#these two have been rotting my brain since the beginning of this year whatever going awnnnn

[borgialucrezia]

The tragic disconnection between Lucrezia Borgia and Juan Borgia::

What I find sad and compelling about Juan and Lucrezia's relationship is that every time he genuinely makes a gesture to make her happy, it inevitably ends up being misguided, resulting in her getting hurt in some way. Like the debauched play he had prepared for her as a surprise at her wedding to make her smile, not realizing that it would anger her husband and cause him to hate her and her family even more. The Paolo situation is where their dynamic changed forever. Juan, as someone who was assigned as the protector of the family by his father and is already feeling inadequate and incompetent in his position, already saw Paolo as a threat. A guy who could expose his sister, calling himself the father of her child, making demands to see her? Had Juan known what Sforza did to her, the hell she was living, and how she found solace in Paolo, most probably, he would've let Paolo live. He legitimately believed getting rid of him (and he was motivated by jealousy as he has incestuous feelings for Lucrezia)—was the right thing to do—and expected applause for his misguided notions of protecting his family's honor. He didn't realize how much he hurt Lucrezia and tried to make her understand that he did it to protect her honor and didn't mean to hurt her. When he realized that she tried to avenge Paolo and kill him, he made a speech about how their family triumphed because they weren't dysfunctional when they came to Rome, that they should always stick together, and that he's motivated by wanting safety for all of them. After he came back from Spain a changed man, he gifted his sister something that positively represented her—a stunning rare panther in a gilded cage—a genuine gesture to reconcile with her and earn her respect. However, it bites her, and they're unable to make peace. And after Cesare betrayed him at Forli, he spiraled once again, and he realized that no matter what he did, he would never earn his siblings' respect, specifically Lucrezia's. This realization hurt him and made him act on his impulsive as by lashing out at her and dangling her baby from the balcony, which also gave Cesare the motivation to do what he always wanted and justify his jealousy by murdering him.

"I had an amazing personal journey to go on with that character and hopefully I presented it with a sense and reality and hopefully you will feel a bit sorry for the guy. I don’t think he’s useless. Everyone says he’s a useless coward. He’s just placed in some shit situations. He’s not afraid of dying in that sense, he’s afraid of not being liked or loved and being left by his family. Whether they know it or not, they have been ganging up on him from the very beginning of the first season. What’s the problem with him? I think he’s lovely. I think he’s really kind and compassionate and cuddly." — DAVID OAKES

[writteninlunarlight-years]

Salutations! Might be a… oddly specific request? So feel free to throw it out if you don't like it! I've just had this idea floating in my brain for awhile and I think its cute.

So basically Lucifer (Hazbin Hotel) makes friends with someone who is also really grief stricken over their last relationship. (I was thinking that they would be a widow/widower but you can go whatever route you want) They both find solace in one another and feel like they understand eachothers pain. They both get really close and before he can realize whats happening, Lucifer is head over heels and it hits him like a freight train when he realizes it. He wants so desperately to hold this person to his chest, protect them, and build a future together that neither of them had thought possible before; but he is also terrified of scaring them off if he does anything. Both of them are wounded, and Lucifer isnt sure how deep or raw those wounds are. So Lucifer just ends up turning into a puddle of a man when they are around.

Like I said, Ive just had this rotting in my head for awhile and I am not nearly skilled enough to do anything with it, sooooo have fun with it if it peaks your interest! <3

Broken Hearts Still Beat Again

"I may not be your first love, kiss, or date..... but damn baby, I want to be your last everything." -Unknown

Tw: Angst, Hurt-Comfort, Failed relationships, fear of abandonment, learning to love again, taking risks, slight spiciness at the end

~Prior to the beginnings of the Extermination~

You can't remember how long it's been since it happened. Years, months, and days are far too long, honestly. All you could remember was his face, his sad, sad, lonesome face, and the grinning menace Adam beside him. Yes, that's right, Adam, the first Winner. You, too, were a Winner till all that time ago. How long?

Your husband, best friend, and closest confidant was also a Winner. You were Winners together. You two died in your sleep peacefully due to a shared illness. It was sweet, almost too romantic like St. Peter said when you two crossed the gates. 

Then it happened; you don't know why Adam sank his teeth into you. Yes, you were an incredible fighter in the mortal world, teaching children how to fight for their safety and never to provoke. So when he came to you and invited you to the exorcist guild, well, you were happy to train young fighters to protect themselves. Your partner was even happier to watch you flourish in Heaven as much as you did in your mortal life. 

Then you overheard Lute talking to an exorcist one day. You heard about the extermination of the poor souls, the damned being killed again and again. This news broke you. Who would remotely allow this? Who would stoop so low?

You called an impromptu meeting with Sara and Adam to inform them of this horrible act Lute was performing. The tyranny she was showing against the other angels to go down to Lucifer's territory and kill again.

Only things didn't go as planned, no see you did go to the meeting; you spoke your peace, and then they just smiled at you, eery creepy smiles, sent you on your way, and told you it would be handled. It was all quite odd; there was no demand for a trial, no need for proof of your words, nothing.

When you returned to your home where your husband was, it happened all too fast. Exorcists were grabbing you; Adam was telling your husband something; his face dropped, and he looked at you with hate. You were shouting, begging, pleading for anyone to listen to you. No one would, and you were flagged as a traitor right then and there.

You were taken to a ledge, and standing there, you looked into your husband's eyes, tears staining your face, your throat raw from screaming. You could feel the saliva strands between your parted lips as you whimpered and cried. You freed your arm from one of the exorcists and reached out to your husband; it was too late as he turned from you.

He spared one last look at you, turning back with tears in his eyes. You called out his name once again, and Sara spoke her orders of your treason against the balance of good and evil. Then, you were pushed off the ledge. 

You began to fall from heaven, assuming a more permanent death would be treating you soon. You closed your eyes; you didn't want your last memories to be death or Adam or any of what just happened.

You thought of your lover when you two were young and carefree the day he told you he loved you. As you felt the rushing of wind and air surrounding you, this thought alone was your solace, and then it all went black.....

~~~~ Lucifer's Pov ~~~~

The day that Lilith left was a cold, cold day in hell. Well, not for everyone, but definitely me.

The woman I gave everything up for was gone in an instant. Without a word. Without a trace. My relationship with Charlie was far more strained and hindered now. I was nothing now. A kingdom all to my own and nothing of value now that the two women I loved the most were gone. What was I to do in this lone castle whither away? 

I turned to the picture of Lilith and Charlie, and tears formed in my eyes. It all felt too surreal to much. She was gone, my family gone, my life gone, all gone gone gone. As I sat there and cried, fists beating into the floor below, my wails echoing through the halls of my now abandoned residence, I felt so empty.

That's when an imp came in, holding a letter from the angels above. It was time to sign our agreement on the executions. Maybe that's why Lilith left; I was so willing to save our family that I gave up on our dreams for hell. 

I should have spoken to her and let her decide, but they threatened Charlie, so I had to act. I had to save my precious daughter, my pride and joy. That's also why I had to tell Charlie that her plan to 'save all sinners' needed to end. I remember it like yesterday, sitting at the table with them, breaking the news of the agreement I would sign soon. They looked so hurt, so betrayed.

I honestly was a failure. 

I stood, heading to the bathroom to clean up before my meeting. Soon after my name is signed on the soul pact, the first and only angelic building will grace hell, and the clock will start counting down. I was prepared for my subjects to hate me, but my family, it was all too much.

There was nothing to lose now, though, so hell with it. I made my way to the opening portal to heaven. It's now or never. I will sign this and keep the ones I love safe, even if they never know.

I love you, Lilith, I love you, Charlie. 

~~~~ Reader POV ~~~~

When you woke back up under a dark red sky, you figured you had to have fainted while falling to your death. Yet when you looked down at yourself, you were the same old you. The only notable difference was that your skin was no longer pure white. You had greyed out some, and your clothing was torn from your fall. Looking around, you saw a giant pentagram in the sky and a large white orb to the right. Was that heaven?

Standing on your legs again, your back was killing you. You began to walk anywhere; people here were very different from the Winners. Death, porn, canabalizim, all of it fully welcomed. This would take some getting used to. 

As you crossed the threshold of the city, now standing in the middle, you heard a horrible noise. It sounded like a bell, but it was so loud. You turned to your left, where the noise was coming from, and there was a clock and some numbers; just above the numbers, it read 'days till execution.' that's when you realized it.

A building, the only building that looked like what you are familiar with in heaven. You were shocked it wasn't Lute causing tyranny. It was all of them, every single one of them, in charge. 

You sank to your knees, realizing you would never be safe. You signed your sentence when you went to them with the information you learned. You were no longer a Winner...You were a Sinner, and your days were numbered.

You had something over everyone else; you knew how the angels fought and trained them daily. Using this knowledge to your advantage, you went through the town, trying to find anywhere you could start your new life. 

~~~ FLASH FORWARD 7 YEARS ~~~

You were lucky when you ran into Charlie. She was a godsend if god was even real. The Princess of Hell had the same morals and values as you, which you respected. Vaggie was also a pleasant surprise; you could tell a soldier you taught a mile away.

She remembered you as well. She kept to herself till you three made it to a safe place, Charleis's soon-to-be hotel. Once Charlie was out of earshot and working on getting supplies to heal everyone, she confronted you. 

Tears welled in her eyes when she asked what had happened. She was in shock when you explained how you ended up here. According to Vaggie, everyone was told that you died on a mission to hell.

The Sinners alerted Lucifer of your whereabouts, and he killed you; thus, in doing so, a protective force of angels was created. Fearmongering was the one thing Adam was damn good at. 

It was broken to you by Vaggie that your partner had moved on with another. He was in love and happy with another woman, one Adam hand-picked for him. You were devastated again; years of promises, lost nights, and romantic meetings disappeared. He gave up everything because Adam told him to.

You two agreed that your past lives in Heaven would no longer be discussed that night.

Crying your eyes out long after Vaggie returned to her shared room with Charlie, did you swear off love by taking your wedding band off and locking it in a drawer.

It was no longer a hidden fact that Lucifer had signed the deal with the Angels, and it was far less hidden knowledge that the relationship between King and Princess was strained.

The rag-tag group of residents was growing by the day. Angel Dust was fun, and you could quickly tell from how he talked and looked he wanted a way out. Soon after Charlie's broadcast, Alastor and his group, Husk and Nifty, joined the hotel's crew. Though the Radio Demon was creepy, you knew something was eating him deep inside. Nifty was a riot to get talking to and always brought you exciting things she found while cleaning. Husk was a perfect bartender, and you knew he would keep your dirty secrets for you. He was the only one you confided your past in. 

You supported Charlie wholeheartedly in her decision to overrule the exterminations. You were eager to help her prove that sinners could become winners. Look at you, for heaven's sake; if it could go one way, it had to go the other.

Sir Pentious was the last to join and was easy to talk to. He was awkward, but you loved his fabricated war stories and eggbois. Then, one day, he came along; you won't lie.

You were hesitant. I mean, he signed away Hell's right to life. You couldn't deny it, though; he was funny and ethereal. You swore off love, though, and you wouldn't let another break your heart again.

~~~~ Lucifer's POV ~~~~

When I got Charlie's call, I didn’t know what emotions to feel: sorrow, excitement, fear, jubilation. I was beyond myself, and as I finally answered the phone, all I could muster was, “Hey, Biiiiitch.”

Yeah, it was smooth of me to say that; however, it didn’t deter Charlie. She wanted me to come and visit her. I was over the moon; depression had nothing on me.

I looked at my hand as I was cleaning myself up and getting ready to go. Looking down and seeing that cursed band I once shared with the love of my life.

I found Lilith's ring left on her nightstand just days after her departure to who knows where. I couldn’t bring myself to take the ring off; it's all I had left of her; it reminds me to keep hoping she would forgive me; maybe I'll forgive myself. 

As I made my way to Charlie's hotel, thoughts pressed into my mind about how I wanted this reunion to go. It never occurred to me how much Charlie may have changed. Was she still the same woman I knew before we fought?

Sighing as I approached the door, I realized it was now or never. Let's do this, baby. What's the worst that could happen? She hates me and leaves me forever like her mother did, and now I am forever alone? Hahahahah NO!

I entered the hotel door, and jeez, what is this place?

Putting a smile on my face, I approached Charlie and hugged her, introducing myself to her girlfriend. Woah, I like girls, too. See, we can bond. As I was making my rounds with Charlie, meeting everyone, I saw her….She was….gorgeous. I could tell from her looks that she wasn’t an everyday Sinner, and something was different about her. 

After a brief and, might I say, victorious battle with this ‘Alastor’ fellow, I spent some time with my daughter, allowing her to show me around her hotel. As we stood atop the balcony, I made the first fatal error of the night. “So, CharChar, what is this all about?” 

Charlie rolled her eyes at me and excitedly smiled, “It’s a hotel to cleanse and rehabilitate Sinners! I told you this, Dad!” The excitement on her face was genuinely adorable, but she couldn’t do it. I couldn’t allow this. The elder angels would just hurt her like they did me. They already threatened my family once; I can’t let them do this again.

I knew by the look on Charlie's face that my reaction wasn’t what she was expecting. As I went to speak to her, a loud explosion was heard downstairs. 

We rushed down, and I saw an opportunity to prove to Charlie why we couldn’t follow this plan. As I ran forward to catch up with the others, I saw the mystery woman again. She was fighting alongside Alastor and his demons perfectly; she was beautiful and brilliant in battle, always expecting the next attack.

Once the sharks were dealt with and the young lady who seemed to know Alastor left, I turned back to Charlie and attempted to plead my case. “See Charlie, look, they are all the same; Sinners will never be redeemed; they will never go to heaven.” 

“You don’t know that, Dad, please.” The look on Charlie's face broke me, but this had to be done. I couldn’t let her get hurt. 

“What makes you so sure, Mr. King of Hell, that these people here can’t be redeemed?” This voice was new and soft.

I turned to the mystery girl. Her eyes were lit with a flame. I could see how much passion she had for my daughter's cause. As I went to speak back, Charlie interjected. 

“Father, I only want to do this for you, for my people. Your dreams are what gave me this goal.” I was taken aback. I was Charlie's prime motivation; my stories and goals helped her become this remarkable woman. 

“Your daughter is twice the ruler of you; she's willing to save her people; what are you willing to do?” The mystery woman had a point. I was a coward, too prideful of what I had to allow it to fall potentially. I looked at Charlie, and a moment formed between us. 

“Alright, let’s get Heaven on the line then.” I knew it was time to face my fear to help the people I pleaded for all those years ago. I may not be able to stand my ground due to the contract, but damn can my daughter and her friends do it. 

While Charlie started getting ready for her meeting, I was a nervous wreck. What if something happened to her? I knew the cruel hands that played in heaven and what could be done.

As I was pacing back and forth in the lobby, a figure stood before me, a drink in hand, and the other extended a glass to me. I looked up, and it was her; she was still just as beautiful as the first time I saw her. I gently took the glass and downed the concoction in it. “Thank you, uh, my name is Lucifer Morningstar, affamed fallen angel and father of Charlie.” 

“I know; I was here when everything went down.” She looked at me blankly. Of course, she was here. Jesus, could I be any lamer?

She snorted at my facial expression and stuck her hand out for me. “My name is Y/N; nice meeting you, Mr. King of Hell; it’s a pleasure. By the way, I only said all that because I knew it would strike a nerve in you. I learned from my past anyone prideful hates when their authority is challenged.” 

In her past, odd, there weren’t a lot of demons here who A would let someone challenge their authority and live, so she must be powerful, or B, she is speaking of her mortal life. However, something about both of those options did not seem quite right.

I nodded gently at her and sat at the bar. She soon tended to the others in the hotel, and I began to observe her. She acted like a mother, telling the others what to and not to do double-checking the other inhabitants of the hotel before they left the building.

Hell, she even talked to Alastor on some sort of equal ground. Something was different about her, so so different. I looked at my hand again while I took another swig of my refilled glass. Setting the glass down, I started to twirl the ring. Would Lilith have been this good to everyone? Would Lilith have even cared? 

I sighed; if I wanted to help Charlie, I had to let go of the past. I took the ring off, dropped it in the liquor, and went to the front door. As I reached for the handle, I was stopped by a soft hand on my wrist.

Turning, I saw Y/N, “Hey, one second, mister, you forgot this.” She placed the ring down in the palm of my hand. “I have been scorned by love too. Don’t get me wrong, I also took off my band long ago. However, I can say that though their memory is tainted now, you should enjoy the memories of good when you can. Helps keep the bad thoughts away.” She smiled up at me so brightly I couldn’t help but smile back. 

“Thank you, Y/N. I appreciate it. Do say you seem like a swell mother figure to all these people here. Why tie yourself to this place if you don’t want redemption? I remember what you said earlier, ‘All these people’, excluding yourself.” She stalled, hesitating about how she wanted to answer.

I just shook my head and smiled at her. I began to walk away back to my home. As I made my way back I heard Y/N shout, “COME BACK SOON LUCIFER!” For some reason, I really liked how my name sounded from her. 

~~~~~ Reader POV ~~~~~

You were sat at the hotel by yourself, Angel, and the others all went to a club while Charlie and Vaggie went to Heaven. You had time to think about the most recent occurrence in your life: Lucifer.

It was a whirlwind that day meeting him. So many emotions overtook you: fear, anger, an odd sense of curiosity. You couldn’t lie. He was attractive, and the way he was protective of Charlie was adorable. You never got to have children; your ex-husband never wanted them.

You don’t know what possessed you to speak to Lucifer like you did, telling him he was a lowly king. You used the excuse that you had done it to others in your past, which was valid; you and Adam argued a lot. Deep down, you knew, though, that's not why you did it. You wanted to protect Charlie and her dream. 

Sighing, you made your way around the building, ensuring the halls were clean and everything was orderly. You still weren't fond of all the allowed things here in hell, so going out with everyone was a once-in-a-blue moon.

It struck you as amusing when Lucifer commented on you being a mother figure because that is how everyone saw you. Hell, even Alastor commented one or two times that you reminded him of his angel of a mother. You just wanted the best for everyone; it wasn’t fair to die and then be killed again. 

You heard the lobby door open once you were done doing your rounds. Odd, typically, everyone stayed out way late, and the girls weren't expected back till tomorrow.

As you descended the stairs, you saw none other but the man plaguing your mind: Lucifer. Smiling softly, you met him at the base of the stairs, giving him a short wave. He smiled at you and announced that he figured everyone would be gone today and was going to help out Charlie. You snorted at him and explained how you stayed back to help but were more than pleased to allow him to keep you company. He took refuge at the bar, and you soon joined him.

You two talked for hours about so many things, from his life as an angel to your old mortal life. You guys even talked about the differences between Heaven and Hell. Hopefully, you weren't giving your old station away to him, but a part of you didn’t care.

By the time you two got to the dreaded conversation about relationships, you were inebriated. You recounted your betrayal to Lucifer, holding nothing back. From your teenage years with your ex till the day he turned from you while Adam pushed you. Lucifer looked so heartbroken for you.

He gently pushed some hair out of your face when he said, “I am so sorry that happened to you, Y/N. I knew something was different about you, so you too fell from that dreaded cliff like I.” You nodded sadly. 

Lucfier explained why he made his decisions and how Charlie's life was threatened if he didn’t end Lilith’s music and allow the Exorcist to come down. He told you something interesting about the clause of the agreement: No Hell Born Could Be Harmed In The Extermination Less The Binding Be Null And Void.

This was amusing to you; even after singing his people away for slaughter, he was still concerned the angels would trick him and harm his child. He was always thinking about those he loved. It was endearing.

How could someone leave such a handsome, kind, protective man? The thought even crossed your mind that Lucifer would have fallen with you if he had been your husband instead of letting Adam take the lead.

As these thoughts crossed your mind, you didn’t realize how close your two faces were getting. Before you knew it, your lips were touching Lucifers gently. Seconds passed, and his hands were buried in your hair, kissing you with a passion you never got from your ex. 

As you two broke apart, the doors to the hotel opened again. Angel came running over to you, noticing your state of drunkenness. He apologized to Lucifer, stating you never really drank much and took you to your room.

You smiled softly as Lucifer said a quick ‘goodbye’ and ‘good night’ to you before drifting off to sleep. Your dreams that night were full of Lucifer, his beauty, charisma, and devotion eating you alive. You may have sworn off love, but for him to love you how he once loved Lilith would be beautiful. 

~~~~~ TIME SKIP ~~~~~

Months had passed since your night with Lucifer, and a whole war between you at the hotel and the angels broke out. Everyone learned of your past in Heaven from Adam before he perished.

You felt free, no longer chained to the past that harmed you. Now you had something more to look forward to. Though you and Lucifer never spoke of that night again, you held the memory close. He loved Lilith a lot, and especially Charlie; for all you knew, when he kissed you that night, he was just imagining Lilith once more. It hurts to think that, but you must be true to yourself. 

After Adam's carnage, it was awkward for you and Lucifer. You two avoided eye contact and only spoke when you had to. However, as time passed and you both pretended the night alone never happened, things changed.

You and Lucifer did become fast friends, though. Having shared a fall from heaven, deep heart break, and even more so a hotel together it was hard not too. It was hard ever to see you two separated from one another. Laughing, joking, talking, and even debating over effective ways to pull in more Sinners.

You two became more affectionate as well, his hand on the small of your back, him guiding you by his arm, or even you adjusting his cravat and making him his favorite teas. To onlookers, it seemed like you two were married. 

It was so compelling that you two were married that even Charlie told you she would be fine if you loved her dad.

Love…That's such a strong word. Is that what you felt? You can’t lie. You fantasize about it. You were scared, though. What if he let you down like your ex did? Can you handle being a mom to Charlie, not just a figure, a real mom taking the spot Lilith left? That was a worry, too; what about Lilith if she returned? Would he go back to her?

Would you be left so suddenly again? 

While your mind raced, you mindlessly swept the corner of your room, thinking deeply about this debacle. When suddenly, your door bursts open. 

~~~~~ Lucifer’s POV ~~~~~

I was ecstatic after my night with Y/N. She was excellent, calm, cunning, and articulate. She also knew my pain of the angels turning on you. The kiss meant so much to me. I was finally feeling things I hadn’t felt before Lilith left.

Lilith….was I ready to move on? Could I move on?

When I closed my eyes that night, I saw both old memories of Lilith and the times we had, but also new visions of Y/N and all we could be. She was terrific; if only I could get to know her more and see how she felt. She also stated she swore off love, too.

Would I be included? 

When the day came for the extermination, I couldn’t bear to turn on the news; I didn’t want to see Charlie's dreams get crushed. I sat and waited, staring at the clock. As soon as the chaos broke out, I was up and pacing.

It wasn’t just Charlie; I was worried about Y/N being there too. Yes, she was a fighter and trained those Angels, but what if the worst happened? What if you died protecting Charlie?

That's one thing he loved: how motherly you were for his daughter. Not that Lilith never was, but it was clear to him that no matter how hard life got, you would stand by those you loved side.

Why couldn’t Lilith have done that for them? 

That was when I felt the tug, a complex, sudden pull. Half of the signed agreement shriveled; that only meant one thing.

I ran as fast as I could to the hotel; once I saw the carnage, I flew to protect Charlie. It was Adam, the man who turned the heavens against me, who turned heaven against you. Years of pent-up rage and a new passion for protecting Y/N overtook me as Charlie and I took down the angels.

Once the battle felt calm, everyone began looking for you and Alastor. Honestly, I could care less about the Radio Demon. He gave me bad vibes, but you were missing. You went in to save Vaggie from Lute; however, no one saw you anywhere when the building collapsed. 

Shouting, digging through rubble, I heard Charlie yell out that she had found you. Sighing now that I knew you were alive and only minorly injured, we cleaned up.

With a bit of magic and a whap bam boom, we had a new Hazbin Hotel, oh and Alastor returned. I wanted to discuss your past with you about a potential us, but I couldn’t. You looked so happy now that the chains of your past were broken. 

The next couple of months were odd, for sure. I couldn't stand to look Y/N in the eyes, and though I yearned for her, I couldn't bear the weight of rejection again.

I tried, though, to show her how much I wanted her in subtle ways. What was a once-stolen night became a close friendship. I could tell her anything and everything. She was like a breath of fresh air; she never denied any of the ideas Charlie or I had, instead helping make them better. With her and I’s past with heaven, we knew how to overcome the obstacles they would throw. 

Before I knew it, I craved her touch and comfort, and she gave it to me. Small lingering touches of hands, hugs that lasted too long, small gifts and favors never asked for. I was falling and falling hard. She was everything I could want. I loved Y/N.

Oh god, I loved Y/N. I was a wreck seeking counsel from the only other person who knew me best, Charlie. She was so happy, begging me to confess and tell Y/N how I felt. Could I, though? Would she accept me? Could she take the new title of Queen of Hell? 

As I lay in bed pondering the conversation Charlie and I had, thinking of the new memories I had made with Y/N, I was stuck. Confess and have a happy new life, or confess, and she leaves me, too. You weren't one to go, though I knew that. What if, though, you weren't ready?

I closed my eyes and let my mind wander; I saw Y/N in a beautiful dress at our wedding, Y/N giving me another child, and Y/N fighting alongside Charlie and me. That’s it; I can’t hold back any longer.

I dressed myself in my robe and marched my way to your door. I began to knock, but I heard nothing in the room. Sighing because I knew Y/N had to be in here, I busted the door open, and there you were, staring off into space so cutely.

Shit.

~~~~~ Readers POV ~~~~~

The noise startled you from your thoughts. There before you stood Lucifer in his robes. Smirking, You turned away from the man and laughed gently into your hand. “What are you doing here, goober? It's the middle of the night, and you are very underdressed.”

No questions were answered, though, as Lucifer approached you; he stood there staring you in the eyes. You didn’t know what this look meant, but it was intense. Had you offended him? 

As you went to speak again, Lucifer placed one of his hands on your cheek, cupping your face. You looked at his hand and back up at him; you were breathing too fast. As you two looked at one another, no words were uttered; slowly, Lucifer placed his other hand on your waist.

You laid claim to his chest with your hands gently splayed there. Something in his eyes begged you to be closer and not push him away. How could you? He was holding you in a way that you had only dreamed of. 

Lucfier moved closer to your face, your lips mere inches apart when he spoke, “Y/N, I love you. No, that doesn’t even begin to describe my feelings. I am fascinated, lust-filled, and desire you and you alone. I want forever to be with you, a time I only thought possible with one person who never intended to fill that role. A forever purely our own with our family. A future dedicated to following dreams and passion. Following our love. Will you stay with me, Y/N? Please stay with me.” 

You were speechless, your mouth slightly agape, and you didn’t know how to process such emotions. You were overwhelmed and so excited. You knew if you took any longer to confirm or deny him he would leave and never speak of this, just like the kiss before.

You did the only thing you thought you could at that moment. You wrapped your arms around his neck and closed the gap. Kissing Lucifer this time felt just as good, if not better, than the last. Your hands tied in his hair, holding him close. His hands are keeping you in place, his kiss fierce and dominating. Before you knew it, he had his hands just under the cusp of your ass, prompting you to jump. As you did, you never broke the kiss. 

Lucifer leads you to the nearest wall, kissing your lips and neck. This was everything you dreamed of, everything you wanted. Each kiss was a contract that you two would never hurt the other as your partners did.

You felt alive, like electricity was coursing through your veins. Every kiss made a new pattern in your heart, soon beating in time with Lucifers. The heated kisses died down and turned into soft, light ones. Placing your feet back on the ground, you hugged Lucifer close, his head buried in your neck and yours in his. 

You smiled a large smile before whispering, “I will always stay by your side, Lucifer. You and Charlie are my reason, my purpose now.” You could feel his smile next to your ear without ever having to open his mouth.

You were so happy.

You two heard a shutter sound as you pulled away, and a bright flash erupted behind Lucifer. As you turned to the door, everyone stood there: Charlie was happy and clapping, Vaggie was giving a thumbs up, Alastor was holding the camera, Nifty was making gagging sounds, and Angel was smirking. You laughed wholeheartedly; who knew a broken heart would beat again?

My good friend @willowaudreykeyes helped me with the editing a bit! I appreciate the effort and time they put into assisting me. Even though we live halfway across the world from one another, you have my back!

[formulapookie]

!!!

under the cut on tumblr, here on Ao3 <3 chapter 2

Moonlight kisses ch.1 bezzetti 2.1k words

He wakes up to the most beautiful sight everyday, he’s been doing that for quite a while now.

Curly hair sprawled over the pillow, an arm around his chest, protective, and his head on his chest.

Cele feels like he’s the luckiest person on earth, having Marco by his side, being able to live his love so freely.

Their friends had all cheered when they had come out as a couple one year ago, Pecco just saying he was glad the two of them had finally understood they had been mutually pining for years now.

He smiles thinking about it, and feels a hand stroking his hair slightly, tilting up his head and meeting eyes with his boyfriend.

“Buongiorno amore” he smiles and to Cele everything seems perfect when Bez smiles.

So perfect he never fears something could go wrong.

“Buongiorno” he smiles back, sitting up on the bed to press a soft kiss on his lips, the quiet of Bez’s home interrupted only by Rubik barking in the kitchen for food.

“Ugh gotta feed him, you coming for breakfast?” “Yeah yeah let me just get dressed” “I don’t mind if you want to walk around the house naked eh” “Marco!” “What? You weren’t this shy last night you know? Especially when you-“ “shut up shut up go feed the dog and i’ll be there in a minute”

Bez gets up smiling, putting on a pair of boxers and a shirt scattered on the floor.

Cele does the same, taking a clean pair of underwear and one of Bez’s shirts from the closet.

“What’s for breakfast?” Cele says in a sleepy voice that makes Bez’s heart melt. “I could have you and be satisfied” “Marco, can you not think about sex for one minute or are you 16?” “It’s not my fault amore, you are just too beautiful, especially with my shirt on”

They share a kiss, deep but loving, Bez’s hands on his hips.

“I seriously am hungry Marco, can we eat?” “Yeah yeah I bought brioches yesterday, yes I took the nutella one for you, yes the cream one for me, yes you can have a bite”

Cele thinks Bez is perfect right now. It’s corny, stupidly teenage-love like, but it’s true, when he’s with Bez everything seems so smooth and true, real, it seems right.

And for Bez it’s the same. Or well, it was perfect.

Not that he doesn’t love Cele god no, he would run to the ends of the earth for him, bring him the moon and the stars, write poems and songs for him.

It’s not Cele, it’s him.

Since the beginning of the season, and the horrible outcome of the races after Jerez he’s been spiraling more and more in a situation where he feels helpless and unworthy.

Unworthy of the team, of Vale, the Academy but most of all unworthy of Cele.

The boy looks like a ball of sunshine, always so glad to have him near, and he feels like a black hole swallowing whatever light Cele has in him.

He fears he’s draining his lover, dragging him with him when he’s down.

He’s scared this will affect Cele too, that this -thing- dragging him down will take Cele too.

And he can’t allow that, he can’t have Cele’s mind filled with the same ugliness rotting in his brain, he loves him too much.

So he’s begun to stop talking about his issues to Cele, to everyone to be fair, hiding it like the plague.

And stupidly enough everyone believed he was still sunny and happy Bez.

Bez was everything but that at this moment.

Looking at Cele playing with Rubik in his kitchen, dressed in his clothes, still smelling like him from the night before, has his heart clenching and his throat closing, suffocating.

He wants to cry, hold onto Cele until every tear has fallen and feel the boy’s arms tight around him, telling him everything is ok, believing everything is ok.

But he can’t place this burden on Cele’s shoulders, he can’t actually have Cele know all his problems and worries, because he knows Cele would internalize some of them, and it would hurt him.

He snaps from his trance when Cele places a bit of cream from the brioche on his lips and licks it away, smiling at him.

“Want some?”

Bez nods, reaching for the pastry, when Cele takes it and holds it above his head.

“Nuh uh you gotta tell me something before having this”

“I love you baby, now, can I have my brioche or do you want to stay there all day?” “Once more and it’s yours” “I love you I love you I love you” “For this many times you can have a reward after breakfast”

Cele is smirking, biting his lip. He looks divine, Bez thinks.

“Couldn’t ask for anything better, no? Brioche and sex with you in the morning? I’ve hit jackpot”

Cele laughs, passing him his breakfast, which they both consume really fast, they’re barely finished and Bez is already dragging him back to their room, almost tripping on a pair of shoes left there yesterday in the rush of getting to bed after coming back home from the party.

“Woah calm down cowboy I am not going anywhere”

Bez laughs at the joke, having him sit in his lap, lips crushing against his.

“You may be more of a cowboy now than me, no? After all you were the one ridi-“ “Marco! Come on stop you know I get embarrassed” “And that’s why I do it, you look so cute all blushing like this”

It only makes Cele blush more, Bez bites his lip before kissing his boyfriend again, pulling him more on his lap, both can feel the other is hard, and need to get out their briefs immediately.

“I love you too” and Bez wants to cry, he’s so perfect he wants to cry, but instead he stays blissed as Cele climbs down his lap and removes his briefs, going to remove the shirt too, but Bez is quicker.

“No its hot, leave it on, I need to fuck you in it” “You are stupid when you’re horny you know that?” “I’m stupid always, with you it just doubles because i’m always horny”

Cele laughs and it feels simple, to love him as Bez does, he’s sure anyone would love Cele, because he deserves love more than anyone else in the world.

“You think you can fuck me with your clothes on or?”

Bez slaps his thigh lightly, taking off his shirt and boxers, laying Cele on the bed, opening his legs so he can fit in between them, blindly reaching for the lube as he leaves kisses all over Cele’s neck, stopping once or twice to leave purple bruises on it.

One of the boy’s hands finds its place tugging at Bez’s curls, the other around his neck, he’s already breathing deeply, he wants more.

“Bez fucks sake how long does it take for you to - fuckk” “you were saying?” he speaks against his throat, kissing his neck once more before moving to his lips.

He’s already stretched from the night before, but Bez always makes sure to work him open every time, even if they went not more than seven or eight hours ago, two fingers slipping in easily, the third as well, brushing on his prostate making Cele whimper.

“You sound so good amore”

Cele whines as Bez removes his fingers, begging for him to fuck him.

“And I was the needy one? You have a strange concept of eager” “I swear Marco if you don’t fuck me right this second I’m not sucking your dick for a month”

And Bez is pretty sure he could die if Cele actually did that, because he was simply amazing at it.

He pushes his dick inside his hole, welcoming, hot, wet, and has to bite back a moan not to sound pathetic. “Move please”

and he complies, he can’t say no to Cele, not when he’s like this, all blushy and hot under his fingertips.

He sets a rushed pace from the start, knows what Cele wants without even having to ask, after a year and a half being together he knows his body by heart, he mapped every single mole out and knows the most sensitive spots to tease.

“Fuck I love you Cele”

“I love you too”

Bez keeps his pace, hands on Cele’s hips as the boy wraps his arms around Bez’s neck to pull him closer, trying to fuse their bodies together.

“Don’t stop don’t stop please”

And Bez isn’t even dreaming of doing that, not with the way he can feel Cele around him and his little whimpers every time he pushes a bit deeper, hitting that sweet spot that gets Cele melting.

One of Bez’s hands moves from his boyfriend’s hip to his dick, stroking it in time with his thrusts, getting Cele a moaning mess, face red with heat and legs shaking already.

“Marco Marco I’m close Marco please” “I know amore, I’m not gonna last long either you feel so perfect right now”

Cele tries to smile at the praise but only manages to do so for two seconds before feeling Bez’s lips against his, draining the last inch of self control he still has.

He comes with a long whine, pulling Bez even closer than before, the older still stroking his dick to get out every last drop of his release, and is quick to follow, a grunt in Cele’s ear before emptying his load inside him, feeling him clench around him again at the stimulation.

They both stay still for a few moments, breathing in each other's mouth, a lazy kiss here and there, while Bez finally slips out with a groan.

“I want to stay here all day” Cele,a s always, has the will to do things of a 90 year old.

“We promised the others to go out in the afternoon for Gelato and it’s already two times we stand them up, if we do it thrice Pecco is coming for our heads”

Cele laughs, pouting a bit as he curls himself around Bez’s frame.

“And we can stay in bed until lunch, the hangout is at 5 anyway” “Ok ok, just hold me then”

Bez smiles back, stroking Cele’s hair softly. “I won’t let go even when you have to get dressed” “See? it’s you that wants to keep me in bed all day, what would you do all day in bed with me eh?” “Oh so many things tesoro, so many you wouldn’t walk out here with your own legs”

Cele laughs, Bez does too, they stay like that for a bit longer before Bez finally convinces Cele to take a bath with him and then sleep until they have to go out.

They’re in the water, warm but not too much, just the right temperature to be comfortable in, Cele’s back against Bez’s chest, the older hands around his torso and his chin resting on his shoulder. 

“We should get a new toy for Rubik, no? He broke the little rubber ball I bought him two months ago, he can’t play with a frisbee forever” “I saw a chicken shaped toy at the pet store yesterday” “I can buy it for him” “Cele you spend more for my dog than for yourself” “Yeah because I love you”

Bez wants to cry, he really does, as the water cools down and he can feel Cele relax more and more until he eventually falls asleep on him, and Bez makes sure to get him out of the tub and dress him in a comfy pair of clean underwear and a shirt and put him to bed, while putting on a pair of boxers as well and taking out rubik for a walk.

While he’s out he can’t help but get reached by those thoughts, dark and mean that have been clouding his mind lately.

He’s so scared that his problems are gonna cause Cele to feel sad and bad for him, and he can’t think of any solution, because he would eventually break down in front of him and wouldn’t know how to solve the mess if it happened.

He doesn’t know what to do, he wants to be with Cele for the rest of his life, that’s his only certainty, but how he can do that he doesn’t know.

He lets Rubik free in a dog park and sits on a bench, lighting upa cigarette and hoping the smell doesn’t stick, he knows cele doesn’t like it and he tried to stop for him, but sometimes it’s just a need.

He takes a drag and waits for the burning sensation, releasing it with a puff.

[rainswept]

you ask for Fontaine brain rot/reqs, I deliver.

So idk if you've done the recent archon quest and lyney/lynette story quest so if you haven;t be careful caus i will be spoling !

SO

That part where Lyney is freaking out over Freminet and Lynette had me SCREAMING especially since ive done their story quest AND ALSO FRIENDSHIP 10 LYNEY SO I HAVE THE LORE AND IT HURTS SM but I won't spoil all that for u-

so anyways, i started thinking, imagine Lyney has a lover who's been with the siblings for years (and also works for Arlecchino) and is considered another sibling by Lynette and Freminet. They were also diving with Freminet when they encountered water from the primordial sea

now imagine clorinde can only take one person with her at a time when she pulls them back, and she saves Freminet first, later going back for Lyney's s/o

Eventually Freminet wakes up like he does in the quest, but the reader just.. doesn't. Hours pass and the siblings are freaking tf out because they don't want to lose anyone.

(now I can't decide if I crave angst or if I want to comfort my babies so ill give my headcanons for both shiguegoe)

angst: Lyney's lover keeps deteriorating, parts of them gradually turning blue and quite literally withering away (caus you know the water and the dissapearances- yeah-) and the siblings can do nothing but watch

Lynette shuts down more frequently and for longer periods, not even saying anything to Lyney

Freminet blames himself for not noticing sooner, for not getting them out sooner

And then there's Lyney.. he blames himself for not only putting his siblings in danger, but losing his lover...

He sits by their bed watching as they wither away, holding their hand. He knows Father will be upset by his lack of comitment to the mission but he can't bring himself to care

The day they pass, no one says a word. They continue with their mission, report to Father, go on with their Fontainian lives until they're alone and they cry. they cry and scream and curse whatever archons or god's are listening.

AND NOW BEFORE I CRY THE HAPPIER VERSION

After days of not waking up, they finally open their eyes.

Lyney is fretting over them asking if they know where they are, who he is, what happened etc

now to throw in a tidbit of angst, what if they awoke with some disability? like they cant see anymore, they can't hear properly, cant walk properly etc

Lyney and Freminet would devasted because they blame themselves. Lynette would be quick to remind her brothers at least everyone is alive.

It'd be bad because with a disability, they can't work for Father anymore, or at least not the way they used to

AHHEOGUHEOG im stuck in a neverending brain rot my guy

Anyways. I was actually going to request for you to write your own take on this but you don't have to if you dont want- even just hearing your take would be nice lmao

also if its ok i reallly wanna be mutuals! I just found you blog and im obssesed!! I really wanna be friends<3

NO BECAUSE I SCREECHED SO LOUD MULTIPLE TIMES READING THIS !! THANK U SO MUCH YES OFC I WANNA BE MUTUALS/FRIENDS!! genuinely absolutely made my day to have u ask that oh my god??

also don’t worry about spoiling anything for me, i’ve read every little bit of lyney/lynette/freminet lore out there 😭 and i’ve done all of the new fontaine archon quests already (i need help. it’s okay though!)

as for angst — u know me so well already this is my forte. cracks knuckles here i go

freminet feels as if something is off.

already beginning to panic, he turns to you in a hurry. the water swishes in his ears. when you meet his gaze, wide-eyed, the gut ‘feeling’ turns into a full-blown punch to it. oh, now he realizes; he can’t breathe. his heart’s racing, chest tightening and throat feeling as if it’s closing up.

you reach out, and exchanging unspoken words, you two turn around and make to retrace your patterns with haste. hand in hand, you race against frittered time; but even your best efforts are not enough, and the both of you are forced to acknowledge it when freminet’s vision begins to turn spotty.

he got in the water first; he’s gone before you are. his body floats limp beside you as you drag him along through the water, even as the surroundings grow hazy for you, too. a cold tingle runs up your spine as you consider the possibility; is this the end?

(when you had left for the pipes, the most you had exchanged with lyney was a quick kiss on the cheek as a goodbye. that wouldn’t do.)

but even as you try desperately to cling to life .. the “sea” is a cruel thing, and it does not care for your mortal frivolities. (a proper goodbye? .. foolish.) with cold, disorienting water enveloping your senses from all sides, your only grounding thing being freminet’s (rapidly cooling) fingers against yours — it didn’t take long before you succumbed to the “sea”, too.

(your last thought as the world went dark was “i’m sorry.”)

(even in your barely conscious state, you feel another wave of panic surge through you when freminet’s fingers slip away from yours — but you don’t have enough energy to hold on.)

reader lives:

the incessant thrum of the water rushing through pipes rattled in your ears. your whole body was sore, weak and tired; and all of your limbs felt like lead attached to you via shoddy workmanship. your head hurt like hell, and what’s worse is that the moment you opened your eyes, you were immediately met with the sight of the three people you cherished most.

first, there was freminet, who was sitting on the bed opposite to yours. his posture fixes from a slouch into proper the moment he spots you, perhaps in.. excitement? shock? you weren’t sure. his eyes lit up, though.

second, there was lynette. she was .. a bit more on edge than usual. that was .. to be expected, of course, but really. you were out for.. what, an hour or two? come on, all four of you put yourselves in danger all the time. what was different about this?

(what was different was the fact that you were not out for an hour or two. no, make that days. they were sure to remind you of this.)

then, there was lyney. for him, the world seemed to stop.

lyney, who was pacing the room in sheer desperation. he walked and walked, boots timed and in tune with the clocks and dripping water from the pipes. in his nervousness, he had unwittingly created a quite fitting melody.

(the only sounds once he ceases walking are the clocks and the water dripping from the pipes.)

lyney, who had rushed to your bedside the moment he had noticed you were up. he looked exhausted, but the second you were awake the mask was .. attempted .. to be put back on. however .. it didn’t take someone as observant as you, or even one who knew him so well, to notice that it was placed crooked.

(how absurd he looked, trying to put on a front everyone in the room knew was one.)

why, even, you would have bet that it could’ve been surmised by a child. once again, emphasis on ‘you would have’, for there was no time for thinking about that when he rushed to your bedside and enveloped you into an embrace. you didn’t miss the way his fingers grasped at the back of your shirt in downright desperation.

(in clear, bold letters, it reads; “if nothing else, please let this be real.”)

he slots himself beside you and, wordlessly, holds you close. he doesn’t need words — neither of you do. this is enough.

lynette and freminet looked on, neither of them opening their mouths when lyney buries his face into the crook of your neck and stays there for just a bit too long. he doesn’t cry. instead, he whispers shakily against your skin; “i thought i’d lost you.”

(the only sounds once he ceases speaking are the clocks and the water dripping from the pipes.

(no one speaks up just yet.)

(the only sounds in the room are the clocks and the water dripping from the pipes.)

(you’re starting to think those were the only sounds ever there.)

when he finally pulls away, you notice he’s fixed his mask. lyney now smiles, and the shake in his voice is gone; but you know it’s not all better, not when he refuses to leave the infirmary even after sigewinne and the traveler inquire. you know it’s not all better, not when the four of you are alone again. lyney sits beside you on the bed, refusing to so much as stand up (he doesn’t want to let go of your hand. you don’t comment on it, but his fingers are still shaky as he holds onto yours like they’re a lifeline.)

you don’t exchange as much as a single word after that. you just bask in each other’s presence, apologies and pleas and “i love you” shared during every lingering glance between everyone in the room.

the four of you don’t need words. this is enough.

reader dies:

seven mistakes went unnoticed. seven signs went unfollowed. seven things (and five people) went wrong that day.

one: freminet.

it was entirely freminet’s fault, he thinks, it was. if only he had gotten you out of there in time. no — he shouldn’t have even brought you. he sits on the infirmary bed opposite to yours, knees pulled up to his chest, and he clutches pers with a death grip. he dips his head in such a way that his face is hidden with his hair; he doesn’t want to let lyney and lynette see him in this state. they have enough to deal with.

two: the primordial sea.

but they were bound to notice eventually, right?

“it was entirely the primordial sea’s fault,” lynette would remind, hand on freminet’s shoulder. “it wasn’t yours.”

the primordial sea. the cold and vicious waters were such a contrast to those he held so dear; what was typically calming and merciful turned to something suffocating and terrifying. but that didn’t change the fact that it was an inanimate thing.

he drops pers at the contact; it clatters to the floor; he looks down, wide-eyed and apologetic; he reaches down to pick it up. lynette does not put her hand on his shoulder again.

three: wriothesley.

“it was entirely wriothesley’s fault,” lyney wants to scream. he’s frantic, pacing the infirmary and voice cracking every time he speaks. lynette and freminet have seldom seen him so panicked. he needs to do something, he needs— he can’t. he can’t leave. once he gets his hands on wriothesley, he swears he’ll—

four: clorinde.

it was entirely clorinde’s fault. it was entirely her choice to pick only one of you to save. no one can bring themselves to be upset at her, for she did try to save both of you. but the realization slowly dawns upon the three children of the house of the hearth still with a steady heartbeat; it was either going to be you or freminet.

they realize this at different times. every time they do, they exchange a silent, quick glance.

freminet would’ve gladly given up his life. lyney and lynette, however .. they would not have been able to choose.

five: the gods.

it was entirely the gods’ fault. curse the gods, lyney thinks. he’s still pacing the room, and while he never put much stock in the divine, he was practically yelling at them now. he knew it wasn’t logical. but he needed something. what was the point of a god if not to help their people? what was the point of a god if just to watch people suffer like it’s an opera?

was she here now? was she watching? was this a “twist” for her? did she delight in this?

six: lyney.

it was entirely lyney’s fault. he shouldn’t have let you or freminet go. he shouldn’t have. he shouldn’t have let wriothesley play him like he was a deck of cards in his hands. this was all his fault. all his fault. he knew of the prophecy, dedicated his whole life to it — and yet hadn’t managed to save you from its clutches?

seven: you.

in truth — it was no one’s fault. but lyney is still pacing the room, breathing getting heavier and more rapid every time he steals a glance at you. lynette’s eyes still trace his every move, conveniently ignoring the sight of you as best she could; and freminet still has his face buried in his knees as to not look at your decaying body.

none of them can deal with the fact that it was simply an accident. no one meant for this to happen — there was no one to blame.

they needed someone to blame.

so each and every one of them blamed themselves. as lyney’s fingers grasped your cold ones, he squeezed them softly even as they began to turn blue beneath his grasp. he couldn’t bare to let you go.

and after three long days, the sun rose to find your bed empty where you had laid. you were nowhere to be found. for a moment, lyney’s heart practically leapt out of his chest, wondering .. did you get up?

but as he rushes to the bedside, his face falls. he should’ve known not to get his hopes up.

the blankets were damp where you had laid, soaked with water just as the stage in the opera epiclese had been.

lyney didn’t cry, nor did lynette or freminet.

they didn’t exchange so much as a word the day you died.

instead, they put their aching hearts and empty souls into the mission at hand. they worked twice as hard to distract themselves, and they provided excellent results for “father” — but they had barely worked together to do so.

they exchanged cold words and they held each other at night, when the pain became too much — because as much as they tried to pretend like nothing happened, that was a lie, just as the rest of their existence — but there was no mistaking it. they were now divided.

there was always you. and now there wasn’t.

lynette was the one who informed “father” of your .. whereabouts. lyney couldn’t bring himself to.

[noxemma]

Dean Winchester is Saved!

Today is 16 years since Cas raised Dean from Hell, since that profound bond was formed, since Cas realized that Dean didn’t think he deserved to be saved.

Lazarus Rising changed my DNA in the best way possible. It was the beginning of a love story that has rotted my brain for years. And this episode specifically prompted me to write my first fic that was more than a thousand words and wasn’t inspired by a prompt.

Almost two years ago I made this note which started me writing and posting nearly 11k solely about an alternate Lazarus Rising where we see the profound bond form and the interaction of Cas and Dean in Hell, where Dean’s been torturing souls.

Anyway if that sounds interesting I put the link and a snippet of the fic below. Happy Lazarus Rising, Destiel Beginning, Dean is Saved Day!

Before Lazarus Rose

Summary: What if Cas and Dean met and formed this amazing bond (profound perhaps) before the iconic meeting in 4x01 but had their memory of it wiped? OR What happened in Hell when Castiel rescued Dean and why doesn't Dean remember it?

Dean

Pain. Never-ending pain is all Dean has known for the last thirty years. Even the few times he’s been allowed to fall asleep, to fall unconscious, he’s had nightmares.   His body and mind are so broken, so fractured, that his dreams are as well. He sees blue light and screams for someone, anyone, to help him. He begs and pleads for someone to save him until his voice gives out.

Doesn’t matter whether you are in Hell or topside, dreams don’t do a damn thing, Dean thinks blearily. He flinches against the chains in his flesh as Alastair draws near. “What shall we try today, hmm?” Alastair pulls out several knives, observing each one before settling on a small paring knife. “I think this will do. You know a smaller blade will take longer, take more effort; it’s … intimate.”

Alastair continues to teach as he slowly carves Dean’s skin from muscle, as he slowly cuts out organs. The commentary, Dean quickly decides, is worse than the physical pain. The pain blurs together, but the tricks of torture bury themself in his mind. He can look at Alastair’s rack of tools and remember what each one is best used for, how much pain each imparts on different areas of the body, and how long each takes to decimate a soul. While his own body is rejuvenated each day, the thirty years of knowledge continues to fester like his soul.

When he’s finally reduced to a mere consciousness tethered to a soul, Alastair whispers into the bits of blood and bone that used to be him. “Well? I’ll put down my blade if you pick one up.” It’s all too much. Too much pain, too much cruel knowledge. He’s not strong enough, he’s never been strong enough.

“Going once …”

How long can he actually hold out for anyway? Isn’t the end inevitable? After thirty years of pleading into the void, he has to accept the truth. No help is coming. “Going twice …” Even if he was rescued, his soul is already black and tarnished. He’s already in Hell with no hope of getting out. He was already broken before he arrived.

“Can’t say I’m not disappointed, Dean. You have such potential. We could have had a good thi-”

“I’ll do it.” Dean knows he should feel something. He should feel remorse or relief, but all he feels is resignation. This was always the end he was bound for. His body returns to him as Alastair grins and, for the first time in 360 months, Dean is able to step off the rack. For the first time in 10,950 days, Dean’s body and soul are his to control. There is still pain, still bits of Hell stuck in his soul, but this small bit of freedom and control is enough to ignore it. Dean grabs the paring knife and begins. Something in him fractures beyond repair at the first drop of blood. He knows that whatever goodness was in him is gone. Each soul after tears away more of him and replaces it with something dark and unfamiliar beneath his skin. He still thinks he deserved those thirty years of pain, but it gets easier as the years go on. Soul-deep exhaustion and numbness replace the pain with each piece of himself that he carves away. Eventually, he stops counting the souls, he stops counting the days too. He starts believing that the souls deserve it, they are in Hell after all. He even begins to enjoy it. After all he’s endured in life and death, it feels good to finally be the one to deal out some pain instead of constantly being on the receiving end.

[quietwingsinthesky]

Two Birds With One Saw

Rating: Mature

Archive Warning: Graphic Depictions Of Violence

Fandom: Supernatural

Ship: Gen (Dean & Sam)

Additional Tags: Amputation, Blood and Gore, Major Character Injury, Suicidal Thoughts, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Vomiting, Fainting, Season/Series 10, Cure for the Mark of Cain (Supernatural), Phone Calls & Telephones, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Dean Winchester Whump, Hurt Dean Winchester

Wordcount: 2363

Summary:

Dean is going to get rid of the Mark of Cain, whatever it takes. He’s going to have to do it alone.

Dad had taught Dean how to make a tourniquet when he was eleven years old. He’d known how to do it desperate, when you had few supplies and fewer minutes to stop the bleeding before you were carrying a corpse back rather than your buddy. Dean hadn’t asked then, and never did, how many times John got it wrong before he’d gotten any good at them. It wasn’t the sort of thing that occurred to a kid, not one who saw their dad take down creatures twice his size to protect his son, the one he sat out in the open to lure them in. It came to Dean a lot more as an adult when the people dared care about dropped like flies around him.

It felt like their world had gotten so much smaller, though it was already a corner all their own to begin with, only a few familiar faces popping in to say hi. Dad’s bones would be rotted clean by now if Dean hadn’t burned them himself. Jo and Ellen were ghosts that Dean had trouble remembering the voices of. Rufus went out too quickly to say goodbye, and Bobby went out too slowly for it not to hurt. The old guard was down to him and Sam.

And the Mark on Dean’s arm made him more monster than man. Hell, if Dean was someone else, he’d want to hunt himself. Not that it would do any good, down for the count an hour or three and back out of the grave with black eyes and a fuzzy grasp on why he shouldn’t bash his brother’s brains in.

Dean shuddered. His arm was almost numb below his elbow. The tourniquet squeezed the life out of him, but even through the dim sensation beyond it, he felt the Mark digging its claws into him as deep as it could. Dean grinned, drunk off the adrenaline seeing the saw he’d sharpened up for this sent through his body.

And off of the bottles littering the floor around their kitchen counter. It had seemed funny when he handcuffed himself to it: chopping a hunk of himself off where he cut up the deli meat from that little place Sam liked. He couldn’t feel the cold metal of the cuff anymore or the counter beneath his arm. There was only dull pressure left. He glanced down at his fingers and moved them barely. The were tipped in blue.

Dean reached for his phone. He tapped out Sam’s phone number and held it to his ear until he heard it ring. The sound of it rattled through Dean’s skull as his vision swam. He leaned more of his weight against the counter. His other hand clenched up into a fist. The saw glinted his own determined expression back at him, teeth bared for both him and the weapon he’d use to set himself free. Sam’s phone rang twice before he picked it up.

“Hey-”

“I’m cutting it off,” Dean told him. There wasn’t a point in beating around the bush. Sam’s silence was one of shocked confusion.

“Sorry?” He paused, and without seeing him, Dean could picture his frown perfectly, a wrinkle between his brows and his nose scrunched up. He’d been doing it since he was a kid. Dean wondered if Sam knew how much he looked like Dad when he made that face. “Are you drunk?”

“Very,” Dean answered. He’d done his job in worse condition. Sam knew that. “I’m only calling to make sure you start heading home. I don’t want to die of blood loss.”

“What?” Sam said, alarmed now. He couldn’t write whatever Dean was saying off to drunken rambles. Good. This was serious. “Dean-”

“Listen. My arm. The one with the Mark. I’m cutting it off. No more fucking around trying to find a cure. I’m taking care of it, Sammy.” He heard Sam’s breathing pick up on the other end of the phone. He’d be paler, Dean thought, and his eyes would be wide and watery with panic.

“Dean, don’t. You-”

“I didn’t call you to talk me out of it,” he snapped, a tendril of anger that was clever enough to feel like his own strangling him. He tried to rein it back in, but he still sounded like he was trying to bite Sam’s head off. “Get in your car. Go back to the Bunker. Get ready to keep me from dying.”

Sam didn’t say a word. All Dean could hear was his breathing and the faint sound of his pacing footsteps. Dean stared down at the saw. It was so easy. He couldn’t believe they hadn’t thought of it before. If he trusted Sam to make the tough call, he’d have had him here to take the damn arm off himself while Dean was strapped down, but Sam wasn’t capable of that anymore. (And Dean was good at telling him what was going to happen over the phone, but facing down those eyes begging him to stop in person? He couldn’t take the chance that he’d back down. This was for Sam’s own good as much as Dean’s.)

“No,” Sam said, his voice shaking. “I’m- I’m not. I’m staying right here.” Dean glared at the opposite wall. The Mark whispered to him a tempting fantasy, his hands around Sam’s neck, choking him out until the only words out of his mouth were, Yes, sir. I’m on my way.

Dean bashed his fist against the counter. He didn’t have to see Sam flinch. He knew it had happened. No matter how far away Sam was from him right now, he was still scared of Dean.

“What the Hell do you mean ‘no’?” Dean demanded.

“I’m not coming. I’m not going home to find you bleeding out on the floor.” Dean worked his jaw. It stung like betrayal, but he knew his brother better. Sam was aiming higher than that. He was looking for a bluff that didn’t exist, thinking he could make Dean stop if he stayed away. Dean let out a long, slow exhale. Calm settled over him. The Mark’s heartbeat was steady up his numb arm, and he didn’t care what he had to do to silence it.

“You’ve been waiting for this.” Dean knew where Sam was tender, easy to bruise. “Want me to know you keep your word, huh? Same circumstances, you won’t lift a finger to keep me from death’s door.” Sam made a noise, soft and hurt like a prey animal in the jaws of something hungry.

“That’s not-”

“You talk a big game about curing the Mark and saving me, but you don’t mean it. You’re just going to leave me to die.” Dean bit down harder, wringing more pained noises from Sam’s throat with each accusation.

“You won’t.” He didn’t know what Sam’s aiming for, but it ended up as begging. “You won’t do it. You’ll die if I don’t come, and I won’t, so-”

“So what?” Dean took the phone from his ear and set it down, turning it to speaker. “You don’t care enough to come save me. Why should I care if I live through this?” He was already a zombie thrice over, or a ghost, or a demon. If death wanted him so bad and Sam didn’t, why not hand himself over already, get rid of two cursed things with one fell chop?

“Dean-” Sam stopped, like he’d registered the change in Dean’s voice, how much further away he sounded from the speaker. Panic rose in him. “Dean, wait! Don’t do this!” Dean ignored him. The saw had a good weight to it, and Dean had been sharpening it to perfection for days alone in his room. Sam didn’t even notice. “Dean, please!” Sam made a sound Dean recognized as a sob, but that didn’t move him. That horrible pulse was drowning out Sam’s voice, leaving only Dean’s need to get rid of it. “I’ll come!” Sam pleaded, voice cracking, “I’ll come right now, just don’t hurt yourself. I didn’t mean it, okay? I’d do anything to save you. You were right. That’s what we do.”

“Glad you’re seeing reason,” Dean told Sam as he rested the teeth of the blade against his arm. Short hairs sheared away from his skin from how sharp the edge was. Sam’s footsteps pounded over the other end of the line, carrying him obediently back to his car and back to the Bunker. He adjusted his grip on the saw. The angle would be awkward, and Dean wasn’t sure how far he would manage to get through before he passed out.

“You’ll stop?” Sam said, with a beaten sort of hope.

“If you get here and this thing isn’t off of me, forget about saving my life. You saw the rest of it off first.” Dean heard the sound of a car door slamming shut.

“Don’t-”

“Hanging up now, Sam.”

“Wait!” Dean stopped just before he did. He could hear Sam’s shaky inhale. “Dean, if you’re dead before I get there…” He couldn’t finish that. Dean understood. There was no way to get used to the sight of your brother’s corpse.

For only a moment, Dean hesitated. Sam didn’t take his death well last time.

If he died right, that wouldn’t be his problem anymore, whispered something that had learned how to mimic his inner voice almost perfectly. He’d get Sam back eventually when he died, too. That was what mattered. He’d go out in a bloody blaze of glory and get his reward at the end.

“Don’t hang up,” Sam pleaded.

“I don’t want your last memories of me to be me screaming my head off,” Dean said. It had the shape of a joke, but it was built with too much honesty to hold itself up. It crumpled between them.

“Then don’t do this,” Sam said. Dean could hear the sound of Baby’s engine.

“Treat my car better this time.” The tourniquet was done right, but Sam could be minutes or hours away. Dean was starting to realize, no matter how tight he’d wrapped it, he hadn’t expected anyone to bring him back from this war. Not even Sam.

That thought didn’t make him hesitate the way widowing Sam did. Dean always knew he would die for the cause. He shut his eyes, bit the collar of his flannel between his teeth, and began to saw.

The pain burst up through the numb flesh like fireworks. Dean grunted as blood filled his vision, but he didn’t stop the harsh motion. The Mark pulsed with fury as Dean sawed into his arm. He tried to gauge through the pain if he was bleeding more or less than he should be, but that was a useless endeavor. He wasn’t stopping either way.

The saw freed fat from around his muscles, and Dean screamed for the first time. He could hear Sam yelling over the phone. His voice swirled around Dean’s head. Dean’s name joined the rhythm filling his ears, the Mark’s pulse against his own pounding heartbeat, the pain coming in waves against his brother’s terrified calls. Dean bore his weight down on the saw. He swore he could feel the muscle separating under the serrated edge. His arm split open into ugly meat. Dean’s suffocated blue fingers twitched at the end of it, but he couldn’t feel that, only watch them.

He hit bone faster than he thought he would. It resisted more than the rest of him, but Dean was going to break it off no matter what. His vision danced with black spots, grey at the edges and blurry in the middle. The white of his bones sticking through his cleaved muscle was the only thing he could focus on.

His own screams were in the chorus now. It didn’t feel like he was even making them anymore. His body was breaking apart. The only bits that still felt attached to him were the arm coming off and the one removing it. His legs were long gone, trapping him against the counter. His mouth wasn’t under his control anymore, and he could have been babbling anything to Sam without being aware of it. His bones cracked under the pressure of the saw, and he heard another of his own screams.

When he broke through the bone, he threw up. He wasn’t even aware of it until it was out of his throat, leaving only the burning taste of acid behind. He barely turned his head from his arm. Vomit splattered over his open wound and the tourniquet, burning against the wound. He could hear Sam say something, but it was all just noise now. A hum built up of everything Dean could still register. He might have yelled at Sam to shut up or might have only imagined doing so.

He rallied all the strength he had left. It wasn’t much, but supplemented with stubbornness, which he had in spades, it would get him through carving up the rest of his arm.

He didn’t notice the space between severing his tendons and lying on his back on the floor. He didn’t remember sawing through the last flaps of skin holding his arm together. He turned his head, but his arm was too far away, bent the wrong way. His hand reached back towards him, corpselike fingers curled stiffly against the floor. Dean stared at it. He raised his arm to get a better look at the saw wound, grasping weakly with his other hand for the saw but not finding it anywhere on the floor on his other side.

His upper arm moved. His hand stayed where it was until the sawed off stump below the tourniquet, sluggishly bleeding out, nudged against his fingers.

Dean laughed. He couldn’t feel the Mark anymore.

He couldn’t hear himself laughing either. He just felt the way his chest convulsed and his lips pulled wide across his face. He couldn’t hear anything at all. He blinked, and his hand seemed to blur. He blinked again, and all that was left was blotches of dim color across his vision.

He shut his eyes, and there was only darkness.

(Enjoyed it? Any interaction is welcomed. You can even support me on Ko-Fi <3)

[benefits1986]

JOMO & Freedive

The only time you’ll see how precious the breath is comes when you’re down to your last one.  Trigger warning: Just in case you’re in the multiverse of suicide or have someone who’s battling it, this may be one curious read. Maybe, just, maybe.  2012. The year mother dragon left me after 8 years of trying to cheat death together. It was also the year when I got accepted in my masters in my dream school which took forever. More so, I also got my first dibs in photography; however, I found myself in a really hopeless state and while I’ve been looking totally fine and unbothered outside, my insides are rotting in pain, in anger, in confusion.  My salvation to hopefully end things in a poetic way? Solo adventure travels. Since her last night on earth coincided with my 26th birthday, I always go out of Manila to escape the messy brain and fucked up spirit --all that was left of me when I thought I can friggin’ slay it all and slay them all. This spiral was not something I saw coming since I always get a thing I focus on how I want it, when I want it and where I want it.  Losing mom didn’t just feel as though I was thrown under a train. Every birthday was a reminder of how much I failed her, and failed me, too. I thought we’d make it but all the while, I was building a fortress laced in fantasy to mask the harsh realities that are obviously bound to happen anyway, any time.  Even when I knew I was cheating death with mom, even if we’ve been giving 10 years max, deep inside, I wanted more time, more years, more memories and more stories with her. I simply wanted to live a normal life as a 20-something then; but, the truth is that I didn’t bother giving a fuck about was that our timeline is a weird one as it is bound by mom being a case study while I try to manage every tiny bit of detail I can control. Defying statistics even when it’s really impossible was my drug. 

Eventually, mom’s body started shutting down. Me? Not shutting up as I convinced her to give things one more try. Looking back, she was not afraid of dying. Truth is, I was so afraid of losing her. She has been my rock in whatever season but that rock was shaken and is no longer solid. I didn’t budge. I can’t be moved, or at least, I thought so.  Losing mom is a tabula rasa, supposedly one that could have been full of new beginnings, of new hope filled with an avalanche of blessings.  Moving this tabula rasa, though is where I slipped, fell and spiraled.  I felt that all the new beginnings I’ve been handed are but shabby consolation prizes. I still kept her SMS where she told me how proud she is that two of my bucket lists are coming back to back in 2012. I questioned why can’t I have it all for once in my life? I have two hands, both are able and willing, but it seemed like my two hands were not enough to catch mom with my right and my dreams with my left. Was that too much to ask? Was it? 

The thing about mid-20s is that usually, people feel they’ve reached the pinnacle of adulthood. LOL. Blame it on crappy media that makes people see that 30s is the be-all, end-all game. Mid-20s is a social construct where people scramble to “living their lives like they’re golden” era. Marriage, career, starting a family, building a dream home, cars, travels... you name it. Truth is, your mid-20s is where you’re likely to make off the roof mistakes, learn from them and eventually, bring the lessons to your 30s and 40s. I actually looked past all these social constructs because my game, my only one, is mother dragon. I wanted to let her see how my 30-something self will look and feel like. 

Hitting the big 3-0 with a bang is but a dream, a media monopoly dream with consumerism at its core. Can’t believe I’m able to say this, but I feel fine at 37. Not as young but not too old. And that, I’ve already been able to inch my way to stop comparing ME to ME. I realized that I’ve not been only been comparing my timeline to other people’s timeline. The worst bit? I compare myself to my vision of myself that wasn’t tested by time and tribulations. While I get validation and affirmation, my measuring stick does not match my realities. When I fail, I triple down on punishing myself when no one is watching via really bad self-talk. I thought that zooming in only on my darkest shadows and not appreciating the lovely ambient lights that go with is the best way to keep me aligned, to keep me grounded. Later, I found myself five feet under the ground, almost pointless, almost non-existent, deep down.  So, where does FOMO and freedive enter the frame?  A while ago, dad and I watched a Coron EP,  a random view that brought back Coron in 2018. It was where dad and I started to patch up of dynamics and jumpstarted our connection. Since dad is my YES man, he just shrugged his shoulders when I egged our tour guide to show me how to freedive. I reasoned out that since I love to swim and that the water is so still, giving freediving a go in the beautiful Barracuda Lake is a must try. The thing is I didn’t have any freediving lessons. Dad was on his toes but I assured him that since our guide is also a lifeguard, if all else fails, he’d rescue me. I was also able to use two things why I’d swing this. First, dad taught me how to swim by literally making me do cliff dives since I was in 5 complete with river rapids. By 6 or 7, I can happily jump off bigger cliffs even if those jumps resulted to bruises and cuts. Second, I’ve been a water baby since 9 months. LOL. Also, was able to take swimming lessons since Grade 3 until Grade 6.  After a stick of cig, the tour guide and I started with the basics. Task one was to hang onto to the poles under the walkway. It’s to test if I can go deep in the water without panicking. As I went down, my heart leaped as I was greeted by an awesome shade of “clear” blue and rock formations that are so otherworldly. A few more practices later, the tour guide said that it’s time to give my first freedive a shot. He handed me the googles but I didn’t go with flippers. He was taken aback but agreed. He told me again that I just have one breath to manage and that I should not go too deep as it was my first time.  He pushed me into the clear blue still water and I was able to swim deep, then deeper and deeper. I looked around and saw my tour guide and dad from above watching me. I got a little deeper still as I felt like on top of this lake’s universe. Funny, I know; but that’s how I felt, really. I had this lake all to myself, too.  Then I stopped. Looked up and realized that I must have gotten too deeply. I tried to stay calm and focused even when my heart is pounding with excitement and fear. I wanted to stay here, but I am running out of breath. 

Right there at the bottom of the lake, I was faced with yet another “solo adventure travel” chance to end it all. Poetic. Check. One for the books. Check. Convenient and fast. Check. I closed my eyes and felt mother dragon’s warmth as though she was saying that one breath is all I have, and one breath is all it takes. Must be watching Harry Potter x Game of Thrones x Black Mirror way too much, hence this particular scene.  I opened my eye and looked up. Dad is waiting for me and it brought me back to the time when I jumped from a cliff a little too high and was too distracted because my cuts and bruises roared louder than usual. I had to go back. I wanted to go back. I may be running out of breath, but I am still breathing; only more alive, this time around.  Anxiety built up because I’ve gotten too deep, indeed. My breath was running out faster than I thought. One of the best lessons I got real quick from the tour guide was that I need not worry because the water here is a mix of salty and fresh. I just had to keep still and eventually, I will float up the surface. I stopped dead for a moment to manage my anxiety. When I felt the stillness of the clear blue water once more, I the flow to take over.  My head popped out of Barracuda Lake and I live to tell this tiny tale.  

My GoPro died so this core memory was not captured; but, hey, the best memories are those that don’t usually have snaps, right? Memories like this one feel more alive when you try to freeze them in your head and spirit. And here is where JOMO comes in.  JOMO means JOY OF MISSING OUT. Been floating the past years but still not getting enough traction, though I believe it’s its way. Live for stories that makes you more alive and allows you to take every single breath of take with full intention. It’s a  small “we’re all but one breath”world, after all.  How does JOMO look like?  It’s when you choose to stay still even when the world is shaking about non-essentials.  It’s picking your fights because it’s better to be loving than to be right.  It’s when you look at the mirror and decide to be kinder to yourself.  It’s when you stop looking at The Feed to stop feeding The Greed.  It’s when you give more thanks, rather than asking for more.  It’s when you find sheer joy in “LET IT BE” instead of being too immersed in  A HARD DAY’S NIGHT, yet again.  JOMO be with you! 

[psychewritesbs]

Chapter 175: Sendai Colony, No. 2: “Why kill us?” or this is how I became a Cursed Spirit apologist + That one time Gege said “I don’t do romance” and gave us a panel of Yuta French Kissing a cockroach

Happy JJK-Sunday!

I am happy the roach is going away. Like... I don’t even know it’s name. Kurusomething? Whatever. It’s been exterminated. Sorry I am not sorry Cockroach cursed spirit. Or am I?

Problem is... Kuruwhateveritsnameis (I refuse to memorize its name) kind of got me thinking about the origin of curses and this whole storyline about sentient curses seeking to become “the new humans”.

So... great! I hate cockroaches and I’m about to brain rot about one... fabulous. Thanks Gege!

There is honestly not much to say about this chapter, which is perhaps why I’ve gone on a tangent.

But... 

Actual gif of the look on my face while reading this chapter, except my cup was holding copious amounts of honshu/sake which I promptly drank to forget my cockroach-induced woes. It was a terrible idea... kids, don’t try this at home.

Ok, like I know I am super late to the party and this was explained right from the beginning but... I can be kind of dense sometimes and this chapter helped me really understand how Cursed Spirits are born.

The origin of Cursed Spirits

MORE importantly, I need you to know that I overcame my disgust for cockroaches just so I could show you the face of an American cockroach.

You’re welcome.

But... even MORE importantly, what I want you to notice is the emotions you are experiencing while looking at our friend Kururin here. Kururin is like a train wreck. You want to look away but you can’t--which kind of does one of two things: it either desensitizes you to how it looks, or it intensifies the negative emotions you have about it.

That’s cursed energy. And enough of us focusing on that negative emotion about Kururin means that a Cursed Spirit is born from our collective negative emotions about cockroaches. 

I sort of just figured this out myself even tho I’ve been reading jjk how long now? 

The thing about this idea of curses being born from focused negative human emotion is that this is, culturally-speaking, the every day reality of many people with an Eastern mindset. 

For those of us in the West, (while I am totally generalizing here) human negative emotion is something the “Devil” plants in us. 

And so what Yuta is mouth-to-mouthing in this chapter, is the physical manifestation of our collective negative emotions about cockroaches. I know, I know. duh... 

I am assuming that the stronger the emotion, the stronger the Cursed Spirit.

But then... how does a curse obtain a consciousness or an awareness of itself? 

How does a curse become aware of itself as a separate entity with an agency of its own?

I can’t pull panels to illustrate this idea because I can’t remember where to find them (if you remember, please let me know) but apparently, it is not common for a curse to be sentient the way Jogo, Dagon, Hanami and Mahito are.

And now Kururin, an unregistered Cursed Spirit, is not only demonstrating he has a certain level of conscious awareness by asking a human “why kill us?,” it also has some level of ego development to be able to realize that it’s motivation to kill humans comes from it liking the taste of iron.

If I had to guess, I would say that Kururin has the ego developmental maturity of a 2 year old human child. Developmentally-speaking, the ego becomes aware of itself as a separate entity from the “mother” at around that age.

So it’s interesting to me to think that our collective negative emotions can take form and become sentient in their own right.

And since it is a sentient being, Kururin here is not wrong in asking “why kill us?” Whether it’s referring to “cockroaches” as insects, or to cursed spirits in general.

Really, why hinder them and why kill them when we created them? Literally.

WE birthed Kururin the way we birthed Jogo, Dagon, Hanami and Mahito.

Imagine the Judeo-Christian God turning around and saying “you are a curse to the planet and I shall destroy you now!” Wait... I think that’s actually what is supposed to happen.

In Chris Cornell’s own words, “nail in my head from my creator. You gave me life, so show me how to live”. Gotta love me some Tom Morello and Chris Cornell teaming up.

And while I know the right answer is to say that Jujutsu Sorcerers are trying to protect humans from the curses they themselves bring upon themselves, it is starting to feel like an exercise in futility and I can see why Geto broke, and why Atsumo Yuki is looking for a way to break the cycle.

The Jujutsu world is basically a well-oiled cog machine stuck in a never ending cycle of death and rebirth. Think of how these sentient Cursed Spirits all knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that they will re-incarnate in a new form. 

Why? Because the fear that humans have about the forces of nature that these 3 Cursed Spirits represent is not going away any time soon.

Come to think of it, I would imagine there is a lot of money and power to be made by a single few with this system in place. 

The new humans

All of this reminded me of Jogo’s goal to become the “new humans”. 

Again, I get that the morally correct answer is that because Cursed Spirits hurt humans, then they must be eradicated. 

And yet... why wouldn’t a Cursed Spirit, a sentient Cursed Spirit at that, seek to stay alive? 

Why would it not seek to ensure its survival? 

Why would a Cursed Spirit not seek retaliation against the very force that created it and now wants to destroy it?

I have to say I just love so much the great lengths that Gege goes through to humanize Cursed Spirits and to juxtapose their motives to humanity’s inhumanity. 

More specifically, Jogo’s last moment as a sentient being in this plane of existence is actually deeply touching. Especially when daddy Sukuna, the King of Curses himself, tells Jogo to stand proud for being strong.

And the irony of this moment, at least to me, is that Jogo displays a very human reaction to Sukuna’s praise--tears; while Sukuna’s reaction (who is technically embodied by a human) is rather inhuman. So much to unpack there!

Such is the cycle of Samsara for a Cursed Spirit.

In other words, Cursed Spirits are an inevitability of human existence. 

This is what it means for fate to be preordained. 

While they have free will, a Cursed Spirit’s pre-ordained fate is to be born out of human emotions only to be slain by them.

They too are a cog in the system.

And speaking of cogs in the system...

Yuta, the prodigy

I guess this is where Yuta, the cockroach French kissing prodigy, fits in as the prodigy freak that he is. He is a human with access to insane amounts of cursed energy/negative emotions, he can copy cursed techniques and he can use reversed cursed technique. 

Oh, and let’s not forget he can create curses that he can consciously control--and then he names them Rika.

Yuta is someone who does not fit the clean-cut definition of Jujutsu Sorcerer that the higher ups like. 

And while Sukuna is irredeemably evil and truly dangerous, I kind of have to wonder whether there is an ulterior motive for the higher ups to be hell-bent on Sukuna getting executed the way they had intended for Yuta to be executed.

Anyways... all this to say that I am looking forward to seeing what Gege makes of this storyline about sentient Cursed Spirits and the resolution for living in a world without Cursed Energy, and that I have become a Cursed Spirit apologist.

Sorry I’m not sorry.

If you’ve made it this far, thank you as always for reading and happy JJK-Sunday!

[fluffynexu]

imperial life (sorta)

life within the empire is very structured. it’s a society where everyone Knows Their Place and what they’re supposed to be doing.

for ex. there is a certain “life schedule” that imperial citizens are expected to adhere to.

ages:

0-5, raised by family as infants. sent to daycare during toddler years.

5-10, primary school. begin basic education.

10-15, junior school. continue education.

15-20, senior school. start some training alongside education.

20-25/30, MANDATORY SERVICE TIME.

25/30+, marriage and having children encouraged and you can live your life.

now after an individual completes their mandatory time actively serving, they can either continue to serve or return to other jobs and functions in the empire.

so you can have someone who was a foot soldier or sniper during their service time, but then return to “civilian” life as a florist or school teacher.

the sith follow a similar “life schedule”.

ages:

0-5, raised by family and like minded peer groups.

5-10, primary academy. basic training and education.

10-15, secondary academy. continued training and education.

15-20, preparatory academy. continued training and education.

20+, sith academy (proper) and from there, it depends on the individual sith’s master and rank.

tho the purebloods have a tendency to marry their children off after at the age of 20 (or young 20s) in hopes of procuring grandchildren (and therefore, securing family legacies) before anything... unfortunate happens.

another aspect of imperial life that is deeply entrenched within the civilization but never talked about too openly is the caste system.

everyone in the empire, sith or slave, is shoved into one of these castes. it is possible to move UP and DOWN. moving upward requires marrying someone of a higher caste, but ppl usually (tho not always!) stick to and marry within their own castes. moving down tends involves committing a crime and being punished for it, or disownment from family.

there are certain advantages of being a part of upper castes. which include, but are not limited to:

wider access on the holonet

higher pay

more options for housing

priority healthcare

less restrictions on travel

etc.

the two main groups the castes fall into are sith and imperial. obvs the sith castes are above the imperial ones.

castes among the sith are categorized by “blood purity” and family lineages. the older, purer bloodlines that can trace their roots to korriban are seen above sith who might not have such a heritage.

pureblood, greater families

pureblood, lesser families

human, greater families (usually have some pureblood family members as well)

human, lesser families (usually all human)

human, common (usually an individual that comes from a non-sith background that found sensitivity in the force)

alien

imperial castes on the other hand are categorized by “occupation” rather than bloodlines.

officers. self explanatory. within this caste the officers follow the rank order. ie, moff > captain.

healers. ppl who can help and heal others. doctors, psychiatrists, therapists, etc.

scholars. those who spend their time studying, researching, or teaching. scientists, philosophers, lawyers, professors, etc.

protectors. internal security of the empire. police type, firefighters, paramedics, emergency responders, imperial intelligence, etc.

farmers. self explanatory, also includes breeders (for fancy pets and vanity animals).

crafters. for those who MAKE or design things. artists, architects, engineers, cooks, tailors, etc.

traders. folks who buy and sell things or deal with money frequently. business people, vendors, bank folk, accountants etc.

entertainers. mostly performers of some type. actors, musicians, athletes, sex workers, etc.

cleaners. those who deal with trash or bodies. janitors, butchers, housekeepers, manicurists, waste management, groomers, etc.

casteless. ironically named, but still technically a caste. includes non citizens that may be visiting or traveling through, new imperial citizens, or disowned (usually non force sensitive) sith.

slaves. self explanatory.

in the old, old sith empire (pre arrival of exiles), the sith also had a ruler and priest caste. it can be argued that the two were simply merged into the modern sith grouping and all of their castes within.

as far as any that might be lawmakers and where they’d fit in. that’d be the dark council with some occasional input from very high ranking officers like the grand moff.

so in theory(!), anyone can move up or down the caste ladder. in reality it’s very rare and ppl are often born into one caste and simply live their life within its confines and die. but ppl across the entire caste system can and do work together frequently.

an ex is the sw and crew.

akrona is not only sith, but a pureblood from a greater family. making her one of the most privileged and (potentially) influential ppl in the empire.

quinn comes from a family of officers and they’ve all been at the relative top of imperial society for generations. even after his court martial he’s considered to be very lucky to have remained in the same caste.

pierce actually comes from farmers but managed to be promoted to an officer during his time in service. but since he wasn’t born into it, quinn some officers have an obvious bias against him for his position.

vette, being a freed slave is casteless. tho thx to having a sith benefactor and friend, she can get away with a lot more than others within her same social standing.

some notes under the read more since i KNOW you ppl don’t go to the op to read my darn tags! >,< lol

so... i know. i KNOW i didn’t list literally every single conceivable job that exist or could exist. you’ll have to excuse me on that lol.

and in case it wasn’t obvious, yes, i used my sw and my own hcs for the crew. NO, i am NOT saying that quinn dislikes pierce ONLY bc of “lower caste upbringing”. just that it’s one of many factors of tension between the two.

and regardless of caste, every citizen* in the empire is guaranteed food, shelter, water, and medical care. but obvs those in the upper castes would be eating the fanciest~ of feasts in their big ass floating mansions while the lower castes live off of ration bars and street food while living in small, utilitarian apartments. *does not include slaves since they are technically not citizens.

i am once again here to remind you that the empire is NOT

a democracy

capitalist

or a utopia

(but if for some reason you wanna make your empire all those things, go for it. i ain’t stopping you lol.)

but why castes?

bc it was an aspect of the ancient sith In Canon and thought i’d tinker with the concept.

lastly! i stfg...

IF YOU THINK ME MAKING A HC/WORLDBUILDING POST REFLECTS UPON MY MORALITY OR HOW I THINK A SOCIETY SHOULD BE RUN...

YOU HAVE NEXT LVL BRAIN ROT.

also, yes, you can use any/all concepts in whatever way you see fit if you want. you can also, ignore the whole thing!

[burndownyourparade]

Dabi x Reader - Crossed My Heart

This literally had zero direction. It’s my first reader insert piece and it has nothing to do with the Olivia Rodrigo song, the lyric was mainly used as a loose prompt inspiration. It’s also been a long as heck time since I’ve sat down and really written anything so oof. But, I do plan on writing some more drabbles here and there. I’ve got Dabi/Touya brain rot bad. So expect a lot of him.

You used me as an alibi. I crossed my heart as you crossed the line.

pairing: dabi x reader (gender not specified)

length: 2k words

genre: angst, fluff if you squint real hard

warnings: mentions of death, the burning at sekoto peak. nothing detailed.

You’d been there. You had watched him go up in flames. The beautiful bright blue dancing across your eyes and you knew you’d never see him again. He’d be lost to you forever, but you promised.

And you were willing to do anything for him. Even if it meant breaking your own heart. 

So when you’d sit up at Sekoto Peak every year after his disappearancedeath you’d curse his name. Curse him for leaving you behind, for not coming back to you. Not even a single sign of if he was okay.. If he was still out there. 

When you’d seen this new villain on the news, just a few years ago, you had an inkling. A thought that maybe it had been him. He talked big about getting back at his father. Dishing back out everything he’d had to endure as a child. And at age 15 when you encouraged him, you never thought it would come to this. 

So today, when you sat up at Sekoto Peak, ten years after the incident, the spiteful, “Fuck you, Touya.” That left your lips didn’t go unheard. 

In all honesty he’d planned on coming clean. He had planned on coming back to you. After all, you were the only person who really meant anything to him. But then he got way too involved with Stain’s cause and the league, there was no way he was going to risk putting you in any danger. If that meant having to write you off, then so be it. 

Eventually you’d find out that Dabi was Touya, eventually you’d know that he was still alive after all these years. No more doubt would cloud your mind, but he had a feeling you’d come to hate him for waiting so goddamn long. 

It was when he’d heard his name, the anger dripping from your sweet voice that had him moving his feet towards you. He wasn’t planning to reveal himself, but he needed to at least try redeeming himself before even thinking of continuing his plan to bring down Endeavor. None of it would have meant anything if he couldn’t come back to you. If he wasn’t going to be able to run away with you like the two of you had planned.

“You have to promise you won’t tell anyone about this.” Touya held your hands in his, begging you. He was tired and run down. Bandages wrapped around his arms from his most recent burns. He didn’t know how he was going to do it. But he was going to fake his death. He was going to run away. 

You stared at him, wide eyed and reluctantly nodded your head to his plea. “Will I see you again?” The fear was evident in your voice and if that quiver didn’t give you away, then the way that your hands shook in his would. The tears in your eyes blurred your vision, but you could still see him. You could see his messy white hair fall into his bright blue eyes. You could see the bruise that was forming under the left eye, no doubt a result of training. And you wondered if this was his only solution. If this was really the only way that he’d be able to outrun this.

He could practically feel the pain reverberating off of you, it bounced off of him too. He didn’t want to leave you. But he had no other choice. He was trapped and all he wanted was to make something of himself. To prove to his father and everyone around him that he wasn’t worthless, he wasn’t a lost cause. He could do it, too. He was powerful just like Shoto. 

Touya was torn, he knew that this hurt you… Leaving you hurt him too, even if you couldn’t see it. Even if he was acting selfishly. “Of course.” He nodded, snow white hair moving wildly with the frantic nodding of his head. “I’ll come back for you and we’ll run away.” He promised, you could see the makings of a plan in his head. The way that his eyes moved when he was deep in thought, “We can start a life together. Build a house and adopt all the cats and dogs you want!” His hands moved to your shoulders, shaking you lightly with excitement before pulling you into him. His arms wrapping around you tightly.

He never cried in front of you, but today was different. He didn’t know when he’d see you after today, but he did know he refused to break his promise to you. A single tear slipped down his cheek.

“I love you, Touya.” You murmured into his shirt, breathing him in. If this was the last time in a while, then you were going to make the most of it. You tilted your head, looking up at him. Sadness washing over you and feeling your own tears begin to slip. You leaned up on your toes, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth and felt the way his lips turned upwards in a soft smile. An almost dreamy looking flashing across his face. 

“I love you too, (y/n)... I’ll come back for you, I swear.” His hands shifted again, this time to cup your cheeks and bring your lips to his. This kiss was soft and sweet, not unlike ones you’ve shared before but there was a sense of urgency to this one. Almost like he had been trying to convey every single thing he felt for you in this brief moment. He didn’t want to pull away, but when he did he felt your hands tighten around the fabric of his shirt. Just barely hearing your whisper begging him not to go, but he shook his head, gently moving your hands to take a step back from you.

“Please don’t watch…” Touya asked, giving you a gentle shove away from him. “Once you see my flames run… Run and tell someone about the fire and then go home. I’ll see you again soon, I promise.”

You bit your lip and nodded your head, running a safe distance away into the trees. Waiting to watch his flames burn around him. You stuck around a little longer than he’d asked you to, only to make sure that he was safe… That he was still okay. But you couldn’t make out anything other than the heat and Touya’s screams. 

At fifteen your heart shouldn’t have shattered that hard.

He didn’t know how you’d react to this. Hell, he didn’t even know what he was doing. Dabi had never planned on this. He was merely moving on pure emotion now. On things he thought he had forgotten, but when it came to you he was always weak. The only reason his resolve had even broken in the first place was because of how angry you sounded. The villain hated the thought of him becoming nothing to you. Ironic, when he was practically nothing to everyone else.

You stood in the same place where you both had parted ten years ago and he was quietly standing just a few feet behind you. He was uncertain of if he should reach out to you or just turn and run, was this even a good idea? But his feet wouldn’t stop and then his mouth started moving and before he knew it, he was speaking. 

“This Touya guy must have really fucked up, huh?” He cringed, ten years and this was the first thing he was saying to you? Ideally, in his head, whatever he’d dreamt up in his spare time was grandiose plans of sweeping you off your feet. He’d be done with the league, ready to pack up and start brand new. He’d have taken down Endeavor’s credibility and shattered Enji’s entire world. Yeah, that son of his who wasn’t going to amount to anything? He was something now. He was his greatest nightmare and deepest failure. And the consequences of his actions were coming back to bite him in the ass. Then, he’d be there for you. In the night he’d have found you, confessed his deepest feelings and that nothing had changed. Then you’d run away like he promised.

Your fists clenched at your sides, you recognized that voice, of course you did. How wouldn’t you when his promise haunted your dreams every night? His voice was a little deeper, raspier, richer. And for a moment, you hesitated in turning to face him, but when you did you couldn’t stop the way that your heart picked up pace. It was him, in the flesh, Touya was here. But he wasn’t Touya anymore… Not on the outside.

“Yeah, he’s a fucking asshole.” You played along with him. Both of you knew this was just a game, testing the waters to see if anything had really changed. “Promised he’d come back for me, but never showed up.” There was a smile on your face now, a sad one and Dabi felt his heart clench in his chest when he saw it. “Waited ten years for him.” You pressed, watching his reactions.

He deflated, he didn’t have an excuse. He could have come to you sooner and he knew that his whole keeping you safe excuse was bullshit. Dabi was just afraid. He was afraid of what you’d think when you saw him again. Dabi wasn’t Touya. He didn’t look like the boy you’d fallen in love with before. Smooth, pale skin was now rough and charred, the white hair with tufts of red now dyed black and coarse from the years of mistreatment. “I’m sorry.” Was all he could say.

“You could have come to me.” Your voice was soft and he knew that you were hurt. “Why didn’t you come back for me?” The way that your voice cracked made his heart break. He prided himself on being hard, on not allowing himself to feel petty emotions anymore, but unbeknownst to his comrades; you’d always be the only exception.

He was honest with you, “I was afraid.” And it was the first time in ten years that he’d been vulnerable, he was almost ready to run off with you. Dabi was ready to give up on his revenge plot against Endeavor, he just wanted to run away with you. To be just (y/n) and Touya.

“Of what?” You asked, nearly breathless and unbelieving. There was nothing he had to worry about. It didn’t matter who he was now or what he was doing. He would always be Touya to you. A boy who suffered more than he should have. The boy that you were ready to drop everything and run off with. The only boy you had ever loved and would ever love.

“I’m not the same.” He looked at you, uncertain. He still hadn’t gotten any closer to you and his hands twitched with anticipation. It had been so long since he’s held you. Dabi wanted to close the distance, to pull you into him and feel whole again.

“You’re still you.” You countered, shaking your head. You weren’t about to give the villain any room for excuses. He was still him and that’s all he’d ever be to you. You knew that he knew that. 

“I’m sorry.” He repeated, this time Dabi took a step closer to you. Carefully watching your movements, gauging on if he could move any closer. When there wasn’t any move on your part to shift away from him he took another step. And another.. Another, another, until he was wrapping his arms around your waist, pulling you into him. His lips gently touch the crown of your head, inhaling your scent. “Run away with me.”

You returned his touch almost immediately, arms wrapping around his thin middle. Melting into him and letting out a sob of relief, you were home again. “I thought you’d never ask.”

[undermattsun-archive]

flavor of the month

(skate rat) matsukawa x fem!reader | word count: 2k

slight!hanamaki x reader (established relationship)

a/n: based off this post i made n spurred by some enabling :^) “no beta we die like men” -lin

18+ university age | PLS READ WARNINGS

warnings: cheating, public sex (fingering), toxic behavior, manipulation, bad language, dubcon (if u stare too long/squint at it) mattsun is a bad friend

hanamaki takahiro was a godsend in your final year of college. the sweet, doting boyfriend you had been waiting for —what felt like— your entire life. there was nothing under the sun he wouldn’t do for you, he helped you study, do your chores and had even carried you across campus, carrying both of your backpacks simply because you had a bad fall and twisted your ankle ever so slightly. he was perfect in almost every way. almost. you suppose his choice of friends could be chalked down to a little less than perfect, specifically, when it comes to who he so proudly calls his best friend.

matuskawa issei’s name was tacked with some of the dirtiest of rumors that were accompanied with a plethora of gross truths. when you had met him you were floored, your dearest, loving makki, called this entitled, smug skate rat, his best friend? it didn’t take long for his sliminess to seep through immediately and in the beginning of your relationship with makki you did everything in your power to avoid being near matsukawa. but as your relationship grew, so did your face to face contact with his dangerously flirty best friend.

“i just want two of the most important people in my life to get along!” makki had said one night while you two readied to go out for drinks with his friends. you had melted at the sparkle in his eyes when he smiled so lovingly at you. you know that could’ve told makki just how much his best friend made you uncomfortable, but the endearingly fond tone of voice he used when he spoke of the other man made you keep your lips shut tightly on the manner.

it was how you ended up in your current position, sitting at the back corner booth of one of your favorite restaurants, makki seated across from you and matsukawa seated beside you. you had made a point to sit as closely to the wall as possible, punctuating the action with a curt glare at matsukawa before focusing all your attention on the love of your life.

“it was incredible really, i can’t believe you tried to climb a tree that tall.” makki amuses as he recounts another mischievous act from their childhood.

“now now makki you mean succeeded to climb,” he spreads his legs further under the table, forcing you to squeeze your legs together to dodge any contact, “i was a tree climbing god.”

“yeah tell that to the broken arm you got when we were 10, oh excuse me we’re ready to order.” you almost sigh dreamily at the polite smile makki has on display as he waves the waiter over. as the waiter makes his approach, makki continues on with the story behind matsukawa breaking his arm and you do your best to ignore said man yawning dramatically, stretching his arms out and almost swiping at your face. he shoots you an unapologetic smirk as he scoots just little bit closer to you, you lean your head against the wall trying to focus on whatever makki and the waiter were idly chatting about.

“and for you miss?” you snap your eyes up to look at the waiter, opening your mouth to recite your order when you feel a hand land on your knee, making your eyebrow twitch. this isn’t new, you couldn’t pinpoint when it had started, but matsukawa had always been a little bit too touchy, so a hand on resting on your knee or an arm thrown around your shoulder was nothing new. what is new, is when you slightly jerk your knee to tell him to remove his hand, only for him to keep it there firmly planted with the audacity to even squeeze lightly.

“babe?” makki stares at you intently, and with a clench of your jaw you ignore the hand on you to tell the waiter what you would like. as the waiter turns away, makki dives into a story from his russian literature class, detailing just how insane he thinks his professor is as you nod along, forgetting that matsukawa has planted his hand on you. until you feel his hand slowly start to creep up your leg, making your entire body tense up, you send him another narrow look as he shifts in his seat leaning towards you a tiny fraction. for a split second, you wonder if the metal of his rings were cool to touch, or had they siphoned the heat off his hand, and would feel as if it was burning into your skin, branding each inch of bare flesh he touched with the crawl of his fingers.

“-okay love?” the soft coo brings you from your thoughts, making you flush with shame, your hand comes down and grips at matsukawa’s wrist to stop him from going any further.

“i’m sorry i might’ve...”

“spaced out? thats okay. i was just saying i don’t think i can do our usual monday study date. iwaizumi and i have this biology project and...” his voice drowns our as your focus is pulled to the sensation of matsukawa forcing his way out of your hold and pushing his fingers between your thighs, continuing to slide his hand up at an achingly slow pace.

say something, your brain screams, anything, get up and go to the bathroom, do something, your boyfriend is right there.

you press your legs together tightly, hoping the message comes across, but matsukawa is on a hell path, shamelessly trying to push you beyond your limits as his fingers dig into your inner thighs. at the back of your mind is that tiny voice that’s tormented you since meeting him. a part of you wants this, you’ve always been curious, that carnal attraction to such a rotten and handsome man is undeniable. because despite the perfection and bliss of an achingly sweet, tooth rotting boyfriend, the utter taboo of his disgusting best friend is far too tempting to not think about.

“th-that’s okay hiro.” you chew at your lip trying to play off the the stumble of your words by relaxing your shoulders, hoping that he won’t question you. you try to start a round of idle chatter as you make another weak attempt to remove matsukawa’s hand from you.

“hey you know what we haven’t done in awhile? bothered oikawa.” matsukawa leans back, looking almost innocent with his signature lazy grin. you wrap your fingers tightly around his wrist, trying to keep your position as natural as possible so that makki doesn’t pick up on what’s happening. makki agrees with a flourish of words and you don’t miss the way matsukawa’s eyes slide over to you, as if challenging you to say something to makki.

“it’ll break his heart,” matsukawa had said once when he had trapped you on top of your washing machine in the apartment you shared with makki, he had the tendency of backing you against a wall, making you feel small under his presence, “besides who do you think he’ll really believe about who came onto who? i’m his lifelong best friend and you’re just the flavor of the month.”

the memory causes a searing sensation to burn at your chest and your face, this time you dig your nails into matsukawa’s wrist, a more adamant command to leave you alone. only to make your resolve crumble as his fingers dance along your clothed cunt, making your legs fall apart just a touch. it’s a shameless action that incites a bubbling of shame in your stomach and you realize your fatal mistake. you’ve shown a sliver of interest, you’ve given in just enough that he’ll only push further.

the moment you spot the waiter holding plates of food you breathe out in relief, figuring it’s the end of his little game as the plates are set out in front of you. you release your grip on his wrist and he retracts his hand slowly, a wave of relief washing through you. tinged with something resembling disappointment.

“here babe try this.” makki holds out a spoonful of curry and you lean in to take a bite, spluttering at the feeling of matsukawa suddenly shoving his hand into your pants. you choke and cough as makki scrambles to hand you a glass of water, matsukawa a disturbing pillar of silence beside you. you stiffly turn your head to look at him, eyes pleading for some sort of answer as to why now he’s decided to hurdle himself past the line he’s been so keen on toeing since you’ve started dating his best friend. to your horror he’s sitting there quietly, as he peacefully uses his right hand to feed himself, as if his left isn’t currently shoved into your pants teasing at you with the full intent of driving you insane.

“sorry sorry i’m,” yours eyes widen as matsukawa’s fingers press harder against your covered folds, harshly dragging his fingers up to your clit, “f-fine.”

“are you sure? you’ve been looking a little red the past half hour or so, are you really feeling okay?” the concern in makki’s voice punctuates your guilt as you squirm slightly at the way matsukawa teases your clit through your panties.

“promise love, i’m fine. i think i j-just,” in one swift motion matsukawa pushes your panties to the side just enough to thrust a finger into your core, “didn’t sleep well!”

“mm it’s the stress from your history class?” you don’t trust your voice to not shake as matsukawa pushes deeper and deeper, achingly slow there’s an almost delicious burn from the sudden entry.

“mhm.” you grip your silverware tightly in each hand, a helpless shake of your hips as matsukawa curls his finger inside of you. the way you clench around his finger only encourages him, a soft huff of amusement spilling from his lips as he thrusts his finger into you.

“makki, did you finish the chem homework?” he pulls his finger out just to the first knuckle, teasing at the rim of your hole, you try not to jump when you feel the tip of another finger settle near your entrance.

“don’t.” you whisper, but the word goes ignored as he thrusts in the other finger, the sting of the dry addition burns through you and biting back a moan as your eyes widen at makki who’s so peacefully eating before you.

“did you say something love?” you feel your legs start to shake a little as matsukawa ruthlessly thrusts his fingers in and out, pressing the heel of his palm against your swollen clit.

“i um don’t forget to, empty the dishwasher?” your words come out breathless and makki only hums in agreement before continuing to shovel curry into his mouth.

“doing okay there? haven’t touched your food.” the glint in matsukawa’s eyes is borderline sadistic as he pointedly looks between you and your food. before you can reply he sharply curls his fingers again before scissoring them apart making your legs spread further, silently and shamelessly asking for more.

“i’m fine? see?” you make a point to take a big bite of your noodles, swallowing them down as matsukawa presses in a third finger. there’s barely an ache this time as he works in another finger, your dripping cunt practically begging for it at this point. the familiar tightness begins to coil deep in your belly and with a particularly harsh curl of his fingers, your head snaps down, jaw dropping as you clench around him. without hesitation he continues to knead the heel of his palm against your clit as your cunt greedily squeezes his fingers. his motions become lazier as your body shakes from the searing bliss shooting through your veins. and the thought of choking him when this is all said and done is at the forefront of your mind.

“y/n?” makki reaches across the table and intertwines your fingers. guilt swirls in your chest as you raise your head to meet makki’s eyes, a weak smile at your lips.

“thought i was gonna sneeze.”

“say makki can you get the waiters attention, i want some more water.” he makes a point to shake his cup of ice. makki pulls away from you and looks away from the table. you pant out a few breaths as matsukawa pulls his fingers out, leaving you feeling empty and shaken. you take the risk to look at matsukawa, looking painfully proud of himself as he brings his fingers to his lips, licking the glistening juices coating them.

“sweet.”

[wondernimbus]

broken people — george weasley

pairing: george weasley x female!reader

prompt: Hi! First of all I love your work, you hit me right in the feels every time. If your requests aren’t open that’s fine, but I can’t get the idea of reader somehow getting her memory wiped by Voldemort and George tries so hard to get it back. Lots of angst and you can decide the ending! Again sorry to bother you if it’s to much. Sending love xx

a/n: i didn't want this to get too long so the ending is kind of unresolved n sad :0  might write a pt 2

requests are open. please refrain from plagiarizing my work!

The fourth floor of St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries.

George has it memorized by now.

The long-term spell damage ward.

When the metal doors clang open and he finds himself standing at the end of the long hallway, he pauses, for a moment, inside of the lift. Takes a few brief seconds to take all of it in as he has done every day for the past six months: the bare white walls on either side of the hall, the benches outside of each door that are usually left unoccupied save for the occasional visitor every two weeks or so—because this is the ward for long-term patients; people who live here, have lived here ever since whatever horrible thing happened to them, waiting for life to somehow go back to normal despite the sheer hopelessness of it all. And these benches are left unoccupied for a reason: that being life moves on, and families and friends have to let go eventually. And these patients are left to rot here waiting for a cure that won’t come.

But of course no one puts it that way, and they call it the long-term ward instead of the "forever damned" ward, because that doesn't sound all too optimistic, does it? Long-term instead of practically dead.

Today, George brings two sandwiches if only for the sake of positivity. His mum had insisted. It’s a feeble attempt to convince him that today is somehow special, that it’s the day he’s been waiting for for so long. That she will wake up today and they’ll eat these bloody sandwiches together.

But what are the chances?

George makes the familiar trek down the hallway. He takes a left turn, then a right, greeting the Healers who know him by name. He’s been coming here everyday for six months without fail, even if it’s only to catch a brief glimpse of her, even if the larger part of him knows she isn’t likely to wake up any time soon. So of course the Healers know him, and he them. George says his hellos to the other patients, too, as he passes by the recreation room.

A seven-year-old girl hops out of an open doorway just as he passes by. It only takes him a brief moment of surprise before he grins and says, “Hello, Aimee,” he crouches down so that he’s eye-level with her. “You look very pretty today.”

Aimee smiles widely back at him, twirling around in her little hospital gown. George lets out a quiet laugh and meets the eyes of a frazzled-looking healer who appears at the end of the hallway and immediately seems to calm down upon seeing Aimee.

“Did you wander away again, Aimee?” scolds George playfully.

She smiles bashfully, nodding, and George's heart aches a little as he wonders, not for the first time since he'd come across her, what her voice sounds like. Something like Ginny’s, back when she was this small, probably.

Aimee was cursed to feel pain every time she uttered a word—George had learned this a few months ago from one of the Healers—so he has never heard her voice. And given the circumstances, he’d rather not.

He remembers the paper bag in his hands. "She might wake up today," his mother had told him. The sad look in her eyes didn't go amiss.

George hadn't had the heart to tell her that it wasn't likely, but he took the damn sandwiches anyway.

Now, he takes one of the sandwiches out of his paper bag and holds it out to her. Beaming, she takes it, hugging him as thanks, and disappears down the hall with the healer trailing after her.

What are the chances, after all?

He continues on his way to her room. George has these walls memorized by now, could find his way to her with his eyes closed.

But something is different today.

George pauses just as he rounds the corner and spots them: the group of Healers huddled around the door, peering in or speaking amongst themselves, and when they notice George heading toward them, they all pause—and the sight would have been funny if George wasn't so stunned.

And at that moment he feels something he hadn't felt in much too long—feels something like hope flood him for the first time in six months.

What are the chances?

—

[Y/N]'s life begins again in a hospital ward.

The fourth floor of St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries, the middle-aged lady with the blond hair tells her. The long-term spell damage ward.

She is a Healer. And she is here to help.

But why?

How are you feeling? Fine.

Do you know why you're here? No. I'm sorry.

Six months ago, there was a war. You were taken captive and tortured for information. The strain of it.. took a toll on your brain. You have been unconscious ever since. I don't understand.

That's fine. Can you tell me if you remember anything? I.. I don't know. no. I don't know my name—why don't I know my own name?

It's alright, honey. It's alright. Calm down.

"They told me she was awake." Another voice. [Y/N]'s head snaps up; in the doorway there is a man—no, a boy, with red hair and eyes that are wet and wide with shock and something—something else that she can't quite place.

[Y/N] stares at him and feels an inexplicable pang go through her chest—hears a far-off echo inside of her head, a whisper of a name, something. But it slips farther and farther away the more she tries to grab at it, that tiny, tiny semblance of recognition, and for some reason this makes her anxious—it makes her panic. She edges farther along her bed until her back hits the wall, putting as much space as possible between her and the Healer and this boy in the doorway as she buries her head in her hands, fingers clawing at her ears as though to block everything out—

"I don't know my name,” she whispers. “I don't know any of you—"

Another Healer appears in the doorway. "I'm sorry, Healer Paige, he was insisting—"

"That's quite alright. Please leave the room, Mr. Weasley."

"I'm not leaving until I—"

"Mr. Weasley." The blond Healer—no, Healer Paige's voice is stern, but there's an undeniable sense of sympathy. "Please exit the room quietly."

The boy with the red hair steps forward, striding towards her, but the other Healer holds him back by the arm. "Let go of me, I need to—"

"Mr. Weasley—"

"What’s wrong? Why can't I talk to her?"

[Y/N] curls in further into herself, head bowed as she hunches over into a ball, whimpering something that sounds like get out of my head.

"We're facing.. some unexpected symptoms. We will explain as soon as we can, but for now you need to leave."

"What the bloody hell does that even mean?"

"Please escort him out of the room. It would be best for you to come back tomorrow."

Get out get out get out.

"[Y/N]?"

[Y/N]. She stills. Feels something inside her head, like a lightbulb flickering to life. Dim and weak and barely enough to shed light on the dark, empty recesses of her brain, but it's still there. And she hangs onto it.

She looks up, straight at the boy with the red hair. His eyes are frustrated, but they soften the second they meet hers.

"[Y/N]," she repeats, heart pounding erratically inside of her chest like it knows she’s edging closer and closer to something important. "Is that my name?”

—

My name is [Y/N]. Six months ago I was tortured and lost all of my memories. I am twenty years old but I have no recollection of what happened in all of those twenty years.

All I know is that my name is [Y/N], and for now I will start from there.

The next morning consists of a flurry of Healers coming through the door running tests and figuring out what the bloody hell went wrong with her. [Y/N] sits on the edge of her bed, feeling oddly numb, only speaking when she is spoken to.

She has her own questions: who is her family? Where is she from? Why was she tortured, and for what kind of information? Will she ever get her memories back? Should she want to get her memories back?

But hours pass by and none of her questions ever make it past her lips. When all of the Healers filter out of the room and Healer Paige is the only one left, [Y/N] clutches her pillow to her chest, fingers digging into it the same way they have been for the past few hours.

And only then does she look up, eyes filling up with tears, and goes—"Am I going to be okay?"

The sympathy in Healer Paige's eyes shines clear as day. After a moment's hesitation, she nods. "It's highly unlikely that you'll ever get your memories back, but I encourage you to be.. open-minded.

"Your family is outside. They've been waiting to see you. I know it will be strange, but—they are still your family. And they still love you, even though you don't quite know them, or at least not yet. I ask you to be brave."

Her family. [Y/N] inhales sharply, a crease forming in between her brows. How odd would it be for her parents to see her and to realize that the girl before them is a mere shell of their daughter?

Moments later, a man, a woman, and a little boy appear in the doorway.

Her family.

Hesitant greetings are made. [Y/N] may have lost her memories but she isn't blind to the way all of these people are looking at her—so terribly sad, and each time they meet her eyes it's like they're trying to gauge a memory out of her. Pleading with her to remember.

And [Y/N] wants to—she really does. But all she can offer them is a small smile and a quiet "how are you". When the woman—her mother—excuses herself and leaves the room, obviously in tears, [Y/N] sits there feeling so utterly out of place, wondering if she should comfort her.

But she can't even meet their eyes without feeling awkward—without feeling like she's doing something wrong—so when they all leave, [Y/N] slides back under her covers, brows furrowed, trying so hard to remember, to find their faces in the massive hole of her memory.

But she doesn't. She can't. She feels like she should be crying, but what is there to cry about?

Everything that she lost.. she can't mourn them, can't cry for them, because she just doesn't remember. And so she is left to lay there, staring up at the ceiling, searching the dark void inside her head for even the smallest glimmer of light.

Needless to say, her efforts are to no avail.

—

Visitors aren't allowed.

George stands in the lobby of St. Mungo's, staring at the man behind the counter. Ben—they know each other by now.

"But they told me to come back today," he says, throat feeling oddly tight, but he forces out a small laugh to mask it. "I'm supposed to see her today."

"I'm sorry, George. It's what her Healers said—but if you want, Healer Paige is on duty. You can go up there and talk to her yourself, if you have any questions."

So that's what George does: he takes the familiar journey to the lift, and to the fourth floor, and then to Healer Paige's office.

She tells him [Y/N] has already seen her family today, and it wouldn't be wise to overwhelm her with other people. George sits in front of the desk, brows furrowed.

"But it's better to get started as soon as possible, isn't it?" he asks, voice still constricted the same way it has been this entire morning, like there's a lump stuck in his throat. "So that she can remember faster."

The resigned look in Healer Paige's eyes fills George with dread. "I'm sorry, Mr. Weasley."

When George walks through the doors of the still closed joke shop, it's only then that everything he has been trying to hold inside bursts out of him and he finds himself sinking to his knees at the threshold, much to the shock of his twin brother, who rushes at him asking questions that he doesn't want to answer. All he does is sob out barely coherent words—she doesn't remember anything, she doesn't even know who I am, I was supposed to ask her to marry me.

How cruel is it, and how ironic, that after six whole excruciating months of waiting and waiting and waiting, she wakes up, finally, just as George had hoped for, but this is what the universe gives him?

It's not fair that he remembers everything. It's not fair that George remembers how they met, how they first kissed, how much they loved. It's not fair that he knows all of her little quirks, has memorized the sound of her laugh and the planes of her face and the tiny moles all over her body that he always used to compare to constellations, and [Y/N] doesn't even know his name.

She is suffering from severe memory loss, Healer Paige had told him. Mr. Weasley, this kind of damage is irreversible. I'm truly sorry, but it's highly unlikely that she will ever get her memories back.

They were strangers, once. And then friends, and then lovers, and at this point in time they're supposed to be bloody engaged, like George had planned, but it appears they are nothing more than strangers again.

And it's not fair. None of it is.

But George isn't going to give up. He's loved her for far too long—is letting go really an option?

He can start all over again. He's going to find love with her again, and sure, he'd be starting off with a clean slate—he'd be scrapping all the nine years they'd spent with each other—but he doesn't have a choice, does he?

So George wipes the tears off of his face and picks himself up off the floor. He's still so frustrated and he wants to scream until his throat his hoarse, wants to run until his entire body is on fire so he can feel something that could drown out the suffocating pain in his chest.

But back in St. Mungo's, [Y/N] is alone and sitting on her hospital bed, undoubtedly feeling lost and confused and perhaps even worse than George—what would it feel like to wake up knowing absolutely nothing, after all?—and it's the mental image of that that gives George the motivation to move, and he shrugs off Fred and walks up to his and [Y/N]'s shared flat above the shop. There he slams open drawers and rifles through photo albums until he finds what he's looking for—photographs of her, of her friends and family and everything she has forgotten.

And of her and George. He pauses at these ones, feels a dull, aching pang go through his chest.

He's waited for six months. Maybe he can wait a little longer.

—

My name is [Y/N]. I am twenty years old and six months ago I was tortured and lost all of my memories. My parents are Lisa and Patrick. I have a six-year-old brother named Leo.

[Y/N] writes all of this down on the journal that Healer Paige gave her. A way to keep track of everything, apparently.

Baby steps, she'd told [Y/N]. We'll take it nice and slow, build everything back up again from scratch.

[Y/N] walks around the hospital early the next morning, when the only source of light is the one that comes from the bulbs overhead and the sky is dark beyond the windows. Here she walks around the hallways, thinking of nothing in particular, just—walking.

And it’s nice, letting herself bask in the silence around her. Healer Paige is patient and understanding, but [Y/N] doesn’t quite fancy being reminded of her condition every few minutes or so. Here [Y/N] can stop trying to remember. Here she can listen to the sound of her feet against the ground as she treads the cold floor, safe to just walk and worry about nothing more.

That same morning, her family doesn’t come to visit her again. Healer Paige says they have strict visiting hours, and [Y/N] hopes that relief didn't show too much on her face.

The Healers run a few more tests. Ask a few more questions. Halfway through the day, they allow her to go to the recreation room, where the other patients are.

Broken people, she thinks to herself. Just like me.

She meets a man cursed to lose his memory every five minutes. A little boy with legs that are permanently tap-dancing. A seven-year-old girl named Aimee who, according to one of the healers, feels severe pain whenever she speaks.

And it’s a little sad, to see all of these perfectly normal people save for whatever kind of long-term ailment it is that they’re suffering from, confined inside the hospital walls because they just aren’t normal enough.

[Y/N] fits in right along with them.

She can’t sleep at all that night, so at one point, when the hospital is completely silent, she leaves her room again.

But the hallway isn’t empty. There is someone laying down on the bench outside of her room. Someone with red hair.

[Y/N] pauses in the doorframe. He’s asleep, curled up into a little ball, which is a funny sight considering he’s so tall.

She remembers him from two days ago. Mr. Weasley, they’d called him. And she remembers the look in his eyes when she first spoke to him—when she asked him if [Y/N] was her name: that look of disbelief, of pain, like something inside him had broken.

She steps closer towards his sleeping figure. He shifts just slightly in his sleep, presumably to try to be more comfortable, but [Y/N] imagines that the plastic digging into his back doesn’t exactly feel extremely cozy.

[Y/N] swallows. Feels that same dull ache in her heart all over again—the same one she got when she first laid eyes on him. She finds herself crouching down to look at him properly; the red hair that falls over his eyes, the freckles across his nose, the swell of his lips.

”Who are you?” she whispers quietly, more to herself than to anyone.

Without her even realizing, she has reached out with one hand to touch the side of his cheek. Her fingertips graze his skin, a mere ghostly touch, and her breath catches in her throat when his eyelids flutter open and all of a sudden they are staring at each other, [Y/E/C] meeting brown, and [Y/N] makes to pull back, feeling like she’s been caught in the act, but he just reaches up with one hand and grabs her wrist, holding her in place.

She stares, frozen.

—

When George opens his eyes again, for a moment, he thinks he is dreaming.

[Y/N] is in front of him, eyes wide, hair framing her face. He feels like reaching up and cupping her cheek—he feels like pulling her in close and pressing his lips to hers, as he has yearned to do for so bloody long, but he can’t. He can’t.

But this—he can have this, for now, this tiny moment of pretend. For these few brief seconds, George holds her gaze in his and allows himself to believe that everything is as it has always been.

For now, when the two of them are alone and the entire hospital is quiet and the sun hasn’t yet risen, George pretends that [Y/N] still loves him.

But then she is tugging her wrist out of his grasp, cheeks a blazing shade of red, and hurriedly apologizes before disappearing inside of her room again.

George sits up slowly, and there’s a sad little smile on his face—and then his lips are twisting and he’s crying again, burying his head in his hands and sobbing at bloody two in the morning.

It’s like she’s being dangled in front of him, and she is close but at the same time so far away from reach.

He clamps his hands over his mouth, not wanting [Y/N] to hear. He doesn’t want to burden her with something that isn’t her fault. He doesn’t want her to feel any more pain.

Even if it’s at the cost of his.

taglist:  @dancing-in-the-moonlight3 @kalimagik @alittletoomanyobsessions @hariosborn @obsessedwithrandomthings @emcchi @sxrensxngwrites @enjoying-fantasyland21 @masterofthedarkness @siriusly-addicted-to-writing @bforbroadway @hufflefluff-writer @summer-writes @chaotic-fae-queen @firewhisky-kisses @dracosvftie @heloisedaphnebrightmore @idont-knowrn @dreamer821 @peachesandpinks @slytherinprincess03​ @chocfrogaddict @nebulablakemurphy​ ​@kpopgirlbtssvt

[littlefreya]

The Way to Hell - Part 13

Summary: Post Mi6, Alternate Canon. August escaped Ethan Hunt with his face intact and just won himself the title of being the most dangerous man on earth. Brooding as he is, August is unwilling to back down on his murderous agenda he plots to continue where he was stopped.

Series Completed: Previous Chapter | | Chapters Masterlist | Next Chapter

Pairing: August Walker x OFC (Ingvild) 🖤

Word count: 5k

Warnings: Mentions of sexual encounters, child neglect, betrayal, hinted physical abuse,  foul language and lots of angst.   

A/N: I thought chapter 13 will be the last one, but I didn’t want to rush the ending or have a chapter too long. So for those of you still waiting, hang in tight! Many thanks to @agniavateira​ who’s my muse and my editor, to @raspberrydreamclouds​ for this amazing cover and to those who’s been asking me about the chapter, means a lot to me. I am going into my usual Way to Hell posting panic attack. So bye for now.

*No permission is given for reposting my work, copying it or parts of the source material and claiming it as your own*

Please comment, review and reblog.  💖

Title: Paradise lost

There cannot be peace before first a great suffering.  There cannot be love without first a great tragedy.

~*~

Opaline droplets of sweat form on his forehead. In his ears, a constant buzzing rings wretchedly as if an angry hornet is caged inside his skull. What was long buried abruptly awakens, stabbing at the back of his head. Red flashes sear through his eyes while images of Ingvild dissolving to ashes play in his mind, her bloodsoaked feathers crumbling to the ground.

“Why did you go?” August mutters under his breath, wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. He crumples the little yellow note with sheer frustration before throwing it on the bed. 

‘I told her not to go, I commanded her!’

The air in the room grows thick like the pit of a stygian forest. Tentacle-like branches appear behind his eyes creeping closer, clutching his limbs. Even though lost and abandoned in the thicket of his mind, her angelic scent still lingers on his skin, impossible to wash off. Sniffing at his biceps, he inhales the mixture of their union on his flesh;  what begins as euphoric mirth quickly meets the sharp edge of rage and hatred.

She’s gone and it gnaws at the dark matter of his brain. 

He hates it. 

Hates her for being absent.

Frowning deeply, August reaches a rigid hand for his clothes, forcing himself to get dressed. The very first memory of her hinges on his mind: An icy woman with silver-moon eyes who refused his pursuit. 

‘Did you think the two of you are going to ride toward the sunset together? That’s not you.’

Letting out heavy gasps, he shakes his head. “She’ll be fine,” he whispers dismissively, pulling on his trousers and hastily buckling his belt. 

The new world order awaits, so close he can feel the fresh sun sitting on his open palm. It is his vision, his legacy: bigger than whatever it is Ingvild and him have together. 

There was no her in his plan, to begin with. 

The Devil never had a queen. 

‘You know what they’ll do to her…’

Another ray of daytime terror cuts through his thoughts: her wings plucked from her back, threads of flesh tearing from her naked body. Her screams die in silence.  

“She chose to leave, I asked her not to!” August yells into the empty room, frowning at no one but himself as he grabs the used shirt which hangs from the tall mirror. Turning to his reflection, he tenses at the sight of his body. Crimson valleys lead down his back, courtesy of her claws branding deep into soft tissue and toned muscles.

‘Do you know what is the probability of finding someone like her? A woman who wants to see the world burn with you? Who believes in your cause of building a new one?’

August swallows hard and combs his fingers through his hair with haste, attempting to act normal through the intensifying drumming in his ears. Being completely methodical, he pulls his long trench coat over his shoulders and collects his belongings into his black duffle bag on the bed. With a heavy painful breath, he forces his thoughts away, zipping the bag with urgency and reciting in his mind everything necessary for his trip. Time is scarce, the end and the new beginning are nigh; the smart thing to do is to forget her, erase her existence from the chambers of his heart. 

He doesn’t have one anyway. 

His hand secures the gun in its holster and harsh fingers lace around the black straps of his bag as he stretches himself straight, ready to leave this bedroom. That’s when his eyes fall again to the crumpled yellow note. 

‘You’ll never see her in Kashmir, you’ll never see her again.’ 

~*~

‘Amazing,’ the silver-haired wolf muses while scratching his bristly jaw. For 13 years the evil spawn’s eyes remained exactly as they were the day he picked her from the orphanage. Grey crystal orbs so naive, clueless, and oh so hungry for validation. A child desperate to prove herself worthy to someone, anyone. 

It was her single flaw and his greatest advantage.

Even now in the bloom of adulthood, the pale, scrawny thing standing before him is nothing but a lost little girl who wants someone to hold her bony hand. 

‘How can someone be so smart yet at the same time so blind?’

The cheap motel room smells like mildew and rotten wood. Speckles of dust float between the handler and his prodigy, cascading over his glance that seems rather alien and naked as glass. It pierces through her muscles - this sudden sense of peculiarity and estrangement.     

She chews the inside of her cheeks and sways slightly on her spot, arms hanging loose at her side. Ingvild lifts her chin to look at Liam, her eyes round with what can only be guilt. It makes her look like a child who broke an antique vase. 

“Thank you for answering my call,” she begins, wrapping her fist around a disposable phone before throwing it on the tidy bed.

Liam scoffs and shakes his head, ridicule spreading on his face. “You’ve gotten yourself into trouble over a boy, child?” He stares up and down the young woman, noticing the obvious change in her posture.

‘So, she truly is a woman now; how did I not see this one coming with her constant chatter about how handsome he is when I handed her the dossier?’

“Please don’t tell me you need money to get an abortion.” 

Ingvild frowns with disgust and shakes her head right away. “Never. No, it’s not what I’m here for.”

Displeased as always, Liam emits his usual grunt. He slowly shakes his head at his asset while running his fingers through his lanky grey hair. This is not how he imagined this mission to end. Her lack of emotions was a key element; Ingvild could have had a few good years running several missions for him, but what tipped the scale was for her to run into the wrong psychopath.

“Then tell me Ingvild, why should I listen to a failed assassin such as yourself? You’ve been weird about this mission since day one. Acting discreet, irresponsible, and reckless,” the old man’s Adam's apple bobs up and down in his throat as he speaks. Taking a small stride, he moves closer to get a better look of her diamond irises. So sharp and so strange, they’ve always irked him. As a child she downright looked like something out of a horror movie. 

“You’ve had 445 successful missions, not even 30 years old. Yet here you are a failure, and for what? For a boy?”

Shame traps her tongue and her glance drops to the floor. Failure stings like a rod of hot iron piercing her beating heart. Yet her mind races to the night at the pit where August finally claimed her, the memory of his lips sets glowing embers through her veins. On her skin remains the evidence of his embrace. Microscopic cells, tinted by his DNA. 

She doesn’t want this feeling to go away. 

Liam clears his throat, tearing her away from memories that turn from tar to honey the longer she dwells on them.

“You know why your mother gave you away, Ingi?” Liam asks, giving her a ghastly sardonic smile while cocking one eyebrow.

‘Liam never smiles.’ 

A small frown sets creases above her freckled nose. “I asked you many times before and you always said you don’t know.”

The Dane scoffs at her, his smile widening, exposing cigarette-and-coffee-stained teeth. The rot around his gums makes her curl her nose slightly and flinch as he leans closer. 

“You were a rape baby.”

The words send a pang through her muscles, like stepping on glass. She shakes her head with protest and steps back, yet Liam nods knowingly, standing in front of her.

“You’re lying.”

His small hazel eyes burn holes through her skull, his smile sinister and impish. “Your father was a savage, a rapist. He left your poor mother half-dead and impregnated in the forest you love so much. Who knows, maybe that’s why you kept going there as a child, reconnecting with your true nature.” 

Refusing to listen, she shies from his piercing glare. Liam reaches a coarse hand to cup her jaw, forcing her face back to his. “Your mother hated you. Your very existence reminds her of the most terrible thing that ever happened to her.”

For a child with such a limited emotional range, Liam finds that the muscles of her face are capable of stretching thoughtfully with spite. Pent up hatred creases her brow, her silver eyes turning to hot, molten gold. She bites on her tongue, keeping a vow of silence but he can read her face just the way an assassin would. 

“Nothing but a mistake, disowned by your own mother. So why would this man, this... mass murdering psychopath love you?” Liam shifts her head from side to side, inspecting the healing cuts and bruises that decorates her pale skin. “He saw an opportunity and seized it, used you…”

He pauses, moving away from a stare colder than icy lake water, “just like they will.”

Ingvild parts her lips with wonder, glaring at the person she knew all her life with disbelief. In the glossy reflection of Liam’s honey-brown eyes, she sees several black, long rifles pointed at her head.

Liam curls his thin lips with an utter lack of remorse and shrugs indifferently.

“She’s yours.”

*~*~

If colours had sound then the pale blinding white would be a continuous high-frequency hum. The tunes and shades of death. Like angry flies feasting on a corpse. 

‘Is this Valhalla?’

A small groan escapes her mouth, her eyes hurting from the sickly radiance of the narrow fluorescent lamps hanging from the ceiling. Her wrists feel numb as they’re pulled behind her back in restraints. 

“No,” she opens her mouth to speak, her throat burning, her voice a hoarse whisper. “Definitely not Valhalla...” 

‘You need to be a hero to enter Valhalla, stupid girl.’

Stupid didn’t even begin to describe it. August would never let her hear the end of it.

Loud, angry steps tap on the white marble floor, growing louder as the person approaching enters the room. Ingvild blinks, peering at the silhouette when a smile of comfort paints her drowsy face. Like a god, her lover strides toward her with his usual confidence. His ocean-blue eyes beam at her sight, his palm spread open to embrace his tiny Valkyrie. She chuckles at the mischievous, charming grin on his face as it reminds her the day they first met. 

Oh, she wishes to nibble his stupid chin right now and brush her fingers along his thick moustache.

But as she blinks again, large brown almond-shaped eyes replace the ocean-blue. A panther of a woman stands before her: confident, strong, and impossibly beautiful. Her dark, succulent lips are pressed together and concern shines through as she observes the small woman who has her arms cuffed behind her back and her feet shackled to the metal legs of the chair. 

With her head still heavy, the assassin turns her face from side to side. She quickly observes the armed guards at the entrance, the tall, greying agent standing nonchalantly against the wall awaiting orders, and lastly the sickly-looking, lean man who is positioned at the fore of a metal desk with his fingers laced together. Anticipation is written all over his line-riddled face. 

“Erica Sloane,” Ingvild calls knowingly, the ghost of a wicked smile dancing on her chapped lips as she turns her head to face the CIA director. Dressed in a black power suit and crimson pumps, the director is drenched with big dick energy.

“August told me so much about you, but he didn’t mention how fuckable you are.” Ingvild drawls, fluttering her lashes as she scans her from head to toe. 

Tilting her head, Erica grabs a white plastic chair and places it in front of Ingvild. She then takes a seat, crossing her long smooth legs together. Kindness and motherly concern pours from her dark eyes, expressions Ingvild never received from anyone in her life.

“Poor child, I imagine August Walker filled your head with many stories.”

“No…” Ingvild swallows, trying to dampen her sore throat. Noticing her struggle, Erica snaps her fingers and the greying agent rushes to bring her a plastic cup of water like a loyal dog. Focusing on the translucent beads around the cup, Ingvild flicks her tongue over her lips. “August was too busy filling other parts of me.”

The intrepid woman begins to laugh at her own joke, her voice dragging groggily while Erica rolls her eyes and shakes her head.

“I imagine so.” She answers and then carefully tilts the cup to Ingvild’s lips, offering the drink to the girl who sips with desperation as if she walked the desert. “August was my best agent,” she explains, watching the stream of water that rolls down Ingvild’s chin as she gulps with an incredible thirst, “a really proficient assassin, ranked high in every mission I sent him to. My golden boy. Even though that shit-eating attitude of him was something else...”

Withdrawing the cup, she looks into Ingvild’s cold silvery stare. “Those snarky, arrogant remarks and him going through the whole department like a fox in a hen coop I could overlook. But that fucker had us all fooled, Ingvild, as he fooled you.”

Ingvild flutters her dark lashes and tips her chin up. Her defined cheekbones sharpen even more as a snake-like arrogance poisons her face. “August told me what you did,” she utters sincerely, while Erica commands the agent to refill the plastic cup. Loathing melts her beautiful sullen glaciers as she focuses on Erica. 

The CIA director narrows her eyes at her in return, and curls her lips downward as disdain fills her mouth. “I am not the one who made Walker murder Agent Hartmann, if that’s what you’re implying.”

“You deceived him,” Ingvild retorts calmly and sucks in her bottom lip, collecting the remaining droplets of water onto her tongue. “That’s what you and your little agencies do to people like us. Set up traps for predators and pretend to act surprised as they eat the bait.”

Holding the cup, Erica stares at the young woman thoughtfully, the burning hatred in her eyes reminding her so much of Agent Walker: An entitled spoiled brat, thinking he can wind the world to the direction only he sought to be right. 

“You can’t blame a predator for following its nature, and you can’t expect him to behave otherwise.” 

“Is that how you see yourself?” Erica asks, moving the cup away, though she can see the thirst on Ingvild’s gaping bottom lip. “August poisoned your mind but I assure you, you are not the monster he is. You never had the choice that he did.”

Erica’s voice suddenly becomes soft, and her big brown eyes become round with care that only a parent can express. But the only form of parent Ingvild ever had was Liam, and he was never much of a father, was he? It took less than a few hours for him to give her away. 

She wonders how long it took for her real mother.

Her gaze drops, peering at Erica’s shiny crimson shoes as they counter the lifelessness of the floor like blood in the snow. Memories whisk her away again, a man in pursuit of a woman deep in an icy forest. She should have died that night and yet here she is, shackled to a chair. The voice of the man who saved her echoes through her head with a fair warning: ‘Liam never gave a flying fuck about you.’

Sharp as a needle, it pricks her heart.

“I know what Icarus did. Moulding you into the perfect assassin, depriving you of the childhood and the life you deserved.” Erica’s voice cuts into her trail of thoughts, making her raise her gaze back to the beautiful woman. “Now, I don’t know what twisted fantasies August may have offered but I can assure you, they are empty just like him. You read his file, you know what he’s capable of. Looking at your scars and bruises I assume he hurts you for his own sick pleasure, taking advantage of a woman who only wants to be loved.”

‘She doesn’t know him like I do, the way he drank my lips and called me his angel, the way his fingertips beat the warm blood in my arteries.’ Ingvild shuts her eyes, soaking in the remnants of his touch as it still ghosts across her body.

Erica’s kind, tepid hand wraps around the young woman’s jaw, lifting her pale face with the cautiousness of a human tending a wild creature. Grey and dark-brown collide at the seams as they share a silent stare.    

“If you’ll give us his location, we can arrange for your freedom and protection.”  

Ingvild breaks away from Erica’s grip, pushing herself back in the chair as much as she can. The screech of metal against marble makes the guards cringe. Slow and cold, a sardonic chuckle begins to burst from Ingvild’s lungs. The laughter echoes off the walls while she shakes her head with disbelief. 

“Do I look like a dumb bitch to you? Even if this was true, do you think I’m willing to be a slave to another government? Kept ignorant and tabbed? I’d rather rot in this cell while my beautiful monster dismantles your old world order.”

Drops of water splash at her face as Erica squashes the plastic cup in front of her, sulking with fury. Her eyebrows knit together and she purses her lips as if this young woman is something sour on her tongue. 

Evidently, Liam was right; the girl is far too gone, living in the little fantasy world August built for her. 

“If you think he ever cared about you for a split second, then you are a dumb bitch. No matter how this plays out, you and August are never going to end up happily ever after.” Erica spits, holding her finger at Ingvild’s childlike frown. “He’s never going to come for you. You were nothing but a toy, a plaything for him to pass the time.”

Ingvild scoffs and rolls her eyes, refusing to let these words cut into the beating muscle in her chest. 

`Stick and stones may break my bones...’

Solid, slender fingers wrap around her jaw, squeezing around her cheeks like a big spider. She is met with Erica’s long lashes, while those deep brown eyes slice into her soul. 

“You might think you know him, but I’ve worked with August long enough to know that he never loved anything other than his precious ego. So I would consider this as your final chance little girl, because if you don’t talk right now - this nice fellow here...” Erica pauses and gestures her head to the scrawny man who begins to hum a blissful tune while cracking his knuckles. Twisted excitement shines through his beady eyes as he glances at the set of sharp surgical tools lying on the desk.

“He’s going to make you sing like the precious bird you are.”

Fear shies from Ingvild’s stoic, icy face. The well-lubricated gears in the labyrinth of her head begin to work, observing the possible escape options and scanning every cavity, crease, and man in Erica’s lovely torture chamber.  

The door suddenly bursts open. A man in his mid thirties with bright red hair and a freckle-covered face rushes in, huffing heavily. His pink skin glistens with sweat, the strands of his fiery hair sticking on his large forehead while his hand holds onto his chest with distress. 

“Sloane, there is something you need to see…” he opens his mouth breathlessly.

“Not now!” Sloane snaps at him, looking at Ingvild with contempt. There is nothing she wishes more than to avoid torturing a young woman, especially someone as misguided as this poor porcelain doll. All she needs is to make her see the truth, that August never cared for her, that she was just another pawn in his grand scheme. 

“Director, I am sorry, but you really need to come and see this.” 

Agitated, Erica snaps in her chair to look at him. “What is it, Agent Louis?”

“It’s John Lark’s manifesto, ma’am…” he sighs, shoulders slumping, “it’s… it’s everywhere.”

A shivering hiss escapes her mouth. The shiver that graces the rail of her spine is like a shower of icy water, making her slowly rise from her chair. August’s harmful “poetry” is released into the air like toxic gas, contaminating every fragile little mind in an already unstable world.  

“Do you like my little surprise?” Ingvild asks, making the baffled woman turn to gaze at her. There’s a malicious little smile dancing across her eyes, her brows lifting with an arrogance that strongly resembles Agent Walker. 

Swallowing hard, the CIA woman takes a step back, tugging her jacket straight and looking at the torturer who lifts a small hammer between his pliable fingers. 

“Break her, until she talks.” 

The harsh tapping of her heels dies down and her silhouette becomes smaller until it disappears behind the shutting door. 

“Pretty girl...” The man’s voice is brittle and thin as he is, every word ending with a slight snake-like hiss. He moves to scrutinise her from head to toe, flicking his tongue over his bottom lip with a prying nature. 

“You know August used to mock me…”

“I can see why,” she spits out, looking back at him with both fearlessness and utter disrespect. She killed men bigger than him, hell, August’s kneaded her to submission and his torture was nothing but sweet. 

She can take him on, she can take all of them on.

The lean man beams at her, holding up the small shiny hammer and running his finger over the rim pervertedly. The dead skin around his nails rouses disgust in her gut, yet she rolls her eyes and fakes a yawn.

He chuckles at her theatrics and kneels in front of her with one unstable hand pressing onto her thigh. His revolting fingers scratch gently at her denim, making her shiver. If August knew another man was laying his finger on her… 

But August is not here.

“Well… shall we begin, little bird?”

***

‘When this world ends and the new one begins, what will be of your little Valkyrie? Merely bones and rotting flesh laid in an unmarked grave in the middle of nowhere and mourned by no one. Won’t you be jealous of the insects feasting on her narcotic tissue?’

Cold air seeps through his nose as sharp bullets of hail hit the ground with the fury of angry gods, shattering onto the ruins of an old bridge with a loud, clattering noise. Sheltered from the rage of the heavens, August stands beneath the wreckage, facing the men who came to make the final exchange. 

Blue and green ferns have grown over the decaying surroundings, climbing over rusted metal. Nature reclaiming its place over man’s occupied space. Justice and beauty in decadence and rot. 

‘Memento mori.’

“The plutonium,”  August demands, his thick brows shadowing his eyes in a battle to remain composed. Those same parasitic visions of sheer terror burden him like a daytime nightmare: pale as porcelain, she sinks to the bottom of a lake thick with blood. His hand reaches out for her, fingers trying to grasp whatever he can but she slips away. 

‘How far do you think Erica will go this time?’ 

A rogue droplet of sweat glides languidly down his temple, crossing over a bulging tendon. Unfortunately quite apparent to the three men who scrutinise him with wonder: two well-paid bodyguards and a slimy-looking slug, wearing a dark business suit that does nothing but emphasize his fragile masculinity. 

“The money first!” The businessman whines, attempting to make a tough face.

‘A cock and two balls.’ August jests and does his best to remain indifferent while anxiety threatens to claw its ugly talons in his throat. The seller’s receding hairline is thick with dandruff, his dull green eyes attempt to mimic confidence, as a beta male would do when facing a pure alpha, trying to compensate for lost dignity.  

‘I don’t have time for this,’ August huffs, his chest puffing and the immense shoulders stretching even wider, exhuming his natural overpowering dominance. His patience runs brittle as a dry twig. A restless throb thunders between his ears like a scab, latched inside his brain. 

The slug pries his mouth open to speak, yet his voice becomes dull as if the world just went underwater.

‘Do you think she’ll go as far as to let her men touch her? You know, not just the usual torture they put interrogated suspects through, but the type of touch only you are allowed to.’

‘She doesn’t have the balls, she won’t do that to another woman.’ 

‘Won’t she? It’s personal this time. Erica knows what you are capable of. And your Ingvild, she’s an apostle too now, an enemy of the world…’

Fever burns at his sweaty forehead and his lungs gradually collapse. Visions he can’t even bring himself to imagine attempt force their way into his mind. The yapping of the man who stands in front of him goes on and on; while August can feel himself speak in response, the words spouting from his lips are on autopilot. 

All he can think of is her, stripped naked, torn to shreds by dark shadows.   

‘She holds back a lot, but when she slips, aren’t her screams so beautiful? Her pleasant little voice, stretching so melodically, like skin over bone, thin and light.’

“Shut up!”

All eyes lift to August in silent bewilderment. His fists tighten, nails digging into his coarse palms as the will to rip someone to shreds beats through his blood. These men will be no more than a casualty. 

“Do you know who I am?” He asks in a deep, menacing tone, his hand but a second from reaching his holster. By measured calculation, he already anticipates how quickly he would shoot them one by one without so much of a scratch on his cheek.

“I’m John, fucking, Lark. My apostles are awaiting orders this very instance,” he reaches for his phone, ignoring the flinch in their posture as he draws it from his pocket and shakes it in his hand on display, “and you want to stand here in this shit weather and measure dicks? Spoiler alert,” he takes a stride in front of the little man, careless of his bodyguards who reach for their weapons, “mine is far bigger.”   

The seller peers at him silently, noticing the icy crust of rage in August’s glare. His pale eyes cut like diamonds while the shadow of his brooding figure falls upon the small man’s face. 

“You will get your money once I get to see the plutonium and confirm it’s authenticity,” August calls out assertively, each word distinguished, each syllable emphasised and sharp as a blade. Death is no longer an enemy to August Walker but an old friend, and those trolls under the bridge are a mere joke to the inferno he’s been basking at his entire life.

‘Limb by limb, feather by feather, while you waste your time...’

‘She wanted me here, she wanted me to secure the plutonium. If I don’t do this, it will all be for nothing.’

‘So now you are doing this for her?’

Not saying another word, the seller nods and snaps his fingers. Agitation is evident on his face yet the violence emanating from August forces him to bite down his pride. One of his henchmen approaches with a suitcase and opens it up to show August the orbs.

Thunder rips through the sky and the hail turns into a symphony of wrath. Icicles break across the construction site above, splashing water everywhere around them. Staring at the platinum spheres, August sees his own reflection dulled by the dirty silver curve. 

A dormant thing. But when set into motion, ever so deadly. 

He presses the beryllium rod to test the authenticity of the material and a sigh of relief pipes itself through his nose at the sound of the radioactive note on his testing device. Celebration blooms in his weary heart but the festivity is deemed achingly empty and dies out right away. 

‘Stop thinking about her, she’s gone. Focus on the cause, you’re almost there, just keep pushing through the doors.’ 

~*~

The blizzard melted into shy rain. The soft little drops dampen his hair, perming his large curls with the assistance of the cool winter breeze. Standing with the suitcase on the side of the rural road, August awaits his ride taking him to the helipad to proceed to Kashmir. It has been so long since he last met his true colleagues, since his departure from Lane in Norway. Avoiding any risks, contact was kept only necessary for the last stages of their tasks.

Doom’s day.

Securing the plutonium should have brought him relief, yet his chest continues to sink into his spine as if it’s being filled with coals. August Walker threaded through life alone, yet this sudden solitude is suddenly harrowing, making him feel like a gutted fish. Looking to his empty side he the ghost of her appears, giving him a bratty smirk. 

“Go away,” he chides, refusing to think of her. Of that stupid mouth talking back, tormenting him with sweet saccharine and cinnamon-like kisses. In his reminiscences, the softness of her lips still hinges. Tenderness meeting the bristle of his neck as she lay gentle wet markings up his coarse jaw. 

His fingers press to his mouth trying to harness the memory. 

A large car drives into the side of the road, speeding up and braking right next to his legs, missing August’s foot by an inch. Frowning at the careless driver, he grunts and brushes his hair before opening the passenger door.

“Took you awhile,” he grunts as he slips into the seat and peers at the driver. A bulky man in his early 40s with dark short cropped curls and thin lips. He shoots August a glance and turns back to the steering wheel.  

“Not my bad, you made a fucking mess, Lark.” The man answers and begins driving right away, careless of the fact that August didn’t put his seatbelt on and that he is holding radioactive material. 

Throwing the seatbelt over himself and fastening it, August growls and carefully secures the case on the side of the driver seat, his index finger remaining on the brim. He gently caresses the hard black leather. “What the fuck are you talking about?” 

The driver peers at him oddly before looking down the road, driving fast and passing a large log truck. “Releasing the manifesto. MI6 and the CIA are all over the place,” he says and turns the radio on, letting August hear the news on his own. “I get why you did it now, it’s brilliant to cause another distraction but you’ve made shit a bit harder with those cunts running around. They tracked it back from London and have been surveying the entire area.”

“I didn’t release the... “ 

August stills, his muscles shriveling up as realisation quickly hits him. 

‘Oh angel, what have you done?’

Drawing out his mobile phone, August immediately begins to search the newsite, his eyes an ocean of panic, fluttering back and forth. It’s everywhere, news about an anarchist manifesto, spreading like a virus through every social media outlet, leaked by codename “Jane Lark”. 

“Fuck,” he hisses, reading his own written word as he goes through an article posted on the BBC’s newsite. But she changed the last verse, added a little piece of her own:  

“Valkyries mounted onto beasts,  We will ride eternal to the sun. The blazes will sear us but we will not back down,  United by our cause of just war, Unflinching we will scour the earth, Until humanity comes together in tranquil and harmony.”

‘She loves you, you see? The way she lets you bleed her, use her, spill all your pain inside her. The way she held onto you just a night ago, your name falling from her lips, her body pressing into yours to take all of you. She’s the only one. The only woman who did and ever will. 

And you left her to die.’

________________________________

Disclaimer: I don’t own Mission Impossible and August Walker

[bratkook]

queen of broken hearts. jjk (m) part two.

Block my posts and my stories, I’m sorry I can be annoying, I go ghost without warning.

part one. part three.

pairing: jungkook x reader genre: smut, heavy angst word count: 6k warnings: jungkook is still in lurv and oc is still a toxic bitch, mentions of infidelity, oral (m receiving), explicit photos being taken after said blowjob, jungkook cries a little but reverse uno cards oc ha author’s note: this was definitely not supposed to get a second part but for some reason i just couldn’t stop writing it so here it is. i might make a few more drabbles bc i like writing this toxic ass relationship but who knows lmk what u think byeeee

A frown is etched onto Jungkook’s face as he eyes his phone, his thumb constantly dragging the screen down until the loading circle appears and shows him the same screen thats been haunting him all day. 

No posts yet. 

That same line has him morbidly smiling to himself, how could you have no posts yet when he had just liked a selfie of your last night? 

Your profile picture in the top left corner mocks him, a mirror photo you took in a room he was all too familiar with. A room he hadn’t been inside of in over two weeks, which was a long time considering you usually called him over every other day. 

And now he was apparently blocked.

Jungkook racks his brain for anything he could’ve done, any words he might have let slip out in the throes of passion the last time he had seen you, but he comes up blank. He had done a good job so far keeping his emotions locked up and tucked away, never letting anything more slip out since he first met you years ago. 

Sure when he’s in the moment he absolutely wants to spill his heart out, serve it on a silver platter for you and hope its to your liking, but once the heat of it’s all gone and his mind settles he realizes that he missed his chance. His window of opportunity was long gone, the relationship you had now was too twisted, tangled up like roots of a tree that were running rampant, jutting up between the cracks of Jungkook’s sanity. 

Back when you first met, being the older sister of the boy he was tutoring, he had no idea that this was what would become of it. You took a liking to him instantly like a lioness latching onto her prey, something new and exciting for you to play with before you took a bite out of him. 

He was attractive that much was obvious, his hair was shorter then, giving him a slightly boyish charm that didn’t match his physique of broad shoulders and slim waist, his thick thighs stretching out his jeans in such a delicious way that made your mouth water. 

He noticed instantly when you’d linger around the kitchen while he was busy teaching your brother about the pythagorean theorem, mocking him in your low cut tops and tiny lounging shorts, offering him a popsicle as you suckled on one right in front of him. A giant flashing sign hanging over your head that showed him your intentions, showed him just what you were after when it came to him, and he walked right into it. 

Jungkook wasn’t inexperienced, having far too many notches on his bed post to explain why he was so god damn intimidated by you, so enamored by a girl who was clearly as cold as the ice pop you were making a show of sucking. 

You were filthy and shameless, turning the charm off the second your parents walked in or your brother turned around when he noticed Jungkook was distracted. The second anyone else became aware you’d tug your shirt up and your shorts down, giving your father a smile so sweet it would rot Jungkook’s teeth if he didn’t know the act behind it all. 

Jungkook still doesn’t know if he’s thankful for the chain of events that lead to you two sleeping together for the first time, he doesn’t know if he’d take it all back to save himself the torment his heart was currently going through. 

Would he have changed his course of action? Chosen to leave immediately after tutoring your brother instead of running up to the bathroom before leaving? 

You weren’t even on his mind then, you had been taunting him earlier but after fifteen minutes you retreated into your room, leaving him to focus entirely on being the tutor your parents were paying him good money to be. 

So when he pushes the bathroom door open and sees you standing absolutely naked with your wet hair dripping down your body and not an ounce of embarrassment written on your face, he doesn’t even realize he’s shut the door behind him until he hears the soft click of the lock. 

You had been loosely planning this all day,  hoping he’d end up in your room, but when you heard him trekking up the stairs and towards the bathroom you yanked off your towel and unlocked the door in record time, a tiny oops leaving your mouth when you see his wide eyes. 

Jungkook groans into his palms now as he recalls it, how he had taken you on top of your bathroom counter, knocking over the toothbrush holder and soap onto the floor in a loud clatter, the way you had refused to kiss him during it even then, choosing to suck hickeys onto his neck to muffle your cries of pleasure as he stretched you open. 

He still remembers the guilt he felt when he exited the bathroom and said goodbye to your brother as if he hadn’t just fucked you raw inside your bathroom when you two had barely spoken a word to each other. 

Jungkook should’ve spoken up then, right at the beginning of this all, but instead he let his dick control everything, allowing this to continue. 

You had no complaints, getting dicked down by a man as beautiful as Jungkook with no strings attached was god sent, choosing to keep him around even as he stopped tutoring your brother, even after you moved out of your parents’ house and into a place of your own. 

Jungkook felt the first spark of hope in his chest at you keeping him around, the possibility that maybe this was more than just sex, more than a quick fix. But then he started noticing the texts to your phone that you’d get while he was balls deep inside of you, different boys with different hearts lined up at the end of it. Thats when he began trying to convince himself that he was just confused about his feelings, that all of this was just lust. 

He was wrong. Obviously. 

If all he felt was lust he wouldn’t be so upset over being blocked from your instagram. It wasn’t even as if you two interacted on the app, never dming each other, you’d occasionally like the thirst trap gym photos he’d post just to get your attention whereas he’d like every single post of yours. 

His finger hovers over your contact name now, opening up your thread of messages and seeing the last one being from him two weeks ago. A simple “i’m outside” text after you had invited him over. 

His digits swirl on top of the screen, desperate to shoot you a text, wanting to come across as casual in asking why you blocked him but how could he ask that without exposing that he frequently checked your page.

“No.” He grumbles under his breath, carding his fingers through his long hair and choosing to text his friends instead. An invitation to meet at a diner near by for some greasy food and good conversation, something Jungkook desperately needed right now. 

Taehyung and Jimin don’t know about you, none of his friends do so when they push through the entrance of Mel’s and he spots the reason for his distraught emotions he can’t even explain to his friends why they need to sit at the furthest booth from you. 

You don’t spot him, you were too busy staring at the boy in front of you with heart eyes he wishes could be aimed at him. A straw is between your teeth as you slurp on your milkshake, covering your mouth to laugh loudly at something the purple haired boy said. 

It only irritates him further, his fingers gripping the edges of the menu so hard they pale in color. He knew this was the boy that had text you last time, the purple hearts matching the color of his hair perfectly. Was this why you had blocked him?

“You alright?” Taehyung speaks up, noticing the turmoil brewing on his friend’s face, the way his brows were pinched together, the indent on his forehead deepening every time your laugh filled the diner. 

“Yeah.” Jungkook breathes, hoping the simple lie sounds more believable out in the open than in his head.  He sets the menu down with care, trying to shake the feeling inside of him before it spread throughout him, morphing into something ugly and green. You didn’t owe him anything, he tells himself, you could do whatever you wanted. 

Jimin eyes him carefully, catches on to the way he continues to glance at the corner of the room every now and then. His curiosity gets the best of him so he turns to look over his shoulder and spots you, and you must sense the attention because your eyes move from the purple haired boy over to Jungkook’s booth. Jimin instantly turns around at being caught but its too late, he had been spotted and in turn so had Jungkook. 

You continue to slurp on your shake, allowing Namjoon to feed you some fries from his plate while you stare at Jungkook, calling him mentally and hoping he’d look over so you could give him a smile and wave as if you hadn’t ghosted him with no warning. 

He can feel your piercing gaze, how you refuse to look away until he stares back but he wont give you that, he wouldn’t give you the satisfaction of seeing the way his face crumbles at you being with another guy after throwing him to the curb. Instead he chooses to continue staring at his straw wrapper like it was the most interesting thing in the world. 

His friends can sense his discomfort, not commenting on it and allowing him to guide the conversation until he’s relaxing in his booth, stuffing his face with food until the Jungkook they know reveals himself once more, all smiles and laughs instead of the moping version of himself he was earlier. 

That same Jungkook lingers for a while after leaving the diner, a new set of determination in his mind to move on. You had gone ahead and blocked him, did the first part for him and if that wasn’t a sign for him to pack up his feelings and take a hike then he doesn’t know what was. 

He finds himself glad he hadn’t asked you for coffee two weeks ago, his nerves getting the best of him being the saving grace for what would’ve been further embarrassment. If you had said yes out of pity only to block him before even going out he probably would’ve dug himself a grave and face planted right into it. 

For the first time in a very long time he finds himself not thinking of you, resuming his earlier activities of dating the girls who pursued him. He hadn’t realized how much of you consumed him until he was with someone else, kissing a girl who was kissing him because she wanted to, not because she was trying to muffle a confession she knew was coming. 

By the fourth week Jungkook is proud of himself, applauding his strength for not succumbing to you, caving and texting you for an explanation. He wasn’t weak. 

He wasn’t. 

Until his phone dings with a notification. 

His hand freezes on its way to his mouth, cheeto dust coating his finger from snacking while he binge watched random shows on Netflix. Jungkook doesn’t know whats waiting for him as he licks his fingers before grabbing his phone, the cheeto dust going down the wrong pipe as he saw your name flashing on his phone in the form of an instagram notification. 

He pounds on his chest with his fist, uncapping his water and gulping it down to get rid of the scratchy feeling now lingering in his throat. 

You had just followed him. 

You followed him again after blocking him weeks ago. 

Jungkook just stares at the screen until it fades to black, his own reflection looking back at him until he lights it up once more to make sure he wasn’t hallucinating. His finger swipes the screen to unlock it, checking the notification and seeing that you had in fact unblocked him and refollowed him, your grid of photos filling up the screen in a way they weren’t before. 

He was at a loss of what to do, just staring at your profile, the blue follow button taunting him, begging to be pressed, pleading for him to once again get sucked under your spell. 

You must be watching your notifications, waiting to see any new activity on your page because the second Jungkook follows you back you’re shooting him a text faster than he can blink, not being able to take back what he did before his phone is buzzing with a message. 

Jungkook is faced with a realization at this, he was in fact very weak. 

His brain works on its own accord, opening up your thread of messages and seeing the new one sitting nice and pretty in the bottom left corner. 

y/n 10:48pm : hey kookie, you busy?

He eyes the message for a few minutes, not knowing what to respond with. Was he busy? Technically if you considered a netflix binge to be important. But that stupid voice in the back of his head, the one that sent him to your beck and call speaks up, loud and clear, yelling at him to text back and say he always had time for you. 

jungkook 10:53pm : oh hey, no whats up!

jungkook 10:53pm : *?

The three dots of you typing pop up instantly only giving him seconds to prepare before your message swoops in. 

y/n 10:53pm : wanna come over? i’ll make it worth your while

Suggestive emojis finish off the message and he wants to slap himself when his dick stirs to life at the thought of what you’d do to make it worth it after the hell you’ve put him through recently. 

It’s just lust. That’s all this is, thats the only reason he send you a text saying he was on his way so fast theres a typo in it, getting to your apartment faster than he ever has. 

When you swing the door open you shock him when you wrap your arms around him and pull him in for a kiss, its messy, mostly tongue and teeth as you tug at the hair along the nape of his neck in desperation. 

It takes Jungkook a minute to react to it, you were kissing him, something you’d never allowed him to do during sex. He wonders what this meant, a small bite to his lip being what snaps him out of it and forces him into action. 

His large hands wrap around your waist, tugging you closer to him before he hauls you up, getting you to hook your legs on his hips as he blindly guides you towards your bedroom, a route he knows very well. 

“You got here fast.” You breathe out as you pull away, laughing when he chases after your lips, getting a taste of the way they feel during the heat of the moment he wanted more of it, wanted to swallow down your moans in ways he’s never been able to before. 

“You told me you’d make it worth my while.” He plays it off, latches his lips onto your neck as he throws your bedroom door open, walking the both of you towards your bed and letting you flop down onto it. 

“Did you miss me.” You tease, an evil glint in your eye as you kneel on the bed, your hands resting on his shoulders while you stare at him like the innocent angel you aren’t. 

“You blocked me.” He huffs, allowing you to slide his shirt off even though he was still upset about that, tossing it behind you without a care. You move onto your own shirt, an oversized grey shirt that belongs to Namjoon but you’d never tell Jungkook that, either way his attention lands on your exposed tits, the shirt and who it belongs to not even crossing his mind now that he had an eyeful of your pert chest. 

“No I didn’t.” You lie so effortlessly, having the motions down to a science. The tilt of your head, the squinting of your eyes that painted an image of you not knowing what he was talking about. The slight lift in your tone in what he mistakes as genuine confusion is what starts the swirls of doubt in his brain. You knew though, you knew very well that you had indeed blocked him. 

“Yeah you did.” He pushes, trying to lean in to kiss you again but you seemed to be over that, the initial neediness you felt leaving you and he feels the sting he hadn’t felt in a long time. Jungkook pushes it away and chooses to let his mouth kiss your jaw and begin sucking on your neck once more. 

“Hm, no I didn’t Kookie.” Your voice sounds so sure, so confident that it has him second guessing himself. Had you really blocked him or had he just gotten it mixed up? 

His lips pause on your skin from his inner debate and you know you need to move this along before he questions you further, pulls out a screenshot of him clearly being blocked with no chance of deniability. 

“Let me make this worth your while like I said, that sound good?” You ask, smiling when he nods against your skin, the topic of whether or not you blocked him leaving his mind, destined to come back again once he’s at home laying in bed and having a crisis. 

Jungkook’s mind short circuits when you reach for his pants, your hands palming the growing bulge contained in them, begging to be taken care of because it’s been so long. 

“Yeah, yeah okay.” He stutters out, letting himself get moved around until he was sat on the edge of your bed while you hopped off. Jungkook takes it upon himself to yank his jeans off, his hunger for you taking over, wanting to move this forward until you were sinking down on his cock, the pleasure clouding his common sense. He needed that because he was having an inner debate on if this was a good idea or not. 

You fall to your knees it front of him after shimmying out of your shorts, a surprising turn of events that he doesn’t see coming judging by the look on his face. That same teasing laugh is sent his way as you tug at his black briefs, his hips lifting off the bed to slip them off, his cock springing free and he sighs at no longer being confined. 

You lick your lips over as you stare at his cock, the thickness of it making your mouth water as you trace the pretty veins wrapped around it with your eyes, leading up to his red tip, leaking beads of precum. 

Jungkook groans when you wrap your hand around his length, the second you texted him he was half hard, aching and needy for release of any kind. He swears he could cum then and there when you noisily spit into your other palm, gliding it up his length to spread the wetness around and starting a slow rhythm. 

“Feel good?” You ask innocently, faux sweetness he knows far too well dripping from your tongue, thick like syrup and he finds himself wanting to lap it up. 

Jungkook knows you’re getting a kick out of it, watching the way you’re biting on your lip and smiling when his face screws up at being touched, the slow pumping of your hands only teasing him and pushing his head further under the stream of pleasure  

“Shit, yeah.” He mumbles out, his stomach hiccuping when you lean forward and let a glob of spit land on the head of his cock, the way it drips down his length and pools at your hands as you continue your motion only serves to send Jungkook deeper into a frenzy. 

It’s not until you finally take him into your mouth, slow and gentle as if you didn’t like to deep throat his cock until you’re choking, that Jungkook lets a moan finally slip through the gates of his teeth. It urges you on, the first rock being thrown at his glass exterior, a tiny sliver of a crack exposing itself and giving you a way in again. 

Jungkook forgets how to breathe for a minute, his mouth slack jawed as he watches in awe at the way you sink your mouth further onto his length. Your pretty lips pulled tightly around his girth, your cheeks hollowing up as you suck your way back up with a noisy slurp. 

“So good.” He groans out, his hand creeping its way around you until he had a fistful of your hair in his grip. Jungkook smiles now when you go lax in his hands, your mouth widening up when he starts to push your head down, his cock nudging along your throat and making you gag, muscles spasming around him but he doesn’t relent until your nose is nuzzled along the small patch of hair around the base of his cock. 

He sighs out, feeling as if the balance of everything had been restored now that you were kneeling pliant between his legs, mouth stuffed with cock, not being able to fuck with his mind with your sweet sounding lies and convincing eyes. 

When he finally pulls you off of him you gasp in a breath, wet and stuck to your throat, your eyes watering up from being choked but the arousal dripping down your thighs showed how much you loved it. Jungkook pouts at you, a clear sense of mockery in it and it makes you want to laugh at how the tables turned. His hand cups your cheek, his thumb smearing the drool around your mouth and making a bigger mess of it all. 

“What, thats it?” He taunts, his eyebrow raising up as you roll your lips together, “You choke on my dick and forget how to make this worth my while?”

His words make you squeeze your thighs together, seeking any sort of friction to ease the pressure building in your core. You loved when Jungkook got like this, flipped a switch in the middle of it and bossed you around, it was the main reason you enjoyed pushing his buttons, wanting to get him to the point where he’d do it back to you. 

“No.” You rasp out, your head lolling to the side as your tongue glides along your lips, visions of tied up cherry stems and sharp words trailing behind it. 

“Show me then.” He orders, thighs spreading further apart as his hand gestures for you to get to it, for you to show him exactly why you called him over. 

As you sink back onto his cock, he wonders if the reason you invited him today was because one of your boy toys had flaked on you, left you high and dry and you needed a fix like you always did. Another part of him wonders if you finally messaged him to keep him close, to not let him stray too far away from you, leave him open and available for you whenever you decided he was needed. 

Jungkook seemed to be getting the good end of this deal right now, whatever it may be so he rides it through, letting grunts of pleasure slip through the seam of his lips when you find the right pace. Your hands word in tandem with your mouth, twisting and pumping in unison. 

He begins rocking his hips up towards your face, a crooked smile on his face at the mess you’re making on his cock, he likes it too much. The wet thump of your fist pumping down, the way you slurp on his length like it was that damn popsicle you used to taunt him with. 

“So fucking dirty.” Jungkook’s voice is husky now, drawn out while he lets himself get lost in it all, heavy with the lust clouding his brain. His words just encourage you, working past the aching feeling in your jaw as you try your best, needing a distraction from the night you’ve had and thats what Jungkook was best for. 

The simmering warmth he feels growing in his gut starts to boil over when you grasp one of his balls, your fingers fondling them in a teasing motion before you switch off and latch your mouth around them instead. 

Jungkook can only curse under his breath, his fingers weaving through your hair once more and tugging at the strands, feeling you moan against his skin at the sting on pain at your scalp. 

“Fuck, I’m gonna cum–“ Jungkook warns, trying to pull you away from him but you stay put, your hands continuing the motions your mouth was no longer doing, “Don’t you want me to fuck you?” He wonders, if he came now you’d have to wait a while before he was ready to go again and he knew you weren’t the most patient person. 

“No, wanna make you feel good.” Is all you mumble out before slipping his length back into your mouth. The warmth that envelops his cock has him groaning out once more, his mouth dropped open as his chest heaved at the oncoming orgasm.  

“Ah,” he whines when you sink all the way down until your nose nuzzles against his skin, “where do you want me to cum?”

It’s breathless and needy, making you pop off of him with a sultry smile, “My face.”

Jungkook nods, half delirious as he stands up on his weakening legs and fists his cock, the spit lathered on it helping him glide as fast as he needed to. The way you’re sat in front of him, your palms pressed to your thighs, mouth wide open with your tongue sticking out and your eyes locked onto him, sends his mind reeling. 

The angry tip of his cock peaks out with every pump of his fist, only needing a few more flicks of his wrist before his stomach was caving in and flexing as he came. 

Jungkook lets out strangled moan, thick ropes of cum streaming out and landing in globs on your face in short spurts. Your eyes fluttering shut when you feel it land on your cheek, your nose, and dripping down onto your awaiting tongue. 

He’s panting above you as he comes down, his hand raking through his own hair as he tries to calm his breathing down, the tingling feeling spread throughout his body dulling down. When your eyes blink up at him, he can just tell you’re up to something when you stick your tongue back in your mouth and swallow, an evil smirk spreading across your cum streaked face. 

“Here let me grab you a towel.” He starts to move towards your bathroom but your palm reaches out to grab his thigh, stopping him in his tracks. 

“No, do me a favor.” You ask him in that tone that made him shiver, your hand pointing at your desk, right at the white polaroid camera you had propped on top of it. Jungkook doesn’t know what you’re planning but he reaches for it anyways, handing you the device only to have you thrust it back in his hands. 

“Take a photo of me.” You say it so sweetly, like you’re asking him to take a photo of you smiling with flowers in your hair. 

Jungkook’s face twists up in confusion. You wanted a photo of yourself covered in his cum. You were definitely planning something and it was clear now that Jungkook was an accessory to all of this. 

Still he nods and points the camera down at you, begging his slowly softening dick to not spur back to life at the face you give him. Your hair’s messy from his hands yanking at it, your eyes wide and innocent as you scoop some of the cum off your cheek and pop it into your mouth for the photo. 

The flash goes off and you hum around your digit, slipping it out of your mouth as Jungkook grabs the exiting photo from the top of the camera. 

He sets it all down and is ready to go about the routine the way you always did but you stop him once more, “Wait, take another one.”

And like clockwork Jungkook obeys, the hex you had on him controlling his motions until he has the camera in his grasp a second time. He presses it against his eye and looks down at you, a strained gasp leaving him when you grab his sensitive cock and let the tip of it slip into your mouth. 

His fingers press on the shutter button immediately, capturing the moment on a little rectangle of film, the flash filling the room. When he goes to hand it to you all you do is shake your head and stand up on your sore legs. 

“Keep it.” You shrug, pulling your hair up into a pony tail and reaching for the other photo on your bed sheets. 

“I don’t think your boyfriend would like that.” It slips out without warning, an unknowing jab sent your way and Jungkook’s eyes widen at the words he just said as he steps into his jeans after slipping his underwear back on. 

You freeze as well, the grey shirt that belonged to the man he was talking about feeling heavy on your frame. “You mean Namjoon?” You question, not an ounce of shame in your words, knowing very well that Jungkook had spotted you out with him a few weeks ago. 

The name feels bitter on your tongue, trying your best not to let your distaste show on your face as you stare at him. Jungkook didn’t need to know that Namjoon had called it quits with you, the sneaking suspicion that you were messing around with someone else being too strong. It was the main reason you blocked Jungkook on instagram, he had become prime suspect number one thanks to the way he bombarded your photos. 

You needed to keep your distance from Jungkook in order to keep your relationship with Namjoon afloat, at least in the beginning, then you could go back to your routine. But Namjoon was too observant, and all it took was finding a pair of underwear that didn’t belong to him slipped under your bed for the mirage to come crumbling down around you. 

It angered you more because you had been careful, stopped sleeping around, but because Jungkook had left a pair of underwear weeks ago in his haste to leave it became a chain reaction the lead to Namjoon slamming the door behind him as he left your place a while before Jungkook stumbled his way through. 

That was too much information to tell Jungkook, you didn’t want to give him the impression that you searched for his comfort in the form of physical touch after your boyfriend left you. You didn’t need him to know that he was the only constant in your life, slot in between every failed relationship, maintaining his spot as the one you called to when you needed a distraction. 

Jungkook’s eyes narrow at the name, remembering the flashing ‘joonie’ on your phone screen. He only gives you a nod in response, his confusion deepening when you laugh. 

“He’s just a friend.” You lie through your teeth, setting the photo you knew you’d be sending him later onto your desk, grabbing a small towel you had and wiping your face clean with it. 

Jungkook doesn’t fully believe you but he doesn’t fight it, choosing to finish getting dressed in silence. If he was just a friend and was able to get you to go out on a date with him that what were Jungkook’s chances? What were the odds that his own name wasn’t some cute version of ‘kookie’ with an obscene amount of hearts at the end of it?

That was all wishful thinking though, he knew deep down that his name was just a plain and simple Jungkook, he knew the minute he’d ask you to go have lunch you’d ghost him like you did before. 

You watch him curiously as he puts his shoes on, seeing the way his mind was working on overdrive, overthinking everything and talking himself into circles. You needed him to stay close, to not let him get a taste of what life would be like without you so you approach him with that same saccharine smile. 

“Thanks Kookie.” You whisper out, cupping his cheek and leaning up on your toes to press a gentle kiss goodbye on his lips. He kisses back instantly, needing to feel more, wanting to wrap his arms around you like he did earlier but that was gone now and you were stepping back too quickly. 

A small yawn escapes your lips and he gets the hint, stuffing the dirty polaroid into his jean pocket and giving you a half smile, “Yeah of course, I’ll see you later Y/N.”

You flop onto your bed and wave at him as he exits your room but once the door shuts behind him you flip onto your stomach and groan loudly into your pillow, unaware that Jungkook could still hear you from his spot in the hallway. 

He decides not to open the door back up and check on you, making a swift exit and rushing to get into his car like he was running from something. And in a way he was.

Now that he’s confined inside his vehicle he slips the photo out of his pocket, turning the overhead lighting on to look at it properly now that it was developed. 

Your eyes were half lidded as you stared into the camera, your hand wrapped around the base of his cock while the tip of it prodded at your cheek, face covered in ribbons of his cum. It was the most explicit photo he’d ever had and he can’t even let himself get excited over it. Instead he opens up his center divider and stuffs the photo into there before slamming it shut. 

He pulls out of his parking spot and takes off back home, that hollow feeling in his chest returning when he remembers the words you told him today. He knows you were lying to him, Jungkook wasn’t stupid, but he just doesn’t understand what he did for you to constantly treat him this way. 

He feels the stinging at the back of his eyes, the streetlights becoming blurry at the edges as his vision got misty. An idea pops into his head so he pulls over onto a random corner, blinking away the tears before they could fall as he pulls his phone out of his pocket. He knew what he had to do, for his own sanity.

You two weren’t right for each other, he was tired of being this puppet on strings for you to play with until you got bored and moved on to the next shiny new thing. Jungkook was sick of dreaming about taking you out, sick of wondering what lies you’d tell him next because you knew he was wrapped so tightly around your finger that he could never fight you on it. 

So he opens up instagram and goes to your page instantly, not letting himself think twice before he’s clicking on the block button, locking his phone and throwing it on the passenger seat before resuming his drive home, begging himself not to succumb to you once again.

And as you sit on your bed at home, scrolling through instagram and taking a peek at his page, knowing he usually posted an instagram story of whatever song he was listening to after leaving your apartment, you’re shocked to see the same words that haunted Jungkook for weeks. 

No posts yet. 

He had blocked you. For the first time in the years you’ve been fooling around you finally get a taste of the way you’ve been treating him. And as you sit in bed having the same dilemma he had before, wondering what you did or said, debating sending him a text, you feel the first twist in your heart that Jungkook had grown accustomed to and you don’t like it.

[uchihasakurawrites]

Of T-Shirts and Monsoons

Rating: T for language

Summary: In which Sasuke proposes to a fuming Sakura in a cave in the middle of Rain. 

Word Count: 2,243

A/N: Hello everyone! It’s been about seven years since I last wrote for this fandom (or wrote creatively at all, really). This random idea popped into my head while I was watching old SasuSaku AMVs, and I just thought I’d go for it! I have a few ideas for longer SasuSaku fics, so I wanted to test out a few drabbles/oneshots to shake off some of the rust since it’s been a while. Let me know what you think! Also feel free to send prompts my way. This was done in about an hour, but I hope you enjoy~

Cross posted on Ao3 and Fanfiction.net

___________________________________

Sakura was fuming as she stomped into the cave, ignoring Sasuke’s wary gaze as she slung her pack to the ground with enough force to create fine cracks in the stone beneath it. She stripped out of her blood-and-rain soaked jonin vest and tossed it equally as haphazardly to the side, not sparing a glance to where it landed with a decided thwack. Sasuke rubbed the bridge of his nose and made quick work of using a small katon to set a small fire in the back of the cave. Typically, it wouldn’t be worth the risk of attracting unwanted attention, but he figured the benefits of not having to deal with an angry and cold Sakura were decidedly worth dispatching any rogues that were foolish enough to have followed them. Not that he and Sakura had left any of the nin in a state to pursue them, he thought with a smirk.

“Stupid Rain with it’s stupid freak monsoons and stupid rogue nin who ambush anything that fucking moves through their ‘territory.’ Sure, take out the fact that you’re bored in a time of peace out on civilians who can’t fight back.”

The clang of Sakura’s weapons pouch against the cave wall punctuated her impatience with the recent trend of rogue bands staking claim to smaller civilian towns and merchant paths. They’d managed to defend three different merchant caravans and liberated two villages from rogues in the past month and a half alone. She didn’t mind helping the civilians, of course, but why couldn’t these rogues get it through their skulls that this was peace time? She just wanted a little peace, dammit!

Sasuke crouched down next to his own pack to dig out a spare change of clothes. After just over a year and a half of traveling together, he was more than used to Sakura’s flinty temper and knew she would tire herself out soon. Best to keep out of it.

Sakura dropped to the ground to hunt for a clean shirt of her own. She pulled out shirt after shirt, noting with growing frustration that each was either covered in blood, lacerations, or sand. If she ever saw another grain of sand, it would be far too soon. A growl tore from the back of her throat.

“Stupid Suna with it’s stupid sand. Why the hell can’t some other village have poison experts so I don’t have to trudge through the damned desert just to collaborate on our new Inter-Village Poison Center? Who the fuck even came up with that idea?” Sasuke sent her a pointed look, knowing full well that she had fully supported Shizune’s initiative, which Sakura missed. “And why the hell can’t an epidemic break out in, I don’t know, the Land of Tea and not the middle of fucking Rain? At least then-”

Sakura nearly choked when she glanced up  just in time to see Sasuke pull off his rain-soaked shirt and wring it out. No matter how long they spent together or how intimate they became, Sakura’s mind never failed to short-circuit at the sight of Sasuke’s bare skin. It didn’t matter where or how much - one glimpse, and her mind checked out. Although he would never express it outright, Sakura surmised that Sasuke knew exactly what his body did to her and used it to his advantage - say, when he was trying to distract her from a particularly troublesome conversation or train of thought.

It worked more often then she cared to admit.

Her sharp eyes caught the way Sasuke shifted his weight away from his left side as he moved to pull on a fresh shirt - crisp black with the Uchiha fan emblazoned proudly on the back. After a brief moment admiring his figure before it was hidden by the fabric, Sakura frowned at the inflammation beginning to flare up around his ankle. She cleared her throat and motioned for him to come over, tirade momentarily forgotten. Kami knows Sasuke would never admit that he had lost his footing for a moment during their earlier confrontation, unused to fighting on branches that had been rotted through from near-constant rain, and actually ask her to heal him. He’d become much more willing to allow her to heal him after a particularly difficult fight, but it was rare for him to outright ask for her assistance. She usually offered before he needed to.

She met his withering look with a hard gaze of her own.

“You,” she jabbed a finger in his direction, and he raised a brow, “stop being a stubborn ass and sit.” She motioned to the spot next to her with a touch more force than necessary. Sasuke didn’t budge and continued to ruffle through his pack. Sakura’s eyes narrowed.

“Sasuke-kun, --”

With a sigh, Sasuke fixed Sakura with a stern look and tossed her one of his extra shirts before coming to sit next to her. Laying a hand on Sakura’s shoulder, he formed the tiger seal to send a small katon over her skin to dry off the remnants of water that clung to her skin and hair. His jaw tightened at the blue-purple tint her lips had begun to take in the chill. A smile worked its way onto Sakura’s face when she realized the telltale signs of concern in his posture as he hovered near her.

“Change, Sakura. Then heal.”

His gaze dropped pointedly below her chin, and Sakura’s cheeks heated as she followed his eyes and realized her state of undress. Over the course of her rant, she had stripped down to her chest bindings and fitted shorts. Although Sasuke had seen her in far less, embarrassment washed through her as she scrambled to unfold the shirt he had tossed to her.

Her demeanor shifted when she went to slip it on. Sasuke glanced over when he felt Sakura stiffen at his side, brow furrowing when he noted the pensive look on Sakura’s features. Her eyes, previously a battle-worn seafoam green, took on a deeper, more thoughtful jade. She snagged her lip between her teeth, and Sasuke glanced down to see her fingers gently tracing the outline of the Uchiha fan printed on the back of the shirt.

 Spine going rigid, Sasuke wracked his brain for the other instances Sakura had borrowed clothes from his pack - a shirt here, a poncho there. Her hands-on approach to fighting combined with the blood, bile, and poison that came with being a medic meant that her clothes tended to ruin more quickly than his. The sight of her rummaging through his pack for a spare change of clothes was a familiar one. What he hadn’t noticed, however, was that Sakura was always careful to select one of the few articles of clothing he carried that didn’t carry his clan’s symbol. He kept a few basics on hand just in case they needed to be incognito through a town that was still hostile towards the Leaf.

His mind jumped to the easiest explanation he could think of for her hesitation: she was ashamed. Not that he blamed her for wanting to distance herself from his clan’s marred legacy, but the very thought lit a fire in his veins that had him pulling away from her. Anger and bitterness combined with a pang of disappointment that he didn’t particularly want to address.

Sakura started, broken from her thoughts as she took note of Sasuke’s sudden change in demeanor. It was a testament to the time she had spent becoming attuned to the small giveaways of Sasuke’s emotions that she pieced two-and-two together. His flinty eyes shifted between the shirt in her hands and the cave wall as he refused to look at her.

With another quiet smile, Sakura carefully folded the shirt, laid it on top of her pack, and moved to stand next to Sasuke. She could feel some of the tension leave him when her shoulder brushed his, but his eyes remained stony.

“Sasuke-kun.” She waited for a moment before his gaze flickered down to hers, hoping that the softness in her own gaze would convey whatever she wasn’t able to in words. She placed a gentle hand on his bicep, hoping to ground him as she mulled over her words. Talking about the Uchiha Clan with Sasuke took a delicate touch, a touch she had learned after a short but explosive period of trial and error.

“Sasuke-kun, your clan’s history has nothing to do with why I won’t wear the Uchiha fan. Your legacy is a part of you, and I love you. All of you. Even the darkest parts that you don’t think love can reach. You know I’m damn persistent, and if I can wait this long to get you to accept that I love you, then I can wait as long as you need me to before you accept that that includes everything about you.”

She took a deep breath, averting her own eyes now that he had fixed her with an unreadable gaze of his own.

“Even if you won’t outright admit it, I know that your clan is precious to you. I’ve watched you carve the clan’s symbol into your kunai every time you replenish your stock. And I’m not an Uchiha, Sasuke-kun, so wearing the clan’s symbol - even casually like this, just feels like I’m not giving it the honor it deserves.”

Silence. Sakura was used to silence from Sasuke, and had learned how to interpret his different silences. There were the more distraught, brooding ones that required a bright, calming touch and the occasional pouty silence after she had smiled just a touch too openly at a flirty cashier; the explosive silences that she usually drew him into a spar during to release some energy and the frustrated, yet concerned silence when he thought she was too reckless in a battle.

This seemed to be one of his thoughtful silences - one that she didn’t feel she should interrupt. Noting with no small amount of satisfaction that most of the rigidity had melted away from his body, Sakura moved to turn back towards her pack.

“As for clothes, I’m sure I can put together something for tonight, so don’t worry about me. I’m pretty sure there’s a little merchant town not to far from here that we can stop by tomorrow to stock up on some new -”

Sakura swallowed her words as a cool hand enclosed her wrist and tugged her back. Her eyes widened when she found herself pressed to Sasuke’s chest with his arms wrapped tightly around her back. While Sakura was no stranger to small acts of affection from Sasuke - a forehead poke here and a sleepy  arm around her waist there - it was incredibly rare for him to initiate a hug. In fact, she was pretty sure she could count the number of times he had hugged her on one hand.

“Sa-Sasuke-kun?”

He huffed into her hair, something between a laugh or a sigh - she couldn’t quite tell. So she simply decided to remain quiet, tracing her fingertips along his back as she waited for him to voice his thoughts. She swore Sasuke Uchiha was going to be the death of her when he spoke again and she quite literally choked.

“Marry me.”

The words were so quiet that Sakura nearly convinced herself that they were a figment of her imagination. A statement, not a request. She pulled back slightly, wide eyes meeting Sasuke’s steady gaze.

“W-What?”

Sakura winced as soon as she asked the question, knowing Sasuke loathed repeating himself (though it was a well-kept secret that Sasuke didn’t mind repeating himself for her and her alone). But surely he couldn’t hold it against her given the situation. He simply sighed at her request, arching a brow that said he knew that she had clearly heard him yet repeated himself anyways.

“Marry me and wear the damn shirt, Sakura.”

When she continued to stand in front of him with nothing more than a shocked stare, Sasuke huffed again and half-rolled his eyes in a rare display of amusement. Tonight seemed to be a night for rare occasions, it seemed.

Sidestepping Sakura’s frozen form, he retrieved his spare shirt from its place on Sakura’s pack, unfolded it, and gently worked it over her head. A warm glow replaced the earlier fire in his veins as Sakura came to and allowed her arms to be guided into the shirt’s sleeves.

Sasuke spent a minute admiring the fan on her back, pride burning in his chest at the thought of Sakura as the Uchiha matriarch. A small part of him idly wondered if his mother would be pleased to see her position passed on to Sakura. He liked to think she would.

Sakura turned towards him, feeling a tug in her chest at the vulnerability in Sasuke’s expression. She wasn’t sure what kind of proposal she had expected from Sasuke - hell, she hadn’t even been certain she should expect one at all. At least, not for a while. She certainly hadn’t imagined one of the happiest moments of her life to come in the middle of a freezing cave in Rain after treating a minor epidemic, getting ambushed by a plucky squad of overambitious rogue nin, and nearly drowning in a monsoon.

So yes, she hadn’t expected a proposal to come in this type of situation, but she had known her answer to this question for nearly a decade.

“Yes.”

[morgana-ren]

I noticed youd said that you get more shiggy requests. So, if you'll indulge me for a sec.

We've had gatos input on how strade would be if the roles were reversed. Mc somehow had him under their control with the shock collar on.

I want your input because your writing is so detailed i know id enjoy reading what a submissive little bitch he'd become.

Please and thank you Morgana.

ily :3

Oh OH You know me so well! This is one of my favorite things to daydream about when I get angry or annoyed because since Strade is such a garbage human being, it tickles me so much to think about how cathartic it would be to turn the tables.

So as well all know, Strade, while very experienced, is not the brightest bulb in the box. He’s got years of know-how behind his expertise in kidnapping and torture, but there’s some shit that just kind of evades him sometimes. Double checking your ropes after he gets a little too excited and wants a dirty basement floor romp, for example. Thanks to his overexcitement and shit-idiot brain fungus he’s got going on, it’s entirely possible for you to slip your bonds. This mistake, in canon, costs him his life. 

But what if MC wasn’t so kind? 

With a level head, you might be able to scrounge around his torture room for a little bit. Maybe he has a needle with some knockout liquid hanging around for “difficult” catches. Maybe you just wait around behind the door until he walks in and smash him on the head as hard as you can and knock his ass out. Either way, he’s got plenty of restraints, and now he’s the one cuffed to a rusty pole. The look on his dumb face when he comes to is priceless. 

You’re not making the same mistakes he did. He’s triple tied to that thing. You know he’s strong, and you’re playing on his home field. You’ve got to be prepared for everything. At least long enough to get upstairs and find help or call the police. Right? Right? 

But what if you don’t?

What if, after he comes to and is sputtering and howling and hissing things at you in German that would make Lindemann blush, you decide not to go for help? He’s mad. He’s oh so very mad. He does not like this, not one bit. But he’s panicking beyond what you’d expect, even for a serial killer who’s been two-timed by his own victim. There’s something else in those dilated eyes. Something you’ve become very acutely familiar with over the last few days. You can still smell it lingering on you the same way it’s staining his shirt now. 

Fear. He’s afraid. And not of death or capture. 

I mean, he very well might be terrified of those things, but whatever it is he’s feeling right now is far overshadowing that. His face is red, and you can practically see the veins in his neck popping in rhythm with his thrumming heartbeat. He’s sweating extensively, and while that’s not uncommon for him, there’s not that macabre jolly smile plastered across his face. He’s baring his teeth and snapping at you like a feral hound, swearing to end your miserable life in a manner that would make the ghosts of his past shudder in horror for you. 

You don’t put it past him to snap these ropes any second and wrap his hands so tightly around your neck that your eyes pop like overinflated balloons. Even if the cops show up and try to escort you to safety, there’s an unspoken darkness in his glare, something that promises pain in your future even if they manage to subdue him. A promise that you can’t guarantee yourself that he can’t keep.

It strikes you that you know nothing about this man.

Surely someone out there knows about this. Someone knows about him and his little hobby. Monsters run in packs and even if you can’t see them, you know they must be there. Best case scenario, they can’t have him spilling their secrets so they find a way to end his life before the police can. Worst case scenario?  Worst case, they come for you. 

You’ve seen enough Hollywood horror movies to know just how wrong it can go if justice is left to the authorities. You haven’t seen much of it, but this looks like a pretty nice house. If he has money, he can just buy his way out. Who is to say that he doesn’t already have a deal with the cops? Kidnapping people is risky business, especially when folks begin to notice that you’re gone. Surely he has some safety net? 

What if he’s part of a network of psychopaths? There’s been enough late-night conspiracy youtube binges in your existence to know that shit like that is perfectly plausible. What if he’s just one of many? What if they have the pull to see him set free even after you’ve gone through the proper avenues to get him locked away? What if, one night, when you think he’s rotting in a 6 x 6 cement cell miles away from you, you wake up back here in this basement with even more Strades with different names and faces but each one shares the desire to see you ripped apart at the seams and devoured?

No. HELL no. You’re not going to be the cliche victim. He can bark and screech at you until his throat is sore and his gums bleed, but the plain and simple fact of the matter is that you have this monster on a leash, and you’re not about to hand that leash over to someone else. 

How many people has he killed? How many have met their end in this godless basement? How many unsuspecting people has he dragged here only to take them apart piece by piece until their eyes glaze and their final breath moistens his cheek as he watches the light in their eyes extinguish? Do you even want to know? Would it make you feel better or worse to know that, at least for now, you’ve narrowly escaped such a fate? 

You have to know. 

His screaming turns fearful as you ascend the stairs. Again, not for fear of being caught, but because he already has been. It’s so odd to hear the phrase “Don’t leave me here!” from his quivering chest when he’s apparently in the place he values most, and there’s a sick sense of catharsis that settles in your gut as you listen to him begin to whimper and whine. You don’t let yourself dwell on it but you do slam the door behind you loudly enough that he will be forced to acknowledge that his pathetic pleas mean nothing to you. 

His house is painfully average, at least for someone like him. He’s even got portraits up with what must be friends or family or someone that cares enough to pose for a cheesy photo with him. If you didn’t know better, you’d say an upstanding, if a little tacky, upper-middle class man lives here. The furniture is unremarkable and well cared for but lived in enough to not raise suspicion. His kitchen is filled with expensive appliances that might as well be fresh out of the box. His fridge, as expected, is filled with beer and various quick meals. Not much of a cook, you guess.

The car sitting in the garage costs in the six digit range and looks like it’s the most beloved thing in the entire area. It reeks of Armor All and disinfectant, and you’re willing to bet that if he was so inclined, he could put it on a showroom floor right now. He’s got tools and cables of all sorts thrown about, but not the kind you’ve gotten so used to. Maybe he actually does use them for their intended purpose sometimes. 

As you walk the length of his home, you notice a distinct lack of screaming. You can’t hear anything, not even a peep from the basement, and you are very certain he’s crying up a storm down there. Interesting. He’s go this place sound proofed. You’re not sure what you’d expected, but it’s good information to have regardless. 

After you’ve sated your curiosity by observing the dragon’s den, you make your way to the upper level. He’s probably not foolish enough to leave any sort of evidence behind where friends and neighbors can see it, so whatever it is you’re looking for is going to be somewhere a little bit more personal. Perhaps like a bedroom? 

Bingo. 

His bedroom, much like the rest of his house, looks about what you’d expect. King sized bed, wooden dresser with a TV and player on top, and a desk beneath the window. Sliding closet doors with all manner of free range dad apparel inside, and honestly, it’s the closest you’ve been to laughing since you got here. He would wear cargo shorts and plaid, wouldn’t he? A scrounge through the drawers of his dresser and closet reveal nothing remarkable, but you’re willing to bet your injured thigh that there’s something special in the desk. 

Just like you’d expect, the desk is locked, but you’d noticed a pair of keys sitting willy-nilly out in the living room and you’d picked them up. About 7 key changes later and the desk pops open for you like a cheap whore. He really isn’t too bright, is he? Or maybe he just wasn’t expecting this to ever be a problem. Either way, you’re grateful he’s a moron. 

Inside the drawer seems to be loads of DVDs, unmarked except for dates. It feels like you’re the unprepared cop in a serial killer movie as you look down at them. You don’t need to watch them to know what they are, but you’re going to anyway. You have to know. You need to know just who you’re dealing with here. 

You pick one at random and pop it into the DVD player and the scene that greets you seems all too familiar. A hunched figure, bloodied and tied to the pole you’d become so intimate with over the last week. This person was in much worse shape than you, however. You could see shadows moving off screen and the camera fuzzes and refocuses repeatedly as what you assume is Strade messes with the controls. Not long after, he emerges, practically skipping into frame. Even though most of his face is concealed behind a hideous bandana, you can tell he’s smiling. It reaches his eyes. 

He says what appears to be a rehearsed greeting and you’re left wondering just how crazy is he? Is he talking to his future self? You can see him making these videos to relive his sick, sadistic fantasies but talking to himself like an absolute lunatic is just a little disconcerting. However, you also acknowledge that the only reason you’ve even thinking about this is to distract yourself from the fact that you’re watching a homemade snuff film that you almost starred in yourself. 

And then he begins. 

Despite the visceral horror on display before you, the urge to vomit never comes. You watch, blank faced, as this poor soul is faced with every horror a human mind can conceive. It goes on for long. Too long. And Strade never stops talking. 

The realization sets in that’s because he’s not the only one watching. 

He’s not talking to himself. He’s responding. This wasn’t for him. This was for them. 

If you had any emotional energy to give, surely you’d be absolutely horrified, but you don’t and you can’t. You’re not even surprised. Someone like Strade, that bubbly personality and 1,000 watt smile, of course he’d find a way to utilize his talents. He’d found a market. He had a hobby and he made money from it. ‘Love your job and you’ll never work a day in your life.’ and you are just so willing to bet he loves his fucking job. 

You let the video keep playing as you sit up from his bed and leave the room. You make your way down the stairs, back to the living room, and then back to the basement door. You open it and immediately are bombarded with the sounds of his screaming and hateful vitriol. It doesn’t phase you. You’re not sure anything will ever again. 

Calmly, you walk into the room and stare at him. He doesn’t cease his incessant threats until he realizes you’re waiting for him to finish so that you can speak. He finally silences himself, though he continues to rip and tear at the ropes holding him hostage as you tell him you found his little home video collection. 

“Let me out.” He demands, and you realize he doesn’t quite understand that he’s not the one in control anymore. Of course a dog without a tangible leash will continue to run wild. You needed to drive the point home. 

You turn your back to him and begin to ruffle through his various cabinets, searching around the nooks and crannies for something that will help him understand just what position he’s found himself in. You make a very interesting discovery next to his med kit. A collar. A literal collar. 

Poetic justice. 

It’s thick and burdensome and more than a little hideous. It’s definitely homemade, because not even the most fucked of BDSM sites are going to offer something like this. It’s accompanied by a small remote with a large red button and not much else. You push the button and yelp in pain, the collar clattering to the floor as it slips from your fingers. It shocked you. It was so very painful, but you’re smiling. 

You retrieve it from where it fell and pop it open, observing it curiously. Strade watches you through wide eyes and sniveling, trembling lips. The look on his face is a dead giveaway that you’ve found something you really shouldn’t have. The toothy grin you flash him shows him that you understand that. 

Without a word, you approach him, holding the open collar in your sweating palm. His struggles begin anew and before long he’s practically yanking his arms out at the sockets trying to get away from you and your newfound toy. He’s throwing his weight around and doing whatever he can with his limited movements to make damn sure you can’t get that terrible thing around his neck, but it’s all in vain because energy is finite and he’s been expending a lot of it over the last hour. 

He’s breathing heavy and you could swear he’s begging between heaves as you clap the collar around his thick neck. His flesh bulges from the side and you’re fairly certain it was made for someone much less burly than himself in mind. You get the odd urge to adjust it on him like a necklace but he’s still dangerous, even caged. You feel weirdly... proud.

“Stop-! you don’t know what you’re doing!” He hiccups, and as he pulls his head upward, you can see he is indeed crying. “Please! Don’t!” 

You’ve never thought of yourself as particularly sadistic, at least in that sense, but some ghostly force pushes your thumb down on that big red button. Watching his eyes go wide and his body convulse and seize fills you with a sense of sheer euphoria that can’t properly be conveyed. The utterly satisfying clang of his head hitting the pole at mach 5 as he shakes and bumbles almost humorously while the collar sends x amount of volts through his body makes you giggle. 

When you finally pull your thumb off the button, he’s still shaking from the residual shock, drool and mucus bubbling from his mouth and nose and sloping down onto his chin. He looks defeated; utterly pathetic. Is this how you looked to him all those times he stood over you grinning as he gifted you pain the likes of which had been unthinkable to you before you met him? The desire to push down again is overwhelming but you’re determined for him to understand there’s a point to this misery. 

There’s a thousand thoughts going through your mind right now faster than you can comprehend them all, but they all have the same general principal. This man is a murderer. This man is a rapist. This man is contained. This man is afraid. This man is at your mercy. 

And unfortunately for him, you just ran out. 

‘How many’ you ask, despite already knowing. If the videos upstairs are any indication, there’s more than he can probably count. More names and faces than he can practically remember and they’re dead because of him. He looks up at you through wet lashes with a trembling lip, already caught on to the fact that there is no correct answer. Your thumb hovers over that seductive red button and he’s quick to spit out whatever he can regardless. 

“I don’t know! I don’t!” 

You don’t doubt that he’s being honest, but it sickens you none he less. You press that button for half a second and he jolts up off the floor as much as his restraints will allow. When he comes to, his eyes can barely focus in on you and when his slumps over, you can see the burns from the collar already settling in on his tan skin. You’re not sure how to turn down the voltage or how lethal it is, but you don’t really care at the moment. If he dies, he dies. You’ll deal with the complications of that later. 

You could sit here all day and grill him, literally and figuratively, about his track record of atrocities, but it won’t bring you any peace. You’re not sure that peace is something that you’ll ever feel again, all things considered. Meeting the monsters that dwell in the dark is drastically different than simply acknowledging that they exist, and through some twist of fate, you’ve been given the opportunity to show this particular monster that he’s no longer at the top of the food chain. There’s so much you could do, so many things you want to do, and it’s at that moment you realize you’ve spent too long staring into the abyss to try and claw your way out. 

You’re being offered the chance they never were. You’re holding the controls now. He’s already crying and you’ve barely touched him, barely done anything besides shock him a little. You remember that feeling well. If you recall, you were already crying before he put that knife to your thigh on your first day with him. 

Truth is, you decided the second he fell unconscious what you were going to do. 

Maybe a revenge like this isn’t yours to take, but you’re taking it regardless. For yourself, and for every sorry sap that’s met their end in his cement hellhole. They died for you to have this opportunity, and you’d like to think that maybe they’re there with you in this moment. Even if you never knew them, you feel a strange kinship with them. After all, it was almost you. 

He continues to babble underneath his breath, various pleas for mercy or sympathy or any form of compassion you can muster from your still aching body, and though you desperately wish you did, you can’t find any. You’re certain when you look in the mirror next, it won’t be your own eyes looking back at you anymore, but something closer to his. Maybe you did die in this basement, because whoever you were before you met him is long gone and has been replaced with something so much more empty. 

You explain to him, as gently as you can, that it’s your turn now, and his resistance will only make this harder. You don’t delight in seeing him in pain (whether or not that’s a lie has yet to be determined) but it’s a necessary evil for all he’s done. You don’t believe his life is yours to take, but you’d be as terrible as him if you let him loose on the world again. You can’t trust anyone but yourself, and since this situation is so delicate, you need a bit more time to think on it. 

He doesn’t seem to understand, at least until you’re binding his legs and securing his head snuggly to the pole. Maybe it’s overkill considering the man looks like he belongs in a shibari magazine right now, but there’s no precautions you can’t take. You can’t have him escaping. It’s far too soon, and you have such wonderful things planned. 

Were you a kinder soul, maybe you would put him to sleep because it’s so apparent he’s terrified. Being bound like this has really brought out his inner little bitch, and the way he’s looking, he’s going to piss himself. But its a price it’s only fair that he pay, all things considered. You don’t know what time it is or even where you are, but you know you’ll return to him when you’ve been rejuvenated, eager and ready to begin on him. You’re only a few steps toward the door when he begins shouting, words barely discernible between his emphatic weeping and sobbing hiccups. 

“D-don’t leave me here in the dark! Let me go, let me out! You can’t! You can’t leave me here like this!”  You grin softly, turning slowly to face him, and tell him that you can and you will. You ask what he’s so afraid of, but you don’t wait to hear the answer as you step through the frame and shut the door behind you, leaving him to rot in his personal dungeon. It’s only been an hour and he’s already so pliable. You wonder what you can make him do when you really make it hurt. Psychology says it takes 7 years to brainwash someone and coerce them into absolute compliance, but you’re willing to bet you can have it done in a few months. 

You already know one of his fears, and are very clearly not ashamed to exploit it. How many else does he have, you might wonder, already planning tomorrow’s festivities. Maybe you were sicker in the head than you thought. Maybe Strade just brought out the worst in you, stripped away all that made you human and left you with raw hurt and despair. 

It’s tempting. To give in. To sit and massage your aching body while listening to his screams as they echo through the soundproofed basement. But you’re tired, and you haven’t slept in a bed in over a week. His looked awfully nice. Maybe after that, you’d wash the dried blood from your battered body, order some food, and appreciate the niceties that civilized life had to offer. Niceties you took for granted. 

After that?  Well, after that you had a new pet to train.