#truth and despair etc etc

[ananke-xiii]

for @slutsons-blog 💖

I'll explain the genesis of this post in case anyone else is interested!

The frame of reference of the post is basically the way I see Cas from s6 unitl 15x18 which I guess you haven't watched yet? But you're on this website so I must presume you know what happens in that episode, right? It's the episode where Cas says this:

I always wondered, ever since I took that burden, that curse, I wondered what it could be? What my true happiness could even look like. I never found an answer because the one thing I want… It's something I know I can't have. But I think I know… I think I know now. Happiness isn't in the having, it's in just being. It's in just saying it.

I'm not denying the pathos of the moment and its poetry and I understand its importance in the wrapping up of Castiel's arc for s15. However, I personally have huge problems with this way of thinking about happiness. If I put my thinking cap on I'm very suspicious of that equivalence where happiness = not having = just being = just saying. I find it profoundly false and purposely vague which makes it more interesting to analyze.

Then there's the notion of "true happiness" which always makes my ears perk up because, you know, "truth" is a super loaded topic and combined with that of "happiness" you might as well have the recipe for a philosophical bomb in your hands.

What this little declaration sounds to me is very dangerously close to the famous "happiness real only when shared", the annotation that Christopher McCandless wrote next to a passage from the novel "Doctor Zhivago", a story also about a difficult love between two people that ultimately ends in death. The passage was the following:

And so it turned out that only a life similar to the life of those around us, merging with it without a ripple, is genuine life, and that an unshared happiness is not happiness, so that duck and vodka, when they seem to be the only ones in town, are not even duck and vodka. And this was most vexing of all.

I haven't read the novel so I couldn't really speak about it but it seems to me that its political aspect shouldn't be ignored given that Boris Pasternak was faced with the threat of exile by the Communist Party (among other things) upon news of being the recipient of the Nobel Prize for that specific novel.

In this light the collectivist dream of "merging without a ripple" has some serious ominous undertones, therefore "happiness" in that passage might (or might not, again I haven't read the book, I just know of its context) as well be equivalent to omologation and comformity.

Now, of course, while I don't know and forever won't know what McCandless took from that passage that made him write the "happiness real only when shared" famous annotation, I do know that in mainstream culture this has come to mean, that is that the only real, or I might just say "true", happiness is when you share life with other people or when, I might just say, you reveal your feelings to other people. Which still hasn't solved my issue: what does true/real happiness mean? what do "real" and "true" mean and how do these adjectives affect "happiness" and decide when it's real/true and when it's not? And, finally, who dictates what reality and truth are? It seems to me that the answer to the question has just been shifted but not resolved.

And I think it's not resolved because we keep imagining our society as based on lack, on the things we can't have and never will which is a phallogocentric view of the world.

This is where the "lacanian supernatural" idea of my post comes from. If you wanna explore the inner workings of my brain, more below.

I'll try to be brief which means I'll have to oversimplifly lots of stuff which means this stuff will not be properly contextualized but these French philosophers/psychoanalysts talked.and.wrote.A.LOT. and then they modified their views during the years and also it's been 7 years since I'm done with them so it is what it is, that is I hope it'll make sense.

Basically Lacan revisited Freud's works and posited that the real trauma for people is not literally related to sex but, more symbolically, to language. He used Freud's Oedipal complex to express that the paternal function doesn't mean an actual fear of castration but it's the function that imposes the Law and defines what can be desired and attained and what cannot. For Lacan, it's not about the anatomical penis, but about the "phallus" which is a symbolic signifier of lack and sexual difference. To put it bluntly, the lacanian father(s, there are actually three fathers but let's not go there for now) is what comes between the child and the mother and tells the child: you are not your mother (but "I am your father" hahahah lol little joke), in this way he makes the child desire to go back to being one with the mother and makes the child enter the world of language which is the world of the "Law" (life like it is established to be lived: norms, social relations, kinship relations etc).

Now we have a problem Houston 'cause yes, castration is not literal, cool, but it's still something that happens. According to Lacan what gets castrated is the "jouissance": the lack of jouissance is what constitutes the subject. Now, what is this jouissance, you may ask? Well, it can't be translated into English. It can be translated as "enjoyment" altough you might want to bear in mind that "jouir" in French also means "to have an orgasm", just fyi.

Here Lacan expanded on Freud's "pleasure principle" because he differentiated between "plaisir" (pleasure) and "jouissance". "Plaisir" still obeys Freud's "pleasure principle" (everything we do, we do it to obtain pleasure and avoid unpleasure) while "jouissance" is trangressive because it goes "beyond the pleasure principle". According to Freud beyond this fucking principle there's only death: in other words humans tend towards death (the death drives). "Jouissance" is therefore both enjoyment and the road to death.

In Lacan's view "jouissance" cannot be experienced because the world is ruled by the symbolic signifier of the phallus which dictates a life based on lack as per above. For Lacan jouissance cannot be reached even by sex, the jouissance in sex is just a fantasy related to body parts. Now don't ask me why but later in life Lacan started to rethink some of the stuff he said and basically he started saying that there is an "other jouissance*", which is a "feminine jouissance" that can be experienced because it's a jouissance of the body that is "beyond the phallus" (which to me seems a total contradiction of his other points but okay, I guess), but which is nevertheless an "étrange" meaning "strange" jouissance. From this "étrange" stuff he went on to play on the word as "être-ange", meaning to be an angel, to talk about asexual jouissance.

*This concept of the "other jouissance" was then used by some French feminists, notably Cixous, to describe women's sexual pleasure and, more broadly, women's ability to create and be creative (as I said I'm oversimplifying so don't come at me tumblr academics). So no more death drive talks people, this is about creation and joy and pleasure beyond the phallus.

Finally, I want to say that I don't agree with almost anything of the above, but it's still interesting to read stuff through lacanian lenses cause some of his takes are like a trip or something hahahah. Quite a few philosophers have criticized Lacan, namely Derrida because they were like: dude, even if it's not the real thing you're basing everything on the phallus, are you okay? 'Cause, like, as you can see Lacan's central idea is the "phallus" that, anatomical or not, still gives meaning to everything. This is what Derrida calls "phallogocentrism" (the centering on the phallus + logos) i.e. the Western tendency to privilege language and the masculine point of view to create and shape discourses. Other philosophers like Deleuze and Guattari in "Anti-Oedipus: Capitalism and Schizophrenia" have criticized Lacan because his theories were based on a concept of desire as lack while for them desire is very much active, present and an affirmative vital force. They have also criticized the idea of the Other (which in Lacan is the mother but, again, there technically are three mothers but, as I've said, we won't go there) as the negative difference through which the norm (the Law) is established and have advanced the notion of positive difference, aka an Other that's not a minus compared to the Law.

And this is what I meant when I wrote in the tag that Berens is my enemy because saying that happiness is in "just saying it" means that what's important is the language and the word and that's it's okay to want and not having because desire is lack and like, no dude, not at all.

Sooooooooooooo. Are you still there?

I will proceed to translate my post now LOL.

in the lacanian (= a world founded on the phallus, therefore on lack and where desire is unattainable) supernatural that damingingly lives in my head (as you can see) the one thing castiel wants and he knows he can't have is the other jouissance (women's sexual pleasure and ability to create) but he can't have it because the narrative forces him back into his incorporeal être-ange role (an angel who has no sex and no body and cannot therefore experience other jouissance) while he pretty much wants to have a body and, dare i say, suffers from a little bit of womb envy (just my headcanon that does have some solid proof because Castiel is very closely associated with mothers, births, portals, rifts and children) because that angel doesn't have a death drive but a birth drive (as I said, he doesn't want to die, he actually wants to give birth and create but the narrative, which is lacanian, says no, you can't have that so RIP, see you in your next resurrection and, btw, from s6 you're obvi also gonna be a neurotic, good luck babe!)

Wow, this was a very, very convoluted way of saying transmasc cas rights but yeah.

[starlitsequins]

tears in my eyes as i open up google docs to write another fiddlestan fic

[moonchild-in-blue]

being a good guard dog😌

YES. You see my vision. Murder Espera my most beloveds - I need to work on my half baked wip of them asap.

You think Slasher iii and Stalker iv are cruel and twisted. Ohhh boy, if you only knew who they work for.

(gaaahhh i miss them so much omg 😭😭😭😭)

[breelandwalker]

The Web of Light - A Community Ritual

In late January of 2025, I joined a group of witches online to conduct a ritual for the protection and healing of our communities and for hope to sustain us though the weeks and months to come. Many wonderfully talented people contributed to this working, and I was honored to present an invocation of Brighid and to lead the portion of the ritual where we created the Web of Light.

With the permission of the rest of the circle from that evening, I want to share my portion of the ritual with all of you. (I'm not looking for notes or feedback - this was purpose-built and it exists as it was written.) The more strands in the web, the more lights in the dark, the more love and energy we can give this spell and others like it, the better.

If you feel comfortable doing so, I'd like to invite anyone who is willing to help to join in this working, either by yourself or with your circle. You can do the full blessing, invocation, and casting if you feel comfortable doing so, or just the casting alone. Feel free to invite any helpful spirits, ancestors, deities (especially fire-related), and so forth that you work with to lend their aid.

All you need for this spell is a quiet place to sit and a candle. (Live flame or LED, either is fine, and if you can't find either one, a flashlight will do.)

Perform whatever opening steps you usually do to begin a ritual (preparing the space, casting a circle, grounding and centering, etc) and when you're ready, begin.

WEB OF LIGHT

Suggested Music for the warmup:

"Brighid's Flame" and/or "Brighid" by Kellianna "Imbolc" by Lisa Thiel

[BLESSING]

Into this sacred space, I call the light of creation, the light of inspiration, the light of healing, the light of the forge, the light of the hearthfire, the light of hope, which neither wanes nor falters, but burns bright and perpetual within and around us all. Bless those who are gathered here and may the spirits, deities, ancestors, and powers almighty that we invoke here strengthen our resolve, shield us from harm, and guide us in our workings, as we gather to do what is RIGHT, not what is easy.

[INVOCATION]

With the consent of those assembled, I invoke the name of Brighid and invite her presence in this place. Holy Lady of Cill Dara (pron. Kill Dahrah), protector of hearth and home, teacher, poet, healer, forgemaiden, flamekeeper, living link between the old ways and the new, be with us and lend us your aid.

Brigid of brightness, I bid thee welcome, Brigid of blessing, come thou in. Brigid of strength, I bid thee welcome, This night and every night, this day and every day.

Brigid of the threshold, come thou in, Brigid of the hearthfire, take your ease, Brigid of the cook-pot, sup with us, Brigid of all comforts, live in our hearts.

Ancestors all, I embody your legacy, Ancestors all, I ask for your blessing, Ancestors all, I offer Brigid’s flame To light the needfires of deep memory.

Brigid of the timeless flame, bless your [children]: Those who keep the circle bright, Those whose faith has never failed, Those who keep your name ablaze.

Brigid, lend your righteous sword To those who work for justice, To those who speak the truth, To those who seek a better world.

In the name of Brigid, who empowers the oppressed, In the name of Brigid, who released the enslaved, In the name of Brigid, who lifts up the downtrodden, May all our people be honored and free.

[Casting]

Tonight, we come together with courage. Tonight, we come together with hope. Tonight, we come together in common purpose, to turn our combined strength to save what can be saved, to shield what can be shielded, to heal what can be healed, to burn away what must be cleansed, and to keep the darkness of despair and hatred at bay.

Tonight, each of us is a point of light. We are the tenders of the hearth. We are the bearers of the flame which lights the way. We are the workers at the forge. We are the spark before the fire, the dancing light upon the snow, the seekers of snowdrops, the keepers of the healer’s tent, the knowers of the promise of spring.

For even as summer fades into fall, and fall into winter, so the cold and dark must one day yield to warmth and renewal. Even the longest night must end and we will see the sun rise again.

(Light your candle.)

Hold the light within you. Warm, bright, everlasting, a fire which burns bright but does not consume or diminish. This is a fire which shields the helpless, which offers illumination to the lost, which gives hope to those in sorrow. Each of us alone is but a candle, but together, we are a conflagration. 

Picture the array of us, spread out across the sleeping world, a scattering of earthbound stars twinkling in the night. Physically, we are apart, but in our hearts and in our magic, we are all a part of each other and of this world. We are the weavers and keepers of this spell, a web that spans mighty distances and connects us all. We are the beacons which will hold the darkness at bay.

Let the light of your magic spread out from you like the lines of a spider’s web, like the roots of a tree, like the paths of a river, like the crackle of lightning. Picture it spreading across the distances between us, each strand connecting one working to another, and another, and another, strengthening with each bond, growing until the space is covered. Each of us holds a line and weaves a portion of the web, and we are blessed to know that none of us walks alone. 

Like the roots of the trees, like the mycelium of the mushrooms, this web of light is not visible to all. Those that seek to harm, to disrupt, to oppress, and diminish, let them be blind, let them be powerless, let them find nothing. We give them NOTHING. But those who have need of us, those who need healing or shelter or knowledge or hope, we give them eyes to see. And those that see, let them light beacons of their own, until the night is bright as day and the sun comes up again.

(Extinguish your candle. If you ever feel that you need strength or hope or the time feels right to further empower the spell, light it up again.)

Suggested Music for the cooldown:

“Star Maps” by S.J. Tucker "Wonders" by S.J. Tucker

(If you choose to share this ritual elsewhere, please credit me. Thanks!)

[thewickedjazzy]

Blood, Sweat & Tears [Sex Pollen] for Kinktober.

♡「knight! akutagawa x afab! reader.」

Synopsis: you drag your loyal knight to a secluded antique shop, unaware that a cursed relic would force him to quench his insatiable desire for you, leaving him one choice only...fuck or watch you both die.

Warnings and w/c: 3.1k. ņsfw, smųt with plot, dead dove ー read at your own risk, dub-con, blood, cum, manipulation, age gap (aku is in his 30s YUM), sex pollen (obv.) slight implied knife play (rashomon)...etc.

“ryuu-kun, c'mon! why are you so stiff? just relax!” you giggle softly, tugging on the poor man's black shoulder cape as you practically drag him toward the entrance of the haunted antique shop.

truth be told, akutagawa wasn’t hesitant —at least, not for the reasons you assumed. the idea of going against the king’s orders wasn’t something he took lightly. defying authority was not a habit for a devoted knight like him, and he had never imagined himself in a situation like this. but for you?

oh — for you, he would go against any order. he would take any risk just to see your eyes light up, to hear that carefree laugh of yours that always seemed to make the heavy burdens on his heart feel lighter. lord! how he loves to just see your cheeks flush, the delicate pink hue resembling the sakura in full bloom ー his new favorite colour.

akutagawa had been by your side for years, from your childhood through your teenage years, and now, as you stepped into adulthood, he couldn't help but notice how things had changed. he had seen your growth with his own eyes, and it disturbed him more than he'd ever admit. you were becoming someone who could get into trouble with ease, and while he was too loyal to question you, the protective instinct in him was stronger than ever.

“i’m relaxed, with all due respect, don't you think you're being a bit reckless?” despite his apparent annoyance, his eyes soften as they find yours. there was something captivating about the way your eyes glimmer under the poor light of the shop, like stars in a forgotten sky.

you step further into the abandoned shop, soft giggles echo as akutagawa’s reluctant footsteps follow close behind. the place feels like it hasn’t seen sunlight in ages, dust dances in the beams filtering through the cracked windows, illuminating shelves filled with eerie artifacts and relics of a forgotten age. for you? this was simply an adventure — a moment of thrill in an otherwise carefully controlled life.

“look, ryuu-kun! isn’t it fascinating?” you point toward an ornate mirror standing tall at the back of the shop. its frame is twisted, covered in intricate carvings that seem almost to shift as you stare at them. “wooah! i’ve never seen anything like it.”

the knight watches you approach the mirror, every instinct tells him this place isn’t safe, that there’s a dark enchantment here that could harm you. but your enthusiasm and willingness to explore, pulls him in against his better judgment.

“your highness...” he says softly despite the danger evident in his voice, “don’t touch it. we don’t know what kind of curse or magic might lie within that thing.”

but of course you’re already inches away, mesmerized by your own reflection in the mirror’s surface as if it almost seems to beckon you, whispering captivating, incoherent lullabies that you can’t quite decipher. your fingers reach out, grazing the glass searching for the source of the sound. but the moment you make contact, an odd chill courses through you, and the reflection changes, warping, revealing shadows of something darker within.

and suddenly, you’re not looking at yourself anymore. instead, you see visions flickering across the mirror — scenes of solitude, a vast, empty world where you stand utterly alone. the cheerful warmth in your chest vanishes, replaced by a cold sense of despair. you try your best to step back, but your gaze remains locked onto the mirror as if bound by an invisible force.

akutagawa’s eyes widen as he watches you freeze, your expression shifting from delight to horror. without a second thought, he lunges forward, pulling you away, but not before his eyes accidentally catch his own reflection. and again, the mirror’s black magic grips him, and for a fleeting moment, he sees something horrifying — the blood stained memories of his past in the port mafia, of every life he’s taken, every failure, every ounce of suffering he encountered.

“r-ryuu-kun…” you try to speak but you're disoriented...pale, leaning against him as you struggle to steady your breathing.

he shakes himself free, grip tightening slightly on your arm. “we need to leave. NOW.”

you nod, feeling a strange, lingering heaviness creeping inside your chest. arguing feels pointless, afterall he’s the reason you’re still alive and kicking up till now. you murmur a soft “i’m sorry,” but he doesn’t respond. without a glance, he strides toward the door pulling you along with him.

and just as he reaches the threshold, a sweet, floral yet infused with a dangerously intoxicating heady scent looms around you both, almost as if the scent itself seeps into your senses, leaving your body heating up and your thoughts hazy.

“ryuu?… i don’t feel well-… what do we—what's happening to me?” your voice is barely audible, the heat sensation spreading through you rapidly, making your cheeks flush more and your breaths come quicker, each inhale carrying more of that cloying scent, filling your senses until all you can think about is the knight by your side.

“it's the curse,” he mutters, “i-it won't break unless we give... blood, and... uh- more.”

you look up at him and it’s clear he’s struggling just as much, flushed and panting heavily. you instinctively cling to him, seeking closure against your own will, and he finds himself leaning closer, almost reflexively. despite the losing battle within him to resist, he begins to tell himself that perhaps fulfilling this desire is the only way to break free of the mirror’s spell? perhaps it's the only way to truly protect you? there’s no time to consider if it’s twisted or not, he's silently beating himself up for letting you get hurt in the first place.

he tries his best to keep his thoughts under control, but it's nearly impossible with the enchanted pollen's effect taking over his mind and turning him into a puppet of it's own making and the line between his sense of duty to protect you and his desire to make the aching pain in his pants go away becomes harder to see.

“your majesty..” he murmurs almost apologetically as he lowers his face close to yours, a deep blush spreads across your cheeks as you finally understand — this isn't just about you and him anymore. this is about survival, about breaking the curse that binds you. blood and cum must mix in order for the magic to release its grip. is it grotesque? yes, but in this moment, it’s the only way out.

your eyes are heavily half-lidded, lips parted perfectly, a few beads of sweat trace your cupid’s bow as you clench onto him with wobbly legs, your thoughts absolutely shameless, cunt instinctively clenching around nothing, are you actually craving him? the knight who has been by your side for so many years — the one who’s spent countless hours guarding and protecting you — is now stirring feelings you’d only ever brushed aside. you would be lying if you said that you never thought of him this way, there was something about the familiar warmth he carried that made you want to stay wrapped in his arms forever.

“ryuu-kun.. i-it hurts so bad— please make it stop.” you cry, though you're not sure whether you're asking for release from the curse or for something else entirely. the look you're giving him is so pathetic that he can't help but dart out his tongue to wet his lips, before smashing his lips on yours feverishly, you both grunt in relief, you're not sure what's happening but it's seems to work. he slips his agile tongue between your parted lips, spit mingles with lewd mewls as he pins you against the wall, hands fumbling with his garments, taking his pants off, unbuttoning his black tonic, almost everything as to free himself from the suffocating layers of fabric, before fully pressing his bare upper body against yours.

“your highness... i'm sorry,” the words are soft, but the look in his eyes is anything but. there’s a lurking emotion there that he rarely reveals— less guilt, and more... eagerness? surely he knows the stakes of this spell too well. he understands the strength and danger of it, how it could kill you both in less than an hour if you don’t break it. yet, akutagawa’s no saint. he's a deviant, laced with sin and shameless thirst, an absolute reprobate. even as he’s forced into this for your survival. there’s an obscene side to him he can’t hide, a filthy hunger in how his gaze trails over your body, wondering how it’ll feel when you’re wrapped tight around him, how you’ll respond to him thrusting into you. will you bite back a scream? will you moan his name, too breathless, too fucked out to form a word?

either ways, there's no point for him to guess as he'll be witnessing it shortly. strong and boney hands tremble as they run wild against your body till they reach your pants pulling them down, he's too engrossed in your details as a muffled groan escapes his pretty lips before he slides down your nectar-soaked panties, taking both your legs wrapping them around his narrow waist, holding you close as if he can’t bear the thought of you slipping away from him. with a shaky sigh as he pops the buttons of your shirt, catching the beautiful euphoric sight of your breasts spilling over your bra.

“there's no time, please trust me on this,” just a few words to trick himself that what he's doing is only for your survival. his disheveled black and white locks brush your cheek as he presses quick, breathless kisses to your temple.

you manage to nod, feeling his hard cock press against your puffy folds from beneath, and your hips subconsciously buck yearning for any friction to ease the swell of pain building rapidly in your core.

however, it's short-lived, as in mere seconds, he's plunging into you with a deep, throaty groan, his entire body trembling as if he's been transported to another dimension. a wave of tingling ecstasy floods through him, muscles tightening as his fingers dig into your bare shoulders, holding you close.

“f-fuhckmmh- your highness-” he whimpers against your ear, the heat radiating from his body is absolutely insane, “forgiv-e me—,”another thrust, “i am bound to protect you— not to desecrate you like this.”

“i-it's fine,” you murmur, soft fingers gripping his face to force him to look at you. “i trust you ryuu-kun.”

what other options do you have? none.

he just stares at you for a few seconds before thrusting again. his hips start moving leisurely at first, stretching you deliciously as you bury your face in the crook of his neck, inhaling his mesmerising scent, feeling every agonising movement of his flawless cock picking up its pace by each passing second and the instant he bottoms out, he practically 'pounds' into you deeper, harder, each stroke finding a new angle that leaves you gasping for air.

his own pleasure is muffling his ears. he still cannot believe it. he's been waiting for this moment his entire life, to finally fuck his monarch that's been taking over his thoughts each passing night, getting him atrociously horny.

“oh god, you feel ngh~ heavenly—,” it's a whisper more to himself, knobby hands gripping the swell of your ass as he rams into you manically, “blood...we- fuck! have to mix blood.”

before you can make sense of it, he conjures a faint trace of rashomon from his tonic, its shadowy tendrils coiling around his sleeve, sharp enough to slice yet gentle in his intent. he presses the edge to your palm, watching a bead of crimson pool against your skin.

the sharp sting pulls a gasp from your lips, your dazed mind barely registering the act before akutagawa does the same to himself. dark silver eyes smoulder with lust as he guides both your bleeding palms to his cock, smearing the mingled blood over it, the warm slickness adding to the sinful mess already coating him.

“ryuu-” you breathe, with a trembling voice, whether from pain or arousal, you’re not sure.

his eyes meet yours before you feel the soft clouds of his lips crash onto yours, it's all desperate and messy, teeth nipping at your lower lip hard enough to draw blood. the metallic tang spreads across your tongue, blending with the taste of him as he drinks in your broken moans, tongue delves deeper into your mouth, spit melding together as he aligns himself with your slit once more. his blood-slickened cock slides back into you, each thrust feels heavier, deeper, as if the leverage of the curse itself presses against you both, urging you to fulfill its dark demands.

“just a litt-le more,” he rasps, teeth scraping along the sensitive skin of your neck, leaving a delicate trail of violet bruises and ruptured vessels.

a borderline salacious symphony of sounds echoes, wet and obscene, sopping and slick, each thrust accompanied by a squeaky rhythm as his balls slap against your pillowy ass cheeks. your eyes roll back in a bliss, glossy lips parting lusciously in a wanton moan, every vein and ridge of him dragging you closer to euphoric oblivion.

“ryuu... i can’t...” you sob, nails digging into his back as the pressure in your core mounts, legs trembling around his waist. “i... i can’t take it anymore...”

“stay with me, your majesty haah,” he murmurs breathlessly, lips brushing against your ear as he drives into you deeper. “we need... to break it. just a little longer... please...”

his hands clutch at your hips, pulling you into each thrust until all that’s left is the white-hot pressure of the spell, of the lust, threatening to swallow you both. his cock throbs inside you, and it’s clear— he can’t hold back any longer.

“please, ryuu... i’m—” you bite your lip, unable to finish as the knot in your belly tightens, ready to burst.

akutagawa's focus narrows, all he can think about is you, how your breasts bounce with each thrust, body arching beneath his, exposing the delicate curve of your neck— everything about you is perfect in this moment, and he can't tear his eyes away. the sight of your face contorted in pleasure, the pout tugging on your lips, the way your legs tremble, how your hips move to meet his, how your nails drag across his back starved for his naked skin. is this his body on yours? is he finally feeling you? kissing you? fucking you?

'god, look at you,' he can barely think, his thoughts fragmented, lost in the instinctual need to bury himself deeper, to take more, to feel more. the way you tighten around him, the slick, wet warmth of your cunt — he’s fucking drowning in it.

'fucking beautiful.'

a few thrusts of akutagawa’s hips and his name tears from your lips in a breathless, desperate cry, the sound of your orgasm crashing over you like a truck, slamming into him with brutal force. your walls flutter and clench around his cock, milking him, dragging him deeper into the molten heat of your release.

his vision blurs, heart thundering in his chest as his hearing dulls to nothing but the wet, obscene noises of your bodies joined together. for the first time in his life, he is obliterated by the sheer, soul-stealing intensity of his orgasm, his cock still twitching violently as he spills deep inside you, his seed mingles with the blood smeared between you, the combined essence finally breaking the curse’s seal.

“i-is it over?”

akutagawa doesn’t answer immediately, his forehead pressing against your shoulder as he struggles to gather himself. his meaty length that's still buried inside you twitches, body refusing to move, refusing to let go of the impossible warmth and tightness of your walls. the thought of pulling out feels unbearable, like he’d be severing himself from something sacred.

“yes,” he finally rasps, “the curse is broken.”

still, he doesn’t move, his grip on your hips tightening imperceptibly. every inch of him aches to stay like this, to savor the raw, feral perfection of you wrapped around him. but he won’t say it — not to you, not to your highness. it’s not his place to speak such desires aloud. instead, he forces himself to swallow the words, forcing his breathing to even out as he pulls out of you despite the burning need still coiling in his gut.

without a word, he moves to gather your clothes, fingers brushing over your skin tenderly in a way that feels foreign coming from him, as if he’s afraid that, if he rushes, it’ll break something.

“rest, your highness. please, don’t move,” he ties the fabric hovering near your ear as his soft upper lip brushes your sensitive skin with a low murmur. “you’re safe now.”

“safe...” you repeat the word, almost testing it on your tongue.

“at least for now, but the curse... it doesn’t work like that. it’s not just broken once. it could flare up again in a few days... and when it does,” he pauses, allowing his words to settle in for a few seconds. “we’ll have to repeat the ritual.”

he’s a liar. a filthy, self-loathing liar.

the curse is broken. it has been broken since that moment. nothing will flare up again. it’s absolutely impossible. the ritual is complete. there is no reason for him to say this, no reason at all. but still, he can’t help himself. he lies, not to protect you—but to keep you. to keep you near him, just a little longer.

“we’ll have our next time soon,” he mutters to himself, he hates himself for it. every fiber of his being recoils at the thought of deceiving you like this, manipulating you with his twisted words, but the words are already sealed in his mind. mostly like a promise — one he will keep. and this time, he won’t stop.

TAGS: @a-smol-bean @violetbutterflix @amanoava @falloutjuli @embersweapons @warriordemigosworld @cathias @v15aexe @vasarii @pe4rl-diver @sukidenks @dazaifavbandage @chuuminn @fyodorsprettynun @ace-0fspades69 @irasamu @trippyserval @alyszuha @bittysuguru @writingandmusing @corruptedwrathkitsune @thedamselzelda @fyodorssimp1 @vikkinakahara @laylabuurr @perlaslibrary @remlionheart @osamucide @ranpazz @naviiq

[tacowacco]

deceit's new favorite

shadow milk cookied x gender neutral reader

cw: mentions of mind breaking, heavy posessive behavior, implied forced relationship, and potential ooc.

my request is open, therefore requests are heavily appreciated and encouraged!

As you entered the Spire of Shadows, an eerie sensation coursed through your body. Inside, there were endless halls that seemed to stretch on forever, and stairs that appeared to have no beginning or end. Chaos awaited you in this unsettling place. Some might even argue that it felt like a never-ending nightmare—akin to one meant for cookies instead.

The outcome of your arrival at the beast-yeast became far worse than you'd ever imagined. Just within hours of stepping into the domain of the Beast of Deceit, you managed to find yourself lost in the unfamiliar terrain. You hurriedly searched for an exit, desperate to reunite with your friends.

You were certain that you had found an escape, but to your surprise was another pair of endless halls filled with trickery and lies. You took a moment to sit down and catch your breath after what felt like hours of searching. 

“Oh, my! Well, isn’t this just a lovely surprise?~ One of little Silly Vanilly’s pals all lost, and alone?” the jester cooed, as he stepped forward and his mismatched eyes met with yours. 

Shadow Milk yearned to shatter Pure Vanilla and witness his slow descent into madness and despair. He wanted to see the truth and hope he cherished so much deeply crumble. He'd ensure to sever the delicate thin thread that Pure Vanilla was holding so dearly to by toying with you. By immersing yourself completely in his world, you find yourself captivated, consumed by an overwhelming admiration that borders on obsession. Only focusing on him, the main character. He’d make sure to make you forget about these pesky side characters. 

You were now in his possession, his pawn to use for his advantage. 

“Now what’s with the looooooong face? Not thrilled to see me?” he purred.

“Hmph! This isn’t a part of the script, looks like I’ll have to make some adjustments and alterations. Alas, that’s what improv is for!” he exclaimed while flipping through his script— schemes, filled with theatrical mischief. 

"You'll be the most exciting addition to my prized collection! It's been so long since I've had a new puppet to cherish. Even better, I'll make you the star of my new show!" Your eyes widen as you feel your muscles tense up. 'Prized collection? Most exciting addition? New puppet?' What did he mean by that?

“C’mon, we��ve got a show to prepare for, and an audience to amuse!” Shadow Milk said excitedly in a singsongy voice.

-----

You sat in the front row of the audience and watched as the red velvet curtains opened, revealing the first act of Shadow Milk's puppet show. The stage lights dimmed before focusing on the center of the stage, casting a spotlight over the cutout puppets.

“Once upon a time, long long ago there was a very beautiful cookie called ‘Y/n cookie’! Unfortunately, they were focused too on that stupid soul jam-thief pure vanilla.” Shadow Milk said, irritated once mentioning Pure Vanilla.

"Fortunately for dear Y/n, a cookie so dignified, very sophisticated, and—not to mention extremely handsome appeared...

ME! The one and only, shadow milk cookie appeared to save Y/n!" Shadow Milk exclaimed. 

The brainwashed audience began to erupt into applause and enthusiastic clapping, creating a wave of energy that enveloped you. You started blinking rapidly in an attempt to adjust to the bright, scorching spotlight that blinded you. 

"Since dear Y/n was SOOO grateful that I, Shadow Milk cookie, saved them from Pure Vanilla..they decided to become my newest puppet!” Shadow Milk enthusiastically said, as his glowing mismatched eyes met with yours.

a/n: first post! currently writing instead sleeping.. (it's 11:51PM on a school night)

likes, reblogs, etc. are highly appreciated :))! thank you lovelies

[lettiegrief]

It's ironic to me that part of the fandom insists so much that Hua Cheng's personality revolves around Xie Lian when in fact MXTX created Hua Cheng first and then had to make Xie Lian his ideal type. Like, the truth is that Xie Lian was molded for Hua Cheng. I find this contradiction very funny, I'm sorry.

But they were indeed created for each other.

Hua Cheng has a strong personality, he is firm in his ideals and beliefs, assertive in his opinions, cold in his justice and someone who does not bend the rules just to fit in, he creates a third way instead of adapting to a world that hates him and was cruel to him.

His ideal type would have to be someone as confident as him, who not only does not bend the rules, but also does not get corrupted by difficulties, someone benevolent enough to see people like him with kindness, because only someone faithful in his beliefs would be able to be so different from everything that the world says is right — because the right thing is for you to annihilate people like Hua Cheng, whether they are innocent or not, just because of a supposed curse that they did not ask for.

This meta is based on this excerpt from the afterword that MXTX put in TGCF ↓

When it comes to character designs, the Shou’s were decided on first for the first two novels, but I was torn over the Gong’s for a long time, and needed a run-in period. Hua Cheng, however, was an exception. Inspiration struck and there he was; inspiration struck again, and I blinded one of his eyes.

[...]

It was actually the Shou, Xie Lian, who tortured me for up to half a year’s time. When the novel started serializing, I was still torn over him for a long time.

[...]

But the most important thing is, by my instincts, someone like Hua Cheng will most definitely love someone like this. So, after a good half a year’s worth of qualms, in the end I still typesetted him: It’s you!

Speaking more about this postscript, I found it interesting how for MXTX, Xie Lian was the most difficult character she has ever played. People tend to think that Xie Lian only has two personality traits: (false, for many) kindness and idiocy. The idiocy may even be right lol, but when you stop to think about it, Xie Lian is a really difficult character to create and, mainly, to develop.

For all the layers he has, he could easily be a snobbish prince, a vengeful and bitter ex-prince, a fallen prince who rises again to reconquer his kingdom and reclaim his throne or a spotless saint who is always intelligent and wise and is above things like sadness, anger, lust, etc.

We know that Xie Lian is none of these things, he was not made for these plots. But if he is none of these things, then what could he be? Honestly, I find it very difficult for anyone to come to the conclusion that your protagonist is a "loser" who failed and has no ambition to rebuild his kingdom and become the new king. It's bold to make your protagonist a poor and extremely unlucky nomad, especially with the princely background that you gave him, we can see from the amount of stories out there about protagonists who lost their kingdoms and then have a path of reconquest that it's difficult not to be tempted to follow that path.

Of course, Xie Lian is a god, something greater than a prince or king, but he is a poor god, known as "the joke of the three kingdoms", he has no wealth and for 800 years he only had 1 believer that he didn't even know existed and he is also known as the "god of plague" and "immortal scrap collector", unconventional titles in the literary world lol

He must experience youthful ignorance, overestimation of his own abilities, have been laughable, been foolish, made mistakes, despaired, felt hatred, gone crazy. But he can’t run, and he can’t hide; everything is what it is. All this was killing me. Not just within the text, but outside the text too. My mediation was useless, and I’ve no energy anymore either, so in order not to be affected, I stopped looking at comments altogether. Since I always habitually vaccinate myself before a serialization begins, speculating on all the worst possible scenarios and preparing myself mentally, by the time serialization started I had already expected how all the negative comments would go down. But after much hesitation, I still thought, why not try all different kinds of characters? I haven’t tried writing a main character like this before.

— MXTX

[winnisblur]

“Cracks In Our Hearts.”

pairing ❤︎‬: gender neutral reader x sunghoon. w.c ‪‪❤︎‬: 4.5 - 5k (it’s word vomit at its finest) synopsis ‪‪❤︎‬: you’re a player in squid game, and thanks to a certain square guard, you’ve managed to survive (and get fucked).

this fic includes ‪‪❤︎‬: smut so mdni, death(s?), blood, sunghoon is a guard and is hot with a mask and pistol, he’s also cold(i think that’s the word), reader just trying to survive, ends up dying tho lol, bathroom sex, choking, pain and gun kink, degradation, sunghoon is actually a jerk beneath the mask, so is reader, unprotected sex, readers skin colour nor private parts are mentioned and etc.

warnings ‪‪❤︎‬: english isn’t my first language, not really proofread so srry about that, and i’m nervous af cus this is my first time writing T-T, this is based off of s1 so spoilers ahead (for those who haven’t watched both seasons”.

…..I shouldn't have survived the first game.

The thought clings to me like a stain as I sit cross-legged on the cold gray floor of the dormitory. Around me, everyone's faces wear that same haunted look-eyes sunken, shoulders hunched-but it does nothing to erase this truth: I'm still here, and a hundred others aren't.

My hands shake as I clutch the bottle of water they gave us, the only comfort in this nightmare. “Red Light, Green Light” was supposed to be simple. A childish game, nothing more. But then, when the first shot went off, the simplicity was in pieces. I kept my head down, my steps calculated. An act of luck rather than any skill saved me. Halfway, my legs had locked, but the chaos around saved me. I was too scared even to breathe, let alone blink while that giant, doll-like machine scanned the field. The screams. The silence. They cling to me as much as the relief of being alive.

But that leaves me with just one question: how long will I last?

Dalgona Game

As the guards herd us into the grounds, that feeling of luck is not there.

The sun knocks heavily upon the earthy ground, and a whispering wave curls through the players. In front of us stood a table piled high with tins, each containing the next nightmare: “Dalgona candy.” The guard with the square mask appears to be in charge; he steps forward. His voice rumbles from behind his mask. "You will each choose a tin. Inside is a shape. Your task is to extract the shape from the candy without breaking it. You will have ten minutes."

That's it? A shape?

But then I look at the examples on the display-circle, triangle, star…and an umbrella. My stomach does a flip. Not just precision, but luck too. A wrongly picked tin means my death. The queue moved fast; shaking hands reached for tins, people picking as if their lives depended on it. Because they do.

When it's my turn, I force myself to breathe and reach for the one closest to me. The metal feels cool and heavy in my hands. I don't even open it right away, afraid to see what fate I've chosen. Finally, I lift the lid.

The umbrella stares back at me.

"Great," I mutter under my breath. I look around, and there are a few groaning in despair as they unveil their shapes. Most got stars or circles—luckies. The timer starts, and the courtyard almost becomes a battlefield of concentration. People start licking their candies, tapping needles at them, and quite a few try to bite them. I take the given needle and gently press it against the candy. The sound of cracking candy nearby makes my heart run. I start shaking and tracing the thin, delicate lines of the umbrella. "Steady," I say to myself. Halfway through, it happened.

Snap.

The handle of the umbrella broke off clean. My blood ran cold.

It was over.

Instantly, my head jerks up to find the nearest guard. They are already converging on other players who busted their candies. I heard shots ring out and immediately froze. That is when I see him.

One of the square-guards, taller than the others, stops a few feet away. I cannot see his face, yet there is something different in the way he looks at me. His head tilts slightly, studying me, and for that one fleeting instant, the noise falls away. Then he takes another step closer.

"No," I whisper. Shivering, my heartbeat surges as I hold the shattered candy tightly against my body, to hide it from view. But instead of brandishing his weapon, he leans in and whispers, "Pretend you're still working." I stare up at him, appalled. "Do it," he says sharply in a low voice, and I automatically comply. I push the broken pieces together, my hands shaking so severely it's a wonder they don't break into a hundred more pieces. The guard-he-stands close enough that I can sense his presence. He occasionally looks around, subtly blocking the other guards' view of me. “Why?" I dare to whisper. He says nothing.

Minutes tick by-although by some miracle, no one notices my snapped candy. When the buzzer goes off, I hold my breath for the worst to happen. Instead, the square-guard advances, feigning that he's inspecting the other players. Somehow, I get away.

The dormitory is noisier tonight. Some are cheering, others crying, but I do not think of anything besides him. Why did he save me? Was this some sort of mistake? A test? My head runs with the different connotations, but no sensible fact makes sense. Guards are not supposed to show mercy.

When the lights dim for night, I am awake. I play that moment in my head over and over-the quiet authority in his voice, the way he lingered just long enough to save me. There's just no getting answers, yet I couldn't help my mind from running over and over with thoughts of him.

Sunghoon’s POV

This was reckless.

I lean against the wall of the guard quarters, helmet in my hands, and let my breath out slowly. My heart hasn't stopped racing since I saw them-their trembling hands, the way they froze when their candy broke. I should've ignored it. I should've done my job. But something about the way their eyes widened, filled with fear and determination, stopped me. I don't know why I helped them. It wasn't out of pity. It wasn't out of guilt.

It was them.

I have seen hundreds of players, most of them desperate enough or selfish enough to catch nothing but their own survival. But they're different. I shouldn't be feeling this way. Guards aren't supposed to feel anything. Yet every time I think about their face, my resolve cracks just that little bit more.

If anyone finds out, I'm as good as dead.

But somehow, I just can't seem to care. Tomorrow's another game, another chance to see them. I just hope I can keep my distance.

For both our sakes.

The Next Day

I wake up to this gnawing feeling in my chest. It isn't the ache in my limbs or the exhaustion of staying up all night, reliving the events of the Dalgona game in my head; it's the dread of what comes next.

Another game, another chance to die.

They walk us to the next arena as effectively, coldly, with all the same efficiency of people used to doing a day's labor. My head was down, letting myself just become part of a whole, not standing out too much. The cold-faced, geometric-mask-covered guard statues line the wall opposite. My eyes fly toward each square mask.

Grievously stupid. Insane even-but what did it matter? Had he watched me just then? Was he going to try to save me?

A small part of me wants him to, but the larger part is reminding me of one crucial thing: here, I am on my own. Completely and utterly. Not even him.

Sunghoon’s POV

There they are.

Perched atop the arena above, my eyes find them in a heartbeat. They scan the guards again, their shoulders tense, eyes keen despite the exhaustion clinging to every player out there. I shouldn't watch them. Shouldn't give a damn.

Yet I can't peel my eyes away, though. Still alive, that's what matters.

My grip tightens on the rifle in my hands as the Robotic Female’s voice booms across the arena, announcing the rules for today’s game. I already know what’s coming. Another trial, another bloody mess.

And I’ll do whatever it takes to make sure they survive. Even if it means breaking every rule I’ve sworn to follow.

The Tug-of-War Twist

We are brought to a very large outdoors arena, with several platforms towering up to the sky. Ropes traverse atop thick, and beneath these? A fall so long I could hardly see the bottom.

Tug-of-war.

The explanation is simple: teams of ten; whoever wins lives. Losers. well, the fall does the talking. I'm pushed towards a group, and panic bursts in my chest as I realize the dynamics are uneven. None of them appear to be very strong. A few even shake so hard that I don't think they can hold the rope.

This is bad.

The guards line the edges, rifles in place to take out anyone showing even a millisecond of hesitation. My eyes flicker to them out of instinct, and there he is-square guard. His posture is stiff, but his helmet angles toward me as I step on the platform. Is he looking at me?

The thought's cut off by a buzz. And with that, the first match begins. I am horrified as the opposing team pulls with ruthless precision. Losing is being dragged, inch by inch, toward the edge. Their screams echo when the rope jerks once more, sending them plunging into the void.

This isn't just about strength. It's strategy.

When it's our turn, I reach for the rope, my palms already slick with sweat. My team looks hopeless, all whispering prayers and clutching at whatever scraps of courage they can muster. The opposing team, however, is all muscle.

"Pull!" someone yells as the buzzer sounds, and I dig my heels into the platform. The rope's abraded heat against my palms sears the skin as we're yanked forward. Arms scream, legs wobble-it feels like we are seconds away from catastrophe. "Lean back! Use your weight!" someone yells, but it's futile. We're losing so much ground. That's when I saw him.

The square-guard stood near the edge, his head cocked as he watched me. For what feels like an eternity he doesn't move, before finally he moves a step closer and leans on his rifle at his shoulder. I'm stuck until his hand moves after all, and it does really slowly.

It was the signal.

I watch transfixed as his gloved hand takes direction toward the other guys on the opposition side of this platform, then he tap-dances his foot quickly yet small - almost in a blur-close around anchor point holding their ropes steady. My eyes widen.

Is he telling me their side is rigged?

I have no time to think. I lean back with all my strength and yell to my team, "Pull to the left! They're off balance!" The others hesitate but follow my lead, shifting our weight. The opposing team stumbles, losing their footing, and in the chaos, I catch something flicker in the corner of my vision-a quick, subtle motion from his side.

The anchor point snaps.

The opposing team barely has time to act before they're pulled forward, screaming as they tumble into the abyss. We collapse onto the platform, gasping for air. Relief washes through me, tainted with disbelief.

I should be dead.

I glance toward him again but he's already gone, sucked back into the sea of guards. Tonight, I cannot get him out of my mind. The square-guard. The one who has saved me over and over again. No one else is paying any attention to anything but celebration or mourning as I slip into the shadows near the edge of the dormitory. The guards patrol the perimeter, their masks gleaming under the dim lights. And then I see him.

He leans against the wall, a little apart from the others. As I approach him, my heart pounds, and every step sounds louder than it should. "What are you doing?" I whisper. His head snaps toward me, and for a second, I think I have made a mistake. But then he steps forward, his voice low and sharp. "You shouldn't be here."

"Neither should you," I shoot back, emboldened by adrenaline. "You've been helping me. Why?” He hesitates, glancing around before tugging me further into the darkness. "You shouldn't ask questions you don't want answers to," he says. "I think I deserve an answer," I say, crossing my arms over my chest despite the tremble in my hands. "You've saved my life twice. Don't act like that's normal." For a moment, he says nothing. Then, with a sigh, he lifts his mask just enough for me to see his face.

He's younger than I expected. Sharp jawline, intense eyes that seem to pierce right through me. "You stood out," he admits, his voice softer now. "Most people here…they're just trying to survive. But you-" He catches himself, as if he's said too much. "But what?" I press.

“You fight," he says so simply. "Even when you're scared. Even when you shouldn't." The words dangle in the air, between us like a challenge. Heavy, electric. "I don't know why I do these things," he continues more irritably. "But if you wanna stay alive, don't trust me. Don't trust no one." His words shouldn't assure me, and yet suddenly, for the first time since I have been here, I do feel one thing: hope.

"Thanks," I say under my breath. He doesn't answer, but pulls his mask back down and steps away, leaving me in the shadows.

I trudge up the stairs, the fluorescent lights above me flickering with every labored step my legs take. It was mountainous, but I had survived another game, another step closer to whatever hellish end this place had in store. The other players say nothing. Their faces are hollow, their skin pale. No one dares speak anymore. Silence is safer.

I stop on the last step as a guard blocks my path. Square mask. My heart catches. "What's this?" I say, sharper than I mean to. Exhaustion has sucked any tolerance from me. "You're flagged," he says bluntly. "There's suspicion you might be carrying something you shouldn't be. You'll have to be searched." My blood turns cold. Suspicion? Prohibited? “That's crazy," I say, my panic rising into my chest. "I don't have anything-"

"Follow me." There's no request about it. The other players glance my way, their eyes wide and wary, but they don't get involved. They're too frightened to risk drawing attention to themselves. I hesitate, my mind racing. If this is a setup, if they think I've broken a rule, this could be it. This could be my end.

But I have no choice. Taking a deep breath, I follow the guard down a dimly lit corridor and into a bathroom. The sound of the door locking behind me makes me shiver. “Turn around," the guard instructs in a cold, emotionless voice. I do so, my heart racing. "Look," I begin, "I don't know what you think I've done, but-"

"Stop talking.” It cuts through my protest, and there's something about it-something familiar. I turn to face them, my brow furrowing. “What is this?" I ask. "Who are you?" For a moment, they don't respond. Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, the guard lifts their mask. My breath catches.

It's him.

The square-guard who's been helping me. The one I thought was gone, fired, or worse-killed for breaking the rules. "You-" I stutter, my voice barely above a whisper. "I had to see you," he says, his voice soft, yet urgent. "I couldn't stay away any longer." I blink, trying to process the rush of emotions-relief, confusion, anger. "I thought you were-what happened to you? Why did you stop-" "I had to lay low," he interrupts. "They were watching me. But I'm still here. I don't know what to say. My mind is racing, torn between gratitude and frustration. “Why did you bring me here?" I ask finally.

His eyes lock with mine, intense and unyielding. “Because I couldn't take it anymore," he says, his voice low, stepping closer. "Watching you risk your life, knowing I couldn't do anything to stop it-it's been driving me insane." I swallow hard, my heart racing as he closes the gap between us. "You shouldn't be doing this," I whisper. "If they find out—"

"I don't care," he says with finality. "I've already broken the rules for you. What's one more?" And before I can say another word, his hands frame my face, and he kisses me. It's not soft or tentative-it's desperate, raw, like he's pouring every ounce of fear and longing into the moment. I'm stuck in a freeze-frame moment for a second, mind whipping. Then I yield and cling to his uniform while kissing him back with every ounce of fierce intensity of my own. The world falls away, and I feel something other than fear for the first time since this nightmare kicked off.

But not for long.

He pulls away, forehead resting against mine, hard breaths mingling between our lips. "I can't protect you anymore," he says, his voice cracking. "Not with what's coming." I search his face, my chest tightening at the pain in his eyes. "You've already done more than enough," I whisper. He shakes his head. "It's not enough. It'll never be enough."

A heavy silence falls between us, and I know this is goodbye. Expect it wasn’t actually, his lips captured mine again, his lips….almost saying they wanted me, needed me. That is until he broke the kiss again, and pinned my back against the cold, colorful tiled wall of the bathroom. His body language seemed like he has longed for the dramatic (sort of) crash of holding me against the wall, kissing me like he was dreaming about this every single minute of the day.

He winced as my nails raked across his back through his pink suit, he probably felt like his outfit was being torn by my nails, which could get us both in trouble if that was actually to happen. He winced again as he took ahold of my wrists and slammed them to the wall in retaliation, wedging his knee between my thighs, which made a gasp leave my lips at the slightest bit of friction I was getting from his thigh.

“Didn’t know you were this desperate for me,” he teased after breaking the heated kiss for the nth time, leaving him and me breathless, panting with saliva connecting us. His low chuckle echoed through the empty, now suffocating bathroom, and making his vampire teeth pop out. “it’s laughable, really. Does the games make you horny?” he teased yet again, raising his thick eyebrows in a way that seemed mockingly, his thigh moving back and forth slightly, earning a whine from my lips as he chuckled like he was enjoying me being teased. “Does your life being on the line make you horny? You sadist bit-“ Pain blistered across Sunghoon’s cheek, he couldn’t help but grin as it sent shockwaves of sensation tearing across his body. Adrenaline hummed through his veins as he hungrily kissed me again, choking me with his gloved hands. I thrashed, ripping at the back of his head by a fistful of hair and biting down hard on his lower lip. Both of our lips were bleeding now, but the metallic tang only made him deepen the kiss even more, greedily trying to taste much of it as possible, masochist much?

“Fucking slut,” He hissed, licking blood and spit from my chin. “You’re a cunt and a dick, a motherfucking cunt and dick sucker.” I hissed back, he chuckled. He fucking chuckled this was all a fucking a circus show for him. “Damn right,” he teased. “But only good girls or boys get their cunts and dicks sucked by me, which isn’t you unfortunately.” he grinned, his hips rolling against my privates, yet again another chuckle slipped from his lips like he enjoyed watching me being frustrated sexually, and I could confirm it just by looking at his eyes that had a glint, a glint of giddiness everytime pain was inflicted upon me.

I hooked my foot behind his knee, forcibly collapsing it. First, he tries making me shit in my pants from coming out of nowhere and telling me that I had to be pat down, makeouts with me, choked me and almost knocked out all of the air in me, calls me names and now his hand is reaching up to my knee to bring me down with him…great. He smirked as he yanked me down onto him, flipping me onto my back and pinning me to the cold floor now instead. He gave just one slow, merciless grind of his hips against mine, and I’m only just realising but…he’s fucking big.

“Who said that…I want you to fucking suck me off or eat me out?” I bit out, nursing my injured lip to keep from moaning as he set out a torturously slow pace through our clothes. “It seems pretty eager to me,” Sunghoon teased, gloved fingertips dipping beneath the waistband of my pants. “I bet I could make you cum in- shit-!” His head smacked harder against the tiles than it should have as I tossed him onto his back, thighs clenched tightly around his hips. The throbbing pain only added to the throbbing pleasure as I rolled my hips. “Just who do you think fucking I am? Just- fuck- just because I’m trying to survive and win doesn’t mean I’m gonna be your fucking bitch.” Sunghoon grinned up at me, I was already flushed bright red and riding his hips with rough, desperate japs of my hips. “Big talk for someone who’s riding me like their life depends on it, ironically.” he snickers. “I can feel you, asshole. You’re in the same situation as I am!” Sunghoon smirked, and in one quick move, he snatched my wrist and rocketed back to his feet, spinning me back around and leaving me face-first against the wall. “You might not be able to kill people like me, and neither I could survive the games you’re playing but god…you’re right, I do want you.” I shuddered at his deep voice. I shifted, legs spreading to support myself better and Sunghoon slotted his knee right between them once more, hands settling on my waist as I got my one free hand between me and the wall, trying to push and give myself some space. I only succeeded in pushing our bodies closer than before, his cock nestled firmly against my ass.

“Let me have you,” Sunghoon purred, squeezing my waist and slowly moving up my sides the way that turned me into putty. I moaned, shuddering again. “Fuck you! If you want me so badly, then come and take it, take me!” well, that is an invitation that Sunghoon hasn’t heard before, even before doing this whole crazy guard thing at a unknown island. He growled, jerking my pants down in a hurry, like he actually couldn’t believe that his dreams are about to come true. I threw my elbow back, but Sunghoon just pinned my wrist back to the wall. “Stop being a fucking brat,” he hissed. I struggled and choking back a moan, feeling the material of his pink suit against my bare ass. “Get your shitty ass outfit outta the way,” I demanded. “Shit feels like sandpaper!” I hissed. “So sensitive and demanding,” he cooed, even as he let me have both hands back to brace myself against the wall. Sunghoon didn’t dare to move back and give me an opening to escape, only reaching up to unzip his suit and free himself, mostly his cock that was strained against the fabric and begging for friction as it twitched in his underwear. I adjusted, leaning away long enough for Sunghoon to free himself. “If you were me, you’d complain too!” I hissed. “Yeah, yeah, stop running your big mouth. You want it or not?” he rolled his eyes, his suit and underwear failing to his ankles as he leaned forward, completely trapping me between him and the cold wall, his bare cock resting just on my ass, just right where I needed him, so far yet so close. “I told you you fucking idiot, just take it-“ Sunghoon couldn’t help but thrust all of his cock in one go. Making me moan out loud at the blissful pain from the thrust.

For Sunghoon, you were a wet dream come true to life; Sunghoon’s cock glided through you without resistance, soft and slick, tightening only as he rutted against a known sweet spot along your walls. I moaned, arching my back, wrapping tightly around him. He groaned in response, leaning over me, his hands covering mine, fingers almost interlocked. The sweat on my neck left a layer of salt on Sunghoon’s tongue, but beneath it was nothing but you. Sunghoon muffled his own moans against my throat, sucking and biting his way down to my shoulders. I turned my head, covering my mouth with the inside of my elbow as he fucked me against the wall. Sunghoon hiked me up onto my tiptoes, leaning back to appreciate the view, your skin glistened with sweat under the fluorescent lights. “…Please, I’m close da- fuck-!” your words and moans rang loud in his ears, in the bathroom, the silence sharpening your cries. They acted as pokers to the hot coals of fire in the pit of Sunghoon’s stomach, making him embarrassed over how loud you were, neither was the wet and loud sound of skin smacking was making it any better. If any of his fellow guards were outside or just a tad bit close to the bathroom, he’s fucked and killed to death alongside with you.

That is when Sunghoon got an idea, an idea that satisfies his other personality, the one that was created whilst being here for a very long time that he has lost sense of time, and that is fear. He lives off of the idea of goosebumps appearing on the player’s skins just before he kills them, and in this case, while he’s fucking them and practically making them cock-drunk from his stroke game. Sunghoon leaned down and grabbed his long forgotten, abandoned pistol on the floor, aiming the barrel at your forehead, and with that his thrusts became harder, sloppier but you…you were terrified. Terrified on why there’s a gun to your head suddenly, is he going to kill you after using you like a worthless, lifeless sexdoll? Is that what’s going to happen? You couldn’t lie to yourself because the thought kinda turned you on and made you wetter even more, because you wouldn’t mind being his sexdoll if his cock was constantly inside you and making you go brainless. “Stop moaning like a whore unless you want me to pull the trigger right now, and kill you before they find us.” he threatened lowly in my ear, licking and bitting as he tried to muffle his own sounds. By now, you knew you looked pathetic with your eyes red, red and snotty nose as tears stained and wet your flushed cheeks as you began to bite onto your ragged and bloody jacket, trying to keep quiet because as much as it turned you on at the thought of dying on his dick, but you valued your life at the moment because, living longer equals bouncing on his dick for even more before you die.

Sunghoon barely managed to pull out on time, painting his pleasure all over your ass. He grinned at the realisation that you were still haven’t even came yet, still hanging on the edge as he lowered his pistol and patted his gloved hand on your ass, watching it jiggle with the motion of his hand, giggling to himself as he brought his head up and was met with the sight of you, eyebrows furrowed and eyes narrowed at him. “Get your own self off, brat.” he teased, putting on his suit back and mask, giving you one last cocky glance before he makes sure he looks presentable in the mirror and walks out on you, leaving you frustrated at him, at not being pleasured enough, at the games, and yourself because behind his handsome looks, he’s actually just like the other guards, ruthless and cold.

The Final Game

The days blur all together.

The games are getting more brutal, and the players, myself included, are growing desperate. Every moment feels like a race against time, against fate. The tension among the remaining participants is palpable. We’ve all become numbers now, not people—just pawns in a game that doesn’t care about our lives. The final game is announced, and my heart skips a beat.

It's the one everybody's afraid of: the glass bridge.

We line up in a row, one behind the other, in front of the two routes laid out before us, each comprising several glass panels, some strong and some weak. We had to walk over them and choose appropriate ones to cross or plunge to death. A shiver runs down my spine as the first few players go up front, and what happened was inevitable. One after another, they fall. Screams pierce the cold air, but clear had been the instruction from the guard that no one was to move unless his turn came upon him. Just as I'm about to take my first step, I suddenly feel. something.

It's him.

The square-guard above watches on, his eyes tracking my every movement, and for a split second, our gazes meet. The connection is brief, but it's enough. I don't know what to make of it, but something in the way he watches me is different. There's something in his eyes-something almost…regretful.

It's my turn.

I step onto the bridge, my legs trembling as creaks come from within the glass as my body weight presses down upon it. The first few steps are just fine. My luck has to turn sometime. The crack starts to give under me and I freeze. I looked back, and that is when I see it-something shifting in Sunghoon's posture. Moving.

Too late.

Balance is lost.

I heard him scream my name-my real name, not a number-and did not care. I fell. This was a never-ending fall. The world spun and the only thing I was aware of was air rushing in as I dropped with the pretty firm knowledge I'd not live to cry out.

And then, there was nothing.

Sunghoon's POV

The world is silent.

I stand in stock-stillness, my heartbeat the only sound of the drumbeat as their body disappears into the void below, and with every shattered piece of me. I should have. I should have—

My fist slams against the metal wall. Its echo rings out into that space. Why didn't I act sooner? Why couldn't I pull them back? Why couldn't I protect?

I close my eyes, the guilt suffocating me. This wasn't supposed to happen. I wasn't supposed to feel this way. But here I am, crushed under the weight of it, the weight of my failure. I should never have gotten involved. I should never have helped them.

But I couldn't stop myself.

And now…

I failed.

I failed them.

The game goes on, but Sunghoon's mind is a maelstrom.

The rest of the players are like shadows, their faces hollow with fear and exhaustion. To Sunghoon, however, time has stopped. He stares at the rest of the players, his eyes searching among them for any sign of the one he couldn't protect. Every step weighs too much to be taken. Every decision he makes feels like a mistake. And when the final buzzer goes off, he barely hears it.

It's the end of the day now, and it doesn't matter anymore.

The only thing filling Sunghoon's head is the weight of his own guilt. The others are rejoicing, but his mind is consumed by you-your face, your eyes, and the time you spent together. He had never gotten the chance to say goodbye.

And he never will.

[iridescentflamingo]

TMNT Head cannons

Bayverse Turtles. Just ideas that kind of poured out tonight. (Aged up turtles, you can pick but I want them 30-ish. ~NSFW)

🧡🐢🎇🧡

The easiest turtle to win over is Mikey. He practically throws himself at you. When you give him positive attention back, he just ramps up his flirting. He has pet names for you for days. Eventually, he'll settle on one or two good ones and use them instead of your name almost always. You are going to have to confirm that you have feelings for him before he takes it to the next level. Due to the fact that he is so very straight forward and right out the gates with his cat calling, you have to confirm that you are not just being nice and playing along. He's a flirt, not a creep. (Maturity has found him, it just took him a few more years than his brothers)

Once you do, your fate is sealed. Mikey is definitely a very handsy, flirty, hiding no feelings and having practically no shame kinda dude. He doesn't care if anyone sees, hears, smells etc. his flirting and most of his physical romancing. Telling you how hard you make him a bit louder than he should, toughie tough. Making out on the couch in front of everyone, he doesn't care. Getting caught with his hand down your pants in the kitchen, oh well.

What he does keep secret and quiet is when he vents. Always expected to be the fun and sunshine brother, you become his confidant when he's got heavy feels things to unload. To make sure that it doesn't bog you down, he tries his hardest to end with something more positive and turn it back into good-vibes.

The other thing he'll keep more on the down-low is when the two of you are trying new fetishes or engaging in kinky play for the first time. He doesn't want to be interrupted or for you to get embarrassed and then never want to try again, so that stuff stays in his room, when he knows it's private and he won't be bothered. After y'all get comfortable with it, maybe then he's less cautious.

💙🐢🌊💙

Leo is tough to know. He's dead set on his duties to the point that it's most of his personality, until you get to know him better, and that only happens if he lets you. It'll be slow. He will start by sharing random tidbits of himself that don't have to do with ninjutsu, weapons, or his leadership responsibilities. In the beginning they're bland, basic facts; which pizza toppings he prefers, his favorite type of TV show, his preferred genre of book. They're things you could gleam from just being around him for more than a few days. He's stupid cautious.

His next step would be to ask if you want to do some training with him. He sticks to simple things, testing your abilities and skills. It's really more to learn about you, but it's a start. He takes it easy on you, mostly dodging until you get frustrated, and then maybe he humbles you with a sneaky move like knocking you off your feet. He doesn't ask you if you want to practice again, he waits for you to ask.

Over time, the training becomes more physical and he shares actual details about himself, but you have to be giving info in return. Knowing what his favorite movie is probably would never be information that The Foot uses against him, but you never know. You have got to meet him, tit for tat, and offer your own truths. If he catches you lying, you're not just back to zero, you're in the negative.

Eventually, if you've managed to gain his trust and build a strong connection with him, Leo will open up properly. He will joke, play, swat, and treat you like one of his brothers, with a more gentle approach because you're not a 200lb+ muscled turtle.

If romance blooms, expect another slow trudge full of trust building and honesty before you get any proper boyfriend-esque attention. Once past the awkward "we shouldn't, it's too dangerous, how would this work?, I'm not human, will you really be happy here?" Swamp of despair, it should be smooth sailing. Be honest and he's all yours.

All that time spent building that relationship will return ten-fold from Leo with whatever type of affection you ask for. He wants to please, he wants you happy, and he will make it so if possible.

❤️🐢🥊❤️

Raph is going to keep his feelings secret for as long as he can. He hides his insecurities by trying to be the biggest, heaviest hitter, and a tank for his brothers. And those are just his viewed shortcomings compared to his three brothers. When looking at you, he compares himself against all men. He has little hope. In the mirror he sees a big, green face with sharp features and a scowling, RBF. He may act like hot shit in front of his brothers, but it's a front. Besides his appearance and size, his temper can flare, and he's come a long way since he was a teen, but it can still explode from him, which is terrifying to see, especially up close. He's very aware and is afraid that if you see him in that state, it will only reinforce the fact that he's a monster.

You will see glimpses of how sweet he can be from time to time, but they won't come often. When you're around, his guard is up doing double time; keeping up appearances and keeping his feelings in check. Over time his facade will falter occasionally. He'll be laughing at your jokes, ribbing you when you get frustrated over video games, checking to see if you've eaten, and maybe even leaning against you as he nods off on the couch. When you smile at his playfulness and kindness, he'll smile back until he catches himself and suddenly remembers that he has something to do. It will probably be going to their home gym.

If you can manage to get him to accept that you honestly and truly think he is not a monster, and that you want to be around him, and miss him when you're not with him, you're going to get someone who can be a huge teddy bear cuddler, but also someone who likes to get physical and more rough in the bedroom. This is going to take a lot of repeating yourself and him asking, not always subtly, if you really mean it. If you're sure you wouldn't be happier with some other guy. If your eyes work. If he's really not too big. If if if... You will learn that kisses can usually stop him from spiraling.

Sometimes Raph wants to cuddle and be soft and tender. Despite his size he is careful. He handles you like you're a porcelain figurine in the beginning. With the practiced ability to knit, his large hands can be surprisingly dexterous and delicate. He is not a bull in a china shop unless he chooses to. Quiet times together have him completely wrapped around you, holding you carefully close and seeking your body warmth. You are careful not to laugh the first time he slips and churrs when he begins to doze off in your arms. He won't do it again if you embarrass him.

Over time, he allows himself to be a bit more rough with you. At first it is just careful roughhousing, perhaps some near choreographed play tackles or even picking you up and pretending to slam you on the bed, setting you down carefully with sound effects instead of actual violence (Raph may have loved watching WWE growing up). After a bout of rougher hands-on play, he notices that you're turned on. This changes things immediately. Taking advantage of the situation, the play shifts from silly to sexual in an instant.

You both end up having the most amazing sex you've ever had thus far. The next day you talk about it as you ice bruises and he apologizes as you hobble around when you first get up from bed. As a couple, you set limits and it becomes a more regular thing. You enjoy this rougher type of sex and he enjoys being able to be less careful. Being rough is in his nature and you loving it and getting off to it just helps strengthen your bond.

💜🐢⚛️💜

(Saved the best for last~)

Donnie is guarded, but secretly hopeful about the possibility of a relationship. This busy, brainy, tech wizard of a brother is a master of design and invention, but he still has his own hang ups. Instead of fighting off insecurities, he fights anxiety, boredom, and possibly depression. Instead of working out or training, he buries himself in his work. Keeping busy keeps his mind from wandering into darker thoughts. It also leads him to pass out and sleep dreamless sleep. He knows that it isn't healthy, but the other thoughts aren't good for him either.

When he notices that you've taken an interest in what he is working on, he eagerly shares to the point of info-dumping. If he catches himself, he apologizes out of reflex. You have to dismiss it or he will assume that, like his brothers, you do not have time to hear him ramble. Asking him questions, especially if you do not understand what he is talking about, will spur him on to explain. He's patient and wants to share his knowledge. If you pretend to know, he can tell, and won't say anything, but will take note that you're just trying to be nice in order to placate him and get him to stop.

Always watching and analyzing everything, he'll take notice who you talk to when you arrive, who you spend the most time with, how you react to his other brothers antics and conversations, who you decide to sit next to, how much physical contact you give and to who... He sees it all and makes mental notes. He will also overthink things. Were you just laughing at Mikey's jokes, or was that flirting? Were you smiling at Leo because he was kind, or was that something more? Was that shove you attempted to give Raph just for fun, or were you trying to spur him to touch you? If you don't give him equal or more attention, he will notice and make pessimistic predictions.

If you give him the most attention out of his brothers and are genuinely interested in his projects and research, he will take note and begin to test you a little. While handing him a screwdriver, he notes how you react when his fingers linger on yours a little longer than they should have. As he explains the wiring on a smaller machine, he stealthily monitors your pulse rate when he moves close enough for your arms to press against one another. After some motor oil droplets splash on your cheek, he watches your face for any signs as he gently wipes the dark spots away with his thumb. Every action is inconspicuous and easily dismissed, but a treasure trove of valuable information before he makes any kind of decision as to what to do.

If he is completely positive that you harbor a crush on him, he meticulously plans his own confession. A true romantic, he wants this to be perfect. The two of you will be alone, most likely in his lab space where he is most comfortable. His brothers will either be out or busy. You won't have any idea that this is a special evening and will be under the guise that you're coming over to help him out with a project, as you often did. He'll let the evening start out with that project, but will end up shifting your attention to something else he's made. The secret project will be something impressive that has you in awe, asking how long he's been working on it. That's when he makes his move.

His answers have been rehearsed in his mind over and over, but his nerves still cause him to shake and some of his answers carry a hint of nervousness, but his face is confident and sure. He reports his data to you and details how he's noticed your affection. Still monitoring you, he is careful and has a backup plan readied in case he has to abort his admission. If everything goes as planned, you end up with his hand on your cheek and a gentle first kiss upon your lips.

Donatello is almost clingy with his affection. You receive messages when you are not around him and when you are at the lair, he is close to you or at least nearby. He seeks physical contact often but in more discrete ways when around others. At the dinner table, he'll move his leg so that his calf is leaning against yours. During movie night, he is hip to hip with you on the couch, encouraging you to lean against him once the flick starts. It's not completely hidden, but its modest.

Away from prying eyes, it is a completely different story. Hands end up under and in clothing as kisses turn from soft and sweet to hungry and demanding in seconds. All you have to do is say the right words. Donnie proves time and time again that he is a quick learner and has your body figured out within a couple of weeks. You find it difficult, at first, for him to properly let go and let you take the wheel, but in time the trust is built and he allows you to give without also receiving. He turns out to be a versatile switch after deviating from his original, more dominant, tenancies.

His favorite thing to do is make you climax. His second favorite thing is to climax together. His third is using toys...

~Ɛ>------------------------------------<3~

@thegirlwiththeninjaturtletattoos @sophiacloud28 @thelaundrybitch @the-cauldron-witch @tmntngl @avery73 @tmntngl

(lmk if I missed anyone's tags)

[kaisaerinlover]

TW: this is darkcon

don’t read if you don’t like dark con like this is dark con it has domestic abuse etc

kaiser makes you want to die. no really, he does, he’s such a horrible person; nasty boyfriend, vicious and mean to you, always hostile. what’s even the point? why do you even bother with him at all? because you’re stuck with him, obviously, because he’s smarter than you and even though admitting that is the worst thing ever, it’s unfortunately the truth.

he’s smart, you know what he’s up to; you know when he lovebombs you, you know he gaslights you more times than he’d ever admit (he never admits to any wrongdoing), you know he plays mind games with you for fun, knows he makes you cry because he simply can, knows he derives great pleasure in seeing your despaired eyes, knows he loves it when he sees fat tears rolling down your cheeks at his words or actions, knows he loves to hurt you, knows he isolated you from everyone but him (the exception is when you complained you had no friends anymore and he just sighed and pushed ness towards you as if that was a good replacement for friends) and he’s just mean in general.

you know you can’t leave now because everyone already hates you; seriously? you dropped everyone and cut ties with people who have supported you for years because of michael kaiser? sure he’s a famous footballer, rich and handsome, but girl he beats you? your friends would never look you in the eye again, you’re estranged from your family, you have quite literally nothing. and the worst part is, you don’t want to leave kaiser. you really don’t - if you ever said you do it would be impulsive. maybe that’s why he says you’re being so dramatic so often, maybe he’s right after all. you love him with all of your heart and you have for years now. you are so unbelievably full of him, and it fucking kills you that he doesn’t act the same towards you. he’s sitting next to you on the couch now, watching the match he just played 3 days ago. he won, but he was angry. someone else scored a goal or something, you don’t know. you don’t know much about football, you tried to learn it; you swear you did! but you just never quite grasped it. but it’s fine, you’re always the perfect little outlet for kaiser’s rage. whether he screams at you that you’re a bitch and you deserve to die, don’t deserve him at all, claims you distracted him. whether he beats you senseless, twists your fingers, pulls your hair, turns you black and blue from the cruel beration of his fists. whether he just cries in your arms (a personal favourite) and actually shows what he feels deep down inside. it’s another reason you’ve never quite found the strength to leave him. you feel so motherly towards him, sure, he’s not calling you mommy, he very much likes to be in control in the relationship, but you can tell he’s just a broken child deep down. maybe it hits you extra hard and you want to save him even more because you’re exactly the same.

he’s so engrossed in the match, dawning his robe that costed an ungodly amount of money and those circle rimmed glasses that you (secretly) think he looks so cute in. you look pathetic next to him, bruises all up your legs, bandaids on some cuts and others showing, your skin looks sickly, big dark circles under your big eyes that kaiser (used to) love so much. you’re wearing barely anything too. just a pair of pajamas; frilly shorts and a sweater kaiser had bought you on your 2nd anniversary. you look worthless in comparison to his look, his vibe, his all. and that kills you.

kaiser long noticed your gaze, he knows you well enough to know exactly what you’re thinking of too; unfortunate for you. or fortunate: most girls would kill to have a boyfriend as attentive as this. he thinks you’re awfully cute sitting next to him on the fancy couch he insisted he had to buy for the living room, looking oh so very pathetic. he wants to punch you (endearingly), he swears he does. you look so small next to him, figuratively and literally. he does it on purpose because he gets off on it. sick fuck. he knows he is. you know it too deep down, but you hate admitting it to yourself. maybe because admitting the only person you have left in your life. kaiser randomly slapping you snaps you out of your thoughts.

anyone else would hate this, burst into tears, scream, slap him back, anything except what you do. you’re truly so docile. you learned to ignore the pain and put michael kaiser first; because michael kaiser is the first thing you’ve ever truly had and kept for such a long time. the sting on your cheek pales in comparison to everything about him. “what are you thinking about, hm?” he asks you. he’s smirking; he knows. so don’t lie to him.

kaiser watches your cheek grow red from his harsh slap, and laughs a bit. “i was just- you’re- you’re just… mean” it’s blurted out. no sense of coherency in anything you’re saying. unlike kaiser, he’s always composed somehow. well, sort of, sometimes he loses his cool so bad that even you’re unsure if it’s still him inside. but you know it is, he loves you so much he lets you see that side of him. “i’m only mean so you stay, you know? i can’t have you going anywhere” he’s caressing and pinching your cheek. it hurts a lot; he’s strong. but you can swallow your pride (the tiny bit you have left) that’s what you’ve done your whole life, after all. he knows he can just admit it at this point: no need to hide the manipulation anymore, it’s not like you’ll leave. and you nod. and he turns back to the tv. and that’s that.

that’s that until he sees something that he doesn’t like. he scowls in anger. and you’re in for it.

kaiser hates to be outshined anywhere, because he has something to prove unlike everyone else. prove that he’s not a completely useless piece of shit like everyone oh so loves to and loved to remind him the whole time he has graced this earth with his presence. so when he was hit with the brutal reminder of what happened in his last game; someone else scoring a hat trick on the other team. someone else outdoing him. someone else getting all of the attention and praise. all the articles calling him ‘washed’, asking if his legacy will end. it pissed him off. before he would take it out on himself, choke himself and treat himself like the subhuman he knows deep down inside he is. but now he has you; thank god for that.

and it irks him a little that you never react as he rags you by the hair to your bedroom, your body bruising along the way, hitting whatever objects and walls are on the way there. you never complain or beg him to stop - you did at first. the first few times you did. but it was fruitless, kaiser is a ball of compressed rage, constructed from every bad experience he’s ever had. so are you, but your low self esteem’s both manifest in different ways. you’re really no better.

and you cry as silently as you can as he beats the life out of you. if you cry too loud you’ll only make it worse (you don’t want to see what’s worse than this). sometimes he still tells you he does this for your own good, but even you don’t believe it anymore. but maybe you deserve this - you could just leave. he wouldn’t chase after you, would he? you’re not sure; but you could leave. and yet you don’t. and he knows you won’t. that’s why he treats you like this. he likes the power he has over you, because being with you is like being a god. being a god who is able to pass judgement over you however he wishes and whenever he wishes. because you’re his most devoted believer. he likes the way you look with bruises; likes the look enough he can push down the sickening feeling and bile that threatens to rise upwards and out of him onto the expensive marble floor of your bedroom. the feeling he gets knowing you don’t even fight back anymore. you have a really beautiful soul, he thinks as he beats the fucking shit out of you. how ironic. you’re truly beautiful. blood splattered everywhere. black and blue all over your legs. you look even more pathetic next to him now - or below him, he supposes.

do you know how awkward it is to lay in bed next to you after this? for him it’s awkward, he can’t imagine what it’s like for you. he’s reading something with the lamp on and his stupid prestigious looking robe and glasses on still again. all cleaned up, looking nice. you’re fine too; he guesses. or not really, you have blood on your nose, a huge black eye, and an ungodly amount of marks all over you. you’re always going to look pathetic next to him, it’s just your fate. you chose to date him. you don’t move: you’re lifeless even. but he feels your breathing shifting your side of the bed slightly, and that’s enough for him. you’re in so much pain that even laying down hurts, but you still nod when kaiser asks you anything. he always does this; tries a sick attempt at small talk afterwards. “my match is next week, you’re coming too. do you think i’ll win?” he tries to question as casually as he can. but he’s scared you can hear the break in his voice as he says it. you just nod. it hurts like hell - he had his hand wrapped around your neck and your head pressed against the hard floor. but you nod anyway to appease him. you don’t even know if he notices; for once you doubt he loves you. how could he? you want to believe he does, but you’re not sure anymore. the salty taste of your tears running into your mouth eases you into sleep. the taste of it mixing with your blood and dripping into your mouth. sleep is the only safe haven you get. at least you get to ignore the agonising pain you’re in and dream of a significantly nicer kaiser as your boyfriend.

when he’s sure you’re asleep, he wipes his eyes dry of tears and kisses your head. he’s sorry. he does love you. he doesn’t know why he’s this mean. he’s sorry. he noticed your crying too. he loves your face when you look like that usually; but now he doesn’t. well, he does a bit, he’d be a liar if he said he didn’t. but he wants to make you happy too; but he doesn’t know how. being nice is never something that fit him. he always justified it with ‘opposites attract’ (he knows this is entirely different). he’s leaning over your frail, sleeping form. tears cascading down his face onto you. cleaning off the blood from that nosebleed he gave you. your nose gave a sickening crack when he hit you there - god it even made him cringe.

he’s sorry. he caresses you as you sleep like you’re the most precious thing in the world. he’s a real piece of work. a fucking subhuman. and he’s sorry. he doesn’t know why he’s like this. you gave him all of you in the best way possible so he threw his whole self at you too in the worst way possible.

you don’t deserve this, so he’ll change. it’s just a matter of when and how. he hasn’t quite worked out the kinks yet, but when he does he’ll change and give you the world. he’s so gentle as he touches you whilst you sleep. his tattooed hand stroking your hair so sweetly. he does his last selfish act of the night and grabs you to pull you against him so he can feel your warmth radiating to lull him to sleep. and you feel it; it’s not selfish, you’re so happy. you lean into each other instinctively. it’s nice when he’s so loving, it maybe makes his onslaught of violence against you all worth it. you both like feeling loved, but only one of you is preventing that.

“sorry, i love you, i’ll change meine prinzessin. ich versprochen” it’s a whispered promise into your aching soul. but you believe him, you always believe him. you hope he’ll fix you. and he already knows you’re fixing him. you stir again from your sleep and put your body through even more pain to kiss him lightly on the cheek. “i know”

sleep comes easy to both of you that night. kaiser knows that this is love; but he can’t keep doing this. he’ll try to change - that’s a promise.

[thequeerwizardcouncil]

Urgent News.

One of the largest threats to queer safety, especially queer youth on the internet, is the KOSA bill. It is effectively a censorship bill that will make access to the internet for queers, nigh impossible and constantly monitored.

Now of course the council's concerns may lie within the queer, but the bill will also affect pro-Palestinian messages, activism, truthful information, etc. It will make it difficult to look for sexual health information, information on Palestine, Sudan, the Congo, climate change, queer history, queer info in general.

It is a bill that the USA is going to use to effectively stop all the criticism against them, all the information on the genocides committed in the name of capital, and block out safe spaces for queers in and out of the closet.

And it is being discussed whether to have it added to the FAA. What does that mean? The FAA was the same way the Tiktok ban was passed so easily, a way for the US to pass bills without much resistance. So you might be thinking:

What is to be done?

Well for one, if you are a member of the council reading this, you are obligated to reblog this and spread the message far and wide. And we mean it. Whether through posters, posts, shouting, protests, whatever you can do, you must do. Even if you aren't a council member, morally you should still do it.

As evidently the internet is in jeopardy.

Other than that, sign these petitions, spread these links and urge others to do so. Call your representatives, email them, mail them, fax them. And again, urge others to do the same.

You don't need to be American to spread this or sign these. And you should care still even if you aren't American, as this will be a global effect if KOSA passes.

stopkosa.com

Woodhull Freedom Foundation | Stop KOSA

change.org | Stop KOSA petition

EFF | KOSA Bill

EFF | Look for your representative sand contact them

We must do anything and everything to keep the internet safe. For all.

So do not fall into despair that we will fail, and do not become complacent thinking we will win. Become active and make sure we win.

For in the dark we endure, and in the light we fight for who you call impure.

@skyethebisexualwolfwizard

@im-a-wizard-who-dont-crime

@thebutterflyoficeandwisteria

@bisexualchemistry

@sassy-piece-of-parsley

@flirtyambiguouswizard

@ballisticallytestedwensleydale

@the-moth-wizard-of-mayhem

@aroace-wizard

@serious-tabaxi

@agentldiddy

@parkyrtheelvishbard

@autistic-dinos-and-dragons-lover

@a-goose-in-a-trenchcoat

@sapphicdragons-3

@transgender-wizard

@jhomikle

@cynical-artificer

@anne-androgynous-android

@asheslab

@ryukyuna-the-kitsune-in-cabin-13

@incrediwizard

@amethyst-aster

@ash-the-tiefling

@shittest-wizard-ever

@bi-gender-sorcerer

@somecallmekay

@be-gentle-with-littluns-2

@ladyofspoons

@slymewitch

@alchemical-overreaction

@frogpantsthebloodgod

@yourlocalbreadenthusiast

@detectivewizzard

@the-necrobotanist

@lixorloveslicorice

@hyper-lynx

@chaos-wizard-nyehehe

@song-de-lune

@lord-devere

@waluwizard

@so-um-brasileiro

@distinctlyrevived

@dread-is-decaying

@wizard-ghost

@the-reluctant-princess

@ye-olde-ace

@maniquinn

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Alles zu seiner Zeit

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, age gap, mentions of death and loss, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: Fifteen years after a plague struck Wisborg, the widower Harding continues to visit his wife and daughter at the cemetery where you work. His devotion spans across seasons but it might be more than those he lost drawing him back.

Characters: Friedrich Harding

Note: this is a new character for me so...

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

Winter 

Bristles scrape on stone. Each push of the broom tugs in your arms, the layers against the chill inspiring a slake of sweat along your back. The trickle makes you itch as your efforts scratch across the ground, sending clouds of snow into heaps. 

Where once greenery blossomed and flowers smiled at sunlight remain only bristly sticks and frozen dirt 'neath the rug of January's malaise. The sombre grey skies form a thin curtain against the shadow of memories. The spectre of plague and whispers of a curse carry in the winds and swirl the flakes around your skirts. 

You were young the winter the sickness came. You'd known eight up until that blight and your brothers knew no other. They were of the forsaken, left in pine boxes to be buried when the frozen ground could be cracked with a spade. Your mother joined them soon after, though of a different malady; despair. 

Your father suffered the same disease but to a very different effect. At the bottom of a bottle. He lingers there in the depths of distraught distraction.  

You sweep the path clear to the doors of the mausoleum, then perpendicular around the perimeter. When the walkways are done, you will put your mind to the stones. And by the time those are revealed, a new sheet will litter the ground and your work will begin anew. 

Emmett, the youngest of the diggers, sits in wool and a leather cap, drinking hot barley from a cup. He shivers as you pass, mindful not to push the snow his way. He doffs the cup amiably. 

"How's it, fraulein?" He greets. 

"You would know so well as I, herr," you reply, moving the bristles anon. Your mittened hands cling tightly as the cold nips through to your knuckles. You keep your chin tucked into your scarf, 

"Frigid, ja," he cradles the cup and curls into its warmth. Adelaine, daughter of the sexton, must have offered the kindness. She does make certain to know all the diggers' names. "Would you do all this by your own?" He peers around the rolling expanse marked by headstones and monuments. 

"Someone must mind the spirits," you carry on without hamper.  

"For a pretty thaler or so, I'd pray," he remarks and clucks. 

You will not tell the truth. It is a thaler for the whole of a fortnight of sweeping and clearing the cobwebs; of breaking the frost from the keyholes and dusting away the musty leaves and stirred pebbles. 

"I pray you keep warm, herr. The almanac calls for a long winter." You bid as you progress away from him. 

"And you, Fraulein. Mind the ice," he girds. 

You keep careful steps as you press on. Emmett rises with his cup of barley and retreats to the shed with the shovels. A mean gale blows around you, nearly taking you off your feet. 

You steady yourself as you plant the broom and chatter against the deathly gust. There's a shrill whine from behind you. You turn as Adelaine clings to her fur-trimmed hood and hides behind a statue of the Holy Mother. 

"Fraulein," she trills in her creaky tones. "Have you seen Herr Emmett?" 

"Mm," you hum in hesitation. Her father, Wilhelm, warned you against encouraging her comingling. He is a pious man, minding the sacred grounds and all. "I'm not certain where he's strayed, Fraulein Adelaine." 

"Mercy," she huddles down against another violent draught. "The bishops says it's not been so cold since... well, he would not speak of it." 

She makes the sign of the cross and bows her head, clutching her hand where her golden necklace is hidden beneath her dress and cloak. Many would not wear holy icons so gregarious in their clothing. Simple wood or iron is more in line with the protestant pragmatism.  

The gate bell tolls and she cranes to see beyond you. Snow blows across her cheeks as the wind billows in her hood. Your own lets the bitter chill right through its weave.  

"There he is," she exclaims before your mind might follow her previous allusion. That corrupt wintertide. 

You turn to peer across the ivory swathes. Henrick and Emmett approach the gate and open it to the visitor. A figure on a horse rides through impatiently, nearly catching Henrick beneath the hooves. The gentleman wears simple black though the richness of its cut can be seen even from your purview. The breed of his coldblood steed attests to his fortune.  

Adelaine gasps and steps out close to you. You have seen the man before. As often you've seen the drape of his cloak, you would only know him by the emblem pinned upon the horse's harness.  

"It is the widower, Harding." She whispers.  

The man draws his horse around the stone crypt marked with his name. The one barren of any other decoration; no flowers in Fruhling, no ornament upon the door, nor even a cross carved into the lintel. You note the plainness each time you tend its grounds. 

He drops off his horse heavily. His boots send up a cloud and you grip the broom tighter. How quickly it's piled up all over again. Flecks fall along the folds of his cloak as he marches to the doors. You can hear the twist of the key as he lets himself within. The door slams sonorously and casts a pall over the grounds. 

"My father says he was young when his wife and daughters succumbed to the ague," Adelaine says. 

"Do not speak of it," you chide. "It is ill tidings to call upon the dead who wish to remain undisturbed." 

She tuts, "he comes every day. He disturbs them oft enough." 

"They are his to disturb," you sniff. "I should be certain it does not snow him in." 

She would not know what it is to have those beyond your grasp. To spend the nocturne longing for them to be there again. To hear them sing a lullaby or tuck you into sleep.

"Have you ever been inside? Even a glimpse? Father does not have a key." She grabs your sleeve before you can depart. "What do you presume he does within? I've heard him talking..." 

"It isn't of my concern," you tug away from her. "Nor yours." 

"Hmph, mind your lip," she sneers. "Or I'll have father find another broom sweep. Perhaps one more droll, ja?" 

"Apologies, fraulein, I only mean to do my work," you say. "The snow comes more and more. Perhaps you should go within, be warm." 

"Perhaps I might and perhaps I mightn't," she retorts and rubs together her gloved hands. "Very well, go about and do you work, little dormouse." 

You part before her temper can rise. Adelaine can be as prickly as she is pleasant. One moment a giggle, the next a growl. 

You retrace your steps along the path, uncovering the stone with the bristles as you do. You glance over at the yellow crypt as the wind wails as a wraith might. None are permitted within but the widower. It is a rule never broken. Never questioned. All know of the heartbroken Harding and his sorrow, even beyond those gates. Even as he hides within the walls of the house he once made a home of. 

Fruhling (Spring) 

As the annual thaw softens the earth, the frozen ground churns to mud, and the air bristles with the damp threat of rain. The early sprigs of green poke up from the flattened grasses and the cracks between the stonework fill with wet sludge. Your bristles clump with mud and you trade the broom for shovel to scrape it all away. 

Adelaine’s song carries with those of the songbirds, returned from their winter nests. She sits upon a bench and chimes as Emmett and Matthias dig into a new plot nearby. Her ploy is not subtle. 

Even as the season marks rebirth, death is to be expected. The hole is meant for the wife of a cobbler who did not survive her child. The infant, as you heard, is well. A reverence carries on the whispers as the old wives and grandmothers praise her noble sacrifice. It is as close as a woman might come to the bravery of man, though there isn’t much choice in the matter. 

Your mind wanders as the tedium of your work inspires preoccupation. Adelaine will be a wife one day. Will she end up in the ground upon her own sacrifice? Or will she sing then to her child instead of the diggers? 

What of yourself? You are no lady, your father is not rich but a drunkard feeding his demise off your tuppence. Should you have a husband when he succumbs to the rye’s dark tides? It would be practical. You father has no son, his house cannot pass to a daughter. 

With your days spent in the cemetery, you know that inevitability is closer than you should like. Your father should’ve died the night he was kicked in the skull by that old mule he slapped while in his cups. It is a miracle he lived to laugh so bawdily about the farce. 

You sigh and carry on, as you do many things in life. You will need to think on it more thoroughly before Winter comes again. It is a godsend your father did not catch the same ague as poor Frau Elke. You spent wakeless nights listening to his snores, searching for a cough or a choke. 

The day wears on and the burial happens in a bout of sunshine which beams down sardonically on the party’s grief. When the forsaken mother is buried, never to kiss the face of her child, they depart. Emmett and Matthias pat firm the earth as Sexton Wilhelm whistles for you. 

His daughter has been sent away. She cannot stomach the funerals. Ironic given her lot in life. Her family is not from Wisborn, they did not witness the plague, only heard of it. Her mother is well and alive, she never had any sibling, and her father is in fine enough health for a man his age. 

“These flowers are for the woman’s plot,” he gestures to a crate of marigolds. 

“Yes, Herr,” you reply diligently.  

“I will have one of the diggers assist,” he assures and struts off. 

You turn to face the plot. You heard the woman was younger than even you. A new bride. Not even twenty. You trace the cross over your chest and shoulders then pick up a basket of the marigolds 

Matthias comes with two hand spades. You take one and begin your work. You transplant the rooted flowers into the ground carefully. He grumbles as he kills more than he preserves. His hands are not delicate but calloused and well-worn. 

“Herr, I will finish,” you say. “You’ve done plenty today.” 

“Are you certain? There are still very many.” He glances over at the crate. 

“Too many. I will find them homes,” you promise. 

The gate bell rings as if supporting your suggestion. Matthias rises and dusts of his hands. Emmett and Henrick run down to open the doors to the visitor. Black velvet flaps over short bristles of reddish-brown. The widower canters in as the thick hooves clop over the stone. 

You pack down the earth around another stem. Harding dismounts as the diggers keep their distance. The lock grinds and the door drags on its hinges. It closes with a clunk as your shovel bites into the earth again and again. 

When you have lined the plot with the pleasant orange blooms, there is still a basket left. You peer around the fruhling blossom. Your eyes are drawn to the most bland swath among the sprawl. The yellow crypt and its vacant brick walls. Not even the ivy grows upon it. 

You are not so presumptuous as to disturb the soil. You cut the stems and bound them together with a headless one. Little bundles all snug together. You place them along the front of the crypt. They will die and blow away but it is a small blessing for the lost. 

You set above wiping clean the foot of the statue of the splattered mud. As you do, the crypt opens again. The cloak almost seems to float as its wearer remains hidden in its folds. He stops only two steps from the threshold. 

You scrape off dried muck with your fingernail as the clouds shift above. The sudden frantic scuffing and stomping draws your attention. Harding crushes the petals into the ground, decapitating the stems, twisting them into strands with his heels. His hood shifts you think for a moment he is looking at you. 

He kicks away what is left of the bouquets and approaches his dulcet steed. The beast is still as its rider mounts. It trods around the crypt then up the path to the gates. You frown and watch the widower’s departure. You did not mean to offend. You hope that Herr Wilhelm does not hear of this error. 

Sommer (Summer) 

Pollen floats in the air, tickling nostril and throat, mingling with the aromas of June. In the early morning dim, a cool breeze stirs the hem of your skirts and wafts around your clogs. You walk with a stick in hand, using it to traverse the cobbled roadway, chipped by the passing of carriage and hoof. 

Your trek to the cemetery is peaceful in the sommer. In the winter, it can grow quite eerie with the whistling winds like wailing wretches and the spindly branches like skeletons. In the summer, the trees are lush and rustling, waving like companions, and the grass ripples like water beneath the gentle flow. 

That morning, you hum to yourself as you peer ahead at the distant cemetery wall. There are houses along the old street but most still sleep in the dawn’s hue. You must be early to the graveyard so that you may ready the plots and paths. 

As you plod along, the posts of the cemetery gate come clearer over the rooftops. Your low melody is punctured by a sudden tempo. Slow and plodding. You move aside as you sense the nearing horse. The merchants rise as early as you; eager to deliver or claim their cargo at the dock. 

They do not hurry. They do not change measure. You traipse along and await their passing. As the shadow of the great steed nears, you do not count the creak of a wheel or axle. It is only a rider. 

Yet, they do not continue past you. The hooves keep a patient pace in tune with yours. You’ve never heard or seen a horse go so slow. Any beast you ever saw would tremble to be at full tilt amid the meadows. 

You peer over your shoulder curiously and follows the white fur around the wide hoof up the brown leg to the reddish sheen further up, the strands of a well-brushed main draping around the coldblood’s thick neck. Black velvet pleats around its rider but does not catch the wind. The fabric is too heavy for riding and for the season. 

The emblem on the horse’s chest gleams in your eye. It is him, the widower, in his mourning ebon. His hood shrouds his face as ever and he is silent as his horse walks beside you, as if an escort. 

You wait but he does not canter nor trot. He keeps the gait. You look ahead again then back to him. You wouldn’t want to be uncouth. 

“Guten morgen, Herr Harding.” 

As you’ve never heard him speak, you’re not certain you’ve ever heard any speak to him. Not the bold Adelaine or the stern Sexton Wilhelm. He only ever brought dire silence with him to the crypt. And then, as always, he remains quiet. 

You gulp and once more put your attention ahead of you. You are nearly at the gates, though you would not enter through the mainway. There is a smaller door round the east corner.

The gentleman and his horse bear down on you, their shadow rippling in the rising sunlight. Sweat trickles down your spine as a chill speckles across your skin. You feel as if he watches you but dare not look upon him in turn. You don’t believe you would see anything beneath his hood. You do wonder if the widower might indeed be a phantom himself. 

He steers to the gates and you pass them and head for the door behind the English oak. You pull the cord to lift the lever and glance over at Herr Harding. The widower’s hood shifts in your direction. You cannot see his eyes but you feel them. Like worms crawling over a corpse. You press inside and quickly swing the iron door shut. 

The gate bell pierces the early din of tweeting birds and skittering critters. Dandelion dust powders the air and bristles in your nose. You go to the shed to fetch your broom as the gates open at the widower’s behest. 

When you come out, he is gone. His horse is by the crypt and the doors are closed. You are deliberate in your work. Since that day with the marigolds, you’ve not gone near the yellow brick while Harding was as visitation. You always wait and say a silent prayer for his family as you clear the debris. 

There is much to do in the aged cemetery. There is no shortage of dead, forgotten or new. The stones must be cleaned or repaired. Wilhelm takes care to apply mortar to new cracks are to fix an eroded etching, so long as a thaler is offered for the effort.  

You brush the broom back and forth, pausing to watch a bee pollinate a flowerbed or a caterpillar make his slow progress over the stone. There is so much life here despite the purpose of the land. Where others come only to see death, you see what is still there. 

The sun ascends higher and higher. You leave your shawl in the shed and take a can to water the blooms. You marvel at how some petals seem to open and drink in the moisture. In the sommer, there is splendour. In sommer, you can hardly believe that winter could ever be. 

As you come around the path, the horse stands by the crypt, chewing the patchy grass. You pass by its swaying tail as you return the can to the shed. While there, you steal a handful of feed meant for the horses that draw the wagons of the lost. 

You cautiously near the large beast. It has been some hours since your arrival and it is a hot day. You open your palm, curving back your fingers to avoid the flat gnashing teeth. The horse smears spit on your hand as he eats the oats. 

The crypt door whines on the thick hinges and you wince and back away. You tuck yourself into an alcove as the door shuts heavily. You press into the brick as your heart races and you spot the littered trail of feed that leads to you. 

As Herr Harding comes around to mount his horse, he spies it too. He pauses as he bows beneath his hood, the edges of lifting slightly as he follows the seed and oat to you. You stare at him haplessly. You don’t know what to do or say. 

He turns and grabs the reins. He hauls himself onto the hours and clicks his teeth, driving his heels into its belly. The horse snorts and obeys, its hooves dusting along the stone toward the main gates. 

Herbst (Autumn) 

Summer wilts with the crisp bite of Herbst. One last breath of life before the grey winter. The leaves mellow to rustic tones of umber and gold, the pine cones litter the dirt, and the wet grass shine from the kiss of the morning fog. You sweep aside the wet leaves with your broom, skirts sodden along the hem. 

As you follow your usual progress across the grounds, the gate bell chimes. The echo rolls through the air and earth. The steady chafe of bristles guides you through the musty mist. It is a beautiful season but wet. 

You pause to brush leaves that have caught on plinths or statues, to wipe away the twigs across the stones embedded in the flats, and to tidy the plots of the leafy carpet. You can only count the blessing that it is not snow. 

Adelaine’s laughter flutters up to you. Her father helps her into a carriage. She has been entertaining a suitor as of late. She always spoke of a summer wedding but it seems a winter one may be on the horizon. She is off to see the bishop and her betrothed.  

Emmett and Matthias open the gates with little heed to their employer and his daughter. They must feel spurned after so long of her fawning over them. It is unfair of her to give them such false longings.  They shut the gates and stomp off back to their digging.

There was a family that perished in a fire. They will each need a hole among their designated plot. It is sombre and back-breaking work. You do not envy the diggers for more than their wage. Were you a man, you could take a shovel and make at least a thaler more than you do now. 

You shiver again. You’ve not been warm for days. You’ve not the money for fuel so the hearth remains dormant in favour of your father’s habit. The drink keeps him warm and you are left to wool and the friction of your palms. Thank the lord you have walls at the least. 

The voices of the men fade as they climb to the new plot and you come down the low incline toward the main row of the cemetery; the large mausoleum for the fallen soldiers and the next for the vaunted nobles.

As you near the yellow crypt, you are met with a most unlikely sight. The doors are open. You search around the desolate grounds.

The coldblood is not there awaiting his rider. The gate bell rang but you did not see the black hood enter. How can that be? Perhaps he did leave it unlocked the day prior. 

Looters are not uncommon. Henrick chases them off in the mornings as they sleep in an alcove or on a bench. Though, unless they have a chisel, they do not claim much. 

You rest your broom against the yellow brick. You stand before the open doors. Both are drawn wide. You look up at the arch as shadows plume within. As you stare inside, you swear you can see the darkness furling and unfurling. 

You make yourself move. Step by step you approach the doors. You grab the large iron ring on the left one and pull. It is much too heavy. Or you are much too weak. You grunt and try again, shifting it a few inches. 

A scratching noise stills your efforts. You squint as you try see through the thick gloom. 

“Allo?” You call through, “is someone within?” 

You wait for an answer. There is nothing, but then, a skittering noise. A rat, perhaps. 

A swirls of leaves blows around you and skid over the stone floor within. You look over your shoulder, hoping someone might pass and help you shut the place up. There is only you. 

You take your broom and enter cautiously. You hold your breath as you gather the leaves and push them back out. You might shove a door shut from within then use the broom to somehow leverage the other. 

You bat the last of the clutter out and turn to peer out at the red sky. Your feet leave the stone and your cry is smothered by a gloved palm. You kick out in fright as the broom clatters from your grasp.

You claw behind you blindly as you are spun to face the crypts black belly. You jolt back with your captor as he pushes the door closed with his weight, then the other. You writhe and flail, grabbing at the arm hooked around your waist.

He pants but does not speak. He carries you forward as your soles bounce off the floor. 

Your stomach meets something hard. A stone ledge engraved in tiers. You brace it as you’re crushed against it. Your arms shake as you try to shove yourself away, try to free yourself of this treacherous adversary. 

You whimper and wiggle your head helplessly, unable to free your mouth from behind his hand. You know by his strength, by his size that it is a man indeed. He shushes you and squeezes your jaw.

You quiver and splay your fingers on the stone shape before you. It is a sarcophagus. You shudder as your throat tightens. 

He presses flush to you. His warmth seeps through the damp layers of wool wrapped around you as his nose brushes up the brim of your ear. He exhales and his breath wraps around your neck. He sucks in air and nuzzles along your hair. He’s smelling you. 

He buries his nose in you locks and purrs. The deep gristle makes you quake. He continues to smell you, to feel you as his hand spreads on your stomach and grazes up your bodice. You tap your foot around in a frantic search for his, driving your heel down upon his toe. 

He grunts and brings his hand up to tap your cheek. He hums derisively. That noise alone freezes your blood. There’s something so base about it. 

He slips his hand down again and the other follows. He keeps you penned in with his arms and removes his gloves, letting them fall to the floor. His fingertips dance up your bodice and back down. He kneads and pokes and caresses. He fondles you until you’re a trembling mess. 

“Herr, please--” 

He nips your ear and snarls. You close your eyes but it cannot save you from this. You are only deeper into the darkness. He drags his nose down to your neck and nuzzles into you there. His hand curls around your hip, squeezing before climb up your back and down again. 

He draws his face from your neck and his hands descend further. He tugs and yanks at your skirts, bundling them up in his grasp. He pulls them up to your waist and leans into you until your middle is right against the stone, your body bent with his. 

He hooks his arm under the layers of your skirt as his other hand wanders beneath. His nails skim your skin, goosebumps rising with his touch, and traces down to thighs. He pokes beneath them meanly and forces his foot between yours. He kicks your boots wide and you whine again.  

“Herr, please--” 

“Ta ta,” he warns in a hiss. 

He pushes his hand between your legs, cupping it over your cunt. He inhales again as he takes in the scent of your scalp, his nose once more delving into your hair. He slips his middle finger between your lips and rubs you. Gently at first, then firmer, quaking as he pinpoints on your clit, rolling it beneath his fingertip. 

Your legs tingle and tremble. You dip your head down and he growls. He spreads the slickness that rises with his uninvited touch. Your lips form around a silent prayer as you beg the lord for forgiveness.  

He pushes his finger into you, his hand against your cunt as he rocks in and out. He does not heed your babbling pleas or the shattering of your body and soul. He takes what he covets without repentance. 

He continues to pet you, coaxing you until you are heavy, writhing in a maddened state. You do not welcome him and yet it is pleasureful. It is joy like you’ve never known. And it bursts within you like damn, coursing free as a river as it slakes down your thighs. 

You wail between your teeth as you bite down on your shame. Father, Mary, forgive me. I do not want this. I swear it. 

He groans and exhales into you. He pulls his hand back and leaves you hollow and squirming. He reaches between your bodies and fusses with his own clothing. You squeak and try to crawl over the sarcophagus. He keeps you trapped as he clutches the rumpled fabric of your skirt. 

He once more scoops his hand around your pelvis and along your cunt. He spreads you and guides his cock along your bottom. You whimper and reach to stop him. He ignores you as he delves down along your cunt. He stops at your entrance and wets himself with your sinful excess. 

He snakes his hand up to your hip and pushes you onto him. Just his swollen tip. You gasp and gulp as you twitch around him.

He lets go of your skirts and they fall down over the front of your legs, the back caught between your bodies. He tilts and slowly impales you.

His hand crawls up your bodice and he pushes beneath the taught fabric. He squeezes your breast, two fingers framing your nipple as he snarls and burrows into you with subtle and slow thrusts. 

You tense and tremour as he gets deeper, crying out as he breaks past the last thread of innocence. He huffs and bows his head down. His lips brush over the meat of your shoulder close to your neck and he bites into it. You sob again and he bucks his hips. 

He puts you on your toes as he repeats the motion. He pulls back then snaps against your rear. Each time he bites harder, he gropes you tighter. He pumps into you, faster, more furious, more frantic. 

His voice trickles out between his eager rutting. He teethes at you as he pinches your nipple. He bends you over the sarcophagus as his breath billows all around you.  

He pounds into you so that the stone cuts into your hips and stomach. You snivel as your tears soak your cheeks and your head thrums. You grip the lid beneath you and hide your face against your arm. 

He spasms and buckles, his legs seeming to give out, though he keeps his hips moving. He fucks you until he cannot any longer. Until he is weak and panting into your nape.  

He sniffs and reaches to cover your hand on the stone. He slips his palm away and feels the sarcophagus. He slowly eases out of you and leaves you to hang off the lid.

He chokes into the blackness, “forgive me, Anna.” 

Your legs give out and you sink onto the floor. You hang your head as you barely keep yourself from heaping into a puddle. Herr Harding weeps over his wife as you do the same for yourself. 

[klarolinexluv]

After my little rant earlier, I was thinking about it about more and I’ve just had the thought that some people like to erase the fact that Regulus CANONICALLY changed his mind.

In canon, we know so little about Regulus. We know he is Sirius’ younger brother, Walburga and Orions son, Bellatrix, Narcissa and Andromedas younger cousin. We know that he became a death eater at the age of 16. We know that he was quite close with Kreacher, or had some sort of special bond with him. We know that at 17 or 18 in 1979 he made the decision to GO AGAINST VOLDEMORT. We know that he CANONICALLY chose to go to the cave, with the knowledge of what Voldemort had done, we know that he knew about the horcrux, he CANONICALLY, again, CANONICALLY, sacrificed his life to try and stop Voldemort.

“Oh but he only did it because Voldemort hurt his house elf.” Shut the fuck up, yes that may have been a contending reason but we don’t actually know his reasonings for anything. He could have been having doubts since the very beginning, he could have been disgusted with what happened with Kreacher, he could have done nothing after that, but no he went on to research, he discovered Voldemort had made a horcrux, he could have DONE NOTHING BUT HE DIDNT.

We know so LITTLE about Regulus Black but the biggest thing we know about him, the most important thing we know about him is that at the end of his life he changed his mind, KREACHER EVEN SAYS ITS “Master Regulus changed his mind, but he doesn’t seem to have explained that to Kreacher, does he?” LIKE OMG HE CHANGED HIS MIND. He didn’t want to be a death eater anymore. HE CHANGED HIS MIND AND THEN DID SOMETHING ABOUT WHAT HE DISCOVERED. He went to that fucking cave, drank the drink of despair, stole the horcrux, replaced it with a fake and then ordered Kreacher to destroy it, to leave without him.

Yes, this was a suicide mission, we all know that but at the end of the day, Regulus sacrificed his life in an attempt to to destroy a horcrux, to stop Voldemort. People are always forgetting that, and I’m so over it.

If you want to call me pro-fascist for supporting Regulus when canonically he betrayed Voldemort than for fuck sake do it, it doesn’t change the fact that I am not, that Regulus actively worked against the dark lord JUST LIKE JAMES OR SIRIUS OR REMUS, etc. I will always love Regulus no matter what and I don’t give a shit what names you call me because I know the truth, I know who I am, I know that you are just trying to put me down in an attempt to make yourself seem better.

PEOPLE ALSO SEEM TO FORGET THAT REGULUS AND SIRIUS GREW UP IN THE SAME HOUSE. Sirius had a support system, CANONICALLY, Regulus did not.

Anyway… I rest my case.

[vaguely-concerned]

To the ‘themes I am picking up on in Veilguard’ list, let's go ahead and add what I have a sneaking suspicion will actually turn out to be The theme:

— the world has changed and can never be as it was again.

— I have been changed and can never be who I was again.

— in this simple unavoidable truth there is endless grief and endless hope.

And I… may be getting a bit emotional about it haha. Let me show my work a bit: 

if da:o is a game about people who are already dead or half ghosts in some form (through societal forces, psychologically, functionally, literally, in body, through the joining etc.) coming together anyway to save the world from being swallowed by total nihilism and despair (symbolized by the blight) through the power of love and friendship and also this sword/potential heroic sacrifice that I found, da2 is a game about people who have lost their homes and been set adrift finding and building new homes in each other (while completely failing to save the world. also through the power of love and friendship. as well as years of petty bickering <3 we must imagine kirkwall if not happy then worth having been because the love was there the love was there and that's the only sanctifying force we can ever have in this doomed world and city of ours), and da:i is a game about old stabilizing-but-unjust comfortable lies vs. disruptive but potentially liberating uncomfortable truths, and the power of friendship to help us distinguish the one from the other and navigate through them...

folks… I'm starting to think that veilguard might be a game specifically about moving towards recovery and acceptance after trauma — about how even in this flawed, severed, scarred state, what is here right now is worth loving and worth caring for. even in an imperfect and impermanent world and self, there is worth and joy. and of course the first real tragedy — and threat — of Solas is that he just cannot find it in himself to accept this and move on, to let go of what was, the regret won’t let him go or he won’t let go of it. which means that even though on the surface it’s Elgar’nan and Ghilan’nain (and the will to subjugate and violate they represent) who are the main villains, the real antagonistic force in this story beneath that is the Dread Wolf’s despair. A despair Rook must make an answer to by the end of the game, one way or another, compassionately or with righteous fury, triumphant or pyrrhic.

The world will change again and again and so will you — BUT the crucial element is that so will everyone else who exists along with you, you are fundamentally not alone in this existential truth. all we’ll ever have is each other and my god that is plenty, my god that is enough!!! Which is the second thing Solas just can’t accept, he keeps himself separate and completely alone out of an awful mix of fear and pride and feeling himself unworthy of anything else. Rook and the player want to save the world of Thedas because it’s where everyone we love lives, Solas wants to go back to the past because that’s the only neighbourhood where he can still visit those he loved — and the person he himself was, before. A very sympathetic and human instinct/trap to fall into when touched by trauma, I think, if only it wasn’t backed by godlike power, a fundamentally oppositional personality, and a catastrophic lack of therapy to make it literally everyone else’s problem too lol. It’s varric and solas’ banter about the man on the island and where meaning in a life comes from all over again, writ large and with detail work — and the added idea of ‘what if there are also other islands out there, though. With other people on them that you could find if you reach for each other’. Rook with the best of intentions has to make choices to which there are no perfect outcomes and live with what happens — and not cut themselves off from everyone else around them even when there is regret or shame. You get back up every day and you make a life with other people doing the same and you do your best, and that’s the only victory this world will give you. In the end, that is more than enough, that is essential. And I um. I love that. So much. It’s why some of the writing clumsiness on top can’t hurt me because this thematic spine is so solid and so beautiful to me. It’s DA2 all over again that way for me personally — I forgive this story for what it isn’t and couldn’t be, and I love it with my whole stupid open heart for what it actually is. Thank you for coming to my TED-talk and goodbye etc.      

(For my fellow TLT heads out there — you know what this story is reminding me of most of all, actually? It has some big Nona the Ninth vibes down there in the deep. It’s about… the horror and unspeakable beauty that can only be found in liminality, and the role of love in making that basic fact of existence bearable. And also even more unbearable at the same time. I'm so sorry.)

[thewitchandtheassassin]

Life, Death, and the Space in Between Final Part (Agatha Harkness x Reader x Rio Vidal)

Summary: Choices are made--and lives are changed forever.

Words: 2113

Warnings: Mentions of death, dying, language, magic, etc.

A/N: We made it to the end y'all... good luck, have tissues. Also--I need to redo my taglist so if you wanna be on it, lemme know.

Agatha paced back and forth in front of the campfire for what felt like hours, her feet worn raw and her nails bit into the quick as she chewed on them absently. Rio was sitting in the grass along the Road’s edge, a mighty tempest of wind and leaves shielding you from view.

From her.

She’d done a lot of terrible things in her lifetime—maimed, killed, psychologically tortured, technically killed Sparky—but of all the choices she’d ever made, this was the only one she felt ashamed of. Guilty as she imagined you lying in Rio’s lap, the color fading from your cheeks, the warmth of your skin cooling into something she never thought would be possible for someone so full of…

Life.

“There has to be something,” she hissed to herself, panic blossoming in her chest as she heard Rio whispering to you, her voice lost in the storm surrounding you both.

-X-

Delicate fingers threaded through your dirty hair, Rio’s face never more than a few inches away from your own.

“Please, baby. Please… you can’t do this to me… I don’t know how to exist without you. Please…” she pressed her forehead to yours, breathing you in as her voice cracked desperately. “I don’t know how to be Death without Life…”

You groaned in pain and Rio could only watch in heartbroken horror as the veins under your skin darkened, trailing from your temple down into your cheek, stopping just at the corner of your mouth.

“No, no, no…” she exhaled, eyes welling up with tears. “You can’t do this to me, (Y/N)! Stop! I can’t lose you too!”

-X-

Agatha’s heart split wide in her chest at the fear in Rio’s voice, her hands trembling as it settled in—truly—what she’d done. For centuries she’d blamed you both for the loss of Nicky. Hated seeing your faces, even when she couldn’t bring herself to truly forget them, because they just reminded her of him. Of your little boy that only had a few years of life with her…

But most of all, she hated herself for being able to save him. No matter how much magic she stole—what she learned and unlearned and relearned—nothing could undo what had been done. She couldn’t bring him back and she couldn’t bring herself to let go of her hatred…

And it cost her everything, in the end. Her lovers, her happiness…

“Having a child with us, it isn’t… sustainable, darling,” you had warned her, devastation on your features. “We aren’t meant to bring flesh and blood into existence. Even if we succeeded, the child wouldn’t survive the magic. Not for long… to be a cosmic being means mortal bodies cannot contain it. And the child would be, at least, half cosmic being. We’re not human, even if we wear its face and use its name. We are beings beyond existence and it would tear the child apart.”

And she had pleaded with you both to just—

Try.

Only to hate you when the truth of what you spoke came into being. Her little boy incapable of remaining in a mortal vessel, growing weaker with each passing day…

Never once had you lied to her. Never once did you pretend some divine intervention would save him. You had fought—every single day—to keep him breathing until the body was too damaged to continue on…

And she’d spit.

In.

Your.

Face.

Stumbling over to the maelstrom of Rio’s despair, Agatha kneeled in front of the swirling wind. “Was she right? About… Nicky? Is he… like you two?”

The storm froze, like a spinning door caught by a hand, and for a moment, she didn’t think Rio would answer her before—

“Yes. But he cannot leave the cosmic realms like she and I can. We tried… God, Agatha, we both tried so fucking hard to give him a way to see you again. Did you think we just forgot? That we didn’t care? (Y/N) spent every moment of ten years trying to find a way to let him travel back to this realm—and it nearly destroyed them both.”

A broken sob escaped Agatha’s throat before she could choke it back, tears trickling down her mud-smudged cheeks as the storm parted and you both came in view. Rio, with tears of her own and fear on her lips, and you…

Oh God, you…

“I’m so sorry,” Agatha whispered, crawling closer to your limp body. “You fucking idiot. You should’ve left me there. I deserved it.”

She pressed her forehead against yours, surprised when Rio didn’t protest. She simply held you tighter, tears dripping down her cheeks as she stared at the scene.

“Couldn’t… leave… you…” a shaky, raspy croak slipped from your lips.

Agatha choked out another violent, shattered sob as she cradled your face. Your skin was clammy beneath her touch—

“You should’ve. I would’ve deserved it! You… baby, we can’t… I can’t lose you. I just found you again…”

Your soft, stunned laugh devolved into a coughing fit as you curled tighter against Rio’s chest. “You haven’t called me ‘baby’ in a long time, Aggie.”

“I should’ve. I never should’ve stopped. Not with either of you.” Agatha’s eyes met Rio’s and she leaned forward, pressing her forehead against Rio’s shoulder as she cried. “I am so, so sorry.”

Rio stared down at your sickly, sunken face. “You’re dying, (Y/N), and I don’t know how to fix this. You were always the one who planned while I just burned everything to the ground and danced in the fire. I don’t… I don’t know how to be you! How to exist without you beside me! You’re my balance.”

She whimpered. “How do I live without the other half of my soul?”

As your breathing grew shallow, you nuzzled closer to Rio. “You’ll be okay… you’ve always been the stronger one, darling. Maybe now you both can find your peace together,” you whispered against her throat, feeling it tremble.

“No, no, no. Don’t do that. Don’t close your eyes. You have to give me more time to figure something out. Please…” Rio begged, clutching you like she was trying to keep your soul trapped in your body a little longer. “You can’t go yet.”

You pressed your hand weakly against her chest, where a heart would beat, and smiled faintly. “I will always be a part of you, baby. Death never truly exists without Life.”

Tears poured down her cheeks as she slid her hand atop yours, keeping it against her skin. “(Y/N), stay. I need you…”

Your breathing came in shorter gasps, body trembling as the veins darkened, spreading down your throat and hands, beyond the clothing on your torso…

“…you’re a part of me,” Rio mumbled, brows furrowing together as her grip tightened around your hand. “Oh, (Y/N), you fucking idiotic genius.”

You didn’t respond, body too weak and corrupted as you slumped against her, ever-slowly losing the battle to the realm of Death.

She lifted you up and carried you into the Road, laying you down in a patch of moonlight as she hurriedly yanked her dagger from its sheathe and ran it along her hand, watching the nearly onyx blood well up. Cutting a slit in your shirt, she pressed the blade over your heart and carved a small line down the center until, what was once almost white blood now turned black, bubbled to the surface.

“I am a part of you… you are a part of me… let your burdens be mine. Let me carry the weight of your calling with the strength of my being,” she murmured, covering the cut with her bleeding hand as she stared down at you. “C’mon, baby…”

Your body jerked once beneath her hand—a flicker, a twitch—but then…

Nothing.

Just silence.

“No,” Rio gasped, voice cracked and raw. “No, no, no—dammit, don’t do this to me!”

Agatha watched in silent grief as you remained still, the veins pulsing under your skin as it began to drag you under before…

“You can’t do this alone,” Agatha muttered in realization, dropping to her knees beside you and snagging Rio’s dagger, slicing her own hands open without hesitation. “Life and Death are a cycle but there was to be something to bridge them, right? That’s what us lowly mortals are—that bridge.”

She cut another line across your chest before reaching for Rio’s free hand and cutting her palm, a surprisingly clean line despite the trembling of her hand.

“I fucked this up. I ruined this… let me fix it now. Please.” Agatha looked at Rio softly, in a way she hadn’t in centuries. “Please, my love.”

Rio’s jaw clenched before she took Agatha’s hand in her own, watching Agatha suck in a deep, pained breath as Rio’s magic poured through her. It was hot and wrong, burning her alive from the inside out but she didn’t fight it as her other hand fell over your chest, her blood seeping into your wound.

Agatha gritted her teeth as the pain flared, her mortality flaring against a magic her body was never supposed to know—but she held, her blood mingling with Rio’s, mixing with yours, seeping into the line carved down your chest like ink bleeding into old parchment.

Rio leaned over you, her voice unsteady but firm. “Three parts. Life. Death. Mortal. A balance. A trinity.” Her thumb stroked your cheek, reverent, aching. “We don’t exist without each other—and we were never whole until we found Agatha. You said it yourself. We needed her… but now we need you.”

Agatha’s voice was raw as she echoed, “I bind myself to you. I hold the weight of what I’ve broken. I stay, because I love you. I stay because I’m sorry. Because I never stopped loving you, I just didn’t know how to grieve with you. How to not blame you…”

Their joined hands pressed down over your heart as they whispered in tandem—an incantation not spoken in words, but in feeling, in memory, in regret and love and desperate, clawing hope.

“Please, baby… we need you,” Rio begged softly.

Agatha laughed wetly. “You said I haven’t called you that in a long time. Open your eyes and I’ll never stop saying it. I promise… please, (Y/N).”

There was a heavy silence that settled over the Road as the coven watched in mournful silence as Life herself lay lifeless in the moonlight. Until—

The sky cracked open above them, not with sunlight, but with color—shimmering threads of violet, green, and white weaving together in the air like a loom being drawn taut. It was magnificent and utterly unnerving as it buried itself in your chest before the strand of green connected with Rio—and the purple wound itself around Agatha. Then, they swirled together, a perfect cord of color stringing you together.

The ground beneath you pulsed once—twice—before your body arched sharply, a breath catching in your throat, dragging air like you’d never tasted it before.

And then—

Your eyes opened.

“…holy fuck,” you muttered.

Rio’s laugh burst out, wild and disbelieving, soaked in tears and raw relief. “Oh my God—holy fuck is right.” Her hand cupped your cheek, thumb trembling as it stroked across your skin like she couldn’t believe it was warm again. Like she had to be sure she wasn’t lost in a grief-induced hallucination.

Agatha choked on a sob, half-laughing through it, her fingers hovering over your chest as she whispered, “You stubborn, stupid, beautiful creature…” Her voice cracked, falling into a hoarse whisper. “You came back.”

“…I can feel you. Both of you,” you murmured, blinking up at the barrage of color in the sky. “I… do I have two heartbeats now?”

There, steadily in your chest, was the heartbeat you’d carried with you for eons—and a new, softer heartbeat you’d recognize anywhere.

Agatha’s.

You could hear the coven whispering amongst themselves excitedly, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care as you sat upright, catching Agatha’s face between your hands and kissing her deeply, letting the moment linger as you tried to relearn the taste you’d lost so long ago.

“I’ve missed you, Aggie. I told you that you were always the piece of us we needed, even when it all fell apart…”

Agatha’s face broke with relieved devastation as she pressed her forehead against yours. Maybe things weren’t fixed—maybe it’d take lifetimes to unravel the hurt and anger and pain—but in that moment, none of it fucking mattered.

Because you came back…

And now Life and Death had the bridged the space in between.

[pennyellee]

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐈𝐗 - 𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐮𝐧𝐚

LACRIMOSA | MYG MAFIA YANDERE AU

pairings: mafia leader!yoongi x f!reader genre: mafia!au, yandere au, historical au

summary: Their interlocking gaze served as a butterfly effect on his heart, stirring it to the core. She, in turn, only dreams to find a way to escape. But perchance, over time she might forcefully learn to love the man who has taken so much from her.

Thus unfolds a twisted tale of love and loss, of hope and despair, of life and death. The music reverberated through the dimly-lit streets. Tears of sorrow, weeping symphony - reflects the hurt, the scars that linger deep within and the wounds that never healed. Lacrimosa.

warnings: minors dni 18+ | mafia au, dark!yoongi, mafia!yoongi, mentions of antidepressants, anxiety, panic attacks, nightmares, mentions of night terrors, mentions of self harm, manipulative behaviour, mentions of labotomy, medical cases, intimate life, diseases, “failed” pregnancy, alcohol, medication, etc.

beta read by @chaoticpuff17

word count: 8,7K

disclaimer: this story is purely fictional, it does not depict real-life events or involve any actual members of BTS. This story will contain depictions of violence, blood shed, death, mentions of abuse, smoking, alcohol drinking, illegal activities, old social norms and traditions, which we do not condone.

A/N: so yes, it took me a while to actually finish this chapter and as I mentioned - it’s shorter than what I usually want to write for lacrimosa. Truth to be told, this is what I can do for now till I get something better to write on. I don’t know when the next chapter will be written and up, so for now thank you for your patience, i actually didnt think i would write a chapter whilst im in US coz the only device on my person is my phone, but im very happy I managed to write something. This chapter is more of a prequel go what’s going to happen next. Many of you actually guessed/predicted some things right and for some you have to wait till the very end, we’re near it.

Massive thank you goes to @chaoticpuff17 who managed to beta read it despite both our situations being crazy rn, ily queen 🥹🫧🩵

Love you all, p.

m.list previous next

lacuna (n.) a blank space, missing part

The night was relentless, a symphony of thunderclaps and the steady drum of rain against the cobblestones. The celebrations of the famous Kkangpae toned down, and after some months, several trips to the barren debris land of where Yakuza reigned, they returned safely to the sanctuary.

Back where she cannot hide from him in the stables, kitchen or sunroom, switching from one room to another just to not be in his presence for longer than she wanted. Yet, he managed to steal her away when his frustration boiled up enough. Y/N could’ve hinted how much she doesn’t want him to sleep next to her all she wants, he kept sneaking in and out every time. Yoongi was patient, determined even. Determined to make things right this time by giving her space. But the wrenching feeling of not having her close enough consumed him, night, day and moon.

Yoongi kept his promise, giving Y/N the space she needed while gradually attempting to rebuild the trust that had been shattered. He was careful with his words, patient in his actions, and ever attentive to her unspoken needs. The pair worked on their friendship these past weeks, he wanted himself to be her person. The person that she would love and lean on.

But the young Buin might seem calm now, from outside, but her wit remained under the surface. She buried herself deep within her psyche and doctor Kim could do very little to “repair” her. Not even renown specialists who came to give the young girl a helping hand did not succeed.

Yoongi watched her from a distance yet at the same time he was so close, his heart aching with the knowledge that he was partly to blame for her withdrawal. He had been too harsh, too controlling. Now, he was paying the price. He wanted nothing more than to hold her, to whisper apologies and promises into her ear. But every time he approached, he could see the fear and distrust in her eyes. It was a barrier he didn't know how to break.

Wang Xiaoqing’s wisdom was passed onto her, they whispered. But truth to be told, the elder woman, may she rest in peace, underestimated the new blood. The following legacy. Now, her kin suffers.

Yoongi wishes he never used the letter as leverage against her nor let her read it. At night he wonders whether that would change things. Whether by now she would be in love with him just as much he’s in love with her.

He sat down with the rest of his family at the dinner table after she broke down with yet another panic attack. The dining room was oppressively silent, the atmosphere thick with unspoken tension. It wasn’t even the end of January, and the snow was still prevailing outside. Yoongi sat at the head of the table, his expression a mask of stoic resolve, though his heart was anything but calm.

Y/N was conspicuously absent, her chair at the table glaringly empty. Yoongi's mind replayed the scene from earlier, the look of sheer panic in her eyes as she had crumbled under the weight of her emotions. He had wanted to reach out to her, to offer comfort, but he knew his presence would only worsen her distress.

Clearing his throat, Yoongi broke the silence, his voice strained but firm.

“I know you care about me. About this family—”

“I’ve made mistakes—mistakes that have pushed her to the edge.”

“No, Yoongi—” the right hand man straightened himself in his seat interrupting his leader.

Yoongi’s eyes flickered with a mixture of frustration and sorrow as he turned to face his right-hand man, Namjoon. The room held its breath, tension crackling in the air.

“Namjoon, please,” Yoongi said, his voice weary. “My wife slit her throat, stop justifying my actions.”

Namjoon hesitated but nodded, leaning back in his chair, his expression still troubled. Yoongi took a deep breath, steeling himself to continue.

"I pushed her too far, and now she's breaking—”

“Now, I don’t know what your intentions are with my wife, but I forbid you from whatever you are putting into her head.”

Namjoon's eyes widened in shock at Yoongi's words, his mouth opening and closing as if searching for the right response. The weight of Yoongi's accusation hung heavy in the air, and the room seemed to grow even quieter, the tension palpable.

Yoongi's jaw clenched, his frustration simmering beneath the surface. He had always trusted Namjoon implicitly, had relied on him as his closest confidant and advisor. But now, in the wake of Y/N's pain and suffering, he couldn't help but wonder if that trust had been misplaced.

“All of you.”

“Yoongi, I swear—” Namjoon began, his voice tinged with desperation. But Yoongi held up a hand, cutting him off.

“I don't want to hear it, Namjoon,” he said, his tone final.

“Whatever it is, I’m giving her the space to tell me herself.” Namjoon's gaze faltered under Yoongi's intense stare.

“I would never intentionally do anything to harm Y/N or come between you two. She's like family to me, too.” Yoongi's jaw clenched tighter, but he nodded curtly, acknowledging Namjoon's words.

“Seokjin.” He addressed the oldest man in the room.

“Yes, Yoongi?” Seokjin replied, his voice steady despite the gravity of the situation.

“She’s still taking those pills you gave her,” Seokjin's brow furrowed in concern at Yoongi's words. They were only a temporary solution before Seokjin decided that day to put her on barbiturates. She needs his help and if he cannot help her the way he knows it will be most effective, he’ll at least prescribe whatever will tone down her night terrors so she can sleep at nights.

"I'll talk to her," he said firmly. “But you know what would certainly help her—” Yoongi’s hand flew high to hit the table, making everybody twitch at the loud noise.

“No, Seokjin. No.” The family members exchanged solemn nods. Yoongi took a moment to compose himself, his chest heaving with pent-up frustration.

"She needs more support than we can provide on our own. We have to consider what's best for her.” Yoongi struggled to find the words to express his feelings. "I know, Seokjin," he replied, his voice thick with emotion. "But that is going way too far.”

Namjoon leaned forward, his expression earnest. The youngest at the end of the table cleared his throat. All eyes turned to him, waiting for his input. Jungkook hesitated for a moment, feeling the weight of the tension in the room, before speaking up.

“Maybe you just need to stop shielding her in. Let her live a life—” Jungkook's suggestion hung in the air, a fresh perspective on the situation that caused the family members to exchange thoughtful glances.

Yoongi's brow furrowed as he considered Jungkook's words, the idea of allowing Y/N more freedom conflicting with his instinct to protect her.

“But what if she runs for the hills, Kook.” Park Jimin’s voice echoed from across the room, his hands busy pouring the strong liquor to seven crystal glasses. Yoongi's gaze flickered towards Jimin, setting the first glass in front of him.

"I can't bear the thought of her running away from me again," Yoongi admitted, his voice heavy with emotion. Hoseok nodded in agreement, his expression sombre.

Jungkook nodded thoughtfully, understanding Yoongi's apprehension. "I get where you're coming from, hyung,—” Jimin set down the last glass of liquor, his expression sympathetic.

“I’d say, nonetheless, she needs something to occupy her mind other than those thoughts.” Said Jimin sitting down on his chair while nursing his own glass of the booze.

"Maybe if we can find something that brings her joy, something to distract her—” Seokjin nodded in agreement, his expression thoughtful.

“She studied, tasted her own freedom and now all she’s left with is being your wife.” Yoongi's heart clenched at Jimin's words, a pang of guilt washing over him. But still a large part of him was thinking why it is not enough.

“She can work with me once she’s better.” The doctor interjected. Yoongi's gaze shifted towards Seokjin, a flicker of hope igniting within him at the suggestion.

"You think she'd be up for it?" Yoongi asked, his voice tentative yet hopeful.

“Ah hyung you’re so in the dark—” Jungkook remarked. Jungkook sighed, his gaze meeting Yoongi's with empathy.

“She needs to feel like she has a say in her own life, like she's not just living for someone else.” Where this newfound wisdom arose, Yoongi did not know. But he was glad for the support of his family men.

Hoseok placed a reassuring hand on Yoongi's shoulder, his expression filled with empathy.

“She knows so much about herbs, remedies, I think she’ll be happy to help Seokjin.” Yoongi's heart swelled with gratitude for Hoseok's insight. He hadn't fully realised the extent of Y/N's knowledge and interests outside of their marriage and that needed to change.

“Don’t tell her just yet.” The right hand man remarked.

“Yes, I want to give her more time to recover before we come back to the sanctuary.” The other family members murmured their agreement, a sense of solidarity and understanding settling over them. After all, at the end of the day it is a happy wife, happy life.

But months later, Y/N understood that if there’s even a slight possibility that the scarred leader will grow for better, it would be a painfully long process. She realised so once he returned with his knuckles all bruised and bloodied one night. She tended to them, and he was basking under her touch. Despite everything, she couldn’t ignore the humanity in his pain.

Her eyes rolled and a loud sigh followed when she understood what was the cause of his lapse of senses. He had let his frustration and anger take over him, but rather than put it out on everyone else like he was known for, he silently left his office to vent his anger elsewhere. She guided him to sit down after she asked the maid to bring her everything she needed to clean his wounds.

Yoongi watched her, his eyes filled with a mix of gratitude and excitement under her delicate touch. The feel of her hands, so careful and tender, was both a comfort and a torment. The imagery masking all the darkness that loomed over them, they would fool even the Lord himself that this couple is one of love.

They sat in silence, the only sound the soft rustle of bandages and the distant rumble of thunder outside. Yoongi closed his eyes, leaning into her touch. It was a small gesture, but it spoke volumes to him. She avoided him less and less. So why did he have to let his steam off so suddenly?

“You know—” she began, focusing on his other hand now.

“You’re not really setting a good example of “communication is the key ”, now do you?”

Yoongi's eyes flickered open at her words, a hint of guilt flashing across his features before he quickly masked it with a neutral expression. He couldn't deny the truth in her statement, nor could he easily articulate the tangled mess of emotions that swirled within him.

His mind drifted back to the hushed whispers, the concerned looks from Seokjin. Y/N was still fairly weak in terms of her health. Yet, he hoped that maybe, just maybe, she’ll come to tell him he’s going to be a father. Foolish of him, he knows. Selfish of him, he knows that too.

“I’m sorry, Dove.” He only muttered, forcing a kiss to her sphenoid bone, it was the only affection she rarely allowed him to show. Y/N knew that if she wanted to persuade him that she isn’t a flying risk, she’ll have to allow him to do more. She progressed slowly, with patience and space to breathe everything out.

The reason the young leader needed to vent his anger was obvious to Y/N. She heard the maid that so blatantly spied on everything she did, what she asked for, and whom she talks to on the telephone. Y/N was cautious, yet today, she had to ask for some feminine goods. She understood where his hope for a baby came from, he got himself to believe that once the monthly bleeding did not come the first, second nor the third month.

The young gal, however, knew that this has nothing to do with the possibility of her being pregnant. She still drank the remedy, just to be sure, and for her peace of mind as it bore too many demons already. The fourth month her body decided it’s time to function again and of course the devoted maid reported that right back to her husband whose hope for a child vanished.

“I was hoping we could go see Ma and little Bo Cheng before the wedding, I promised to teach him how to ride a ho—” she began her request carefully. Y/N had managed to negotiate Daiyu’s extended vacation in America with her young son and Kai, yet she couldn’t shake the strong feeling that Yoongi had only allowed such a thing to happen because he felt indebted to her at the moment. Her state was far more delicate than he thought and he desperately wanted to make her happy. The one thing she wanted the most, he couldn’t grant. Freedom.

“Would that make you happy?” Yoongi interrupted. He sighed, his eyes drifting to the window where dark clouds gathered on the horizon.

For the first time in what felt like an eternity, a small, hesitant smile tugged at Y/N’s lips. It was a fragile thing, easily shattered, but it was real. And in that moment, Yoongi vowed to himself that he would protect that smile, nurture it, and help it grow.

“Yes, it would. Maybe we could also pay a visit to Daiyu—” Y/N sucked her lips in and shyly smiled again. Yoongi nodded slowly. He sighed, leaning back in his chair, his fingers drumming against the armrests. The weight of their precarious situation pressed down on him, the knowledge that every decision could have far-reaching consequences hanging over them like a dark cloud.

“I’m not sure about that, sweetling,” he replied, his voice tinged with uncertainty. Her heart clenched, did he understand her intentions?

“You said you’ll give me the world, Yoongi. Why not this?” Y/N’s smile faltered, a flicker of disappointment crossing her features.

Yoongi’s gaze softened further, a mixture of regret and longing in his eyes. He reached out, taking her hand in his, his touch gentle and reassuring.

“I will consider this trip, but we have to be cautious now. War is looming on the horizon.” He explained, his tone serious.

“What do you mean war? You’ve just won one,” she challenged, her voice laced with disbelief.

“The world is a volatile place, Dove. Our battle was nothing in comparison to what is to come. The world will fight—” Yoongi’s expression darkened, the weight of their past victories suddenly overshadowed by the looming threat of conflict. Y/N’s heart sank at the mention of war, a cold knot forming in the pit of her stomach.

“Until we’re certain there’s no threat, I want us to remain in Korea, my love.” he declared, his final words.

Y/N’s heart sank at his words, but she forced herself to nod, understanding the gravity of their situation. The war threatened to consume them all, and they had to tread carefully if they were to survive. Y/N nodded slowly to his words.

“She wrote to you this morning, didn’t she?” Y/N couldn’t shake the feeling that she’s running out of time. If they were caught up in the chaos, she feared she may never leave this place. And with Yoongi’s resolve to remain in Korea, their window of opportunity grew smaller with each passing moment. It was worth the shot, he wouldn’t let her slip that easily if there’s an actual threat that the world’s will battle.

“She met someone,” Y/N added softly, her voice tinged with uncertainty of how Yoongi will react. He, however, already knew. There was nothing that would go past him or so he thought.

"She met someone?" he repeated, his voice tinged with false scepticism. Y/N's heart ached at the doubt in Yoongi's voice, but she held firm in her conviction.

“She’s a widow with a child, who—”

“Happy widow with a child—” she inserted herself into his remark. "She deserves it, Yoongi. After everything she's been through, she deserves a chance at love and happiness.”

“Daiyu is no longer tied to the syndicate. You promised not to meddle with her affairs unless she needs help.” She reminded him less gently, her voice tinged with a hint of caution.

“I intend to keep that promise.” Lie. He already knew the man who so openly started to court her. A sense of relief washed over Y/N as she watched Yoongi's resistance soften, even if it was pretended.

“The rain won’t stop pouring—” Y/N’s voice trailed off, a sombre note creeping into her tone as she glanced out the window at the stormy sky.

“How do you feel today?” Yoongi observed Y/N for a moment, his expression softening as he took in her weary demeanour.

“Better than yesterday.” She replied, her voice carrying a hint of resilience. Yoongi nodded, a sense of relief washing over him at her response. Despite the challenges they faced, he was grateful for every moment of peace they could find amidst the storm.

He noticed the subtle signs of improvement in her appearance. Her cheeks, once sunken and lifeless, now held a hint of colour, and the dark circles under her eyes seemed less pronounced. Her eyes sparkled differently, not with tears as of late. Whatever Seokjin is doing to help her, it is working.

“Have you slept well?” he inquired gently, his voice filled with genuine concern. From Monday to Friday, storms reigned over the hidden valley. Yoongi reached out, gently brushing a stray strand of hair away from her face, his touch tender and reassuring. Her dark hair grew enough to reach past her shoulders since the unfortunate event back in October.

“It wasn't the best, but it was better than before.” Yoongi nodded in understanding, his gaze lingering on her with a mixture of admiration and concern. He knew that even the smallest victories, like a few hours of sleep, were worth celebrating in their tumultuous world. After all the night terrors she endured for months.

“How’s working with Seokjin?” He knew how demanding their roles could be, especially in the midst of ongoing turmoil. Yoongi expected her to sigh just as softly as she always does, her expression to reflect the weight of responsibility, but none of that happened. Y/N smiled at him brightly instead.

Y/N's smile was like a ray of sunlight breaking through the clouds, momentarily dispelling the shadows that lingered around them.

“Work has been great. I've been able to help so many people—” she replied, her voice infused with a sense of optimism that Yoongi hadn't heard in a while. As she spoke, Y/N’s eyes lit up with enthusiasm, a stark contrast to the weariness that had plagued her in recent months.

“Did you know that punk, Jungkook, pretends to be sick every other day just to swing by?” Y/N’s voice was filled with amusement as she recounted the antics of the youngest of the seven. Though older than her, she did not feel any age difference between them two.

Yoongi couldn’t help but chuckle at the mention of Jungkook's antics.

"That sounds like him," he remarked, a fond smile playing at his lips. She continued, her words flowing freely as she recounted her experiences while working with Seokjin at the clinic.

“Seokjin has been a wonderful mentor,” she continued, her eyes shining with gratitude. “He’s taught me so much more than we actually studied at school—” Yoongi nodded in agreement, a sense of pride swelling within him as he listened to Y/N's tales of their work at the clinic.

“I remember this one young man who had sustained severe burns on his arms. The sight of his injuries was heart-breaking, but I could see the determination in his eyes to overcome the pain.” Y/N’s voice softened with emotion as she recalled the moment.

"We worked tirelessly to stabilise him, and when he finally regained consciousness, the look of gratitude in his eyes made all the long hours and hard work worth it. It was a reminder of why I wanted to be a nurse in the first place—to make a difference in people’s lives, no matter how small.”

Yoongi listened intently, his heart swelling with a mixture of emotions. He couldn’t help but feel a pang of regret for not allowing her to pursue her passion for nursing earlier.

He may not be able to undo the past, but he could certainly make sure that she had all the support she needed to thrive in the future. The youngest was right. She needed this, she needed to regain her purpose in her life. To be someone for herself.

He realised how much he had underestimated her need for work, how vital it was for her to have a sense of purpose and fulfilment. There was still hope and goodness.

Yoongi listened to all the stories she had to say as for the first time since forever, there were no tears, no screams, no tension in the air. Just the calm, steady rhythm of their shared breaths.

“You know,” Yoongi began, his voice soft, "I'm proud of you. Proud of everything you've accomplished and the progress you’re making. I should have let you do this sooner.”

“Can’t change the past now can we?” He nodded to her remark solemnly, squeezing her hand.

“Tell me more,—” he urged, eager to hear more about her work, her passion. He wanted to be part of her world just like she is part of his, to support her in every way possible.

Y/N smiled, her face glowing with happiness. “Well, there’s this little girl named Jang-mi. She’s been coming in for treatment regularly, and despite everything, she's always so cheerful—”

Y/N pulled her coat tighter around her, feeling the icy water seep through the fabric. Her breath came in shallow gasps, mixing with the cold air to form small clouds that dissipated as quickly as they appeared. She huddled beneath the overhang of a small alley, her body shivering uncontrollably. The once comforting weight of her coat now felt like a burden, soaked and heavy.

Her mind raced, a chaotic swirl of fear and desperation. The past few days had been a whirlwind of terror and confusion. She had trusted the wrong people, made alliances that crumbled under the weight of deceit. Every step she took seemed to lead her deeper into a labyrinth of danger and uncertainty. She couldn’t afford another mistake; the stakes were too high. The sound of her own heartbeat was loud in her ears, a constant reminder of the life-or-death game she was playing.

A sudden flash of lightning split the sky, casting stark shadows and illuminating the alley in a harsh, white light. For a brief moment, everything was clear and sharp, every detail etched into her memory. That’s when she saw him.

At the mouth of the alley is where he stood , his figure backlit by the brilliant light. He was drenched, his hair plastered to his forehead, but he seemed unfazed by the torrential rain. His presence was as menacing as ever, a dark silhouette against the night. His eyes, however, were what held her captive. They were dark, deep pools of unreadable emotion, reflecting the storm’s fury.

Yoongi didn’t move, didn’t speak. He simply watched her, his gaze intense and unwavering. It was a look she had seen before, one that sent chills down her spine. It was the look of a predator sizing up its prey. She knew then, with a sickening certainty, that no matter how far she ran, he would always be one step ahead.

Panic surged through her, threatening to overwhelm her senses. She pressed herself against the wall, the rough brick scraping her skin through the thin material of her coat. She needed to think, to find a way out, but her mind was a blur of fear and fatigue. The rain continued to pour, the cold seeping into her bones, making her limbs feel heavy and uncooperative.

Yoongi took a step forward, the movement slow and deliberate. His boots splashed in the puddles, the sound muffled by the storm. Y/N’s heart pounded in her chest, a wild, frantic rhythm. She felt like a trapped animal, cornered with no way out. The alley was a dead end, and Yoongi was blocking her only escape route.

“Y/N,” he said, his voice low and smooth, cutting through the noise of the storm. “You can’t keep running.”

His words were a cold, hard truth that she didn’t want to accept. But she had no choice. Every attempt to escape had led her right back to him, like a cruel game of cat and mouse. She swallowed hard, her throat dry despite the rain. She had to keep fighting, had to find a way to break free from his grip.

“I won’t let you control me,” she said, her voice shaking but determined. “I’ll find a way out.”

Yoongi’s expression didn’t change, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes—amusement, perhaps, or admiration for her defiance. “You’re stronger than I thought,” he said, taking another step closer. “But strength alone won’t save you.”

He was close now, close enough that she could see the droplets of rain clinging to his eyelashes, the way his clothes clung to his body. His presence was overwhelming, a dark force that seemed to consume all the light around him. She knew she had to act, had to do something before it was too late.

Summoning every ounce of courage, Y/N pushed off the wall and lunged towards him, hoping to catch him off guard. But Yoongi was ready. His hand shot out, grabbing her wrist with a grip like iron. She struggled, twisting and pulling, but he was too strong.

“Let me fucking go!” she cried, her voice breaking with desperation.

Yoongi pulled her closer, his other hand coming up to cup her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze. “You’re mine, Y/N,” he said softly, his breath warm against her skin. “And I’ll do whatever it takes to keep you safe. Even if it means protecting you from yourself.”

Tears mingled with the rain on her cheeks as she realised the futility of her struggle. Yoongi’s words were a chilling promise, one that she knew he would keep. She was trapped, caught in a web of his making, with no way out.

The storm raged on around them, but in that moment, all Y/N could feel was the cold, unyielding grip of the man she used to fear, and the inescapable reality of her situation.

Y/N woke with a start, her breath coming in ragged gasps as the remnants of the nightmare clung to her mind. Her body was drenched in cold sweat, and her heart pounded wildly in her chest. For a moment, she couldn’t discern reality from the dream, the vivid images of the rain-soaked alley and Yoongi’s menacing presence still haunting her.

It was a memory that was hidden in the back of her mind to resurface when she’s the most vulnerable. It had happened a few times already, her mind showing her each time she attempted to escape the scarred leader.

She took a deep breath and listened to the mix of crackling fireplace and raindrops outside. His eyes were on her petite physique, his hands holding a book he was reading while she took a well deserved afternoon nap. He put down his reading glasses and ran a hand through his hair, closing the book and turning her attention to her.

“Which one was it this time?”

She turned to see him sitting beside her, his eyes filled with worry. The contrast between the Yoongi in her nightmare and the one before her now was stark. Gone was the cold, calculating predator; in his place was a man who genuinely cared for her well-being. He did change a little. Or maybe he was like that before but his selfishness didn’t allow him to show her his bright side.

Her legs moved to his lap when she was asleep, and he gently rubbed circles into her ankles, his touch soothing for once.

“Will you keep me safe?”

Yoongi's expression softened further, his gaze unwavering as he looked into her eyes. He knows that there were moments that haunt her till now. Moments he let happen with his cockiness.

“Always,” he replied, his voice steady and filled with conviction. “I’ll keep you safe, no matter what.”

“I just... I don’t want to be afraid anymore,” she admitted, her voice breaking slightly.

“Just rest, Dove,” Yoongi murmured, his voice a soothing balm to her frayed nerves. “I’ll be right here.”

After a few silent minutes, Y/N broke the calm silence.

“Can we play the piano?”

He hesitated for a moment, then nodded. Together, they moved to the old piano in the corner of the room. As they sat side by side, their fingers tentatively began to touch the keys. Each note was a delicate thread, weaving together a tapestry of their unspoken emotions. The music became their secret language, a way to say everything they couldn’t put into words.

Every time she did not feel like speaking herself, they played. Until she felt better. Yoongi played with a gentle intensity, his fingers dancing over the keys with practised ease.

He was a better player, so she thought. Afterall, he had had more life to practice.

The medication made her more open to him. Sooner or later she’ll have to get off of it before it will become her only source of happiness. There were days it made her sleep well, drink, eat, breathe and live like the person she used to be. And there were days she sat in front of her vanity mirror knowing this effect is only temporary.

She cannot afford to get off of them while she’s remaining by his side. Her being would not take it and the prospect of freedom would be scarce. It blunted negative emotions which worked in the scarred boy’s favour.

It was working, but it was a question of time when she’ll develop tolerance and they won’t work anymore. That’s why Seokjin is desperately trying to convince Yoongi that he’ll have a way to help her. Permanently.

Yoongi knows that it would be just another mistake he would have to write under his name.

“I’ll always keep you safe,” he whispered again, his words a promise and a plea. And in the quiet aftermath of their duet, she almost believed him.

In that fleeting moment, she wasn’t running, and Yoongi wasn’t chasing. They were simply two souls, lost in the music, trying to find their way back to each other. One more than the other.

His hand moved to cover hers on the keys, their eyes meeting in the stillness that followed. The world outside ceased to exist, the rain and the fire a distant backdrop to the intensity of their shared gaze.

Slowly, almost imperceptibly, Yoongi leaned in, his breath mingling with hers. Her heart raced, not with fear, but with a different kind of anticipation.

Their faces were inches apart, the unspoken words hanging in the air between them. His eyes flickered to her lips, then back to her eyes, seeking permission, seeking assurance. Y/N’s breath hitched, her mind a whirlwind of emotions.

“Unnie?!” Xiaoli's voice rang out, bright and oblivious. “We need to talk about—”

“Can you keep me safe from my own sister?” She scoffed playfully. His chuckle bounced on her lips as his lips still hovered just a breath away from hers, the paper door swung open with a sudden, sharp creak.

Taehyung stepped in behind her, his eyes widening as he took in the scene. "Oh. We’re... interrupting, aren’t we?”

Yoongi pulled back slightly, his expression darkening as he turned to face them. Y/N felt the moment slipping away, the fragile connection disrupted.

“What is it?” Yoongi asked, his voice strained with barely concealed irritation.

“You invited us to have dinner, Hyung.” Taehyung reminded him, his tone a mix of apology and amusement.

Xiaoli’s eyes darted between Yoongi and Y/N, realisation dawning on her face. “Oh... we’re really sorry. I didn’t mean to barge in, Kkangpae Min.”

She apologised, still not her but always to him and him only. Y/N forced herself to smile. The woman that her sister became is not the same one she grew up with.

“There was nothing to interrupt, don’t worry,” she waved it off and Yoongi sighed, the tension in his shoulders evident.

The fleeting moment of intimacy with Y/N hung heavily in his mind. Before, during and after the dinner. He was extravagantly close to feel her lips on his again, just for the moment to be swept away.

Dinner was a mix of awkward silences and forced conversation. Xiaoli and Taehyung tried to lighten the mood, but the air was thick with unspoken words.

Yoongi, for his part, seemed distant, his mind clearly elsewhere. Every so often, his gaze would meet hers across the table.

“Will you come next week?” Xiaoli asked, sipping her wine.

Y/N, momentarily distracted from her thoughts, looked up.

“Next week?”

Y/N glanced at Yoongi, who was already looking at her. She hesitated, unsure of committing to anything he did not allow earlier.

“Yes, Y/N promised Bo Cheng to teach him how to ride a horse, and I have some business to attend to.” Yoongi cleared his throat, breaking the silence.

“I could teach him,” Said Xiaoli, a bit jealous that their brother wanted Y/N to teach him when she was right there in the hotel.

Once Xiaoli and Taehyung will be with each other for eternity, the family of three then, will take their leave back to China.

The Triad leader attended his own business trips while his wife and children stayed with the “allying” clan.

He doesn’t know. None of them knows what Y/N did to herself, apart from Xiaoli, who herself doesn’t know every detail. They spreaded white lies to cover this “lapse of senses”. A misstep. Y/N hides the fading scar carefully to avoid any explanation. She wished to not tell them, and the kkangpae did not object to her wishes anymore. Whatever she wants, she gets. Usually, most of the time if she’s reasonable and clever about it.

The past months painstakingly helped them to get better. Or so Yoongi thought. Her priority was never to be his good wife, her priority is him thinking she will be his good obedient loving wife and when he won’t expect her to seek freedom anymore — she’ll disappear.

“I don't know about that, honey. You remember that nasty fall you took last year?” Her husband-to-be said nonchalantly. Y/N furrowed her brows in confusion.

“Fall?—“ she asked, doubting his words.

“What are you talking about?” Xiaoli herself was surprised at his words. She did not recall any falls. Y/N knew Xiaoli isn’t the best rider, but she was decent enough to hold any situation that would make her fall from the horse under control.

“I don’t remember that,—” she said, taking another long sip from her glass.

“You’d certainly remember falling from a horse. Why don’t I know about this, Yoongi?” Said Y/N turning herself to the quiet man.

“I was having a hard time keeping you here as you loved to go for a run back then. It must have slipped my mind—“

“My sister falling from a horse slipped your mind?”

“He did not know Y/N, until a lot later. Right, Hyung?” Taehyung smiled sweetly at her, defending his Kkangpae. As always. Y/N clicked her tongue and gifted Yoongi with a penetrating stare creating another layer of tension in the room.

He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He cleared his throat, attempting to gather his thoughts. The last thing he wants is to mess up their relationship again.

“You’re right, love. I should have told you once I got to know that,” Yoongi admitting guilt is a new trait he acquired these past months.

“How did she fall?” Y/N aimed her question at Taehyung as her sister clearly doesn't remember it.

“It wasn’t probably that bad if I don’t remember it, Unnie. Don’t worry about it anymore—“ the younger female answered before her fiance had the chance to do so.

Y/N sighed loudly but the hand under the table that was gripping her younger sister’s thigh was not seen by her eyes.

It was hard to keep focus, especially with Seokjin constantly needing her assistance at work. His stern demeanour and meticulous nature kept her on her toes, but she appreciated the distraction. She knew why she was at his beck and call. Yoongi demanded so. Under any circumstances she ought to be next to Seokjin.

The ambulance in the sanctuary was significantly smaller than the big sanitorium in the town, but there was still some work to do here too.

“What’s on your mind?” he asked, leaning back in his chair and studying her intently.

“The usual,” she murmured, filling today’s report. Seokjin watched her for a moment, then brought the courage to ask.

“Have you been intimate?” Y/N dropped the pen at once and with wide eyes. She stared at him. The question came out of nowhere nor was it called for.

“Wh-what do you mean intimate?”

“Exactly what I said,” he replied calmly, not breaking eye contact.

“Have you been intimate with Yoongi again?”

“I don’t see how this is your business, Seokjin.” She felt her face flush with heat, a mix of embarrassment and anger.

“I’m not trying to pry. I’m your friend, but I’m also your doctor, sweetling—,” he said softly.

“Your health and well-being are my concern,” Seokjin explained. “And you know that if something’s affecting you emotionally or physically, it could impact your health.”

Bullcrap, he is in fact prying.

She was silent for a minute, trying to comprehend how he is taking care of her being this late. If she wouldn’t attempt to kill herself, these concerns wouldn’t be as great. But Y/N cannot afford to break havoc. She can’t go on rampage as she wants every single person here to think that she is moving towards being a good obedient wife of the Kkangpae. Even though she wants to scream to each and one of their faces about how much they failed her. How much they hurt her. Yet, patience is the key. Breathe, sleep, eat, endure.

She shifted uncomfortably in her seat, then decided to change the topic.

“What about your wife?” Seokjin’s eyes flickered with surprise before he masked it with a neutral expression. Y/N barely knew the woman. Matter of fact she has seen her maybe three times since the wedding.

“Very much pregnant,” he said, his voice a mix of pride and weariness.

“Oh,” Y/N replied, taken aback. “I didn’t know. Congratulations, I guess.” Here comes another thing that Yoongi managed to keep from her.

“Thank you, my dear,” Seokjin said, a small smile touching his lips. “It’s been… an interesting journey, to say the least.”

“I can imagine,—” Y/N said, sensing there was more beneath the surface.

“Can you imagine yourself on that journey?” Seokjin interrupted, his gaze searching her face.

She pretended that the question took her by surprise, looking down at her hands to not give herself away.

“I don’t know,” she admitted softly. He is testing her. “It’s hard to think about that kind of future with everything that’s going on.”

Seokjin nodded, his expression thoughtful. “It’s understandable. But it’s something to consider. Maybe a baby would help you to shush your demons away.”

Y/N’s heart raced at the suggestion, and she forced herself to maintain her composure. “I… I don’t think a baby is the answer, Seokjin. There’s so much I need to sort out first.”

“Sometimes, having something to focus on, something to live for, can make all the difference,” Seokjin said gently.

She nodded, still feeling uneasy about the direction of the conversation. Opting not to give more than she would want to by not answering his remark and going back to finish the report.

“Just know that you have options. And that you don’t have to go through any of this alone.”

“Thanks,” she replied, offering a small smile. “I’ll keep that in mind.” Of course she won’t.

Y/N entered the dimly lit room where Yoongi was sitting, his face illuminated by the soft glow of a lamp. He looked up as she closed the door behind her, his expression softened once he looked up from the papers. The office in the sanctuary remained the same apart from the fact that now the young Kkangpae occupies it far more often than before.

He took his glasses off and pushed himself away from the desk creating a space for her to come and stand in front of him, leaning against the massive wooden desk. Her hands felt the warmth of the wood that had been heated by the lamp, reflecting the same heat that radiated between them.

“Did you ask Seokjin to put thoughts into my head?” she asked, her voice steady despite the turmoil inside her.

Yoongi sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I didn’t ask him to, but I knew he would at some point try to give you some wisdom. What did he say?”

“That a baby would be the right treatment for me,” she replied, her voice tight with frustration.

Yoongi’s eyes widened slightly, then he closed them and exhaled deeply.

“I’m sorry, Dove—“

“Do you think that too?” she asked, searching his face. “That a baby would magically fix everything?”

Yoongi shook his head, stepping up from his chair and closer to her. “No, I don’t. A baby isn’t a solution to our problems—“ she didn’t believe one word that was coming out of this mouth. He wouldn’t break his knuckles this hard if he didn’t want the baby that Y/N took care of not happening anytime soon. Her system was full of herbal remedies. And now that she knows, the herbs flowing in her system are working, she can use that to her advantage.

“But that would make you happy right?” She countered, seeing through him. Softening her mimics to appeal to him.

“Well, yeah, I want a family with you someday—“

“Someday? The bandages on your knuckles says that you’re pretty eager to have it now—” she scoffed and murmured under her nose.

Yoongi’s eyes for once reflected something she couldn’t quite recognise. There was a mix of desperation and longing that flickered there. His hand reached out, trembling slightly, and cupped her cheek gently.

“Dove, I want us to be happy, truly happy. But I know bringing a child into this world won’t erase your pain or solve our problems. We need to fix ourselves first—” His thumb brushed her cheek tenderly.

“I’m sorry for being selfish, my love,” she felt a tear escape her eye, rolling down to where his thumb could catch it. She closed her eyes for a moment, leaning into his touch because that’s what always softens his edges.

After months, she has learnt what strings to pull to make him move just the way she wants to. Yet, Y/N knows that he isn’t that stupid to believe she suddenly wants to live with him happily ever after.

“I can pour us some wine. We can play the piano after dinner, hm?” He could feel her vulnerability, her heart laid bare before him. Or so he thought as she wanted him to think that. His hand continued to caress her cheek softly, his touch gentle yet laden with unspoken longing she sensed each time he attempted to get closer to her.

She nodded, a small pretentious smile playing on her lips as she stepped closer to him. The tension between them lingered.

He pulled her closer, his lips brushing against her forehead. “We will be good. We just need time with each other.”

He sat first, patting the space beside him, inviting her to join. Her fingers brushed the keys, eliciting a soft, mournful note. A melody that echoed in her mind far too often. An anthem for hurting. Weeping symphony, tears of sorrow.

He became far too respectful towards her boundaries which essentially was ruining all of her plans. Her fingers pressed the keys with delicate touch even when she wanted to smash them rock hard.

“Why this song?” She let the question hang in the air for a moment, her fingers poised above the keys as if weighing his words.

“Do you know what they interpret it as?” She finally said, her voice soft, barely audible above the lingering notes. Her eyes, once masked with a facade of calm, now revealed a flicker of the anguish she carried.

“Tell me,” he flipped the page of the notes book for her to continue the song.

“It’s a tale of unspoken grief, of wounds too deep to heal and shadows that never leave.”

He felt a shiver run down his spine as she said that. Part of him understood what message she was trying to leave and part of him wished he’s wrong.

“I view it as love lost and dreams shattered. They say it’s a lament for those who wander through life carrying burdens no one else can see.”

He carefully listened to all her words, all the notes she played, all her feelings she shared. Her fingers moved over the keys, each note a whisper of sorrow.

“The scars I carry inside,—“ His hand reached out to touch hers, a gesture of comfort. Stopping her from playing more.

“Let me help you carry that weight—“

“You created it in the first place.”

His eyes widened, a mixture of guilt and realisation flooding his expression. She pulled her hand away.

“The scars I carry, the emptiness I feel, they all trace back to you.”

His mind raced to comprehend the depth of her pain, trying to understand her intentions. It’s not like he ever expected her to say it out loud.

“You created emptiness in me Yoongi—“

He felt his heart clench with guilt and regret. “I’m so sorry,” he said, his voice cracking. It was nothing new. She heard his apologies but she was yet to accept them

She turned back to the piano, her fingers resting on the keys but not playing. “Intentions don’t change the past,” she said softly. “The pain remains—“

“But the future can learn from mistakes.”

“I will. I’ll learn—“ He began before she interrupted him.

“You need to fill the space now.” His eyes lit up listening to her words. In his mind, this was it. The holy grail. In her mind, she was wrapping him around her finger before she would bounce away like a pebble on the pond.

“Heal me if you must.”

These were her last words before the distance between them shrank, the intensity of their emotions drawing them closer. He leaned in, his heart pounding in his chest that she could almost hear it but Y/N didn’t pull away.

Their lips met in a soft, tentative kiss, a delicate brush that spoke of apology, of yearning, and of promises yet to be fulfilled. Her heart cried and the song remained echoing in her mind.

As they pulled back slightly, their foreheads resting against each other, Yoongi felt a warmth spread through him, chasing away the cold shadows of regret. She looked at him, her eyes shining with unshed tears. His thoughts were swirling with one thing only — this was the real beginning of them. And it was the beginning.

The beginning of the end.

I N T E R L O G U E

The walls were lined with bookshelves, each shelf overflowing with dusty tomes and old papers. A large, ornate desk stood in the centre, its surface cluttered with stacks of documents.

Seokjin rarely sends her to this room as they also rarely stay in the hanok the sanctuary has for medical assistance to those who live here.

She approached slowly, her fingers brushing over the worn leather of a chair before settling on a stack of yellowed files that he asked to bring. It was then when her eyes caught the opened crimson red files that laid flat open on the desk. The ones that the doctor forgot to take with him the other time he had to run and tend to the lady of the house in the middle of the night. They stayed there, laid open, for several weeks. Touched by a thin layer of dust on top of it.

Kim Seokjin is renowned in his field of practice. Yet, this was going to be his great mistake. Inside, there were detailed medical records, notes written in a precise, almost mechanical hand. The words on the pages made her stomach churn—phrases like “prefrontal lobotomy,” “behavioural correction,” and “psychosurgical intervention” leapt out at her. She read on, horrified by the cold, clinical descriptions of procedures that seemed more like torture than treatment.

Her hand flew to her mouth to not let the wailing cry away.

Trembling, she pushed the file aside and reached for the next one. Not bearing what they’ve done to her sister. Y/N’s hands shook as she read through the files, each word a dagger to her heart. The clinical detachment with which the procedures were described made her feel sick. These were not just medical records—they were accounts of inhuman experiments carried out in the name of science, or more so — control.

The name on this file was all too familiar, it was Jin’s wife. He must have done it before the wedding as she seemed far too calm. Her heart pounded in her chest as she opened it, fearing what she might find. The contents were similar—detailed accounts of medical procedures, records of a lobotomy performed in a desperate attempt to “cure” her of what the notes described as “hysteria” and “unmanageable behaviour.”

Y/N felt a wave of nausea wash over her. She stumbled back from the desk, her mind reeling from the revelations. The room seemed to close in around her, the shadows deepening as the weight of what she had discovered settled on her shoulders.

The name on the empty file under those made her anxious, hysteric even more as the tag had Min Y/N written on it.

She wiped her tears but they couldn't stop falling.

“Y/N?”

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©pennyellee. please do not repost

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