#whose existence and presence hurts others | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

davosmymaster · 2 years ago

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No Time To Die

TAGS AND WARNINGS - +18, Minors DNI, no explicit smut but sexual themes, whump, a lot of angst, blood, graphic wounds and procedures (?) probably not medically accurate, could be almost gore if you squint, hurt/comfort, two dorks in love, canon-typical violence, near-death experiences. Not based on the game, I don’t know anything about the game and I don’t want spoilers please.

PAIRINGS - Joel Miller x fem!reader

WORD COUNT - 9.6k.

SUMMARY - The main difficulty of being Joel’s closest friend is not falling in love with him, but you still do. Those feelings are buried until you join him on a mission to trade supplies with Bill and Frank. With your life now hanging by a thread, Joel is determined to get you to safety, but the clock is ticking faster than he can run.

A/N - I honestly don’t know what this is. I tried to look for angsty and whumpy fics and couldn’t find any that hit the spot just right; so I wrote my own. This story is set in some time between 2010 and 2020, or so. Bill and Frank are still very much alive. The only warning apart the amount of blood in this, it’s my own knowledge of the English language.

'Breathe'

With a shiver, you try to comply with your own command. The action itself confuses you, and you don't know where exactly in your mind that thought came from; or why. All you know is that a moment ago you were nothing, absolutely nothing, not even human. You forgot your own existence in a still ocean made of black thick ink. The ink is now backtracking, though, but the remnants of it stay in your foggy mind, clouding it as your consciousness comes back in waves.

Waking up from a dream is easy, you just come back into yourself from a nice trip to your own imagination. Regaining consciousness, however, is a little more difficult. Instead of going somewhere, you go inwards into yourself. Your overworked mind, already tired and busy with keeping you alive, doesn't care much about bringing you to any other place so you can die peacefully. No. And the awakening is not as it should be either.

Coming back into yourself is your body crawling its way to the land of the living, with your flesh drenched in tears, blood and sweat; and nails digging firmly into the dirt. At least that's how it feels as you go back and forth between the two worlds, rocked violently by the waves threatening to drown you in its heavy never-ending dream.

You wake up tired, and cold. The first sense that returns is touch; and with it, a pulsing pain radiates from under the right side of your collarbone and all the way down to your chest and back. The —obvious— wound is warmer than the rest of your body. It's like you've grown a second heart right at the borders of the wound; it throbs relentlessly. The second is taste. Your mouth tastes like salt and melted butter; despite not having eaten either in at least three days. Around the dryness of your tongue you feel a sticky liquid swirling around in your mouth, plastered to your gums.

Whatever it is, you cough it out of your mouth. The old blackened blood splatters on the wooden planks below your mouth. Then, a second later, you feel a sprawled hand on your back; and the rest of your consciousness returns with it.

He calls your name. And he, whose presence you'd have recognized even blindfolded, even miles away from there, doesn't appear in your mind for a few seconds. But even half-conscious and at death's gates, his name leaves your mouth with a sigh of relief.

Joel.

"I'm here," he says, his palm now pressing a bit harder into your back, trying to comfort you somehow. If you had been fully aware, you'd have been embarrassed at the relieved groan that had escaped your lips while saying his name. "How are you feeling?"

His voice sounds less muffled now, but the pulsing pain intensifies the closer you are to the surface. A second groan escapes your mouth as the warmth under your collarbone becomes impossible to ignore.

"I know, I know" he says.

Your eyes flutter open. From your point of view there's not much to see except torn wallpaper, your blood stains, and the shadow of a window. You're on the floor, your cheek pressed against the dusty carpet, your body very still laying on them, and Joel rubbing your back.

The room is dark. His fingers enter your field of vision, they dip on the wet blood stains and turn around so Joel can see the sticky fluid staining his fingers. He takes a breath, a gasp, really.

"Goddamnit," he mutters under his breath. His hand stops rubbing your back, and as black stains crawl from the corners of your vision, trying to take you under the waves again, he talks to you:

"I need to turn you around..." he says with a gentle voice. It's like the icing on top of a sour and burnt cake; he's trying to sound caring, but that doesn't change the fact that it's going to hurt like a bitch. "You hear me?" he says, and his voice breaks for a second. Your ears ring, the next thing he says your brain doesn't process it, your vision has been clouded by darkness again...

A scream tores your throat as a shooting pain lights your body on fire. It feels like lightning going through your backbone. Suddenly, the waves are very far away and you're feeling way too conscious for your liking. Despite your pain, Joel is still as careful as he can as he lays you on the floor, now facing the ceiling instead.

The throbbing pain continues, and you blink to get rid of the tears that distort Joel's face. His hand wipes the tears from your face.

"I know," he says. He has a crease between his seemingly angry eyebrows that you had never seen before.

Both hands are roaming your ribs now, before you can even say anything. His warm hands give you shivers as he touches your naked skin. The pain is so unbearable that all you can do to mitigate it is hold your breath. If you could move, you'd be right now curled on the floor like a pretzel. You are not crying anymore, but you'd be lying if you said you weren't close.

"Can you breathe?" he asks then, when he doesn't find any cracks in your ribs by touch alone. You don't respond because you can't find your own voice, and he sounds desperate at this point. "You coughed blood, I need to know if any of your lungs are collapsing."

"It-it hurts..." you wheeze, your eyes tightly shut. For a split second, you wish you were back to being nothing. Being nothing sounds way better than having a gunshot wound in your chest. The bandages, tight over your bones and shoulder, don't mitigate the pain either. If anything, they worsen it. It feels like a tight sock over a painful pustule on your heel.

Worst part is you know all this pain is for nothing; you know you won't make it. If you go back to the QZ, you will be executed. If not, there's nobody to help you except Joel. But even if there were doctors or hospitals, you highly doubted you could find the necessary tools to extract a bullet and stitch the wound. That is, if you manage not to die of blood loss.

"Where?" Joel asks. Even beyond all this concern and well-hidden panic, he seems to cling to an ounce of hope. "Tell me where it hurts."

Your fingers gently trace your skin until they reach the area under your collarbone, and you sign to your back too. There's a bandage there, but nothing else, and that's when you notice you don't have a shirt on, just your blood-soaked bra.

"Is it bad?"

"Not that bad. The bullet went through," he said. That explains the pain on both sides of your body; you have a literal hole in your chest. "And it clotted soon enough to stop the bleeding, but you lost too much blood anyway... Anywhere else?"

Your whole body hurts and this abandoned house suddenly feels like penance, but you don't want to scare him further, so you shake your head no very slowly.

"Alright," he mumbles. Joel nods once, and it looks like he is reassuring himself. His eyes betray him, he looks like he is very far away from here, very buried under all the scenes playing on his mind; but despite his stillness, his lower lip quivers.

You can't move your right arm at all, but with the other hand, your fingers lightly touch his knuckles still resting on your stomach. He winces, and your fingers are wet with his blood too. He must have beaten to death whoever shot you, that you are certain about.

Your voice, little more than a weak breath, whispers:

"I-I want you to do it."

The crease between his eyebrows deepens. He seems confused rather than angry; the reaction you were hoping for. You take a breath to repeat your own words, but he squeezes your hand.

"Don't," he says.

"Joel..."

"Don't even think about it," he snarls. "You are perfectly fine, don't be dramatic."

You don't know what hurts more; his pain or yours, but his denial makes your eyes wet with tears again. This is already hard, but he is making it even harder. All he will achieve by trying to keep you alive is either prolonging his pain or getting himself killed. You both know this is no world for the injured and the sick, not out of the QZ, at least. And in most cases, not inside either.

All you ask of him is to not leave you for the infected to find. Is that too much to ask?

You want to insist, but you know he won't have it. Joel has lost so much already that the thought of losing what little left he has is not even going to cross his mind. Not until it's too late, at least. Also, you don't want your last moments with him to be a fight. You are tired of fighting, of swimming against the current. You just want to let go for once, give in to the external forces, close your eyes and peacefully breathe.

What's more, you should have already known that he wouldn't do you that favor. He is too selfish for that.

He pats your cheeks gently with his large hands, and your eyes, already rolling back into your skull, get focused on him again with a few blinks. You breathe slowly, trying to focus on him, on the world around you slowly twisting and turning.

"...that's it," he says, it doesn't sound like his first sentence, so you guess he's been talking to you before. When you look back at him, his breathing is shallow, and you know he is trying to take a hold of himself too, trying not to give in to panic. "Good girl, that's it. Keep your eyes on me."

Exhausted and hurting as you are, keeping your eyes open it's like asking you not to drop a weight that you cannot, in fact, handle; but you try nonetheless. It's your fault, really, for letting yourself go, for trying to give up on your fight earlier than you should. Joel is here trying to keep you alive, mending all your broken ends and stitching them together —he has always been good at that— while you're just trying to give up on him —you are really good at that too—.

Giving up on Joel has been one of the hardest things you've ever had to do; and now you're letting him go for the last time. Part of you is glad you don't have to keep watching how he chooses Theresa over and over again. You are even relieved that fate —or whatever there is out there— is forcing you out of the equation. After all, you would never have given up fully on him.

He refuses to kill you, what he doesn't know is that you've been dead for a long while now. Him being your executioner would be the kindest act he could have with you, the most intimate thing you'd ever share; your last moments. You want it to be him, you want him to free you from this torment.

He refuses, though; and it feels like a punch to the pit of your stomach. You shiver.

He gets up from his place on the floor, where you are lying just over the carpet. You follow him with your eyes and see a fire cracking up in a fucked-up chimney. He stokes the fire, throws some more wood on it and then comes back to you, covering you with his jacket, the very same jacket you had on before he turned you around. It's warm, his, and you have to stop yourself from sinking your nose into the collar.

"I had to take off your shirt to patch you up," he says, but he doesn't say sorry. Ever. So you guess it's his way of apologizing.

You simply nod, aware that you had wished for this very moment to happen many times before. You had dreamt of his rough hands over your naked flesh, caressing the sides of your body. You had dreamt of him watching you with those chocolate eyes as you took your shirt off, deep black pupils spreading over the brown as he watched the lace fall like a helpless witness.

But now the bra was covered in blood and he was watching you anywhere but the lace. He had a frightened and concerned look on his face, rather than aroused. A look that would have made you feel guilty and ashamed if it had happened in the other scenario. And instead of undressing you, he was covering your body with his jacket as if you were his child.

"What's wrong?" he is asking now, instead of whispering 'I want you' and it hurts all the same to know he's not ever going to say it, and that Tess now will have all those words for however long their lives are.

You guess they were made for each other. And it makes all the sense, really, no one like Joel would ever look at you twice. You were grateful that he even allowed you to be his friend.

"Nothing," you respond.

It's always 'nothing' when it comes to Joel. It's always that nothing whenever he notices you are under the weather. It's always nothing when you are hurt, when someone tries to rob you and they leave an angry black eye on your face. It's always nothing; and he never believes you.

"I don't make promises, you know that," he says, taking your left hand in his. "but you will be fine, I swear."

You don't know what to say, how to explain that you are not scared of death, that you are just scared of not seeing him again. But you can't, so you say nothing and just nod.

Does he want to hurt himself? Okay. You can't do much while lying on the floor anyway.

After that, both of you stay silent. Joel seems to be avoiding looking at you. His eyes are stuck in the fire creaking in the chimney, but they are too restless to be present and conscious of the yellow and orange haze.

Your palm lands on his thigh, your fingers gently brushing the denim. You want to comfort him somehow, but, at the same time, you are scared he will reject your touch and reassurance. That's all you can do for him: no words, no further touching, just a featherlight touch that indicates you are still present. There, with him.

"I thought we couldn't make a fire."

"Don't be dumb. The windows are all broken, it's winter and you are in shock. How else would you heat up?"

"Got it. You're not in a talking mood," you huff. "Alright."

Silence settles between both of you. However, one of his big, rough hands travels to where your fingertips are gently brushing his thigh. At the touch, even if you don't want to let go, your fingers begin to back off. He's not in a good mood, and you seem to be pushing his boundaries a little too much. Except that, instead of letting you go, he catches your hand in his and puts it back over his jean. This time, it's him who brushes his thumb over your knuckles.

For a minute, the only sound in the living room are both your breathing patterns, the flames licking the air and the wind rushing through the broken windows.

"I'm sorry..." you start. And immediately, his brown eyes are all over you again. Your voice sounds exhausted, more than you'd have liked. "...I fucked up the mission. I know-"

"You haven't fucked up anything," he interrupts. That's Joel, all stoic, swallowing his feelings and denying everything that it is not up to his standards. "Would you mind to just rest-"

Your eyes well with tears.

"Joel, for once... Just for once, don't lecture me, don't ignore what I'm trying to say just because you don't want to hear it," you tell him. Then, he thankfully presses his lips together in a pained grimace, but stays silent nonetheless. "I fucked up the mission getting injured. I know it isn't my fault, but it doesn't matter whose fault it is. If you wanna go on without me, I won't blame you."

His fingers are now squeezing yours, but you know he is not even conscious of that. He leans in a little, his cheeks now reddened in anger. He looks like he is about to spit on your face.

"I'm not leaving you anywhere," he says. He looks offended that you even thought he was capable of that. "You and I are gonna get to Lincoln, either if you like it or not. There, Bill and Frank will help you. We have traded all kinds of things with them, and I know they are very well supplied."

"Why would they help me?"

"They are not just people we trade with," he says. His fingertips brush a strand of hair out of your face. "I know they will."

"What if they changed their minds?"

His pupils lock into your own, his jawline swells as he grits his teeth.

"I'm persistent."

The mission was supposed to be an easy one. Walk out of the QZ undetected, walk fifteen miles to the town of Lincoln, just outside Boston, get our things and come back. Our cargo were the two last spools of aluminum that Joel had promised to trade with them and two packets of seeds. Theirs? Two pounds of rolling tobacco and a gun. Tess couldn't make it, she had appointments with other smugglers, probably the ones who snuck the drugs in; which was more than half of their business. If it wasn't that important, she wouldn't have stayed in the QZ for anything in the world. But Bill and Frank were also important, and Joel couldn't go alone.

The two of you should be home by now, and you wondered if Tess was regretting her decision of asking you to go with him. Last night you had both snuck out of the Boston QZ; and it usually didn't take more than six hours to get to Lincoln. But just outside the city you had bumped into raiders; and a stray bullet had hit you. Now you were stranded in a small cabin lost in the woods, about seven miles away from Lincoln; and unable to walk a single step.

And to top it all off, Joel was enraged and neurotic.

Still with the same expression, he takes your wrist and squeezes two fingers into it. Even if you had preferred him not to, knowing that your heartbeat got wild whenever he was around. You let him check on you, hoping that if your symptoms got better he would let you have a quick nap. Your nervousness, however, doesn't improve despite your efforts of trying to calm yourself down.

"Since when are you a doctor?"

He lets your wrist go, then gets back on his feet and gets his rifle.

"You should rest. You'lll need it," he says, now heading to the entrance. He's gonna be standing on guard all night, you are sure of that. "We're leaving tomorrow morning."

That is when you lose it. You can't believe he is that blind, that caught up in his own world.

"I know in your perfect fantasy this is just a scratch, but I truly can't move, Joel. Even laying here awake is hard. How am I supposed to follow...? Joel!"

But he's out of the house before you even finish the sentence.

[***]

Joel doesn't keep his word.

A few hours later, not even near dawn yet, you get pulled back from a dream. Your eyes take a few minutes to register your surroundings; again. And the memories gallop back to your mind in a rush; accompanied by the burning and piercing pain on the upper right side of your chest. Your eyes shut tight, and you inhale a shallow breath. Even breathing hurts.

"We need to go," Joel whispers. His voice sounds muffled, especially over the sound of your beating heart. "C'mon, wake up."

He is once again rocking you rather than shaking you awake. Just to be able to fall asleep you had rolled back into your chest, cheek once again firmly pressed against that twenty-year-old dusty carpet. When he came back from checking the perimeter, not even five minutes after your argument, he placed his backpack right under your stomach so your right side was elevated. You wouldn't have been able to fall asleep if it wasn't for that. The pain was maddening, atrociously painful. Joel had found you gritting your teeth even in your sleep.

He had said you'd leave the next day, but you felt like not even minutes had passed.

"Morning," you complained, half a grunt accompanying your words. Joel shook you gently again when he saw you relax a second time, and your voice came back. "Y-you said...mor-"

"I know what I said but we can't wait any longer," he answered. "I'm gonna sit you up."

Fear pumped enough adrenaline into your system to wake you up. The ache from before rushed back into your mind, and your 'please' and 'wait' left your mouth like a prayer.

"I can do it," you said, but it sounded more like begging than an affirmation.

"I know you can," he lied. As your eyes opened and you saw his expression —eyes focused on you, trembling hands, half of his face hidden in the shadows, the other half gently licked by the orange-like haze of the dying fire— you understood that you had to be in a really bad condition for him to look at you that way, and feel the need to lie to make you feel better. But then, a second right after that, his shoulders relaxed, his eyes fluttered between your face and the surface of his jacket over your shoulders. His stoic mask was back on. "I'm just gonna help you, okay? But you do it."

He did not, in fact, let you do it.

You had managed to lift yourself barely an inch over the carpet, using all the strength left in your healthy arm, when both his hands curled around your side and pulled you up to his chest. Clenching your jaw, you allowed him to drag you a few feet back and into a seating position against the wall; your whole weight over the left side of your body.

"Don't lean on the other side, your shoulder blade is broken."

"Oh..." you almost chuckled. "Great."

For a second, Joel looks at you as if you were completely insane. He reaches for his backpack, crouching on the place where you were lying just seconds prior. Then takes his flask and doubts when passing it on.

"I'm not that desperate for water," you respond, reaching for the flask and drinking a gulp of the liquid. You swallow despite the soreness in your throat. "Next thing you'll do is spit food into my mouth."

"Not even getting shot shuts your fucking mouth, does it?" he says, grossed out at your comment. However, a smile tugs at the corners of his lips. Relaxing him has a calming effect on you too.

You try to pass him the flask again, but he refuses.

"No," he says. "Drink it all. You'll need it."

You look at him with narrowed eyes, confused. It's hard to keep a single thought in your head other than the throbbing pain in your chest and back, but you still try. Rather than asking him how you are supposed to walk seven miles, with the aluminum and his pack, you try to approach the matter another way.

"What's the plan?"

He takes a deep breath.

"You're not gonna like it," he says, his deep voice almost slurring the words. It's barely a whisper. He looks into your eyes, then. "I'm gonna carry you."

"What?"

"You heard me."

There's not an ounce of doubt in his eyes. Joel has that look of determination, the one you only really see when he has his eyes set on something really fucking important for him; most times that includes his own brother or not talking about the times before the outbreak. And with that look on his face, you know there's nothing you could possibly say or do to make him reconsider his own words. He's stubborn like that.

You still try.

"It's seven miles, Joel..." you tell him on a thready voice, a whisper. And Joel sighs through his nose —as if he had forgotten. "And we have to carry..."

"We leave everything here," he says. "Come back for it later."

"They won't let us in empty-handed."

"You don't know them."

For Joel to be so certain about it, certain enough as to put both your life and his on the hands of strangers; you understand that their relationship goes beyond trading. Joel had told you about them, about their situation and the first time Tess and him had shared dinner with Bill and Frank. Still, you were suspicious of them, and you thought that he was too; up until now, at least.

"It's still seven miles," you tell him, and you know him, you know he's about to stop talking to you and leave the room if you don't, at least, partly give in to his reasoning. "...are you sure you wanna do it?"

His pleading brown eyes engulf you, then, with an emotion he had never showed before. His gaze diverts for a second to your wound, to the bandages that, as you look at them, you find they are once again covered in blood. They are soaked in it, the skin surrounding it has a large black bruise —internal bleeding, you guess. And when you try to take a full deep breath, you find yourself unable to, at least not at full capacity.

The understanding hits you, then. You don't have much time left.

"I don't have any other choice," Joel says, but what he means is 'I don't want to lose you'.

"Okay."

Not even a full second has passed from your reluctant acceptance, but he is already on his feet. Joel walks to the only table in the room, takes your gun and puts it in his hip, right inside the jean. The only other thing he takes apart from ammo is another set of bandages —and he silently thanks whatever it is out there that he put those there a month ago—. He doesn't have anything to clean the wound, though; and one of his biggest fears is that it might already be infected. Even bandaged it looks bad.

He approaches you, crouches down so he is facing the wound.

"I'm going to tighten the bandage, and I have to keep the pressure," he says, loosening the knot. His fingers are once again stained with you blood, and he has to fight the images of him pressing on your wound from a few hours ago, when he had found you and, with trembling hands, had tried to stop the bleeding coming out in waves. He looks at you, trying to forget the awful picture of your eyes closed, your body limp on the ground. "Bite something."

You reach for the sleeve of his jacket, the one hanging from your shoulders; and put the padded cuff of his jacket into your mouth.

Joel doesn't give you a warning; and you're not sure if that's a good or bad thing, either. He presses the heel of his hand right over the covered hole in your chest, with such strength that you wonder if he will end up breaking your clavicle in half. As he presses your body against the wall, you can almost feel the cracked bones in your back smashing against each other.

Needless to say, the pain is blinding. The view of the room, the feeling of his heat around you, the scent of him under your nose... all gone in a matter of seconds. Your vision turns white, all your senses stop functioning. Over the scream that falls from your lips, muffled by the jacket, you hear him say:

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry."

He lets go, and your vision immediately darkens, the shadows flowing from the corners of the room quick to reach you. With your last grip on reality you feel yourself melting against the wall, slowly slipping to the side. Joel catches you before you hit the floor.

Cold water is what brings you back. Your breathing quickens at the coldness of it, and the next thing you feel are his wet hands palming your cheeks, throwing water from his flask all over your face.

"C'mon," he mumbles. "I need you awake."

Your eyes flutter open, your whole body relaxed now that he's not applying pressure; but alert enough that your unfocused eyes make a single shape out of him.

While coming back into yourself, Joel does not have any time to lose. He takes his jacket over your shoulders and slips your left arm inside the sleeve, the other, where the wound is, he decides to leave it as it is; and buttons it over your chest so you're not exposed.

"You good?"

In any other situation you'd have said some joke, or just something to piss him off. But as of right now, nothing comes to your clouded mind; and even if something did come, you're too exhausted to even do the mental effort to say it. So you just nod.

"Okay," he nods too, talking to himself inside his head, then takes your face in his hands and looks into your eyes. "You're fine, you hear me? I'm gonna carry you and you're gonna be on my back; so I need you talking all the damn time, alright?

You nod again.

"Starting now."

"Y-yes... okay."

"Good," he says. His hand crawls to the back of your neck, and he joins both your foreheads. He takes quick breaths. He's terrified when he whispers. "You're doing so good. I'm so proud of you."

"Y-you... are?"

"Mm-hmm," he says. And as his words settle into your brain, you feel your chest warm. When you open your eyes and he separates, there's a tear on his cheek, but he's quick to wipe it off. "I'm gonna open the front door."

It's just an excuse, you both know it, but neither dares to say anything. None of you wants to talk about the elephant in the room, the fact that your chances are slim even if this works.

Joel returns quickly, with his lashes wet and reddened eyes. It makes you speechless, to know that all this effort and tears are for you. You'd have never, in a million years, thought you'd ever see Joel Miller cry; let alone for you. He had always been so quiet, so detached from everyone, even from Tess.

Without a word, his hands get hooked on the underside of your thighs. He lifts you up, seemingly effortlessly, and your inner thighs surround his hips. You take a deep breath, again —or at least try to— as you try not to blush and show those feelings you buried long ago. This is not the time, nor the place; so you allow your head to follow his range of motion; forwards. Soon, your nose is pressed against the lapels of his denim shirt. With your good arm, you grab one of his broad shoulders. The other falls limp, and even that little movement hurts like hell.

He freezes, his shoulders now stiff under your hand. His beard grazes your jaw as he tries to look at you, so still in his arms.

"You okay?"

"Yeah..."

Better than okay, you want to respond. Better than I've been in a long time. But you don't.

He leaves you on the table, on the edge, with your legs dangling. His eyes waver for a second as he leaves you there, his hands squeeze your knees in such a brief movement that you wonder if he was even conscious of that. He looks like he wants to say something, but he can't think of what, so he turns around and bends his knees a little to get you to a good height.

"I need you to push yourself up with your good arm," he instructs. "and keep the other still, okay?"

"Okay," you respond, fighting the urge to just nod instead.

Not even following his instructions to a t saves you from the pain. The effort, even with your arm limp in the air, makes your body shudder and an agonizing stab runs through your whole spine. The scream that tores from the depths of your throat is so intense that Joel hesitates to put you back on the table, his back trembles for a second as his body shivers in distress. But, in the end, he has you in the air with a good hold.

He waits, but doesn't hear anything except shallow breaths, doesn't feel anything but the weight of your head over his shoulder.

"You with me?" he asks. He is seconds away from aborting the mission.

"Y-yeah..."

Your arm surrounds his neck loosely. Your fist is closed tightly, grabbing the other shoulder, and he wishes he could touch you, give you some kind of comfort, but he can't let go from his grip under your knees.

Joel does not have the privilege of time, every second is precious, so not even giving it a try, he starts walking as if you weighted nothing. He crosses the front door and the freezing cold wind of the East Coast cuts your cheeks. If he notices —and you know that he has, wearing just his shirt in the middle of the night— he doesn't react.

"Remember what I told you?" he asks.

In less than a minute he has crossed the space from the cabin to the highway, where you were surprised by raiders. You look around, see the bodies of five men sprawled on the floor; lifeless, drowning in a pool of their own blood. One of them has his face mauled to nothing. The sight is so sickening —or maybe you are getting so ill— that a sudden dizziness takes hold of your shivering body.

"Hey..."

"I'm sorry..." you start, teeth chattering from the cold. "I'm sorry I screamed into your ear earlier."

A sound, half a relieved sigh and half a chuckle, leaves his mouth.

"I'm half deaf from that ear anyway."

A light chuckle falls from your lips too. Joel keeps walking west through the highway, and you keep yourself desperately clinging to him for dear life. The moon is your only other companion; without her, you both would be completely blind in the darkness of the night.

[***]

Joel probably hadn't thought about the possibility of taking breaks along the way. That's why, fourty-five minutes later, and under a beautiful sunrise of orange tones, he's struggling to keep going. His knees are screaming for him to stop, his biceps and hands tired of walking with a person's weight over his shoulders. And for the first time in years he remembers the times before the outbreak, when he was capable of lifting and moving huge pieces of furniture; often times on his own, other times with just Tommy.

He might have overestimated his own strength, assuming he was as strong as before. But it seems that not only his mental health has deteriorated after Sarah's death, no. All of him has become older and darker and more broken since then. He hardly recognizes himself in the mirror anymore.

"Joel?"

"Yeah..." he gasps, out of air. "Sorry, I got distracted. You were saying...?"

It is in moments like this that he hates not to be that same person he was before. He wonders if he is, finally, paying for his past sins, for all the people, infected or not, that he has killed.

It is unfair, the fact that you're paying for his piper.

"You should stop for a while," you tell him, your voice low like a whisper. The warm air from your mouth slithers across his skin, up his neck, over his ear, and almost sends a shiver down his spine.

"No."

"Joel..." you huff. Before speaking again, you take a big gulp of air. "We are not getting anywhere if you don't take breaks. You'll just wear yourself off before we reach the halfway mark."

His mind refuses to agree, but it's as if his body takes a relieved breath when he hears the words. Little by little, his body starts to listen to you before his mind does. His thighs are screaming, sore from the pain of exertion; and before he acknowledges, even, his body has stopped moving.

"Okay," he gasps, quick tired breaths quickly entering and leaving his lungs. "...but just a minute, we don't have time for this bullshit."

"Okay," you say, in the same tone he used earlier with you; when he lied and said he knew you could sit up on your own. "Just a minute."

He pulls to the side of the road, and with the last of his strength he kneels down and tries to lay you on the ground as carefully as possible. You fall on your ass on the wet ground, but at least you don't hurt yourself on the spot. He asks you for the millionth time in the last twenty-four hours if you are okay.

"I think I'm doing better than you," you respond, but your voice is so exhausted that Joel would love to just lay next to you and lull you to sleep.

He turns around, his whole weight sitting on the grass as he takes gulps of oxygen. His eyes shut tightly, he wipes off a tear of sweat from his temple and looks at you.

Wide-open eyes stare back at you, but just for a split second. He gets closer, his thumb brushing the shoulder of the brown jacket, his brown jacket. His eyes pierce yours.

"Are you sure?"

"That bad do I look?"

Joel doesn't look at you, not at your face getting paler by the second or the dark circles under your eyes, or your hair now dishevelled. He sees you on his memories and can barely recognize you; your skin and eyes always glowing under the sun, your hair always perfectly done. Your job was often to act as an HR for their clients, and very rarely took actual FEDRA jobs that stained your hands; you weren't like Joel, you didn't care about rations or money or whatever.

Expert fingers gently tug at the buttons, unbuttoning them so he could take a look to the wound. He had barely a glimpse of it when your fingers stopped his hands. Joel looks at you with those puppy eyes, as if you were about to faint in the next second.

"If you wanted to see me naked you didn't have to wait until I got shot, you know?"

You had said it in a playful manner, kidding, as a joke; but he saw beyond that. Part of you had only expected him to laugh, the other was dying —not pun intended— for him to kiss you. You'd have never said it if you weren't in this position, you'd have never gotten in between Joel and Tess.

However, he didn't laugh, didn't make any funny remark. The way he looked at you, from under his eyebrows, lit a spark of hope somewhere inside you. Deep, deeper than your conscious mind would have ever reached. Joel didn't say anything, not even chuckled. His eyes came back to the wound, and uncovered the full sight of it.

He had to fight a shocked gasp. His eyes fluttered, while holding his breath, between your own face and the wound. The bandage was still soaked in blood, that he had expected, but not the large bruise growing into your neck; or your right hand slightly paler than the other. He lifted, with trembling fingers, a corner of the bandage, and his action caused a trickle of dark blood to gush out, as if he had crushed a piece of watermelon between his fingers and it was now running down his arm. He looked below, inside his jacket, and saw a trail of blood that landed right into your navel.

This time, it was impossible for him not to react. Not only his face, but also his body. He tried to get back on his two feet again, but before he finished the action, your fist closed around his wrist.

"Joel..." he heard you call.

"We need to go, now."

Pressing your lips in a sad smile, you pulled him to the ground and he sat, mesmerised on that face he had only yet seen once; that time when he got too drunk on a Friday night and told you about Sarah at three in the morning. He felt his pulse quicken, his heart beating at the ends of his fingertips.

"It's okay," you told him. Your gentle touch brushed his palm, danced around over his tan skin. "You can rest."

Joel felt like he was in a fever dream. The setting certainly felt like it. You hadn't left the Boston QZ in a long while, and he had never pictured you out of those big silver walls either. He had not agreed to Tess' idea either, the dangers beyond the walls were almost impossible to escape. Still, Tess and him knew the city, they could get out fairly easily, had done that for a couple years to share stories over dinner with Bill and Frank. And Joel had loved the idea of seeing you sitting at that dinner table next to him, surrounded by a garden full of flowers, going through the dresses in the boutique that Tess had sworn you'd love.

He had not signed up for this.

"We need to go, please..." he tried a second time, but you just shook your head. He understood, somehow, what you meant.

"A minute won't make a difference," you told him. In reality, you wanted to tell him that you'd be dead when he got the both of you to Lincoln, anyway. "If you are tired we will never get there."

Useless and powerless as he felt, his only option was waiting. He took your hand, intertwined his fingers with yours and took a deep breath. You had never seen him so upset.

"What are you so scared of?"

At your words, his lower lip quivered slightly; it would almost have gone unnoticed if it wasn't because you had been watching him attentively for so many years. He looked at you, eyes barely half open, from under his eyelashes.

"You're very important to me," he said. His tongue felt heavy in his mouth, he seemed to be even more breathless than he was before. Joel had a hard time admitting his feelings, even to himself. "I don't know if you understand to what extent you're important to me."

"I know..." you answered, nodding, your hand squeezed his for a second, trying to give him strength. "But you have Tess home, and your brother loves you... It will hurt for a while..."

"Shut. Up."

His eyes were tightly shut when he said it. It was a metaphor, almost, the way his eyes were closed not just to the physical world, but to the whole situation too that he couldn't escape from.

The tip of your tongue wetted your lips.

"What I'm trying to say is... it will pass..."

His chest heaved, his gaps the only sound that filled the space between the two of you. And you continued:

"People die all the time, Joel; and most times we can't do anything about it."

His body rushed at you, his hands locked perfectly on both your cheeks, like two pieces of a jigsaw puzzle finally in place.

"Not you, you hear me? Not you," he almost growled, his face a mixture of anger, determination, and grief. "Never you. You're not allowed to leave me. I will never forgive you."

There was something hidden between the lines, something Joel wasn't saying. It was something you had denied yourself for a long time, for years, something you had insisted on not seeing because you didn't want to see it. Because, deep down, you were afraid that Joel would never love you back, that he would break your heart, that the only good man you'd ever known inside the walls of the Boston QZ would also be the one to abandon you to your luck.

Joel had been your family for so long, and you had unconsciously protected yourself from seeing him as something else. But now there it was, clearly, latent in his confession. Your punishment for years of silence was now time, or rather, the lack of it.

"I'm not giving up," he said. "and I need you not to give up either."

He's close. His hot breath smells sweet -so instinctively Joel- and it's all around your face. His flesh is warm over the freezing skin of your cheeks. His body around you is shelter, is home.

Joel is soon leaning in. He's all erratic breathing, rapid heartbeat and trembling hands; and as you close your eyes to allow his presence to swallow you like a black hole, he closes his eyes too.

He doesn't let go, not just yet. He breathes in into your quick breaths the same way you revel in his.

"I need an answer," he whispers over your mouth.

"I won't, either."

At first it's like a collision. He kisses you angrily for a split second, demanding and impatient; then, once he knows this is really happening, once he does understand that this is —finally— not a dream, he relaxes into your touch, your fingers delineating his jawline, caressing the beard there.

He's quick, quicker than you'd have expected him to be; definitely quicker then he would have liked. He separates, then; and looks down at his jacket and the drops of blood staining the insides of it. It's not enough blood to send you into shock again, but it means part of the wound is ripping. You need stitches, not just a couple of bandages.

"Enough resting then," he says.

[***]

Seven miles is usually nothing for Joel. In the first few months trading with Bill and Frank, Tess and him usually walked the fifteen miles that separated the city and the town at least twice a month. But this is all the more difficult, not just carrying you there, but knowing that he is running out of time.

And you seem hellbent on making the journey even more difficult.

"So...Tess?"

"Pass."

You huff, and the warm air sends a shiver down his spine; but he says nothing.

"Okay."

Your voice sounds so disappointed that he feels a pang of guilt. You know him better than to insist, and he knows that too. The guilt increases, though; and now he's inhaling a big gulp of air while still walking as fast as he possibly can without hurting his own knees.

"We fucked a few times, before," he says. "but that doesn't mean anything. She's my colleague. That's all."

If he was better with words, and feelings, he could say that he didn't feel anything for her. He could say that their hookups were nothing, just a fun thing they used to do before, before he realized that the one who he really wanted was you. A few months back he had realized that it never actually satisfied him, that those moments with Tess weren't as fun and innocent as they seemed to be before. They had talked about it, of course. He didn't want to play with her feelings, and that had been the end of it. She was just as fine without him, anyway.

"I thought you two were dating."

"If selling drugs for a living is what you call dating, then yes."

Without even looking at you, he knew you were smiling, he could almost feel your lips stretching over his shirt.

"I..." you said, then he heard you take another deep breath before talking again. "I'm sorry I asked you," another breath. "I... ran out of things to say."

His brow furrowed in confusion.

"You can say anything," he says. "Anything you really like, even a story."

Anything just to know you're there...

"Well..." you started. Then, a wheezing noise filled the air, followed by a gasp. "I... liked rock music-" silence. "...back in the day."

"You okay?"

Your fist tightened around his shoulder, your forehead pressing against his trapezius. He heard that wheezing sound again, followed by a pant. His hands squeezed harder the tender flesh under her knees.

Joel tried to look at her, but all he could see from his peripheral vision was the top of her head and one eye tightly closed. His throat turned into knots.

"Baby..." that was the most gentle tone you had ever heard coming from his mouth. "C'mon baby. Hold on, we're almost there."

His whole body felt paralyzed, and he had to force himself to keep walking.

What he didn't know was that your lungs were burning. They felt like a pair of balloons squeezing against your ribs, trying to expand beyond its cage. And it made all the pain in your back, from the shot, double as painful. The air you tried to swallow so bad, sounded like a whistle, like the breeze through an almost closed window. You were suffocating.

"Talk to me, c'mon."

With a painful drag of air, you complied.

"I can't..." your fist tightened around the fabric of his shirt. "I can't."

"Goddamnit..." he was panicking now. "Okay, that's okay baby. Just hold on to me, don't let go."

Unable to do anything else, you just nodded as best you could and kept on holding on to him. His eyes desperately looked for signs of the town, and far away, in the distance, the row of trees ended; and he walked faster, hoping that Bill had already seen the both of you through the cameras.

"J-Joel"

You struggled to find air, and, therefore, the words.

"Easy, easy" he said. "Just a bit more. You can do it, I know you can."

His words lingered in the air, unanswered, not even him fully believed them. Joel was starting to feel his own shirt wet with blood from your wound. The feeling made him sick, his own imagination as he pictured what Bill was watching through the cameras, made it all a hundred times worse.

He kept hearing the panting, the wheezing, becoming more desperate by the second. He realized, with horror, that you were suffocating righ there, on his back; from a collapsing lung, he guessed.

He shouted Bill's name as he saw the fence that separated them from the town. Joel wasn't sure if he could hear him, but tried anyway.

He felt your grip on his shirt hesitate, and he had to fight the instinct to squeeze your hand; if he had done it, you'd have fallen from his own grip. He heard you try and say his name.

"Save it," he responded, even if it came out not as reassuring as he would have liked. "Don't try to talk."

Before he reached the fence, it was already opening. Bill came out running, yelling something that he was too distracted to distinguish, Frank came behind him. Joel felt his knees wobble once through the gate. And now kneeling on the floor, he called your name, tried to turn his head to take a glimpse of you.

"You did it. We're here."

He noticed, then, that everything seemed all too silent. Everything that happened after that, happened very quickly. The hand that had been gripping his shirt slipped, limp over his shoulder.

His mind disconnected, completely unaware of the other two people approaching. He released you with all the care that a person could have had, and his arms immediately caught you in an embrace. The sight of your closed eyes made him panic, and not having even checked your pulse, he buried his face into your neck and sobbed.

Trails of blood ran through his forearms, and he threw up all the words that passed through his mind; a string of 'please stay' and 'I'm sorry'.

"Joel," Frank struggled with him, fingers digging into his shoulder. "Joel you have to let go. Let us help her."

He was too far gone, so much so that once your body hit the floor, Frank didn't allow him to touch you again. He sobbed, and, for a second, Bill saw himself in him. He would have never thought he would see Joel in this state, but yet there he was. He kept pressure on the wound, and saw himself in Joel, and Frank in you; and promised he would never let this happen to the two of them.

Never.

[***]

The sun comes out the next morning. As it always does, as it always has. Orange light and blue skies illuminate the room, the clouds shine a different color; and Joel blinks; absolutely exhausted, devastated.

His body is heavy, even if he's not holding any of his weight. He's sitting on the cold tiles, on the floor, his sore knees and thighs in the space under the bed, his head lying on the mattress, his whole body is bent over and it feels like jelly. His eyes are the only thing moving, they look at the window and see the night sky turn into daylight.

Joel couldn't possibly say that he slept in that position; because he didn't actually sleep. He hasn't had a second of sleep since you got shot two days ago. Lying on the bed, is you, dormant; and his thumb draws circles on the back of you hand even if he's not paying attention to it. It comforts him to a degree, at least.

Suddenly, pretty much everything has lost its meaning. Frank opens the door an hour later, almost tripping with the tray of food and water that he left the night before for Joel. He hasn't touched any of it. In fact, he forgot about it, but if it bothers him, Frank doesn't say anything. He takes it in his hands so he can take it to the kitchen downstairs.

"We played 'I will survive' in the radio" he whispers before leaving. "It's a 70s song, but Tess will get the meaning."

"Thank you," he mutters, his mouth pasty from barely speaking in the last twenty-four hours. Funnily enough, the only word he's said to them is 'thank you'.

"You're welcome, Joel," he says. After a few seconds, waiting, he makes a dissatisfied sound. Frank approaches Joel, his palm squeezing his shoulder. "You should eat something, at least. Is there anything you want?"

Joel looks at him, lifting his cheek from the mattress for the first time. His eyes are blood-shot and black circles adorn his eyes.

"Coffee."

"Not coffee, you need sleep."

He huffs, his eyes lost in the window again. Frank, knowing he won't get anything from him again, vanishes behind the door and into the kitchen. He will bring him warm food later, hoping the smell will make him eat something despite his unwillingness to listen to any signal of hunger from his own body.

A few moments later, your hand slips from his. As he loses your touch, a pang hits the pit of his stomach. But then, as he lifts from the mattress again, your fingertips lightly touch his chin, your thumb lovingly brushing his beard.

"Baby?"

Maybe he lost his sense of time, because he didn't expect you to wake up yet. In any case, when he sees your eyes open he practically pounces on the bed. He sits on the edge, and swallows the image of you looking at him.

"Morning."

He smiles at your words, feels his strength coming back into his body.

"You're here," he says.

Even beaten up as you look, he thinks you are gorgeous. Your face has regained its usual color, the bruising is coming down, changing colors little by little, the wound is stitched and bandaged, and the blood flow seems to reach your fingertips normally once again. Joel has no idea how Bill fixed the collapsing lung, he had said something about medical knowledge being necessary in the field too, but he hadn't paid attention. He doesn't care about the details, though. He just cares that you're safe and sound, and despite the close call, that has seemed to be the end result to this whole dilemma.

There's no blood in sight, not even in the bandages. Frank had washed the blood from your hair the day before, and Joel had helped with the rest. He wished he could have you like this everyday: happy, clean, safe...

In the last few hours Joel had discovered he was jealous. He wished he had a town like Lincoln all to himself, just so he could see you picking flowers in the front garden.

"I'm here," you told him. The words felt like strawberries in his mouth. "and I'm not giving up on you."

He released a breath he didn't know he was holding, leaned in for both your foreheads to meet, and kissed you.

#joel miller x reader #joel miller x female reader #joel miller x f!reader #tlou fanfic #tlou spoilers #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal x female reader #the last of us fanfic #pedro pascal x oc

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euphoricfilter · 9 months ago

Note

HIIII GIRLY. I saw your drabble game anddd how about

"How could we ever just be friends" + yoongi djskskjs

just friends:

pairing: yoongi x gn! reader

genre: fluff || mild hurt with a lot of comfort || non-idol au

summary: maybe you were never just friends

word count: 1.2k

tags/ warnings: feelings, fluff, the smallest hint of hurt, they’re actually just really in love and the m/c is slightly oblivious but yoon is a big old sweetheart

notes: OMG HEY!!!!! you didn’t ask for a specific au so i did indulge slightly and made it fluffy and soft, hope you like it :D

drabble masterlist || all my other works

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆.

There had always been something utterly unique about Yoongi’s existence in your eyes. He had been the first, and only person whose life had meant anything to you.

You’d spent most of your life aimlessly wandering, taking each day as it came and only hoped it would get better the more you trudged through. Fingers letting go of the ropes of friendships you’d made and lost—people you didn’t pay any mind to now that they weren’t in your life.

You didn’t miss them. Never thought of them unless they were right in front of you, if they never made themselves known.

But Yoongi had been different.

It didn’t take his physical presence for you to wonder how he was doing. He didn’t need to message first for you to ask how his day was. Dreams filled with another reality, what the two of you would be doing the next time you met, how sweet your name sounded from his lips. Or that sweet smile he would give you every time you stumbled over your words, too caught up in his eyes your brain malfunctions and you forget how to speak.

Thoughts consumed by him, feelings wrapping around the idea of his existence, soul dancing around his in this weird push and pull, not quite just friends but not really anything more.

Special, precious, perfect, Yoongi.

In all your years alive you’d never had a crush until that first moment you met. Never once thought of another human being in any other way that wasn’t platonic. It felt as though part of your world had started to crumble to moment, you’d acknowledged how you truly felt about him, stuck in this endless dilemma. Because who were you meant to tell him about your feelings when he was your closest friend? What if he asked who it was? He knew you rarely went out, and you sure as hell would have told him if you’d gone on any dates. So, you’d been stewing in your own feelings for as long as you can remember, too scared to utter a word about what was really happening between the two of you.

Because, sure his touches lingered, warm skin pressed against one another until the heat has travelled to your cheeks and you refuse to look at him, too scared he’d see how flustered you were. And sure there was the nicknames, though that was something he’d started early on, and you had doubts he fell in love just as quickly as you did.

Sometimes it felt like he only smiled at you, and yet you could only assume it was because you were his best friend, a safety net for him as much as he was one for you.

But not once had he made it obvious he liked you any more than a friend. A fact you’d slowly decided you could live with.

Just like yourself, it wasn’t very often Yoongi went on dates, you don’t think he’s been on one in the time you’d been friends. Which makes this whole dilemma slightly easier to swallow, because at this moment in time you were probably the most important person in his life.

You got to live out your secret little fantasy, and he got a low maintenance friendship. The perfect exchange.

And truly you believed it would be like this forever, until that little dream in the forefront of your mind was shattered by someone else coming into his life, and the two of you slowly drifting apart.

That was until tonight.

It wasn’t often you drank, never indulged in the fine whiskeys Yoongi would bring over to your place, stashed away in the cupboard when he wanted a little something before bed. However, Yoongi had come over with a cocktail making kit, saying he’d done some research because he knew how much you liked sweeter drinks.

And maybe you’d had a few too many, eagerly asking him to make you different drinks from the little book he had, excited as you watched him mix everything together. Utterly amazed by how good everything he made tasted.

You can’t remember what you’d said, words tumbling out your mouth quicker than you could swallow them back down. The small, sane part of your brain slowly catching up to what was happening as you watch Yoongi’s face morph into something slightly more surprised.

“How could we ever just be friends?” he shakes his head, scooting closer to you on the couch.

“Because you don’t like m—”

He holds a finger up to your lips, quick to silence you.

“Don’t finish that”

A frown tugs at the corners of your lips, “but Yoongi—”

He takes hold of your hands, thumb running over delicate skin as he looks at your face.

“No” he shakes his head, “listen to me for a moment, yeah?”

He’s calm, voice tender and smooth.

You nod.

“You’re not forcing me into anything” he starts, “I thought I was being too pushy with you”

You swallow.

“Huh?” your eyes widen slightly, “But I could have sworn you didn’t like me more than a best friend”

The low rumble of a laugh vibrates from his chest, “Best friends don’t look at each other the way I look at you. They don’t hold your hand on days out, or wish they could kiss you when you make that sweet little face when you first wake up in the morning”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” you murmur, “I really thought—”

“And why didn’t you tell me, hmm?” he smiles, “feelings are weird.”

You nod, outburst having helped you sober up slightly.

“What now?” your legs bounce a little, so far out of your comfort zone.

“Whatever you want” he reassures.

“I’m scared” it spills past your lips before you can think about it.

He tilts his head slightly in question, “About what? Commitment?”

You shake your head, frantic “I just—I don’t know what to do I’ve never dated a person before”

He gives you a gentle smile, “Just be you. Just like you are now, that’s all I want”

“But what if I want a kiss?” you inch a little closer to him.

“Then I’ll give you a kiss”

“What if I wanted a kiss when we go out to dinner with your friends?”

He laughs, “Doesn’t matter when or where, I’ll always be willing to give you a kiss if that’s what you please”

You chew on your bottom lip.

“I’ve never actually kissed anyone before” you say, shoulders losing their tension, because now this felt normal. Like how it always was with Yoongi, where you didn’t need to have secrets or be scared about what he thought. Because for all the time you’d known him, he had always been by your side, and you hope it will stay like that for the rest of time.

“Then I’ll teach you” he hums, tucking a piece of hair behind your ear, “Try not to worry your pretty little head too much, I know what you’re like”

“But—” you worry.

“Nope” he laughs, “We’ll work through this together like we do everything else, I’m always here for you, you know that right?”

Your eyes flicker between his for a moment, words settling into your soul as you nod.

“And I’ll always be here for you too, just so you know” the corners of your lips curl up into a smile.

#bts fanfic #bts fluff #bts #yoongi #yoongi fic #yoongi fanfic #yoongi x reader #yoongi x you #yoongi imagine #yoongi scenarios #min yoongi x reader #min yoongi fanfic #min yoongi fic #min yoongi imagine #bts non idol au #bts drabble

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gatorbites-imagines · 10 months ago

Note

Whitebeard fucker here lol I’ve been summoned. Could you write something with a reader whose used to being the biggest guy around meeting whitebeard and going “ohhh” and wanting to climb that man like a tree? Any and all kinks are up to your choosing monsieur gator!! Also happy birthday man!

Edward “Whitebeard” Newgate x male reader

Headcanons

Bit my lip so fucking hard when I saw this request. Whitebeard enjoyers come assemble!

Thanks for the birthday wish :) I ended up getting a lot of comics and manga, so I’m very happy.

Reader possesses a devil fruit I made up I call the sun-sun Fruit. Hes also like 16 ft 9. Hes also at least 40+ years old. Old man yaoi.

You had known of Whitebeards existence ever since you started traveling the sea, who didn’t? The guy was a legend known as the strongest man alive, someone to avoid if you did the type of business you did.

You were a bit of an everything man. Information gathering, Intimidation, bodyguarding, assassin, anything that paid you a lot and you didn’t have to hurt the innocent, Youd do it.

The world government were cautious of you, but always let you get away with things others wouldn’t, as you also took jobs for them if need be. You played on every board, siding with pirates, with marines, with the poor, and with the rich. As long as they had good reason for asking for your help.

Your Sun-Sun fruit always helped with this as well, making you an extremely powerful fighter, possessing the ability to gather and store solar energy and light itself. After mastering it you could easily create explosions big enough to destroy islands, coat your body in solar energy, or coat your weapons, as well as many other things.

Your preferred weapon were spears, your most beloved weapon a naginata that had been gifted to you after a job well done, some celestial who fanboyed over pirates wanting to give you a big reward. The naginata was supposedly cursed, but you two got along a little too well most days.

All in all, you were well known in your own circles, but nowhere near as much as someone like Whitebeard.

That was also the reason you turned down your latest request to kill Whitebeard. You might have been strong, but you were never an idiot. You might have stood at almost 17 feet, towering over anyone you had ever met, but even you know Whitebeards crew was so loyal it was lethal.

The people giving you the request has been annoyed about you rejecting it, but they could do nothing to stop you as you left, on your way to the next island. There was never a destination in mind if you didn’t have a contract, so you just called it joy sailing.

It was mere coincidence that you found yourself sailing through Whitebeards territory. You had no need for a crew, as you had mastered the skill to create stand-ins with your sun-sun fruit, creating human shaped beings out of condensed solar energy.

The ship you traveled in wasn’t too big either, especially compared to the moby dick. But they had easily spotted you, and your “crew” had spotted them in return. For some reason the whitebeard crew were interested in you, though their interest made your heartrate skyrocket as the moby dick neared your own much smaller ship.

When it became clear they weren’t there to fight, you agreed to link up your ships, even if it was just because you knew they could end you before you would be able to run for it.

Stepping onto the ship, part of you was curious at their lack of reaction to your towering height, even as they had to turn their heads all the way back to look at you to ask questions about your “light crew”, or one of them demanding to know what your favorite food was, or where you got your naginata.

When you finally met Whitebeard though, it all made sense. The guy made even you feel small, even though he wasn’t towering over you the same way you were the rest of his crew. Maybe it was his presence, as he laughed and patted you on the back, greeting you by the nickname the masses called you.

But all you could think about was how seeing someone taller than you made you feel. Just feeling his large hand patting your shoulder, or seeing how he was still taller than you when you sat, was enough for you to think about booking it again.

You had no idea why, but for some reason you stuck around with the Whitebeard crew for a while. To the point where they started acting like you were part of the crew. Even when you tried to turn it down, they’d just give you a knowing look before ignoring your complaints.

In your opinion, you were too old to join someone’s crew, especially with you being known as a “backstabber”, as you never picked one specific side.

And yeah, you knew why you were sticking around for so long. It was all Whitebeard, and that weird, fluttering feeling he gave you, and the arousal he caused, but that was not as important…for the most part.

It was only after the crew had settled on the island to restock that you thought about leaving for real. One of your contacts had called you on your den den mushi, and told you about a very high paying job. You might have been so rich your ancestors would live in luxury, but you could never get enough.

Unluckily for you, Whitebeard had overheard the call. He had looked sad about you wanting to leave, but had invited you to join him for a drink before you packed up and went on your way.

That’s how you found yourself sitting beside him in front of a bonfire, just the two of you, both of you decently buzzed and flushed. Your devil fruit power made you mostly immune to alcohol, the heat of the sun burning the alcohol away before it could work, but whatever stuff Whitebeard had on him seemed to have the right kick.

Later you would blame the alcohol for your reaction when Whitebeards hand settled on your lower back. You had abandoned your jacket a while ago, some of Whitebeards crew running off with it to use it for some drunk game they were playing.

Your devil fruit also worked best without too much clothes in the way, meaning Whitebeards hand was right on your back, and your thirsty self had arched into it with a soft groan, your head flopping to the side to rest against him.

Whitebeard had chuckled, but it wasn’t his usual loud guffaw, but something deeper and smoother, like melted dark chocolate or the best whiskey you had ever drank.

His hand had rubbed and massaged your back until you felt like putty, small sparks of light and solar energy flickering across your torso as your control slipped, Whitebeard huffing amusedly at the small jolts it sent through his arm.

You would blush in the future when thinking about it, denying it ever happened, before blaming the alcohol once more. But in that moment, it was impossible to not spill all the thoughts you had about him. How he made you feel so hot inside, how much you fantasied about him, his hands, his height, his cock.

Whitebeard had seemed almost charmed, and maybe he was. It wasn’t every day that someone his age and especially his size had someone fawning over them. Maybe that was why he pulled you into his lap, with your back resting against his chest, as his battle worn hands traveled across the front of your torso.

He murmured and purred into your ears as one of his large, calloused hands groped and pinched at one of your pecs, making you gasp and arch into the touch, legs jolting until his other hand came down to hold your thigh in place.

The praise falling from his lips had you feeling much drunker than you were, vision blurring for a second before you were able to focus again, your own hands grasping at his pantleg as you huffed out a breath.

The veins across your body lit up every now and then from the stored solar energy in your body flickering, causing Whitebeard to chuckle that deep chuckle once more, making some comment about that being a nice party trick.

You were about to snap back a rebuttal, something rude about his own devil fruit power, but before the words could even leave you, the hand gripping your thick slid under your waistband.

Embarrassment flooded your system as you keened, head falling back onto his chest as your hips jolted. And how crazy was that? He was so tall your head fall onto his chest, not his shoulder, not above his own head, his chest.

It had your throbbing even more, immediately coating his palm in a layer of precum, making Whitebeard tsk teasingly, before rubbing the palm against the head of your sensitive shaft, only making you drip even more.

What could you say. You were sensitive. Being your size made it pretty hard to find a partner who could keep up with you, or someone you wouldn’t hurt on accident. And as your fame grew, less and less individuals even wanted to give it a try.

That was why you were keening and whimpering in Whitebeards lap like some kind of virgin, at least that’s what you told yourself to keep your dignity.

It didn’t explain the way you jolted and spilled into his hand when Whitebeard grabbing your chin, turning your head so he could kiss you. Your eyes rolled back, and solar energy flashed across your body as you came, gasping into his mouth, your breath so hot It would have harmed anyone not as sturdy as Whitebeard.

With his lips still pressed against yours he mumbled praise, telling you stuff that had you melting even further into his embrace, hips still jolting and twitching into his hand like you didn’t want it to end.

As you rolled your hips you could feel his own erection, and you almost wanted to pass out from just how big he felt. You had never met anyone who was bigger than you in that way, yet here Whitebeard was, pretty much offering it to you on a silver platter.

The night was spent with Whitebeard wringing more than just a couple of orgasms out of you, at some point leaving you so overstimulated and pleasured that your body had phased out, turning into solar energy.

Whitebeard had cackled loudly at the sight, seeing how you were in so much pleasure you couldn’t even stay solid. When you finally came back to yourself, he placed a big kiss on your cheek and then your mouth, making some teasing comment about it all.

The next morning you couldn’t look his crew in the eye, the knowing looks boring into your large broad back, that for once was wearing a shirt, to cover most of the hickeys their captain had left on you.

And if you just so happened to turn down the job offer your informant gave you, and if you just so happened to attach your ship to their fleet, and you just so happened to start being referred to in the same parental way as Whitebeard, who would be the wiser.

You honestly had no idea how to react when Whitebeards, and you guessed now your, crew started referring to you with a fatherly title in the same way they called Whitebeard Pops. You hadn’t wanted to be open about your relationship with Whitebeard, but to the crew it was so damn obvious.

Even when you and Whitebeard became official, and maybe even married at some point, you still took jobs every now and then, never getting enough of the thrill of money. But it was a lot less, and you pretty much cut all contact with the world government.

Sure, that got you a bounty and a high reward, but you honestly couldn’t care. After all this time you realized, maybe a crew wasn’t so bad. It also helped to have a partner that made you feel safe and cared for, whilst also leaving you limping in the best possible way.

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pretty-little-mind33 · 6 months ago

Text

Colt Seavers x fem!reader

Tom Ryder x fem!reader

Summary: When Tom Ryder cockily asks Colt if he can share you with him, your boyfriend is initially disgusted. You? You're less disgusted—

Genre: SMUT (nsfm)

Warnings: it's a LONG one, threesome, p in v, unprotected sex (only in fiction where babies or STDs don't have to exist 💖☺️), oral sex (m receiving), Eiffel Tower? kinda, praise, slight spanking, degradation, good cop and bad cop dynamic, sweet and stupid pet names, daddy kink, Colt and Tom low-key high-key dislike each other in the beginning, polyamorous relationship implied in the end if you squint, FILTHY SMUT (i don't know what came over me i just can't get them both out of my head)

~ ✨ something for my ryan gosling and atj girlies ✨ ~

TOM RYDER MASTERLIST

Colt leans against the steps of Tom's trailer, his back against the door as he bandages his arm. He'd just been blown out of a building, thrown around, and now his entire body hurts.

The only good thing right now is that he sees you.

"Colt," you say, running up to him, careful not to trip over the gravel, and as you sit next to him, you look him over, "you okay?" you whisper, your eyes round as you take in his appearance and touch his cheek. He smiles at you, looking completely love-sick as he tucks some hair behind your ear.

"Hi," he says, his voice soft.

You smile at him, "Hi," you lean in and kiss his lips. When you pull away, you run your hand in his hair. "You did so well in your scene. Did it hurt?" you ask him seriously.

Colt shakes his head and with a pained chuckle, he lifts his arm and gives you a thumbs up. "It's the job, cupcake," he smiles and grunts when he moves his arm. You caress your hand down his cheek, your concern evident.

"I'm gonna find you some water," you say, determined, and jump up, smiling at him as you walk away. Colt's enamored gaze lingers on you for a moment until his peace is broken by Tom Ryder's presence.

"Is that your girl?" he asks, emerging from his trailer dressed in only the pants of his costume and a towel wrapped around his shoulders as if he'd just done the most strenuous exercise of his life—which he hadn't because Tom Ryder doesn't do his own stunts.

Tom whistles and brings the straw of his juice box into his mouth. He says, "How'd you secure a girl like that, Colt? She's way too hot for someone like you."

"Charming as always, Tom," Colt groans and stares up at his coworker, "Don't you have anything better to do than creep around? Go sign some posters or something. Learn your lines, I dunno, just stop bothering me or my girl."

Tom chuckles. "You're the one leaning against my trailer looking like a broken-down rat."

"And whose fault is that?" Colt hisses. He stands and rotates his shoulder around.

"Take it up with Gail! 'M not in charge of those things." Tom raises his hand in defense, and then his small smile turns into a smirk.

"But, we're friends, hm, Colt?"

Colt glares at him, his tone deadpanned. "Sure, Tom. We're friends," he says sarcastically.

"And friends share, don't they?" Tom leans against his trailer and crosses his arms, a dangerously arrogant gaze in his eyes. "You wouldn't mind sharing your girl, would you? She's cute."

Colt's frown deepens and he hears you walk back to him. He narrows his eyes and points at Tom menacingly. "In your fucking dreams," he says and then turns to you as you hand him the glass of water you'd found.

He thanks you and then his smile vanishes when he sees you look up at Tom, your gaze on his toned abs. Tom seems over the moon that you're staring.

"Hi, doll," he says, sounding cocky.

"Hi," you answer him, clearly flustered that you're speaking with the Tom Ryder and Tom clearly knows this. He opens his mouth to answer you but Colt isn't having any of this. Your boyfriend hooks his arm around your shoulders and guides you away from Tom.

"That's enough movie stars, sweetness, let's go home," he whispers in your ear.

"Think about what I said, will you, Colt," Tom calls out, his tone light and you feel your boyfriend's hand tighten around your shoulder instinctively.

In Colt's truck, he's quiet as he grips the steering wheel so hard his knuckles turn white. He doesn't even ask if you want to do donuts, which is uncommon for him.

"Are you okay?" you ask him, moving to the center and putting your hand on his thigh. "Is it because of what Tom Ryder said? What did he mean?"

Colt's jaw clenches and he dismisses your concern. "Don't worry about it, cupcake," he says but you do worry.

"I am worrying. Please tell me," you say, in a tone you know Colt can usually never resist. Only this time, he does.

"No."

You narrow your eyes at him. "Well, now I'm thinking of the worst possible scenario."

"It is the worst possible scenario."

"What is?"

"Tom Ryder getting his filthy hands on you—wait," Colt's head snaps to you, his eyes round, realizing what you just did and you crack a remorseful smile.

"Why would Tom Ryder get his hands on me, Colt?" you whisper, ignoring how your mind plays every possible scenario of Tom Ryder having you in your head and you don't hate them.

Colt lets out a sigh and rubs his eyes. "He just said some stupid stuff—as usual," he pauses for a moment, "He asked if I could share you with him."

You stare at Colt, confused. "What?"

Colt senses your confusion and puts a hand on your thigh. "It was an awful thing to say, don't worry about him. I told him no, of course."

You blink at him, taking in what he'd just told you. Tom Ryder wanted you? He'd asked Colt to share you. You know you shouldn't, but you feel flattered. The Tom Ryder had the nerve to ask your boyfriend to have you?! Did Tom desire you that much?

"Oh," you say, your voice fading at the end, because what else could you say?

Colt turns his head back at the road, but he gives you a side-eye. "Oh?" His voice sounds tense.

You snap out of your daze and immediately shake your hands in the air. "I mean, oh–as in–gross. I'm not interested or anything! I only want you! Why would he even ask that, he's such a creep!" you say, meaning it.

Colt's shoulders untense a moment and he sighs. "Yeah, I know baby," he says, "I trust you—it's just a weird thing to imagine, y'know?"

You nod but your mind wanders to the image in question and you feel warm.

"Yeah, but you don't have to worry! I don't want Tom Ryder. He's a dick," you say. It's true. Tom Ryder is a dick and you would never even think of cheating on Colt.

Colt Seavers is lovely and he treats you well and you mean every word you've said to him—you love him.

But Tom Ryder is still Tom Ryder.

* * *

Over the next weeks or so, you visit Colt more often than usual. You don't even realize you're doing it but you start putting more attention into your outfits, your hair, and your makeup. Of course, while you don't seek out interactions with Tom Ryder, they do tend to happen more frequently.

Colt seems to notice this too and his blood runs cold when he sees Tom wink at you as he leans over you to grab a prop from behind you.

It isn't Tom's wink that annoys him as much as it is the way you look at Tom. Colt feels like someone just punched him directly in the stomach and it makes him feel so stupid.

He needs to talk to you.

On his way over, Tom walks by him and smirks at him. "She's even cuter when she's trying to be," he taunts and Colt restrains himself from socking him.

"Y/n." Colt's hand skims your arm when he approaches you and you turn to him, smiling so innocently he almost feels ashamed. "Hi, baby," he whispers, his voice soothing as he pulls you into him and kisses your forehead. You wrap your arm around his torso and kiss his nose.

"Hi, Colt," you say happily, "I saw your stunt. It was absolutely amazing!"

Your boyfriend smiles and he hears the sincerity in your voice. He caresses a hand down your cheek and his tone is kind when he says, "I need to talk to you."

Your smile disappears. "Is everything okay?"

Colt takes your hand and leads you further from the crowd of crew members around you and his thumb strokes across your palm. "Yeah, yeah, everything's fine I've just noticed you've been slightly distracted lately."

You tilt your head. "Distracted?"

He nods. "Yeah. Distracted. With Tom." His eyes drift to your exposed thigh.

Your stomach drops and you make a face. You look confused and Colt can almost see the wheels turning in your head. "What do you mean?" you ask, your voice a little shaky as you pull down your skirt to cover more of your thigh subconsciously.

"Do you remember when I said Tom wanted me to share you with him?" Colt asks bluntly and he sees your eyes widen in realization.

"N-no," you lie.

Colt frowns. "Liar," he says calmly and crosses his arms. He sees your hurt expression and his eyes soften. "Okay, listen, baby, I just want you to be honest with me. If you're suddenly all attracted to Tom Ryder, I think I deserve to know because I love you, and if y-you want to explore something with someone like Ryder—"

You panic and cut him off, holding onto his arms. "Colt, I don't want anyone else. I love you," you say, your hands moving up his arms so you can cup his cheeks and you kiss him.

You pull away and bite your lip, deciding to be honest with him because you can't deny what you're doing anymore. "But," you pause and Colt's blue eyes bounce from your features with panic.

"But, I- I am slightly—turned on by the idea of um—Tom."

Colt sees the embarrassment on your face after you say this and his breathing picks up. At first, he doesn't quite know what to do about this information. He stares at you and when he sees you squirm under his gaze, he takes your hand in his.

"Thank you for being honest with me," he whispers and then pauses, contemplating what to say next. "So, what do we do from here, baby? I-Is um—sharing—something you would really want to try?"

You nod, looking up at him with wide eyes. "But, only if you're comfortable, Colt. It can stay a fantasy otherwise. I promise."

Fantasy.

That word hits him hard. So this is something you really want, something you've actually spent time thinking about—something you've fantasized about.

The thought alone makes Colt's cheeks turn pink as blood rushes to his dick. He sighs and brings his hand up to your cheek again.

"I don't want to deprive you of want you want, especially if the third party is so fucking willing," he mentions Tom with a slight spike in his tone but bites his tongue, "but I don't know if I can handle watching you be with him. Of him having you completely. I don't know if I can deal with that asshole getting to have you like that," he says honestly.

You nod. "I understand," you say.

Colt lets out another sigh and twirls some of your hair in his fingers. "But, I suppose we could find a compromise. On my terms, not his." He sees the look in your eye shift from slight disappointment to excitement as you imagine the possibilities. Colt's chest burns and he can't deny his temptation at the thought.

He's so fucked.

* * *

Tom Ryder's bedroom is dimly lit and there is a faint smell of cologne and aftershave in the air as steam comes from his bathroom.

You're sitting on his King bed, the satin sheets feel soft under your fingers and against the exposed skin of your bare thighs. Colt stands in front of you, his arms crossed and his expression hard as he watches Tom come out of the bathroom.

Tom's wearing a blue and white robe with nothing but a pair of blue slacks, his toned abs on full display. His curly blond hair sprawled messily across his forehead and he smirks at you. Then, his eyes shift to Colt. "Loosen up there, man. You're making me nervous. Sit," he says and points to a modern-looking armchair in the corner.

"Don't tell me what to do," Colt snaps back and Tom raises his hand in mock surrender. You look between them, moving your hands to rest between your knees as you hold your breath.

Colt stares at Tom, his jaw clenched. "Okay, Y/n and I discussed some rules beforehand," he says and he doesn't like the way Tom rolls his eyes but he doesn't address it. "If you don't follow them, it just gives me a reason to beat your ass, capeesh?"

"Yeah, yeah," Tom nods and sits on the bed next to you, not touching you yet but your skin prickles at the closeness anyway. "Get on with it then."

"Firstly, I don't want to see a single bruise or mark on her," he says sternly, "she's not yours to mark. Secondly, her safe word is red and if she says it, you stop immediately no ifs or buts, and lastly, you can do whatever foreplay you want but no fucking."

Tom frowns, narrowing his eyes. "Excuse me?"

"No. Fucking. Her," Colt says again.

You listen to them, feeling like your entire body is on fire as you try and ignore how soaked your panties already are.

The feeling only worsens when Tom turns to you and asks, "Is that right? You don't want me to fuck you, sweetie?" His voice sounds like velvet and you squirm under his gaze.

"Hey," Colt snaps his fingers and Tom turns to look at him again, "Do not speak to her yet, you fucking dick."

"Fuck, alright, no need to get your panties in a twist, man," Tom grumbles and runs a hand in his hair. "I understand, okay? No fucking the pretty girl. Can we just do this? I'm getting fucking blue balls over here." He adjusts his pants and you can't help the way your eyes drift to the outline of his dick.

He's already hard.

"You okay, baby?" Colt asks you, his voice much softer now, "You still wanna do this, yeah?"

You nod.

Colt waits for a verbal reply.

"Yes, I still want to do this," you say, looking between Tom and Colt, your cheeks burning. Tom smirks at this and his attention turns to you, his blue eyes sparkling as he takes in your appearance.

"You're so sweet," he murmurs as he leans in, his lips attaching to the skin behind your ear. You gasp, feeling his hands around your waist as the fabric of your skirt accidentally bunches up a little. Colt inhales, hesitating but ultimately relenting as he sits on the armchair and his gaze fixes on you and Tom.

You make a small little squeak as Tom lifts you up and gently tosses you further up onto his bed, the soft mattress bouncing as you hit the multiple pillows Tom keeps on his bed. In seconds, his knee slots between your thighs as he hovers over you, and his lips find your neck, gently kissing your skin.

Your hands find the sleeves of his robe instinctively, accidentally pulling them down in your haze as you arch into him, the feeling of his lips overwhelming you.

Tom chuckles when he feels the rob slide down his shoulders and he hums into your neck, "Eager little thing, aren't you?" he says as the robe falls down until he's now completely shirtless.

Colt feels his stomach tighten as his hands clamp around the armchair. The sound of your pretty moans—the ones you used to make only for him fill the room and it takes everything in him not to rip the velvet armrest of Tom's stupid chair.

Tom's lips trail down your neck, his hand coming up your arm as he hooks his finger in one of the straps of your tank top, pulling it down your shoulder. You moan, arching into him again as his other hand finds your thigh and he positions your leg around him, his hips lowering to grind into yours.

Your skirt is now bunched around your waist, your wet panties very visible to anyone who looks—and both Tom and Colt are definitely looking.

"So fucking pretty," Tom groans, stroking your thigh as he moves to hover his mouth over yours, "Such a good girl," he says and then his lips crash into yours, kissing you passionately.

Colt feels hot and cold at the same time as he shifts in his seat. He wants to stop this, to tell Tom to get the fuck off of you, and to stop kissing you. You're his. His heart skips when he hears your small little whimper and he sees your eyes watching him from behind Tom's shoulder.

Instantly, he recognizes the look of arousal on your face, and something inside him shifts. He can't help the way his dick twitches in his jeans.

You moan into Tom's mouth, feeling his other hand now lower the second strap of your shirt until it's also bunched at your waist. Tom disconnects your lips just to see you in your bra and he licks his lips. You stare up at him, chest rising and falling rapidly as your body tingles all over and your pussy aches for him.

Tom unhooks your leg from his body and then effortlessly shifts you so that you're straddling his lap. His muscles flex as he holds your waist and unhooks your bra. As soon as your breasts are revealed, Tom's mouth finds your nipples as he sucks. You gasp and wrap your arms around his neck, leaning into him as your cheeks press against his head, his soft curls caressing your skin.

"Tom," you whimper, feeling like you're in heaven as he makes you feel good. "Tom," you whine.

Tom squeezes your ass, disconnecting his mouth from your hardened nipples and he looks up at you through his lashes."Mm, I love it when you say my name, sweetheart," he moans and kisses between your breasts, "Say it again. Louder. I want him to hear you say it."

Colt hadn't even realized he's started to palm himself through his jeans until Tom's voice jolts him and he frowns when he hears you again.

"Tom!" you groan, chanting his name like a prayer, "Tom, Tom, Tom," you plead, tears brimming in your eyes as the entire sensation overwhelms you. "Please," you whimper.

"Please?" Tom taunts, his hand finding your hair as he pulls on the strands so you can look down into his eyes. He sees how lidded your eyelids are and how blissed out you look and his chest swells with pride, "Fuck, you're such a slut."

Colt's jaw clenches at the degrading name but he doesn't move, his hand only working harder on his dick.

You whine, "Tom, please, please, please," you beg, "I need you."

"Hear that, Colt? Your girl wants me—no sorry, she needs me," he taunts and then shifts you again, his hand still in your hair.

You squeal, his movement causing you to lift from his lap and shift to your knees as Tom does the same. He presses your back against his chest, holding you so you're looking at your boyfriend and then his other hand grips your jaw.

"Tell him how good I'm making you feel," he whispers in your ear, biting your earlobe.

Colt sits up, staring at you as his hand still moves over his dick. Fuck. He sees Tom's hold on you and while he's slightly worried, he also trusts that you'd use your safe word if he was hurting you.

Plus, he can see how much you like this from the expression you're wearing. "H-he's making me feel s-so good," you whimper in a small voice, looking at Colt with teary eyes.

Tom laughs and then he lifts your hips, sliding down your dress and tank top so you're only in your panties. You groan, suddenly feeling Tom's hand press on your back. You whimper as you bend down, your ass pressed right to his crotch.

Tom moves his hand from your back to your hair again, pressing you into the mattress as his thumb soothes circles on your scalp. You can see Colt from the position you're in, your eyes lidded as you feel Tom's other thumb trace over your panties.

"Shit, man, she's so fucking wet," he chuckles, looking at Colt directly as he taunts him, "So fucking needy all for me."

Colt lets out a groan, wanting to unbuckle his jeans and make his own ache go away.

You whine as Tom presses his fingers against you, teasing you with his thumb as he presses you further into the sheets, muffling your sounds. He slaps your ass before resuming his movements. "Be still," he reprimands, slapping your ass again as he presses one of his fingers into you.

You cry, feeling so good as you look at Colt. Tom's fully fingering you now, his thumb adding pressure to your clit as he pumps his finger in and out.

"Colt," you whimper, watching your boyfriend as he rubs himself over his jeans. You can tell he's aroused to the point where it must be painful and you desperately want to please him. You whine again as Tom continues his movements, his other hand gripping your ass. "Colt, come here, please," you manage to say between your breathy whimpers and you sense Tom hesitate at your words, a little confused.

Colt stands, his eyes blown wide with lust as he walks over to you and looks down at you, your hair spilling over the bed as you look up at him. Tom has slowed down his movements, which makes you whimper and Colt strokes a hand in your hair. He looks at Tom. "Don't stop making her feel good," he demands sternly.

"Who the fuck are you to tell me what to do?" Tom grunts, staring daggers at Colt now as he completely pauses all movement, "Get the fuck off. You said she was mine for tonight," he sounds almost whiny and Colt rolls his eyes.

"I never said she was yours," Colt corrects him, "you can always fucking leave."

"You're at my house!"

"Please," your voice cuts into their arguing, your eyes still teary as you try and push back against Tom's fingers. You can barely form coherent sentences. "Colt, T-Tom, please," you whimper, needing them to do something.

They fall silent and look at each other, hatred still simmering underneath but in the end, they both decide you're more important.

Tom grunts and he continues to finger you as he strokes a hand over your back. "Yeah, yeah, no need to beg me, sweetie," he says, his voice unusually soft. He pulls out his fingers and then goes to pull down his pants.

"Woah," Colt says and Tom sends him a glare.

"Relax," Tom says as he pumps his cock a few times, positioning his dick over your panties and sliding it up and down. "Daddy needs to feel good too," he grunts and you gasp, loving the new feeling as wetness slides down your thigh.

Colt stares at Tom like he's gone insane but his thoughts quickly drift to you when he hears your small whimpers. He looks down, his thumb still stroking in your hair. You look so pretty like this, all at his mercy. He slides his hand down to hook his thumb in your mouth.

"Wanna make me feel good, baby?" he asks, his voice smooth. ‘

You nod, looking up at him with anticipation as he pulls out his thumb with a pop. He goes to unbuckle his jeans, looking at you with a smile as he sees your mouth open automatically as he prepares himself for you.

Colt brings the tip to your lips, asking for entrance and you part your lips. You feel him grip his hand in your hair, encouraging you. "My good girl," he whispers as you hollow your cheeks around him, taking him in. You try your best not to be distracted by the feeling of Tom's cock against your pussy as you focus on pleasing Colt.

You whine around Colt when Tom slaps your ass, "Dirty fucking slut," he grunts.

Colt snaps his hips into yours, fully fucking into your face now and watching how drool pools at the corner of your mouth. He likes the sounds you're making for him. His cock drags across your tongue and you can taste his pre-cum. You whimper when Tom picks up the pace behind you, holding onto your hips for support.

Colt pulls out of your mouth just in time to hear your pleas. "Please–I-I want him to fuck me," you whimper, your voice strained from just having his dick in your mouth. "I wanna be fucked, please, please, Colt." Tears spill from your eyes.

Tom chuckles from behind you, his hand gripping your hips harder, and before he can make any snarky remark, Colt snaps, "Shut up," and then holds your chin.

"You wanna be fucked, baby? Alright. Tom, switch with me."

For once, Tom doesn't protest Colt's demand.

He's just happy that he can put his dick into something now.

You feel them move around but you don't look up, your breathing harshening as you prepare for what's coming. You feelColt's familiar hands on your waist as he hooks his thumb in your panties and pulls them down. You gasp as his dick teases your pussy and Colt leans over, pressing a reassuring kiss to your shoulder blade as he praises, "You're doing so well my baby," he praises as he moves forwards and you groan, clutching the sheets.

You're so lost in the pleasure Colt's providing that when Tom's hand holds onto your chin, his dick bobbing near your mouth, your eyes widen in surprise. You look up at him, sticking out your tongue for him and Tom smirks as places his dick in your mouth, immediately using you.

The feeling of Colt's dick dragging in and out of your walls is tortuous but oh-so-good. Every thrust of his hips sends you further into Tom's cock and you gag, feeling so degraded and used but in the best way.

Colt's soft praises as he fucks you mix with Tom's lewd comments as he fucks your mouth hard. If this is heaven, you never want to leave.

After a while, you start to feel slightly lightheaded because of Tom's dick clogging your airflow. You've already come twice around Colt's dick and your pussy is feeling so overwhelmed. You hear Colt groan in the way he does when he'sclose and you clench around him, wanting to make him feel as good as you feel.

When he finally comes, you moan too, and feel him spill inside you. At the same time, you reach for Tom's thighs and tap them, telling him to pull out. When he does, you gasp for breath.

Tom wipes his thumb across your lips, wiping the drool, and then he smirks. "I know you said no fucking, but c'mon," he says, his voice low and hoarse. "I want a piece of her too."

Colt grunts and shakes his head, riding out his high inside you. "Fuck off, Ryder."

You moan, your body rocking back and forth from Colt's thrusts.

"One fuck won't kill you," Tom hisses, holding your chin, "Sweetheart, you want me to fuck you, don't you?" he asks you, looking into your eyes.

You can't help but nod, "Y-yes," you whimper, "Please," you whine, needing this.

Colt senses the desperation in your voice and he can't exactly blame you. You must be so overwhelmed with pleasure. He strokes your neck and then pulls out. You whine at the loss. "You want him to fuck you?" he repeats, his voice strained.

"Yes, yes, please, I need him too. Colt, please," you say, desperately. "I wanna feel him too."

Colt knows he can't deny you anything as he nods and Tom's smug smile returns. You feel like you're stuck in a hazy cloud of pleasure as your body is manipulated. Your eyelids flutter and the next thing you feel is Tom's hard cock against your pussy as you feel yourself being lowered onto his lap.

You whimper, falling forwards onto Tom's chest as you make small breathy sounds and his cock stretches you open even more.

"Be gentle with her," Colt warns him, his voice slightly tense, "She's tired."

Tom holds in a grunt, his cock twitching inside you as he fully sits you down onto his cock and then lifts you again, repeating the movement.

He presses his lips to your ear. "Just sit there like a good whore for me, okay? Daddy'll do all the work for you," he murmurs, his voice hoarse and it sends a shiver down your spine. You nod, resting your cheek against his chest and you can hear his heartbeat as he fucks up into you.

"Good girl," he soothes, his large hand over your hair as his pace picks up. "Making me feel so fucking good."

Your legs tremble, letting out pants and whine as the core aches. It doesn't take very long for you to come around Tom's cock, your third orgasm of the night, your body feeling warm and limp as you finish. You aren't even sure how Tom still has the strength or the energy to continue moving you up and down as his hands grip your hips. He shifts you so his lips press against your ear, his grunts overwhelming your senses.

"Hey, are you okay?" Colt asks from somewhere but you can't seem to pinpoint where, as you're too exhausted to think and your mind turns completely blank.

Tom continues to drag you up and down his cock, his voice mocking in your ear. "We really fucked you dumb, didn't we?" he chuckles, groaning. "Shit, I'm gonna come," he bites down on your earlobe and calls you his slut as he spills himself inside you. You feel so full and dirty as his cum mixes with yours and Colt's.

Your eyes roll and all your muscles relax. You slump forward even more, hitting your nose in the crook of his neck and making a whining sound. Tom holds you up, his touch uncharacterized gentle as his thumb strokes your cheek. He shifts you off of him, careful with you as your head hits the soft pillows. Your eyelids flutter, your chest heaving as you hear the mumbling of voices and feel the bed dip from around you.

"She's okay, yeah?" you think it's Tom and you feel someone's fingertips on your skin.

Another dip in the mattress.

"Yeah, I think," Colt whispers, his voice soft and calm as he soothes you. "You're okay," he whispers and his voice eventually lulls you to sleep as the world around you turns dark.

When you wake up again, you're tucked under the warm covers, your cheek pressed into silk pillows. You stir, blinking, and then shift onto your back. You feel clean—like someone had wiped away the cum and taken a warm cloth to your sensitive skin. You sit up halfway and look around Tom Ryder's dimly lit room and then you look down and realize you'rewearing one of Tom's shirts.

You can hear low voices from the balcony of Tom's room and see Tom and Colt having what looks like an oddly friendly smoke for two men who seemingly hate each other.

Tom's wearing his robe again, his blond curls still messily sprawled across his forehead, as a cigarette hangs between his lips and he lights it up.

Your boyfriend seems relaxed as he leans his forearms on the balcony and looks out into the cool night. He shifts his head and smiles like he does just after he'slaughed and you wonder what Tom had said.

"Colt?" you call out, your voice small, and immediately, both men walk back into the room—Tom's cigarette discarded on an ashtray on his balcony.

"Hello, cupcake," Colt whispers as he stands beside you. When he sees you sitting up fully, he tuts and pushes you down a little as the mattress dips and his thigh touches yours. "Shh, how are you feeling?"

You look between them and sense no tension or arrogance from Tom as he stands at the end of the bed, a small smile curling his lips. He moves closer and sits on the other side of you, his tone light when he says, "You did so well for us."

Colt nods, agreeing with Tom for once, and his hand finds your hair. "So well. You had fun yeah, pretty girl?"

You nod, looking between them once more as you look flustered. "Y-yeah," you admit. "It was really good."

Tom's smile widens and he sniffs. "Good," he turns to Colt, "Told ya she'd like it, man."

You expect your boyfriend to be upset by Tom's quip, but instead, he chuckles and his thumb moves to stroke your cheek.

"Mhm, I suppose you were right, Ryder," Colt whispers and you feel like you've woken up in some alternative universe where Colt and Tom are now friends.

You wonder what they'd spoken about while you slept but whatever it was, they're on way better terms than they had ever been. Tom's much nicer to Colt on set—which isn't much but it's good because whenever you visit, he'll sometimes join you for lunch. As time goes on, you kind of feel like when Tom and Colt are around you, you have two boyfriends.

And you can't say you dislike that.

#tom ryder #tom ryder x fem!reader #tom ryder x reader #tom ryder x y/n #tom ryder x you #tom ryder smut #tom ryder the fall guy #aaron taylor johnson #aaron taylor johnson fanfiction #colt seavers #colt seavers x fem!reader #colt seavers x reader #colt seavers x y/n #colt seavers x you #colt seavers smut #colt seavers the fall guy #ryan gosling #ryan gosling fanfiction #the fall guy

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bunji-enthusiast · 10 months ago

Note

Dogday calling the player "Angel" gave me an idea. Can I have the toys reaction to their favorite caretaker being turned into a new toy named "The Gaurdian" who's basically a, well, gaurdian angel. They're purpose is too watch the toys from above in the shadows like batman and make sure they don't attack any of the employees, if they do they intertwine and save them before leaving. I'd imagine it'd be hard for the toys when the hour of joy arrives since the might have to hurt they're former caretaker

Guardianship

Note || absolutely!! I might’ve gotten lazy sorry- I keep forgetting to add a Taglist too lol.

WC || 959

“A Tight Squeeze” Toys –

Huggy Wuggy:

He is very fond of you, one of many with having a very calming presence naturally. You always looked out for him, and even talked to him when nobody else would. Huggy always enjoyed your presence, but it was even more sudden to know that you had been turned into a brand new toy that was displayed and released as an official one.

The Guardian, as he had heard scientists and employees like to call the toy, was immediately surprised upon finally seeing you for himself. One day he had gotten a little too aggressive toward an employee and a swoop of air brushed past him, intervening between the employee and Huggy himself. He looked around to see who had done that, yet for the first time in his existence as a toy, he felt chilled to the bone to see your eyes glaring at him from the darkness.

Huggy wished he didn’t have to go against you when time came for the hour of joy, but you were protecting the employees he was attacking from him. He had to injure you, and he didn’t like that, but he was forced to. Because of Prototype, he believed in the prototype, just barely but he didn’t want to hurt you at all. For a moment, he felt as if he were crying when attacking you

Poppy:

She didn’t even know what had happened to you, Poppy was kept far off and away from you even during your time as a human. Oh she wished to be free, to end it all. But she certainly hadn’t expected to be locked in the case, she may have been locked in there but that didn’t restrict her from hearing things.

Guardian huh? Maybe she could convince you to side with her, be against the Prototype once she is finally freed from her stupid case. Though the screams she had heard, both animalistic and human will never leave her mind.

Bron:

Bron was a quiet dinosaur, keeping to himself and simply interacting with children whenever the few had come up to him. Overtime he had become well acquainted with you when you were human, being confused when you had suddenly stopped showing up. He had heard talk of a new toy known as the guardian, but it was yet unfortunate in his opinion as he had not lived long enough through the hour of joy to meet you once more.

He too was a heretic.

Kissy Missy:

She liked you, quite a lot when she met you. You gave off a very motherly vibe, reminding her of her fragmented past memories. Kissy had gotten closer to you then she did with others, feeling less small and afraid, more open in her movements when she was around you.

Kissy was sad when you had disappeared into thin air, leaving work one day all of the sudden. Though her answers were quickly made true when she saw you as The Guardian, a brand new toy whose purpose was to prevent other toys from being aggressive towards humans. Keeping them in line. Now she was just even more sad, but had remained interacting with you all the same.

When the Hour Of Joy occurred, she urged you to go and hide. Kissy didn’t want you hurt, as much as you protested, saying it was your job to. She was forced to knock you out the best she could, then dragged you somewhere safe and hidden – out of sight of the other toys.

“Fly In A Web” Toys –

Mommy Long Legs + Bunzo Bunny:

She had a distinct liking toward you, seeing herself in you as you both had very motherly auras. Even when she had taken care of the children, you took care of her. Especially when it had carried into your unlikely accident of transformation, being turned into The Guardian. Mommy had heard it from the ears of many children, when she had inquired about it to any of them, she was devastated.

You no longer were yourself, as she had been reminded of numerous times when she had gotten too aggressive toward any adults (even employees in particular). Bunzo was worried when he had asked Mommy about it, she reassured the musical bunny it was fine.

Everything certainly wasn’t, Bunzo had stayed out of participating in the Hour Of Joy. Mommy had to deal with the guilt of having to hurt you, because you were getting in her way so many times – always protecting the employees from her attacks the best you could.

“Deep Sleep” Toys ��

Smiling Critters + DogDay:

They all had truly liked you, kind and caring as a real caretaker would be. Though even if it had just meant you cared for the toys in particular. DogDay always was chatty with you, talking about all his other friends.

Sadness and torment was just the last thing they all needed, you got turned, turned just like they were. You became The Guardian as many had called you, your personality and demeanor changed completely. Only swooping down to protect employees against toys who got a little too close for your liking. DogDay was sad, he didn’t like it all that much. They had all shared the same sentiment.

When The Hour Of Joy came, all the smiling critters had fought against it. You were one of the few who went and protected the employees, DogDay was distressed wondering what to do. No longer he had to deal with it unfortunately as he had faced CatNap, he had punished him for being a heretic, going against the Prototype.

He didn’t even get to know what happened to you, only CatNap knew your fate and was hanging this information over DogDay’s head.

[Taglist: @everythingnicen0nnie @prince0fpaints @alocaldemisexual02]

#poppy playtime #poppy playtime x reader #x reader

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xoxoskai · 1 year ago

Text

MAYAILYA AND EVERY WHAT IF

Welcome to delusionworld, may I take your coat?

Maya first meets Ilya and recognizes him as one of the "scums" who tried to hurt Nikolai. Stomps her six-inch heel into his foot before flipping her hair and walking away.

"No, Jeremy. I don't care that he's your guard."

Notices Ilya around Cecily on Jeremy's orders and asks him if he'd bark just because Jeremy tells him to.

"Loyal dog, this one." She tells Cecily.

Ilya smirks at her, threatening and malicious before sucking in a breath and howling. Grins wider at her gritted teeth as Cecy laughs.

Maya, flustered? Since, uh, when?

Ilya is a professional Maya-ignorer first, human second.

What do you mean he can't take his eyes off her when she's in the room? He is very proficient at ignoring her.

Watches as she back pedals out of the kitchen at the Heathens mansion when she notices him there. As if remembering herself, she struts back inside and pours herself a glass of a green protein shake that exists in the refrigerator only for her.

Passes him by as he quietly eats his food before reversing her steps, sweeping the saltshaker off the tray, opening the lid and dumping it all into his pasta.

"Oops" She smiles, all teeth and no remorse.

Ilya, without breaking eye contact, digs into his pasta and takes a large bite.

Maya sucks in a sharp breath through her nose, glaring as she leaves, her glass of protein shake forgotten next to his plate.

The next time she pours herself a glass of protein shake, the Heathens are having dinner. Ilya is speaking to Jeremy inside the kitchen but watches eagerly as Maya's face blanches at the copious amounts of sugar he's added to her beverage as retaliation.

Maya glares at him, nostrils flaring, and he looks on with a face of complete innocence before focusing back on Jeremy.

She'd punch him but she is annoyed at the thought of a bruise on his pretty face.

His face is not pretty, she reminds herself.

The next time he sees Maya, she's riling Annika up.

"We'll be sisters-in-law! And we can shop together and get our nails done and grab lunch whenever! Oh, and you can be my maid-of-honor!"

Annika looks about ready to rip her hair off, but Ilya intervenes and shakes his head at her.

"You're better than this, Annika" He tells her "Don't stoop to her level. Which is lower than the basement level, by the way."

Annika giggles and Maya's back to gritting her jaw.

He watches as her gaze roves over his entire face, momentarily snagging on his white-blond hair before she smiles, feline-like

"Don't be jealous, you can be the flower boy. We have roles for everyone, even the-"

But Ilya has already turned his back to her, effectively ignoring her as he tells Annika that Jeremy is looking for her.

Annika glares at Maya once again before taking off in the other direction. Ilya waits for a moment, also deciding to leave but Maya grabs his sleeve.

"I was still talking!"

He doesn't say anything, watches her in a way that expresses his boredom and irritation at having to stand there in her presence.

It's like a punch to the gut. Maya hates that people would beg for an ounce for her attention, but Ilya always manages to make her feel like she's a speck of dirt that ought to be stepped on.

She turns around and leaves without saying anything else.

When the Heathens mansion catches fire, Maya is stuck in one of the bathrooms where the door is jammed.

Hair sticking to her back, eyes watering and body trembling, she's trying to pick the lock like her father taught her but she's too disoriented.

She is screaming for help while alternating between trying to use a hairpin to pick the lock and slam on the door for help.

When the hairpin slips from between her fingers and goes under the door, she lets out a wail and uses both fists to slam on the door and wrench the doorknob, inhaling more and more smoke, coughing violently.

The doorknob falls to the ground and the door flings open, letting in more smoke and a frantic Ilya whose face is first drenched in relief and then in rage.

"You weren't supposed to be here today!"

"The house is on fire and now you wanna talk?!"

"God help me, Maya. If we make it out of this alive, I'm gonna fucking strangle you."

He's already putting a mask over her face, but Maya pulls back, going further inside the bathroom.

"I swear to fuck-"

She sprays him with water.

"Your shirt is on fire; do you not feel anything?!"

There's a giant hole in his back, the burn on the skin registering much later. If he hadn't been distracted by how she had been trembling and crying when he found her, he would have paid attention sooner.

Instead of saying anything else, he grabs her wrist, throws her over his shoulder and starts running.

Once out, he deposits her in one of the ambulances before taking her mask off, getting ready to leave when one of the nurses starts bandaging her arm.

"Where are you going?"

She's grabbing his arm again and before he can register the feel of her skin against his, she's taken it back, her guards back up.

"Whatever" She is picking at her cuticles "I don't care."

"Jeremy is still inside" he tells her anyway, not because he was stalling- she was family with the Heathens, she deserved to know the entire story. "Nikolai, Killian and Gareth made it out safely."

She doesn't say anything, quiet while the nurse finishes bandaging her arm and moves to the cut from a splinter on her thigh.

Maya doesn't react, doesn't even flinch when the nurse cleans the wound. It makes Ilya smile. The mafia princess was a lot tougher than she looked.

He's leaving when her quiet voice gives him pause.

"You should find Niko. He can clear a path till Jeremy."

Ilya gives no indication that he heard her.

He goes looking for Niko.

They are putting Jeremy in one of the ambulances when Ilya reveals that Maya was inside when the mansion caught fire.

Niko is already halfway to the mansion when Ilya catches up and finishes the rest of his sentence.

"I got her out. She's in that ambulance, unharmed"

The oldest Sokolov is leaving to check on his sister when he stops and makes his way back to Jeremy's guard.

"I owe you one. Next time any of my sisters are in danger, they are your first priority. Just like Annika"

Ilya didn't need him spelling out who his first priority was. Ilya was well aware.

"The next time you "accidentally" touch her, she's going to sever your hand from your body before ripping out your favorite organ and chopping it in biteable sizes for dogs."

Ilya does a double take when he hears the bored voice with which Maya is delivering gruesome threats.

He pokes his head around the corner at university when he notices a furious Mia signing at God-speed as Maya translates what she's saying.

Noticing that the guy is one of the Serpents, Ilya is making his way toward the trio when Maya snaps her fingers in front of the guy's face.

"My eyes are up here, asshole."

"They are not nearly as pretty as what's down here" The Serpent replies without missing a beat, openly ogling her breasts from the deep V-neck blouse she was wearing.

Fists clenched; Ilya is about to drive one of his fists into his face, but Maya is quicker.

Knee-raised, she brings his face down by tugging at his collar and gets him right in the nose, a satisfying crunch following.

The guy drops to his knees, clutching his nose and wailing as the Sokolov twins stand over him, undeterred.

Mia notices him first, paused in the act of approaching them and she waves at him, grabbing Maya's attention as well.

She crosses her arms, unaware that she's pushing her breasts up even further, making Ilya close his eyes and pray for strength from greater forces.

Mia signs something at him and turns to Maya for translation but Maya keeps studying her nails, making no attempt to do so.

When Mia signs more furiously, Maya lets out an exasperated sigh before turning her irritated look at Ilya.

“She’s asking when are you going to drop off the face of the Earth?”

Mia swats her sister’s arm before moving toward Ilya, pulling out her phone and typing in it. Her text reads,

Heard about last night. Are you okay?

Ilya decides he now knows which Sokolov twin he likes better. He nods.

“I’m good, thanks.”

While Mia types more, Ilya slants a look toward her twin who is already scrolling through her phone. Her blouse was long-sleeved, and she was wearing skinny jeans and boots for a change. To hide all the bandages, he was sure.

Thank you for helping Maya yesterday. We owe you one.

Ilya smiles at her “She can thank me herself” is on the tip of his tongue when he looks at Maya and she’s glaring now.

If her eyes could kill, she’d have stabbed him a hundred times-no, a thousand times by now.

“Mia, I have class” she says before turning and leaving.

“You hang around Brandon King too much.”

Nikolai is telling Mia that same afternoon while Ilya supervises Annika’s cooking, who has been on house arrest since the fire.

“This much salt?”

Ilya internally cringes as Annika holds up a tablespoon of salt before shaking his head and finding a teaspoon for her.

When he returns his attention back toward the Sokolov siblings, they are engaged in a heated, glaring contest.

It reminds him of the Sokolov who is missing.

She remains AWOL for a while after that.

He only catches glimpses of her at university in passing and she’s always standing too far from him.

In every scenario.

Not like it should matter though, right?

When he finally finds her in the Heathens mansion, she’s at the door, talking to Gareth.

“I’ll RSVP for the party but tell Uncle Asher I can’t guarantee that Niko will make it.”

Ilya is on his way inside and deliberately slows down. He can’t remember how long it has been since he’s heard her voice in person.

“Jeremy is out with Niko.”

Gareth, who notices Ilya first, informs him while successfully bringing the attention of his cousin toward the outsider.

Of course, Ilya knows Jeremy is out with Niko. But he’s been making excuses to drop by more and more. Stopping by the mansion to inform Jeremy of things he could tell him over a phone call. Volunteering to teach Annika how to cook (because unlike her family, he didn’t know he couldn’t reveal that cooking wasn’t her strongest suit and openly balked when he first tasted it). Following Niko on his bike rides. Learning the basics of sign language for Mia.

Maya has already turned away and focused her attention back on Gareth. She’s touching his sleeve in a familiar manner and Ilya has to remind himself they’re cousins and grew up together.

“I’ll see you later” she’s saying, descending the steps, her plaid skirt swishing.

He’s watching her go and he wants to say something but he’s not sure what.

He’s not sure why.

Her birthday comes around and of course the Heathens are throwing a full-fledged party.

Jeremy assigns Ilya to buy an appropriate gift for the twins because he’s obliged to give one, not that he particularly cares.

Ilya shows his displeasure by buying atrocious matching little Bo Peep costumes that make Nikolai and Killian’s eyes water from laughing too hard when they catch Ilya gift wrapping them and writing-

I took lots of time to handpick these,

Jeremy

-on the card.

Ilya gets Mia a tiny plant that is easy to grow and doesn’t require a lot of watering.

Maya watches him give it to her, her eyes pinging between the gift, Mia’s reaction to it as she thanked him, and he signed back “Welcome” and finally at Ilya himself who she pinned in place with a blank look before she moved on and opened her own gifts.

If she’s disappointed that he didn’t get her anything, she surely doesn’t show it.

She stopped showing her displeasure a while back and Ilya is not aware of what changed. Earlier she used to deliberately mess with him or pick fights but now she’d removed herself completely and started to make him feel exactly what she used to call him.

A dog. Begging for attention from an owner who didn’t care.

He watches from afar as she sits in the middle of all her friends, looking lonely despite all the 200 odd people who’d shown up for her.

Maya hates her birthday. The only way to get through it, she realized long ago, was pretending she loves it.

She notices Ilya detaching himself from Jeremy’s side for the first time since the night began and making his way upstairs and she is glaring at his back.

She didn’t care if anyone saw. Did the infuriating man not know it was her birthday too?

She was so furious that he’d bought such a thoughtful gift only for Mia that she almost- almost dug her heel into his foot again.

Screw it, she had a bone to pick with him. Coming to a birthday party without a gift for the birthday girl should certainly be considered blasphemy- she decided as she stomped upstairs to look for him.

After fifteen minutes of fruitless snooping through all the Heathens’ rooms, she’s about to leave when she takes on toward the east wing on a whim.

Most of the repair work is still ongoing and Maya is about to check in Jeremy’s old room when she passes by the bathroom she was stuck in.

The doorknob is missing, and she realizes she never found out how Ilya knew she was in there or how he even got the door to open.

She pushes the door open and sure enough, Ilya is sitting on the counter, twirling a very familiar hairpin between his fingers.

“What do you want, Princess?”

Maya stubbornly keeps her mouth shut, remembering that this man didn’t care about what she wanted at all. He cared about everyone but her. He cared about her freaking sister more.

A sister he had smiled at.

Maya had only ever been the recipient of his glares, but it had taken one conversation with Mia for him to smile at her like they were long lost best friends.

“My hairpin”

Ilya laughs when she even holds her hand out, gaze fixated on the pin caught between two of his fingers.

God, those fingers.

“Give it” she says when he makes no further move.

“Why?” He asks, resuming twirling the hairpin between his fingers, taunting her with it and watching her face turn more and more irritated.

“Because it was gifted it to me and it’s of a lot of value to me.”

Partly, it was true. Her father had gifted it to her, but Maya had a million of such hairpins. She hadn’t even remembered losing this one until a minute ago.

“Bad girls who tell lies don’t get birthday presents.”

Sure enough, he procured a tiny box out of his jacket that barely fit into his hand and was wrapped in floral wrapping paper.

He had gotten her a gift too.

No, she wasn’t sure she was the one he meant. He was going to pull the rug off her feet and laugh as she fell.

“Oh good, Mia is safe then.”

Refusing to see him agree with her, she starts checking her nails, but his silence makes her look back at him.

He looked…angry.

What right did he have to be angry?

“Do you really not know that your sister fancies Landon King or are you really that ignorant?”

Maya forces herself not to snarl and instead smile at him, sickly sweet and fake.

“Why would I care? I’m gonna marry Jeremy, make Nika my maid-of-honor and you can be the ring-bearer. It’s trendy to have the dog trail down the aisle with the rings these days.”

Eyes ablaze, Ilya tells her in a deathly calm,

“Get out, Maya”

“Or what, you’re gonna hurt your master’s future wife?”

“I’m gonna fuck her in her wedding dress and then she’ll walk down the aisle with my cum dried between her legs and take her vows knowing her husband wasn’t the one who fucked her on their wedding day.”

Ilya catches the exact moment his words settle deep into her bones because she sucks in a breath and turns to leave but he’s faster, banging the door close above her head when she attempts to open it.

“No more wedding plans to make?”

“Let me go, Ilya.”

He’s so close, her hair is tickling his nose, and he can smell her shampoo. Roses and vanilla. She even smells like his darkest temptation.

“Didn’t you want me to get out? I’m going”

“Open your present first.”

“I don’t want it.”

“Take it or I won’t wait till your wedding day to make good on my promise.”

Maya takes the present.

She turns toward him, glaring at him and the stupid height advantage he has over her, but Ilya remains standing close, hand still above her head.

Aware that commenting on his closeness will only make him cockier, Maya focuses on ripping off the delicately wrapped box, trying to showcase how much she didn’t care.

She opens the velvet box and, on the cushion, lies a delicate piece with tiny sapphires embedded into gold.

Maya thinks it’s one of the most beautiful pieces she’s ever laid eyes on. Not too gaudy and flashy, just the right amount.

Unclasping it, she begins putting it on around her wrist seeing as it is too small to be a necklace or even a choker, but Ilya tuts, takes it away from her and leads her toward the counter he had been sitting on.

He lays his jacket down and before she can even comprehend what his next move is, he’s already lifting her onto the counter, settling her down on his jacket so she doesn’t dirty her white birthday dress.

Maya bites back her thanks even though she feels a little overwhelmed at the prospect of him doing this knowing she’s a germaphobe and not out of the goodness of his heart.

“It’s not a bracelet” He tells her, stepping back before grabbing her stiletto pumps and slowly raising her foot “It’s an anklet.”

“Oh”

He’s smirking while she waits with bated breath as he sets her heel on his stomach, clasping the anklet around it. He doesn’t make contact with her skin a single time except lightly brushing her ankle with his knuckles before pulling his hands away. Maya almost mourns their loss.

She’s aware he’s waiting for her to drop her leg but she’s thinking of a different scenario with lesser clothes and more skin.

Ilya can tell.

“It’s pretty” She finally says.

“Yes” He agrees “It is.”

But he’s looking at her and Maya can’t look away.

Before anything transpires, Maya snaps out of her reverie first.

“I should g-”

“Why are you avoiding me?”

His question doesn’t catch her off-guard. The fact that he noticed she’s been going out of her way to avoid him does.

“We always avoid each other”

His brows draw together “Not this way..we don’t.”

“We’re not friends, Ilya.”

“I know. I’m a dog”

Maya is rolling her eyes when he smirks at her.

“And you’re a bitch.”

She swats his shoulder “I may be a bitch, but I do have manners, I’ll return the favor on your birthday.”

“Do you even know when my birthday is?”

“14th February” At his raised eyebrows, she’s smiling “What, you think you’re the only one who knows everything?”

“No” He's stroking her calf now, making her breath hitch “I didn't get you this-” He hooks his pinky finger into the anklet “-just so you could return the favor. I had ulterior motives.”

“Like what?”

He's not saying anything, watching her in that contemplative manner that puts her on the spot “Like what?” She repeats and this time he grabs her foot and pulls her forward till she is half hanging off the counter.

Leaning one hand on the counter near her, his mouth is directly above her when he reveals his real purpose.

“When I saw it in the store, I couldn't stop picturing what it would look like around your ankle when it's dangling off my shoulder.”

#legacy of gods #god of wrath #god of malice #god of ruin #maya sokolov #ilya levitsky #landon king #mia sokolov #jeremy volkov #nikolai sokolov #killian carson #glyndon king #brandon king #eli king x ava nash #eli king #rina kent #god of war #god of pain #god of fury

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wibben · 2 months ago

Text

Hanamichi

A life measured in flowers. All of the times in his life in which Nanami received a flower.

↳ warnings: angst, major character death

↳ wc: 3,730

↳ notes: this was a collab with @tsukimefuku over what began as a silly (sad -- very sad) head canon. major credit and props to her, because without her this wouldn't exist! i had a lovely time writing this with you, and i hope we can do it again in the future!

Nanami remembered his mother’s hands, dirt under her fingernails, patient as the earth. Her garden was her temple; she greeted each flower by name, whispered as though they were children needing to be calmed. Nanami, young and fresh-eyed, watched her closely. A solemn boy with hands too small to grasp his mother’s tools, was her loyal shadow. His duty was the simple work – pulling weeds, patting down the dark soil, setting down the watering can at her nod. And when the sun hung high and the garden wore its colors proudly, his mother would offer him a single flower. "One for yourself," she’d say with a wide smile, tucking a loose curl behind her ear beneath the shrouded brim of a drooping sunhat. She’d let him choose – the reddest rose, the brightest marigold, whatever his young eyes fancied. He would carry it like a treasure back to his room, setting it with great care in a glass half-filled with water. One for him, one to keep. For a day or two, the bloom would brighten his room. He would admire it with the quiet devotion of a soul older than his had any right to be. But soon, its edges would curl, its stem would bend, and by the week’s end, it was a crumpled shadow of itself. He watched this with an unspoken sadness, something about it hurt in a way he didn’t quite understand. After a while, he stopped picking the flowers, even when his mother offered. He wanted them to stay as he saw them – in full bloom, untouched. “Why not take one?” she’d ask, her voice as gentle as the soil beneath her hands. But he’d shake his head, glancing out at the garden as though trying to memorize it all in a single look. “They’re prettier here,” he’d murmur, his voice almost too quiet to hear. And his mother would smile, ruffling soft blonde hair with those same earthy hands with a mothers pride; a lesson imparted that sometimes the things you love should be left alone, because love, in its purest form of brilliant colors and sunny smiles and dirty hands, is not about possession, but appreciation.

******* ***

Nanami wasn’t one for friendships, nor for the loud, messy camaraderie of his classmates. He was the quiet observer, the one whose presence was easy to overlook until you needed a clear answer or a steady hand. Haibara Yu, on the other hand, was the kind of boy who made himself known in every room – friendly, loud, with an irrepressible grin and the easy charm that pulled everyone into his orbit. Haibara was the type who could wander into a stranger’s conversation and be welcomed before he’d even said his name. He would find beauty in the ordinary – a bent blade of grass, an overripe pear, fallen blossoms trodden underfoot – and he gave freely, tossing these pieces of his joy like candy. And somehow, this boy, more golden-retriever than man, became his best friend. During the brief weeks of cherry blossom season, petals blanketed the schoolyard, caught in the breeze, drifting like snow. Haibara would gather them by the handful, tossing them to anyone nearby enough to receive them; like they were something precious, and not just seasonal tree-litter. Nanami found himself on the receiving end of Haibara’s antics more often than not. One particular afternoon, Nanami was deep in a book, crouched against the wall beneath the shade of a tree, when he felt a tug at his collar. Haibara tucked a blossom behind his ear. “Perfect,” he announced, stepping back with a look of proud mischief. “Gotta add a little color to your life, Nanami! Look how pretty!” Nanami had grumbled, brushing the petal from his hair, but Haibara’s smile was contagious. Against his will, he found himself smiling, too, at the absurdity of it all. And despite his protests, he let Haibara continue – tucking flowers into his hair, hiding them in his hood, filling his pockets with petals until they spilled onto the floor. He would humor him, because he knew how deeply Haibara loved every moment of living, and how little he asked in return.

And then, the worst outcome to what should've been just a regular Tuesday happened.

There were no flowers in there. That was the first thought that seeped its way into Nanami's mind as he gazed down at Haibara's covered up body in the morgue, bloodshot eyes prickling with the pain from the day prior. No flowers, only the blossoming petals of coagulated blood that had stained the thin fabric separating what was once someone bigger than life and the harsh reality of their permanent absence.

The stark contrast between the shiny, cold, hard steel over every surface in that room left no space for the green, the pink, the yellow, the resplendent warmth of life that was alien to this mortuary monolith of death. And then, just as grief had dug its teeth around his chest, Nanami came to realize what could only be considered as some sort of self-inflicted torture.

I never gave him any flowers.

The cherry blossoms Haibara had fashioned in his hair, his clothes, all around him on that one sweet, sunny day – it had all stayed with Nanami, the memory of a beautiful moment shared with his closest person now tarnished by the weight of this painful realization.

Was this it? Did Nanami fail his best friend so spectacularly that the first flowers he'd ever give to Haibara, someone who flourished in everyone's life, would be at his funeral?

Was this the future reserved for the likes of him and Haibara? The beauty and tenderness of petals only reserved for when it was too little, too late?

It was only after Haibara was killed, a mission so routine that all were left reeling, that the memories stung, sharp as thorns. Sometimes, on nights thick with silence that should’ve been filled with crinkling snack bags and loud laughter well past quiet hours, Nanami would find a blossom pressed between the pages of a book Haibara had borrowed. A reminder, pink as a bleeding bruise, pinned within Nanami’s careful pages. A beautiful life, snipped with violent sheers from the garden – a blossom he’d only started to fully appreciate as its edges were already curdled with decay.

******* ***

There was a dim, unchanging silence in Nanami’s life after Haibara’s death – a grayness that blanketed every hour, every inch of his thoughts; what was a garden without a sun to feed it? It was easier to let himself drift, as though by keeping his mind empty, he might somehow avoid feeling anything at all. And in that space, Nanami found a kind of grim peace. Silence, to him, was a balm. But Gojo Satoru wouldn’t let him have it. Gojo was all brightness and noise, a sharp, irrepressible force that never leashed itself to restraint. He would show up unannounced, talk too much and too loudly, filling Nanami’s presence with his voice. And if Gojo noticed Nanami’s lack of response, he gave no indication – because Gojo Satoru was not something so trivial as the sun, he was a supernova, too brilliant to look upon. On a late afternoon, Nanami retreated to the yard – a place he’d once found calm – when Gojo appeared, holding a bundle of cherry blossoms. He approached with that signature grin, holding the flowers out as though they were some grand token of kindness, something Nanami should be grateful for. “Spring,” Gojo announced, his tone far too cheery, as though the world had every reason to celebrate. “Pretty, right?” Nanami stared at the flowers, his expression blank. The blooms looked too pink, too delicate, too flowery, too perfect. A perfect mockery of what they once meant. He took one sharp breath, feeling the tightness in his chest harden to something cold.

“Take them,” Gojo insisted, practically shoving the blossoms into Nanami’s hand. He didn’t so much as glance down. Instead, he let his hand fall, releasing the flowers without a word. They drifted to the ground, the petals scattering in a small, meaningless heap. Nanami looked away, his gaze fixed somewhere over Gojo’s shoulder, anywhere but at the person who was trying, too hard and without reason, to intrude on his grief.

“Not in the mood. Got it!” Gojo grinned. But Nanami only turned on his heel, walking away without so much as a nod. If Gojo wanted a reaction, he’d get none from him. He felt a grim satisfaction at his refusal, a confirmation that he could still draw a line when he existed in straight lines and statistics and rationality and ratios. Gojo’s flowers, now scattered and forgotten, lay where he had dropped them, as if they’d never held any meaning at all. Because there was no room for flowers in Nanami Kento’s life. They were too fragile, their supple flesh bruised too easily by the fingers of the cruel or the careless. It mattered not if he left the flower to grow in the garden, because for all the care and appreciation he could show it, it would die.

They always did.

******* ***

Nanami Kento grew up, and became a man of small routines and quiet convictions. He was disciplined and solitary, spending his days in a precise pattern of obligations: work, study, sleep, and repeat. He ate alone, walked the same routes, and carried a silence that made most people feel comfortable leaving him well enough alone. Each Monday, he went to the florist down the street from his apartment. It was a small, unremarkable shop, the kind you might pass without a second thought with sun-stained and yellowed windows and old cracked tile. Inside, the flowers were modest – no grand arrangements, no bouquets meant to wow. But every week, Nanami would stand there, studying each bunch with the seriousness he usually reserved for work. As cyclical and predictable as his mundane habits, the flowers were a commitment, something to return to at the end of each day, a small reminder that he had at least one reason to make it home. A cautionary measure of sorts, in case he faltered in his unyielding resolution to keep at his ordinary routine with his ordinary, reliable little comforts.

They required almost nothing of him – just a fresh glass of water each morning and a moment to discard the wilting petals when they’d had their time. In return, they filled a small corner of his apartment with something bright and alive. A much needed reminder in his line of work. Once, an old colleague had asked him why he didn’t get a pet. “Seems like you could use the company,” they’d said offhand. But he had only shaken his head. A pet would require too much. They grew attached, they needed more than just water and sun – they required presence, a resource Nanami could not afford to offer, not to anyone or anything. If he died, which he viewed as inevitable, it would be left alone, a burden passed along to someone else. No, Nanami couldn't. He wouldn't.

Flowers were different. Their impermanence suited him. They were not expecting a tomorrow, and in that way, they were a comfort he could manage. Aware of his position as a jujutsu sorcerer, clearly to a fault, he'd rather not impose his absence onto another living being, and treat himself like something just as ephemeral as the petals he'd let wither every week in that quiet, little corner of his life. The flowers were not from anyone, not a gift, not a gesture of pity. They were something he gave himself, a small reminder that, perhaps, he deserved to see beauty in his own life, too. They were a nod to survival, to making it through each Monday, then Tuesday, and on and on. He’d place them in the same glass vase, set them on the same narrow ledge near his kitchen window, and allow himself a brief moment to admire the color they brought to the room. And when he returned each evening, the sight of them gave him a small, steady reason to stop, to take a breath, to continue forward. Because as much as he liked to think he was untouched by the world around him, he knew better than to believe he was anything more than mortal. And mortality, as it did for all things, would catch up with him. Nanami honed his life to a blade, sharp and solitary. He worked until the ache in his bones became as familiar as his breath, until each day bled into the next in a march toward the inevitable conclusion he would not name.

******* ***

Mahito’s touch was fire and rot. A thousand memories converged: his mother’s garden, flowers he dared not pick; Haibara’s petals, scattered across his shoulders; Gojo’s blossoms, unappreciated then, but stinging now with the ache of regret left trampled in the dirt. In the blackened periphery of his vision, those flowers now floated, eerie, fragile momentos against the creeping dark in his eyes – or eye, he thinks he has only one now. They reached out in a sea of pale blooms to guide him, open arms to welcome him home. Haibara stood just ahead, haloed in light, and Nanami couldn’t even begin to think that strange. He knew he would be there. The boys smile was as steady as it was in life, unbroken, as though death had granted him nothing but peace. He felt the ache of it most sharply, shuddering through his bloody and broken body. His old friends face like springtime, unspoiled and untouched by the brutal, shrieking world they’d been born into. He need only step forward, to sink, to fall – the cold hand caressing between his shoulder blades would shepherd him to death. But footsteps came echoing down linoleum, pulling him back as he teetered on the razors edge. Yuji. Peach-pink, a small brightness against his vision that grows darker with every cold breath. A flower himself, hopeful and stubborn, rising from the barren soil of their world. His face was desperate, broken in the way his name cracked and fell hollow from his lips with trembling hands that wilted limp to his sides. Nanami’s heart twisted; he’d known this moment would come, that the end had been creeping up behind him all this time. He feared Yuji’s grief, what it could become and what it could do, the way this scene would imprint itself deep in the boy’s memory, sinking roots that might never let go. But in Yuji’s gaze, even beneath flat horror and despair, he saw it – the strength he’d searched for his whole life, something soft and resilient. Yuji was as fragile and as enduring as a wildflower, something untouched and tenacious, able to withstand the bitterest of winds and the worst of natures cruelty. Nanami saw it clearly: Yuji would grow, rise from ruin, bright and alive. He would persist. The edges of his world blurred, discordant shapes curling in the melting pot of his eye, and with a last, soft breath and his best attempt at a smile, Nanami gave what faith he had left. “You’ve got it from here.”

******* ***

The quietude solemnly prevailed over the debris and decay of Shinjuku, and for a fleeting moment, Gojo thought of the irony, how come such chaos left in its wake this indelible absence of sound? No birds chirped in the morning, nor any other animals dared to venture through the battle-scarred surroundings, no man's land for those who insisted on staying behind to fight the King of Curses.

The silence that laid there laid bare in mourning for the losses.

Gojo gazed out the window as the gray sun set behind a curtain of gray clouds cast over the gray skyline, torn-down buildings scattered all over the gray terrain and pillaged wreckage. The air itself weaved flecks of soot and inhospitality, and it had been days since he saw a murmur of life dredging its way through the barren landscape — a small humming bird, that fleetingly passed its way outside their makeshift bunker before disappearing just as fast as it had come.

In this prevalent, overwhelming absence of green, the best he could haphazardly improvise was poaching a plastic flower from one of the many florals centerpieces on sale in an abandoned, ransacked store around the area. That, and a single incense, with a simple, small, black square incense holder.

Over the windowsill, the sorcerer placed one single faux white rose, the edges of its petals frail and frazzled under dust blemishes. Beside it, Gojo positioned the holder with a simple byakudan incense propped up by the holder's snug. It stood proudly, even if ideally, Gojo would've preferred to spare the right amount of incenses, time, effort, and flowers to hold a proper otsuya in honor of his fallen friend. The incense's smoke snaked and swirled in the air in a lonely stream, and just as Gojo himself, the solitude of the moment he held away from his students and colleagues ensured him once more.

We all die alone. Just like Nanami did.

Joining both his hands in front of his chest in a prayer, Gojo surrendered his six eyes to the quiet, closing his eyelids, regarding the silence for a moment with careful consideration, a small gesture of affection he spared for those he truly cared about. He wondered, caught up in thoughts, if he should indeed chant a sutra in the ratio sorcerer's honor, and as a trick of his imagination bringing forth the amalgam of impressions and memories ingrained in his mind, Gojo could hear the faint ghost of Nanami's voice. He could hear in the measured, precise beats of his usual nonchalant tone how unnecessary that was, and that Gojo, as the strongest, should waste no precious time in other endeavors that weren't dedicated to slay the evil which had brought destruction over Japan. And he heard, just as faintly, that same voice recede quietly in empathetic acceptance of his irrational need to honor a departed colleague.

For all his methodical regard over human matters, Nanami was inexorably kind at heart, clearly to a fault.

Clearly to death.

"Gojo sensei?" a minute whisper cut through the somber silence, and Gojo turned around to look at the two who stepped into his solitary funeral rite. Yuji and Ino stood in the doorway, gazing at him and then at the makeshift, simple altar he had concocted with those few looted items. Upon realizing what Gojo was probably doing, Yuji apologized, and explained, "we were looking for you. We didn't mean to intrude."

"It's alright," Gojo replied, his usual smile forming over his face as a force of habit for his students’ benefit.

Ino regarded the scene in front of him attentively, remembering that earlier, on that very same day, Gojo had finally learned about Nanami's death during the Shibuya incident. Thoughtfully, he inquired, "is this an otsuya for Nanami?"

Gojo was slightly surprised, but not from the keen observation skills of Ino – after all, he was his mentee, Nanami's mentee. Gojo just didn't have in mind he'd find himself in this very scenario, even in all likelihood of that happening.

"Yes, yes it is," he conceded.

"I'd like to pay my respects too," Yuji stated, stepping forward towards his teacher, "if that would be okay."

"Me too," Ino followed, approaching them both with measured steps. He briefly noticed the unkempt state of the rose Gojo had put as an offering on the windowsill, and it crossed his mind with a stinging amusement how much Nanami would be equal parts offended and grateful for this thoughtful gesture done in such a haphazard manner, even if he probably would only voice the former. Funerals, after all, were impractical. They served as vehicles of grief for the living, not the dead who had long since been shepherded along past whichever mortal veil awaited them. And in this desolate land of ruin and war, where grief hung heavy and pressed bowed heads all the lower, there was still beauty to be found in this small act of rebellion against death. A kind of garden bloomed in that space – not one of petals or green things, but the connections left behind, roots that dug deep, holding fast even in barren soil. A garden of the heart, built on friendship, quiet appreciation, and the stubborn will to live and remember.

And in that sacred silence, Nanami would have clapped Ino on the back in the way he never did in life, a chuckle in his throat as he chided him with a quiet, “real men cry, Ino.” Ino’s jaw trembled, his hands tight at his sides, a breath held in with solemn determination not to let tears fall. Nanami might have approved, or perhaps he’d have nudged him closer to grief with a final, gentle insistence: some burdens were meant to be shared.

Yuji stood apart, eyes wide and carrying grief in the fragile way of youth. Nanami would watch with a quiet ache, recognizing that herculean weight Yuji bore, a burden he’d taken on willingly but never asked for. In Yuji, Nanami saw an echo of his younger self – a boy carrying the burdens meant for a man, each step of the path cobbled by the failure of the adults around him. Perhaps, in another life, he might have been there to guide him further, to offer the steady strength of a fathers hand. But here, from this distance, he could only hope that Yuji knew: he had done enough.

At Gojo’s side, Nanami would have stood without a word, a silent presence where no more needed to be said. He’d never dared it in life, never felt it his right to stand beside a man who seemed less human than some cosmic force. But here, in death, he allowed himself to be steady and still, a quiet echo of companionship he never afforded himself. And as Gojo’s eyes slid sideways, a faint, knowing flicker, Nanami wondered if he knew.

In the end, Nanami had left little behind, yet these three, brighter than any flower, were a bouquet of all he’d valued. An oasis, growing fast even in the shadowed, broken heart of Shinjuku. The smoke drifted higher, and somewhere beyond it all, Nanami stood watch, as those three blossoms remained forever in full bloom.

#jjk #jujutsu kaisen #nanami kento #kento nanami #jjk nanami #jujutsu nanami #nanami angst #jjk angst #angst #nanami #kento #kento angst #nanami kento angst

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strongheartneteyam · 9 months ago

Text

I wet you like water but she stained you like blood.

Pairing: widowed!dilf!jake sully x younger!female!human!reader

CW: slight sexual language, can be triggering to some, heartbreak, age gap kink, hurt/no comfort, age gap relationship problems, angst, reader reminiscing (pls tell me if I missed anything)

So, yeah... I never know when I'm gonna come back with another writing. My hiatus n working periods are all a bit unpredictable lol sorry. Anyways... I literally spent the whole night awake n I was struck by a sudden lightning of creativity early in the morning and I edited this chapter n wrote a bit more, but I still haven't slept at all, so, I apologize if some parts of this make no sense at all. I'll fix it when I can. Hope you guys like it <3 ily guys a whole lot :)) obs: this chapter is a shorter one.

Slightly proofread.

Chapter 4 𓆩♡𓆪

They say all's well that ends well

But I'm in a new hell every time you double-cross my mind

You said if we had been closer in age maybe it would've been fine

And that made me want to die

The idea you had of me, who was she?

A never-needy, ever-lovely jewel whose shine reflects on you

All Too Well - 10 minutes Version (Taylor Swift)

𓆩♡𓆪

It had been 1 year since the last time you saw Jacob Sully. Or Jakey, like you used to call him. The wound never healed. It still throbbed and bled every time you remembered the words he told you that dreadful day. "I think we should stop seeing each other." It felt like you would never get over him. How can one get over such an overpowering, raw feeling? He marked you forever, like a bruise that seemed to never disappear from your skin.

The flashback came like thunder in a storm, haunting your thoughts with a loud pain that echoed through your mind. What you told Jake that night.

“The truth is I love you. The truth is I can't take this anymore. I'm giving you my everything but you don't seem to be doing the same. You're still guarded.” There was a tense period of silence “Jake… I love you. But I don't think you feel the same.”

Maybe you shouldn't have said anything. Maybe if you had kept your mouth shut, he would still be with you.

Ugh!! Stop that, now, (y/n)! Some self love, please? You're better than this. You deserve better.

You tried to convince yourself of that, at least.

The pain was unbearable at times and almost easy to conceal at other times. It depended on how distracted with work or your studies you were. These days you ran to any distraction that could ease the perpetual angst that squeezed your heart inside its hands all the fucking time. It had been like that ever since Jake left you. What were you expecting anyway? You should have known you were never truly loved by Jake. The love of his life was Neytiri and it would always be, alive and walking through Pandora or dead and with Eywa.

It felt beyond weird to have to hear people talking about Jake and have to pretend he was a stranger to you, someone you barely knew, when he had actually left a mark so strong on you, a memory ingrained in your brain, a feeling, a pain buried inside your heart that made you want to scream and hit your head against a wall. That's how much it hurt.

You would never have his body against yours again, warming you up when it was cold, after you spent the whole day in that damn lab, studying Pandoran plants but all you could really concentrate on was how much you missed his reassuring, protective presence. He made you feel safe for the first time in your life. But now he is gone. Just like every single good thing you ever had in your life. But you know what? Maybe your mother was right, maybe love wasn't really something that could ever last forever.

Did Jake ever really make a real effort to be with you? Thinking back, it was extremely easy for him to just come to you and fuck you anytime he felt sad and lonely. What if you had just been a naive, dumb girl all this time? Were you mourning a love that never actually existed? It was always so hard to talk to him about his feelings for you, he never actually let you in, to be honest. All the time you two spent together, you were never able to know if he ever saw you as a partner or just a fuck buddy.

Oh, but the high… it was worth all the lows. The butterflies in your stomach every time you guys were almost caught fucking in the back of your work room by Norm. Eventually you guys had to tell him about your situationship because, oh well… he already knew what was going on, really. Norm is not a fool or a child. He could add 2 plus 2.

The adrenaline was worth all the tears. And, fuck… you would do it all over again in a heartbeat.

𓆩♡𓆪

Taglist:

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@fairyyrosee

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@ufiy

@yeosxxx

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@bakugouswaif

@slytherdor01

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dilys-min · 26 days ago

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Kalopsia

Pairing: Yandere!Blade × Reader

Warnings: Yandere, Unhealthy relationship, Imprisionment, etc.

Word counts: ~ 800 words

You’ve always loved Blade’s swordsmanship.

Whenever he wields the sword, each strike and swing is done in ways which could only be sharpened by years if not centuries of experience, as though the art of combat is deeply engraved in the essence of his soul. Watching him fight has never failed to leave you in awe. Glints of gold and red from the cracked sword would fly disorientedly, painting a granter picture of the dark haired man, captivating those who come across it. You struggle to hold a sword upright, let alone trying to swing it, while Blade, being more evidently effortless to do it, is patient enough to be your mentor (after a lot of consistent begging on your part and blunt rejections from his side, of course). However, your apprenticeship ended when you somehow managed to injure yourself under his supervision. It felt surreal to watch him fight, facile but meticulous nonetheless.

You have always loved Blade’s swordsmanship, just until you see yourself at the receiving end of it.

For someone who has such a sharp sense in fighting, Blade can be surprisingly dense in other matters, especially when it comes to technology or romance. How could a person fully aware of the sharpness of his sword while remaining painfully oblivious to how lethal his love can get? This remains as a conundrum to you as you find yourself becoming the focus of Blade’s orbit. And like a star, his presence never leaves your eyesight, and yet, he never makes an attempt to draw close to you.

“Bladie might seem crude but he is actually far softer than he would like to admit. Don’t worry, dear. Everything will be in fate’s favor”

Kafka had said that with a tone nonchalant enough to make you doubt the genuity of which.

Now, looking back at it, you cannot help but wonder if she had foreseen this turn of event. Being a devoted follower of Yaoshi, like many others, you had prayed and was granted the ability to heal others, to relieve their pain. Still, how could you fix someone who have already been disintegrated and rebuilded far too many times? Blade is someone who has got used to being broken down and he knows that when you are broken into pieces, you would never recover fully, some small parts of you will be forever lost to the raging mara insides, for better or worse. Therefore, he latches onto you, hoping that some pieces of you would suffice for what he lost. Maybe that is what Kafka has seen. And yet, you convince yourself to believe otherwise but for whose sake, you wonder.

You cannot fathom how much you have come to hate Blade’s swordsmanship.

Captivity could do so much to one’s mind and you could already feel its claws at the back of your mind. Days after days spent cooped up in the four walls of your room, staring through the glass panel that separated you from the universe. How long had you been on this ship? Weeks… or months? Which star out of thousands if not endless of star systems out there is your home? The past few hours had been you screaming and crying with Blade standing at the doorway.

“Why can’t you just let me go, Blade? What quality do I have that make you deem it fair to pluck me out of my life?”

“I cannot guarantee that my answer will satisfy you.” His expression changed for a moment, fleeting but not go unnoticed

“In my wrenching existence, you are the one that makes everything more worthwhile. This is what I could do in order to prevent you from getting hurt.”. Both of you know that was a lie. Everything has always been more to his whims than yours, though he refused to believe it. Had it not been for his self restraint, his mara might have devoured you whole.

“So you think it is better to let me rot in the dark than to lead a normal life?”. Your voice was filled with bitterness; tears were rolling down your cheeks and your eyes were puffy. You couldn’t even imagine what you must have looked like anymore.

“I can give you anything else but what you truly desire… I cannot give”.

As you looked into the eyes that you once did with such loving intent, there was only sorrow, but never regret for what he had done. You would claw those scarlet irises out of his socket if it meant that he would feel a modicum of your affliction. Nevertheless, knowing Blade, he would gladly let you do just that.

At that, you could only sob in response.

After everything, you have realized Blade’s swordsmanship was never glamorous nor scrupulous as you elucidate it to be, you have just been at his mercy from the start, spared from the sharp end of his sword; and that was truly the cruelest atrocity Blade is capable of.

#yandere #yandere x reader #writing #hsr blade #yandere blade #blade x reader

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cumironi · 6 months ago

Text

CURSEBOUND HEART : RYOMEN SUKUNA

THE HIDDEN CURSE

Satomi Gojo, a talented sorcerer with a mysterious past, senses an unusually powerful cursed energy and decides to investigate. Her search leads her to an abandoned building where she encounters Yuji Itadori, the vessel of Sukuna. As Sukuna temporarily takes control of Yuji, he recognizes Gojo’s sister as his reincarnated wife, sparking a tense confrontation and revealing a dark, shared history.

⠀⠀⠀Tokyo Jujutsu High buzzed with the controlled chaos of students training under the watchful eye of Satoru Gojo, the enigmatic sorcerer known for his limitless potential and mysterious past. The morning sun filtered through trees in the training ground as Gojo guided his charges through rigorous exercises. His blue eyes are watching his sister closely, intensely.

⠀⠀⠀In the tranquil serenity of Tokyo Jujutsu High's secluded training grounds, Satomi Gojo moved with effortless grace, her movements a testament to years of disciplined training. Surrounded by ancient trees and the soft rustle of leaves, she focused intently, channeling her energy into precise strikes and intricate seals. She can feel her brother's eyes on her, watch every move she makes, every breath she takes, every blood that pumps in her heart— like he's waiting for the second she's made a mistake and makes fun of her like when she was a kid.

⠀⠀⠀But amidst the calm, a sudden ripple in the air disrupted Satomi's concentration. A familiar, sinister presence stirred within her, sending shivers down her spine. Cursed energy, ancient and malevolent, surged around her like a spectral tide, awakening memories buried deep within her soul.

⠀⠀⠀As she continued her exercises, snippets of another life flickered through Satomi's mind like shards of a shattered mirror. She saw herself in a distant past, clad in robes of another era, standing before a figure wreathed in darkness—the enigmatic King of Curses, Sukuna.

⠀⠀⠀In those fleeting moments, Satomi glimpsed fragments of a forbidden love that defied the boundaries of time and reason. She remembered the whispered promises exchanged under moonlit skies, the tender moments stolen amidst the chaos of battle, and the bitter anguish of betrayal that tore them apart.

⠀⠀⠀A sudden surge of cursed energy snapped Satomi back to the present. The sensation was unmistakable—the same chilling aura that once bound her heart to Sukuna's in a tumultuous dance of fate. Her pulse quickened with a mixture of dread and determination as she realized the implications of its return.

⠀⠀⠀The moment she got pulled back to reality she could feel her heart beating faster, hurting her in the process. Satomi coughed and fell to her knees, she clutched her hand to her heart and felt the pain as if a thousand needles rained down right to her heart. At the same time, she also could feel the same pain in her right eye. With one hand covering her eyes, Satomi looks to her left where her brother stands. Just as she knows Gojo is already looking at her. Satomi couldn't figure out what he was thinking behind that blindfold and one thing that she was sure of was that Gojo knew what happened to her, maybe.

⠀⠀⠀Suddenly, a sharp ring pierced the air, breaking the rhythm of the training session. Gojo’s expression shifted imperceptibly from you, his usually playful demeanor giving way to a mask of focused determination. With a fluid motion, he retrieved his phone from his pocket and glanced at the caller ID—a fellow sorcerer from the Jujutsu world.

⠀⠀⠀“Gojo-sensei,” the voice on the other end crackled with urgency, “we’ve detected an anomaly in the heart of Tokyo. Cursed energy levels are off the charts. It could be Sukuna.” Gojo’s eyes narrowed slightly at the mention of Sukuna, the infamous King of Curses whose existence posed a perpetual threat to the delicate balance of the Jujutsu world.

⠀⠀⠀Without another word, he ended the call and turned to his students, to you, his voice cutting through the air like a blade. “Class dismissed,” Gojo’s tone brooked no argument. Before he went, he looked at you from afar, without saying a word you know he doesn't want you to do anything stupid and know your place.

⠀⠀⠀Gojo, he sensed the anomaly spreading like a festering wound within the city and the last thing he wanted was your stupid and careless behavior. So he gathered a team of trusted students—Yuji Itadori, Megumi Fushiguro, and Nobara Kugisaki—and briefed them on the urgency of their mission.

⠀⠀⠀“Gojo-sensei!” Yuji waves his hand in the air once a glimpse of his favorite teacher comes into his vision. “You guys here!” with his back pressed against the car door and both hands in his pocket, Gojo smiled and waved back. “So what are we gonna do here?” Nobara asked, holding her hammer in one hand.

⠀⠀⠀“Listen up,” Gojo began, his tone devoid of its usual lightheartedness. “We have a situation in the city. Cursed energy levels are off the charts. It’s highly likely Sukuna is involved. This is serious. We need to move out now.” Yuji's eyes narrowed. The mention of Sukuna sent a chill down his spine. The King of Curses was a perpetual threat, one that required immediate and decisive action.

⠀⠀⠀Even tho he felt scared, Yuji, always eager to help, nodded determinedly. Megumi’s eyes narrowed in focus, while Nobara cracked her knuckles, ready for whatever came their way. Unbeknownst to them, Satomi Gojo, Satoru's younger sister, and a skilled sorceress, silently volunteered to join the mission. Driven by a personal stake in the unfolding crisis, she blended into the shadows, her presence unnoticed but her determination unwavering.

⠀⠀⠀The team moved swiftly through the bustling streets of Tokyo, the vibrant cityscape a stark contrast to the dark energy they were tracking. Gojo led them with unerring precision, his senses finely tuned to the anomaly’s location. Satomi trailed behind, her heart pounding with anticipation. The cursed energy she sensed was unmistakably familiar, stirring memories of a past life intertwined with Sukuna’s.

⠀⠀⠀Their journey led them to an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of the city, where the cursed energy pulsated with a sinister rhythm. Shadows danced eerily along the walls as the team cautiously entered, each step fraught with tension and uncertainty.

⠀⠀⠀As they ventured deeper into the warehouse, Yuji’s senses suddenly sharpened. “Huh?” he stopped in the middle, making the two of his friends stop in their tracks as well. “What is it now, Yuji?” Nobara asks, seems like she's not really in the mood for Yuji's bullshit in the middle of the mission. Megumi just looked at his friend with a bored expression. “Didn't you guys feel that? Suddenly the air feels so heavy,” he says.

⠀⠀⠀“Is it Sukuna?” Nobara asks.

⠀⠀⠀The air grew heavy with an oppressive presence as Sukuna’s malevolent energy coalesced around them. Satomi’s heart skipped a beat as she somehow recognized the familiar aura, her instincts screaming a warning of imminent danger.

⠀⠀⠀In the dimly lit confines, Yuji’s body tensed, a vessel for the ancient curse that lay dormant within. As if drawn by an invisible force, Sukuna emerged, his gaze locking onto a girl with unsettling familiarity. Satomi stood her ground, eyes locked onto him, her heart pounding with a mix of fear and determination. The cursed spirit's smirk was as sinister as ever, but beneath it lay a flicker of something more—recognition, perhaps, or even regret. Yuji's bare face is now covered with Sukuna's tattoos.

⠀⠀⠀“Hina,” Sukuna’s voice echoed through the cavernous space, a whisper laden with centuries-old secrets, “you've been hiding from your past for too long.” Satomi had no idea who Mirumi was, as hard as she could to try to connect the dot she had none, but somehow she knew it was meant for her, that Hina was her. Satomi’s breath caught in her throat as she stared into the abyss of his gaze, seeing echoes of love and a betrayal that transcended lifetimes.

⠀⠀⠀Sukuna’s taunts cut through the silence like a blade, dredging up memories of their shared past—moments of passion intertwined with betrayal and heartache. Yuji struggled against Sukuna’s growing influence, his internal battle mirrored by the turmoil raging within Satomi’s heart.

⠀⠀⠀Satomi's jaw clenched. Instantly she feels rage buried beneath her flesh like she's never felt before, like she never knew it was there. “And you’ve been wreaking havoc for centuries. What do you want from me, Sukuna?” She doesn't know why she recognized him, as she had known him for as long as she can remember. Her six senses can recognize him but only the basic one, but her soul? it's like it already belongs to him.

⠀⠀⠀Their confrontation was electric, each word dripping with the weight of a shared history neither she nor the other three fully understood. “What the fuck is going on?” Nobara whispered to her friend next to her, Megumi. The man shrugged his shoulder, having no idea just like her, “No clue, Nobara, no clue. But just get ready, we don't know what sukuna might do,” he informed her. While for Satomi and Sukuna, memories of their intertwined fates, of battles fought and losses endured, flashed through Satomi's mind. She had always known there was more to her connection with Sukuna than she cared to admit, but now, facing him directly, the truth was unavoidable.

⠀⠀⠀Satomi stepped forward, her resolve hardening. She would not let Sukuna's taunts break her. With a swift motion, she summoned her cursed energy, a radiant blue aura enveloping her form. Her skills were formidable, honed by years of rigorous training under her brother's guidance.

⠀⠀⠀Sukuna smirked, his eyes gleaming with a mixture of amusement and challenge. “You've grown stronger, Satomi. But have you grown strong enough?” Without warning, he lunged at her, his speed blinding. Satomi met his attack head— on, their energies clashing in a brilliant explosion of light and shadow. The impact sent shockwaves through the warehouse, causing the very walls to tremble.

⠀⠀⠀Yuji, struggling to regain control, watched in awe and horror as Satomi and Sukuna engaged in a deadly dance. Each strike from Sukuna was met with a counter from Satomi, her movements precise and calculated. She fought not just with power, but with the weight of their shared history driving her forward.

⠀⠀⠀As they clashed, Sukuna continued to taunt her. “Do you remember the night we first met? The promises we made under the stars? How you swore you'd never leave my side?” Satomi's eyes flashed with a mixture of pain and determination. “And do you remember how you betrayed those promises, Sukuna? How do you turn your back on everything we stood for?” Their battle was not just physical, but emotional. Each strike carried the weight of their past, each taunts a reminder of wounds that had never truly healed. Sukuna's power was overwhelming, but Satomi's resolve was unyielding.

⠀⠀⠀In a moment of desperation, Yuji found an opening. Drawing on every ounce of his strength, he fought to suppress Sukuna's influence, his will battling against the curse's malevolent force. “Sukuna! Get out of my body!” For a brief moment, the warehouse was filled with a blinding light. Sukuna's hold weakened, and Yuji regained control, his body trembling with the effort. Satomi, sensing the shift, delivered a powerful blow, sending Sukuna reeling.

⠀⠀⠀The skirmish ended as suddenly as it began. Sukuna's presence receded, leaving Yuji gasping for breath, his body drenched in sweat. Satomi stood over him, her expression a mixture of relief and sorrow. “Are you okay?” she asked softly, helping Yuji to his feet. Yuji nodded weakly, his eyes reflecting the emotional weight of what had transpired.

⠀⠀⠀“Yeah...thanks to you.”

⠀⠀⠀Back at Tokyo Jujutsu High, the team regrouped, the atmosphere heavy with the gravity of their encounter. Satomi and Gojo retreated to a private sanctuary, their voices hushed with concern.

⠀⠀⠀The atmosphere in Tokyo Jujutsu High was tense as the team returned from the harrowing encounter with Sukuna at the abandoned warehouse. Satomi Gojo, her mind still reeling from the clash with her ancient nemesis, sought out her brother Satoru in his private study.

⠀⠀⠀Entering the dimly lit room, Satomi found Satoru standing by the window, his back turned to her. His usually composed demeanor was tinged with an underlying current of concern and frustration. Without turning around, he spoke, his voice quiet yet laced with unmistakable authority.

⠀⠀⠀“Satomi,” Satoru began, his tone betraying his simmering emotions, “care to explain why you decided to join the mission without informing me?” Satomi hesitated for a moment, the weight of her actions settling heavily upon her shoulders. She knew her brother's strict protocols regarding missions involving high-level curses, especially one as dangerous as Sukuna.

⠀⠀⠀“I... I felt compelled to go,” Satomi started cautiously, choosing her words carefully. “I sensed the cursed energy, Satoru. It felt... familiar. I had to see for myself.” Satoru finally turned to face her, his expression a mix of exasperation and concern. “Familiar? Satomi, do you realize the risks involved? Sukuna is not to be trifled with.”

⠀⠀⠀“I know, Satoru,” Satomi replied earnestly, meeting her brother's gaze head-on. “But there's something about this encounter... something personal.” Satoru sighed heavily, running a hand through his unruly hair. His blue eyes were no longer covered with the blindfold he usually used. He is looking at his sister, trying to see right through her, what's on her mind. “Personal or not, Satomi, you endangered yourself and the mission. You could have jeopardized everything we've been working towards.”

⠀⠀⠀Satomi felt a pang of guilt at her brother's words. She knew he was right. Her impulsive decision could have had dire consequences, not just for herself but for everyone involved. “I'm sorry, brother,” Satomi whispered, her voice tinged with regret. “I didn't mean to cause trouble. But I couldn't just stand by and do nothing.”

⠀⠀⠀Satoru's expression softened slightly, his concern for his sister outweighing his frustration. “I understand, Satomi. But next time, please trust me to handle these situations. We're a team, and we need to act as one.” Satomi nodded silently, acknowledging her brother's wisdom. She knew she had acted recklessly, driven by emotions she couldn't fully comprehend.

⠀⠀⠀As they stood in the quiet of the study, a heavy silence settled between them, punctuated only by the distant sounds of students training outside. The encounter with Sukuna had brought to light old wounds and unanswered questions, casting a shadow of uncertainty over their current mission. “Satomi,” Satoru spoke again, his voice softer now, “what did Sukuna say to you?” Satomi hesitated, the memory of Sukuna's taunts still fresh in her mind.

⠀⠀⠀“He... he remembered me, Satoru. From another life. He spoke of promises and betrayal... things I thought were buried in the past.” Satoru's brow furrowed in concern. “Promises and betrayal... Satomi, what aren't you telling me?” Satomi looked away, her thoughts drifting back to the haunting memories of her past life with Sukuna.

⠀⠀⠀“There's so much I don't understand, Satoru. But I fear our connection to Sukuna goes deeper than we realize. And I'm afraid that whatever happened in the past might threaten our future.” Satoru placed a comforting hand on Satomi's shoulder, a rare display of vulnerability from the usually stoic sorcerer. “We'll figure this out, Satomi. Together. But for now, we need to focus on the mission at hand.” Satoru brings his feet to his sister and ruffles the white-haired girl before kissing her forehead. “I'm here for you, Satomi,” he whispered as he hugged her for a moment.

⠀⠀⠀Satomi nodded solemnly, grateful for her brother's support. The weight of their shared burden hung heavily in the air, a reminder of the challenges they would face in the days to come. As they parted ways, the study door closing softly behind her, Satomi couldn't shake the sense of foreboding that lingered in the depths of her soul. The encounter with Sukuna had opened old wounds and unearthed buried secrets, setting the stage for a drama that would test their bonds and reshape their destinies.

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#jjk x reader #jjk x y/n #jjk anime #jjk sukuna #jjk fandom #jujutsu kaisen sukuna #jujutsu kaisen x reader #sukuna x reader #ryomen sukuna #sukuna jjk #jjk sukuna x reader #ryomen sukuna x reader #sukuna x reader x itadori #sukuna #gojo satoru #gojo satoru x reader

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leroiestmortvivelareine · 12 days ago

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The Night Kevin

I think I figured out the whole Kevin thing. It's a strange and twisted tale, so stay with me.

Kevin Day is the haunting mystery at the heart of aftg. The story might be about Neil and Andrew but he brings this almost mystical dimension, sensed rather than seen. Like Edgar Allan Poe's poem - on the surface it's about grief for the loss of Lenore, but the presence of the raven takes it into an unknowable place.

So trying to solve the puzzle of Kevin becomes an addiction. The answer feels tantalisingly just out of reach, if only you could figure out the right questions to ask. Same with all those polycule connections that won't show themselves but won't go away... it's the great unknowable; kandreil isn't supposed to exist in the canon version yet it defies all attempts to erase it. We all know it's there. We can feel it, even if we can't see it. What's driving it? Why does 1 + 1 keep adding up to 3?

Perhaps the clue is in the name. Kevin Day. What's the word that immediately comes to mind when you hear the word 'day'? The word 'night'. Maybe it's a hint that we're only seeing half the story.

Which is how I've always felt about Kevin... that he's only partly real, maybe 30% of a person. I mentioned before about the Perfect Court feeling like splinters and Kevin reminding me of Rei Ayanami, an incomplete soul.

But there's an even better analogy. Pratchett's 'Thief of time', which is brilliant by the way, imagined Time as a female spirit who became trapped in a glass clock. Kind of like Kayleigh, a uniquely talented free spirit who stumbled into something sinister. (Strange that we only ever perceive Kayleigh as a spirit, never a real person. It's even called the Day Spirit award.)

In the book, Time as a not-quite-woman eventually gave birth in a sort of time loop, so her son was born twice. Two bodies but only one soul, split unevenly between them. One boy was almost normal, but the other was so cold and distant he didn't seem fully human. They were both obsessed with time and highly skilled at it, time was their thing; one created clockwork devices and the other could bend time with these weird time-bending monks.

That idea of a split soul is how Kevin always feels to me. As though part of him is missing somehow, or lost.

So where is it? Is there another half of Kevin Day, a Night Kevin, a lost son, if not of Kayleigh, then of the Spirit of exy... who walked in the shadows while Kevin Day was always in the light? Someone with the other half of his soul, with all the fierceness and independence that Kevin lacked?

Someone else whose life also revolved around exy, who was obsessed to the point of singlemindedness, with a gift for exy - but passionate and instinctive, not coldly intellectual.

Someone who was also incomplete, but in reverse. Who was missing all the things Kevin could do... the ability to form bonds with people, depend on them, even ask them for help.

Neil is a knight in Nora's chess symbolism. He is also the night half of the lost boys story.

Look how much they were drawn to each other. Neil who needed to evade capture at all costs but not as badly as he needed to carry around an 'I heart Kevin Day' scrapbook. Kevin who dismissed half the young hopefuls in the country so he could go bullheaded for that kid in Millport.

Even the way they were both attracted to Andrew. That's why kandreil feels so real even in the canon version. It's not Kevin + Neil + Andrew. It's [Kevin/Neil] + Andrew.

An unexpected piece of corroboration is something that always sticks out to me - Riko telling Neil 'I'm going to love hurting you. Like I loved hurting Kevin.' Because if he wanted to intimidate why not mention Jean, who suffered far worse torment? There's many explanations but I think he meant exactly what he said: it would feel the same with Neil as it had with Kevin. Because Neil and Kevin are split souls.

We all understand 'misplaced forever partner' to be a bond outside of all labels we've ever heard before - friend, lover, partner. I think whatever binds Neil and Kevin is in the same category - entirely unique, only existing between those two, and impossible to properly define except to say they're the mirror halves of something broken.

It's beautiful that neither of them could heal until the other did, and that they found the missing parts of themselves almost at the same time.

The queen tattoo was the moment when Kevin became whole. No wonder Andrew was smiling - Kevin had found his independence. That was Andrew's true role in Kevin's life, whether he'd realised it or not, and maybe this was the moment he realised.

And Neil was also feeling complete that night, having learned to depend on someone.

Which is why the final game was the finale, it was the completion of their story, Neil and his mirror soul, no longer broken but healed.

#some of these storylines can only be seen by following the phosphorescence in their wake #aftg #all for the game #the foxhole court #tfc #aftg tsc #tkm #trk #kevin day #neil josten #my complicated thoughts about kevin #my complicated thoughts about the perfect court

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yanderegrizzsworld · 1 year ago

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Psst, heard you were accepting Digital Circus requests so would I happen to request Pomni with a reader who keeps trying to punch the walls and basically punch everything in a desperate attempt to escape?

Also if you do anons then could I be dream anon?

Imagine: Platonic Yandere Pomni with a reader desperate to escape

TW/CW: Mentions of anxiety/paranoia/blood/injuries, implied stalking & implied bullying (not by yandere)

A.N: Psst, from now on you're dream anon

Whether you're a new arrival or not doesn't matter to the jester, she fully understands where your anxiety & fear of this place comes from & sees no reason to judge. She might attempt to explain this world if you were new but it wouldn't do much from her own mind being just as puzzled about it.

Pomni does questions your method of escape. Don't get her wrong, she also wishes to escape from this world that tells her to call it her new home, but compared to how you're going about it, her fear of any future self-inflicted injuries on yourself twist her stomach in ways she'd rather not feel.

The jester nearly breaks out in sweat whenever a sudden, clamorous Pow reaches her ears & immediately runs towards it, reckoning it's you. Don't be surprised when she's around you often, if not by your hip the whole time with her reasoning being that of not wanting you to cause your knuckles to bleed, even though that doesn't seem possible in this world.

Whenever your fist collides with a wall or nearby surface, Pomni swiftly recommends either searching for an exit together or hanging out in her room. Accepting the former leads to her holding onto your wrist the entire time & tugging you away from any surface she considers you might attempt to punch. Accepting the latter is slightly better in which she allows you your space as she strives to talk about anything that comes to mind, though she does keep an eye on your hands just in case.

Whenever questioned for her insistence to constantly be in your presence, Pomni's argue of ensuring you don't get hurt or go mad never falters. Kinger & Zooble don't ruminate on it afterwards, with a slight sarcastic comment from Zooble from time to time; instead of questioning, Gangle & Ragatha regard Pomni's avouchment to your safety rather positively, with Ragatha being much more enthusiastic & probative.

The constant flood of questions & pestering naturally comes from the purple rabbit, whose incessant rejection of personal space & seemingly never-ending strike for getting on other's nerves nearly gives Pomni a headache, even if such a feeling is impossible to feel in the Digital Circus. No matter how many times Pomni drags you away from wherever Jax might be or how many times Ragatha tells him to dial it down if he refuses to stop, the rabbit never fails to pop out of thin air to question Pomni's reasonings & minimize the possibility of a potential exit, though it might come off a bit more impertinent.

The jester often ponders how she hasn't lost it yet, how her paranoia for her new existence & situation didn't lead to her being abstracted & a part of her deems it's because of you. She regards that by always looking after you, ensuring your security & health is in tip-top shape keeps her mind grounded & holding off from snapping at any moment. This thinking however could potentially lead to a almost twisted dependace, she watches over you (distant or close, rarely matters to her) & in return, her sanity stays plenary.

She views it as a win-win situation for the both of you, though it is more a conclusion to comes to on her own rather than something both of you have discussed. Any attempt to hang out with the others alone is futile as Pomni insists to go with you, for your safety of course! & not amount of refusals can/will deter her from at the very least watching over you.

#yandere #yandere headcanons #platonic yandere #yandere x reader #yandere x y/n #yandere tadc #yandere The Amazing Digital Circus #yandere Pomni #yandere tadc x reader #the amazing digital circus #tadc #pomni #tadc pomni #tadc x reader #The Amazing Digital Circus x reader #pomni x reader #Dream anon

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harleyquilt · 4 months ago

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Reaperneki x Touka ficlet - Wanting More

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The rain is cold against Kaneki's skin. Water droplets are speckled across the lenses of his glasses, obscuring his vision. He takes them off and wipes them with his thumb, smearing the water across the glass. His eyes flick up and he watches the cafe from afar, its windows a warm orange glow against the dark, damp dredges of the city surrounding it. Surrounding her.

It has been some time since he last saw Touka, and back then, he had not yet regained his memories. Still, something must've stirred within Haise’s subconscious; despite Haise’s initial eagerness, his visits to the cafe grew less frequent over time. He kept finding more and more excuses to avoid seeing her, and by the time Kaneki broke through the facade that was Haise’s existence, it had already been several weeks since he last visited the cafe. Haise had done him a favour, in a sense, by reinforcing the distance between him and Touka.

It was for the best in the end, Kaneki thinks, wanting to believe his actions to be a necessary evil. Still, Kaneki can't help but think it cowardly. Pathetic, even. He tries to convince himself that Touka cared little on the matter, that his presence was nothing more than a nuisance she was forced to tolerate, but he knew that wasn't entirely true. Touka is kind, and because of that kindness, he knows that deep down, it must pain her to watch him turn his back to her once again. But it is for the best, Kaneki silently asserts, forcing aside his swelling doubts.

How many people has he turned his back to throughout his life? His friends, companions, family, all cruelly entrapped by the twisting, thorny branches that make up his life, only to be tossed aside, abandoned, left to lick their bleeding wounds that he has inflicted onto them. It would have been better if they were never involved in his life to begin with. But he's weak, and because he's weak, he can't help reaching out, hoping that someone, anyone, will take hold of his hand and pull him back to their side and shield him from the horrors that make up this world. Maybe if he wasn't the way he was, if he had the strength needed to protect them, his companions wouldn't be as pained as they are now. Except he's not strong, he has never been strong, and he never will be, no matter his attempts to remedy this weakness of his. His pitiable existence is nothing more than a trap to those he cares for – a truth he can no longer deny or ignore. It would have been better if he had never existed at all, but there's no use wishing for something so infallible. He must take responsibility, this much he knows for certain, so he'll stay far, far away from Touka and all the others before he can hurt them any further. Only then will he be able to repay them the way he has always intended, without the hesitance and fear that always held him back before.

Turning his glasses between his hands, Kaneki begins to turn away from the cafe, from Touka, before hearing the door to the cafe open. He looks back, wide-eyed, and watches Touka step out with another man. The man holds an umbrella over Touka while she lifts and folds the blackboard sign displayed at the front of the shop. They're smiling, talking amicably, like they're old friends. Kaneki's body tenses, glaring at the man, whose eyes shine with a recognisable fondness. No, in the eyes of this man, this stranger, he could be more than her friend, and she humours him, giggling at his unfunny remarks and indulging his dull talk about the weather. Kaneki's jaw clenches and his hands tighten into fists, crushing his glasses between his fingers. There's a rush of violent intent that swarms his mind, knowing that if he wanted, he could incapacitate this stranger with little effort. He looks down at his broken glasses and squeezes his eyes shut. He takes a deep breath, trying to calm himself, and he leans back against the wall, slowly opening his eyes.

Seeing Touka smile, there's a familiar pang in his heart. Who was he to interfere, after hurting her time and time again? He should be relieved to see her smile, to see someone comfort her in a way he could not. He was selfish for yearning for what he did not deserve, even if just for a moment, and it pained Kaneki to know this. He clasps his head, gripping his hair with his fist, wishing to silence these tormenting thoughts.

But he's then brought to a pause when he sees the stranger lean over Touka, one arm against the wall. She leans back, avoiding his eyes, and begins to step back. He reaches forward and grabs her arm, and almost instantly, Kaneki rushes forward, ready to snap the man's neck. Any hesitancy he felt before has dissipated the moment the man touched her, insulting Touka with his defiling touch. And just when Kaneki closes the gap between him and the two others, he watches Touka grab the man's wrist and twist it back, the bones creaking under Touka's firm grip.

“Back off.” She says in a low, threatening tone.

She shoves the man back, letting go. He stumbles backwards and bumps into Kaneki. The man turns, teary-eyed, only to find a dark-clad Kaneki looming over him, his sharp glare promising a painful end. With a yelp, he runs away from Touka and Kaneki, cradling his wrist. Kaneki keeps his eyes on the man, following his figure before it disappears around the next corner. He contemplates chasing the man and dragging him back to beg for Touka’s forgiveness, but before he could do anything else, Touka begins to speak.

“Kaneki…?”

Kaneki flinches. The rain intensifies and they're soon drenched, though neither dares move, as if time has suspended for them both. Kaneki turns his head slightly, acknowledging her while avoiding her heavy gaze. He already feels smothered by its weight, by the fragile apprehension in her voice, by the frightened stillness in her body. Regret washes over him, mixing with the thick, heavy droplets of rain running down his cheeks.

“Kaneki.” Her voice is firm now, unhesitant, sharply cutting through the loud static of the rain. “It’s you, right?”

What should he say? What can he say, after everything they've been through? After everything he's done to her? It would be easy to say no, that he was Haise Sasaki, the investigator she has come to know these past few months. She’d accept his lie, regardless of whether she believed him or not, and they’d part, pretending nothing has changed. But for some reason, he could not bring himself to do it – not while she’s watching him and calling him by his name. All he can muster is a small, solemn nod.

“Right.” She scoffs, her eyes downcast. “You better come in.”

She walks back into the cafe and Kaneki, wavering for a moment, follows her inside. Its warm, cosy interior welcomes him along with the familiar aroma of roasted coffee. He winces, haunted by the fond memories of his distant past. They flood his mind with bittersweet reminders of the days he spent amongst those he cares for, smiling happily, and ignorant of the grim future awaiting him. It sends a wave of nausea through him, clutching and twisting his stomach into knots.

“You look pale.” Touka remarks, eyeing him. “Coffee?”

“Touka-chan, I–” His tongue feels uncomfortably heavy in his mouth.

She shakes her head, walking around the counter. “It's fine.” She pours coffee into two cups. Her eyes flick up, meeting his, and she holds his longing gaze. “Really, it's fine.”

“No,” he strides up to the counter and leans his palms flat against it. “It's not.”

She smiles, then, shrugging her shoulders and tilting her head to one side. “You worry too much. Here, this will help.”

She pushes forward his coffee before taking a sip of her own. She steps back and leans against the wall behind her, cupping the mug in her hands. Kaneki sighs, defeated, and he pulls the cup towards him. He turns the cup between tentative fingers, staring down at his warped reflection in the coffee. He squeezes his eyes shut and turns away. What is he doing here?

“It looks like you've got all your memories back.” Touka says, breaking the silence.

Kaneki's body prickles with anxious dwelling, wishing he hadn't crumbled the moment she said his name. How could he not, hearing the pain that taints her sweet voice – a subtle waver in her tone that betrays the hurt she truly feels.

“Do you remember everything?” Touka continues before taking another sip.

Kaneki hesitates. “Yeah.” He nods, helpless under her watching eyes. “I remember it all.”

She nods in turn, tilting her chin up. “And yet, you're still a Dove.” Kaneki winces. “Though…you look more like a crow to me. You stick out like a sore thumb, honestly. Are you trying to make a fashion statement?”

Kaneki can't help but smile at her casual jabs, teasing him as if nothing has changed. His grip tightens around the cup, his wry smile shifting to a tight frown. What is he doing here?

“Yeah, I'm still…” His voice trails off.

“I see.” Touka steps forward and places her cup aside. She leans forward, resting her elbows against the counter. Kaneki looks up, his throat tightening. “I won't ask you for your reasons. I'm sure you have plenty.” She averts her eyes then, grimacing. “I don't really want to hear them, in any case. I don't want this to turn into another argument.”

“Touka-chan…”

“You should finish your coffee and leave.” Touka turns to leave, offering him a hollow smile. “Don't worry, your secret is safe with me.”

He watches her walk towards the door and for some unknown reason, something within him pushes him to his feet and has him reach out to grab her, his hand around her wrist. She looks back, bewildered, and before she can say anything, Kaneki pulls her into his arms, wrapping them tightly around her. Pressed against his body, Touka's eyes widen, a pang of aching bittersweetness making her eyes water.

She’s still at first, and Kaneki wonders if she is going to push him away and ridicule him for his disgusting actions. It’s what she should do, he thinks, even while continuing to hold her, feeling her breathe unsteadily against him. But after a moment of silence, she slowly, cautiously raises her arms before hugging him back, her hands clutching onto his damp coat. His heart skips a beat and he feels almost overwhelmed by the warmth of her body as she leans further into his hold, the tension in her body gradually unravelling. He’s surprised, but does not let go, embracing her tenderly.

Holding her like this, as close as they are, is a sensation he has rarely felt before, and shutting his eyes, he can almost imagine their souls merging together and drifting far, far away from the cruel reality of their lives, to a place where they can exist peacefully as one. All the fear, anguish, and uncertainty that clouds his mind ceases with each passing second, as if her mere presence is enough to wash away all that haunts him in his day-to-day life. He could easily stay like this forever, existing purely for this moment, but Touka soon speaks, cutting through his wishful thinking.

“Kaneki…” Her voice is quiet now, unsteady, and he squeezes her, gritting his teeth. She sounds so heartbreakingly sad. She takes a deep breath and forces out her next question, bringing an end to the tranquillity they had shared. “Why are you here?”

He tenses, eyes opening and breath hitching. It is a question he does not want to answer, but her words echo through his mind, and more and more, he can feel his resolve crumbling, the doubt creeping back in. It quickly suffocates the dwindling joy that encapsulated this moment between him and Touka, pushing aside all that brought him comfort a moment ago. The truth is that he should not be here, that this was all a mistake, and pulling away, Touka can see it on his face – the dreadful end to their sudden, short reunion. He holds her shoulders, still, hesitating to let go, but wiping unshed tears from her eyes, Touka holds his wrist and gives it a small squeeze.

“You should go.”

“I…” The words are lodged in his throat. He doesn’t know what to do or what to say, and he looks to Touka, paralysed. Seeing this, she smiles once more, a small, wry smile that assures him all will be okay, and lowering his eyes, Kaneki slips his hands away and steps back, feeling his own eyes water. “I’m sorry, Touka-chan. This–”

“Just go.” She shakes her head, an underlying urgency to her gentle words. “Before it’s too late.”

Grimacing, Kaneki turns away and leaves the cafe, forcing himself to abandon the warmth of the cafe in favour of the cold, dark world waiting just beyond. He hates himself for it, for making this decision he knows to be necessary, and walking through the rain, he lets the tears finally fall, knowing that he has left Touka to pick up the pieces of their broken hearts once again. And for that, he can never, ever forgive himself, even in death. He looks up to the sky, the raindrops mixing with his tears, and he wonders when he’ll be freed from this life of his.

“Soon,” he murmurs, frowning, “Soon, it’ll all be over. I promise, Touka-chan.”

#tokyo ghoul #tg #touka kirishima #ken kaneki #touken #kanetou #my writing #ficlet #angst

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