared?

“O-O’ great Bloodtaker,” he begins, the metal of his suit clattering the slightest against itself. “I’ve come to destroy wha-what’s destroyed so much… else…” he trails, watching the great beast rise to his feet and approach Snow steadily.

Assumedly, this is his true form, which is somehow grander than what the stories have told. He seems to have some of the attributes that the tales tell, but with more embellishments; pitch black hands, razor sharp claws, pointed teeth and curling horns. He stands at possibly a foot taller than Snow, rising to his feet with impeccable grace, silken robes following in swirls as he steps forward. Pause. Another step, reaching closer and closer to the glowing man of maybe 19 years of age, face relaxed and eyes traveling over the smaller figure before him.

Snow freezes, feet moulding to the ground beneath him as he gapes up at the human-like creature. His skin is much richer in person; like he was sculpted by the gods with river clay and given gemstones for eyes.

He looks like he was built for sin.

By the way Snow reacts, he feels as though the Great Bloodtaker has casted his will onto him. The mortal’s breath catches in his throat as the creature’s hand rises and levitates above the long line of tawny neck, staying as an untouched claw under the jaw of the man.

“You’ve come to bring what upon me, exactly?” he coos, velvety voice twisting Snow’s insides. “You think you can defeat me , mortal?”

Snow’s chin lifts further, breath trying to scratch out in huffs. “Y-yes,” he manages out, eyes staring directly into the creature’s leveled gaze and sputtering out breaths as the Bloodtaker drops his hand to his side, stepping back swiftly and meeting both clawed fingers in front of him in a clasp. The creature’s mouth draws out into a smirk, watching the golden boy scramble to a fighting stance. “I’ve been sent to-to t-take your l-life…”

The Bloodtaker drags his tongue slowly against his top lip, chin tilted up as he stares down at Snow, lips tweaked into a smirk. “Oh you can’t possibly do that, can you? Not with such a simple blade?”

Snow advances in the slightest, hand trembling. He’s not quite sure he exactly can. “I can, I can, I can. ” He has to. He can’t return to his homelands without the head of the beast, but yet, his stance falters, limbs nearly giving. He’s weak to whatever curse the demon cast upon him, giving in to his gaze as the monster grins.

“Oh, but you can’t,” he breathes, stepping back forward as Snow drops his blade, leaving it to clatter against the ground. The Bloodtaker’s hand reaches forward to Snow’s face, nails subtly dragging against the underside of the human’s chin. “Why don’t you stay, oh brave warrior, and keep my lonesome self some company? I’ll feed you for your time, and you can try to defeat me tomorrow.”

Snow crumbles like the gates of the town, head shaking yes as his feet tumble forward. His eyes drift around the room for the first time, absorbing his surroundings. Although he could have sworn that it was empty except the throne, it now has a large dining table, filled to the brim with various foods and drinks, causing Snow’s stomach to growl at the sight.

He drags himself there, immediately beginning to stuff his mouth with whatever he can get his hands on. It dawns on him, half a turkey leg down his throat, that the creature could have easily poisoned his food in attempts to kill him. It’d be so simple, and there he sits, across the long end of the table as he swirls his wineglass slowly, eyeing him carefully through long sips.

Yet Snow doesn’t stop. After all, he’s eaten enough for two regular meals anyway, and he’s going on his third, ravenously hungry from his travels, both alive and in his current realm. As he exists, he’s starved. He stuffs himself further until he can barely manage another bite, food smeared across his face and dripping off his chin as he chugs down ale and clean water , eyes closing and hands trembling as he gulps.

And the beast just stays, eyes locked on the mortal’s face.

One would expect the beast to attack, as he’s fattening up the merely muscle and bone fighter, but instead he admires. He stays, watching his curls bob too and fro and catching the eyes of the man on occasion, giving him a long, satisfied stare. Even as he finishes eating, raising to his feet with a gentle grunt, the creature gives him a once over. “You are free to stay, Great Warrior,” the demon offers, gesturing over his lair.

“It’s Snow,” he states clear as day, eyes flicking over the creature. “Simon Snow, The Mage of Warriors.”

A curt snort comes from the demon, swirling his blood-thick drink. “As if you hold any power above me,” he purrs, licking his lips once again before waving a hand to himself. “Pitch. Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch is the name my human form takes upon.”

Snow, with raising brows, watches him with curiosity. “Such a bold name for one to pose as a beggar, no?”

“Such a bold question to ask a creature that could kill you so quickly.”

“I don’t believe you’ll kill me after you’ve fed me.”

The creature, or so as he calls himself Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch, sneers at the mere mortal before sipping from his glass. “I like to play with my food.”

Snow shifts his weight again, this time in the slightest. Food . “Do the words have any significance?” he queries, stepping over to the throne and sprawling himself over the grand chair.

Bold and idiotic, this brave man, and why the creature hasn’t killed him yet is the mystery for the ages.

As he sits, untouched by the darkest creature of the land as he disrespects his power, he continues to challenge him, to question him, to dig deeper into the mind of the being.

“My name?” Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch mocks. “I… it quite fits me. I’m quite handsome, and a handsome face requires a handsome name?”

“Such as Basilton?”

“ Yes .”

Snow smiles in the slightest. “I quite like that part. Basilton .” He draws it out, head resting back against the cushioned side. “Basil? Bazzz?”

“Baz is quite a crude bastardization of the name...”

“Exactly,” Snow grins. “ Baz . A tad whimsical.”

“I don’t think I agree that it would be fitting.”

“I believe so.”

Baz cocks a brow, sipping his wine (thickened to look like blood for the dramatics) and rolling his eyes for the effect. “You dare taunt a demon?”

“I dare taunt a demon who won’t kill me.”

“I see why you have no further title than Mage of Warriors.”

Snow throws a mean look, but it doesn’t stick.

“Alas, The Warrior is speechless.”

The golden man watches him and slowly spreads across the chair even further, making a point of the demon’s (frankly inexplicable) lack of punishment for disrespect. Baz remains in his seat adjacent to Snow’s, though, enjoying the mortal for all he’s worth, for he’s never had a moment to truly enjoy something so beautiful in his long lifetime, and he’s not quite sure he’ll be able to again.

Fate is so sick and twisted, even for the darkest of creatures. To live without a love, to exist without simple joys is a robbery of a life at all. So, it should be drunk in; sipped slowly and with caution, but finished to fill. To live a short life, one full of true existence is preferable to a never-ending life without such care.

A life known by the striking soldier with rich honeycomb skin, speckled like a hen’s egg and bronze licks of hair curling at every odd and end. He’s a sight to drink in, a sight that Baz doesn’t quite want to take in steadily, but instead he wishes to have him all to himself for now, and for the rest of time.

Such fate isn’t one that would be so kindly graced upon a killer like himself, but wishes can be dreams and dreams can be wishes.

And thus stands their bickering interactions, a back and forth of questions, such as Snow asking why he chose such a lair as his and Baz simply answers “It doesn’t beg the question whether or not he’s genuinely dark”, which was satisfying enough for the mortal, but not enough, as he asks further questions of how he came to be a demon, why he attacks such villages, and whether or not he takes the effort to make his hair fall in a careful way. The personal grooming questions were a tad odd, but somewhat reasonable, given the humanoid’s attention to detail in his appearance. All questions are ones that other creatures would slash the throat of the man after he dares speak, but Baz simply listens, giving snarky answers and snide comments, all the while a small smile trying to push through his cheeks. He takes notice as Snow starts to yawn, struggling to keep a conversation while his eyes grow heavy.

“Tomorrow, then,” he says, eyes drifting up to meet Baz’s. “Tomorrow, I’ll kill you.”

“Tomorrow it is.”

Tomorrow it is. It echoes through Snow’s brain as he rattles awake, laying among the sheets of an abandoned bed in the emptied town.

read the rest on archive!

[defendersofspaceandtime]

Hello!! I was wondering if I could request Lance reacting to his s/o betraying the team to save either himself or one of their loved ones. I'm sorry, I've been dying to send this in

And I’ve been dying to do this one :)I hope you enjoy~ (also like,,, betrayal,,, it’s incredibly interesting to do imagines or scenarios on~)———————————–

It shifts on a paradigm, the universe. Bound to no conscience or law, it acts upon the very whim that started its life, and will begin is end. 

You doubted that monstrous idea called fate, but even as it was just stated- this existence couldn’t either. 

We…we run from death, don’t we? We think- for far too long, anyways- that we are above from the one thing we can’t control, the one thing we can’t escape-

Time. The inevitable chime of our final hour, ringing loudly and profoundly in our ears-

And then it ceases. 

Luckily for us, however, life doesn’t quite work that way. 

Things don’t quite come to end or begin so suddenly, so purely. 

It was more reactive than that. More volatile. 

—————

“This way, Lance!”

  And so much more cruel. 

  You felt bile creeping up through your throat, as if your entire body was revolting against itself. Your hands shook with anticipation, your lips were pursed with shame. You and Lance ran breathlessly, away from the slow and steady footsteps of the Galran soldiers that marched on by,

“Where are the others?!” 

   Yes, Y/n. 

   Where are the others? 

   Fighting for their lives? Fighting for an escape? Desperately wondering, questioning just where in the world their blue paladin was-

   where you, were. 

“Hold on doll, I’m coming- gah, dammit! Why won’t they pick up?!”

    Because of you, wasn’t it? Wasn’t it you that jammed the console?

All they hear is static.

 It’s quite amazing,really, what just snipping a few wires would do to cause such disorder among them, no?

“Per…perhaps,” your voice was weak in reply, “the comms are down? They did say they would be pretty far away…”

   You looked back to Lance, watching his face to see if he suspected anything…

    And he didn’t of course, he merely sighed instead, 

“Probably. I’ve been meaning to talk about Shiro and Pidge with that- don’t want anything bad to happen, and I sure as hell don’t want you to not be able to contact anyone if something happens, right?”

“…right.”

    Your mind tuned him out, of course. You were too busy trying to remember the instructions the informant gave you as to the whereabouts of the escape vessel.

    It’s just you and him, you kept repeating to yourself, you and him and you and him and you and him…

    It was like a sweet lullaby, echoing loudly through your brain as it tried to reason with itself, as it tried to justify the possible murder of your friends with the idea, that just Lance and you would make it out. 

    That you would survive. 

   …Is this what being a god feels like? You criticized harshly in your mind, watching from their cloudy, perched positions in the heavens, laughing at all the ironies mere mortals create? 

       What are we to them? Ants? 

       What is an ant to a human, anyway? A bug? An insect? Its life can be squashed out by the heel of a foot- but what difference would it make? 

       Those ants still build an anthill. 

       They still wither, and die. 

       And above all else, they’d know not of any irony a god would laugh at from above. 

      You were playing god. Spinning and twisting the fates of the lives around you, of the lives of the universe, and for what? So your own mortality may last? 

      Well, yours and Lance’s, anyway.  

    A hand grabbed your arm. 

    You screeched, jumping back before you’d turn to see and realize that it was only Lance, with a very concerned look on his face, 

“Hey, Y/n, you alright? It’s…it’s gonna be okay, you know, I’m sure they’re fine.”

    Forcing a smile to your lips was all you could do from scream. Screaming at cruelty of it all- with every word that dripped from Lance’s ear, from every smirk that passed your way. 

    Taking no more of this, you took his hand, and ran towards the escape pods. They were clear in sight...

     No more, your heart cried out. No more. no more, no more-

“Are…are you sure you know where you’re going, Y/n?” Lance questions you as you ran, his tiredness catching up in his breath, “The last thing we need is running straight towards-”

    Your mouth left agape, you gasped,

 “Hag-!”

      Lance pushed you back to the wall, his gun positioned directly at the witch before you’d even had time to register what was happening, 

“Get. Out of. Our way!” Lance spat, “Before I blast you sky high!”

      The witch said nothing, spoke, nothing, and instead her lips formed into a sick, malicious grin. 

       Lance made his way closer to the witch, “I said get out of our-!”

“I heard you the first time, boy,” Out-poured Haggar’s words, “unlike you, I don’t need to be told twice for something,”

“Funny, really, I’m laughing on the inside,” Lance turned back to glance at you, his eyes full of deep, deep worry, “look, I don’t have time for this-”

“Contrary to what you would like to know, and what you would like to believe, is that you really do have all the time in world, doesn’t he, Y/n?”

…What was happening?

  “Keep their name out of your mouth, you wrench!” Lance shouted, his words dripped of poison, his eyes solely focused on the movements of the being-

Not realizing that you were slowly, but surely, pulling out a weapon of your own. Your hands shook, your mind numbed with pain…

“The…the plan, Haggar, was that we left together, let us…let us go now,”

The witch smiled at you mischievously, “Change of plans- didn’t you know? Zarkon wants everyone now…” 

Lance’s gaze returned to your own, “Wha-?”

Haggar cackled, she screeched, as if her vocal cords were being ripped out of her throat over and over again,

“You haven’t told him, yet! Oh~ That’s just rich!” 

His voice fell grave, “Y/n…what is she talking about?” 

Only then did he realize what you held in your hand,

“Y-Y/n…?!” 

“H…Haggar, we had a deal! Let us go!” 

She did not move. She did not change her sickened, twisted smirk, 

“It’s such a thrill to watch you sell your friends out for love,” 

You stopped. Your mouth became twisted with abject horror,

“N…No…I-”

“To watch you beg and plea for you and his life in exchange for VOLTRON! HAHAHA! Oh… this is good. This is grand,” 

Lance twisted his body towards you, his face contorted in grief, in anger, 

“Please explain…Please…please tell me she’s lying. T-tell me that…that you aren’t…pointing that gun at me!”

And so you dropped it, your hands and limbs growing weak, and unsteady, 

“I…s-she…we-” 

His eyes widened at the abhorrent truth, backing away from the both of you, 

“N…No…!”

You protested, shaking your head, “We…we were supposed to…to…” 

Tears poured down your face, your heart rot with pain you didn’t know you had, 

“…get away-”

“TRAITOR!” Lance screeched, his own eyes becoming wet with his anger, his rage, “WE TRUSTED YOU! I-I TRUSTED YOU!” 

The witch merely cackled, though it barely sounded as if it were wind, listening to your worst nightmares getting realized, 

“L-Lance…that’s…this…”

“D..don’t...! Don’t speak! Don’t say my name, you damn snake! Our friends might be DEAD! And the most you can worry about is us? US? The entire universe is at stake and you’re weeping on the floor about us-”

CRACK!

Lance dropped to floor with a thud. Smoke drifted off of his body, his gun thrown carelessly aside, clinking on the ground.

You screeched his name, clamoring to get to him-

but a foot silenced your movements. Slamming directly within the path between you and him. 

“I would suggest you get on the escape pod, Y/n...”

“...otherwise it’s going to end terribly for  y o u...”