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myfairstarlight · 1 year ago

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Of Devoted Creation

AO3 Link

Pre-Canon / no season 2 spoilers

they/them pronouns being used for Aziraphale, and she/her for pre-fall Crowley

Length: 2.5k

⋆ ✩₊˚ ʚ♡ɞ ˚₊✩⋆

As ether became incandescent stars under the fascinated eyes of two angels, another creation was born within the Cherubim as they gazed upon the nebula, safely nestled under the wing of the Seraphim beside them.

The Cherubim called themself Aziraphale, helper of the damned, although they do not know it yet, as She had named and appointed them. The Seraphim, on the other hand, bore a name she would soon forsake and thus has no interest in being used presently.

“So, you were saying you were designing people?” the Seraphim asked eventually once the meteor shower settled and her own ire at the idea of her creation being destroyed died down enough. She lowered her wing, gentle brown eyes falling upon the younger angel who perked up.

“Oh! Yes!” Aziraphale exclaimed, hands already going wild at the prospect of explaining. “It is still a work of progress of course, not as… not as beautiful and grand as your stars.”

“Nonsense!” she laughed, grabbing Aziraphale’s hands. “Everything we create is beautiful, whether big or small, as long as the thought counts.”

(She smiled upon hearing the Seraphim, and it almost made Her ache for the painful path She already had laid down before her to take.)

Aziraphale breathed in, smiling. “You’re right.”

“Of course I am. So?” She tilted her head slightly, her auburn curls bouncing ever so slightly above her head. Aziraphale found themself briefly distracted before they started on a thorough explanation of the project they and other angels had been tasked with.

They talked of creating small, very small beings, vaguely shaped to the angels’ image, only deprived of wings for their legs would be made to travel and discover. They explained they would only live for under a century, which confused greatly the Seraphim.

“But that is so short!” she exclaimed, concerned all over again.

“Oh, yes, but they would age, see? They would not experience Time the way we do.”

“Age?”

Aziraphale nodded. “As Time goes on, their bodies would… grow tired, let’s say? But before that, they would be able to create other people themselves through this whole breeding thing, see? And so the cycle continues and shall always renew itself each generation. The Almighty wishes to see what such ephemeral beings are capable of creating on this Earth, together. We have the design and concept ready but still have lots to do.”

“I see,” the other angel mused. “That ought to be interesting, I cannot wait to witness your own creation as well, then.”

“I would be honoured to show you the way you’ve allowed me to assist you with your nebula,” Aziraphale excitedly replied, wings flaring up.

(God sighed to Herself. She knew these two angels would not be able to witness the birth of humanity together. But at the very least, She will allow them to be the reason humanity can truly exist.)

“Should you go back to that, then?” the Seraphim inquired.

And indeed the Cherubim was needed in Heaven. Quite scared of Archangel Gabriel's possible wrath, they flew away with an apology, gone in the blink of an eye.

The Seraphim turned back to her beloved nebula and sighed.

“I hope that angel was mistaken and you won't disappear in six thousand years already. I really hope it was all just rumours.”

(God smiled knowingly. It was only a lie, for the next set of events to occur in the name of a feeling that hasn't been named yet, but will be soon.)

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Upon their return to Heaven, Aziraphale was immediately grabbed by the Archangel Gabriel and pulled aside.

“There you are!” he exclaimed with false delight and a warning in his eyes. “We’ve been looking for you.”

“I– I apologise, see, um Seraphim—”

“Ah, no bother,” Gabriel interrupted them, waving a hand, “The prototypes for humans are almost ready but we’re encountering an issue with how they behave. The Almighty thus asked us to create Emotions.”

“Emotions?” Aziraphale repeated, intrigued.

“Indeed. So chop chop, you’ve got work to do.”

And so the lone Cherubim got to work. They gathered around the approved concepts the others had already worked on while they were helping with the nebula. Death, Hunger, Slumber, Envy, Anger, Pride, Cupidity, Lust… The Cherubim pondered over them; apart from Death, they were listed under the Seven Deadly Sins. Pillars to judge them once their life ends. They will be considered basic sins only if indulged in excess. Aziraphale pouted, finger tracing over the word Lust as the angel who worked on it wrote an explanation — Lust would be the deciding factor that would lead to breeding (there was another annotation there that went more in detail over the concept but Aziraphale brushed over it) and thus procreation and lead to a new generation of humans. However, would it include all humans? They wondered. Would the only goal of this intimacy really be procreation after all? It felt like something else was missing, they were not quite sure what.

(She smiled at Her gentlest angel, always worrying about everyone being included, that is why they would become the best of them, eventually, once they grow and embody the Emotion they will soon create.)

Aziraphale walked around Heaven and asked their fellow angels about their progress on the Emotions. Cassiel was workshopping Sadness, she told them with tears gathered in her eyes; she bottled them and gave one to Aziraphale. Jophiel started on Wisdom, he told them with a proud air, holding one of God’s scriptures, and Aziraphale simply took notes. Amitiel held Honesty gently in their hands as they shared a part of it with Aziraphale and Aziraphale gladly accepted the piece with a smile. Armaros, standing next to the two angels, scoffed as she showed her concept, Deceit, in direct opposition to Amitiel’s creation and Aziraphale swiftly walked away before they started arguing. Camael grabbed Aziraphale with an ardour to show them Courage, which Aziraphale took a piece of as well when offered. Phanuel also came to Aziraphale, handing them Hope to look after while they worked on other Emotions. And with that last one, Aziraphale decided it was time to work on their own.

The gentlest of angels laid out the pieces of Emotions before them and carefully set Hope down in a corner of the table. They took Sadness’ tears and created Passion, fiddled with Honesty to create Fidelity and took the pieces of Deceit that had stuck to their robe to turn into Self-Preservation, and finally, with the hint of Wisdom Aziraphale had written down, they made Curiosity.

Four new Emotions were presently created, inspired by their brethren's work, but it wasn't enough, Aziraphale thought, something was missing, something that is really their own. They shrugged for now and gathered the Emotions to deliver to Gabriel.

“A job well done, Aziraphale,” he said, sincerity dripping from his mouth for once as he took the Emotions into his arms. Aziraphale glowed at the praise.

(It would be their downfall, She thought, not literally like the other angel but Her gentlest angel would always be weak when faced with kindness, especially of deceitful kind.)

“Will that be enough?” Aziraphale asked.

Gabriel regarded them with surprise. “Do you have anything more?” And the surprise was justified in a sense, Aziraphale, as gentle as they were, never were known for their studious work. They tended to get distracted rather easily.

The Cherubim made a moue. “Perhaps.”

“Then the result I shall see soon, mm?” Gabriel said.

And so Aziraphale went back to their cell, where they had kept tiny pieces of their Emotions scattered across their desk, as well as a sprinkle of Hope still sticking to the table. Aziraphale gathered them together and then closed their eyes, focusing on the ethereal warmth the Emotions provided. It did not quite match what they had experienced when looking at the nebula with the other angel.

They tried to picture the moment once more. They thought of glorious stars, of her laughter, of the feeling of their wings brushing together, and reminisced the way they kept flying around, hoping to get noticed until they were. Unconsciously, they reached within themself with one hand and pulled ether from the other before their eyes flew open as they brought their hands together over the pieces for a new Emotion to be brought to creation. Aziraphale breathed in, staring at it.

LOVE.

The angel reached for it, it was light yet heavy, warm, precious, fragile. They were already reluctant to part from it, their precious creation, suddenly, they quite understood why the Seraphim was so distraught at the idea of her stars being destroyed one day. Aziraphale held LOVE closer.

They hoped humans would appreciate their gift to them.

(Unbeknownst to them, LOVE would benefit not only humanity but also celestial beings. She will gather LOVE and sprinkle it over Earth, Heaven and a third place that is yet to be created. But Aziraphale? Aziraphale already held LOVE in their heart from the start, one She did not give them either and one they grew themself at the sight of a certain Seraphim.)

Aziraphale sought out Gabriel afterwards but found another angel instead. They stopped in their steps as the familiar Seraphim with auburn hair flew right to their face.

“Aziraphale, hello!”

Aziraphale blinked. “Oh, hello again. Are you done with the stars?”

“Oh, that.” She waved a hand, looking rather conflicted. “Not quite, we have the rest of the galaxy to map out but I am taking a break.” She cleared her throat. “Anyhow, I wanted to see the progress on “people” but I see you’re holding something peculiar.”

“Ah! Indeed, it is an Emotion I just created for humans, would you like to see it?”

“I’ve shown you my nebula, it is only fair,” she smiled.

And so, with the Emotion gently cradled between their palms, Aziraphale showed LOVE to her, the Emotion beating softly in front of their eager eyes. The Seraphim gasped, eyes lighting up with delight as if washed over by LOVE itself.

(God smiled knowingly when gazing down at them. She knew her creations loved Her, that is how their devotion took form, however this LOVE? It was different, much tender, much personal and between these two angels, She was witnessing the creation of the first-ever love story.

Well, not quite yet. Only one side of the pair was loved for now but soon… soon.)

“It’s beautiful, Aziraphale,” she praises. “It shines like a star.”

“It… it does indeed,” Aziraphale replied, looking down in wonder at the Emotion. LOVE clung to their fingertips, bathing them in golden light. They were inspired by her, after all. “Would you like a piece?”

“Oh, I couldn’t!” she protested. “It must remain whole for the humans, surely.”

Aziraphale didn’t exactly understand why, but disappointment filled their heart. “Well, that is true.”

“Well then, I shall go,” the Seraphim announced. “Would you happen to know where the Metatron might be?”

Aziraphale frowned, a sense of dread settling in. “Angels like me don’t typically encounter him, no… Are you still… thinking of…?”

“Asking questions? Of course! Wouldn’t you want to know the reason why your LOVE might get destroyed someday?��

“I… I suppose I would,” Aziraphale agreed, holding LOVE ever closer to the point of almost putting it back in their heart. “But please do be careful?”

“You’re cute for worrying,” she chuckled, reaching forward to ruffle the Cherubim’s hair. “It’s only a simple inquiry.”

With that awfully wrong statement, she flew away. Aziraphale turned around to watch her go, noting the way her wings had turned a darker tint of grey and the way her auburn curls were falling behind her back, unkept, unruly.

It would be the last time Aziraphale would see her before everything Fell apart.

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God held LOVE in Her palm when She cast the angels down, so Lucifer could grab a handful and turn it into HATE to fuel the fight and subsequent constant rivalry between Heaven and Hell that will last for thousands of years. For the first years or so, She watched as Her fallen angels built a place to call their own and waited patiently until they were ready. She watched as the bright Seraphim who created the stars tore the remaining white feathers off her wings herself and took on the name Crawley because of the scales now scattered across her body. Then, she was tasked by Lucifer, now Satan, to mess with the very Earth her stars were mere decoration for.

Divine retribution, they called the plan.

But She knew. She knew Crawley, unbeknownst to her, inhaled some of Aziraphale’s LOVE when they showed the Emotion to her and that even after the Fall, just like the stardust still clinging to her feathers, LOVE became an inherent part of her and she will live her existence burning for it until her heart would be safe in the hands of another.

A long journey awaited her first.

Now, Eden lay in front of Her. She ignored the hissing at Her feet as She grew the Apple Tree and induced the fruit with Jophiel’s Wisdom and Phanuel’s Hope, with Cassiel’s tears, She made rivers and waterfalls, and with Camuel’s Courage, She made the plants grow taller and more vibrant. And with Aziraphale’s LOVE…

She assigned Phanuel to the northern gate, Cassiel to the western, Camuel to the southern and finally, Her gentlest angel to the eastern one.

She walked slowly towards Aziraphale who dutifully held the flaming sword She had given them with a strong grip. They will not keep it, they will give it away in the name of LOVE and kindness in seven days, that She knew. She will then ask them where they put it and it will be one of the last times She would ever talk to one of Her creations.

“Aziraphale,” She called. The angel looked at Her with eager but careful eyes. “Never forget the gift you’ve given humanity.”

They looked confused but nodded anyhow.

She smiled. “Keep it in your heart for all beings you come across, will you, my dear?”

They didn't know it yet, but this order would be the reason for their many heartbreaks and doubts to come and ironically one of the only orders they received from Her they will follow obediently until the end of time.

And beyond that.

#good omens fanfic #good omens fic #ineffable husbands #aziracrow #good omens #good omens fanfiction #my fics #this is me trying to really revive my tumblr by posting my fics here too :')

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inavagrant-a · 2 years ago

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@scarletooyoroi said:

"Have you seen it too? That lil bridge made of 'something' that swims inside of your Vision?" Today found itself drumming down to a slower tempo. Progress, after all, follows their stride as Mondstadt seems to be glimmering more than the norm after their 'somehow paid volunteer work'. Thoma's attention was drawn to the gem as they returned from their latest mission complete, capturing a view only the wielder of said Vision could drink in.

Where was the beginning and end to this bridge? Exactly where did this helix desire to traverse? Waxing philosophical was a now and between hobby, and in moments like this, he always finds intrigues in Tetsuya's perceptions on life. "I can't find myself believing that it's the work of a god doing this. It's too involved, too personal." So what exactly was he trying to say? The blonde found his face screwed in a touch of wonder until a thought cracks through akin to lightning. There was one idea. "What if a divine nature of our own making slept within us all this time? This strength feels like it beats to the same rhythm of my heart."

Tetsuya disregards this total and complete waste of his time as community service, though he supposes at this point he should grow accustomed with the concept of accountability as much as it pains him so. Truth enough is not so much of a pain, it gives him something to do, actions have consequences after all. Of course Mondstadt wasn't going to take the scuffle between him and Thoma by simply laying down and allowing the two to go at it at their utmost content. They are doing this land a favor, he would say, it is looking much more better than it did before. It should count its blessings. Regardless Tetsuya wasn't one to take such labor work gracefully if only because it feels far too mortal for his own liking, to slave away and wait for it to bear some fruit for the efforts. The wanderer has been keeping to himself this entire time even if perhaps from the corner of his eye he can see that Thoma is contemplating something. He can not say he cares, that's his business... which he voices here moments after, ensnaring Tetsuya's attention.

The wanderer furrows his brows at the subject at hand. Visions is it? Tch.

"... So you're one of those people." It almost sounds like an insult, and if it's taken that way then fine, so be it. Thoma sounds like the traveler and many others quite honestly, the traveler also feels like there's meaning and something intentional behind those who receive visions and the element they resonate with. Why the traveler would think such a crazy thing still goes beyond Tetsuya's mind since in the past he has shown them unashamed so that Gods do not function off any sort of logic and or any sort of intention. It is all at and to their whims, there is never any weight behind it. He would know that best since he too acted in such a manner himself. The pyro user always seemed to have the tendency of getting philosophical over many a things, so it is not that huge of a surprise that he thinks these visions are anything special. He will admit, however, that Thoma is the first person to say that he does not believe these are gifts from Gods. "Seen something?" He asks with a slightly annoyed tint to his eyes. Tetsuya has not seen anything... but he has heard. Tetsuya hears something inside his vision, something he can not really make sense of yet.

It's a small sound, a deaf howl, almost tender in nature and it disgusts him. If Tetsuya bothers to listen intently to it he could swear it is trying to talk to him, trying to communicate with him something it wishes for him to understand, to comprehend and firmly grip. What that thing is, well, it is still a mystery and not something the wanderer ponders upon for too long since to him his vision is more so a source of power. He is like a mountain that will not bend before the wills of the angriest and chilliest of northern winds. "You believe them to not be gifts from the Gods then," the wanderer simplifies if only to spare the ramblings themselves for they are hollow and devoid of meaning. Not worth his time as many things are in this world as of late. He is past his expiration date. "Hah, that's all inside your head." He will now unleash upon the other wisdom worth his while, to release him of what make-believe superstitious belief he has come to conclude for himself on his own. "They're mere sources of power that's all they are." Cursed with divinity or not he's not going to dwell on that detail far too long for it makes him ill, it makes him sick. Besides the idea of a vision being much more personal and in-tune with its chosen vessel rather than it coming from a God is not something Tetsuya finds himself able to believe. How can a mere weak mortal accomplish such a task? Such a thing? He can't fathom it so.

"No need to break your little head over it, Thoma." So he believes, turning his attention to what lies ahead. "They're mere batteries, power for you to use. Don't question it and simply put it to good use." Not like Thoma hasn't already shown that he can accomplish such things with it already. Whatever mystery many believe revolve around visions, they're victims to the sways of fairy tales, how sad.

#scarletooyoroi #inquiries.#in character.#act iii: wanderer.#thoma getting philosophical about visions:#tetsuya: i'm here to tell you i don't give a fuc k #AWRAXAWRAXA NO BU T #i too have a couple of things hc'd about visions especially #the way my son's manifested how it did #thoma be spitting

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astermacguffin · 4 years ago

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What if the Mark of Cain manifests differently when it's imprisoning God and not the Darkness? If the Darkness makes the Mark bearer go insane with unbridled want for destruction, then what does sealing God make you do?

An obsessive desire for creation? Creation to the point of corruption? (Think of the Shimmer from the film Annihilation. Continuous reproduction to the point of begetting alien, cancer-like entities. A refracted, distorted notion of creation.)

Okay, so canon divergence from The Trap. They successfully seal away Chuck, then Castiel bears the Mark. (Jack won't be back until later episodes, so he's not here yet.)

At first, they think he's fine. Cas says he's not feeling any bloodlust just yet. (He does feel a certain itch under his skin. Not a desire to murder, but a desire to do...something. He doesn't tell this to anyone.)

His grace is getting stronger, almost archangel-like (if not more). It's incredibly helpful for hunts, and Cas is happy to feel his wings healthy again after a long time. Sam is happy for him, but Dean is suspicious of things (especially since he's a previous Mark bearer).

After a while, Cas starts feeling...burdened, almost bloated by grace. (After all, he does have access to an infinite supply of it.) He needs to have an outlet for it.

Cas tells them so and Sam suggests healing people. Dean gives the green light on the condition that he remains invisible and he doesn't go Godstiel on them again.

It's a great outlet, and for the first few weeks they start feeling normal again. But unfortunately, healing stops being enough to relieve Cas of his excess grace anymore. The mass healings start to pile up all across the globe and it catches everyone's attention. Some think it's a blessed miracle, some think it's a sign of the end times. They make him slow down on the healings after that.

Without an outlet, however, Cas starts feeling antsy and pained. They brainstorm on possible alternatives. Cas suggests going to Heaven and saving it from collapse by healing his brethren's wings and creating more angels out of consenting souls in Heaven.

He explains Heaven's endangered and dwindling numbers. Sam agrees that it would hit two birds in one stone: relieve Cas from excess grace and prevent the extinction of angels. Dean doesn't like the idea of more winged dicks so he shoots down the idea. Eileen says that since Cas is the one in pain, he should be the one to decide.

Ultimately, Cas defers to Dean's judgment (as always). Sam protests, arguing that he can't just shoulder that pain. Cas replies: "I've suffered worse, Sam."

Cas doesn't complain about the pain for about a week, so for a while, everyone believes him when he said he can shoulder the pain. One day, Dean finds him outside the bunker, groaning in pain as he bleeds himself out, his grace pouring into the ground and sprouting plants. Dean sees this and is finally convinced to allow Cas to make more angels.

What follows then is a series of escalating events:

While Sam and Eileen are practicing their witchcraft for spell they need in a hunt, Cas suggests to enhance Sam's physical and magical abilities using his grace. "It will make the process faster and safer," he reasons. He agrees, but Dean eyes this suspiciously.

During one of their hunts, they encounter a young and freshly-turned vampire. The boy begs them not to kill him, and Cas gives him a proposal. "Promise not to feed on humans ever again and I shall cure you of your hungers and your pains. Pledge your allegiance to me and you shall never be afraid of yourself ever again." The boy agrees, and before Dean could even protest, Cas slices his palm and feeds the vampire his grace.

They argue about the grace-feeding in the Impala. Dean notices Sam's pointed lack of complaints and figures it out. "You're in on this, aren't you? How long has Cas been doing this? He's going Michael behind our backs and you're letting him?"

Sam argues that it's different because Cas isn't making super monsters; he's making them less "monstrous" (whatever that means). Sam's obsession with his own "purity" is key to understanding him here.

One time, Dean catches Cas in his "garden" ("forest" seems more apt with how lush the greens already are) creating butterflies and bees out of thin air using his grace alone.

Reports of the miraculously healed people suddenly gaining new abilities like increased strength, heightened senses, and prophecy start popping up. Some are experiencing phantom limbs, talking about their sprouting "wings."

Sam is becoming addicted to Cas' grace to the point that he willingly lets himself be hurt in hunts just so Cas can cure him. Dean confronts him about this, but Sam just argues that he's "never felt this pure before." Eileenn shares the same concern as Dean.

Hunts are becoming less frequent the more monsters are being "cleansed" by Cas. The world is becoming disconcertingly quiet.

Cas' "garden" is starting to emit this strange aura. The plants and creatures growing inside it are starting to look more...alien.

One of the original angels goes to Dean and tells him of Heaven's affairs. The Host is stable again, but the angels he created are...not exactly angels. They're graced up and they sustain Heaven, but their true forms are "horrifying and incomprehensible, even to an angel." The angel adds that more than 60% of Earth's creatures have already been touched by Cas' grace.

The final nail in the coffin is when Dean catches Cas in the garden fiddling with his angel blade. It's emitting a strange glow, vibrating a subtle hum and looking as if it's liquid, flowing and distorting here and there.

Dean asks him what he's holding. "Oh, this?" Cas responds. "This is the Last Blade. Last, not in terms of time but in concept, for no other blade shall ever compare to it. The spark of creation. Fiat lux."

Dean's heart sinks. Of course. The First and the Last, Alpha and Omega. "Cas...the Mark, I think i-it's scrambling your brain, man."

"I know," he replies, eyes wet and apologetic. It's a small moment of lucidity amidst weeks and months of...whatever that was.

"Okay, okay, so you're still you, that's... that's good. Okay." Dean doesn't know how to approach this. Give him a fight and he'll know what to do, but this? Watching his best friend, the love of his life, be distorted into something incomprehensible? Yeah, this is totally beyond him.

"You know, I used to hate Chuck," Cas says. "How could the Father of All Creation be this angry, petulant child? But," he continues, "knowing what I know now, it's either regressing into a petty child or being reduced to insanity."

"Cas...what are you talking about, man?"

"No mind should bear this burden, Dean. No matter how infinite they are," he says, voice trembling in exhaustion.

(more below the cut)

He continues. "The awareness of everything is the awareness of nothing at all. Imagine perceiving every possible piece of information about the world all at once. Seeing light in all its forms all at once: ultraviolet, infrared, etc. Sensing all the neutrinos zip by, sensing gravitational waves, sensing the slighest bit of seismic activity."

Dean doesn't know how to respond, so he lets him go on.

"Knowledge can only ever be a slice of the Totality of Truth. Truth is absolute chaos, and Knowledge is the partial ordering of this chaos. One can sanely approach Truth only through organized paritions of Totality. Why do you think Chuck is so obsessed with stories? Stories are linear and finite; they're sensible snippets of the endless sea of possible worlds."

"So, what? Are you trying to—"

"I'm not trying to justify Chuck's actions, Dean," he interrupts. "I just want to contextualize them. Chuck's simplistic and repetitive narratives are what they are: manifestations of a chaotic Totality, gone insane trying to understand itself. Looking for simple things to hold on to."

Cas takes a deep breath. He speaks with a shaky voice. "I'm barely holding myself together, Dean. I can feel the universe beneath my skin."

He doesn't know what possesses him to ask, but he does it anyway. "What are you holding on to?"

Cas smiles at that. "You."

They stare at each other for a while, frozen where they stand. Cas, with unrestrained affection in his face. Dean, struck by shock and indecision. It's Cas who first breaks the silence.

"I think we both know what needs to be done, while I'm still lucid enough." Cas slices his palm and lets his blood drip down the soil. He then thrusts the Last Blade into the ground, lifting it when the soil glows.

Dean stared in awe as the ground erupts and a familiar shape rises from the hollow. "Is that.."

"The Ma'Lak box, yes. I also enhanced it with the Blade to be able to house things as powerful as me."

"Cas, wait, maybe we can think of another way to—"

"Dean," he says, calmly. "You know there's no other way. I wouldn't ask this of you if there was."

In any other scenario, Dean would've kept arguing, but even he knows that they're running out of time. Sam's grace addiction is getting worse and all the creatures touched by Cas' grace are slowly mutating into eldritch horrors. Dean offers a shaky nod. "Okay."

Tension visibly releases from Cas' body. "Thank you, Dean." He opens the box and enters it with ease. "When you lock this, bury me with the garden's graced soil. Once I'm under, my influence over the world should dampen."

Dean gives a wordless nod. For a while, they just stared at each other, Cas lying down and Dean trying to memorize every inch of his face while he can.

Cas presses his hand into Dean's left shoulder where his mark used to dwell. "My untainted grace," he whisper gently. "Some of it is still inside you. That's probably why you're not as affected by me."

Dean wants to say, I'll always be affected by you, but he holds himself back.

He takes his hand back, a bloody handprint now on Dean's jacket. "I love you, Dean," he says, breathless.

"Cas..."

"I probably would've built up to that if we had more time but," he makes a surprised laugh, "I am, as you would say, already 'losing my marbles', so."

The air quotes would've been funny and endearing in any other scenario, but it just makes Dean's vision blur up with tears.

"Thank you for everything, Dean. I know we've done nothing but repeatedly hurt each other these past few years, but I don't want to spend a deathless eternity with that as my memory of you. I forgive you, even for the things you haven't forgiven yourself for yet. And I'm sorry for everything, especially for ending things like this."

He should probably wipe away his tears to clear his vision, but Dean can do nothing but stare at Cas in awe, in fear, in grief, in reverence. They're both fully crying now.

"Goodbye, Dean."

"Wait, Cas."

Cas looks at him, waiting.

"Can you...can you say it again?"

He doesn't need to clarify what 'it' means. They both know.

With one last mournful smile, Cas says: "I love you, Dean."

And with that, Dean finally gathers all the strength he needs to shut the lid and lock the box. He stares at it for a while, unblinking. He forgot to ask, Can you hear my prayers down there? But it's too late now to ask.

The box automatically lowers itself into the hole it arose from. Now all that's left to do is to cover it again with soil.

Dean doesn't bother with a shovel. He gently buries the box with his hands deep in the soil, some of it getting trapped under his nails. He continues the mindless task, whispering a tireless series of I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry I hope you're okay I'm sorry, over and over between his quiet sobs. Cas is quiet inside the box. No screaming or crying. Dean doesn't know if that's better or worse.

When the final clump of soil is pressed into the mound, he suddenly feels it: a visceral shift that echoes throughout the world. The alien glimmer of the garden dims, and the world corrects its axis. Dean screams his agony into the air.

That's how Sam finds him: sprawled over a mound of soil, crying his heart out. Dean doesn't need to say anything: he knows what happened. He pulls his brother off the ground and brings him inside the bunker.

For the first two weeks, Dean cycles through drinking and passing out in various places in the bunker. If he's not wearing the jacket, he's holding it with close to him. Sam gives him a considerable space to grieve while he monitors the world grace problem with Eileen. The grace mutations have significantly dropped since then and everyone's going back to normal.

Unfortunately, that means monsters are getting hungry again. Sam doesn't want to leave his brother alone after going nonverbal with grief and dysfunctional due to alcohol. Eileen assures him that she can handle hunts on their own and that the hunter network that they're building will lessen the workload.

Sam's attempts to sober Dean up finally work, mostly due to the latter having very little strength to protest. Dean remains sober an entire day for the first time in weeks, and all he can think about is: I haven't prayed to Cas in a while. The longing might have reached him, but never a coherent prayer.

The first time he goes out of the bunker in a while, he heads straight to Cas' garden. Sam's glad that he's finally going out because "the sun is good for you" or something, but he's really only here for Cas. He kneels in front of the burial mound (where a patch of an unknown species of flowers is already growing).

The first prayer he says to him in a while is: I love you, Cas. I should've said it while you were still here. Not saying it out loud and just strongly thinking about the words somehow bolsters him to get the words through.

He's crying again, and he knows he's losing coherency. In his mind, he's explaining about his hangups and his regrets and his continuous denial of his own joy, but one constant remains: he's beaming all his love and affection into this prayer.

He's halfway through explaining all the traits that he finds endearing in Cas when suddenly, he feels it like a snap. If the glimmer dimmed when he buried Cas, now it's as if it was never there in the first place. With an unsettling amount of certainty, Dean just knows that Cas is gone. For real, this time.

"C-cas...?" It's the first thing he's said in a while and it sounds rough in his long unused voice.

"CAS! CAS!!! " He's now screaming, ripping away the flowerbed with his bare hands and scratching the soil away. Tears are obstructing his vision, but he has no time to wipe them away. He needs to make sure that is really gone. His hands are bleeding and he doesn't give a damn.

Eventually, Sam comes running towards him. "Dean! Dean, stop!"

He tries to hold his brother back, but Dean just keeps on clawing away soil. "Sammy, Sammy he's gone, he's not there anymore, Sammy I have to see, please, let me see Cas again, I need—" he breaks into sobs again, and like a puppet with its strings cut off, he slumps into Sam.

"Dean, it's okay, it's okay..." he says softly to his shaking brother.

Eventually, when Dean calms down, he looks at the carnage he's done and starts sobbing again. The flowers, his last evidence of Cas being here, are all destroyed. Now Cas truly is gone.

. . .

When Cas first heard Dean's confession prayer, he was overcome with joy. When he realized what that means, however, his stomach suddenly sinks.

He hears before he sees the Empty arrive, slithering like black goo.

"Wow, were you excited enough for eternal slumber that you wanted a preview?" The Shadow teases in Meg's voice.

At first, he was dreading the Empty, but now that he thinks of it, it's actually the perfect prison for him: a vast, endless nothingness for him to fill with his creations.

And if Jack wasn't in Heaven, that only means that he's in the Empty, and he can't wait to see his son again. Even when blinded by the madness of the universe, he can never forget the joy of being a father.

"Yes," he replies, "I'm actually glad you're here now."

. . .

Somewhere around the globe, Billie drops Jack back.

"Don't worry, kid. You'l reunite with your father very soon."

(to be continued)

#spn #destiel #supernatural #aster writes #destiel fic #long post #im totally obsessed with moc!cas #moc!cas

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blossom-hwa · 4 years ago

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Time and Time Again - CHANGBIN

I cannot believe this is finished??? I feel like I say this every time but genuinely I didn’t think this would get done until maybe bin’s birthday in August but I somehow finished it the second day of January?? Anyway, I really loved this (the concept LITERALLY came to me in a dream), and I hope you all enjoy reading it as much as I did writing it :)

(The idea that prompted this response to a @quillstarters challenge is the same one that inspired this story :D)

Pairing: Changbin x gender neutral!reader

Genre: fluff, angst, reincarnation!au, soulmate!au

Triggers: death, mentions of suicide, blood (nothing graphic)

Word Count: 10.8k

A vengeful god curses one hundred lifetimes of your love.

SKZ Masterlist

In your first life, the life that starts it all, your mother knows magic.

She’s a healer, one whose patients come from all walks of life, all over the world. From that first lifetime, you remember the heavy, comforting smell of dried herbs, the softness of her hair tickling your face, the shimmers of magic emanating from her practiced fingers into bubbling pots.

You sort of remember a father, hazy memories of a smiling man who wasn’t home very often but when he was, liked to pick you up and swing you around the room. He isn’t around by the time you’re six, maybe seven, though.

You know not to ask about it. The first time you did, your mother’s face just turned sad, an awful sort of sad that looked more like regret and repentance and anger and desolation. It takes a few more slip ups, but eventually you learn to ignore your curiosities. For though your mother never outright dismisses them, they upset her, and you never get a straight response.

Until the god arrives.

They appear in a shower of blinding light. Cold, white sparks burst into brilliant rainbows that fade in the air. You watch, mesmerized, even as your mother drags you away.

The god is beautiful. Fine, androgynous features, red eyes as soulful as song, lush locks of hair that tumble around their shoulders. But it is the severity in their face, as well as the bloodred bow and the bone-tipped arrow nocked in their hands that tell you who they are.

“You hid yourself well, disciple of Hekate.” Cupid’s beautiful lips curl in a mocking smile that doesn’t even attempt to disguise the anger in their eyes. “Eight years. I applaud you.”

Three slow, ominous claps echo loudly in the room.

You look up at your mother, heart about to leap out of your chest. Her face has gone pale, devoid of color. It only scares you more.

Cupid’s eyes flicker to you, clutching your mother’s skirts like a toddler. They freeze you in place. “So she never told you.”

Told me what?

“You never wondered where your father was, child?”

All the breath stops in your throat.

My father?

The god shakes his head disapprovingly. “It’s the least you could have done, sorceress.”

“What would you have me do?” Your mother’s voice brims with desperation and anger – though aimed at whom, you aren’t sure. “How could a child ever understand?”

“You should never have made the mistake in the first place.”

Understood what? Your eyes flit between the god and your mother. “Mother?” you whisper, tugging at her sleeve. “Mother, what do they mean?”

The story spills out in broken fragments. Your father had a liaison with your mother and she found she was pregnant with you. She loved him, but he didn’t want to stay. So she dabbled in forbidden magic. Gave a love potion to a man who did not care for her.

You were born. He realized, eventually, what she had done. Then he left, leaving you without a father.

You can’t even try to speak when the story is over. It feels as though you can’t breathe, can’t feel, can’t see anything beyond the god’s blood red eyes. Fingers cling to your mother’s skirts numbly as you attempt to process the flow of words that just passed through your ears.

Dimly, you register your mother pulling free from your hands to kneel on the floor. “Do with me as you see fit,” she whispers.

“With you?” Cupid laughs. The sound tears at the silence in the room. “What use would that be? No, I think your child will pay for your crimes.” They pin you under their gaze. “Yes, I see many lifetimes of pain in these eyes that would suffice.”

You don’t understand. You can’t understand. What does the god want with you? What have you done to anger them? It was your mother who committed the error, not you. Why must you pay for it? Your heart pounds faster and faster as their eyes refuse to waver.

“Yes.” They nod, finally satisfied. “A heart broken one hundred times will pay for your crime.” Cupid lifts their bow and arrow, aiming at your heart.

Your mother’s head snaps up. “You would condemn my child’s love to centuries of turmoil?” Her voice shakes with barely controlled anger. “You would punish my child for my mistakes? Take me instead!”

Cupid’s cruel eyes flicker between you and her. “Love is hardly fair, as you should well know,” they snarl. “By meddling in my affairs, you have secured your child’s fate.”

Their gaze fixes on you with the intensity of a thousand suns. You shrink under their glare, even as their eyes gain some semblance of softness. For a moment, it seems as though the god will take pity on you.

Then the arrow sinks into your chest, exploding into a shower of the god’s cold sparks. No blood flows but your chest throbs.

Through a dim haze of pain, as though they speak through water, you hear the god speak their final words.

“A hundred lifetimes will pass before I will allow your love to rest.”

. . . . .

It takes years, really, for the information to sink in. You don’t fault your mother entirely for her actions – raising a child alone is hard, you come to know as you grow older. But at the same time, you can’t find respect for a man who would abandon a woman he had a relationship with over the birth of a child. You can’t understand why your mother would love such a person, can’t quite understand love in general. You know you love your mother, of course, but what does such an emotion really mean?

You learn the meaning at age twenty in your first life when you meet Seo Changbin.

Your mother rushes into the house that day, almost collapsing under his unconscious weight. You immediately zero in on the huge gash on his leg that’s still leaking blood, despite the makeshift bandage, and start pulling down the necessary salves and potions.

He doesn’t wake up for a week. Other patients filter in and out of the little hut as the days go by and you dutifully do your best to treat them all, gently treating scrapes and brewing tonics. There’s something about the man lying unconscious and feverish at the back of the hut, though, that draws you in like a moth to a flame. Day by day, you sit by him when you can, wiping the sweat off of his forehead with cool cloths, forcing brews down his throat and dabbing creams onto his leg to fight the infection.

He doesn’t look like one of the gentlemen that sometimes come to town. He doesn’t seem like he has the stately grace of Hwang Hyunjin, the lord’s heir, nor does he exude the cold elegance of Choi Chanhee, the magistrate’s son.

So this man is probably a commoner, if your deductions are correct. But you know almost everyone in the village – they’ve all come to the healer’s hut at some point and met you – and this boy’s face is new. You don’t recognize him, not at all.

You wake up to a soft crash in the middle of the night, then the sound of a loud curse. For a moment, you lie back down on your pillow. Probably Mother.

Then you sit bolt upright. That was a man’s voice. Not your mother’s.

Thieves?

Then you realize.

He’s woken up!

Large, terrified eyes glow in the flickering light of your candle when you enter the healing ward, carefully holding your hands in a purposeful gesture of surrender. “Hello,” you say, trying not to fixate on the beauty of the boy’s eyes. “My name is Y/N. My mother found you in the forest with an infected wound and brought you to our home for treatment.”

He glares at you, still distrustful, but speaks. “How long have I been here?”

“Almost a week.”

The boy visibly tenses. “One week?”

“Yes.” You step forward. “And I would advise you not to leave for at least another two, given the condition of your leg. Wherever you’re going, if you go now, the infection will kill you before you get far.”

“How long will I have?” he asks.

You raise an eyebrow. “Are you suicidal?”

For several tense seconds, you stare at each other, neither backing down. Finally, the boy lowers his gaze. “Fine,” he says, the fight leaving his voice. He smiles a little, apologetically. “I’ll stay. Thank you for treating me.”

“You’re welcome.” You help him back onto the cot. “Now try to sleep. I’ll come back to check on you in the morning.”

Just before you fall asleep, you think of large, brown eyes and petulant lips. For some reason, they make you smile.

. . .

His name is Changbin, you come to learn after several days of pained grunts, spilled salve, and muted conversation. He won’t tell you where he comes from, but a name is far better than nothing. At least you have confirmation that he isn’t a local, and he smiles too much for you to suspect him as a murderer.

That would be unpleasant.

And Changbin is the opposite of unpleasant. He has this smile, a smile that no matter how small, is bright enough to light up the room. He’s so smart when it comes to life but he’s also a little dumb, really, telling bad jokes that make you roll your eyes but laugh anyway. He snorts when you tell your own stupid stories and insulting jokes and as a result, you think of more and more for him, more tall tales and bad puns just so you can hear that beautiful laugh that sounds like a cross between wedding bells and a pig’s snort.

He stays for your recommended two weeks, then another, and another. Your mother doesn’t mind, only smiles at him like he was her own son. Changbin isn’t useless, after all – he helps you tend to the herb garden, chops wood for the fire, and is receptive to the eventual lessons you give him on the basics of healing.

(And if you stare at his muscles when he lifts heavy pots over the fire, what of it?)

The boy your mother found so many weeks ago in the woods lights up your life in a way you’ve never experienced before. Even though it makes you feel guilty, sometimes you’re glad that Changbin injured himself in the forest. Otherwise, you might never have met the boy who sits with you shoulder to shoulder on the bank of the river that runs through the woods, laughs ringing through the trees.

“Y/N,” he says on one of those quiet days by the river. When you look up from your feet dangling feet in the swift current and when you look up, you find Changbin staring at you with something so soft, so deep in his gaze that you can’t decipher it.

(It makes your heart thump.)

“Hm?” You pull your feet out of the water, feeling almost shy as you meet his eyes.

“Have you ever been kissed?”

When Changbin kisses you that afternoon under a green canopy of leaves, golden light showering his dark hair and tanned skin, you can’t think. There are no thoughts of anything in your head (and certainly none of Cupid’s curse) except the euphoria of his lips against yours. With his mouth pressed softly to yours, you feel like you’re flying, drifting on the breeze without a care in the world. It’s bliss, pure bliss.

Your mother knows when you walk back into the hut, suppressing an uncontrollable smile. Her gaze remains carefully neutral for the rest of the day, but when Changbin has gone outside to chop wood, she speaks. “You know about the curse.”

Dread mixes with the bliss in your heart. Your head hangs over the herbs you’re grinding. “Yes, Mother.”

“Darling, look at me.” She turns you around, and you see the tears building in the corners of her eyes. “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”

There’s bitterness in your chest and mouth, tingeing the tip of your tongue, but this is your mother, the woman who bore you and cared for you alone for so much of your life. Though angry words rise in your throat, they never make it past your lips.

“It’s okay, Mother.” You brush the tears away, valiantly holding your own back. “I can’t blame you for a mistake you made in the name of love.” Blind, blind hope rises in your chest. “Maybe the god forgot. Maybe they will have mercy.”

Your mother just looks at you with dreadful eyes, eyes haunted by the knowledge that your words will prove false. But Changbin’s already coming back inside and the fluttering happiness in your heart from seeing him expels all negative thoughts from your mind.

One year passes in domestic bliss. Your mother never brings up the curse again, and you push any thought of it to the back of your mind. Changbin’s kisses do much to dispel any worries of yours, anyway.

Late one night, curled in a blanket next to the fire, Changbin tells you the reason he came. “I left because of a family dispute,” he says, almost ashamedly, staring into the flickering flames. “I had a falling out with my father, and he told me to leave. Even though I knew he really didn’t mean it, even though my mother pleaded with me to stay, I… I left anyway.”

You hold him closer under the blanket, comforting him with your warmth. In the light of the fire, his eyes look ghostly against the dark.

“I’m telling you this now because I want to go back.”

Your heart freezes.

Back? He wants to go back to his village, go back home… and leave you behind?

But Changbin’s smiling now, slightly. It settles your heart a little – he couldn’t speak of leaving you forever and smile in the same sentence, could he? You look at him, eyes pleading with him to continue.

“I want to go back to apologize,” he says, squeezing your hand. “I want to go back to make amends. But I’ll come back to the home I have here.”

“Can I come with you?” you can’t help but ask, even though you’re sure you know the answer.

He shakes his head, and your heart sinks. “No, I think this is something I have to do myself. But I won’t stay, I promise you that. I’ll come back home.”

“Promise?” you ask, voice barely a whisper over the crackling flames. Your fingers clutch his desperately. He has to come back, or you’ll go with him.

“I promise.” He lifts a thin silver chain from his neck, a necklace he’s never taken off since he arrived, and loops it around your throat. “That’s my promise, all right? I’m leaving this with you because I know I’ll return. And when I do…” He sweeps one of your hands out of the blanket and places a gentle kiss on it. “I’m going to marry you.” A note of uncertainty enters his gaze. “Unless you… uh, unless you don’t want to?”

You tug your hand out of his and punch him in the arm. “Are you stupid, Seo Changbin?” you ask over his yelps of mock pain. Eyes turning shy, you smile. “Of course I do.”

Your heart explodes in bliss when he kisses you, the fire’s warmth dancing on his lips.

. . .

“No more than two months,” he promises you the day he leaves. “I’ll come home.”

He keeps looking back and you keep waving as he starts out into the forest, green leaves beginning to shroud his path. The last you see of him is his bright smile as he disappears between the trees, the gentle pressure of his lips still a memory against yours.

One month passes, then two. You wait outside the hut eagerly every day, waiting for a sign of his returns.

Then another month goes by. And another. Winter settles in, heavy snow coating the forest in cold, white blankets.

“Perhaps he was held up,” your mother says, guiding your shivering body back inside the house. “He couldn’t travel in the winter, so he’s probably staying somewhere for the time being.”

You want to believe her. You really do, with all your heart and soul. But Cupid’s curse remains in the back of your mind, twisting and turning in its depths, whispering to you that Changbin is gone, that he will never return.

Winter has passed and a month of spring gone by before you decide to find Changbin’s family yourself. It takes several months because really, you don’t have any guide other than the name of his old village, but eventually, exhausted and almost losing hope, you find them.

A stooped woman answers the door with a confused smile on her lips. “Hello.”

“Um, hello.” You swallow. “Is this the Seo residence?”

“Yes, can I help you with anything?”

You pull the necklace from under the collar of your shirt. “Did Changbin come visit some months ago?”

For a single moment charged with hope, you see the widening of the woman’s eyes and believe that she will say yes, that Changbin came and is just having a hard time returning.

Then she shakes her head, and the world begins to crumble at the edges.

. . .

You stay just long enough to tell Changbin’s family who you are and what he set out to do, then flee back home as fast as you can. Tears stain the forest floor and when your mother opens the door to the hut so many months later, it only takes one look for her to fold you into her arms as you begin to cry on her shoulder.

He could be alive, you desperately hope. He could be somewhere, lost, unable to find his way back home. You know your Changbin would never break a promise to you, not if he could help it.

One year. Two years. Then three. The months pass with no sign of his return.

And you know, dead or not, he isn’t coming back.

It hurts. Everything reminds you of him, of Changbin, of what could have been and what should have been. You curse Cupid, cry for the god to come down so you can scream obscenities at them face to face, but they never answer your pleas.

The silver chain Changbin left you burns around your neck, but you can’t bring yourself to take it off. It’s the last thing you have of him, the only thing you have of him. You clutch it on your worst days, imprinting the tiny chain links into your palm when you fall sick, wasting away without a desire to live.

This is what it feels like, you think, delirious with fever, to have lost your entire world.

Your crying mother stays by your side as you wither, sponging your forehead, feeding you soup, whispering apologies into the blankets she covers you with. In moments of lucidity, you clutch her hand and tell her it’s not her fault. That you understand, now, what it means to love someone with the force of the universe.

Weeks pass in a feverish daze until winter seizes control of the earth. Numb with cold and sweating with warmth, you pray to the heavens above to release you from this pain.

The day you drift away is bitterly cold. You’re wrapped in at least five blankets, your mother shivering beside you as she grips your hands, trying desperately to warm them.

There is one brief moment of absolute clarity. You sit up, eyes wide, and cup your mother’s cheeks between cold, cold hands. “I love you, Mother.”

She kisses your forehead. “I love you too, my darling child.”

Her tears drip onto your cheeks. You don’t remember anything more.

In your first life, in the dead of winter, you die of a broken heart.

. . . . .

Your second life begins in a poor family, though happy. Sixteen years of life pass in ignorant bliss, with no knowledge of soulmates or vengeful gods. A week after your birthday, hope filling every step, you set off for the nearby village to try your skills at sewing. Luck paves your path and you find a kind mistress who values your quick fingers and eye for color. The village is bright and cheerful, you’re making money to send back to your family, and life is peaceful.

Then the dreams come.

The first vision is barely there, just a quick glimpse of green trees and a disappearing smile wedged between the scenes of your mind’s musings. You wake up, an uneasy feeling in your chest, but the image is already fading. You shake the discomfort away and get to work.

The second dream is longer, more vivid. You hear a voice, feel a gentle touch, see a mop of dark hair and a pair of gleaming eyes. In the moment, you feel happy, so happy in a way you’ve never felt before. It’s pure, this happiness, something so deep that your entire body feels warm when you wake, even as a chilling breeze seeps in through a crack in the window.

The dreams continue for several days, and each morning, you only grow more curious about the strange man who keeps wandering into your mind. Who is this man? you wonder as you sew, poking your fingers with the needle more times than you’d like to admit. Who is he, and why does he make me so happy?

Why does it feel like I should know him?

After a week of lovely, warm, but deeply unsettling dreams, it hits you all at once.

Needle in hand, you’re about to push the sliver of metal through a silk shirt, ready to begin embroidering the next leaf on a flowering vine. Taking a second glance at the embroidery you’ve already done, you blink in confusion.

This kind of vine doesn’t exist in your little village. In fact, you’ve never seen it before. But each leaf, each flower is so perfectly stitched that it doesn’t seem possible that you just made this up on the spot.

Oh.

Green leaves, sturdy trunks, water rushing down a river. Firm muscle, a flowering vine curled into a crown, fingers placing the circlet upon your head. A brilliant smile, bright as the sun, and a peal of snorting laughter that sounds like wedding bells.

One name hurtles through your mind, the name of the dark-haired, lovely-eyed boy who, by now, is a frequent visitor in your dreams.

Seo Changbin.

The needle embeds itself in your palm.

. . .

It’s hard to explain away your frazzled state when your mistress comes into the room to see you staring at the embroidered silk, palm dripping blood onto your clothes. Voice trembling only slightly (and you’re proud of yourself for that), you tell her that you just made a mistake, really.

Never mind the fact that the needle stuck itself far enough into your hand that you really have to pull it out, releasing a small spurt of blood that raises your mistress’s eyebrows so far they look like they’re about to jump off her forehead.

Shakily, you get back to work. Years of practice have steadied your fingers so that the stitches remain even, but as you sew, your mind races with memories. Memories of a trembling mother, a red-eyed god, a gaping leg wound festering on an apothecary table. Memories of boys you’ve never met in this life, a Hwang Hyunjin and a Choi Chanhee, but most importantly, a strong young man with sweet lips and a raspy, whining voice named Seo Changbin.

“Seo Changbin,” you murmur, testing the words between your lips. Just saying his name sends a rush of warmth through your chest and brings a small smile to your face.

The smile disappears, though, when you remember how the story ends.

Night brings dreams again, full, vivid scenes that begin with joy and happiness and warmth. You see your mother from another life, smell the comforting scent of herbs wafting through the air in the hut. You see your love, Changbin, feel his arms wrapped around your body, see the flush in his cheeks when you press your lips to his in a kiss.

The day he leaves is vivid, too. Sharp greens against a bright blue sky devoid of clouds, his smile disappearing into the forest as he begins his journey home.

A journey that you know he will never finish.

You know what will happen next and you don’t want to see it. You beg yourself to wake up, to stop these visions before your heart breaks, but sleep pins down your limbs and forces you to watch, to experience, to live the turmoil of emotions that flooded your heart those last few years of your life.

The next morning, you look so ill that your mistress forces you to take the day off, despite your pleas that you can work, you really can. The last thing you need is more sleep, after all, more time for vengeful gods to replay past lives for their leisure.

So after sixteen years of blissful ignorance, you know. You know of your love, you know of the curse, you know of the life that began it all. Sick emotions mix in your heart, syrupy and viscous and heavy, hope for a love as deep as your life before and terror for the heartbreak that will inevitably come.

And this time, you don’t have a loving mother who knows of your predicament.

You imagine Cupid laughing in the heavens as you face his wrath once more.

. . .

It happens by chance, purely by chance. On your days off, you sometimes like to visit the marketplace, see if you can find some fun trinket to send back to your family or to keep for yourself. Today is no exception.

Something makes you pause in front of a jewelry stand, a stand you don’t usually visit because your apprentice’s pay, though enough to support your family, doesn’t allow for expenses on jewels. However, a thin chain necklace catches your eye as you walk past.

It’s silver, shiny, not a hint of rust on the metal. A small black stone hangs as a pendant and you’ve never seen it before, but you can’t shake the suspicion that this is a necklace you wore in a past life.

A necklace Changbin gave you in a past life.

Uneasiness grows in your mind the longer you look at the chain. How did the jeweler even get this chain? Who took it away? You’re pretty sure you wore it until your death, and you don’t believe your previous mother, based on your dreams, would have taken it away.

You think you want it back.

Pointing at the chain, you look up at the jeweler. “How much is this?”

“Eight gold pieces.”

Your heart sinks. A day’s work gives you five silver pieces, and there are twenty silvers to a gold. Most of your money goes back home, leaving you with only a little pocket money of your own – certainly not enough for a piece of jewelry worth eight golds. Lips pressed thinly together, you nod before beginning to walk away.

A voice stops you, a familiar voice you’ve never heard before. Not in this life, at least.

“Wait!”

You turn around, slowly, slowly, as Changbin’s voice asks the jeweler, “Eight gold pieces, you said?”

It’s him, you think faintly. It’s really him. Different hair, skin a shade lighter, but his eyes… his eyes are the same. The absolute same.

He doesn’t look at you with any recognition, though, and he’s dressed in silk, indicating high status – at least, higher than yours. So you politely avert your gaze, trying to calm the pounding in your heart.

Eight golds appear on the counter, exchanged for a small silk pouch with the necklace inside. You’re about to walk away – why did Changbin stop you, anyway? There’s not a single chance he would give it to you – when the pouch appears in your line of vision, held by a familiar hand.

You blink once, twice, then look up from the pouch to the man holding it in his palm.

Only one thought runs through your mind.

There is no way, in two consecutive lives, that Seo Changbin would offer me the same necklace.

Your confusion must show, because he laughs. “It’s for you,” he says (and oh, gods, his voice makes you want to just sit and listen to it forever). “It looked like you wanted it, no?”

Thankfully, your vocal cords remember how to speak, even if your mind doesn’t. “I couldn’t possibly take such a gift, sir,” you say, stepping backward slightly. “You paid for it – it’s yours.”

“Then it is also mine to give. And I believe you would appreciate this much more than I.” He unstrings the pouch, slips the chain into his fingers. “May I?”

For any other person, you would have said a polite no before speed walking into the crowd, hoping to disappear between the stalls. Now, though, you stay in place, rooted to the ground under Changbin’s steady gaze.

You nod.

His hands are gentle in their feather-light touch against your skin, clasping the chain around your neck. The pendant hangs at the base of your throat, cold at first, but slowly warming with the afternoon sun.

It feels right.

“Thank you,” you whisper when he’s finished, sinking into a low bow. “Thank you so much.”

Changbin smiles, loosely taking your hand. He drops a butterfly kiss to your knuckles and you physically have to restrain yourself from gasping too loudly, because – oh, because –

The spot where his lips touch your skin sends warmth spreading throughout your body.

“It was my pleasure,” he says, still smiling. “My name is Changbin.”

I know.

“May I know yours?”

“Oh.” You smile, hoping your lips don’t tremble too much. “I’m Y/N.”

His smile widens at your words, making your heart flutter in shy embarrassment. “I hope to see you around once more, Y/N,” he says.

A sudden burst of courage turns your smile a little teasing. “Just once?”

Changbin’s laugh – it’s shy, it’s a shy laugh, your heart can’t take it – makes you want to melt into the ground. “Maybe not,” he finally says, ears red. “Maybe many times more.”

. . .

He keeps his promise of many times more, appearing again on your next day off, then again, and again. If possible, you seem to fall in love with him even more than you did in your previous life, his laughs tickling your heart, his smiles like sunshine against your skin.

Deep down, you know this won’t last. If Cupid took your love away so harshly in your last life, he won’t hesitate to do it again, possibly with even more malice. But Changbin is intoxicating, pulling you toward him like a leaf on the wind, forever fluttering in the breeze, only resting when the air does.

It’s not even just Cupid. At least before, you and Changbin were on equal footing – one a healer, the other a poor runaway. There was no status difference. Now, though, Changbin wears silk while you clothe yourself in homespun fabric, finer perhaps than a peasant’s, but homespun nonetheless. No matter how daintily you embroider the cloth with leftover threads from your work, it will never match up to the rich, gorgeous clothing of the nobles with whom Changbin must walk.

Such differences inevitably drive a wedge into a love that could have been.

It starts after you go to the market once, twice, three times, and Changbin doesn’t meet you at any of the stalls. It feels empty, walking around with no one by your side, and you’re just wondering if something’s happened when you receive a note written in your love’s handwriting, asking you to meet him at midnight where you first met.

He arrives a bit later than you, footsteps softly padding across the empty market. For a moment, you only stare at each other, faces lit just barely by the light of the moon.

Changbin breaks the silence. “I’m getting married.”

The words send a knife into your heart, but you try to ignore the pain. It was expected, you tell yourself, expected of someone with Changbin’s high status. The two of you could never end up together, not a sewing apprentice and a member of nobility. “I see,” is all you say.

For the first time since you’ve met, Changbin looks broken. It hurts your heart and you want nothing more than to hold him close until that expression disappears, but you can’t. You’ve barely even touched – you don’t have a right to hold him the way you’d like.

“I don’t want to be,” he says.

Your hands shake slightly with your reply. “Why?”

“Because…” Changbin’s voice almost fades into the silence. “I think I love you.”

His words should make you feel happy, should make fireworks burst in your heart the way they did when Changbin kissed you in your past life. And yes, a small part of you jumps for joy. But a larger part withers with disappointment, with pain, with the knowledge that none of this will come to good.

“Y/N.” His voice turns insistent. “Don’t you… don’t you feel the same?”

You swallow. Take a breath. “I do.”

A lovely brightness enters Changbin’s eyes, hope filling his face. You hate yourself for having to crush it. “But you have a duty to your family.”

“We can run away,” Changbin says, taking your hand. You want to melt yourself into his touch, rest in his warmth forever. “We can run, Y/N. We don’t have to stay.”

Only the greatest force of will allows you to pull your hand away. “I have a family, Changbin,” you say, trying not to focus on the light that’s fading out of his face with every second. “I have to support them. And you… you have a duty to the village.” You swallow. “We can’t run. It’s too selfish.”

He doesn’t blame you, you know. He understands what you’re saying, has probably already thought of it himself. Still, it doesn’t stop pain from breaking the glass in his eyes, gaze becoming fragmented as he nods once, twice. “I know. I just thought…”

Changbin never finishes his sentence. In fact, you never speak again. He walks you back to your mistress’s house that night, squeezes your hand once under the moonlight, then disappears back into the darkness.

And with that disappearance, he leaves your life forever.

Over the years, you hear stories of Changbin’s lovely partner, her flowing hair and vibrant face and pretty smile. You hear stories of how much they love each other, the children they have, how well they watch over the village together.

It doesn’t matter how much your heart hurts, you tell yourself every time you hear one of those stories. It doesn’t matter at all, not even when his wife commissions a dress from the shop you now own, years later. It doesn’t matter when Changbin comes with her and stands in the main room silently as you take her for fitting, and it doesn’t matter when his eyes linger slightly on you when you lead her back out.

You exchange no words that day, but you’re certain Changbin sees the black gemstone still resting at the base of your throat. He makes no obvious expression, but when his eyes flicker over it, their light dims the slightest bit.

In this life, there are no kisses, no hugs, none of the passion you shared in your first life. Instead, you love through vivid conversations, knowing smiles, and in the end, the barest brush of his hand against yours before he leads his wife out of your shop.

In the end, you never marry. Instead, you spend the rest of your life sewing until your eyes go blind, leaving you all too much time to contemplate everything you’ve lost.

Which is worse, you wonder, losing your love to death or to societal pressures and another woman? Which is worse, never knowing how Changbin suffered as he died, or knowing that he’s doing well without you?

Which is worse, having your love die in a land unknown, or having him live so close, yet so far away?

. . . . .

It continues, over and over again, endless cycles of living, remembering, loving. He’s a thief and you’re a merchant. You’re a shop owner and he’s a soldier. Both of you are orphans, living on the street. None of it matters, not gender, not occupation, not social status – no matter what, you end up apart.

With every lifetime, the dreams grow more vivid, as though to make sure you don’t forget a single instant of the love you experienced, the love you could never see to the end. You’d think that the lines between each life would grow blurred as each one passes, but they only grow sharper, more defined. It’s impossible to forget how many lives you’ve lived, not when Cupid forces each one to remain in your mind, endlessly playing in your dreams time and time again.

On your twenty-ninth reincarnation, you experience a month’s worth of dreams in your silken bed, the bed of a noble heir who can have nothing to do with the boy who stays by their side day and night as a bodyguard and nothing more. You wake up every night stifling screams resulting from twenty-eight lifetimes of broken hearts, muffled cries and tears that bring Changbin running into your room, asking if you’re all right, reminding you that you’re safe.

Physically, you agree. You trust Changbin entirely – he’s proven more than capable of protecting you after multiple attempts on your life – but mentally? Emotionally?

How can he protect you from a god’s wrath, a wrath he doesn’t know of, when you can’t even protect yourself from that same wrath you’ve known of for twenty-eight, soon to be twenty-nine lifetimes?

You try to harden your heart, speak to Changbin a little less, spend more time focused on your lesson books and less on Changbin’s lovely face, but it’s impossible, you find after several months of this forced silence. It’s impossible to ignore the allure of your guard’s lips, his entrancing eyes, impossible to ignore the gentleness of his strong, roughened hands guiding you through life.

But with every chaste kiss, with every stolen hug or brush of skin, you know, deep in your heart, that something will befall your love. Something will tear you two apart.

When he dies, stabbed in the chest by a traitor to your family, rage drives you to take the knife that fell out of your love’s hand and shove the blade into the attacker’s heart. It drives you to cry, to weep, to wail to the sky as Changbin’s skin grows cold, the remnants of his last “I love you” still hanging on his lips.

Watching your love die in front of you, you decide, is the worst punishment of all. Nothing, absolutely nothing could be worse than this, knowing that Changbin died because of you, for you, without a singular doubt in his mind as he did it because he knew you would do the same for him.

Moonlight streams through the windows, illuminating Changbin’s blank face and the blood on his chest. As people begin entering the room, pausing at the carnage next to your bed, you raise your head, tears still flowing down your face.

“YOU SELFISH GOD!” you scream at the cold moon, resisting the arms tugging you away from the body of your love. “YOU SELFISH GOD! I GAVE YOU TWENTY-EIGHT LIFETIMES OF MY LOVE, AND YOU WANT MORE?”

Someone’s speaking, trying to make you hear their words over the raging of your voice. You don’t care, violently wrenching yourself out of their grip to stay thrown over Changbin’s body, tears mixing with his blood. “COME DOWN AND FACE ME!” you gasp. “COME DOWN AND TAKE MY LIFE, DO ANYTHING, I DON'T CARE! FACE ME, YOU COWARD!”

Strong hands, too strong, containing none of the gentility Changbin used to show you, begin pulling you away. You thrash in their grip, still staring at the moon. “I WISH HE NEVER MET ME!” you scream as they drag you out of the room. Blood stains your nightclothes, sticky against your skin. “I WISH HE NEVER MET ME, NEVER DIED FOR ME, DO YOU HEAR?”

. . . . .

The god grants your wish.

. . .

You regret it more than anything in all of your now-thirty lives.

. . .

To know of your love, but to never experience any semblance of it in your entire life? To know of a certain Seo Changbin, but to never meet him, never know how he is, never see him once in over fifty years of living?

Torture.

. . .

From your sixteenth birthday, when you begin having the dreams, until your death well into your fifties, there’s only pain, endless pain, marred by a piece of disgusting hope that rests in your chest, a piece of hope that keeps you praying that you will see him just once in this lifetime, that you’ll know his face and he’ll know yours.

. . .

It becomes so clear as you grow older that you will never know the Changbin of this lifetime, if he even exists. You will never touch his skin, see his smile, bathe in the glory of his laugh. You’ll never kiss, never experience even the briefest joy of seeing his face.

But your heart hopes, anyway, even though your mind sees reason. It prays, refuses to accept the truth.

. . .

Hope, you decide, is a weapon. A weapon far deadlier than the sharpest sword or the heaviest club, a weapon wielded by only the most intelligent of tyrants.

. . .

Apparently, you go mad towards the end of this life. You can’t blame those who eventually put you in an institution, over fifty years old and withering away. They don’t know who Changbin is. They never will.

You never will.

. . .

You blame the dreams. If you didn’t know of your previous lives, if you didn’t know Changbin existed, you might have lived happily – well, maybe not happily, but you’d be content, at least. You wouldn’t be wishing you were dead every minute of your existence.

. . .

You die in that institution, supposedly of a wasting disease, but more accurately of a broken heart, a heart even more broken than the one Changbin left behind that first life when he never came back.

. . . . .

Your forty-sixth life is first one in which you end the love with death, not Changbin. Looking back, it was probably better for you, you suppose, because you didn’t have to feel the pain of losing your love. Maybe this was Cupid’s laughable attempt at some sort of mercy.

You loathe it anyway, loathe it almost as much as the lives – yes, plural by now, which automatically cancel anything Cupid tries to do to make up for it (if the god is even trying) – where you dreamt of certain sparkling eyes and a lovely smile but never met them face to face. It’s not quite as horrible, but nearly.

To know that your love had to deal with any measure of the pain you’ve felt for so long, the pain you wouldn’t impart on even your worst enemy, is unimaginable.

It’s ironic, too, considering your occupations in life. You’re a healer on the battlefield, wearing the strip of blue silk on your arm that denotes your immunity to the opposite forces. He’s a soldier on the same side, though he has no protection other than his skill from enemy swords.

You are sworn to heal. He is sworn to kill.

Isn’t it strange, then, that fate wills you to die first while forcing Changbin to live?

You weren’t supposed to be killed in war. Your healer status, that piece of blue silk tied around your arm, was supposed to protect you from enemy blades. But some unsuspecting enemy soldier, perhaps not seeing the blue amidst the dust of the battlefield or genuinely just not caring for the rules of war, drove their blade into your back as you knelt over a fallen man of your side.

Within minutes, you had succumbed to darkness. The pain of dying, the blade in your back wasn’t even the worst part.

All you could think, after all, as you lay there gasping, was that he would have to learn of your death from finding your body, that you wouldn’t even get to say a proper goodbye.

. . . . .

It’s a pitiful, desolate figure who sits on a clifftop fifteen lifetimes later, blankly staring at an expanse of open ocean, waves crashing against the rocks below, contemplating every single one of the sixty-one lives you’ve lived so far.

You married Changbin in this one, this sixty-first life. You married him for the first time in sixty-one lives, made your vows with him, kissed him under a shower of flower petals.

It didn’t change your fate, not even when, unable to have a baby of your own, you adopted your first, then your second child. It didn’t change anything, not when Changbin had a duty to this village that you couldn’t interfere with. It didn’t change anything, not when pirates came ashore and massacred the village population, killing your two children and half of the rest of your family.

Changbin threw himself from this very cliff, you remember, threw himself to a watery death rather than die at the hands of the pirates who came to raid the town so many years ago. He was brave to the last, fending off invaders even when countless others had thrown down their swords, and he never lived to see the defeat of the pirates whom he died fighting.

You hug your shoulders tightly, staring down at the waves crashing against the rocks. With all that’s happened to you over sixty-one lifetimes, who would blame you for tipping off the edge the same way Changbin died, albeit much less heroically? Who would blame you for giving up in this life, giving up in every life if you knew just how badly it would end every time?

“You’re right,” a rich voice sounds behind you, a voice that you once heard in person, many centuries ago. “Who would blame you? Not even I would.”

Your eyes slam shut, refusing to gaze into blood red. You don’t speak.

A sigh passes from the god’s lips, breath puffing softly. Where the air hits your neck, you feel your skin curdle with disgust.

“It’s no use not speaking,” he continues, a hint of amusement tinging his voice that makes your hands curl into fists. “I can hear your thoughts.”

A snarl twists your lips. “They must be very loud,” you snap, words dripping acid.

More silence.

“You hate me,” he finally says.

You breathe in, out, in, out. Calm, you tell yourself.

“Why wouldn’t I.”

A pause.

“Perhaps you can elaborate.”

For the first time since they appeared, you turn around, eyes blazing, to stare into the red gaze of the wrathful god who cursed you. “I would rather throw myself off this cliff,” you seethe, “than relive my lifetimes in front of you.”

Is it remorse that glitters in ruby eyes, pity that rests in their shadows? Whatever it is, it makes you smirk without mirth, lips curling without cheer as you turn back around to watch gray waves crash against the cliff. It doesn’t matter how a vengeful god feels after lifetimes of revenge. Apologies from the curser mean nothing to the spite of the cursed.

“I made mistakes,” the god says simply. “I acted rashly. I should not have taken my anger out on you, and certainly not with so harsh a punishment.”

You want to snort. “I am ever grateful you realize after sixty-one lifetimes of wrath,” you say, acid practically burning a hole in your tongue. “Now quit with the blather.” You don’t care that you’re staring at a god who could smite you down a thousand times over with a single flick of their finger – they’ve already hurt you too much for it to matter anymore. “After so many years of never answering my calls, you finally come, unbidden. Tell me why you’re here, or I will jump off this cliff.”

“I’ve come to offer an exchange,” they say. “It is impossible to erase a curse, but I can impart it on someone else.”

In a flash, you’re standing, staring the god dead in the center of their bright red eyes. “You said you could read my thoughts,” you snarl. “Tell me, God of Love, what I’m thinking right now.”

They raise an eyebrow. “You don’t want it,” they say calmly, though surprise coats their words. “You have no one, then, on whom you would impart this curse?”

“When I tell you,” you snap, “that I would not wish this curse on my worst enemy in all of my sixty-one lives, I do not lie. That –” you take a breath – “that is how much you have hurt me.”

Astonishment shows itself in the god’s gaze. “I don’t understand,” they say, for the first time looking bemused. “I have given you everything, dying first, dying last, watching him die in front of you, never seeing him in a lifetime –”

“You don’t need to remind me,” you cut him off. “I know it very well.”

“Then you would not even give this curse to me?” they ask. “Not to the god who has shown you so much pain?”

That almost gets you, almost. The desire for revenge claws its way through your chest, begging to be released in a monstrous cry of pain, but you rein it in with a scoff. “For a god of love,” you say, turning back around, “you really understand nothing of it.”

More silence.

“I will leave you with two gifts,” the god finally says. “Two gifts to try and make up for what you have lost.”

You suppress another snort.

“Your love will remember you on your one hundred and first lifetime,” they continue. “When the curse is over, your love will remember you, will know how you have lived one hundred lifetimes without him.”

The words, acerbic with derision, fall from your lips without missing a beat. “Will I remember him, then, or will you take that away from me too?”

A short pause. The air seems to grow slightly warmer, as though the god has been angered, but it cools quickly. “You will remember him,” they reply, voice thinner with a tinge of frustration.

You smirk.

They clear their throat. “The second gift you will find when you return home.”

You give no response to that, only stare resolutely at gray waves, feeling the ocean spray tickle your skin. The god must disappear at some point, because when you finally turn around to return home, they’re gone. But once you enter your empty house, there’s something on your table, something that sparkles in the last glimmers of sunlight peeking through the window.

You pick it up, eyes narrowed, and almost immediately drop it.

A thin silver necklace, polished to shine, with a small black gem as the pendant.

Though there’s no way to prove it, you’re sure this is the very same piece of jewelry that Changbin gifted you so many centuries ago, two lifetimes in a row.

The chain trembles on your shaking fingers as you place it back down, carefully, so carefully, like it’ll explode any second. You go to bed that night wondering if the necklace will have disappeared by morning, but when you wake up after a fitful rest, it’s still there, glittering on the table.

You wear it for the rest of this lifetime, hiding it beneath your clothing so no questions are asked. And when you feel you will die soon, you carefully place the chain in a small box and bury it just outside your home.

You’ll find it in your next life. You’ll find it in the next, then the next, time and time again until the end of your hundred-lifetime punishment.

It’s a small comfort, that simple silver chain with the little black jewel, but it’s a comfort nonetheless, a piece of your love to carry with you until the end of your times. Even if it was given back by the god who cursed you.

. . . . .

Years trudge along, years of waiting and waiting and more waiting for the torture to end. More death, more illness, more societal pressure to drive you two apart. In five lifetimes, you die first. In the others, Changbin either leaves you to face the world on your own, or you never know him at all.

It seems that even though Cupid may have felt some remorse for your curse, that didn’t stop the god from finding new ways to hurt you.

At some point, the lives finally begin to blur together. There have just been too many. If you tried, you could probably piece them all together, work out the details of how the two of you lived and how you were ripped apart, but after seventy, then eighty, then finally ninety lifetimes of broken hearts, it becomes too painful to relive.

(As you near the ninetieth lifetime, if you’re lucky enough to be born to a family who cares, someone always comes running in for months to the tears that stain your cheeks through dream-filled nights. You must have helped send so many people to an early grave with the endless screaming they would wake up to on the nights you dreamed of particularly painful lives.)

There are two saving graces to this pain, and as much as you hate to admit it, they came from Cupid. The god never deigns to meet you again (something you’re grateful for), but their gifts keep you from losing all hope as you near the end, the blissful end of your punishment.

One, the necklace. In every lifetime, no matter how painful, no matter whether or not you find Changbin, you find the thin silver necklace from your previous life. And no matter how rusty the chain gets, how dull the jewel becomes after years of wear, it shows up shiny and polished the next time you find it.

Two, the knowledge that Changbin will recognize you that first lifetime your punishment is over. You don’t have to keep track of your lifetimes, don’t have to count them until the hundredth has come and gone, don’t have to live any unnecessary lives with the fear that Changbin will be taken away from you suddenly and horribly.

As much as you loathe saying it, these gifts give you the slightest bit of hope that keeps you going.

So you trudge through lives, living as a tailor falling for a shoemaker, a nurse who comes to love a bedridden patient, a rich socialite who wants to marry the son of your family’s sworn enemy (this one’s interesting, quite like Romeo and Juliet, really. In your next life, when you dream of it, you wonder if Cupid met Shakespeare after the playwright’s death and decided to have a sick laugh at your expense). Seventy passes at some point, then eighty, then ninety.

By your hundredth life, you aren’t entirely sure what number you’re on. You think it must be ending soon, what with all the dreams your seventeen-year-old self had to suffer through, but it hurts too much to pick them apart and count. When Changbin doesn’t recognize you, though, a student at the same university as you, you resign yourself to several more lifetimes of heartbreak. It’s too much to hope for at this point, too much to hope that you’re on your last cycle of punishment, that the next time you live, you will be able to love Changbin wildly, freely, without a care in the world.

The dreams come once more in your hundredth and first life. It makes you despair that your punishment isn’t over, not even now (because though you don’t dare to freely pray, hope still buries itself deep in your chest, allowing Cupid to wield it like the monster he is).

Cupid assured you on his second and last visit that you would remember Changbin when you met him, though. You don’t like it, but hope only grows when you recall his words. Blind, blind hope.

It’s a cold morning, bitterly cold, when you roll out of bed to go to work. Eyes blinking blearily, you fumble around the cabinets for a package of coffee before remembering you ran out yesterday.

Just my luck, you think, scribbling “coffee” onto the grocery list on your refrigerator. You shove the piece of paper into your pocket, hoping you remember to go shopping later for whatever’s on the list. Your roommates are out of town, so you can’t rely on them to get anything this time.

Bitter wind slashes at your face as you walk to the small café just down the street for your daily fix of caffeine. By the time you’ve reached the shop, your nose is already stiff with cold, and the steaming cup of coffee the barista presses into your chilled hands only briefly warms your skin before you have to step back into the cold.

The bus will be coming soon, you note, checking your phone for the time. Steps quickening, you bend your head into the wind and set off for the stop.

So focused on your destination are you that you don’t notice the person until it’s too late. You smack right into them, sending them lurching into a nearby pole. They fall to the sidewalk as you spew apologies from freezing lips, holding out a hand to help them up.

They take your hand, squeezing with a grip that seems a little too familiar to be coincidental. A familiar sensation of warmth, a lovely, dreadful warmth, spreads through your body, emanating from where the stranger’s hand touches yours.

You freeze, eyes hardly daring to look up and gaze into someone who might be Changbin, who might be the love of one hundred of your lifetimes. You don’t even know whether to hope it is him, because if it is, will he finally recognize you after so many cycles of pain? Or will this just be another love that ends in heartbreak?

Slowly, slowly, your gazes meet.

It’s him.

Lovely brown eyes, eyes that throughout twenty, fifty, ninety years of pain, have remain unchanged in their depth and gentleness, stare into yours. Your breath catches. The coffee in your hand drops to the ground.

It’s really him.

Belatedly, you realize he’s still on the ground and give a quick yank to pull him up. You try to apologize, both for hitting him and for the coffee that’s spattered onto his shoes, but your vocal cords won’t work. All you can do right now is stare.

He doesn’t recognize you. He hasn’t reacted to your touch, hasn’t given any indication that this is anything more than a chance meeting, an everyday occurrence where a stranger bumps into him (albeit a little harder than normal). You’re about to retract your hand, to force your vocal cords into giving an apology for smacking into him, but then he opens his mouth and speaks words you never dared to believe you would hear.

“It’s you,” he breathes, gripping your hand even more tightly, almost involuntarily, like he’s trying to keep himself grounded to the earth. His eyes, now wide with confusion and awe, search your face greedily. For what, you don’t know, but you’re doing the same, even though you’ve seen his face millions of times by now over a hundred lifetimes.

“It’s you,” he repeats once more, raspy voice breathless with emotion. “It’s really you.”

Finally, your throat manages to choke something out. “Changbin?” you try, words small and soft, conveying all of your disbelief in that one single word, that one single name. “Changbin?”

He says your name, then, says it once, twice, as he keeps staring into your eyes. It sounds like honey on his lips, sweet in a way that makes you heady with bliss, and only the biting wind keeps you rooted to the present, reminding you that this is real, this is not a dream, that this is real, completely real.

Slowly, naturally, one of your arms curls around his waist, just as his hands rise to cup your cheek. His fingers are cold against your bare skin but you lean into his touch, pulling him closer, closer, until your faces are only inches apart.

“It’s you,” Changbin murmurs, still as though he can barely believe it. “It’s really you.”

A strangled sound escapes your throat, something between a sob and a laugh all at once. “You remember,” you choke, eyes beginning to fill with warm, salty tears. “You remember, Changbin.”

He cups your cheek with an ungloved hand, cold skin brushing against yours with a gentleness that makes you want to melt. “I do,” he replies, voice almost cracking with emotion. “I’m only sorry I didn’t remember before.”

In your previous lives, time and time again, you kissed Changbin’s lips. It was always lovely, absolutely lovely, lovely in a way that made it feel like a field of flowers blooming in your chest, butterflies fluttering in your stomach. But there was always a lingering desolation on your part, a despair born of the knowledge that this love would not last, that Cupid would not allow you to see it to its natural end.

Today, Changbin’s lips taste of sunshine and honey, dew on green grass on a summer morning, the excitement of a first snow, nothing reminding you of a lingering heartbreak to come. You can’t even feel the bitter wind with him pressed so closely to you, lips molding against yours as his hands cup your cheeks.

The last walls on your heart crack down, walls formed with the knowledge of your hundred lifetimes of punishment. From the broken walls springs a new warmth, a sparkling warmth that you can’t even find the words to explain, a warmth that spills through your body and makes you feel full, happy, joyous in a way you’ve never felt, not once before in your hundred lifetimes of heartbroken love.

When you break away, tears are streaking down your cheeks. Changbin’s eyes glitter, too, but the smile on his face is radiant as he gazes at you.

Cupid’s punishment was cruel, you know, crueler than it had to be. It was harsh, evil, almost wicked in the pain he inflicted on you. But even though the vestiges of that pain still line the edges of your heart, it’s easy to ignore it in favor of staring at your love standing in front of you as a wobbly smile of the purest joy finally begins to curve your lips.

Is this real? you wonder to yourself. Is this truly real, your punishment finally ending, Changbin remembering who you are and the lifetimes you’ve shared? This bliss, this love, this warmth… it all seems too good to be true.

As though he can read your thoughts (and perhaps he can – a hundred lifetimes of love have probably given him a window into your soul, the same way it’s given you one into his), Changbin grins, vibrant, radiant, warm even in the bitter cold. “This is real,” he says, lovely lips curved into a brilliant smile.

“It is?” you ask, soft, wondrous, childlike, hardly daring to believe.

He brushes away a tear on your face, his thumb stroking your cheek with the gentlest touch. “It is,” he whispers. “As real as your love for me, and mine for you.”

Time and time again, you burned your heart for Changbin, burned it with the love you felt for him over one hundred lifetimes of a curse. Time and time again, you swore at love, swore at the god who inflicted the curse on you without so much as an afterthought until sixty-one lives had passed.

But now, as you crush Changbin close, fitting your lips to his once more, you push those thoughts to the back of your mind and lose yourself in a kiss finally free of pain.

If you enjoyed, please don’t forget to reblog and leave a comment to tell me what you thought! Thank you for reading and have a lovely day <3

(1 reblog = 1 slap in the face for Cupid fuck them)

212 notes · View notes

morgana-ren · 3 years ago

Note

👉👈 Spare thoughts on like Crystal Lake/Friday the 13thesque camp counselor au with the Lov or mainly Shigaraki. I was thinking about watching Fear street and suddenly this was all I could think about

So I wrote this bit and yes, I’m painfully aware it’s not plot-perfect or polished but I LOVE the concept and wanted to put something out for it to show my appreciation that you shared it with me. Warning: it’s very nasty and I took a lot of liberties here. I hope that’s okay. Tomura is the gross incel-y killer. It wasn’t QUITE Friday 13th style, more “creepy counselor gone mad” because when I started writing it, I was a bit out of it.

I hope it’s okay!

A slippery hand clutches yours- stark red and slicked with sweat and blood, trembling bones and quivering fingers- clinging to yours as if you alone could keep her anchored to her quickly fading lifeforce. She’s been stabbed repeatedly, but it’s the wound on her chest that pulses most noticeably with her breath; A font bubbling from the cleave a few inches beneath her collar bone, a scarlet brook staining down the front of her pastel camp uniform.

Her mouth open in a strangled, wordless cry: A petrified 'o' shape that seems terribly uncanny alongside her sallow cheeks, fear and pain reflected in her wide and panicked eyes as her grip on consciousness rapidly fades. Crimson stains her slippery ivory teeth, gurgling on her own bile as she struggles to make out a fragmented sentence between her presumably collapsing lungs and the blood pooling in her throat.

Her face, the perfect mask of fear covered in dirt and her own fluids, begins twitching, blinking tears through the muck that cakes her cheeks. The hand not wrapped around yours in an iron grip curls into a point -shaky and pale and borderline indiscernible- and it takes you a brief moment for you to realize she’s pointing directly behind you. It’s only then that you rip yourself from your traumatized stupor and hear the footsteps approaching from the cabin door.

You’re ready and willing to defend yourself if need be, shooting to your feet with lips pulled in a snarl, but you’re not greeted with the sight of a terrifying killer brandishing a knife: You’re met instead by the familiar face of your fellow camp counselor and long time friend.

“Tomura!”

You can’t help it. You throw your arms around his scrawny neck, almost knocking him over in your relief as you bury your head into the swell of his black hoodie. He’s a welcome sight- been close to you ever since you started attending even though he’s years older than you are, and he’s always made you feel better- safer somehow.

You’ve never been more happy to see him than you are now, thanking whatever God is looking out for you that he’s alive and that he found you. You squeeze him with every ounce of strength your little body can muster as he wraps his own gangly limbs around you and cages you to his chest in turn- almost too tightly.

“I looked for you! I couldn’t-“ Breath escapes you, tearing up in his embrace. “I couldn’t find you! I thought he’d gotten you too! I was so scared-”

He gives a firm shake of his head, shaggy silver hair ruffling over his shoulders. He reeks, as always, of slight mildew and something vaguely earthy- like ash or cinder, even as he hasn’t ever been allowed on fire duty. “No. He can’t be far behind though. We need to go.”

“Okay!” You nod, wiggling free of his reluctant arms and dropping to your knees again by your wounded friend. “Just help me with Maureen- she’s really hurt- We need to get her to a hospital and fast-” “Leave her.” His knobby fingers encircle the rounds of your forearm, jerking you back to your feet at his side again with a bruising yank. ”We don’t have time- she’ll only slow us down.” “How can you say that? We can’t just leave her here! She’s bleeding out- We can save her, we just have to-”

A quick peek back at her and you realize she looks- if possible- more terrified than she did only moments ago in the face of death. She’s shaking like a leaf- Her wide, milky eyes focused in on Tomura as she attempts another gasped word. “Look- Just look at her. She’s done for. Let’s go- I can keep you safe, I can-.” “You don’t know that- You don’t know that- Please Tomura, we don’t have time to argue, just help me!”

“I do know that,” He insists, trying again to tug you towards the door. “She’s in shock, and the blood loss is too much for them to be able to save her even if we could drag her out of here. It was obviously intentional. I can protect you but we need to leave now-”

Your eyes flick back to Maureen and the pooling beneath her prone body that seems to grow larger by the second. Her mouth trembles, choking on the words that are trapped in her flooded throat.

You shake him off once more and lean down to her as Tomura groans in what seems like, if you didn’t know better, annoyance. You ignore him, trying to coax her into your arms carefully, but she only quivers in your grasp, still trying to hiccup out something between her pained gasps and slipping mortal coil.

“C’mon Maureen- You can make it, I know you can!” But she remains limply, dead weight on the cabin floor, more fearful of something directly in front of her than the inevitable death that awaits. You lean forward once more to try and get a grip beneath her arms to hoist her upward, but she holds firm, puffing a final wheeze in your ear that takes a moment to process. “Him.”

Blood bubbles up through her throat following the words and she spits it up over her blouse, eyes going blank and body falling into limpness. The wounds across her body still ooze a steady stream of blood but the last of her spirit seems to still, light fading from her eyes in one final moment.

“Tomura, help-” Panic threads through your voice, still trying to drag her forward.

But he doesn’t move to help you. He only stares blank faced and cold as Maureen seizes in her death rattles; Her pallid fingers still coiled in an accusatory gesture at her side.

“Please-”

“I told you, she’s dead.” He pulls you away by the collar like a kitten, knocking your center of balance clean from the sheer force of the grab as he coaxes you once again into his arms. “Can we go now? We need to go, need to get away from here-”

Something catches your attention, something solid in his hoodie’s kangaroo pouch that pricks you slightly as you fall into his chest. A slight sting on your arm as it collides with his torso.

”Ow!” You pull away once again, his body stiffening as you inspect a fresh little cut on your arm where something sharp pricked at your flesh. “Tomura, what the hell is in your pocket? That hurt-” ”Nothing! Quit wasting time- Come on! We need to leave.”

“It cut me...” You pluck at the skin once more, hissing in slight pain as the small laceration pulls apart under your attentions. “Do you have a knife in your pocket?” “What? No- well, yeah. I picked it up in the kitchens when I was trying to find you. I thought I could defend myself with it if he caught up to us-”

You turn and narrow your eyes at him, shaking your head. “We don’t have knives that sharp. We have butter knives. It’s not safe for the kids, and after you got caught last time-” “We have one, remember? The one we keep in the drawer for the barbeques.” “I looked! When the girls cabin scattered after the attack, I went and looked and it was gone!” “I must’ve grabbed it before you got there. Is this really important right now? We need to go! Stop being difficult!-” “How is that possible? The boys cabin didn’t know anything was going on until we fled there when he attacked Stacy and Becky. You didn’t even know what was happening until- You- You weren’t even there-”

“Well I have it, alright?” He interrupts you, face contorting into a sneer. “Shouldn’t you be happy? It means you’re not fucking defenseless if he shows up again.” “How-”

“Don’t worry about it!” He grabs your arm again, bruising grip deceptively strong for such a lithe man, crushing the bones in your wrist with his fingers. “Come on- Lets go! We can finally leave here together- You’ll be safe with me-”

Him

It could be the ferocious expression, or his demands that are cloaked in the facade of a benevolent request. Maybe his story that doesn’t add up or perhaps you’ve simply known all along somewhere deep down. Either way, It hits you in one terrible moment- one world shattering instant where everything suddenly clicks into place.

Tomura- quiet, eerie Tomura with the sharp mind and the eyes sharper still. Tomura with boundary issues who always found a reason to touch things he wasn’t supposed to. Tomura who only ever had a soft spot for you because you were kind to him when everyone else kept a mile berth.

Tomura, who’s only friend to speak of is you.

‘He’s so obsessed with you! It’s fuckin’ creepy! You should get a restraining order before he, like, snaps and corners you and makes you suck his dick or something. He’s not even supposed to hang around with the younger group but he’s always following you around like a lovesick puppy.’

‘What? No he’s not! That’s a horrible thing to say! He’s a nice guy, you guys are just awful. You don’t even give him a chance-’

‘He’s always staring at you like he wants to eat you! I bet he’s the one stealing your stuff. I’ll bet he has one of those weirdo shrines to you in his cabin and jerks it over your picture like ‘Oh, oh yeah, ride me harder, oh fuck me faster- Oh!-’

‘You’re disgusting! He’s just nice to me because I’m nice to him! Everyone else is such an asshole to him- Including you! God, you guys are so fuckin’ mean for no reason! Just because he’s a little different-’

‘He gives me the creeps. He’s been like that since we were kids. Remember when he was a teenager but still only ever hung around you? He couldn’t even make friends his own age! Even the other councilors are wigged by him. The only one who even talks to him is you. I’m telling you, he’s a fuckin’ weirdo. There’s something totally off about him. He’s going to snap one day. We’re not the only ones that avoid him, you know-’

‘Fuck you guys. You guys are such fucking judgmental dicks. He’s never even done anything to you. You’re just a mean spirited bitch.’

Tomura who would sneak you into the woods and show you rotting animal corpses with macabre excitement in his wide red eyes. Tomura who used to sneak knives in his bag as a camper and show you how to sharpen and hold them until he got caught and the entire camp had to institute a new safety policy. Tomura who had to be scolded repeatedly for trying to sneak into the girl’s cabin as a young boy to try sleep next to you, and that it wasn’t appropriate for him to wait outside of it for you as he got older either. Tomura who has distain for everything and everyone in a world that shunned and rejected him in equal capacity.

Everyone but you.

Your friends are dead, slaughtered like animals and strewn across the camp in a grotesque tableau of vicious murder, the only knife in the area conveniently tucked in his pocket, his hand clasping your wrist in an iron hold that doesn’t ask, but demands you obey him.

“Tomura- Tomura tell me you didn’t- You couldn’t-” You’re shaking now, feeling more in danger than you did before the man in the mask who conveniently never chased you or even gave you a second glance even as he had every opportunity to do so. The murderer just as gawky and gangly as Tomura, lean, wiry muscle and imposing height almost too tall for his own body and manic, scarlet eyes. The killer who held the knife with the same practiced grip that he’d shown you so many years ago-

“What are you even talking about? Let’s go-”

He rips you forward, taking you into his arms again and squeezing.

‘He’s going to snap one day-’

“Tomura- Tomura no! Tomura! God, please tell me you didn’t do this! Look at me and tell me!”

He looks at you, mouth opening to form a sentence before abruptly cutting short. He studies your face, your quivering body, the blood across your cheek. You think, for a moment, he might break down. But he doesn’t. He laughs. A nasty, cruel chuckle directed at you and only you; there’s no one else alive to hear it.

“You always were too smart for your own good.”

The facade of panic and adrenaline falls from his pallid face, replaced with his stereotypical look of total nonchalance and almost boredom. Your stomach plummets, limbs paralyzed in abject terror as his pale hand reaches forward, thumbing at the swatch of blood across your face.

“I had to, you know. Wanted to for years. But I had to wait until you were a counselor with me. Had to wait until I could do it before the kids arrived. Too many variables I couldn’t control. No one is coming for days, and they’re finally dead, and by the time anyone finds them, we’ll be long gone.”

A stab of ice down your spine at his words, the uncanny horror of it all whirling your vision to a blurry abyss. “You can’t- what have you done? What have you done?”

“What I had to! They were insufferable and stupid- your harpy friends wouldn’t let us be. But now they’re dead.”

“-Have to get help- we need to call the police-“

“Stop being stupid.” He brushes the hair out of your face with a tender finger laden in blood. “We’re leaving here and never coming back.”

“You need to turn yourself in-“ you stammer. “They’ll know it was you, God, Tomura-“

“Do I look like I care?” A snarl lifts his scabby lips, bearing the sharp canines beneath. “I don’t give a fuck if they know. I hope they do. They’ll never find us. I’ve had so long to plan-“

“No! Tomura, this is insane!”

“It’s over. Come to peace with it.” He hisses, wrenching you even closer, his dry lips on the shell of your ear. “You’re coming with me, baby, and we can finally be together. You can finally show me all those dirty little things you never got the chance to because your friends made you feel ashamed.”

The edge of the blade in his hand flicks up through the thin threading that binds the top buttons of your counselor uniform, baring your cleavage and the top part of your bra to him. You scramble to try and cover yourself, but he’ll have none of it; he quickly swats your hands away and presses the tip of the knife to your sternum.

“I’ve waited so long for you-“ A ragged breath escapes him, chest shuddering with the force of the exhale. “To touch you. To take you. Do you know what it’s like? What you fucking do to me?”

“Tomura- this- this is wrong! Please! Please let me get help! We’ll get you the help you need- I will! But you can’t do this! It’s not right!”

“There’s only one way you can help me, babe.” The hand not threatening you with the knife slides down and squeezes your breast, your entire body stiffening in visceral disgust. “Something I’ve wanted as long as I can remember. If you’re eager enough for it now, we have some time-“

“No! No! Don’t- stop touching me! This is sick! They’re dead! Tomura- stop it!”

“They are. And I could never, ever hurt you, but I’m sure there’s someone still alive that I could to calm you down- to make you see sense.” He squeezes hard enough to make you cry out, nipple catching between his fingers through the thin fabrics you’re wearing.

You blink up at him, bleary eyes full of silvery tears that trail down the slopes of your cheeks. He doesn’t look like Tomura anymore- not your Tomura. He looks like something twisted and uncanny, some feral beast that’s inhabited your friend’s brain and driven him to the brink of madness. He leers down at you lasciviously, thick pink tongue swiping across his teeth and you’ve never felt more uncomfortable in your own skin under his gaze than you do right now.

“It’s not fair when you cry like that. I’m already painfully hard-“ He releases your tit in favor of clutching your wrist, bringing your trembling hand down to his crotch hidden by the length of his sweatshirt and forcefully rubs the length of his throbbing erection against your palm. “But it always did things to me when you got all weepy.”

You’ve been defending a monster.

“Remember when you would cry into my lap because that group of girls was mean to you and I had to keep adjusting you every few minutes?” He barks a laugh like it’s the funniest thing in the world. “God, it was so hard not to sink you down on my cock right then. Fuck, I would have destroyed you if I let myself- all sniveling and delicate and weak. You always needed me to protect you, didn’t you? So trusting. Naive, really. You had no idea what I was thinking about at night. What I’ve been planning to do to you for years-“

You can only give a broken, disbelieving cry of his name- trying to bring back the boy you knew. The sweet boy. The shy one. The quiet one with morbid curiosities and wild ideas on the world.

“Your friends knew, of course. But you didn’t listen, you silly, dumb little girl. Tried to warn you, but you just wouldn’t listen. And now they’re dead.”

“Fuck you! Fuck you, you bastard! You’re a monster! You’re-“ You batter your fists uselessly against the steel panes of his chest and he barely even budges.

“Remember when you could come to the woods with me and I would show you all the cool stuff my dad taught me? You thought it was weird but you still came because you’ve always been so sweet to me. My dad’s dead now, but I made sure he left me his remote cabin. I’ve wanted to take you there for so long, and now I finally can.”

He advances on you and even in your rage, you instinctively backpedal. Before long, he’s got your back flush against the scratchy wood wall, toe to toe with you with his imposing frame trapping you to the surface behind you in a gangly cage of his spider-like limbs.

“Fuck- It gets me so hot when you act like a little brat. When you fight me even when you know there’s no way you can overpower me. You never could. Even when we play-wrestled. I could make you scream without even trying. So fucking precious to see you bare your teeth at me like you’re capable of lifting a finger against me.”

“I hate you- I hate you!”

“That’s okay, babe. I can learn to forgive you. Tell you what, why don’t you wrap those pretty lips around my cock and start sucking out my forgiveness with your sharp little tongue and we’ll take it from there.”

“Go to hell-“

“If I go, you’re coming with-“ He puffs into your ear, one hand swirling into the front of your shirt, the other slicing from hem to collar in one swift motion, leaving your torso bared to his greedy eyes. “I’ve earned you. You’re mine now- you belong to me and anyone who has ever tried to say otherwise is dead!”

And the worst part is he’s right. Maureen bubbles a lifeless pool of blood a few feet away. The ones who tried to fight slashed repeatedly until they were too weak to stand and died a slow, painful death into the grass. The ones that tried to run cut down from behind- a cowardly act that shows his true nature. You can scream and cry and wail your sorrows to the terrible moon that hangs through the trees, but no one will come to help you; there’s no one left. No one but him.

And no one is coming for days.

“I was going to wait until I got you home to fuck into your guts but you’re just not getting it, and I don’t think I can wait.” He thrusts the knife back into his pocket temporarily, opting instead to fumble with the front of his jeans. Dread pools in your stomach, threatening to overturn the contents into the filthy floor, but all you can do is watch in terror as he unzips the front of his jeans and fishes his pale cock from behind it.

“Go ahead and get on your knees for me and stick your tongue out. Think of it as a practice round.”

You shake your head, weakly resisting as he shoves you to the ground and taps the hot, purpling tip on your face, smearing his precum across your ruddy cheek.

“Don’t be shy. I promise once you get a taste, you’ll love it. You will learn to love it. You don’t have another choice. Just wait until I get you back home. I’ve learned so much since last summer. I can’t wait to show you.”

#morgana and friends #reader x shigaraki #nsft #tw dacryphilia #tw implied noncon #tw blood slaughter and all the fun stuff #him being gross and disgusting #not my best work but I wanted to get it out #just a snippet really #think of it as a cute fun lil thing I’m puttin out for funnies

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fulltimemoaner · 3 years ago

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Zhongli is prosecuted for giving his Gnosis to the Tsaritsa, leaving him and Childe no choice than to flee to Snezhnaya.

Basically, some thieves cut Zhongli’s hair and Childe slaughters them because he really liked his hair.

Childe’s warm hand had felt comforting on his waist, even if he was hidden in a cloak under the warm sun of Liyue, being sneaked out of his homeland like the fugitive that he had become, like the land below him had forgotten the gentle rumbling of his energy and the security of his spears. He had fought back the urge to cry, thousands of years of protecting his safe harbour pointing their treacherous fingers at him. Yet, unlike Azhdaha, there was no bitterness, no disgust towards his beloved humans that had so willingly shunned him after news of his contract with the Tsaritsa had surfaced. In fact, the adoring citizens of Liyue had issued a warrant for him, for the Archon’s head that had wished to sign with the Fatui and sell out their safety.

Zhongli did not wish for the dominion of his beliefs, nor for acceptance, because mortal life was too brief and brittle to understand the gamble of him keeping his Gnosis when he could feel the claws of erosion leeching into his sanity. To their eyes, he had been their loving and protective God, who couldn’t be wrong, who would continue to reign for the millennia to come. The rusty floorboards had creaked underneath his feet, and he had caught the last traces of his homeland’s sun before he had been ushered to the basement of the ship for the first few hours, until they had been a safe distance from Liyue.

The adepti had weeped for this outcome, yet he had begged them not to rain down their vengeance on the mortals, to be gentle and understanding. He had entrusted them with the continuous protection of their harbour.

And the next air he breathed was that of Snezhnaya, the first light he saw was cold and fragile. He had emerged from his murky cabin in the early morning and had approached the railing that separated them from the freezing ocean. The rippling wind whipped back the hood of the heavy coat Ajax had provided him with, and now his hair waved in the wind, his eyes staring emptily into the distance as his skin itched from the cold. The Tsaritsa had accepted him as a fugitive asking for protection, and now, as his hands gripped the railing, he realised he hadn’t been that far away from home since the Archon War.

He looked up, feeling the soft tears that clung to his eyelashes freezing over, the sun obscured by a thick layer of clouds. How he missed the gentle breeze already.

The same went for Snezhnaya itself, it was cold enough to make his breath catch in his throat and his lungs ache. Ajax had taken his scarf off and wrapped it around his neck at the sound of his laboured breathing, then adjusted it to make sure it was covering his mouth and nose. Zhongli’s eyes had been curious as to why the ginger had been so gentle the past couple days, even the snark and edge having left his voice. Perhaps he felt for him. At least the gaze of the locals was gentle and welcoming, for the most part, offering him local delicacies and flowers before he and Childe could even reach his home. The Harbinger had been welcomed back like a hero, with huge bouquets and a massive meal prepared by his family.

Zhongli had been catatonic, at best, but at least, he had found some comfort in talking to the children, who were, as always, excited and easily impressed by his stories of dragons and extinct creatures.

He had stayed indoors for the first couple of days, too reluctant to go exploring on these foreign lands, but eventually, his confidence started building up again, so he picked up the small bag of money that Childe left for him every morning. -Zhongli had given his allowance of the two previous days to the little kids, since he hadn’t gone outside and concepts such as saving were nonexistent in his brain-

The attire, that he was getting used to. He wasn’t a huge fan of wearing boots, but he could say their smooth leather sealed him from the snow pretty well, and that the heavy coat felt strangely comforting around his shoulders. More than once, he had overheard people calling him the golden devil, which he considered to be quite endearing in its own, clueless way.

He stepped by a merchant’s booth with imported stones, including what they described as Liyuen Cor Lapis and Noctilucous Jades. He leaned in a bit closer for observation, and the merchant seemed to shift uncomfortably, which pretty much told Zhongli that these were, in fact, fake. He straightened up again, unable to resist teasing the merchant. “Are these imported straight from the chasm?”

The shopkeeper’s eyes seemed to go wide, and he quickly tried to dodge the question. Thankfully, for him, a whistle tore through their ears and made the young foreigner turn, his eyes narrowed.

“Lovely accessory you have there, good sir.” A young man smiled, accompanied by three others. “Looks like the real thing too.” The Snezhnayan man caressed the piece of jewellery that held Zhongli’s hair into a neat ponytail in a leery way. The ex archon didn’t move, only observed with caution, his piercing gaze saying more than words ever could. “Say, you aren’t, by any chance, the Tsaritsa’s guest from Liyue harbour?”

The other men chuckled and Zhongli glanced at the merchant, who started packing up his items hurriedly, seemingly intimidated by the gang. “Why, yes, I am.” He said neutrally, his voice a notch lower than friendly.

“Huh, you have nerve, saying that so openly.” The Snezhnayan’s fist twisted around the half-golden ponytail and pulled Zhongli’s head back. “You owe us, since we so willingly welcomed you here.” The stranger smirked, reaching behind his back for a folded knife. “I’m sure we could sell Morax’s hair for quite a fortune.” Another yank to the head and Zhongli blinked apathetically. “Aren’t you fighting back?”

“I have no interest in fighting mortals.” Zhongli shrugged. “My hair is my hair. Three years to grow them back is like the blink of an eye to me.”

The man’s eyes flickered with fury at the stranger, and he brought that dagger into his coal hair, severing the strands roughly. Zhongli’s eyes stayed unmoving, hostile, hateful, in a way. The lump of hair fell into the snow unceremoniously, and one of the others scurried to grab it.

“Yo,”

Zhongli’s eyes flickered from the thief to the source of the familiar voice. Relief washed over him at the sight of ginger hair and ocean blue eyes, that slender figure hugged in his winter attire that Zhongli rarely saw him in. A primal sense of grounding gripped him, almost like the essence of his home, which he had eternally bound to Childe’s smiling face. Unorthodox, he knew, but he was like an oasis of familiarity that the weather hadn’t manage to freeze over yet.

“Where is your Snezhnayan upbringing, picking on the Tsaritsa’s guests?” Ajax sighed, walking leisurely towards Zhongli. “I have eyes and ears where my hands can’t reach, and right now, mr. Zhongli is under my supervision.” His hand found its familiar spot on the God’s waist, his eyes scanning for any traces of harm’s way on him. His hand reached the back of his head before his eyes did, and they narrowed dangerously. “Ah, is that what you were going for? It’s a shame.” Zhongli felt uncertainty creep up his spine at the shift in the Harbinger’s tone, still wishing for no harm towards the mortals.

“Ajax,”

“It’s a shame,” Childe continued, cracking his neck to the left, then to the right with a relieved smile. “Because I happened to love his hair, and I don’t take kindly to things being taken away from me.”

“Ajax, let’s go home.” Zhongli grabbed his wrist, the whole group of thieves frozen in fear at the sight of the Fatui.

“No, no. We can’t do that. When someone kisses you, they expect a kiss back, no?” Ajax stepped forward and stretched his arm out, his hydro dagger appearing into his hand. “You might not want to shift the tides here, mr. Zhongli, but these rascals are my own.”

“Run!” The leader of the thieves screamed, but they didn’t stand a chance. Childe threw the dagger first, hitting the middle one between his shoulder blades. Blood gushed out in waves and Ajax laughed joyfully, running to the gurgling body to pull his weapon out, then join it into a larger pole-arm. A jump and a couple of spins and heads went flying, legs were severed, and the snow was painted an abysmal red. Childe leaned his head back, feeling the wind swipe his hair back and freeze his smile in place. The weapons vaporised in his hands, and he slowly lowered his gaze to Zhongli, stood meekly by the scene of the slaughter. Childe wrestled the hair out of the dead man’s grip, for the sake of retreating the luxurious clip that his lover favoured since he first met him. “Measly thieves. Someone has to be the sacrificial lamb, the subject to teach the others a lesson,”

Zhongli’s eyes eased shut when Ajax closed in on his space, leaning close to his face and pushing the small accessory into his gloved hand. “I love you.” Ajax whispered, pressing a gentle kiss into the corner of Zhongli’s brow. “And I intend to keep you safe here.”

“They wouldn’t kill me, Ajax.” Zhongli sighed deeply, leaning into Childe’s neck. “They wouldn’t be able to.”

“No one will dare to try anymore.” The Harbinger’s hand nestled to the small of the ex archon’s back, pulling him close to his body. He started to caress the back of his head with his free hand, trying to feel the roughly cut strands through the fabric of his gloves. “I’m sorry they touched you.”

“You’re more sad about that than I am.” Zhongli smiled gently and pulled the Harbinger’s head down to press their foreheads together. “It will grow back in no time.”

“I’m a mortal like they are.” Ajax whispered sadly, his eyes easing shut. Zhongli pressed a fleeting kiss to his lips in response, trying to ease the pain in his lover’s voice.

“And I’m eroding, so let’s try to outlive each other.” Zhongli chuckled, making Childe squeeze him close, a neediness evident in his touch. “I want to live like mortals do, with you, Ajax. That’s why I’m here.”

“Please, don’t say such things to me.” The Harbinger breathed deeply, trying to choke down a few stray tears. “I promise I will make your stay worthwhile.”

“I know.” Zhongli kissed his jaw quickly. “You can start by taking me somewhere, I’m freezing.”

“Right.” Childe laughed, reaching out to grasp the ex archon’s hand and pull him away from the bloodied grounds. “I’m taking you for lunch. I will tell some underlings to clean up the mess.”

“You could had been more clean about it.”

#zhongchi #tartali #genshin impact #tartaglia x zhongli #childe x zhongli #zhongli #childe #childe genshin impact #zhongli genshin impact #chili

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hyunjilicious · 4 years ago

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onlyfans #2 [ransom drysdale x reader x lee bodecker]

A/n: !!!! part two is here and I’m literally so excited lmao. It was supposed to be twice as long, but stick around because I’ll start writing part 3 asap!! I love this concept!! Come talk to me about it!!

Summary: Ransom decides that what his onlyfans account needed to get more traction is a threesome. So here he is, Sheriff Lee Bodecker in all his glory. (SMUT) 8.9k

Warnings: unprotected sex, double penetration, oral (both receiving), humiliation, degradation, dirty talk, dom/sub dynamics, domestic submission, daddy kink, slapping, spanking, dubcon/noncon, filming sexual acts... they’re both assholes, you have been warned! Absolutely DO NOT READ if any of these upset you or make you uncomfortable in any way! Also, 18+ in case that wasn’t clear lol. That being said... ENJOY!!

You can read part 1 here, although this works as a standalone too!

Despite your fingers nervously trembling around the small brush in your hand, your makeup turned out just about perfect. And now, you were just standing there, in front of the mirror, studying every inch of your face, searching for any small detail that had yet to be fixed. There wasn't one. Just like always, you now looked perfect too.

Still, the will to stand up and leave was absent. It was perfectly silent around the room, creating the perfect environment for you to get lost in thoughts. Your stomach was buzzing with enthusiasm and your palms were sweaty, yet you wanted to delay the moment for as long as you could - maybe the eyeliner wing on your right eye was a bit too thick - maybe you needed to start over. And you were just about to do so, to grab the makeup remover inches away from your hand, and undo the work you've put so much patience in. But you didn't get to.

The door opened and Ransom walked inside.

You didn't turn around, as his frame showed up in the mirror, right behind you.

"You look beautiful, love" he said softly, his fingers dancing through your recently styled hair.

"Thank you"

"Look at me" he cooed, tilting your chin.

You fell back against his hard abdomen, smiling deeply as you searched for his stern eyes. They were cold, you knew he had something in mind.

It was one of those days when he wouldn't allow anything to go wrong. Although always a control freak, throughout your relationship, you learned when it was absolutely necessary to not piss him off - and it was more than easy to tell that this was one of those times.

"I love you" Ransom smiled, leaning down to kiss your forehead.

His touch warmed you up from the inside. Slowly, his hands descended from your shoulders, caging your chest into a sweet embrace, before grabbing your breasts into his palms. You moaned lightly, your eyes falling closed.

"Such a good girl" he chuckled, squeezing harder until you squirmed under his touch. "Does it hurt?" he asked, his grip not loosening up.

You nodded, eyes still closed and your smile just as wide. "But I like it," you confessed.

"Of course you do, baby" he laughed, "I know exactly what my baby needs"

Cheeks on fire, you spun around in your chair, and wrapped your arms around his middle. Ransom rubbed your back a few times, before harshly pulling you up to face him, "How are you feeling? You feeling good? Excited?"

"Yes" you nodded eagerly.

He took a deep breath, kissing the top of your head before returning to look at you with a serious glare in his eyes, "Lee's gonna be here real soon, and I need you to be real good for me, ok? I know you can, but you can also be a pain in the ass, sometimes. Now is not the time, Y/n, ok?"

"Yes, I know" you nodded, wrapping your arms around his neck, "I'll make you proud, you'll see. I wanna do this right, Ransom, I won't let you down, I promise."

Hearing your words, the corners of his mouth tilted into a devious grin, "Why aren't you always like this?" Despite his words being somewhat cold and condescending, there was awe in his eyes. It didn't always look like it, but he loved you more than he could ever put into words - he did it in his own fucked up way, but he did, and you knew it.

"I try" you giggled, "You know I always try to be good, it's just that sometimes it's hard with you"

"I wouldn't be so hard on you, baby girl, if you didn't ask for it"

"Ok" you sighed, smiling as you spoke inches away from his lips, "You know I never actually mean to upset you, right?"

"Of course, angel, you're not that stupid"

"Oh my god" you rolled your eyes.

Laughing at his antics and at his ways of making everything that came out of his mouth sound demeaning, you turned around to give yourself another look in the mirror.

"I'm not finished, baby" he sighed, grabbing your elbow to spin you around. "Now, I know you're not dumb enough to say no to me, but it's not gonna be just us two today-"

"I know" you cut him off, stomping your foot, already growing annoyed with what looked like his lack of trust in you, "I won't do anything to piss him-"

"No," Ransom said harshly, grabbing your chin. Your blood ran cold as his demeanor changed. "Why do you have to go and make assumptions, hm? Told you to be a good girl and listen to me. He's not even here yet, and there you are, interrupting me when I'm speaking to you. You know how much I hate that. Are you capable of shutting that mouth and listening?"

You nodded against his grip, eyes wide with regret.

"Good" he cleared his throat, "What I wanted to say, you dumb slut, is that if he does anything you don't like - and by anything, I mean so much as breathes the wrong way, you tell me, and he's out, got it?"

"Yes" you whimpered, taken aback. You did not see that coming.

"You'll be a good girl, listen to him and do whatever he says, yeah? If you don't like him, you come to tell me. If you don't come and tell me, I'll assume everything goes, understood?"

"Yes"

"Use your words, full sentences, come on, Y/n, I know it's hard for you, but you can do it," he growled, shaking your entire frame to get your attention.

"If- if I don't like him-" you mumbled, "I'll tell you. Otherwise, I'll do everything he says"

Instantly, his face contorted into a sick smile, letting go of your chin, "Was that so hard?"

You weakly shook your head, "No"

Ransom opened his mouth to say something else, but the sound of the door bell ringing beat him to it. A wave of anxiety washed over you, but he never looked more excited. Ransom hurried towards the door of the bedroom, stopping just before waking out, "Is that blow job proof?" he asked, pointing to your lips.

"Yeah" you nodded.

"Good, I like a challenge" he grinned, "Come downstairs whenever you're ready"

"Wait-" you hurried to stop him, "You never told me what to wear"

Ransom frowned, looking you up and down. You had a violet bralette on, and a pair of shorts. This wasn't right.

"Wear whoever you want, love" he said confused, "You won't be in them long anyway"

"Ok" you whispered, head buzzing with a million possibilities, "I'll be right there"

"Take your time, baby"

And with that, he left. 'Fuck' you thought, rushing over to your closet. Nervous sweat coated your entire body as your eyes scanned over the multitude of clothing options laying before you, yet none of them seemed to fit the occasion. You knew better than to wear something unnecessarily skimpy that would make every one of your movements uncomfortable, but at the same time, you knew sweats wouldn't cut it. After a moment's worth of careful consideration, you took off your bra and instead put on a black cashmere shirt, with the top buttons undone to the point where your cleavage was nothing more than suggestive, and tucked it into a pair of high waisted shorts. For a second you considered adding heels to your outfit, but figured none of the two men patiently waiting downstairs would think twice before asking you to put them on in case that was what they wanted. So, you hooked your fingers around the heel of the shoes, and left the bedroom.

As you tiptoed your way down the circular staircase, Ransom's familiar tone became audible. When you rounded the corner, his voice came to a halt, and instantly, his eyes met yours.

"Babe!" he called, his proud smile lighting up the room. He raised one hand to wave you over as he sent a knowing grin to his guest.

From where you were standing, you could only see the back of Lee's head. Now, you had seen pictures of him, yet a buzz of anticipation coursed through your body. As you walked across the living room, Ransom's eyes never left your frame, but Lee took his time. He had only turned to look at you when you reached them, deep, hungry blue eyes scanning your frame.

You knew he was a sheriff two towns over, so that was why you found yourself just slightly disappointed with the fact that he seemed to have left his uniform at home. It made sense, but you still wished he had brought at least the hat.

His attire resembled a police uniform, however these were regular clothes. Nothing more than a black shirt tucked into some worn out pair jeans, and a leather jacket to top off the look. At a first glance, he wasn't the type to take your breath away, but still, your eyes remained trained on him.

He looked about a few years older than Ransom, which made him maybe 15 years older than you, only the thought tugging the corners of your lips into a frenzied grin. You did your best not to stare, but you found yourself somewhat drawn to him. He wasn't your type, not even by far, especially considering the way his belly pushed down on the belt of his jeans, but the circumstances allowed, and you couldn't deny the pang you felt between your legs when you remember what he was here for.

"Baby?" Ransom called. With a small jump, you came back to reality, and turned to your boyfriend, a polite smile on your lips. "Sheriff Lee Bodecker, Y/n. Y/n, this is Lee"

Before he even finished making the introductions, you had already tiptoed your way over. "Nice to meet you"

Up close, there was something different about him. He didn't bother standing up, instead just spread his knees a little wider, taking your hand into his and kissing your knuckles, "Nice to meet ya, sweetheart"

Tingles went up your arm from where he had just pressed his lips to your skin, and as your mind was busy processing the situation, you failed to say anything else.

Ransom saved you the embarrassment, cutting off the silence, "Love, grab us something to drink, ok?"

"Yes, of course!" you jumped, eager to change the tone. "What would you like?"

"I'm a whiskey man myself-" Lee snickered, "I'll take whatever you guys have, though. Just make it cold. Ice, if ya got any"

You turned to Ransom. "That Toussaint no.05 bottle, baby, you know which one?" he asked.

You nodded.

"Good, now hurry"

And you did - you almost stormed out of the room, rushing into the kitchen. Being out of their presence felt like you could finally breathe again. Planting your hands on the cold, marble counter, you leaned forward, taking in breath after breath. 'Calm the fuck down' you thought to yourself. 'The fuck is wrong with me? He's not good looking-' you cringed, squeezing your eyes shut, 'Then why am I-'

You stopped yourself before even articulating the thoughts. You were afraid of what it meant. That was not something for you to process right now. So, forcing yourself to not make any wrong move, you took out the good glasses stashed on the top shelf of the kitchen counter, added a couple of ice cubes, and watched the whiskey linger along them.

Cringing at the thought of announcing the drinks were ready, you decided to walk back inside without another word, and placed the glasses on the small coffee table between them.

"Where's your glass, puppet, ya gonna drink straight from the bottle?" Lee asked, not even hesitating before attacking his whiskey.

"Oh, I don't really drink"

"Why not?" he asked, cringing from the sourness of the drink.

"I-" you stammered, turning to look at Ransom.

"Have a sip" he laughed at your innocence, pointing to his glass, "See if you like it"

"Come on, angel, you'll love it." Lee chuckled, patting the spot next to him on the couch, "Pour yourself a drink and come sit down with me"

Against your better judgement, you did as told. You went and fixed yourself a glass, but when you returned, it was as if the alcohol had already gotten to them. You knew they couldn't have been drunk yet, but it sure looked at if it was what they needed to get the vibe going. Ransom gestured for you with a simple nod to join Lee, and on shaky knees, you did so.

In your mind, you were going to walk over there and sit at least 10 inches away from him, but he had other ideas. When you reached him, Lee spread his legs, tapping his thigh, "Come 'ere, doll"

You gulped and sat down in his lap, his hands instantly finding your hips. "You good?" he asked, rubbing his big, calloused hand up and down your bare thigh, "Seem a little tense"

"I'm good" you smiled shyly.

"Ya sure?" he asked tauntingly, throwing you a wicked smile that exposed his teeth. It sent shivers down your spine, but you nodded obediently. Wanting to release some of the tension, and due to a lack of a better answer, you turned to Ransom, who much to your dismay, had his nose buried into his phone - his attention nowhere near to whatever was going on in the room.

Lee was quick to cry for your attention, not too shy to grab your chin and get you to face him again. "Don't you think you and I should get to know each other a bit?" he taunted, "Or do you not have any kind of problem fucking a random stranger?"

"I-" you muttered, eyes widening with surprise, "Yeah. You're right, yeah. We should"

It was as if he could feel the tension in your veins. And it was if he feasted on the uneasiness that enveloped you. His proud stare showed just how much he was enjoying the moment.

"Let me see you, then, doll" he hummed, rubbing the back of his fingers up your side, tracing the curve of your breast. "Got no reason to be shy" he added, tugging at your collar.

"I- I'm not shy" you sighed, shaking your head.

"Told ya to drink some of that whiskey, doll, would've made things easier." Lee grabbed the highest button that was still done on your shirt, playing with it between his fingers, "Wanna see your tits, baby"

Determined to at least start on the right foot, you didn't hesitate to open a few more buttons and then pull the shirt over your head. Never in your life had you felt more exposed, and the pain between your legs reflected that perfectly.

"Sorry to interrupt-" Ransom laughed, standing up from his spot.

His voice nearly startled you. Embarrassment took over you when you put all the pieces together, and your palms got sweaty just thinking about what he was about to say.

"I'll give you two some alone time-" he continued, "Gotta set up the room anyway. But I need to post a picture before, a little hype never hurt nobody, right?"

"Right" you nodded, waiting for further instructions.

However, they didn't come from Ransom. Lee grabbed your waist and spun you around, your back now facing him. Straddling his right leg, you pushed your ass back against his crotch and brought your chest forward, tilting your head to the side, as you waited for Ransom to take the picture.

He was chuckling as he did, shaking his head with an expression on his face that you failed to read. Instantly, he shoved his phone back in his pocket and walked over to you. He laced his fingers through your hair, looking down into your eyes.

"You gonna be a good little girl for Mr. Bodecker?"

"Yes"

"You'll do anything he asks, ok?"

"Yes, I will" you nodded.

"Promise me?"

"Yes, I promise" you smiled up at him.

"Don’t piss him off, Y/n, you'll regret it later" Ransom threatened, but he did so with an eager grin on his lips.

"I won't" you giggled, "I promise"

"She can't piss me off" Lee butted in, his whole frame shaking with laughter under your weight, "Look at her"

"I see her" Ransom smirked, walking towards the bedroom, "I fucking see her but you'll be surprised how big of a fucking pain in the ass she can be when she wants to"

"You look a fucking gem to me, doll" he grinned.

You turned around in his hold and settled back on his thigh, but this time facing him. "Thank you" you smiled.

"Can't lie," Lee chuckled, "Curious what you could do to piss your daddy off"

"Nothing on purpose"

"Course not" he agreed, every now and then his glare slipping down to your exposed chest. "Can tell you're a good girl, and you know your place. Wouldn’t be standing here if you weren't, would you?"

"I guess not"

He took a deep breath, "I tell you what-" Lee sighed, grabbing your glass and shoving it into your hands, "Drink this. All of it, like the good girl you said you are, and maybe then I won't have to force the words out of you, hm?"

"I'm sorry-" you tried to excuse yourself, "I'm just-"

"Drink!"

His tone made the temperature in the room drop, and you didn't hesitate. The alcohol burned its way down your throat, upsetting your stomach before you even finished the drink. The bitterness became too much, and feeling your gag reflex threaten to stop you from ingesting any more of the whiskey, you straightened your back and pulled the glass away from your lips.

"What did I say?" he raised an eyebrow, "Finish it"

And he helped you with it, guiding your hand back up to your lips, forcing the remaining liquid to pour down your throat. A few stray drops escaped and dribbled down your chin, giving him the perfect excuse to gather them with his thumb and then shove his digit into your mouth.

You gathered your lips around his finger, your eyes shakily looking for his.

"See it wasn't that hard?" he laughed, and you nodded no, without breaking the eye contact.

"God damnit, girl, got my cock all hard already"

You watched him carefully, unable to answer with his thumb still knuckles deep into your mouth. It was clear you were driving him insane, his cock bulging against the material of his pants.

"Come 'ere" he eventually said, moving his hand to grip your chin, roughly pulling you towards him.

You leaned into his touch and followed his lead. Slowly, you found yourself bent over him, your chest pressed to his, as he welcomed your lips into a greedy kiss. It took you aback, but you gave in completely. He took the lead, one hand on the back of your head and the other on your waist, his tongue exploring your mouth with nonchalance. For better support, you planted your palms against his shoulders, hoping you could pull yourself up and straddle his hips.

"Like this" the sheriff grunted against your lips, effortlessly guiding you higher up his thigh. You settled with a small huff, holding onto his chest for better balance. The hunger on his lips was consuming you as he kissed down your neck. His hands reached behind your back, pressing you down into his leg. Unconsciously, you started to rock back and forth, slowly and subtly, not wanting things to escalate, all you needed was a bit of release.

But Lee caught onto it, snaking his fingers under the hem of your way too revealing shorts, "Wanna get yourself off on my leg, doll?" he whispered against your jaw, tightening his hold on your ass.

You whined lowly, not giving him any kind of answer.

"Is your cunt wet?" he asked, his hands not leaving your ass.

"Yes-" you cringed, pressing yourself harder down against his thigh.

"Then fucking strip, and get yourself off"

"Now?" you gasped.

"No, tomorrow" Lee rolled his eyes, slapping your cheek hard enough to get you to realise just how serious he was.

For the first time, you felt actual fear in your veins, but at the same time, your fingertips buzzed with determination to please him. So you scrambled off his lap and undressed, your jeans sliding off your legs with ease, followed by your panties, drenched and already slick with your juices. His glare burned your skin but you returned to your place against his leg.

The feeling of your bare core against the material of his jeans drove you insane. It was rough and slightly painful, but once you started to move, rolling your hips along his muscles, the pain started to fade into pleasure. With your hands gripping the sides of his shirt under his jacket, you worked on getting yourself off.

"Look at me" the sheriff commanded, slapping your ass, "What goes through that head of yours now, hm? Tell me"

"You" you panted, slowly looking up at him with shame in your eyes, "Now- what I'm doing now-"

"Makes you feel like a slut?"

You hesitated, but answered, "Yes"

"And you love that, don't you?"

"Yes.. I do"

"Should've figured that out sooner" Lee shook his head, his hands lewdly gripping your breasts, "You whore yourself out for money everyday, don't know why I thought I should go easy on you. You don't want that, do you? For me to go easy on you? You wanna be roughed up real good. Saw what your daddy does to you everyday, you can take it"

"Yes, I can take it" you whined, doing your best to work with what you got. No matter what you did, you wanted more. More pressure against your clit, needed something to enter you, needed Mr. Bodecker to push your buttons just a bit more.

"Were you always like this?" he taunted, guiding your hips towards a more profound release, his nails deep in your skin as he spoke through his gritted teeth, "Whiny, and with no fuckin' shame? Eager to please whatever man touches you?"

"...no"

"No?" he questioned surprised, "Ransom turned into into his fuck doll, didn't he?"

You nodded, feeling your walls start to clench as you were getting closer and closer to an orgasm.

"I bet you like it better now, don't you?" Lee pushed, "Bet the fuckin' is so much better now that you got yourself a man that knows how to treat a whore like you"

At this point your core was numb as you sweated through every pore, your high moments away. "Never- I- I never had anyone else" you confessed in a shaky tone.

"What?" Lee exploded, perverse enthusiasm threatening to burst out of him. He smiled like you've never seen him before, his pupils dilated as a rush of jealousy washed over him. "That fucker, shoulda known" he shook his head.

"He loves me” you tried to articulate, your words coming out all whiny and muffled.

“Show me how much you love your daddy-” Lee growled, grabbing your chin into his hand. He immobilized you so that you couldn’t look away, his eyes so vile and crude that you felt violated to your bones, “Cum for me if you love him, you know that’s what he wants”

“Yes” you cried.

“He wouldn’t have you in this position if he didn’t love you, baby” he huffed, his lips wet with spit as the anger in his words took over, “He trusts you to be good, don’t let him down”

“I don’t want to let him down”

“Then be a good fucking slut and cum”

You felt pleasure roll up your spine, your eyes squeezing shut as tears broke away at the corners. You bit down hard into your lips, coming undone into the hands of the stranger Ransom chose, and you didn’t have anything against it. As wave after wave of liquid ecstasy surged through your frame, you moaned out loud, profanity after profanity, until your body reached its limits and you fell into his hold, body limb in Mr. Bodecker’s lap.

“Knew you had it in ya” he commented, rubbing your back, before rolling you off of him. With minimal effort you settled by his side on the couch, naked and sweaty, your thighs sticky together as you waited for his next move.

“I know sluts like you think better after their pussies get some attention, so now you can listen to me” Lee taunted, his hand exploring your body.

With big, doe eyes, you remained silent.

“Got a few rules for you, doll” he grinned, slipping his fingers along your sensitive folds, “Think you can keep up?"

“I can” you responded, just his condescending tone making your clit buzz all over again.

“Once that camera is on, I’m not a fucking sheriff and my name isn’t Lee, got that? I’m Sir to you, or whatever that brain of yours manages to muster. Don’t care what you have to say anyway, so you can go ahead and call me whatever you deem appropriate. If you choose anything stupid, you’ll regret it, so I’m counting on the fact that you won’t”

“I won’t” you shook your head, finally slipping in the right mood for what was to come, “I’ll call you Sir”

“Good,” he slowly nodded, his eyes scanning your body. His hand still between your legs, was teasing your opening, making you crave more, but you knew better.

“What are the other rules?” you asked innocently.

“Had a couple more” Lee admitted, standing up from the couch and motioning for you to follow suit, “But won’t it be so much more fun if you figure them out as we go?”

“I don’t want to do anything wrong” you pouted, scrambling to your feet.

“Sweet-” he grinned, slapping your ass and pointing towards the bedrooms, “I’m sure you will though, and I can’t wait”

“I won’t” you beamed, turning around and walking backwards up the stairs, “You’ll see!”

“Wanna make me real proud?”

“Yes!”

“Figure out what the other two rules were, and maybe then I won’t think you’re just a dumb fuck toy”

“You’ll see, Mr. Bodecker” you giggled, rushing up the remaining steps before reaching the bedroom, “I’m more than meets the eye”

He shook his head, amused with how eager you turned. Your whole attitude changed, you turned from a sweet girl, shy but still determined to do right by her daddy, into this completely other version of yourself, walking naked around the house, smiling proudly when a stranger decided to openly degrade you. Did you care? Not in the slightest.

It only came to you as a sudden realisation that you had no clothes on when you walked into the bedroom, and saw Ransom chuckling under his breath after his eyes landed on you.

“Is that how you get to know people?” he shook his head, opening his closet and fishing out a Tshirt for you, “You fuck ‘em?”

“Jesus-” you scoffed, turning the shirt around in your hands and then pulling it over your head, “We didn’t fuck”

“So you’re just naked and flushed for no reason”

Before you got the chance to say anything you might soon regret, you heard the floorboards creak, as Lee entered the room and walked around you towards the bed. His cock was threatening to rip away through the hard material of his pants, and it wasn’t only you who noticed.

“On your knees, Y/n” Ransom commanded, still on the other side of the room, playing with the camera set-up.

Without questioning his words, you dropped to the floor, only to have to crawl all the way over to Lee. He looked satisfied, his cheeks red and he seemed on the edge, but he had controlled himself enough. He toyed with your hair as you leaned against his knees, smiling up at him.

“Ok” Ransom said, coming up behind you to face Lee, “Record with this-” he added, handing him his phone, “It doesn’t really matter how good it turns out, the main camera is the one over there-” he said, nodding to the side, “But still, you got the best point of view”

“Yeah, yeah, got it” Lee nodded, taking the phone into his hand.

When no command came for you, you looked up at Ransom confused.

“What?” he asked, “Want me to teach you how to suck a dick?”

You almost said no. You almost answered probably the most rhetorical question Ransom had ever spoken, and couldn’t help but giggle to yourself. The moment was cut short however, as Lee stood up and undid his pants. Your palms watered as you listened to his belt being unbuckled, and then you didn’t find the will to look away as he started to lower his jeans down his thighs.

You didn’t quite know what you were expecting, but your breathing became unregulated as soon as his enlarged member came into view. More thick than long and with dark veins protruding at its sides, you watched precum leak out of the inflamed head of his cock.

Suddenly, you felt a pair of hands, Ransom’s, grab your cheeks from where he was standing behind you, and pull you back with force so that he could look into your eyes. He bent down until his breath fanned against your skin, “Don’t hold back, baby, yeah. Suck his cock as good as you suck mine. Don’t fucking disappoint me. You take it down your throat, you swallow and you say thanks, got it?”

When he received your answer in the form of a nod, Ransom pushed you back. He easily guided you forward until you were standing between Mr. Bodecker’s legs. Placing your elbows on his thighs, you picked up his cock, and lowered yourself as deep as you could, planting your tongue as the base of his shaft. You licked your way up until you reached the tip, expertly twirling your tongue along his slit, delighted by the grunts he tried so hard to conceal.

Pumping him in your hand a few times, you prepared to take him down your throat. You knew he couldn’t last much longer, every sign pointed to him being already close to his release. Wrapping your lips around his tip, you sucked mercilessly from between hollowed cheeks.

"Love-" Ransom sighed, fisting your hair into his hand and harshly pulling you back. He spoke into your ear, in a grave tone that shook you to the core, "I know you can do better than that”

Hyperventilating, your eyes shot up to meet Lee’s, his expression coated in a crude, hazardous shade of darkness. He brought his hand up to rub his thumb across your bottom lip as he, much to your surprise, guided you back, “Come on, doll”

You obliged, and resumed your work as Ransom’s hold on you loosened up.

You bopped your head up and down against the tip of his cock, chest tightening with the anxiety of going further. It was the fear of the unknown that took hold of you, but it was short lived, your suspicion based dread soon being replaced with a fear that was solely rooted in the acts of the two men around you.

Lee curled his fingers around the roots of your hair, forcing your mouth to slip all the way down his cock. He stopped when it was no longer your will resizing him, but the fact that he couldn’t physically push you any further.

You slumped under his grip, your knees falling weak as your back resumed its curved position, trying - hoping to make some way - any kind of way for air to still pass to your lungs. But it was in vain, as your throat convulsed around his bulbous head, your eyes wet with still unshed tears. Deep down, you knew you could keep going, but your instincts begged for a release.

Slowly, you curled your fingers into the flesh of his thighs, pressing down hard as your legs squirmed under your weight. You tried to move away, but were only met with the pain of your hair being pulled, as Lee continued to keep you in place.

“Stop fighting it, you little slut. You know that's what you're here for” Ransom called, bending down behind you.

His right hand snaked up your shirt, his greedy touch exploring the skin of your sides and then he went further up your chest. It was suffocating and exhausting, a wave of shame rushing up your spine as the first row of tears rushed down your cheeks.

A loud sob tried to escape your throat but it was muffled by the way Lee’s cock filled your mouth. That didn’t stop you however from continuing to choke back pitiful wails as your air supply was running dangerously low.

No matter how hard you fought him, it seemed in vain. He enjoyed his moment of pleasure too much, his chest shaking with every grunt that passed his dry lips.

“Fuck, yes” he eventually cried out, throwing his head back as he released you from his furious grip.

You stumbled backwards, gasping for air, right against Ransom’s chest. He brushed the hair out of your eyes, looking down at you. His breathing was calm and regulated, almost a mockery compared to the heaving way your chest struggled to make up for the time you spent without air.

“See?” he laughed, kissing your temple, “Told you you could do it”

It took a few seconds for your vision to focus again, your eyes instantly capturing Lee’s frame. His eyes squeezed shut as he worked himself into his hand. You knew you’d regret it if you let him finish by himself, so you pushed your limits, and despite every muscle of your body trembling out of control, you resumed your position ready to get it over with.

“So eager, you slut” Lee shook his head, gripping your chin. Ransom helped guide you, shoving you back between the sheriff's legs, but this time you didn’t need any assistance in taking him all the way down inside your mouth.

You ignored the pang in your chest when his tip brushed against the back of your throat. Your eyes already wet and lungs close to their breaking point, this time you had no chance in lasting as long as you did the first time. Ransom took it upon himself though, squatting down behind you. His muscled thighs caged your shivering frame, as he pinned you down.

“Feels good, doesn’t it?” he laughed against the shell of your ear, “The way he’s fucking your mouth? And you just sit and take it, cause you’re a smart girl, right?”

A joke - he amused himself, as if there was any way for you to actually answer.

“You like having your whore mouth filled with a fat cock? Especially when it belongs to a man you met about an hour ago, don’t you?”

This time, you blinked uncontrollably. His devious tone and rude words made your body respond in a jerk like fashion, your pussy starting to throb, all while accelerating the rate at which your body was starting to run out of oxygen. You curled your fingers into the thick material of Ransom’s sweater, your gesture begging him to stop. But he didn’t, not yet.

“Don’t be rude, slut” he taunted, and you heard Lee chuckle, deep and raspy as his hips bucked into your mouth, “I know your limits and you know how fun it is for me when I ignore them”

At this point, tears streamed down your cheeks, ruining your makeup, your glittery eyeshadow now coating half your face. You coughed harshly, your throat closing up against his cock as your gag reflex settled for maybe what was the final warning.

And as it turns out, Ransom did now your limits, as just when you thought you literally couldn’t take any more, not even just one second longer, he grabbed your hair, pulling you back. His action was met with a loud, pleasure infused moan from Lee’s part, all while you broke down. You clawed away at Ransom’s chest, gathering yourself into a ball between his outstretched arms, as you waited for your body to get accustomed to air again.

“Shh, baby-” he cooed, stroking your hair, “You’re ok, look up at me”

And you did, eyes watery and searching for any kind of warmth or understanding. There were traces of what you knew and called love, but they were hidden behind a perverse satisfaction rooted in seeing you at his mercy.

"Do you want to make daddy angry?" he asked, in such a sweet tone it made it feel like a crime to give any answer other than what he wanted to hear.

"No" you nodded sincerely.

"Then finish him off, pet, don't waste my time" he urged you, pointing to Lee.

Without even bothering to wipe your tears, you spun around and faced Mr. Bodecker again. He was far away from you, head tilted back as he chased his release by himself.

"Open" he commanded, rubbing his thumb across his slit.

As it turned out, you were not fast enough to comply, as he broke out of his daze, his palm connecting to your cheek, "Fucking open that whore mouth!"

In a matter of seconds, your lips parted, tongue poking out as you waited. And it wasn't a long wait, his hot cum shooting out of his cock and directly into your mouth in an instant.

You swallowed with every chance you got, licking your lips in search for any drops you may have missed. He cursed his way through the earth shattering orgasm, the chain of profanities that come out of his mouth managing to make all the hairs on your body stand up.

He finished with a low grunt, "Yeah.. yeah.. fuck.." milking his cock until there was nothing left for you to take.

"Good fucking job, you slut" he chuckled along with a shake of his head, almost looking surprised, "Had plenty of practice, didn't you?"

"A bit" you mumbled coyly.

"Oh, so then you're a natural" he laughed, "Makes sense. A whore mouth of yours should always be stuffed"

Due to the lack of a better response, you looked up and muttered a shy "Thank you"

The rollercoaster of emotions and thoughts that stormed through your head at this particular moment made it absolutely impossible for you to keep up with them, but judging by the way he grinned down at you, it should be safe to assume they were not expecting anything more.

With each moment that passed, you found yourself slipping deeper and deeper into a vicious and twisted state of mind, and you let yourself get carried away - both mentally and physically.

In a haze, Ransom grabbed you and threw you on the bed, not even giving you a chance to settle properly before ruthlessly tugging at the shirt you still had on, ripping it off your body with one excruciating screech. His action accentuated the pain between your legs, and you ended up rubbing your thighs together as you sat naked on the bed while the two men looked at you like prey; 3 cameras still pointed at you, still recording.

You licked your lips as Ransom shuffled out of his clothes, your heart rate fibrillating with anticipation. “On your back, pet” your boyfriend commanded.

Following his orders, you let yourself fall back against the plump pillows, your hands around your chest and knees innocently pressed together. Ransom rounded the bed, coming up behind you. He leaned down above you, coming into your line of sight. Even upside down and with his features mostly hidden away by the shadows of the room, his eyes still shone that familiar shade of darkness that brought you to submission in an instant.

As he bent down all the way to press his lips to yours, you felt your legs being pulled apart. Just because you couldn’t see what was going on aroused you to no end, making you moan into the kiss. Ransom’s hands traveled down your body, caressing your breasts with that amount of pressure he knew would have you squirming. And it did, it worked, as you arched your back, whining against his tongue as he tortured your nipples between his experienced fingers.

He almost monopolized your full attention, your mind concentrating solely on the feel of Ransom’s touches, and this too, again, worked in their favour. Out of nowhere, while you were still enjoying the calm moment, a painful slap echoed around the room, the pain only propagating across your body after you processed what happened.

That was Lee’s way of demanding your attention, or maybe his way of reminding you that this day wasn’t about you and your pleasure. The slap he delivered against your exposed and sensitive pussy had you whimpering out in pain as you pulled away from Ransom’s lips and gathered yourself into a ball.

“Come back here, darling. Where do you think you’re going?” he laughed, pinning your shoulders down against the mattress, as Bodecker aggressively straightened your legs again. “Wanna make this hard?” Ransom questioned.

“No” you shook your head, “No, no, please”

“Then fucking behave!” he yelled, his instant mood swing taking you aback.

“I’m sorry”

“Fucking pull away like that again and you will be, you dumb slut” he scoffed, slapping your face again.

In the meantime, Lee crawled between your legs, his sordid nature shining bright as he decided you weren’t worth even a warning, before he rammed two fingers inside your pussy, knuckles deep.

“Fuck!” you screamed, fighting against your instinct, and resisting the urge to close your legs together.

Your reaction won you another slap, this one more tame from Ransom, who towered over you, “Who the fuck do you think you are talking to like that?”

“I’m sorry” you whined, breathing heavily as Lee picked up his pace, his fingers fucking your pussy in a way that was neither painful, nor pleasurable. He worked on driving you close to the edge, tormenting you in the slowest way possible.

“Full sentences from now on, sweetheart” Ransom chuckled, gripping your hair into his fist and forcing your head up to look at Lee, “He’s fucking your cunt, what do you say?”

The look in Bodecker’s eyes cut your breath away, as you’ve never in your life felt more humiliated, but you pushed through, “... thank you?”

Ransom pulled on your hair, “Full sentences, you dumb slut”

“Thank you for fucking my pussy” you said barely above a whisper.

Lee grinned wickedly at your words, “Haven’t even started yet, darlin'” he shook his head, lowering himself between your legs. He licked his way up your folds, his tongue brushing against your sensitive clit a few times before he pushed himself up.

“Just messin’ with ya, doll” he mentioned, lowering himself again.

His words confused you as he resumed his position, his lips finding your clit again, sucking profusely. Your hips bucked under him, the pressure of his teeth brushing against your bundle of nerves, starting to be too much for you to bear. When you moaned out loud, eyes squeezed shut and back arched to the extreme, he pushed himself up, and slapped your pussy again.

“You cum on my cock” he grunted, moving further up the bed.

He leaned on his back, Ransom effortlessly guiding you on top of him. With your body like jelly in his strong arms, you settled with a soft huff, knees on either side of Lee’s hips.

He groaned in pleasure, your thigh brushing against his cock, which much to your surprise was already hardening again. Arching your back in search of some pressure for your clit, you felt the bed dip on your side as Ransom climbed in behind you, his hands coming up to grip your hips.

He lifted you up, sinking his fingers into your pussy. You moaned in pleasure, only to have your heart stop when you felt him caress his way higher up.

“Ransom?” you called with a shaky tone, as you tried to look at him over your shoulder, “What are you-”

“What?” he laughed, slapping your ass hard enough to bruise, “Didn’t think I was gonna stay and watch the whole time?”

“No, no-” you mumbled, shaking your head, eyes meeting Lee’s in the process, “But I don’t-”

“Don’t like it? Don’t want it? What were you about to say?” Ransom taunted, spitting on his fingers as if that would help with the pain in any way. This pathetic excuse for lube made the hairs on your body stand up.

“I-”

“I dare you” Ransom threatened, “Tell me ‘no’”. As he waited for your answer, he teased your asshole, his fingers aggressively pushing in to stretch your muscles.

“Please-” you whined, afraid the actual wording would send you down a road you didn’t ever wish to explore.

“Please, what?” he asked, “Please Daddy fuck my ass?”

Tears stung the corners of your eyes, as you felt legitimately lost. Uselessly trying to find a way to delay the inevitable, you felt the tip of Lee’s cock toy between your fold before his warm breath hit your skin as he spoke.

“Fuckin’ get on with it already” he huffed annoyed, “Whatcha listening to her for?”. A sob rushed past your lips, making Lee slap your cheek, “Stop fucking crying, take it up your ass like the good slut your daddy said you were, before I lose my patience”

His words stung, but it was nothing compared to the feeling of Ransom’s cock stretching your ass beyond what you ever thought would ever be pleasurable. You screamed out in pain as tears lingered on your chin before falling against Lee’s chest.

Ransom grunted out, his fingers digging into your hips as he felt himself reach another level of ecstasy after watching you mess around all afternoon. The depth his cock reached knocked the wind out of you, your mouth falling agape with absolutely no sounds coming out.

You settled on suffering in silence, hoping it would all end soon. Realisation painfully hit you when you felt the second cock start to penetrate you. Lee spread your folds with his massive cock, stretching your walls.

“So fucking tight” he shook his head, breathing heavily against your face as he forced himself in, “Never thought a whore like you’d be so tight”

And it was all bearable, a pain you considered yourself able to stand. However that all changed when they started to move, their cocks pumping in and out of your in tandem.

With every thrust another cry escaped your lips, the feeling of absolute no control over the abuse inflicted on your body being something you never thought you’d ever dread to this extent.

“Why did we use lube before?” Ransom laughed, letting go of your hips so that he could spank your ass, hard slaps against already inflamed skin, hate in his touch and anger in his tone.

Whenever he pulled out of you, you felt yourself come undone, but when he rammed himself back in, the air was punched out of your lungs, throat closing up with the torment that was getting too much.

Your continuous string of cries was muffled by Lee slamming his lips against yours, his tongue barging in with no warning. He dominated the kiss, not bothered in the slightest by your whimpers or by the fact that you remained motionless against him. He continued to thrust his hips up into you, his hands holding onto your chest, as if you’d ever dare try and pull away.

Despite how wet and needy you already were before he both entered you, you still cursed yourself when you realised just how close you were to another orgasm.

With each thrust, you were pushed closer and closer to your limit. You arched your back, falling down against Lee’s chest with a cry, “God- it hurts…”

“You lying whore, think I didn’t feel your pussy clench around my cock?” he taunted, tilting your shin up against your will, “Can feel ya milkin’ my cock”

You squeezed your eyes shut, hoping you could at least avoid seeing what was going on if you couldn’t stop it. With each passing second, every one of their movements became more and more aggravated. Hoping to speed up the process and still chasing a release, you snaked your hand down your body, your fingers instantly finding your clit.

You focused on working specific, intricate circles around your bundle of nerves, as the pain seemed to slowly but surely transform into pleasure. For the first time since you found yourself caged between the two men, you actually smiled, as your eyes started to roll back.

For a while, your orgasm seemed to mock you, inches away but still seemingly so far that you were almost out of breath.

What threw you over the edge however was Ransom changing his position, solely his pleasure infused grunt tickling your ears and playing with your senses in such a way that you were instantly hit with a ravening wave of unbridled bliss, the feeling propagating along your limbs until you were shaking from head to toe, crying out as you came undone, for the second time, in the arms of a stranger.

And if until now you felt like you couldn’t take anymore, as you came down from your high, every feeling, every touch, every jab and spank felt infinitely more dire and extreme, your overly sensitive and freshy exhausted body unable to keep up anymore.

What followed turned out to be all a haze. You lost track of time and had absolutely no idea how much time passed until you were finally free. “It fucking hurts-” you whined again, your ass and pussy sore and aching with each thrust.

“Good,” Ransom said, bottoming out. He pushed himself as deep as he could, cursing out from the feeling your body provided for him.

“Please, stop-” you cried.

“Shut up and take it” he screamed, pulling your hair so hard your head was thrown back, “Stop being a fucking bitch. I don’t wanna fucking hear you”

Choked back moans still echoed around the room as they continued to use your body, but you refrained from making any more comments.

Ransom was the first to finish, shooting his load deep inside your ass, “Better fucking keep it in there” he panted, spent and consumed as he pulled out and fell on his back on the bed.

As he stopped guiding your hips, you fell down against Lee’s chest, making him scoff when the position made it more difficult to keep up. Grunting in your ear from the effort, without pulling his cock out of your pussy, he spun the two of you around, pinning you down into the mattress.

He hovered above you, slamming himself balls deep into your pussy, moaning all sorts of profanities against your cheek.

You held onto his back, hooking your legs around his middle, “Come on” you whispered, “Cum inside me”

“Oh, now you want it, huh?” he chuckled in the crook of your next, shoving himself into you a few more times, until he finally had enough. His movements became irregular and sloppy, his growls lower and more aggressive as he fucked himself into you a few more times. He finished balls deep into your pussy, coating your walls with his hot cum before pulling out, and throwing himself down on the bed, in the same manner as Ransom did mere minutes before.

Although no one spoke for a few seconds, the room was far from silent. Rugged breaths echoed around the room as you shuffled closer to Ransom, ready to curl yourself into a tiny ball into his side, “Hold me” you whined against his shoulder.

He wasn’t quick to react, but Lee on the other side, seemed to have been waiting for the right moment to speak up. “Bring us the glasses-” he sighed, slapping your bare ass, “And a refill, doll”

You gulped and searched for Ransom’s eyes, hoping he’d take your side. He did turn to you with a smile, “Yeah, love-” he nodded, caressing your cheek with the back of his fingers, “I’m parched”

Seeing none of them about to change their minds, you shuffled out of bed. Every muscle ached and your bones seemed close to collapse, but you pushed through, limping your way to the living room and returning with their glasses and the bottle under your arm.

After you placed them down on the nightstand, you turned to them, “I’ll go run a bath” you said, pointing to the door.

“Good, babe” Ransom nodded, motioning for you to lean down and kiss his lips. You obliged, finally feeling warmth against your skin after everything that went down.

“I love you, baby” you whined, rubbing your thumb against his cheek bone.

“Love you too, y/n” he smiled. You turned to leave, but just when you were about to pass the threshold, he called for you again. “Lee’s staying over tonight, so when you’re done with your bath, be a doll and fix up the guest bedroom for him, yeah?”

#ransom drysdale x reader #lee bodecker x reader #dark!ransom x reader #dark!lee bodecker #chris evans x reader #sebastian stan x reader #ransom drysdale smut #lee bodecker smut #ransom drysdale #ransom drysdale imagine #ransom drysdale fic #lee bodecker #lee bodecker imagine #chris evans smut #sebastian stan imagine #sebastian stan smut #chris evans imagine

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aminiatureworld · 3 years ago

Text

Damocles

Characters: Zhongli, fm!reader

Word Count: 3,211

Warnings: Hanahaki disease – depictions of a fictional illness with symptoms mimicking tuberculosis, mentions of coughing up blood, talking a lot about death

Premise: In which the reader thinks Zhongli doesn’t reciprocate their feelings, and fears the consequences.

Author’s Note: Ngl, I don’t think I’ve ever really heard about this trope before, except maybe in passing. So if it’s a little weird that’s why.

I ended up taking the story in a bit of a macabre direction. Hopefully not too melodramatic, but I kinda like how it turned out.

Zhongli

“Thank you for telling me, but I’m afraid I cannot return your feelings. I’m sorry to be a disappointment.”

In truth you couldn’t decide whether or not you had expected your feelings to be returned. You and Zhongli had been friends for years now, and you had grown closer to him than you had to most of your previous friends and acquaintances. Indeed, you had grown closer to him than you had to many of the people you’d been in previous relationships in. You called upon him in some form almost every day, whether it be to discuss something of importance or simply bask in his presence. When there was something new you found about, whether it be a story in a book or a particularly funky looking shell, you almost immediately sought out Zhongli to share your find with.

For Zhongli’s part, he also liked to share experiences with you. At the very least you couldn’t say that your friendship was one sided. He often would be the one to walk up to you on the street, a new brand of tea written down on a piece of paper in his pocket, or a location where one could find particularly beautiful glaze lilies on his lips. He never seemed to mind when you peppered him with endless questions, or talked his ear off about your own day; something which you often asked if he found annoying. No, you were very sure that Zhongli wasn’t simply spending time with you out of pity.

In truth it was your friends who guessed the trajectory of your personal feelings before you did. Though you often found their poking and prodding intensely irritating, they had the common sense to keep the questions to a minimum – perhaps in hope their silence might guarantee that your affections would reveal themselves naturally one day. Now though you had to admit they had been right. You had fallen for Zhongli how long ago? It seemed so difficult to say when, so gradually had your feelings changed from viewing him as a confidante to viewing him as something more. Once you had finally come to terms with it you’d put off revealing your feelings as long as possible.

It wasn’t just the chance of rejection, something that would already cause emotions to run high. You had seen what sort of disease could ravage those who were unlucky in love. One of your own friends had suffered from such a disease, a fellow member of the Liyue Qixing had died from such a thing only a few months ago.

It was a terrible disease, everyone at least could agree about that. The origins of such an unfathomable sickness was much less understood. Most saw it as a curse from the gods, a punishment to the humans who would love a fellow mortal more than those who ruled above them, who gave their protection, their mercy, and their gifts to the people below. Others argued that it was simply a result of stress, for what heart could take the shock of a truly deep rejection. A rare parasite, a curse from malevolent demons, all these theories made little difference when it came to the actual disease. You were fairly sure anyways that people dying of it couldn’t care less why it happened, only that it was happening to them.

First came the coughing, easy enough to ignore in a land where the common cold truly lived up to its name. Then you couldn’t run as fast or as far as you had once, at least on the days were you weren’t fighting off crippling fatigue – the night sweats doing little to help you in your desperate need for rest. Then the fever set in, then the blood that stained the porcelain sink. By the time the first few petals would appear emaciation would already begin to claim your muscle mass and the precious body fat that kept you alive. Some people didn’t even get to the point of regurgitating fully formed flowers. Those people were usually considered lucky, for when one must deal with an incurable disease, well, surely it is better to go sooner rather than later.

You wouldn’t lie and say that wasn’t one of the reasons it took you so long to confess. After all, what you don’t know won’t kill you, right? You weren’t actually sure about that, but it sounded right in your mind, regardless of its actual veracity. However, as with most people in love, you’d found a growing recklessness inside you, paired with the sudden desperation for a happiness which you would certainly never obtain at this rate. So you’d made up your mind to tell him, deciding that perhaps the certainty would be better than the ever growing cloud of anxiety that surrounded your thoughts.

Now you’d been rejected. You had to admit that your first reaction was utter panic, the distinct feeling of having made a terrible sort of mistake. Oh sure, your feelings were undeniably hurt, but that was less important than the virtual death sentence you’d been handed. Why oh why had you decided to do this? The world seemed to swim in front of your for a moment, as simultaneously everything came into sharp focus and faded away into the recesses of your mind. What would you do now? There was nothing to do, you just had to wait for the inevitable, wait for the cold embrace of death to welcome you to its abode. You took deep breaths, trying to control yourself. Tears were forming in your eyes, but you knew that they weren’t from romantic distress. Ironically romance was the last thing in your mind right now.

“I, I see. Thank you for your honesty.”

It was all you could manage to make out. Turning around, head light from fear, you bolted down the streets of Liyue, desperate to be in your home, desperate to ignore the sword of Damocles that now hung dangerously low over your head.

Zhongli watched you go, watched as you stumbled your way through the crowd that always packed the streets of Liyue in the daytime. He was fine, he was perfectly fine. He had seen it through, had done what he knew was right. There was no reason to regret. Surely the small stab of pain he felt was temporary, a pinprick compared to all that the ex-archon had suffered over the years.

Zhongli had suspected that a confession like this might’ve been on the horizon for quite some time now. Not that he was dreading it out of a personal inability to reciprocate. No, in his heart Zhongli already reciprocated your suspected feelings. He loved you, adored you even; within the stony heart that had atrophied over years of war, suffering, and personal duty, grew a love that Zhongli had not felt for a very long time. He cherished every moment with you, knowing that his long life would try to compress the memories that were so precious to them. Seeing you whenever he could, dragged out conversations as long as he possibly could, Zhongli was practically desperate for time with you. He was also intensely aware of how short that time would ultimately be.

How could Zhongli push the curse of loving an immortal being on you? For it truly was a curse, to both parties involved. His side was painful of course, the knowledge that your memory, you lifespan even, would slip through his fingers like grains of sand. He would always be wondering whether or not the two of you would be experiencing a “last”. Last visit to the sea, last time to climb up the Huaguang Stone Forest to watch the sunset together. Last, last, last. Always the shadow of death would hang over you, so palpable in Zhongli’s mind that he might almost reach out and grasp the gossamer veil that would eventually steal you away. Yes, it would be a truly painful experience. Not nearly as painful however as your own experience.

Zhongli had long ago come to the conclusion that mortals had no true concept of the passage of time. You were young now, the world was your oyster. Zhongli’s immortal status would be nothing more than a passing thought, an anomaly and nothing more. Then your 40th birthday would pass, then you 50th, then you 60th, 70th, 80th. By the time you reached the end of your life the difference between you and Zhongli would stretch out like a chasm between the two of you, something to never be reconciled, for the old rarely forgave the young for their youth. Not to mention the other scenario, the one that Zhongli would never allow the freedom to truly cloud his thoughts. Your death of old age would be a tragedy, the alternative a catastrophe.

He knew all this, had seen it time and time again. Zhongli was hardly the first immortal being to fall in love with a mortal, would not be the last. Adepti, archons, all walks of immortal life were drawn to humanity, drawn to the freedom that came with mortality. Humans did things because they died; they had no forcible tie to nature, no innate duty other than to themselves. Humans could be wicked or kind or cruel or merciful as they wished. To those who were chained by their destiny, well, there was something very anomalous in such a choice. Perhaps it was no surprise then that an immortal being would inevitable find themselves interacting with those supposedly below them. Perhaps it was no surprise that this often led to love.

All that being true, Zhongli still refused to give into his needless selfishness. He loved you, yes. Knowing that was enough. He wouldn’t push such a burden on you, wouldn’t cause you resentment or pain. It would be better if you thought that your feelings weren’t reciprocated, it would be less painful.

Nor would you have to worry about the curse to which many less lucky fell. Zhongli still loved you, still cherished you deeply. You would never have to worry about that, for archons and adepti do not move on from love the way humans do. Zhongli’s love for you would long outlast your lifespan, one which, the archon prayed, would be very long indeed.

Yes, everything had been handled well enough. Perhaps you would never wish to speak with him again, perhaps you would grow to resent him even, how quickly love can turn into hate. It didn’t matter though. Zhongli had shielded you from long, drawn-out suffering, and that was all that mattered. He should’ve been satisfied, should have felt relief. Instead however he only felt a great sadness pressing down, a sadness combined with the pain that accompanied a love that must never truly be realized.

It had been nine days since you’d been rejected by Zhongli. Crossing off another square on the calendar which you had dug out of your old stationary you sighed. The nine days succeeding the encounter had been utter hell. At first you were convinced that the worst thing that could happen was the symptoms of the wretched illness showing up quickly, so convinced you were that the next day you would wake up with blood on your pillow. Soon however, you’d come to a completely different conclusion. There was nothing worse than waiting.

Every day was spent in the agony of anticipation, every day waiting for the coughing to begin, for the night sweats to begin ravaging your sleep, for the breathe to be stolen from your lungs. Yet every day you woke up with none of these things, though your fatigue was real enough.

You should have been relieved, should have been glad for the opportunity to live even a few more days. Yet instead of relief you only felt deep, unrelenting dread. You couldn’t bring yourself to do anything, so crippled were you by morbid anticipation.

Not that your thoughts were particularly worthwhile either. Perhaps it would be one thing if your ruminations had brought up something profound, something that you could write down in a book for your family or your friends. Though it still would be poor solace, well, at least it’d be something. But your thoughts had all turned to mush, replaced by a paranoia so strong it confined you to your bed most days.

You thought that the death sentence would in some way be freeing, that you might be able to recklessly throw yourself at all the things you had avoided out of fear for so long. Instead you found yourself depressed, waiting for an inevitable so terrifying you found yourself disconnecting from the people around you. What did it matter anyways? You’d be dead soon enough.

This gross neglect of your wellbeing was at least somewhat allayed by the routine that had been drilled into your body from so many years working for the Liyue Qixing. Though you didn’t go to work, something you were sure you were going to hear about eventually, you still dared to venture out to the market. At the very least you would eat your fill in good for before the end was nigh. No need to worry about your health after all. Besides, your definition of good food didn’t necessarily always align with completely unhealthy.

Walking through the familiar streets you stared at the people around you. How odd it was to see people so close you could touch them but so far they might as well have been in Inazuma. Was there anyone else here suffering like you were? Anyone who could understand the thoughts that now flooded your brain? You stared at the ground, trying not to think about it. You’d be confronted with these thoughts the minute you got home anyways. Might as well delay it a bit.

Turning to find the fishmonger you spied a familiar silhouette. Stopping in your tracks you stared unabashedly at Zhongli. The man seemed to be carrying himself much as ever, but the unapproachable atmosphere which he’d blanketed himself in seemed somewhat more prominent. Perhaps it was your imagination, he seemed to be talking to the butcher easily enough. Not that it was any of your business. Zhongli wasn’t any of your business anymore. It would be better if you could forget him, if you could erase this feeling in your heart that refused to go away. Even now Zhongli was beautiful. Even now you wished to run up to him, to hug him, to make pretend everything was right with the world. You couldn’t do that though. Just as you couldn’t forget him, you couldn’t love him. Not in the way you wanted. Turning away you trudged back home, good food utterly forgotten.

It was day eighteen since Zhongli had rejected you, and by now your emotions were running almost unbearably high. You’d sunk into an odd reverie of adrenaline, anxiety, and utter disbelief. What in the world was going on? This was a familiar illness to you, something that had almost claimed the life of your friend and had felled your coworker. You knew everything about symptoms, timeline, etc.; and what you knew was you were supposed to be falling ill ages ago. Eighteen days between the initial rejection and the beginning of symptoms? It was unheard of! You didn’t know what to think. Were the rumors about the gods true, had Zhongli imposed some divine protection on you for the sake of your friendship? Were you somehow a superhuman who had the white blood cell coding to defeat the bacteria that caused this disease? Why hadn’t your descent begun yet?

You lounged on the couch, having moved out of your bedroom on the thirteenth day, three days after the latest possible showing of symptoms. Though you still felt deeply afraid, you found that curiosity was a surprisingly good deterrent when it wanted to be. Your fears hadn’t disappeared, but mixed with them was a disbelief so great that you often found your thoughts drifting to questions of how rather than questions of when.

Of course your initial instinct had been to seek out Zhongli. Pride mixed with fear however had kept you firmly at home. Really what was the point in even seeking out the answer to your miraculous reprieve at this point? It wouldn’t really change the outcome. Instead you might as well enjoy this unexpected extension of your life. Besides, you didn’t want to tempt the fates a second time.

Zhongli stood at the window of your first story apartment, a glaze lily in hand. He hadn’t meant to do this, but the urge refused to leave him.

He’d noticed you a few times at the market, face drawn, eyes empty. Zhongli wasn’t sure what exactly he was expecting, but certainly this wasn’t it. He knew you weren’t suffering from illness, your pace was strong, if slightly erratic, your general aura not that of the sick that Zhongli was all too familiar with. Why then did you look so terrible? The doubts that had plagued Zhongli began to rise again, jeering at the mistake he had made. He was supposed to protect you, right? Why then did you look as if you had experienced a total health collapse?

At first Zhongli tried to ignore it. You had not come to him for help, it was not his place to try and insert himself back in your life once more. The more he thought of you however, the more he found himself uneasy. He had to have some form of communication, some way to enquire about your health. At least one last time. If you explicitly rejected all forms of contact, well then Zhongli would leave. He would never defy your wishes in such a way. Until then however, he felt like he needed to ask.

The idea of walking up to your apartment and asking you was utterly off the table. Who knew how that might end? No, he wanted a subtler way. Glaze lilies had always been a favorite of yours, sneaking out into the evening to see them bloom even more so. He would simply leave one on your windowsill. If you took it, then he would enquire about your health. If you left it, well Zhongli would have his answer.

His hand trembled slightly as he stared at the windowsill, causing the gold ribbon tied around the lily to tremble slightly. At first Zhongli wanted only to give you the flower. He realized soon however that you might be confused, wondering if someone had not simply dropped a flower on your windowsill, or had the wind blown it there? The ribbon would hopefully clear things up. Even if it looked a little silly.

Slowly placing the flower down onto the open window Zhongli sighed. Turning around he did not dare spare a glance backwards. He would have his answer soon enough after all. Until then, well, there was no point in looking back.

You exited from the kitchen, having finally felt the energy to make yourself that good food you’d been promising yourself. Going to look at the sunset you let out a soft gasp.

On your windowsill was a single glaze lily, wrapped in gold.

#no one dies but I left the ending a bit ambiguous on purpose #I wrote more about it in the ask #genshin impact fanfiction #zhongli x reader #genshin zhongli #genshin impact #requested #oneshot #my writing

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thebigqueer · 4 years ago

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Ok, here we go. Dark!Bianca idea. Shortly after the events in the desert, a severely injured Bianca is found by agents of the Titans who were shadowing the quest party off-page. She is brought back to Titan HQ and is convinced to join their crusade against the gods while her friends and family think she's dead. Jump ahead to BotL, instead of Kelli the Empousa, it is a mysterious masked assassin who attacks Percy and Rachel at Goode. The events mostly play out unchanged until Geryon's (1/8)

ranch, where instead of Bianca, it is the ghost of Maria di Angelo who is revealed to be sending Iris messages to Percy about Nico, while also strongly hinting that Bianca's still alive. Jump ahead to Mt St. Helens, Percy fights the assassin again, and during his stint on Ogygia, Percy begins to put two and two together after the assassin demonstrated skills similar to the Hunters. At Antaeus' Arena, the assassin is finally unmasked to reveal a still-alive but scarred Bianca, replacing (2/8)

Ethan Nakamura as the demigod enforcer. Percy is convinced that Bianca is being mind-controlled and goes to Mt Tam to rescue her as well as stop Kronos. However, when he confronts her, Bianca reveals that she's operating of her own free will, feeling vengeful against the gods for robbing her of her life and having pledged her loyalty to her new Titan master. Kronos intends to make Bianca the prophesy kid, promising her the free will she craves so badly as well as promising not to hurt (3/8)

Nico. Going into the Last Olympian, Percy and Nico are both determined to convince Bianca that she's making a mistake, and this time Nico's duplicity is not to simply learn about his mother but to try and summon her spirit to get through to Bianca. At the same time, Kronos gradually starts treating Bianca as less of an ally and more of a tool, and the Titans' actions cause her to have doubts even though she dosen't know what else to do. It all comes to a head in the final battle.(4/8)

Nico returns from the Underworld by himself early, giving Hades an ultimatum to come and fight or hide. Just before the final attack, Kronos sends Bianca to infiltrate Olympus to disable the magic defenses, but Nico arrives to intercept her and make one last bid to save her. They fight, with both begging the other to stand down even as they slug it out. Finally, just as Percy arrives to chase Kronos, the battered siblings' duel ends when Nico gives another ultimatum. He throws down his (5/8)

sword and gives Bianca, now reduced to fear and frustration-induced tears, the choice between perusing her grudge and allowing herself to continue being Kronos’s slave or doing the right thing. Finally able to make a legitimate choice of her own, Bianca chooses to turn her back on the Titans. She still ends up wounded, but unlike Ethan in canon, Nico manages to save his sister while Percy and Kronos have their final battle. After everything ends, Percy petitions for Bianca’s pardon along (6/8)

with the rest of his list, though Bianca turns it down, realizing the harm she almost caused to the person she loved more than anybody else. She is given a reduced sentence in service to her father, and though she does not properly forgive any of the gods that hurt her, she does recognize that the spite and anger she felt would only lead to more death. Nico gets to visit her occasionally, and she starts a road to redemption that Luke never got the chance to take. In HoO, Bianca is (7/8)

more of a background character, but it is she that finds Hazel in Asphodel and alerts Nico to her. Overall, dark!Bianca is an anti-villain who’s affiliation with Kronos is clearly drawn from her pain and grief over the gods’ interference in her life, but her saving grace is her brother. Nico manages to pull her out of the darkness and save her from becoming the same monster Luke became. What do you think? (bear in mind, this is my rough draft) (8/8)

Okay, WOW. Anon, I am actually going to start a petition to make you the new Percy Jackson author because that was such an interesting plot to read.

First of all, I love that you replaced Bianca with Ethan. As interesting as he was in the series, and as much as I loved his character, after reading through your rough draft, I feel like Bianca would have been a much better character to use throughout PJO. Her arc could have been expanded upon and completed thoroughly, and it could have made a lot of sense. Ethan felt more like a representation of "demigods turned to the other side," which I get is the point, but I loved the way you used Bianca because with your plot, her character could have been used so well to properly show how easily the Titan army manipulated kids.

Furthermore, I feel like your plot with Bianca could have been a much better way to use her character throughout the series. From my interpretation, in canon she seemed more like a stand-in tool just to enhance Nico's own character arc and his motives, but your plot for her would have actually given her some kind of foundation and an actual arc for her to go through. You've given her such an interesting character and I think it really provides more justice to what she could have been.

I also love the way that not only did you give her a better arc, but you also enhanced Nico's own arc and the plot, too. Her death in the books seemed more symbolic to him and a turning point in his character, but with her character in your AU, it's both important to Nico and Bianca. You've given her an actual character, and you've set up such an interesting conflict between Nico and Bianca.

Additionally, I love the divide you've created between them. I think that - based on what we know about her in the books - as much as she loves her brother, Bianca also feels very limited with him because of how she's been forced to grow up and be his savior. She understands that he's only a child, though, which I think could also play into her own hatred for the gods - they've not only destroyed her family, but now they're forcing her to take the role of an adult when she's a mere child, too? She was never angry at Nico - she was only ever mad with the gods.

Maybe that's something that Nico also feels bad about, and maybe he tells her about it when they're standing each other down. Maybe she lets him know that she never hated him or felt that he was bringing her down.

Also, I want to add that I adore the way you put them on opposite sides. It sets up such an interesting dynamic to their relationship because here you have two people who love each other so much, but they're on two different sides of a large war. They're both too stubborn to go onto each other's sides, and Nico knows Bianca's only going to get herself into more danger. I just love the potential that has for both of their characters.

I know Percy had a large fear about Nico being another kid to join Kronos' army, so I bet Bianca being on his team would have left Percy incredibly terrified for Nico, too, because he knew how much Nico loved Bianca. Would he have been nervous for Nico's ability to change his mind? Nico knows he'd never join Kronos, but would Percy have known?

And, knowing that Bianca's now on the Kronos side, how would Percy react? Because he felt pretty guilty about her death in TTC, right? Would he feel guilty that she's on the other side now, too? Would he try to reason with her, only to push her further away? I'd love to see how Percy would deal with knowing that Bianca - an important child of the Big Three - would react to her being there. He was already nervous about Nico joining sides, but having Bianca there would have really scared him.

And the part about Bianca finding Hazel instead of Nico? That was mind-blowing. I love everything about that situation because now that introduces Hazel into the narrative of Nico and Bianca's story. My question for you would be how does Hazel's character change now? How does she fit in with Nico and Bianca? Because in Heroes of Olympus she's clearly very insecure about her relationship with Nico and how he views her, but if she actually knew Bianca, how would she feel? Would she feel more left out (knowing that Bianca and Nico have known each other much longer and have a stronger connection with each other)? Would she be distrustful? And how would the three of them adapt to this additional family member? I have high hopes that by the end they would all love each other very much, but I'm just really curious into how Hazel's addition would influence the dynamic of all three.

And, essentially, it all ends into a somewhat win-win situation. Bianca's still living; Nico's got two new sisters; Hazel now has a new family.

I think this is such an interesting concept, and I'd love to read it. If you ever post it anywhere, please do share the link! This was such an intriguing plot to go through and, again, I think this could have been a much better use of Bianca's character.

Thank you so much for sharing it with me.

#WOW #I seriously wish you had a Tumblr because I just know you would post the most interesting takes #anon tag #asks #pjo meta #nico di angelo #bianca di angelo #hazel levesque #rick riordan #riordanverse #nico di angelo headcanon #bianca di angelo headcanon #hazel levesque headcanon #riordanverse headcanon #pjo #percy jackson and the olympians #heroes of olympus #hoo

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ddarker-dreams · 4 years ago

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Purgatorio. Yan Giorno x Reader [COMM]

Warnings: Stockholm syndrome, descriptions of anxiety, briefly implied suicidal thoughts. Word count: 3.2k.

Cold droplets of water run down the curves of your face, falling into the sink with a hushed splash.

The faucet runs in the background. For how long, you do not know. Time doesn’t move and neither do you. Everything is still -- too still -- lending to the impression the only person in this world is you. In a way, that conclusion is close to the truth. This would be paradise, meticulously crafted for your confinement, boasts a modest population of two.

Your hands grip tightly onto the edges of the countertop, knuckles going white from the vise-like grip. The pain you should feel from this tight hold goes unnoticed. Each forced breath is shakier than the last, betraying the intention of steadying your heaving chest. You lift your head. In the mirror, staring back is a figure that faintly resembles your liking. A version that would deceive anyone else into believing it to be you. On a surface level, they’d be correct. None of your features have changed drastically. The eyes that are staring back, though glassy now, are the same eyes you’ve always had in color and shape.

Shaky hands take liberty in splashing water towards your face. With undeterred focus, you direct the water mostly towards your lips, frantically dousing them. Once is nowhere near enough. Twice, three times, four times; nothing can wash away the faint tingling that haunts. This doesn’t deter you. In a trance-like state, you try to wipe yourself clean of impurities, hoping to be pure as freshly fallen snow. The fabric of your shirt is as drenched as you are from the frantic efforts. Thin material clings to you, as does the hair on either side of your face.

You turn the faucet off.

Sinking to the ground, you wish your legs wouldn’t betray you as they do now. It’s a miracle that you even managed to make it here on your own strength. The remnants of your energy have bloomed and withered away, your body no longer capable of supporting its own weight. Tears join in a union with the tap water. It comes out at once. Sobs wrack throughout your body, your shoulders shaking and head hung low. There is but one question that haunts your mind. A question that can no longer go ignored, but when answered, will change the trajectory of everything you’ve come to known. Everything you’ve taught yourself to cope and survive.

When did you stop hating him?

There’s no singular moment that carries the answer, preferable it may be. It was an unobtrusive, slow yet steady descent into apathy. Giorno cornered you, yes, but that was the extent of it. He backed you up against the cliff and stopped there. It was your decision, and yours alone, to make the blind leap. Searching your memories, you look to find the day your animosity faded, your sense of self dying alongside it.

Was it the strained yet casual talks in the morning? The luxurious gifts of diamond-studded jewelry, luxurious outfits, and exotic flowers? When you no longer flinched when overheating his approaching footsteps? Maybe it’s all of that, and more, times you couldn’t bring yourself to acknowledge yet. All you know is that somewhere along the line, the flames of your disgust flickered, leaving no signs that it ever even existed but ashes. Without noticing what you were doing, your fingers travel to your bottom lip, eyes closing. This would be what served as the final nail in the coffin.

The evening had been a normal one.

Normal. That you had described it that way should’ve served as an omen. It had been just after an uneventful dinner. Giorno promised to take you on a walk through the outdoor gardens, an invitation not so easily rejected. Most if not all of your days were spent in the confines of four walls. The moon, which had just taken the place of the sun, illuminated winding cobblestone paths. Shrubbery of every kind sparsely decorated either side, a visual delight, pale moonlight casting an ethereal glow on each branch. You trailed behind Giorno in a silence he allowed. Lost in thought, taken with the beauty of nature.

It was you who broke the silence. A foolish mistake. “Giorno?”

He turned and looked at you, slightly taken aback that you called for him so easily. That had to have been one of the few instances where his name left your lips, a sweet sound he committed to memory. Mundane as it was for you, Giorno interpreted it as something greater, a welcome evolution. He nodded to signal that you hold his undivided attention. A thought that was on your mind surfaces.

“I’ve been thinking about… things I can do,” you licked your lips, tentative. Giorno eyed your body language closely, and you felt the weight of his stare. “Gardening is what I always come back to. I’d like to grow something, as a way to pass the time.”

Your sentence died out toward the end and turned into a whisper. What a difference there was in your posture compared to his, you noticed. He never doubted himself. Never showed signs of apprehension, always crystal clear on the decisions he needed to make. Where you trod lightly, he went forward with confidence. Silly as it may be, you envied that aspect of Giorno, an aspect that elevated him to a place just out of reach. You wondered if showing more conviction would get you the results you wanted from him.

“I’ll have it arranged so that you can. Was there something, in particular, you’d like to grow?” Giorno asked without missing a beat. Your heart leaped in your chest, encouraged by how well he received your request, and in record time too. It should’ve served as a premonition. At the time, you were more than pleased, and subconsciously took a step towards him. A step closer to your undoing.

“Well, it’d need to be in season… maybe carrots and cauliflower. I’d like to plant things that I could cook later.”

“That’s a good place for a beginner to start. Though I must admit, I never took you for someone who’d be interested in gardening. What brought this on?”

It’s no use. Giorno, tactful as he may be, could see through you as if you were glass. You shifted your weight from one leg to the other. Lying would serve no purpose, he’d notice it. The truth is a frightening concept. How he might interpret your words left room for anxiety. You knew that standing there with sealed lips would be incriminating, and rushed out an unfiltered answer.

“I want to go outside more.”

He peered down at you through thick, blonde eyelashes. Giorno took a step closer to your person, and he frowned at the way you flinched from the sudden movement. The interaction left a bitter taste in his mouth that he sought to be rid of. To understand and deal with a person are two sides of the same coin, both a talent he’s cultivated well. Giorno’s calculating eyes met yours and never left.

“[First]...” your name rolled off his tongue like silk, smooth and deceptively soft. “I’ll see what I can do to make it work. You know I’m partial to anything you ask of me.”

Giorno’s tenderness was palpable, and you ate it up. The illusion of freedom blinded you to reality. He raised his hand and hovered it right above your cheek. Giorno awaited your reaction and tested the waters. When you offered no signs of resistance, he cupped your face. You noticed how his fingers trembled. This unabashed affection was the first of its kind. New to you and him both. You stared up at him, as your heart hammered against your ribcage. A touch that should’ve made you recoil did nothing of the sort. You welcomed it and treasured how human it made you feel.

The change had been so subtle, that you missed it in a blink of the eye. His face grew closer. You could catch the different notes of his signature cologne -- sandalwood, leather, spice -- and the coarse texture of his suit which rubbed against your skin. Giorno was so near, that you felt his warm breath against your face. He looked at you through lidded eyes and sought to close the gap between you. Your mind was a flurry of thoughts and emotions, muddled by the unexpected events. For all of Giorno’s shortcomings, he had never touched you so boldly until then. And you had never let him. There you stood, frozen like a statue, allowing him to do as he pleased.

His lips met yours.

It didn’t register at first. Everything had happened so fast, that your mind struggled to keep up. Giorno’s kiss was chaste, a method to test the waters. To test you. He tasted of the Tartufo di Pizzo he ate earlier, rich and saccharine. When was the last time you were this close to another? That you felt a human’s loving touch, basked in the warmth of their body? You can’t remember for sure. It must’ve been a long time ago, a time before Giorno Giovanna. The moment ended as soon as it arrived. At your lack of reciprocation, he went to pull back. God, it would’ve been so simple if that’s how it ended. If that served as the final chapter. All you had wanted was to feel human again, not like a glorified prisoner in gold bars. That’s the only plausible reason, right? The meager distance between you two was closed again, though it was your lips that met his. Giorno let out a noise of shock, an emotion you were never able to draw out of him until then.

Where he had been soft, you were unrelenting. You kissed him with primal urgency and wove your hands into the strands of his golden hair to pull him close. Giorno was more than pleased to let you do so. The initial stupor wore off, and he matched your fervor with equal tenacity. You’re not sure what exactly was on your mind then. You didn’t know why you did what you did, other than to distract yourself for a moment. How gratifying it had felt then. Giorno held your face in one hand, while the other traveled down to your waist. That eager touch served to pull you back into reality. Almost as if the clock had struck midnight, the spell was broken, and you were left with the undignified truth.

You realized what you were doing. Who it was you had just been kissing, and you staggered back. Eyes wide as a doe, unsure of who the blame was to be placed upon. Giorno had to choose to loosen his grip on you, and you felt every ounce of his hesitance. Those all-knowing, omniscient eyes opened, clearly perplexed. His eyebrows furrowed and lips parted to speak. Before he had the chance to question you, you scampered back into the house. Giorno stood there and watched you depart. His soul stirred. It could’ve been your imagination, but you swore you saw a flash of gold behind you.

Which leads to now.

Seasons change, as do feelings. A fickle thing emotions are. They take the form of liquid, reshaping, and redistributing themselves according to their environment. Never did you envision your loathing transforming into… no, you won’t say it. You can’t. Plans for the rest of the day are up in the air. Maybe it’d do you some good to get rest. Holding this thought in mind, you will yourself to get up, legs unsteady. You make your way out of the master bathroom that connects to your private suite, a luxury that Giorno bestowed. Each step feels heavier than the last. A King-sized bed awaits, silk linens dipping underneath your weight. Sleeping forever sounds lovely right about now. How can you ever face him again? What does he think of you now? Worst of all, why do you care? Throwing yourself onto the bed, you shut your eyes, willing your mind to go elsewhere. Anywhere but that disaster earlier. The chance to do so never comes, much to your chagrin.

There’s a knock on the door.

You freeze, assuming the worst. Heart pounding violently, you search for an explanation, that might explain the person at your door. Maybe it’s the mouse-like staff that tends to Giorno’s estate in the shadows. Rarely do they interact with you, likely at his behest, though it isn’t impossible he’d send them to check up on you. That hope melts when a deep, composed voice speaks up, a voice that you know too well.

“[First]? Are you decent?” Giorno probes, his voice muffled by the closed door. You glance down at your outfit, knowing he’ll have a fair share of questions at your current state. It’d be easier to avoid the confrontation entirely. Easier, but not plausible, you bitterly think. Lord knows he has eyes everywhere. Lying to get around this might serve as a point of contention in the future. So you sigh, swallowing down the lump in your throat. Straightening your shoulders, you place your hands on your lap, hoping to appear somewhat collected.

“Yes, I am.” You confirm after a moment's deliberation. His response is immediate.

“Can I come in?” What an amusing question. Giorno could do whatever he pleases, having the locks to every room in this estate on his person. It’s you who is subject to his every will and whim, you who doesn’t have a true choice in the matter. A thin veil of courtesy hides the viper who waits to strike at your heel. Might as well get this over with, you decide. It’s either now or later.

“You can.”

Giorno opens the door at your confirmation, and you hear the keys jingling like funeral tolls. He’s well put together to the point of frustration, hair set in place perfectly, suit without a wrinkle. You sometimes wonder if Giorno Giovanna is even human and not a deity. Unfortunately, you’ve yet to conclude and are leaning towards the latter. As you expected, his eyes temporarily wander to your soaked appearance, lips pulling into a tight frown. It takes a moment to realize how he might interpret this look. Not to say the thought has never crossed your mind, but he doesn’t need to know that.

“I… I, uh, wasn’t trying to drown myself,” you stutter out with an unconvincing smile. He looks to the ajar bathroom door, and back to you with a raised eyebrow. You clear your throat. “You can check yourself. I was freshening up in the sink.”

“I’ll take your word for it.” Giorno exhales, adjusting the cuff of his suit. He looks around your sparsely decorated room. Any onlooker might wonder if someone lives here at all. The room is immaculate, no clothes were strewn about, not an item out of it’s assigned place. You realize it’s been a long time since Giorno’s been in your room. Months, even. When you were first brought here, he’d explained to a distraught you what was happening. Speaking about protection, your well-being, how he could take such excellent care of you. At the time the grave words didn’t sink in. You had no idea what turbulent future awaited you then. Is Giorno thinking the same thing? If he is, he doesn’t mention it, returning his focus to you.

“About earlier,” he pauses when you wince. Giorno gives you a second to gather yourself before continuing. “I wanted to apologize. It was inappropriate of me to assume your feelings.”

Assume your feelings? What does he mean by that? The confession stuck out like a sore thumb. You uncross and cross your legs on the other side, unable to sit still. Sure, you’ve grown to be passive in his presence. Even you can acknowledge this. That’s all it is, passivity, not… acceptance. Or worse, reciprocation. Months of combative behavior taught you how exhausting hatred is. Giorno proved that no speech, act, or plead of yours would sway him. You’d have better luck convincing a brick wall. This wording troubles you greatly, and Giorno picks up on it.

He continues. “I misinterpreted your body language and acted without thinking. I saw what I wanted to see.”

Giorno doesn’t make mistakes like that. He’s many things: your kidnapper and sole provider, a merciless Don to those who stand in his way, and a man borderline capable of reading the thoughts of others. You can’t picture a world where Giorno slips up in reading other’s moods. What point would there be in lying to you about this? He saw what he wanted to see, this line repeats in your mind like a mantra. There was an undeniable reason for its inclusion. To make you feel better. An out, a silver lining to keep everything as it was. Giorno didn’t make an error in his judgment, you realize, face paling. I… I do love...

“That’s all I came here to say,” Giorno informs, observing how your face twists from your thoughts. He knows it’s due to him. “I’m sorry for disturbing your evening.”

It feels like arctic water is crashing down on you, frigid and fraying your nerves. Giorno pivots on his heel and turns to leave. You know you should let him. Taking this outstretched hand would be simpler, likely even better for your sake. It’s painful how your stomach churns, how every breath is more difficult than the last. This anguish is a deeply rooted one. Too personal and oppressive to withstand any longer. Let him leave, you think. Just let this be over with.

When have you ever listened to reason?

“Giorno,” you call to him, as you did earlier, voice somehow more delicate than it was then. He turns around, face never betraying his thoughts. Giorno’s impossible to get a read on. Clenching the frame of your bed, your gaze drops to your lap. “You… you didn’t misinterpret anything.”

Blood rushes to your cheeks, and you bite your lower lip. “What I mean to say is… it’s fine.”

You gather enough fragments of confidence to raise your head. Turquoise eyes, rich and expansive as the Tyrrhenian sea, pierce through with an intensity Giorno’s never used on you. Your mind goes blank, and you forget how to properly breathe. He breaks the stun-lock first. It’s rare that you ever see a genuine smile on Giorno’s face, but there’s no denying this one is. He’s quick to cover his mouth with the back of his hand. You feel an odd sense of loss at this.

“I’m glad to hear it.” With that, he retires for the evening, bidding you a final goodnight. Giorno closes the door silently to not disturb you. As per the routine, you hear locks going into place, one after the other. You lose count. Footsteps echo down the hallway, signaling his departure. You’re doubtful Giorno himself is going to sleep, he’s a willing victim to late nights, and can only assume he wanted to offer you time to think.

So you are left here on your lonesome.

Not quite in heaven, and not quite in hell.

#giorno #Giorno Giovanna #giovanna giorno #giorno x reader #yandere giorno #JoJo's Bizzare Adventure #jojo's bizarre adventures #yandere jojo x reader #yandere jojo's bizzare adventure #yandere jojo's bizarre adventure #yandere jjba #yandere jjba x reader #yandere #yandere x reader #yandere scenario #vento aureo x reader #yandere vento aureo #my stuff #commissions

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