#you ignore the taste of flowers and blood blooming at the back of your tongue

[trashbatistrash]

,

[charliehoennam]

angel part 2

pairing: louis bloom x f!reader

summary: louis and his newfound crush slip deeper into their attraction after the 'wet dream'.

warning: this fic contains dark themes such as stalking, dubcon/noncon, smut and others. Read at your own risk. 18+ ONLY.

SHARING IS CARING, SO PLEASE REBLOG

The early morning sunlight begins to stream into your room. Its beaming warmth stirs you from your deep slumber.

Your head is pounding. The room feels it's still spinning around you and your mouth is drier than a desert.

Water would be really good right now, but you're not ready to get up yet. Your limbs still feel heavy and sore.

As consciousness slowly permeates back into you, you realize the soreness concentrates down between your hips. You lay in bed and think back to the dream you had.

You're riddled with confusion. You've had plenty of hyper realistic dreams before, but this felt different.

It felt so real and so good that you wish it had been real. You brush it off deciding to believe you're just so hung up on your neighbor. Being single for as long as you have been, his kind gesture and his piercing blue eyes are incredibly hard to not find so attractive.

You could still feel his warm breath on your skin. His hands felt soft and rough altogether gliding over your supple thighs and groping at your breasts. The memory of his wriggling tongue in your pussy already has it growing wet again.

You must've been really wet in your sleep judging by the stickiness on your sex. It seemed sort of clean; it must have rubbed against your bed sheets or something. It explains the small crusty stains on the cotton fabric.

Looks like you'll be doing laundry today. You needed to anyways. The stack of dirty clothes that you'd been ignoring during the packing process has piled up.

Louis watches you stir around in your bed from where he's stood behind his dull green curtains.

"So pretty even when you wake up," he thinks to himself.

He's so hypnotized by you, he doesn't even look down at the bowl of cereal in his hands as he eats calmly wondering if you know.

He watches your hand slide down between your legs to feel around, blissfully unaware as you search for any residue in your sore pussy.

His stare is relentlessly fixed on you. He can't look away, not that he even wants to. His heart drums faster in his chest along with his thoughts.

Does she know? Did she wake up? Is she going to touch herself? Did she enjoy it?

Inebriated with intrigue and curiosity, he stands frozen with one wide creepy eye peeping out from behind his curtain.

His mouth dries with anticipation, hoping you would touch yourself at the thought of being fucked by him. He can almost hear his blood rush in his head as his breath catches in his throat. He wishes he could hear every sound you make.

Lou doesn't even notice he's holding his only breath as you investigate your body, running a hand over your sore breasts and swollen pussy, when he sets his cereal down on the flower table by the window.

"I can't believe it," he thinks to himself. "That little filthy whore liked it. Can't get enough. Just the way I like it."

While you're asking yourself how this came to be, wondering if your little wet dream became a masturbating sleepwalking session, Lou's got his pants and belt open to unleash his heavy twitch dick.

With every recollection of your soft skin, the taste and the warmth of your pussy, his precum oozes from his domed head, allowing himself to smear it over his veiny member adding to the lube of his spit.

He can imagine how sweet your moans must sound. He would give anything to hear them while defiles your innocent body, plundering for the mind-numbing high.

It brings him to the idea of setting up cameras in your apartment, which doesn't sound so bad.

How come I hadn't thought of that before? He questions himself mentally, being the perverted voyager that he is.

He makes a mental note to plan that later. His mind is too impaired to churn out the details for that. Right now, all he can focus on how your hand is still between your legs.

As you think back to every possible explanation, your mind seems to only concentrate how realistic your dream felt.

You could smell the musky cologne of his body. You could feel his cock pushing and pulling in and out of you. You could feel his tongue wiggle between your folds once he was done pounding it ruthlessly.

The more you think about it, the more you ache for your neighbor.

The thought of him fucking you into your mattress drives you reach your heavy arm to your nightstand and pull out your vibrating friend.

The soreness of your limbs and the throbbing headache aren't enough to silence your pussy's craving. And it yearns for Lou.

Lou watches with a dry mouth hung open as you grind the humming cock against your pussy, drenching it with your slick to push it in.

You lick your lips and moan as you let the vibrator tease your clit, imagining Lou's face so clearly hovering over you as his dick penetrates your cunt.

The thought of the heavenly sounds your bodies would make as his hips snap against your sweaty hot skin.

You imagine threading your fingers into his silky hair as he buries his face between your legs, his tongue invading your core. The intensity of his thick-browed gaze up at you, gripping you with greedy hands and hunger as his mouth works it's wonder on you.

The watch on Lou's wrist rattles softly in the quiet of his apartment as he tugs his dick; his only little compliment to your performance.

With your legs spread wide, you push the vibrator into your slick slit and begin fucking yourself into your own bliss.

You're so fucking horny and drenched that the squelch of your pussy overcomes the vibrations of your toy. You're so hungry for cock and so pretty unknowingly putting yourself on display, holding one leg back to your chest as you fuck your pussy.

You're moaning, gasping and kneading your breast while Lou struggles to not cum just yet.

He wants to wait to cum with you. He wants to cum together because you're his. You were meant to be his and you have to cum together. He needs to feel - or at least pretend enough - that he's right back in your vice of a cunt, dicking you down raw.

His breath hitches as you get closer together and closer and closer until the pulling tension finally snaps in your cores, sheathing you both euphoric waves of pleasure.

"Fuck," he sighs looking at the curtains he'd just stained with ribbons of pearly white cum.

He really needs you again.

He wants more. He'll always want more.

Looking back out the window, he sees you slowly getting to walk to the bathroom and exit from view. He correctly assumes you've gone for a shower, but he needs another round.

With the camera hooked up to the tv, he finally sits back on his couch with your panties in hand. He presses play and begins to watch his work of art from the previous night, he threads his cock into your panties and begins to stroke his length.

He takes a bit of time to notice all the little intimate details of your home that reflect your tastes. Stroking his softened cock to its hardened state again, he makes notes of most of the things you love.

What a lucky little angel you are. He should be watching the news to see what his team's managed to capture without him. Yet here he is, prioritizing you. Worshipping you. You just don't know how truly special you are...yet.

Louis's head falls back as the vulgar images and sound lull him into bliss.

He remembers how pretty you looked. So exposed just for his eyes. All and only his even if just for a while.

Louis's chest heaves as he stares at the TV. You look so peaceful in your sleep. He wonders if he'll ever get to sleep beside you.

While Lou jacks his cock off to the dirty homemade video with your panties hooked around his cock, the fresh scent of the dark brew in your coffee pot wafts through your apartment, infiltrating your bathroom as you wash yourself in the shower.

The warm water rinses away the soreness of your body as you sit on the ground under the running shower.

You close your eyes to enjoy the soothing calm of the shower. Your mind begins to wander. What is it about him that has you so hung up on him?

Sure, he's attractive. He's no LA fitness model. Just a thin, young man with a deadly smile, luscious brown lock and piercing unyielding eyes that could burn a hole tight through you.

He looked fairly common, but there was still something there within that brought a chill up your spine until the hairs on the back of your neck stood on end.

To be entirely honest, you can't tell if you're attracted to him or scared of him. But whatever it is, it's pulling you like a magnet.

As he waters his treasured flower, he notices across from his window that you're gathering clothes and bedsheets, preparing a laundry basket as you nestle the laundry soap and softener upon the piled fabrics.

He sees this as an opportunity to get closer to you presenting itself. And given the mess he's made on the curtains and your stolen panties, he knows it'll have to be laundry day for him as well.

The complex you share has a community laundromat for the tenants. He presumes that's where you're going, he needs to get there before you do. He needs you to think it's all a mare coincidence.

He watches you wide-eyed as you set your basket down on the couch.

Your toast's popped up in the toaster.

He sighs in relief, knowing now he has enough time to gather his laundry and soap to race to the laundromat to get there before you do.

He stumbles through his apartment, gathering whatever he can find to toss aimlessly into his laundry basket. Then he gathers the curtains from his window to dump them into the basket, along with your dirty lace panties.

He kinda hates that he ruined them. Now, he'll have to wash them and that will wash away your precious scent. No worries, though. He'll just steal another next time and make sure he keeps that one sealed and cleaned to sniff whenever he craves your pussy.

Grabbing a few more clothes, not really caring if they're clean or dirty, he takes one more glance out the window and see that you're still enjoying your simple breakfast.

Dressed in a pink shirt, he ties his brown locks back away from his face and carries his basket on his hip as he calmly makes his way to the laundry room confident in his plan to win you over.

You finish your slices of buttered toast and coffee before wiping your hands together and quickly rinsing the dishes.

The move must have really taken a toll on you because your body is beyond tired, but you still need to push forward though all you wish you could do is sleep under your covers.

Taking a cold water bottle from the fridge, you walk out of your apartment with basket wearing a simple top, short denim shorts and a pair of flip flops.

As you approach the laundromat, you can hear a machine working already from the hallway. The door is wide open, providing more light into the dull dark laundry room.

Outdated washers and dryers line the the walls of the room - if you can even call it that. It really looks more like a building basement with the lack of windows.

You freeze for a minute as you quickly make out the familiar figure standing with his back to you as he calmly sets his clothes in the washer one item at a time.

After a glance over his shoulder, he turns around his head to flash a smile that attempts to seem more welcoming than devious, though faint worry radiating from your amygdala questions his succession in asserting comfort.

"Y/N, right? The new neighbor?" As if he could ever forget your name.

"Yeah. You're Lou, right?" you reply politely returning the smile.

Without any control, your pussy squeezes around nothing arching for him once again as you're reminded of your dream.

"Are you settling in alright?"

"Yeah, I am. Still have some unpacking to finish, but everything is going well. Thanks for asking."

"Sure thing. Oh, " suggest washer number 3. It works the best if you ask me. Don't bother with number 9. It'll take your coins, but it doesn't work. I personally believe it's intentionally rigged to steal our money."

"Thank you for that. I'll have to keep that in mind," you smile politely.

You wonder if it's actually true or if he just wants you to be closer to him given that washer number 3 is right next to him. Why wouldn't he take the best washer instead?

Brushing off the worrisome questions, you feel like you barely know him enough to make judgements about him, so you walk over to the washer beside his and start loading it up.

"Thank you for the cookies again. They were really good. I almost ate all of them."

He smiles to himself. Almost? That could only mean you didn't eat all of them, meaning there are more of the sleep-inducing cookies that can provide him with another opportunity and hopefully tonight.

His dick twitches at the excitement.

"I'm glad you enjoyed them. Although I admit they're much better when eating within the first two days. After that, they start to go stale."

They don't, but he can't risk you not eating them.

"Guess I'll have to finish them all today. What a sacrifice," you reply ironically flashing a smile at him.

He chuckles at your jokes, trying his best to mimick genuine amusement.

"What an awful way to indulge."

"Did you make them from scratch?"

"Oh, of course" he lies. "They're my late grandma's recipe."

He never even met his grandmother or grandparents. He was given up to adoption at an early age. He lies to add a personal taste; he hopes he can win you over a little with a family-friendly detail.

And he does.

"Aw, that's sweet," you swoon. "Did you learn how to cook with her?"

"She taught me enough to get me by."

"Well, she taught you well. Those cookies were delicious."

Yes, you are. The best thing I've ever tasted, he thinks to himself.

"She taught me how to make a wonderful chocolate cake as well. I'd love to make it for you sometime," he beams at all the possible opportunities that flash through his mind.

"Yeah, I'd love that! I love chocolate cake. But you gotta let me make you something too," you reply feeling a little too spoiled.

"You don't have to do that. I love baking," he hasn't the slightest clue how to make a cake from scratch. Thank God for box mix, though.

"Well, I wouldn't feel so bad about accepting all your treats. Why don't you at least let me take you out then? My treat."

"Are you asking me out?" he smirks locking his eyes on you.

"I might be. Doesn't have to be a date if you don't want to."

Your cheeks flush with warmth as he catches your not-so-subtle invitation.

"Yeah, I'd love that. And I appreciate a woman that isn't afraid to take the initiative."

You smile brightly feeling like you just took a step in the right direction.

"I'm free tonight if you are? I know a great place that serves authentic Mexican food."

"Sounds great to me. How about tonight at 8?"

"Perfect, sweetheart" he grins.

His idea to win you over is actually working, all according to plan.

[juletheghoul]

Bravo, Dieter.

Authors note: I'm just as surprised to be here as you are. We're starting the year off with a bang, writing for a character I've only ever done half a drabble of lol, hopefully you enjoy what I came up with. As always, thank you @wheresarizona for beta-ing and letting me exorcise my demons through you. Shoutout to @frannyzooey for her unending support, and to my literal wife @foli-vora for screaming reassurances at me (affectionately) Love y'all!

Pairing: Dieter Bravo x F!Reader

Word count: 2.1k

Warnings: a sprinkle of angst (Dieter is a dummy- no specifics, I left whatever dumb comment he said up to your interpretation), 18+ no minors, piv sex, dirty talk, feelings? let me know if I missed any!

Masterlist

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There were twelve of them, twelve absolutely perfect roses wrapped up in expensive-looking brown paper, and they made you sigh. There was only one person who could have sent them. 

Goddamn it, Dieter.

There was a card tucked between the blood-red blooms, three little words.

“Text me back.♥️”

Your blood boiled, fizzled, and cracked under the strength of your annoyance, and without giving it much thought, you marched right over to the garbage can and shoved everything in, vowing silently to put it out of your mind. 

Three days passed before the second, bigger bouquet arrived at your door—more roses, bigger and somehow more lush than the first bouquet. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it. Please talk to me. ♥️♥️♥️”

They went into the trash with a roll of your eyes, ignoring the slight flicker of guilt at the waste of such beautiful flowers. Still, the memory of his words came back into the forefront of your mind, compounding the sentiment that they had no place amongst your things. 

Two days later, another gorgeous arrangement sat on your kitchen counter, this time an array of different colours and textures; a work of art. 

“Nothing in this world feels like you. Let’s kiss.♥️”

Your eyes close, and you can feel him, feel the way his mouth moved against yours, how he’d kiss you until you dripped for him. How sweetly his tongue moved against yours, against your nipple, between your legs. The flowers were on the receiving end of the daggers in your eyes for him, but they stayed on the counter. 

The fourth bouquet was the epitome of excess. 

It was massive, almost too heavy, and it was only with sheer determination that you managed to heave it onto the counter. A storm of white blooms contained within a surprisingly tasteful black vessel. Orchids, roses–peonies that were almost fluffy, a baby’s breath halo. 

“I miss how wet your pussy gets for me.♥️” 

A gasp. A widening of your eyes and more memories of the times he pulled you apart in your bedroom, in his. 

Your fingers fly across the keys on your phone. 

[you] Dieter, enough. 

[D] I knew that last note would get you.

[you] Stop sending me fucking flowers.

[D] Forgive me. I miss you, and I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it.

You chewed on your lip, anger burning white hot in your gut that he managed to get you speaking to him once again. It was in you to turn off your phone and head out, grab a drink with some friends, or indulge in some retail therapy, but you didn’t. You wouldn’t. Truth was, you missed him too, missed whatever arrangement you’d both somehow found yourselves in after one too many flirty comments, one too many lonely nights. 

[you] it seemed like you did. You really hurt my feelings, and I don’t want to deal with it if that’s how it’s going to be. 

You stared at your phone, wondering whether you truly preferred cutting all ties. 

[D] I know, I really am sorry–let me come over. We can talk about it, and I can apologize in person. 

You hesitated, knowing full well what would happen if you let him in. 

[you] just to talk…? 

[D] Yes, just to talk…be there in 20 mins?

[you] Fine. 

[D] see you soon xo

You rushed to your bathroom, ignoring the excitement and arousal burning in your belly as you jumped into the shower. 

All too soon, there’s a knock at the door, and it’s almost irritating how fast you move to answer it.

“Hi, babe.” He’s leaning against the doorframe with a cheeky little smile, and you long to smack it off his face; he must see it because the smile vanishes and is replaced with a boyish frown. 

A cat caught with the canary. 

“Don’t ‘babe’ me, Dieter.” You move to let him in, and the smell of his body wash makes you salivate.

You ignore it.

“Look, I know it was a stupid thing to say. I don’t even know why I said it. I didn’t mean it at all—can we please just forget it happened?” His voice is velvet, his shoulders are so broad, and it’s not lost on you that he’s wearing a baggy pair of sweats with an even baggier sweatshirt. The outline of his cock a calculated taunt.

You cross your arms and turn away. 

“It was mean. So fucking mean, and it made me feel horrible.” Your voice comes out smaller than you mean it to, a true glimpse into how hurt you were. You feel his broadness behind you. 

“I know, it was so stupid, I’m stupid sometimes—I regretted it as I was saying it. I didn’t mean it at all.” His big hands skate across your shoulders, slowly turning you to face him. “Can you forgive me?” He’s staring at your mouth, and you almost pant. He’s so close, he smells so fucking good, and every molecule of your being screams at you to just give in. 

He senses it.

His hands slide down your sides, grabbing onto your hips softly as he pulls you ever closer. His head dips, and he plants a soft kiss on your neck. The sigh you let out fills the dwindling space between you, involuntary. Just like the way your head moves almost imperceptibly to the side to give him more access, he doesn’t disappoint.

“Forgive me?” He kisses your jaw, moving up towards your ear. “I missed you so much.” He bites your earlobe while his hands move to grab at your ass. “Did you miss me?” He moves to the other side, repeating the same circuit before he looks you in the eye.

Your slightly parted lips and glazed-over expression are all the confirmation he needs to know he’s been forgiven. 

He presses his lips to yours softly, so soft it almost tickles, and he swallows the small whimper it pulls out from your throat. 

He presses himself closer still, the wall of his chest pressed up against you tight. His kiss turns from something soft to all-consuming, something breathless.

“I thought-“ he moves to kiss your neck again. “-you only came to talk.” Your hands move without your permission, fingers threading through the wild locks of his hair. 

“We did talk.” His tongue is in your mouth now, and it tastes like the gum he always chews, minty and sweet. “I wanna kiss now.” He devours you again as his hand creeps up your shirt, and now the cup of your bra is being pulled down. His tongue moves against yours while his fingers pluck at your nipple.

You moan, and it spurs him on, his cock hard against your hip, and suddenly you're herded towards the bedroom, only stopping every so often en route for him to press you against a wall or door. His hands are always moving, always grabbing and palming. 

You land in your bed with a soft gasp, but he doesn’t let you land alone; he’s right there with you. The look of triumph shining out through his dark eyes, lidded with the same passion that presses against your core when he slots his hips in the cradle of your thighs. A soft hum from him, a panted breath from you, and the whisper of skin moving against the now-rumpled sheets of your bed are the soundtrack to your reunion. 

He pulls away, and you chase his mouth, any anger left overtaken by lust. He laughs low, not unkindly, moving to kneel between your legs as you stretch out before him. His eyes follow the movement of your body, plotting how he’ll devour you.

He smiles as he divests you of your layers, unwrapping you like a present, and as they come off, your arousal burns brighter, pools at your opening like a spring just for him. 

“Admit it-you missed me.” He’s almost breathless, his fingers curl around the waistband of your panties. 

“Obviously.” You grit out the word, raising your hips to help him, and he lets out a bark of laughter. “I don’t need your smugness, mister.” You reach up to pull his shirt up and off, and he lets you. The broadness of his shoulders, and the golden skin on display, almost makes you sigh.

“I like that you missed me-“ he lifts your leg by your knee and the flash of his rings catches your eye before he places a soft kiss on your calf. “-makes me hard as a fucking rock.” He wasn’t lying; you could see the proof of it tenting the front of his sweats.

“Show me how much you like it.” You match his tone, reaching up to run your fingers down his belly, through the little patch of hair, and further down until you tease at his waistband.

“Pull me out.” His words send a thrill through you, and you rush to comply, relishing the look on his face when you finally wrap your hand around the heft of him. His low moan goes straight to your cunt when you rub your thumb through the pearl of his own arousal, giving him a quick stroke before he pulls his sweats down and off. 

His cock bobs in front, resting against your wet center when he gets back into position, hot and heavy, and by the way your heart is pounding, he can surely feel it even there-all for him. He spreads your legs open and up, bending them at the knees and holding them tight to your chest with his big hands on your shins. 

“God, you’re so fucking wet. I bet I could just slip right in, wouldn’t even need my hands.” He rocks himself back and forth slowly, coating himself in your liquid heat, his eyes glued to your cunt. You writhe, whining with frustration. He lets out a tsk, drunk on his ability to get you into this state. One of his hands moves, and then his thumb is circling your perky little clit, dizzying circles, while his cock rests just at the mouth of your pussy, the thickness of him opening you up like a flower. He leans forward slightly, letting his spit drip down where his thumb is, and it’s like you're drowning in him. 

Your hands pluck at your nipples as the circling of his thumb pushes you closer and closer towards nirvana.

“God, yes, play with your tits.” He swirls his thumb faster, the glide of it just right—and then you’re floating, gifting him with a filthy moan as your cunt clenches, all but pulling him inside. He doesn’t wait until your orgasm passes; he feeds himself into your fluttering entrance, and his earlier musing was correct-he slides right in. 

“Fuck.” His voice is low, the bravado gone, lost in the proverbial sauce as he coats himself in you. He speeds up quickly, unable—or unwilling to pace himself. His eyes are glazed over when he looks up at you, a gorgeous flush creeping up his chest, lighting up his cheeks and his ears. His panting breath, the wet sounds of your joining, and your gasping moans all come together to make the song that always plays whenever he’s with you. 

“I’m gonna fucking come-“ he sounds wrecked, and he is- his hips snapping faster now, the wet clutch of your cunt casts its spell on him, and within a handful of thrusts, he’s groaning, his hand leaves your shin and moves to hold himself as he comes. The first spurt of it is inside, but he pulls out and finishes on the lips of your sex, and you know this is his favourite part. 

“Oh fuckkk, there it is-“ He groans out the words, and his voice is somehow more vulgar than the act, mesmerized by the sight of your pussy covered in his come. “God, I fucking missed that.” He hisses, enduring the discomfort of overstimulation just to rub himself in his own mess. 

“I missed it too.” You’re sated, basking in the afterglow, loving the mess just as much as he does. He smiles up at you, and you ignore the way your heart pounds for him.

“I know you did.” He’s not cocky when he says it, and it makes ignoring the pounding harder than it should. His fingers collect some of his fluids and push it back in, as deep as his thick fingers can get, before popping them into his mouth, pulling an involuntary moan. “Give me a few, and then I’ll fuck you on your knees how you like.” He leans forward to lay between your legs, kissing his way up from your sternum to plant one of those toe-curling kisses on your mouth once more.

“What a gentleman.” You wrap your arms and legs around him, relishing his dimpled smile. 

“You should know-“ he frowns now, eyes darting, and you know what he’s thinking, wondering if maybe there’s a pounding he’s ignoring. 

“You’re forgiven, Dieter, it’s okay. Just stop sending me flowers.” You run your fingers through his hair; nothing else needs to be said on the matter, and for the rest of the night-there isn’t.

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[sweetbunnykook]

Only You (10)

Word Count: 11,267 // [SPOILER IN WARNINGS] angst (mention of double homicide, gore/blood, miscarriage, mistreatment of a corpse, panic attack, meltdown, blackmail, gun, abuse), toxic relationship, manipulation

Photographer!Jungkook X Noona!Reader

Summary: Jeon Jungkook, your wedding photographer, helps you escape on your big day upon learning about a secret your groom-to-be kept hidden. You soon fall for this young, passionate photographer. However, you underestimated just how much he was willing to reciprocate that love. Maybe, you think, he’s loving you just a little too much.  

A/N: Thank you for waiting so long! Please let me know if you enjoyed this chapter if you want to. Enjoy! - 🐰

The distant sound of television in your living room.

‘We bring breaking news…Kim Namjoon, the heir of…yesterday morning…in questioning…accessory of the crime…kidnapping and killing of pregnant fiancée…found motive…’

The splatter of blood on his skin, the taste of blood on your tongue. Your whole world melts into a puddle of red. You feel him inside you, around your throat, his grip tightening, his kisses searing against your lips to pin your tongue underneath his.

A whisper against your ear.

‘You’ve made me the happiest man in the world, noona.’

You wake up with a start, gasping for air as you reach over to where Jungkook should be only to be met with a gray rabbit plushie. It has been a week since the night your life changed. Whether for the best or the worse, you can’t tell just yet. You rub a hand over your stomach where you’re cramping, taking deep breaths through your nose and exhaling through your lips to calm the panic of hearing and seeing red in your dreams once more. The brain is a relentless organ. No matter how much you force yourself to forget, to justify the past, to let your anger roam free, your dreams follow you as soon as your body succumbs to exhaustion.

Jungkook gifted you a bottle of melatonin for such nights but it was rather hard to sleep when every thought goes back to the sound of Yori’s lifeless body swallowed by the rustle of a black plastic trash bag. It’s a stark dichotomy from the images you have of her in her soft chiffon dresses, bleached hair swaying in the wind, her lithe frame moving effortlessly between the trees in your family garden. To think that you would lose her in such a way is unfathomable even when there is a sick, hideous part of you that felt almost relieved that you’re alone at last. Her existence only served as a reminder of your humiliation. 

It’s why you’d spent so many weeks and months back then cursing her – hoping she miscarry during your most vulnerable nights, hoping Namjoon would leave her for another woman so she gets a taste of how you’ve suffered; yet when the day comes when she’s truly gone, your heart and mind is restless. 

As your stomach settles, the residual guilt rising like bile up your throat gives you a newfound reason to tell yourself you’re still very much a good person. You’re still the woman Jungkook loves for your understanding and hardworking spirit. Partly feeling guilt towards her death meant you still loved her in your true, good nature – or at least you love the memory of what she used to mean to you. The girl you remembered – the girl who would make crowns for you with wildflowers, paint your sleeping form, talk about all the men she wrapped around her fingers – was long gone before you found her lying at the end of a staircase. Your mother can’t kill someone who was already dead in your eyes. 

The body your boyfriend stuffed in his freezer didn’t deserve your kindness nor repentance. It’s why you were able to waltz right into work the next morning from Jungkook’s studio, drinking the same cup of coffee at your desk, working the same files, and mentoring interns with a smile albeit the sudden panic episodes had caused you to empty your stomach after each meal.

You’ve run out of fingernails to bite. You’d expected the world to crumble and fall at your feet in the following days but everything feels oddly normal. The sun still rose. Flowers still bloomed. And Jungkook still loved you. 

Sitting at the edge of the bed, the thin sheen of sweat on your body makes the valley down your spine tingle, prompting you to reach back to scratch your skin raw. When you look over at the nightstand, the red digital numbers on your clock glare into your irises through the sleep haze – it’s barely two o’clock in the morning. With a groan, you stretch an arm towards the floor and pull Jungkook’s shirt towards your feet before bringing it to your chest. The half-buttoned cotton still smells like him. Like comfort.

When you slip the black long-sleeved shirt over your head and roll it down your body, buttoning up to cover your chest, you’re struck with the realization that tonight is the night Jungkook must finish the job. He hasn’t left your side since the accident, treating you with the utmost care, his prying eyes following your every move to the point you ended up pressing your lips against his each and every time just to cease his worries. His fingers melt like butter on your skin when he cups your jaw in search of any anxieties you might have hidden from him. It’s evident that he’s in awe and in confusion at your strength. Maybe he thought too highly of your capacity for forgiveness; like the loud saccharine-faced women you work with, you’re just a tantalizing red apple infested with rot beneath. 

And it’s with that very same façade you faced the detectives. 

The police came knocking at your door two days ago. Jungkook promptly informs you that there was nothing you need to worry about for now except keeping your composure. 

The two men explained the situation – a vague description about Yori’s disappearance, suspicion with Namjoon’s prolonged stay abroad, and odd evidence that she may be kidnapped or blackmailed – just as Jungkook predicted. You feigned passive concern as they took your statement about the last time you saw your former friend, inquired about the wedding incident, and noted the places she could be from your childhood memories. You answered every question with the calmness of an experienced storyteller, comforted when Jungkook confirmed your alibi with his hand wrapped around your fingers to keep you grounded when you trembled. A few angelic tears you shed hearing about Yori softened the mens’ heart although they didn’t have a single inkling of a different kind of fear buried inside you now that there is an investigation ongoing. 

There was something about the glimmer of their handcuffs that made you fear for Jungkook playing the role of the clueless but supportive boyfriend like a seasoned actor. The thought of the men pinning your boyfriend on the ground and ripping him away from you had you hurling digested dinner over the toilet shortly after they left. Your tears must have done much of the heavy lifting during the interrogation that even Jungkook had asked if you were feeling alright, thumbs rubbing back and forth over your cold, wet cheeks. 

You can’t live without him and if he were to be taken away from you, you wouldn’t know what to do. You’ve learned to fear his absence more than his capability for murder. Such thoughts threaten to cut the last strings of sanity holding you together. 

Despite Jungkook being there for you every step of the way, he was powerless when it comes to protecting you from the stench of office gossip that you must endure for the sake of calming suspicions about your outside activities. It was obvious what your coworkers thought of you as soon as the news came flooding about Yori’s sudden disappearance. Whether you feign concern or not, there have already been rumors about a sabotaged pregnancy. Their fake kindness and whispers gave you the freedom to look as disastrous as you feel. 

If only they knew that the true reasons for your sunken eyes and weight loss are far, far beyond their comprehension. If only they knew you were on your hands and knees scrubbing bodily fluids; the longer their mouths yapped, the more you thought about the red on your fingertips, how satisfying it felt to watch it spiral down the drain.

The first week was grueling but the second week – this week – when the voices of the two detectives, blood-filled memories, and buried dreams resurface, you’re completely cornered. Oh, how much you crave Jungkook’s touch, his gentleness, his ability to read your mind and body even more now that he’s gone to settle your debts. 

You take your cellphone resting on the nightstand next to the digital clock, place the rabbit plushie under your arm, and make your way out of the bedroom. The condo is dead silent except for the muffled cracklings of vehicles running over pebbles on the highway nearby. It’s awfully cold but the sight of the fridge makes you clench your jaw and turn towards the couch, sliding onto the padded surface when another pang of panic hits your stomach, leaving you to press your abdomen inwards with the heel of your palm. You grab your laptop from the dirty coffee table with your free hand and place it on your lap, cursing once more when your nerves refuse to ignore the coolness of the aluminum surface. You squeeze the soft fur ears of the plushie, but it doesn’t feel the same as holding onto your boyfriend’s fingers in times of need. 

It’s cold in the room, you note once more, but Yori’s body curled in Jungkook’s freezer is even colder. 

Would he let her thaw before burying her? Would he burn her somewhere in the woods? Dump her in a lake? Would he admire her beauty first and brush his fingers down her cold cheeks, feeling pitiful about the woman who humiliated you just because she was carrying a child? 

You shake your head, watching the laptop come to life. You need a distraction. Any kind of distraction to forget that your boyfriend and Yori might be alone in a room right now as if they’re on a little date.

The cramp twisting your innards isn’t caused by panic this time. It’s jealousy. 

… 

Taehyung is exhausted to the marrow of his bones. If he didn’t consider Jungkook to be his only family left, he would never have flown to South Korea on such short notice. It’s expensive to leave clients on hold when he’s spending a fortune every month lining bribery pockets. He hopes Jungkook is prepared to work without pay for the next month. Judging by how eager the younger man is to see him, he decided to cut him some slack in the end. That’s what families do. 

Right now, Taehyung is only annoyed to find out that his partner – who had already left the refrigerated room – brought his least favorite pliers when he asked her to lay the tools on the table next to the body. The pliers are black but coppered with rust and prone to slips with its slippery silicone padding resting where his gloved fingers would go. He doesn’t even know when or how he came across such an awful tool but he’ll have to make do. 

He turns back to Jungkook who is sitting on a plastic-covered stool across him on the other side of the body, brows scrunched together as he looks down at the nude woman’s slightly protruding but stiff stomach. There’s no sense of discomfort on his face; a good sign, Taehyung notes, as it has been some time since Jungkook has dealt with a body. Yet he finds himself uncomfortable when looking down at the vicious woman he’d heard an earful about. It’s not a good omen to cut open a pregnant woman, not when Jungkook has been preparing for parenthood ever since he dumped your birth control down the toilet. 

“Are you sure it’s wise to leave her alone?”

Jungkook scratches behind his ears, watching Taehyung’s fingers pry open Yori’s frozen mouth to reach her teeth. The older man places a balled cloth inside the mouth before lining the plier towards the molars, gripping the frozen teeth between the iron clamps before yanking the tool to one side. The tooth pops out with a crisp snap, leaving a deep black hole in Yori’s pale gums. Freezing her made cleaning extremely easy – Taehyung can’t help but pat himself in the back when Jungkook seemed to remember all that he’s taught him about the work. He is, however, a bit disgusted that the body was kept in the same fridge as food. Hell, even an experienced butcher like himself has some decency not to do such a thing.  

“I think it’s fine,” Jungkook murmurs, watching Taehyung’s sturdy hands yank each tooth out of her gums with razor-sharp precision. “She’s been sleeping better than the first week so I don’t think she’ll be awake by the time I get back.”

“She’s not like us,” Taehyung scolds, his baritone voice low. A puff of smoke dissipates in the cool air as he speaks. The younger man lowers his head; there should be a limit to the favors he ask for and he’d crossed professional boundaries one too many times. “It’s a big risk you’re taking.”

Jungkook juts his lower lip out like a child filled with remorse. “I know, hyung. But...I trust her and she trusts me. Or else we wouldn’t have gotten this far.”

Taehyung hums at that, finding it rather odd that a girl with a fine upbringing had the guts to do cleaning work (poorly as expected, according to Jimin showing up with the rest of his crew to spot-clean the rest).

“Trust can be an expensive thing, Jungkook.”

Desperate to appease the older man, Jungkook snaps his gloves in place and reaches over to take an electric saw in his hand, watching the silver glimmer under the lights before standing. He waits until Taehyung finishes the removal, placing the teeth neatly in a plastic cup, before lining the blades to Yori’s pale neck and quickly sawing down her esophagus. The saw groans as it hits her spine but with Taehyung’s palms pushing the saw down further, Yori’s head comes apart clean from the rest of her torso. Under the sharp blue lights her insides look tar black. Such a pretty exterior holding such ugliness inside of her, Jungkook thinks, before he shakes the thought away.

Her beauty can never be compared to you. You’re a goddess. And her? A mere insect to put back into the earth. Yori had caused you immense pain and he would see to it that she will be treated with utmost disrespect.  

“What’s your plan after this?”

Jungkook moves the woman’s hair away from her face then removes the cloth from inside her mouth. He then pushes her jaw up to cover her black gums. 

“I’m going to try to convince her to leave work for a while. Hopefully...she’ll be pregnant by then and it’ll make it easier for her to marry me.”

Taehyung nods. “Then?”

“T-Then…” Jungkook nibbles on his lower lip. Something about Taehyung’s gaze makes his insides queasy and he doesn’t know whether it’s because the older man is upset or just exhausted. With a poker face like his, with eyes that sink deeper than an eternal labyrinth, it’s difficult to tell. He settles on the most comfortable answer. “Then we’ll live like a normal family. Maybe after she gives birth we can buy a house instead and live near the sea like we used to.”

It’s not a definite answer, but it will do for now. When you regain confidence that life will continue on as it always had, it should be smooth sailing from there. Namjoon or Jin have been a threat but once the baby comes they’ll know better than to approach you again.

Taehyung’s assistant comes back into the room with a soft smile. She glances down at the decapitated woman briefly before walking towards the incinerator in the far corner. Like clockwork she appears once there is a twenty minute time limit before the room reverts back to a comfortable temperature. Jungkook’s freezer preserved the body enough that they can pull apart Yori’s limbs and burn each piece separately; the burning will be handled by her but dismemberment is intimate, a family bonding type of activity that re-establishes their brotherhood.

“Are you happy you’ll have a family soon? Does it bring you joy?”

The younger man nods, lips trembling softly as he looks down at the severed head. His cold breath fans over Yori’s eyelids. “Yes, I am. Very. It’s all I ever wanted. ”

Taehyung stares. From the scar on the left cheek to the mole under his lips, he watches Jungkook as the younger man saws through the arms, letting the frozen limbs fall to the plastic-covered floor with a rustle and blunt thud. Once all four limbs are torn apart on the floor, he lines the saw down the navel just above the slight hill of Yori’s protruding belly. Just as he moves to switch on the saw, Taehyung grips his wrist with a tightness that alarms Jungkook.

They look at each other, truly look at each other in the darkness.

“Will you ever tell her the truth?”

Jungkook jaw tightens as he holds the older man’s gaze. His fingers are going numb, not from the cold but from the grip around his wrist.

The question causes him to chuckle incredulously. One small step and everything can fall apart like a house of cards. The risk he is taking burning someone closely associated with you can pull them both back into the times when they lived like rodents; hidden from light, at risk of being poisoned every step of the way out from the ground.

When Taehyung doesn’t mirror him, he falters. “…What use will it be if we tell her? She doesn’t have to know anything about me.”

“Is it because you’re afraid she’ll be hurt or afraid she might leave if you do?”

The reaction is immediate. Jungkook’s brows come together and he lays the saw on top of the torso, releasing a harsh exhale as he desperately pushes back tears. Taehyung expected the reaction; it’s what he was aiming for in the first place. The minute he walked in the room and saw Jungkook smiling happily in the distance he knew the boy has taken his delusions too far. He’s willing to oblige with the many ridiculous requests in helping him secure you as a wife, but he’s not a hopeless romantic. He doesn’t believe in soulmates and pure, perfect love that Jungkook pines for. There is only so much luck Jungkook can depend on before you stumble upon something you shouldn’t have. With a criminal bond, the stakes have never been higher.  

The boy takes his bottom lip under his teeth. “She won’t leave me.”

“Answer the question.”

“She loves me, okay? That’s all I need.”

He peels his arm away from Taehyung and brings both hands behind his head, burying his face in between the elbows. He turns away towards the concrete wall, his temples pounding from how hard his teeth are clenched. Couldn’t Taehyung just be happy for him? Couldn’t he take time away to celebrate this victorious night?

The reality is that two people who love each other may still never truly know each other. Just like how he doesn’t know the true reason why you wanted him as you watch him from the balcony in silence all those months ago, you won’t know why he can’t tell you everything about his upbringing. There’s no doubt that you would see his lies as betrayal, perhaps even worse than what Yori did because he made you believe he worshipped the ground you walked on (and it’s the truth). If you learned that the doe-eyed boyfriend part of him is dramatized, your heart will take irreversible damage. He had shown what it meant to be in love, to have a place where you both can call home, to care for each other through sickness and crime. He can’t ruin that illusion. Not when he’s this close to taking you away from everyone you’ve ever known.  

“The fire is ready.”

He brings his arms back down to his sides and turn towards the assistant who stands with her hands clasped in front of her as she looks between him and Taehyung.

When neither of them move, she kicks opens the incinerator and releases a waft of hot air towards the thawing body. Jungkook turns back to the body and kick the limbs towards the fire. He grabs Yori’s head by the hair and tosses it towards the limbs, wondering if you would still love him if you saw him now in a grimy lab coat, reeking of frozen flesh. You most likely won’t. You most likely will be disgusted with him, your eyes might resemble his mother’s, peering at him as if you couldn’t waste one more second breathing the same air as him.

“I’m scared,” he whispers at last, walking towards the torso on the table. He places his hand over the blood-stained stomach. The baby didn’t deserve this death, he thinks, but it would have ended up as miserable as he was when he was a child.

“I don’t know how not to be scared. That’s why I…I’m doing all of this for her. It’s why I still can’t tell her everything even if we’re tied together now. But…but I’m…we’re still men, right? We’re not monsters who do this for fun. We do this to protect the people we love.”

The older man puts his hand over Jungkook’s on the cold stomach and rubs his thumb over his knuckles. The younger man relaxes a bit more now that he understands Taehyung isn’t frustrated or upset that he put them all in danger, only concerned.  

Taehyung’s life’s purpose has been to protect this boy and now it’s Jungkook’s turn to protect the woman he’d fallen for. It’s all the more cruel that the woman Jungkook believes to be his soulmate came from wealth, from prestige, from a family that may be dysfunctional but more often than not normal. It pains him that he’s willing to live the rest of his life under a façade just to keep the illusion of a perfect romance alive. If only Taehyung could have convinced him that the beautiful couples in movies aren’t real, that the men in those movies are not like them and the women in those movies are not perfect little angels he think you are.

But that’s a battle Jungkook has chosen to fight and he could do nothing but support. That’s what families do.

“We’re not monsters,” Taehyung finally speaks at last as he walks towards the limbs and crouches down to the open incinerator. He brushes his long fingers along the metal edge, letting the tips of his fingers burn pink. His deep brown eyes reflect the orange hue of the fire yet his pupils welcomed no light. “But we’re damn close.”

…

Your skin prickles with goosebumps as you gulp down the remaining ice cold water from the fridge, laying your forehead on the door handle. It’s unbearably hot and cold at once and you’re growing impatient as the minutes tick by and you’re still alone.

It doesn’t take long to bury a body, does it? Jungkook never specified what he was going to do. Maybe the reason why it’s taking too long is because he’s driving far into the woods but your heart pangs in worry at the thought of a witness catching sight of him hunched over with a shovel. He seemed confident when he left (in your sleepy haze you don’t remember clearly) that the thought went away as quickly as it came. Your boyfriend can be meticulous; there’s a high chance that he’s taking extra precautions. He probably isn’t calling because he assumes you’re still asleep. He’d tucked you in and kissed you on the forehead, only murmuring something about being back soon and bringing back breakfast.

You set the glass down in the sink and walk past the kitchen counter, halting in your steps when you find your purse laying haphazardly next to the fruit basket. It’s been there since the police came and the contents of your wallet and keys threaten to tip over into the basket. You pull the undone zipper apart, rummaging around the inside to straighten the sides until your nails click against the uncapped flash drive. It makes your insides quiver when you realize you had been opening the files when your mother called during that day and the world crumbled. Oh how blissful you would be standing here if you never picked up the call, if you let her deal with her own problems, if the guilt of her being alone and scared didn’t affect your tender heart. The worry that Seokjin had written a love letter seemed rather insignificant now that your boyfriend can be taken away in cuffs if evidence surfaces. The tabloids would have another field day for sure.

You turn towards the digital clock on the stove, noting the time once more, and grasp the flash drive in your hands before making your way towards the living room. The flash drive blinks green as you slide the silver end into your computer propped on the coffee table. The laptop will keep you sane because you know damn well if you see Namjoon’s face on the television once more you’d spiral into panic. It’s not wise to speak of his name under your roof.

It’s not wise to speak of Seokjin’s name either, but if Jungkook isn’t coming anytime soon, the least you can do is read what your old friend has to say and be rid of this little tool in case your boyfriend’s curiosity leads to a temper tantrum.

Once again, the document window reveals a ZIP folder along with an array of photo files. You extract the file first, letting it load before double clicking to pull up the document window. It’s not what you’re expecting. There’s no sweet words and no mention of Seokjin’s name on the page. The document is over two hundred pages long and still loading as you scroll down the pages. There is a case number in the middle of the first page and then several police reports from several years ago, all dated within the same year.

Busan.

Two victims.

Two suspects.

Juvenile.

With your brows furrowed, you scroll further down the file, slowly falling back down to earth from the blanket of mental exhaustion. You feel a cold breeze down the curve of your spine, your fingertips slowly coaxing the cursor downwards. Several sentences are censored or cut in the corners. The further you scroll the more you find yourself asking if Seokjin had given you the wrong flash drive or if he was pulling a vicious prank on you. It all seemed like a whirlwind of information you don’t know how to translate until you pause on a page halfway through the document.

Kim Taehyung.

The name is most definitely familiar. The second name listed in the following page, however, you recognize in entirety.  

Jeon Jungkook.

The universe must be playing a sick joke, you think, as your cursor swims around your boyfriend’s name. He would have told you about an incident big enough for a case report that spans over a hundred pages, wouldn’t he? Jungkook wouldn’t hide anything important from you, not after he had urged you to be transparent with him. Not after he had punished you for something as silly as keeping jewelry gifted by or ex or forgetting to wear a brassiere in public. Something in your gut tells you to keep scrolling despite your vision beginning to blur and the air around you becoming heavier as if you’re breathing over a pot of boiling water.

You scroll further down, lips parting as your eyes scan over the document with record speed. The Jeon family massacre, the shack in Busan, the weapons used on the bodies for both murder and disposal – everything is written in clear detail. But it’s impossible, you think, as Jungkook has never once hinted that his parents were deceased. In fact, there were several times when he welcomed the idea of you meeting his family. He wouldn’t have agreed with enthusiasm if he had to reveal the details of this case, would he?

He wouldn’t have his mother’s number saved. It doesn’t make sense and the more you wonder who that woman could be in his cell phone, the more your insides twist.

When you hit the last hundred pages the censorship worsened. Most of the pages are illegible with black boxes shadowing over sentences but you don’t need the missing sentences. The last five pages summarized the timeline of the incident and highlighted possible motives from abuse to undiagnosed mental disorders for both Jungkook and Taehyung. You’re not sure if the file is even reliable considering what you’re reading and the boyfriend you’re living with seem like two different people.

There is hardly any record about the two of them except the elementary, middle, and high school they’ve attended. The paragraphs blur together as you scroll with trembling fingers. Something about Jungkook’s instability, his codependency on Kim Taehyung, the manner in which he was released shortly after Taehyung’s escape from the facility despite facing juvenile charges for second degree murder.

Then, the details of the crime.

Jungkook couldn’t do something like that, could he? Your lungs ache as you pant, a sudden sob leading you to clasp a shaky hand over your mouth. There is no reason for you to claim this case as unreliable when Jungkook is disposing Yori’s body somewhere within the twenty mile radius. There is no reason this case is talking about another Jeon when the first thought your boyfriend had when you confessed your mother’s accident was to help with the cleaning.

This couldn’t be anyone else but Jeon Jungkook, the boyfriend who kisses you until you melt like butter in his arms and pouts whenever someone looks at you the wrong way. Despite the file in front of you, you shake your head.

“It’s not him…it can’t be him.”

Closing the file window, you take a deep breath before opening the image file next to the folder. The first few photos were of the crime scene and your blood turns cold at the disfigured corpses in the room. The room is dirty with peeling wallpaper, blood splatter, broken furniture, and schoolbooks and papers. The couple in the picture is your boyfriend’s parents, there’s no doubt about it. You can see the resemblance in what remains of his father’s face and you wonder if that’s the reason why he never felt comfortable in his skin, as he once told you during pillowtalk.

With your core tightened, bracing for the worst, you open the last image. There is Jungkook, in the flesh, pictured with a uniform and handcuffs, eyes blacker than your morning coffee. His face is littered with bruises and the corner of his lips are swollen, caked with dried blood. The purple and green bruises stretch over his eye socket, reaching far back to his temples where his hair falls. Somehow the fact that his mother had abused him didn’t register in your mind until now. It feels somewhat far away, like a distant memory that has no effect on the person he is now. But Jungkook didn’t become the sensitive and hardworking man you know now because of sheer willpower; he was forced into the role.

He did what he had to do to survive and you know deep in your heart you can’t hate him for it. You can’t justify murder, but you can’t ignore that he was desperate to leave.

You place a trembling hand over your heart and lean back into the couch.

Either way you look at it, one thing remains true. Jeon Jungkook had spun lies upon lies to be in your life. He had successfully kept you in the dark, hardly ever showing how truly dangerous he can be until the time is right. His anger has been, at times, loving and sweet. Other times, it spurred fear. He had promised you time and time again he would never hurt you. Yet, that promise holds no substance when he doesn’t practice his own standards for loyalty and truthfulness that he instilled in you.

There’s the Jungkook from Busan who showed no remorse for what he did and there’s the Jungkook who held your heels in his hands as he led you to safety from that fateful wedding night. Burying your head in your hands, you fist the roots of your hair until your scalp burned.

You’ve been sleeping with a stranger.

…

The precinct is a large, block building next to the subway station that would be invisible if it were not for the newly painted gray-blue gates set around the perimeter of the building. There is a group of photographers huddled against the gates despite the very late hours of the night, sporting the same black padded coats as they tumble over each other like penguins. When Namjoon steps out of the building and into the Mercedes parked in front of the building, the camera shutters click. Reporters shouts his name for a statement. He merely glances at the crowd before stepping into the vehicle, adjusting his coat before slamming the door shut. 

The crowd of reporters part as the vehicle makes its way down the concrete path to the streets. There are no officers in sight to control the crowd, prompting him to watch in silence as they knock on the tinted glass and the side of the car. His chauffeur would seem unbothered if not for the whiteness of his knuckles as he grips the steering wheel, stepping on the gas with urgency while being careful to not anger the hungry journalists desperate for next morning’s cover story. 

He can understand Lee’s anxiety as they drive towards one of his apartments in the city with higher security. He has been in a state of paralysis ever since he landed and was immediately brought into questioning. The handcuffs at the airport wasn’t necessary, he thinks, and he’s convinced some of these cops must be journalists in disguise, blaming him for a crime he had no knowledge of. Aside from such inconveniencies, there are other problems to address such as the dent in his parents’ pocket to keep the media from prying too much into the investigation. He’d faced his father’s wrath earlier before his first shot of whiskey, and then his mother’s who cried on his shoulder as she was too relieved to see him walking freely. He doesn’t understand why people are surprised that he isn’t the culprit when there is so little evidence against him. The precinct wanted to make an example out of him, about how the rich aren’t safe from persecution; however, they fail to consider that the rich aren’t always guilty with whatever they are accused of either. It’s been an exhausting last few weeks to face the same mob of cameras before, during, and after the questioning. They must know by now that Yori’s disappearance was as surprising to him as it is for everyone else.  

There is no end to the investigation – especially when they are set on finding evidence that it was premeditated - and his exhaustion reached its peak this morning when he realizes today was the day the baby is due. Yori wasn’t fond of motherhood – unbeknownst to outsiders who only saw her poised nature – and neither was he. But he had made an oath that he would be there for the child at least financially if not emotionally and would provide the necessities while he legalize their marriage and transfer abroad for work. He swore to not touch a single drop of alcohol when the first cry of his child reaches his ears yet here he is, pouring himself a drink from the mini fridge assembled between the seats.  

“Where do you think she is?” He asks, then takes a shot of straight vodka. This was one of many times he despised how poised he can be when the situation is dire. His lawyers had advised him to be emotional, but he can’t bring himself to put on an award-winning act when he’s one sleepless night away from a coma.

The older man glances at the rearview mirror, lips setting in a thin line as he eyes the bottle in Namjoon’s hand. 

“I’m unsure, sir. The police and your father has been searching in all of the places she could possibly be. I’m sure they will find her soon.”

“Dead or alive?”

The car jolts to a stop at the red light. “Sir?”

“It’s been a week. She hasn’t called, there’s no activity from her bank account, no money taken from the house, and no report of her fleeing the country. She left her belongings behind, including her cellphone and a coat during this weather. The investigation is only ongoing because there’s data from security that she let someone in at night and the back gates were open. The surveillance in the main roads nearby didn’t pick up any suspicious cars either. Now tell me…do you think she’s dead or alive?”

Lee presses on the gas pedal and sighs, staring straight ahead at the roads but unable to focus on any of the signs. 

“I don’t think I can answer that question, sir. Please forgive me.”

Namjoon takes another shot and turns his head towards the cars passing by him. There was no money taken, which concludes that the culprit’s motive had nothing to do with financial gain. It must be the reason why he’s under suspicion.

“Perhaps…” Lee speaks again, his careful eyes meeting Namjoon’s apathetic ones through the rearview mirror. “Perhaps _____ might be able to help with finding Miss Kim. She was very close to her. Maybe she knows a few locations we’ve missed.”

He considers the offer for a moment, knowing that the detectives had reached out to you for more information at the same time of his questioning. It’s true you were Yori’s closest friend for most of your life. Until last year, you talked to her on the phone several times a week and shared a meal with her at least once a week in your former apartment. You invited her to all social events and dressed, shopped, and spent quality time together. It would be a wise choice to call you in such a catastrophic time. He does, however, understand that you would be reluctant to involve yourself in the investigation for you had started a new life with this new boyfriend of yours and had distanced yourself from even Seokjin himself. Not even your mother knew about what you were up to on most days. 

Nonetheless, the situation is too severe to preserve his own pride as well as yours. Yori is with child and there’s still a morsel of a chance that she – and the baby – is safe. You may have changed in the last several months, but if there was one thing he’s still sure about you, it’s your willingness to set aside differences to help others. 

He hopes you would take the call once he musters the courage to dial your number. Maybe he’ll call Seokjin instead if he has a change of heart.

“I’ll consider it.” Namjoon nods as Lee nods back, slightly relieved. 

For the second time in his life, Namjoon is terrified of losing someone close. He had watched you, white chiffon and silk in your hand, as you ran out of the lobby and his life forever. He hoped that he can do right and bring Yori and his child back to safety and make sure – this time – to cherish what he has rather than what he’d lost.

Knocking the last shot of vodka, he leans his head back against the plush leather upholstery and closes his eyes, hoping more than anything to be taken out of his misery. 

…

They say a woman’s intuition doesn’t lie.

You’re thankful that it’s too late in the night and too early in the morning for your neighbors to hear the ding of the elevator as you make your way down the building. You didn’t bother dressing, merely grabbing your purse with the flashdrive tucked safely in one of its compartments on the way out. You’re still wearing Jungkook’s shirt as a dress and you slid into the first pair of sandals you can find through the burning tears. You’re not sure how you’re supposed to feel in the haze of betrayal but there’s a sense of humiliation that comes with finding out you were lied to – perhaps laughed at behind your back – for months. It’s the same feeling as that wedding night, but a million times worse now that you’ve reached the end of no return.

Even if you call Seokjin and urge him to help, there’s nothing you can do to change that you’re an accomplice. There’s nothing you can do to change that a sick part of you enjoyed scrubbing blood off the floors, fucking your dirtied boyfriend afterwards, and pretending life will continue as normal.

Furthermore, there’s nothing you can do to change that you’re still utterly in love with Jungkook.

It can’t all be a lie, can it? The reason why he chased after you, jumped over fences to bury his nose in your intimates, and carve your skin isn’t because he’s using you, right? There’s only so much pretending a person can do. Deep in your heart, you feel that Jungkook does really love you. You wouldn’t feel this safe with him, even after knowing he had done something irreversible in his childhood, if his tenderness towards you isn’t genuine.

Yet, you’re also acutely aware of how much money your family has. You know how many valuable assets you have under your name after your father’s passing. You know how easily you can change your life at any given moment if you choose to meet your mother’s expectations in marrying into a conglomerate family and living without worrying about money. The reason why Jungkook helped you during that wedding night can be because he had the opportunity to be with someone who can offer him financial security he didn’t have growing up. Maybe he was attracted to how easygoing your life is, only having to worry about which restaurant you want to pick for date night, unlike his formative years surviving on scraps.

You’re also pathetic, desperate, unloved. It was too easy for Jungkook to charm his way into your life in a moment of vulnerability. He must’ve known you came from money just by the size of the venue and how much you offered to pay him for his photography services. He must’ve known how naïve you were when you were willing to sleep in his arms that night, how willingly you swallowed the painkiller he gave you.

Even then, it doesn’t make sense. He owned a studio. He bought you gifts and took offense when you denied his offer to help pay for things only married couples do. He gifted you flowers every week and take you out to beautiful places when you were sad, never thinking twice about putting down his last dime if that’s what it took to see you smile. He’s patient and empathetic. He’s kind because he understands the pain of being hurt by the ones you love but he can also be kind because staying with you is convenient.

And you don’t want to be the convenient woman. Not anymore.

…

Jungkook’s phone vibrates in the back of his pocket, prompting him to remove his gloves and throw them in the fire with the rest of the corpse. The assistant is asleep on the couch, unaccustomed to night cleaning when Taehyung keeps her in charge during the day. Taehyung, on the other hand, slides his sanitized tools back in the slouchy leather bag, turning his head towards the fire when the alcohol from Jungkook’s gloves reawaken the fire for a moment.

Jungkook reaches behind him and fishes the phone from his pocket to see the notification from a security sensor. His stomach drops when the notification loads, the buffering swirl of the loading screen feeling eerily similar to the swirling aches in his stomach. He’s relieved that there are no police cars in front of the garage, but the relief is short lived as his eyes land on your car instead, the door to the driver’s seat left open.

He quickly switches to the cameras from the inside, pointed directly at the front door to see a figure walking through. He watches as you stumble inside, falling on your hands and knees as you tumble into the boxes of books and accessories he kept near the front steps. He haven’t had the chance to throw them back in the garage when Jimin and his team took away the freezer and left behind a mess.

“What’s wrong?” Taehyung comes next to him, peering down at the phone. He watches in silence as Jungkook’s hand trembles.

He watches you grab onto the nearest table and pull yourself up from the ground before switching on the lights. And it was the sight of your swollen eyes, your bloodied knees, and your heaving breaths that had him running out of the room, grabbing the car keys and jacket from the hooks next to the door. The thought that someone might have hurt you set his head into flames. Taehyung’s assistant wakes with a slight gasp the moment Jungkook slams the door open into the bright reception desk area of a run-down funeral home. The walls vibrate.

“I’ll come with you,” is all Taehyung says as they fly out front door. His assistant would know what to do without him.

Taehyung takes the keys from his grasp and starts the car, stepping on the gas without hesitation as Jungkook buries his face in his hands and fold over in the passenger seat. He reaches over and runs his fingers through Jungkook’s hair, cursing underneath his breath. The younger man takes a moment to collect himself before his shaky fingers unlocks his phone once more, the loading screen causing him to bounce his knees as he waits. Even Taehyung’s comforting hand does nothing to soothe the panic rising up his esophagus.

“S-She’s going in the dark room,” he huffs as he keeps his eyes locked on his screen. “I don’t…d-don’t know why she-”

“We’ll figure it out when we get there.”

There are no cameras in the dark room, not even ones he can hide inside everyday objects.

In half the time it usually takes to get to the studio, Taehyung steers the vehicle into the familiar neighborhood, head swinging left and right to check if anyone else is nearby. Before he parks outside the garage, Jungkook undoes his seatbelt and steps out of the moving vehicle, running towards the front doorsteps. His shoulder crashes into the front door as he twirls his head around the studio, checking to see if he missed anything. He sees your handbag on the floor, the sliding doors to the darkroom remaining closed.

You’re inside there, hurt, bleeding, needing him. He should’ve stayed behind with you and let Taehyung take care of Yori; it wasn’t necessary for him to be there, but he didn’t want to be seen as ungrateful after asking for numerous favors.

Taehyung steps inside the studio and closes the front door behind him as Jungkook slides the darkroom doors open and step inside, sliding the wood back into place behind him. He steadies his breathing and takes a few seconds to adjust his eyes to the dark red bulbs above him. When he hears a crunch he looks down to see numerous photos of you underneath his soles, entire binders and broken photo frames laying across the concrete floors.  

Jungkook steadies himself with one hand on the wall, lining the perimeter of the room until he can spot your hunched figure in front of the metal cabinets. Your shoulders are shaking, hand patting around the inside of the of the cabinet, knocking over medication, empty film canisters, and stationery.

“Noona?”

You gasp, your hand flying to cover your mouth in the semi-darkness. The bottle of pills in your hand clatters to the floor, rolling towards Jungkook’s boots. Your back slams into the cabinet behind, eyes wide with fright as your tears roll down your face. He keeps his eyes on you as he kneels and takes the bottle in his hands, briefly looking down at the transparent bottle before looking back up at you.

“What’s going on? Why are you crying?” He asks, panting as he strides towards you with outstretched arms.

In the midst of your anger you fail to realize someone like Jungkook would have taken extra steps to track where you are. You didn’t even check if the car or phone is bugged. Even during this time you’re still stupid, you think. No wonder it’s easy for men to lie to your face with that kind of carelessness.

You shake your head, backing away from him. “Don’t.”

His eyes brim with tears as you clutch your chest, your body trembling. Jungkook shakes his head, holding his bare hands in front of him to show he won’t touch you. You look at those hands – the hands that have caressed your cheeks in the morning, massaged your shoulders after long work hours, buried your old best friend – like they were weapons.  

“I-I don’t understand,” he breathes, his hands trembling as his eyes rake over the scattered pictures on the floor, the open cabinet doors, and at your tattered appearance. You’re still dressed in his button down shirt, the material falling mid-thigh and he catches a glimpse of dried blood on your knees from your fall.

“I thought it was strange. How calm you were about all this. I t-thought…” you put your hands together over your heart, your chest shaking with sobs. He can hardly make out your words from the tears and the sound felt so painful to his ears he wanted to smother you, put his hands over your mouth, and keep you locked in his arms tight.

Your teeth clatters, not because you’re cold, Jungkook knows, but because you’re scared. Of him.

“Noona,” he whimpers again as he waits for your sobs to subside. He struggles to understand.

With the heel of your palm you wipe away the tears but the more you rub the worse it gets until you feel as if your face would drown under your own ministrations. The gut-wrenching pain you felt reading his report lingers in the depths of your stomach, churned into fear that there is a possibility you could end up just like them. How could you even know if his tears are real? How could you even know if the last few months of your relationship was even real?

“You never loved me, Jungkook. You…this is just some sick fantasy of yours, r-right?” Your voice breaks. You don’t understand what’s coming out of your mouth when the only thing you wanted to do was hurt him. Make him feel the way you do now. “Making me fall for you. Believe I can earn your dead parents’ approval. Making me your fucking doll. You got off on me being a naïve little bitch, didn’t you? You sick fuck.”

You know.

Oh god, you know.

Jungkook feels as if someone had wrapped a rope around his neck and pulled. Is it punishment for wanting happiness? Is it because he was bound to this endless life of suffering where the people he loved end up hurting him in the end? End up leaving?

Jungkook shakes his head, mouth falling open as he watches you back away from him into the corner. His sobs are loud and pained as if you had hit him across the cheeks. With every step he takes towards you, you take one step back, as if to say you don’t want him near, you don’t want him to touch you, as if you don’t even want him to look at you with those seemingly innocent eyes.

“You lied to me,” your voice reduces down to a whimper. “You promised me you’d never do that. Did you intend to keep this from me forever?”

“N-Noona…”

He falls to his knees, putting his hands together in prayer as he sobs. Through your anguish and his, Jungkook still holds your heart captive.

Like a dam bursting, his apologies engulfs you.

“Noona, I’m sorry! I-I-I didn’t know how to t-tell you,” he gasps for air, putting his hands down in front of him in surrender. He puts his forehead against the cold concrete, clasping his hands together in prayer, writhing, withering. “I swear, it wasn’t me! I didn’t w-want you to think I was a mu- murd-derer,” he hiccups, coughing as his hunched figure trembles. 

Backing away until your shoulder blades lean against the adjacent walls, your body slides down, the phone from your grip clattering onto the floor. The screen brightens with the image of you and him as Jungkook’s trembling figure creeps closer, crawling towards your feet in the darkness. You can’t feel your teeth gnawing on your thumb until you taste blood in your mouth. You watch your boyfriend’s cold hands wrap around your ankles as he puts his forehead onto your calves and begs.

“I love you, noona. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I love you so much. Please don’t hate me noona, please, I don’t know what I’ll do if you hate me. I’m sorry I l-lied to you, I swear I was going to tell you everything soon, noona. W-Whatever you saw is all wrong. I never killed them, I l-loved them with all my heart,” he surrounds your folded legs in his embrace, leaning his wet cheeks against your scraped knees as he sobs. “They hurt me. They m-made me like this, I didn’t want to be like this noona, I ju-just wanted someone to love me. I didn’t mean to b-be bad-“ His clammy hands presses your calves together, keeping your knees still.

Jungkook’s head raises, slowly, his soft dark locks falling from his face. His doe eyes aren’t focused on you but on some invisible spot on the ground. He whimpers your name before doubling over and hurling vomit onto the ends of your shirt, his head slamming into the cabinet next to you. The stench of bile wafts towards your face but you’re given no chance to move when Jungkook gags and empties his stomach once more, acidic saliva slipping down the corner of his mouth as he sobs.

With no warning whatsoever, he brings his head back and slams the side of his head against the metal cabinet doors. You’re frozen stiff, your body trembling as you watch the love of your life knock his head into the doors again and again, drool dripping down his mouth.

When he wails, you reach for him. “K-Kook-”

He brings his head back, eyes glazed, as he rams his head into the metal sheet again. And again.

“I-I’m sorry noona,” he cries, etching the words into his skull. “Noona I’m sorry…I-I didn’t meant to hurt you nng, noona…I won’t…”

With shaky limbs you crawl closer to your boyfriend, pulling him by the collar to stop but the panic causes your shaky hands to slip, merely finding success in pushing him towards the ground. He coughs, gasping for air. When his wails become louder, you hover above his writhing figure, hands on his arms to keep him still in desperation. It’s no use when he continues to apologize, not hearing your pleas to stop, to listen to your voice and breathe. Seeing him like this makes you want to take back your words.

The door to the darkroom slams open, revealing a tall man whose face you can’t see until he steps further into the red hue. You weren’t aware Jungkook didn’t come alone.

He must be Kim Taehyung; there’s no mistake from the stained lab coat he adorns to the tar black eyes that could bore holes through your skull. He looks awfully similar to Jungkook and if you hadn’t read the case and hadn’t known that Jungkook was an only child, you would think they’re brothers.

“Move.” He commands, the edge in his voice causing you to flinch back as he crouches above your blubbering boyfriend’s head and scoop him from under the armpits.

He’s strong enough to uncurl Jungkook’s shaking body, hushing the cries as he places your boyfriend’s face under his chin and press him against his chest. Like a child, Jungkook’s hand reaches up to fist the lapels of Taehyung’s lab coat, sobbing so hard that you were afraid his lungs might burst.

“Hyung is here, Jungkookie. I’m here. She’s here too, okay? We won’t leave you. Hush now.”

Taehyung’s voice is deep but filled with warmth, completely different from all the times you’ve overheard him speak through a call in your living room.

“I-I’m so-sorry noona, I won’t do it again- n-noona-,” he coughs.

The older man reaches inside his coat and fishes out a syringe. He cover Jungkook’s eyes with his long fingers, whispers a word of reassurance, before pressing the needle deep into Jungkook’s arm.

In a few short seconds, the cries lower, Jungkook’s body falling limp against the older man’s chest as your name falls repeatedly from his swollen lips. Taehyung places the syringe in his pocket and wipes the vomit and saliva from Jungkook’s chin with his thumb, his eyes sad as he peers at the boy in his arms.

The sound of water dripping down the faucet seems as loud as fireworks in the silence of the room. With your arms wrapped around yourself, knees pressed against your chest, you watch Taehyung brush away Jungkook’s sweat-soaked hair and wipe away the snot and tears on his nose and cheeks with the sleeves of his coat. Once his face is dry, he props Jungkook against the cabinet and stands to face the faucet, gathering a handful of water in his hands and cleaning Jungkook’s forehead where a bruise is starting to form.

“How did you find out?”

The tethered anger in his voice causes you to curl into the corner, making yourself as small as possible. You don’t forget that Taehyung is the reason why they are both free men; the man is every bit terrifying as he is handsome.

“A-A friend of mine…he showed me.”

Taehyung hums, knowing exactly who had caused tonight’s troubles, wiping his hands on his coat. He takes several strides and crouch down in front of you, glancing at Jungkook’s face before turning back. He stares into your eyes without commenting and you’re not sure where to look. You settle on looking down at your scraped knees, the trembling causing your voice to shake.

“Are you disgusted?”

You meet his eyes, biting the insides of your cheeks. “D-Disgusted…no. Not disgusted. I’m just…scared…s-scared of what he did.”

He exhales, his long fingers coming up to massage his temples.

“I killed them.” He blinks. He nods shortly afterwards, as if he were reliving the moment. “Jungkook was simply there. They were going to kill him. It was me who did everything you saw in those photos.”

You swallow, eyes brimming with tears as your body warms in response. Your boyfriend is innocent. Maybe not completely, but enough that you can release a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

“Okay.” You murmur, nodding. You’re not sure what the proper response is for that kind of confession.

“There are some people who don’t deserve to be parents. His mother, especially. You would be surprised how happy he became when we had no more family.”

You nod, keeping your eyes lowered. Your eyes fall to your cellphone near Taehyung’s shoes, your lips parting.

“T-Then…he wasn’t adopted afterwards?”

Taehyung cocks his head. “Adopted?”

“I-it’s just,” you stammer, wondering if it would anger him if you asked but something tells you Taehyung is a reasonable man albeit his brutality. “There’s a co-contact in his phone…a-and he labeled her as ‘mother’…”

The older man nods. “We call her our mother. She helped us when we had nowhere to go, gave us a place to sleep.”

As if the weight from your shoulders melted away once more, you slump against the wall. Of course, Jungkook wouldn’t cheat on you with another woman.

Taehyung continues. “We did what we had to do. We learned how to make fake documents, little things like IDs, and it kept us afloat for a while. Jungkook prefers that kind of work still, but I don’t. You’ll never see a photographer making this kind of money without dabbling into…indecent practices. It’s expensive to feel secure, I’m sure you can at least relate to that.”

He smiles but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Do you understand the kind of life we had now?”

You nibble on your bottom lip. There’s no doubt you love Jungkook but the wound remains agape, the initial ugly feeling of betrayal swimming in your belly. You have the right to feel this way, but Taehyung is rather unconcerned about your feelings. If you weren’t loved by Jungkook, he would have stuck the barrel of his gun down your throat and threaten to blow out your organs out the other end. He’ll be patient this time and let nature takes its course; there’s a possibility you’re pregnant. You won’t be able to leave now, and you won’t be able to leave once you carry the baby to full term.

“I do,” you answer, the trembling gone.

You glance over at Jungkook’s sleeping form. Despite how hurt you may be now, you need to be there for him. You can’t imagine how sick he would feel, how much panic he would feel, when he wakes.

“I’m glad you do. After all,” Taehyung stands. “You’re not completely innocent either.”

Your head snaps up to meet his gaze.

He knows about Yori.

“Did you…?”

He confirms your thoughts. “I did. There’s no need to worry unless you talk, and if you know what’s good for you, you won’t.”

You release a shaky breath. “Okay.”

You’ve reached a dead end. You can’t amend your mistakes like good people, sane people, do. You’re as good as married to Jeon Jungkook, Yori’s burial being the glue tying you to him in holy matrimony. You have no choice but to vow to protect and love him in sickness and health. In all honestly, you can’t imagine your life any other way.

Taehyung brushes invisible dust off his coat.

“There is one more thing,” he says and with new conviction you meet his gaze once more. “If by any chance you do something stupid, I will kill you. And Jungkook can’t stop me then. Remember that.”

…

Seokjin follows the scent of a cigarette. It’s hardly half past six in the morning and the wind makes him push his head down as he maneuvers through the trees to the abandoned park. The playground he played in as a child is torn down, the blue slides and yellow swings torn apart by ongoing construction. Between the trees and industrial machinery he struggles to find his former co-worker and friend who had messaged him quite suddenly about the investigation on Jungkook. It’s something big, he says, and Hoseok doesn’t say something like that unless he means it. And if it’s bigger than the case file, then it’s bound to be something incriminating. He wasn’t sure if Yoongi might be here too, but he doubt it since the man can hardly drag himself out of bed in the morning.

It’s a little odd that Hoseok asked to meet immediately and he wonders if it was because he responded as soon as he received the text. Maybe if he had answered later in the day he could sleep in before work, but with Yori’s disappearance his nights have been filled with thoughts about you. Some fresh air would serve him well.

“Hoseok?!” He turns his head left and right, huffing as he struggle to catch his footing on the uneven cobblestone paths.

When he hear footsteps near the playground he turns his head towards the noise, blinking as he struggles to make out the figure of a person on the ground. She must be homeless, he thinks, as he watches her wrap her tattered scarf around her neck while wailing in a strange, kitten-like voice. She mutters something to herself in another language.

He takes a step closer, calling out to the plump woman as she stretches a leg out in front of her and fans her hand over what looks like a bloody wound. The gash is deep enough for him to stop in his tracks.

“Ma’am are you alright?” He asks.

His phone rings in his coat pocket and he reaches inside, looking down at Namjoon’s number displayed across the screen before locking his phone. Seems like he’s quite in demand this morning. He tucks the device back into his coat and walks over to the woman.

“Ma’am?”

She looks up at him, her mud-caked face and hair crumbling as she whimpers and move her bloody leg away from his sight.

“Do you need help standing?” He asks, closing in on her rocking figure. It’s not safe for a woman – much less a homeless woman – to be alone and injured. The park hardly garners enough visitors for its awkward location. He might be her only help.

“N-no…n-no…no,” the woman holds her leg away, wailing as she rocks from side to side.

Seokjin hovers next to the woman, folding over to gauge the extent of her injuries when his eyes trails over the thin red paint covering from the bottom of her knee to the middle of her calves. She babbles and wails, flailing her arms over the leg until a silver glint flashes over his eyes and air is knocked out of his lungs. When he opens his eyes and groans, he’s facing the cloudless sky, his vision flashing purple and black. He curses and turns to his side only to come face to face with a pair of black shoes.

He doesn’t raise his chin. Rather, he’s not given the choice, not when he feels the barrel of a gun pressed upon his noggin. The sound of bullet entering its chamber sounds from behind and he realizes quickly that he’s been set up.

“Kim Taehyung,” he wheezes, sputtering as he catches his breath. The gun behind him trails up his spine until it’s pressing into the back of his skull. He doesn’t know who that woman his, but he knows for sure the man standing in front of him can’t be anyone else but Taehyung.

In his paralysis he can hardly think of how Taehyung was able to use Hoseok’s number to meet him at a place only he and Hoseok investigated. The last time he spoke to him, Hoseok had only warned that he couldn’t continue the investigation, that Kim Taehyung had formally requested him to quit meddling, and ended the call shortly after. Surely Taehyung couldn’t have done something to the man in Hong Kong? He couldn’t think of a reason why someone who isn’t even related to Jungkook by blood will go through such lengths to protect him.

“Didn’t I tell you not to meddle in my affairs?”

He nods, exhaling. “You d-did.”

The gun from behind slides from his skull to his temple.

“You should have listened the first time.”

[darthmaulification]

Hey! Can I please make a request for a short Drabble where reader is Grogu’s nanny aboard the Razor Crest and Din develops a crush on her, but once he and the reader start visiting Grogu at Jedi School on weekends, Luke develops a crush as well? Doesn’t have to end up with either, but I would like to see either guy’s rivalry and slight jealousy (with Reader’s obliviousness).

A/N: ... okay so, i really got into the whole crush aspect of your request, anon, and this basically became a romantic prose piece. when i looked back to see what you had initially wanted, my product was... about thrice removed from the original prompt. 💀

i think i got some of the points??? like there’s din and luke and they’re both in love with reader and they both have a bit of rivalry with the other and basically that’s what matters??? please forgive me, anon, the ghost of sappho took my body over and forced me to write yearning love poetry!! 🙏 sis forced my hand!! 😭

though if there’s enough interest for it, i can always make a follow up for this, like from reader’s perspective, and write something a lil more in depth (once i get requests finished up that is). 😊

hope you enjoy! 💗

content: nothing but din and luke pining for reader, gn!reader (for the most part), use of she/her pronouns, fluff, but also a smidgen of angst 👁👁, perspective difference!!, kind of a commentary on mandalorian and jedi culture?? (mostly jedi culture lmao)

word count: 1,524

You’re beautiful.

He sees it now how your face lights up like candles being lit when his son succeeds at doing another one of his Jedi tricks. Joy illuminates your face like a spotlight, your soft cheers and kind praise make the whole room warmer. Din watches Grogu leap into your arms, cooing and squealing like he’s been given candy. It makes Din’s heart leap when you kiss his son on the head, and smile so warmly it’s like your lips become sunshine.

Din is infinitely grateful for his helmet in this moment, his face feels like it’s been too close to a fire. His fingers pick at a fraying stitch on his gloves, to prevent his hands from shaking in his lap. He hopes that the Jedi, who is standing casually across the room near you and Grogu, doesn’t notice. Din hopes you don’t notice what you’re doing to him.

I’m in love. 

The sentence slips through the cracks of his thoughts the way a sunrise peeks over the horizon. You look over at him, holding up Grogu triumphantly in your hands like you would a prize, and he sucks in a breath because suddenly it feels like all he can see is you. You and Grogu, you and his son.

Please be my riduur.

“Did you see that? Wasn’t it amazing?” And Din forces himself to dip his head in a slight nod, because the Jedi is also looking at him with piercing blue eyes the color of the sky. His heart pounding, and when you laugh, and it sounds like summertime when everything is good and happy.

People love, he thinks as he stares at you, and suddenly his palms are sweaty and he feels the need to tap his foot, but Mandalorians love harder.

I dream about you every night, think about you when I lie awake. You’re always holding sunflowers, and the nightmares don’t touch me then.

Mandalorians love like there is nothing else in the universe more valuable, nothing more precious, not their vibroblades, their blasters, or even their beskar.

Giving up a blaster and a vibroblade in order to save you from that hut’uun came to me like breathing, I didn’t even think about it... I would’ve given up my beskar’gam too. I still would.

Mandalorians love with their souls laid bare, they love with their entire body, they love with sacred vows, exchanged beskar rings, their riduur’s name engraved on their hal’cabur, above their heart.

When you slept beside me one night, I whispered the entire marriage vow to you in Mando’a. You looked so peaceful bathed in the light of the moon, the silvery glow making you look holy. I’ll admit, it came out mostly accidentally, but it felt so normal, natural even. I wish you hadn’t been asleep.

Mandalorians love in spite of death, they love in the face of it. They love like warriors.

I had gotten shot. All I remember is you holding me in your arms, hands pressed over the wound. I was in pain, and you were crying, covered in blood and dirt, but you were so warm. I’m still unsure if I had actually said what I think I said:

“I care about you too much to leave you.”

He wants to tell you all of this, but he’s never been much of a romantic, or much of a speaker in general, so the words falter on his tongue each time he’s tried. And Din’s tried so many times. You say something to the Jedi, and it makes a sudden, surprising fury bubble in his chest, the vile rising to his throat. Din has to bite his tongue to hold back from shouting:

Don’t talk to her, di’kut jetii! You are undeserving of her words, of her time, of her presence. Unworthy! You can’t give her what I can, shabuir.

You look over at him again, and the hot anger dies completely, leaving him powerless before you. Din felt this way each time he’s tried to tell you how much you mean to him.

I love you, cyare.

It feels like your eyes are boring holes straight through his beskar, through his flight suit, singing his skin with their warmth. Din bites his cheek so hard he tastes copper.

You smile. It’s like the dawn.

You are the sun— His sun— of his universe, and his eyes burn from the light.

Din basks in the rays, and his heartbeat starts to slow to it’s normal, steady rhythm.

Tomorrow. I’ll tell you tomorrow.

~

You’re beautiful.

He sees it now in how your entire expression blooms into one of pure joy when his padawan successfully levitates the crates. It radiates in your aura, the waves of mirth traveling further than your respectfully quiet cheers and meaningful praise. Luke watches as the child leaps into your embrace, babbling without forming any actual words. Something inside Luke lurches when you place a kiss on Grogu’s head, and when your vibrant smile dissolves his willpower.

Luke draws the Force in on himself, welcoming the sturdiness it brings. He tries to ignore how his palm has gotten sweaty, but he clenches his hand into a fist and hastily relaxes it. Focus, let in calmness like a breeze. Luke hopes that the Mandalorian, sitting stiff and looming on a far bench, doesn’t notice his moment of vulnerability. He pulls the Force closer, and hopes you don’t notice what you’re doing to him.

I’m in love.

The thought springs up in his mind the way shoots of new grass breach top soil in spring time. You glance over at him as you lift the child, and the look is as quick and fleeting as blossoms on trees, but it floats in the Force like dandelion seeds, and Luke is painfully aware of how consuming you are.

Please don’t do this to me.

“Did you see that? Wasn’t it amazing?” And Luke catches your eye, offering you the smallest smile he can afford without it breaking. You look to the Mandalorian, and Luke follows your gaze because he can’t compel himself to do much else. The Mandalorian’s visor is dark like the night, and flashes when he nods his head. Luke feels his heart sink when he senses it from him, a yearning so deep he nearly drowns in it.

People love, Luke thinks and he feels all at once envious and angry and so achingly acquiescent, because Jedi cannot.

I swore by the Code years ago, but I look at you and doubt it all. It can’t be that I’m this willing to rethink everything.

Jedi are forbidden from having attachments, they cannot pursue romantic interests. Love leads to passion, and it all is an influence of the Dark. Luke knows this. He’s fallen to it before.

I’ve spent decades forgetting how deeply I cared for him! But I am reminded daily of my father, every time I look in the mirror, I see his eyes. How dare you pull me back into this cruel trap! I can’t do this again.

Luke contains himself. Jedi value peace of mind, they extend the sentiment to upholding it in the galaxy as well. They do not do it out of love, but out of obligation, out of honor, because of what’s right. They are not love.

When I first met you it was like I’d seen you before, in a past life. It was like retracing my steps, following the trail backwards, revisiting something I had passed. Despite it all, I had moved forward and took my padawan from you and the Mandalorian, plucked him from you like a petal off a flower. I watched you wilt.

Luke reminds himself. Jedi do not love. Focus is key. The Force is everything.

But you are too.

Luke has to swallow in order to make sure the words never reach his mouth, and it’s like eating thorns. You turn back to him and the look in your eyes is tender like butterfly wings. The pink in your cheeks reminds Luke of windflowers.

“Thank you again, Luke,” His soul shivers when his name sounds in your voice, “It’s so kind of you to teach Grogu.”

As he replies and tells you it’s a pleasure, he almost spills everything to you, but an abruptness shifts the energy of the room. There is a lurking anger that crawls at him through the Force, entwines him like ivies. The Mandalorian fumes, the wrath trembles like billowing leaves. Don’t. Undeserving. Unworthy.

Luke forces himself to agree and squashes down everything, pushing each painful emotion into the deepest parts of him. He watches you look to the Mandalorian, your aura flowers with affection, love.

I love you.

His resolve is fading, again. Luke reminds himself, again. Jedi do not love. Jedi do not love. Jedi do not love.

You smile, and it stings his soul like nettle.

Luke forces himself to ignore that your eyes say different things when they settle on the Mandalorian than they had him. The thought feels like eating bittersweet berries.

Briefly, he revels in what could have been.

It’s for the best.

~

A/N: i thought i would add another note at the end of this to explain exactly what the heck i was saying with the word soup i just wrote.

first, din is so hopelessly in love with reader that it hurts. like physically makes his heart ache. i feel that when din falls in love, he falls in love. it consumes him. i wrote a lot of sun/light imagery to portray the overwhelming, all-encompassing love din feels for reader. you are the sun that warms him, and burns him. 

second, i purposely made luke have an even more tragic, even more conflicted crush on reader, on purpose, hahaha i am evil. 😈 he loves you, but forces himself not to. he tells himself that the jedi code means more. luke chooses to suffer because he knows that’s how it must be. there’s some plant/nature symbolism thrown throughout because that’s just the theme that i thought vibed with luke the most.

and that mention of anakin? i subscribe to the headcanon that luke really did love his dad, and just wanted him in his life, but of course, vader ultimately died. luke took a heavy blow from that, learned it hurts to love.

also, regarding the mini-rivalry that takes place, it’s through the force (if that wasn’t obvious) and it’s essentially another example of luke surrendering his own wants/desires and simultaneously din firmly declaring his love for you. it’s kinda meant to be the “understanding” between the two that clearly establishes who “wins” the reader.

... this was all one giant metaphor, huh?

[moancores]

𝙸 𝚆𝙰𝙽𝚃 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝙰𝙳𝙳𝙸𝙲𝚃𝙴𝙳 𝚃𝙾 𝙼𝙴

summary : laying with you i feel like moving clouds high in the sky

pairings : aki hayakawa x fem! reader

caution warnings : smoking (cigarettes), mentions of fingering, a fic without a plot

words : 1.6k

inspiration : cigarette (ft. Tablo, Miso) — offonoff

Aki is cautious, even on his days off, he’s still highly aware of his surroundings and refuses to put his guard down. Paranoia laced his bones like a second skin, flooding his sanity and bathed him in alamort—his colleagues taunting him with obscene mouthfuls, referring to his tension as volatile metallics. He reminds them that it’s always better safe than sorry at the end of a job, his eyes always glazed in wet, insomniac entrapment. Of course, nobody took him seriously until after they were dead.

So in these lunar gold moments, where evening arrived too early, he wandered inside a morphean building with shame and guilt. The inclescent sign that read ‘DECADENCE’ in English flashed against the ebony ink night sky; showing the dense population of Tokyo that they were willing to open their doors for the damned and beautiful. Even inside the crimson illuminated lobby, where only one man sat at the front desk, Aki still kept his guard as he unconsciously created half moon circles into his salt stain palm from the tip of his nails. He nodded his head to the man with cimmerian eyes, who in return smiled at his favorite patron as the man pointed to the ceiling.

See, boy of misfortune that’s laved in bittersweet sickness was rooted to this love hotel for two years now, his feet pierced in magnetic obsession that always had him crawling back. He was a regular, someone the staff knew by name, despite the hatred that calloused him of how easily they spoke his name. It rolled off their tongues like venom and they made it sound harsh—their tone the equivalent of choking of funeral soil. He hated the illusion of their voices and it could be the overwhelming shame that made him hate them, but he can’t shake the feeling that they could be dangerous.

He held his breath as he looked at the man, feeling the apprehension kissed his skin as he melted into a cold sweat, but he understood. That she was waiting for him in the same room that overlooked the same LED sign that promoted the same ramen stall on the same main street. Aki left the same lobby to take the same left turn to the same ricody staircase, climbing the same nine floors up as the warm light bathed him in hues of champagne drip. He ignored the same art pieces that made him feel uncomfortable throughout the years of visiting, traveling down the same narrow hallway where the same wooden floors tripped him up before sighing at the same wooden door. Aki has frequented this room so casually that the owner of the hotel molded an exact replica of the key to this room.

The scent of peonies enveloped him into a serene eumoiriety as a sheen moisture of humidity coaxing his face, the strands of his acantho hair clung to his skin. The room was bare with little to offer besides a bed that was displayed in the center, adorned with the same pale blue sheets that Aki had messied and soiled with his own multitarian elixirs. In the far end of the room, the balcony doors were open to allow the evening winds to consume the fragments of fornication as the sheer curtains swayed against the current of cool zephyrs. Between the alterations of fabric, you stood amidst the foundation of taboos as you leaned your body against the iron railing, looking outwards towards a malice devoured city with half dead people being the buildment of a devil’s desire. Aki blinked as he watched your wet hair sway against the gust clear currents or how the tips of your hair dribbled warm water and pooled beneath you.

Aki pulled out the pack of cigarettes he recently purchased, tapping the cardboard box against his open palm with thunderous shockwaves in the hopes to pack the cigarettes tight. He fumbled with the packaging but he managed to quickly peel away the thin plastic that encased around the box and threw it to the ground; grabbing a cigarette between his fingers that stained his skin in the scent of tobacco and fig before brushing the filter against his bottom lip. Between the billowy curtains and harsh winds, Aki witnessed a scintilla of mist that blew east from your lips and dissipate into the astral atmosphere—the smell of your cheap cigarettes that were laced with poison was pungent. Aki watched, observing how the ash from your cigarette gravitated downwards towards the concrete versus the cherry cola ashtray that was shaped in a heart. He witnessed how your toes curled as you leaned your body down more against the railing, watching you lean further and further downwards until you began to slip.

“Idiot!” Aki cried, his calloused hands gripping your waist as he pulled you down into the depths of your shared room, “You need to be more careful!”

“I was completely fine, Hayakawa-san.” You rolled your eyes, “No need to worry about me.”

Aki lit his cigarette as he inhaled the first cigarette from the last two hours. His lungs inflated with venom that bit his esophagus, the taste of tobacco flowers shoving down his throat in between the bursts of nicotine obsession. He blew the mist from his nose, feeling his airwaves clog in an arcane burn, “I worry about you like I do anyone else.”

“Aweh, you think that highly of me?” You teased, flicking the end of your cigarette off the balcony.

“Don’t push your ego, you’re not that important to me.” Aki argued, “but I refuse to see any more people die in front of me.”

The beige chair in the corner collected the dust and ash shared between them from purgatory evenings, and despite it’s broken appearance, Aki still sat gingerly in his favorite chair. He quickly dragged another puff of his cigarette before welcoming you into his lap and cradling you close into his arms that were strained with catastrophic dolent. He hissed as your body connected with a freshly blue bruise that blotched him in orchids blooming beneath his flesh—before you could apologize, Aki shook his head and told you not to worry about it. You notice how his body heat radiated with nuclear fission and how it burned like a thousand suns, clearly he was overworking himself and his body is unable to keep up with the demands of his mentality. You couldn’t say anything though, knowing that he’ll get upset and excuse his hard work for determination and becoming the savior of a saccharine generation, so instead you encouraged him to smoke. Maybe chain smoking fifteen cigarettes will keep him bound to you a moment longer, distracting his pulsating hate for devils with the taste of attraction.

You grabbed another cigarette from your carton, placing it sweetly between your lips as your head hung off from the arm of your chair. Your hair mimicking cascades of waterfalls as it fails with the downward spiral of gravity, ichor pooling in your head as Aki lit the cigarette dangling between your peach gloss lips with your butane lighter (shaped and molded to resemble a lock and heart) that he found ridiculous. You inhale deeply through your nose, collecting the smoke into your lungs before you allow it to bleed into the atmosphere.

Aki set aside your lighter before returning his hand to the inside of your thigh, knowing that after two packs, while your organs are festering and dying, his long fingers will slip between the hem of your panties and thrust between your love. Deep conversations will fall into malicious silence as the only thing Aki can clearly comprehend is your soft moans echoing into the sky. His fingers buried deep within you in rhythmic depths as he looks outwards into the skyline of his newly acquired city—wondering what devils wandered about in the far corners of Tokyo before questioning what Makima was doing in this very moment. Sometimes, he’ll look at you and picture Makima unraveling beneath him, lips agape with apricot blush dusting her skin.

In his mind, he knew you were beautiful but you’ll never compare to Makima. Honestly, he doesn’t know why he’s so enamored with her but he’s drawn to her like the sun is with supernovas. There’s always something alluring about the mysterious darkness that blanketed over her, making her feel archaic and silver. To Aki, you were the light, something that felt safe yet dangerous. You can melt him, burn him and you could just as easily cremate him like any other fire devil—you were a hindrance to him but he was addicted to you like every cigarette shared amongst you. You brought life into halcyon days, where flowers stretch their long necks to kiss your nectar.

Besides, those are sensations and thoughts for later. You placed the cigarette you’ve kissed between his lips, allowing to suck and nurture on the vile as his spine relaxed further into the beige chair. His thumb swaying small circles into your flesh as he exhaled the taste of rot from the cheap cigarettes you loved so much. His stress induced head felt a tad bit high from the smoke and your touch that the world around him began to circle slowly and sweetly. His heart thrumming in euphoria as he gladly took another drag of your cigarette, cherishing the feeling of light fingertips against his chapped lips as you held the cigarette for him.

Decadence was a hotel he was swore was the gate to hell from his mortal reality, and somehow you lingered in the corrupt realm of the ninth floor as a distraction from the vile and decay he bathed in. Blood and killings were a part of his life just like how breathing, starving and lust was. However, on the ninth floor of a man made hell, you became a calm addiction that Aki craved—numbing the deaths of his buddies, colleagues and friends after a cry, a funeral and sex. The cigarettes shared between you were the conversations of apprehension, loss, pleasure and possible happy endings. The smell of your pastel breathing places him in a corrosive mood and suddenly, he could devour the moon raw.

You placed your fingers against his lips, encouraging him to take another long hit as the tan filter was eaten from the saliva shared between hallowed bodies. “Smoke up a glimpse of heaven.”

[tainted-wine]

Nowhere, absolutely nowhere in your ask did you insinuate that you wanted this but I couldn’t resist getting thirsty because...you know. Thinking about it, I may have been subconsciously inspired by @bibbidi-bobbidi-birb​ and her amazing Seven Deadly Birds series. If you want some real magical Hawks action, go read her beautiful fic Gula!

What do you call a hummingbird version of Hawks? Hums?

This rambling-turned-ficlet contains Microphilia, Noncon/Dubcon, Forced oral(receiving), and Yandere vibes. Just pervy fairy!Hawks in a fantasy AU.

Anyway Hawks is a tiny bastard that has completely ruined fairies for you. Everyone in this village, a village built in the middle of an enchanted forest, welcomes the small magical beings whenever they’re spotted flying about. You knew that fairies had a reputation for being tricksters, but Keigo...

You didn’t know it was possible for someone the size of your hand to be such a menace. You should have never acknowledged him. You shouldn’t have commented on his rose wings as he hovered over your flowers, the shimmering feathers appearing to change color at every angle. You shouldn’t have given him that small dish of sweet syrup as you thanked him and his kind for using their magic to keep the humans safe from the more wicked inhabitants of the forest.

His obsession with you began on that very same day you met. At first it was endearing, the way he fluttered around you, embarrassing you with backhanded compliments that only a fairy can make sound flattering.

“You’re pretty good-looking yourself, for a smelly human at least.”

Everyday he would ask for another sugary treat to slurp up, the sweetness of his voice hiding the fact that he never takes no for an answer. He’d passive aggressively question you, because what’s more important than showing a little gratitude to a creature that’s just trying to protect you?

When he isn’t forcing you to feed him, he’s following you around like a pesky bug, expecting you to make conversation. Ignore him and he’ll buzz loudly in your ear or tug on your hair. Whatever task you’re handling can’t be more important than a generous fairy asking for a little company. His questions become a bit too invasive for your liking.

“Have any of the men here caught your eye?”

“No? And why not? Are they missing something?”

“So are you still a maiden?”

“You are? Then you must taste sweeter than anything you’ve given me so far! Why not offer yourself?”

You weren’t sure what that meant, but it frightened you. The old tales never mentioned fairies consuming human flesh or drinking blood.

He only became more aggressive and less respectful of your privacy as time went on. One night you noticed too late that he found a way into your home and was calmly watching you bathe, laughing when you screamed and jumped out of the small tub without thinking and revealing your nude body to him.

“Can I drink from you?”

You say no.

One morning you wake up to find him curled up and sleeping soundly on your chest. You react by smacking him and sending him flying into a wall. As much as you’ve grown to detest him, you still panic over the fact that you just harmed a fairy.

He smirks when he sees your fear, despite how dazed he was.

“I’ll forgive you if I can drink from you.”

You say no.

Keigo frowns and, instead of pressuring you like you expected, flies away on his damaged wings. When he doesn’t return that day or the day after, you think that he has finally left you alone.

You had your first terrible nightmare the next time you slept. They got more intense every night, dreams of shadowy beasts violently tearing you limb from limb. For awhile you try different herbs and remedies in hopes of getting a peaceful sleep, but they all fail. You begin to fear sleep, dragging your feet through the streets with dark and heavy eyelids.

Then the hallucinations haunt you. Your neighbors are starting to keep their distance, whispering to each other about the times when you suddenly collapse and scream, raising your hands in front of you as if a monster is lunging at you. “She’s gone mad.”

One night, as you sit on your bed and try to blink away the horrid creatures, Keigo returns.

You’re already on your hands and knees the second you see him and realize he isn’t a part of your own cruel delusions. You beg him to save you from whatever this is, whatever evil has suddenly taken hold of your mind. He takes a long look at your sad state before answering to your pleas.

“I can save you, if you let me drink from you.”

It only scares you for a second before you accept, ready to give him anything he wants. It can’t be worse than the horrors you’ve been experiencing these past days.

You don’t know what you were expecting, but it wasn’t the order to remove all of the clothing below your waist. When you hesitate, he motions to turn around and exit out of your window, which quickly makes you panic again as you shakily fumble with your garments.

It was the first time you exposed yourself to someone. Keigo may not be a human male, but judging by the many times he’s casually ogled you, he’s probably just as wolfish as one.

You’re told to lie back on the bed and spread your legs. The embarrassment is almost strong enough to overpower your drowsiness and week-long headache. The fairy flies and lands between your thighs, standing right in front of your virgin womanhood.

Small hands touch your lips all over. “What a beautiful flower. I’ve been dreaming about how sweet your nectar tastes since you first spoke to me.” He presses the hooded bud at the top and chuckles when your hips jolt.

Oh gods, is this what he means by drinking? No...

You’re afraid to close your eyes, afraid of whatever terrifying demons await you in the darkness, but you simply don’t have the strength to watch him violate you like this.

You don’t see, but you sure do feel the slender and very long invasion inside of you, a foreign and shameful feeling, but admittedly not unpleasant. It darts in and out of you rapidly, your nerves struggling to keep up with the speed of sensations. He’s feeding from you just like he would from a flower or a cup of sugar water.

The avian tongue is small yet brings you so much pleasure that it chases away your fears. You fight to keep your quivering thighs from closing and crushing the feasting fairy, your pussy contracting as more juices flow to soak him. 

He’ll occasionally come up for air and comment on how delicious you are, how juicy your petals are once you fully bloom, and how you’ve officially spoiled him and will no longer be satisfied by any of your sugary gifts. 

His nimble muscle works fast at collecting your moisture, pressing against your walls just enough to make you whimper as a strange pressure grew inside of your belly. You eventually gain the courage to look down, though all you can really see is a pair of wings that will sometimes happily flutter.

Keigo is still gorging himself when the tension in your gut suddenly snaps with a burst of pleasure strong enough to temporarily smother the darkness. It has you screaming into the night, and if the village wasn’t already convinced that you were insane, someone probably would have ventured out to check on you. He climbs up your stomach and rests on your chest when he finishes, completely drenched and proud of it.

He promises that the shadows will slowly go away, and you want to embrace his small form. You haven’t forgotten how despicable he’s been, but you owe him your life, or at the very least your sanity. You still shy away when he informs you that he needs to feed from you at least once a day to ensure your mind remains free. As incredible as it felt, it will always be difficult to just open your legs and allow his tongue inside your most intimate spot.

As for Keigo, he can’t believe how well this plan went. Now he can go tell his fellow fairies that you have finally made amends for your unreasonable behavior. 

When you had the audacity to smack him into a wall, he fled into the depths of the forest and alerted the others of his injuries. Enraged by the harm you brought upon one of their own, they lifted their protective magic over you, leaving you vulnerable to the evils of the woods. It truly was sad watching the unseen forces torment you, but you needed to be taught a lesson for denying him so many times and daring to strike him.

Your protection will return once he gives them the news, but you'll never know that. Instead, you’ll believe that he is keeping you safe all on his own, with the work of his mouth and ravenous appetite. It sounds ridiculous to his own ears, but it’s not like you silly humans understood fairy magic well enough to know better.

He can’t help it. You’re the sweetest flower in these woods, and he’s going to keep you all to himself.

[iliveiloveiwrite]

this life is short, darling. so come, run away with me.

A/N: Here’s my entry to @eleven-times-lively‘s writing challenge! Congratulations on 400 again! Thank you so much for letting me take part! I loved writing this, but I love writing Draco. The prompt I chose has been bolded in the text. The title is from a quote I found on google by a Kiana Azizian on instagram.

Summary: talks of the future.

Pairing: Draco Malfoy x Reader

Warnings: some angst - mentions of war, nightmares, anxiety and insomnia. BUT THERE IS FLUFF.

Word count: 1.3k

There was no ignoring the damage the Second Wizarding War had wrought on wizarding society. Hogwarts remained in tatters; McGonagall choosing to delay repairs as the bodies of students, teacher, and death eaters alike remain unclaimed in the Great Hall.

Upon the start of the Dark Lord’s final duel with Harry Potter, Draco Malfoy was dragged away by his mother. Across the bridge where they could safely apparates to their home and collect the tatters of their once great and feared reputation.

You had apparated to the Manor once the Battle was over; having to see for yourself that he had survived before you let yourself confront the grief that was welling within for the friends that you had lost that day.

You sprinted down the main path, being met halfway by the blonde-haired teenager you were so madly in love with. No words were spoken; he simply kissed until there was no breath in your body, and after that, he held you until your eyes had ran dry and his were red-rimmed.

For as long as you could remember you had been in love with the heir to the Malfoy name and fortune. For as long as Draco could remember, he had loved you just as much. The friendship was an old one; families running in same circles. The relationship started in Sixth Year when he had kissed you under the mistletoe someone had placed on top of the door to the Slytherin common room. Draco Malfoy always presented a hard exterior, but with you he was soft and pliable. If he could, he’d worship the ground you walked on. The relationship felt so natural; as if it was written by the fates that you two should end up together and love each other so deeply.

-------

The grounds to Malfoy Manor are particularly beautiful in Spring; when the flowers have begun to bloom, and their perfume hangs heavy in the air. The Malfoys were known through wizarding society primarily for their stance on pure-blood lineages, but the second thing the family was known for was Narcissa’s prize winning roses that always take the blue ribbon in the town fair. It’s a juxtaposition in itself, but there was no denying that the matriarch of the supremacist family in the large manor house up the road, grew the most beautiful roses.

The rose garden was always your favourite part of the Manor; it was the one place where you and Draco could be yourselves without the worry of being overhead or seen by prying eyes and ears. Through the war, more and more time was spent in the garden – memorising the species and their meanings and speaking freely about the ambiguity of the future.

It was in Narcissa’s prized rose garden that Draco showed you the mark that would now mar his left arm for the rest of his life. He expected you to turn away disgusted; to leave him in the dust for someone from a family with a less blood-thirsty background. Instead, you surprised him. You took his arm in your hands and placed a kiss to the mark. There was no romanticising what had happened to him; there was only making the promise that you would stand by him through this and that you always would.

For so long, the Manor had been a place that was the definition of the word ‘cold’, but Narcissa had made it her mission to liven up the house - to make it into a home. Now that the war was over, and the Malfoy’s were doing all that they could to redeem themselves in the eyes of the wizarding world; the garden had come to symbolise a place of healing for Draco and yourself.

It was in the garden that Draco confessed he wasn’t coping as well; it was in the garden that you told him you knew, and you were also struggling. The roses were the only witnesses to the promise made between the two of you; to help each other through this – to never leave the other in a lurch. It was sealed with a kiss that tasted salty from the tears that had fallen through the heart-wrenching conversation.

The war was over, but there was still so much uncertainty about the future.

The sun shines down on the roses through your morning walk with Draco. You had been staying at the Manor more often; the both of you needing the other close – to fight the nightmares, to fight the terrors that lurked in the shadows. When sleep evaded you both, as it did so often, you took to walking in the beloved gardens, admiring the way that the morning dew glistened in the first rays of sunlight.

Draco tangles your fingers together as you continue to lap the grounds; chasing away the horrors of the night and replacing them with happier thoughts of the day.

It had been a rough night for Draco in particular. His own screams dragging him from the nightmares of the pain that was inflicted when the dark mark was seared into his skin by the Dark Lord. The pain is no longer there, but the phantom pain lingers and flares on a night when his mind begins to rest; letting its walls down for the invading thoughts to begin their assault.

You hadn’t slept a wink, even after Draco fell back into a fitful sleep. You watched him instead, filled with yearning for a different life. Bursting to the brim with the idea of a carving out a different path for the both of you to walk down together – a life with no violence, only happiness and peace.

The grass underneath your feet squelches as you remember the idea you had in the early hours of the morning.

You turn suddenly, gripping Draco’s hand tightly in yours. Your eyes are bright; with love and an idea, “I don’t know what’s ahead, but will you run away with me?”

Draco pauses his walk, raising an eyebrow at your sudden outburst, “Where would we go?”

“Abroad – let’s go to Europe. I want to see France, Italy, Greece.”

“What would we do there?”

“Whatever we want,” You say, caressing his cheek with your hand – he leans into the touch. “My love, life is short – the war taught us that. So come, run away with me and see the world.”

Draco remains silent for a minute; thinking over the possibilities and consequences in his head. Financially, they could do this, coming from prominent and wealthy families. There was nothing of substance that was keeping them here either. Life is short, Draco knows that. The very thought had haunted him since he had walked through the corridors of the school he once called home and noted the familiar faces of friends, students, and teachers all lined before the walls – never to breathe another breath again.

There could be no consequences to this; not once he explained why he needed to go to his mother. Narcissa would understand better than most; she always had. Draco thinks to the concerned looks she throws at him from across the breakfast table; Narcissa would probably be the one to pack his bags.

“We can’t run away forever,” Draco starts, knowing that as much as he wants to leave this blasted place, he would have to return eventually, “But we can run away for the summer.”

“Do you promise?” You ask, voice quiet but eyes bright with the possibilities running through your mind and teetering on the tip of your tongue.

“I promise. I also promise this…” He trails off, pulling you into an embrace, pecking your lips before continuing, “I don’t know what’s ahead, but I promise that you will always have me.”

You peck his lips again, smiling when Draco chases your lips for another kiss, “It’ll all be okay then. I’ll always have you just as much as you will always have me.”

******

General (HP) taglist: @chaotic-fae-queen​ @obsessedwithrandomthings​ @harrypotter289​ @dreamer821​ @kalimagik​ @heloisedaphnebrightmore​ @nebulablakemurphy​ @the-hufflefluffwriter​ @figlia--della--luna​ @bforbroadway​ @idont-knowrn​ @summer-writes​ @big-galaxy-chaos​ @black-lake-confessions​

Draco Malfoy taglist: @the--queen-of-hell​ @obx-beach​ @obxmxybxnk​ @sycathorn-slush​

[instasiswetrust]

Bloodshot

Brown eyes stare into the void.

And the void stares right back.

Pitch-black and dark.

Dark, darker, and yet darker.

Vaguely, he registers liquid inside his mouth. His lungs. His chest. A part of his brain that's still working whispers that he's choking. Weird. He thought it would hurt more than this. Thought there would be more panic and flailing. Desperation to breathe.

Instead, all he feels is calm.

There's a sense of peace that instills in his body. Fills every crevice, nook, and cranny inside his flesh. Inside his bones.

Yes, he's dying, but he's accepted this as an immutable fact.

What use is there for panic when the croon of Miss Death is already so sweet in his ear? Why should he flail and claw to a life filled with heartache and pain, when instead he could stay in this calm embrace forever?

He's dying, and he's fine with this.

At first, he thinks he might be at the quarry. It would make sense. Maybe he was too drunk, tripped, and slipped off the ledge. Those kinds of things tend to happen to lonely people like him. Maybe others will think he jumped, instead. That's fine too.

But the liquid in his mouth tastes salty and coppery. A little too thick to be water.

Oh. Right.

Blood. He was choking on his own blood.

Things are coming back to him in slow increments. Flashes of scenes. He understands now where he is.

Or was.

Time is confusing when you're dying.

They had been in the tunnels. The demodogs had been close at their heels and the entrance just a few feet away. He had been so scared, utterly terrified, but not for himself. Never for himself. He needed to get the kids out first, all of them.

And he had.

Too bad it had been just a second too late for him.

Just as he was about to reach for the rope, a strong body had crashed into him and he had fallen on his back. Pain had jolted through his nerves as claws dug themselves into the skin of his chest. He remembers being vaguely concerned about the wetness spreading in his chest before that maw had bloomed into the most horrifying of flowers, and the petals wrapped themselves around his neck.

He thinks Dustin might've screamed. Steve felt bad that the kid had to see him like that.

But now the pain was no more and he was suspended in the void. Calm. Serene. Accepting.

Death was peaceful.

Until it wasn't.

---

The thing that crawled out of the earth, a whole week after the gate was closed, was not Steve Harrington.

At least not anymore.

Not in a way that mattered.

He still looked the same. Sounded the same. Moved the same. Felt the same.

He could think, and like, and long for things the same way he could when he had been alive.

But his mind was never quiet these days.

Hunt. Feed. Claw. Rip.

Blood.

A never-ending loop of words strung together until they sounded unrecognizable until they no longer made sense. And yet the feelings that came with the words would never go away.

Not when he started cooking his meat less and less to the point he resorted to just shoveling spoonfuls of raw hamburger meat into his mouth.

Not when he passed by the rotting corpse of a deer in the woods and had to take a moment to wipe the drool off his chin because for some reason the scent was appetizing.

Not when he gave in and hooked up with Nina Collins, and she let him bite her neck until he drew blood.

They never went away. Neither did the gnawing hunger inside of him.

And Steve could only be so dumb. He knew perfectly well what it was the voice in his head wanted. Could recognize it in the way his dreams had been filled with spiked bats hitting skin, breaking bones, and hands burying themselves in a mess of blood and guts.

He only wondered for how much longer he could hold himself back.

The answer came to him less than a week later.

---

First thing he notices when he wakes up, is that the hunger is blessedly gone.

For a single moment, he's glad. Happy and relieved. Until realization settles in and horror fills his chest.

Second thing he notices is that he's naked, sitting in a puddle of blood. The scent is strong.

And appetizing.

It makes him curl up onto his side and retch, but thankfully nothing comes up.

Quiet breathing is what clues him on the third thing. It also freezes him in place.

Somebody is looking at him. Saw what he did. Who he is. What he is.

Fuck.

Then they speak.

Double fuck.

"I knew you were fucked up, Harrington. Didn't think you were this fucked up though."

It's not the words that make him turn, eyes open wide. It's the voice. Because he knows that voice. Because it's Billy Hargrove's voice.

Ain't that just nice?

With the hunger and the voices gone, at least for the time being, it's much easier to try and recall the events of the night before. Steve almost wishes he couldn't though, because what he experiences -- not sees because those creatures don't have eyes -- is so repulsive that he can feel nausea clawing up his throat again.

"I killed your dad."

It's a fact, not a question. He doesn't need confirmation, his memories of the event are clear albeit fuzzy.

"And ate him. Yeah."

The fact that Hargrove doesn't sound horrified, or scared in the slightest, confuses Steve. He forces himself to ignore the panic, the nausea, and the embarrassment warring for his immediate attention and instead focuses on Hargrove's face.

Hargrove meets his gaze unflinchingly.

There's not a single ounce of remorse in those blue eyes but then again, why would there be?

After all, the bruises and cuts that litter his face and naked chest, speak enough about the type of man Neil Hargrove was.

"I did not... hurt you, right?"

Steve doesn't remember having approached Hargrove. The demodog hadn't wanted to hurt Hargrove, like at all. Still, he has to make sure. Just to put his mind at ease, of course. Not because he's worried about Hargrove or anything.

Hargrove shakes his head, frowning. The bruises must hurt pretty bad though because he winces. "You don't remember?"

"The memories are... fuzzy." Steve grimaces, pushing down another bout of nausea that threatens to overwhelm him. "It's not- I'm not- I know what it looks like but I'm not that thing, okay? The dog- That's not me."

"And yet I watched that thing morph back into you. You are still lying in a pool of blood, you know?" He sounds unimpressed. Slightly annoyed too. "You just said you have memories of it. I'd say that counts as you being that thing, Harrington."

Yeah, okay. Steve can't really counter that logic. Doesn't help lessen the knot of guilt that sits heavy at the pit of his stomach, though.

"Fine. Okay. Yes. I just-" But the words die on his tongue because he's not sure how to even finish that sentence. He's just what? Horrified? Guilty? Considering taking a dive off the quarry or meet the bad end of Nancy's shotgun?

Hargrove must have read the indecisiveness on his expression because he huffs, crossing his arms. He winces again and Steve’s almost tempted to demand he take it easy.

"Here's what we are going to do, Harrington." His voice has an unexpected strength to it that commands all of Steve’s attention. “You're going to take a shower, borrow some clothes, then I'm going to clean off all this blood before Max and Susan get back, and then we're going to talk about Neil’s sudden disappearance. Understood?”

“Uh...”

Hargrove was... helping him. He was helping him cover up a murder. The murder of his own father. Hargrove watched as the demodog fucking ate his dad, morphed back into Steve, and now he was helping him.

Steve wasn't sure how he was feeling about this but grateful and confused came pretty close to explaining it.

“I asked if you understood, Harrington.”

“Yeah I uh, yeah. I understand.”

So that's how he found himself in Hargrove's kitchen half an hour later, clad in grey sweatpants and an AC/DC shirt that had seen better days. Hargrove sat in front of him, idly eating from a bowl of Lucky charms, his gaze not straying far from Steve.

The clank of the spoon as it fell back into the empty bowl was jarringly loud in the awkward silence.

"You really don't remember what happened last night, then?"

His gut reaction was to say no. He didn't remember anything. That the memories were fuzzy and the thing wasn't him. But that would be lying, wouldn't it?

And he had to admit that being able to share this secret with somebody else, even if it was Billy Hargrove of all people, felt like a much-needed reprieve of all the bullshit life had been throwing at him lately.

"I do but as I said, it's fuzzy. Fragmented, I guess?" He looks down at the table, drumming his fingers on the worn tabletop. "This thing, it doesn't see things as we do. Doesn't have eyes."

Hargrove hums, and Steve can see the way he leans back on the chair. Feels those eyes on him, not moving. It should set him on edge but instead, it makes him feel grounded. Like this is the first time, since he crawled out of the earth that somebody bothers to truly look at him.

It makes him want to look up and meet that gaze.

So that's exactly what he does.

"It was you that I- that the demodog was hunting, not your dad." Steve is glad he doesn't look away because it allows him to see the shadow of regret that crosses those blue eyes. "But then I- it jumped through the window. Saw what was happening. So the prey changed."

"And you have lived with this thing for how long?"

"Technically speaking, I'm not alive. Haven't been since that night in November, a little after the whole thing at the Byers."

Hargrove blinks, taken aback by what must surely sound like nonsense considering Steve was sitting across from him, breathing and talking. He's not sure how to explain it either but he knows with unwavering certainty that he's not alive anymore.

Not like he should be.

Not completely.

Liminal spaces. Whatever. Fuck.

"One of those things bit me. Dustin saw it happen too. Or at least saw the blood. And I remember dying." He shrugs, drums his fingers again just to have something to do. Restlessness eats at him but he's still under Hargrove's gaze and the itch to run has settled for now. "A week later I apparently dug my way out of the earth and Hopper found me at the junkyard. I can't remember it at all."

The marred skin of his throat is evidence enough. These days he does his best to cover it up with makeup or turtlenecks, not wishing to deal with the unwanted questions that would undoubtedly come. Not to mention that Dustin can't see it without tearing up. Kid still has nightmares about Steve covered in blood with his throat ripped out.

"Shit, Harrington." Hargrove tangles a hand in his blond curls, pulling lightly on the strands. As if the pinpricks of pain could reassure him about all this being real. "This is what you and those snot-nosed brats were up to that night? Fighting these things? Are you insane?"

"Only a little." The self-deprecating grin that accompanied it really sold it.

Steve watched as Hargrove's hands formed into fists, a dangerous sort of fire lighting up in his eyes. It lasted for a second or two before the fight left his body in a rush, body slumping slightly into the chair. It was a little impressive.

"What even are these things?"

The thing is, Steve's not even sure what those creatures are. He says as much and spends the next fifteen minutes explaining what he knows -- and what he's theorized -- about Will Byers, the Upside Down, the Mindflayer, and Hawkins Lab. Surprisingly enough, Hargrove listens through it all without commentary.

"Nobody understood how I was alive but I didn't want to question it too much. Guess I already knew something was wrong with me but I didn't want to see it."

Hargrove's eyes have drifted down to his empty cereal bowl but it doesn't seem like he's really looking at it. After a moment, he nods. "Okay so what now, Harrington?"

Steve's taken aback by the question, not understanding what Hargrove is getting at. "What do you mean what now?"

If looks could kill, he's sure that he would be dead again. Hargrove heaves an exasperated sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose before facing Steve.

"Harrington, I knew you were an idiot but this is too much even for you." Steve makes a sound of protest but Hargrove throws him a look and he goes quiet again. "The demodog needs to eat people to live, meaning you need to eat people to live. So tell me, what are you going to do about that?"

"Oh."

Well fuck.

[equestrianwritingsstuff]

Escape Part 3:

This is part 3 of the "Escape" post I wrote. @whump-a-la-mode wrote a wonderful part 2. Which is here. Part 1 is here.

Quick fornote, this is not edited. I may look it over eventually, but beaware of mistakes and incorrect grammar. Perhaps a lot of it. Also, my creativity levels right now are like a piece of dynamite going down a waterfall, exploding, and the particles being shipped to a rocket and then discarded into space to be later burnt up by the sun.

Warnings: blood, vomit, collared whumpee, confused whumpee, exhaustion, hospital setting, needles/syringes, restrained whumpee, creepy/intimate whumper, soundproof room, torture (head trauma, broken bones, beating), talk of death, referring to one as trash, fake drugs

~

Hero woke with a start, immediately digging her fists in the familiar mattress. She vaguely felt an odd throb right below her ribcage. Hero thought hard. She didn't recently hurt herself. Unless, of course, she cracked a rib when Villain knocked her down in the elevator. That impudent, little-

Something shifted on her lap. Hero tensed before reaching above her to flick a light on.

The sight below her made her heart skip a beat. Villain was huddled against her, clutching onto her gray t-shirt with ferocity- however weak- as if he would die otherwise. Hmph, making the little ignorant chicken did whole-heartedly believe that her attire was the only way to alleviate his suffering.

But something was wrong. Villain's face was a pallette of blood, spit, vomit. He coughed and buried his face deeper into her stomach. Quizzically, Hero looked all over him. His hands looked like he just had a punching match the plaster- the broken plaster on the wall behind him confirmed that assumption.

"Villain," Hero breathed and ran her hand over his quivering back.

A strangled whimper was the only response.

"Are you hurt?" She asked, noting his cut up heel- he wasn't allowed laces, and refused to sleep in the velcro shoes that he was granted- and the blooming flower of a bruise that erupted in the center of his forehead. Not to mention the blood, all the creamy velvet blood...

"N-no," Villain stuttered finally.

"Then get off of me." Hero proceeded to push the villain away from her, but he already did the work, spiraling onto the ground with a thump.

"What the heck is wrong with you?" Hero asked, crouching next to her foe.

"Not wrong with me," Villaim mumured. Hero scoffed. Yeah, no, Villain was perfectly healthy. He wasn't covered in blood and puke, and he definitely wasn't shaking in exhaustion.

"Sure," Hero grinned sloppily and started to take in Villain's figure. He was obviously weakened, but he was still strong. Oh so strong. His biceps were flexed- actually his whole arm was flexed, but Hero knew it was more reflexive than a boyish show-off. Even his back moved around as he breathed, muscles contracting to their maximum strength. Hero knew that he would have abs under the sweaty shirt. A hum of approval, the Villain Containment Practice really did wonders.

Yet amidst the undeniable cords of muscles, the body in front of her was truly exhausted, starved, and dehydrated. Hero doubted he would be to move, especially with the hidden injury.

It hurt Hero to watch his hand tentatively brush the collar around his neck, but it stung when it flopped back down. Maybe taking away his breakfast privileges was too much.

And perhaps snatching away his lunch, but that was all. He still had dinner, and snacks-

No, those were also taken away. Cruelly erased from his schedule and replaced with more reps. More lessons, more lectures...

The villain groaned and tried to shuffle away as spontaneously aware that Hero was in his vicinity.

"Wha' ya gonna do?" Villain slurred. His dull eyes glanced over to the plastic cup. "Gimme," he whispered.

"Manners," Hero began to warn, but stopped. Chastising such a pale prisoner would do more bad than good. She could just imagine a relaspe. Villain was doing... mediocre, but not terrible. Though the only points he received were from the continous physical exercises he performed daily.

So Hero stood up, clenching her teeth as her rib flared up again, and sauntered over to the kitchenette. She grabbed a new cup and filled it up with city water. Hero scowled- she hated this water. Once she lived in the country... the change of taste in the water was one of a kind.

Hero returned with the cup and handed it to Villain, but he immediately dropped it. Water spilled everywhere. Hero could see his skin turn red and tears spike in his eyes.

"Aww come-" Hero began, but stopped when she noticed Villain turned his head into the crook of his elbow. Hero sighed and went back for another cup.

She returned and propped Villain's limp head up. She tilted it back and ran her thumb over his lips, gently prying the shriveled muscles open. Villain, however tired, tried to refuse, glaring daggers at Hero.

"Villain," Hero growled. Villain tensed, so Hero rubbed circles on his neck. Comfort was not her greatest gift, but Villain relaxed regardless.

"You wanted water earlier," she reminded him, putting the cup to his lips. After a brief moment of hesitation, Villain greedily opened his lips and started gulping the water down.

"Slow down," Hero very rudely removed the much wanted cup from Villain. "Time for you to go to the infirmary."

"No!" Villain yelled and tried to push away from his nemesis. They may run into Nosey. What if they tried to kill Hero again? Or worse, Villain?

-

The trek down to the infirmary was beyond slow. Even Villain in his groggy state recognized that. The corriders and dorms all blended together into one gigantic smoothie. They didn't matter, only not running into Nosey mattered.

Hero carried him in a bridal carry. Though lithe and slender, she was strong. Very strong. Villain realized this with a pang of fear. She could easily dominate him and hurt him.

Especially if she found out that Villain saved her.

When she found out. Villain could only physically make it non-lethal and take away the majority of her pain. It still would scar and be painful to an extent, but he saved her.

He saved her.

"Using your powers is never the answer," Villain mumbled to himself. "Call the heros..."

"What's that?" Hero asked.

Villain shut up, right then and there.

"Well, okay. Here we are," Hero pushed open the door to the infirmary with her foot. The smell of disinfectant and medicine hit Villain's nose, making him want to throw up all over again.

"Hero." A deep voice. Not Nosey. He was safe, for now.

"Doctor. I don't know what's wrong with him."

"Why is his collar still on?"

"Safety. I don't know. He was collapsed on top of me and throwing up."

"Maybe food poisoning. Lay him on-"

"He hasn't eaten in days, Doc."

Villain felt knew hands tenderly dabbing around the collar.

"Do you have keys for this, Hero?"

"Yeah, back pocket. Here." Hero sat Villain on the ground, using her foot to keep him upright.

"Hero?" Villain slurred. His tongue was too thick, his brain too tired to completely make sense of the dire situation. He limply rested his head against his shoulder, closing his eyes.

Healing never was this taxing.

Villain felt his head fall back, so he jerked back upwards into a strangers arms.

"Hey, Villain," the same deep voice cooed, like a baritone. Deep and eneveloping.

"Villain." Hero was behind him, but Villain hardly recognized it. He felt like he was falling into a dark abyss.

"Bring him to a bed," the doctor ordered. Villain, whisked away from the comforting promise of sleep, was rushed back into the present. He jerked and cried out, fighting against the arms that held him.

He was going to be punished. Punished for his negligence. Punished for his powers.

"Villain," Hero snarled. Her voice was taut with exasperation. "We are trying to help you."

"No!" Villain cried out, breaking free of the hero and the doctor. Blindly he scrambled away, knocking over tables. Liquids spilled everywhere. Glass cut into his palms, but he didn't care. Not when he was going to be punished.

"Twenty more laps Villain."

"Add more weight, 200 pounds isn't enough."

"I don't care. Another sit-up. With weights."

"Seven minute plank. Let's go."

All Nosey's voices. The seagull that swooped down and took his strength away, leaving him a parched rasion with only enough food to keep his body minimally functioning.

He couldn't. He couldn't be punished. He helped, he helped. Yet, Villain couldn't convince himself that was indeed the truth.

Heros never cared about the truth. That was evident when they never took the time to remove him from this jail when he was innocent. Yes, he landed the homeless man in the hospital, but it was self-defense.

Villain plummeted into a skinny nurse, laying her flat on the ground with a bleeding head. Again, not his fault. She had a horrendous looking needle.

"Villain!" Hero called out and tackled him to the ground, pining him by the wrists and keeping his torso down with a well-placed knee.

Villain threw himself upwards, trying in desperation to remove himself from Hero's grasp.

"We are going to have to sedate you if you keep this up," Hero warned. Villain froze. He couldn't unwillingly go unconscious or he would never recover from the horrors inflicted upon him. Heck, he might never wake up. The creaks in his bones, the dull ache throughout his overexerted muscles, the incessant headache- they all reminded him of his predicament.

"There we go now." Hero removed her knee and scooped Villain up, laying him on a hard hospital bed.

The doctor came around, eyeing the Villain's hands.

"Please restrain him," the doctor said and quickly walked away to grab who knows what.

Hero took the liberty to roughly shove Villain's hands into cuffs. The cuffs surrounded his hand like Elsa's cuffs in the movie Frozen. They blocked any and all chances of escape.

Escape. The once motivating words was now a nightmare.

Hero then worked to place a leather strap around his throat. Villain didn't even notice that the previous collar was removed. Now looking through the mess he made, Villain saw the collar strewn on the ground.

Another strap was placed around his torso. Hero tightened it one notch too tight, pushing his abs in. Villain groaned and glared, but it lacked intent.

Finally his ankles were attached to the bed, each dangling off the side uncomfortably.

"Okay. Good," the doctor chuckled before reappearing at Villain's side. "Let's start the exam."

-

"You intolerable little butthead," Nosey drawled, tossing Villain into the white room like a piece of trash. "First off completely failing tests like a kindergartener; second, being a prat and faking injuries which just led to you being punished; and third? Well, that hospital trampede was really necessary, wasn't it?"

"And what are you gonna do?" Villain retorted. "Wave your little middle finger at me and yell all your stupid insults? Honestly, brainiac, you sound like a dying cat."

Of course, Villain did not say any of this. He just thought it, an undying wish that threatened to bounce off his tongue.

"No answer?" Nosey asked, leaning against an ivory wall. Villain wondered if it was once pure white, but all the blood spillage stained it.

Now that wasn't a pleasant thought.

"Nope," Villain replied, completely compliant.

"You know I love the little stunt you played with healing dear Miss Hero," Nosey stalked over to the villain. "But my employer does not."

Villain vividly remembered the way Nosey's face paled when they laid eyes on Hero. And then he also definitely remembered the way Nosey snarled at him- wild and feral, ready to maim and kill.

"Wanna know how much killing her depended on my livelihood? Heck, I would've made thousands and then be promoted to her position. My employer, Superhero, is now furious at me. Hero, that goody two shoes and her 'redeemed the villains' morals are quite old-schooled. Don't you think? We need a more... let's say modern approach to dealing with you monsters." Nosey's black pointed boot pressed against Villain's cheek before it slashed down with such force that it should've knocked Villain out.

But, stupid enhanced healing powers delegated by the doctor always made the promise of black bliss an impossibility.

But the enhancement was temporary. Just enough to replenish Villain's utter exhaustion.

Nosey's fingers grasped onto Villain next finding a perfect pressure point on his throat. Villain squealed, his neck was still bruised and tender from the collar.

"Do you want to know what it feels like to suffocate? Villain? Hmm?" Nosey spoke quickly, not even giving Villain a chance to shake- or nod, if Villain wanted to go that route- before they started to press right against Villain's trachea.

"Lack of air. Painfully at first, but the moment you black out. The moment that death is almost upon you is precious," Nosey spoke through clenched teeth as excitement and adrenaline overtook him. Villain, on the other hand, was overtaken by fear as he wiggled around like a frying worm.

Almost as suddenly as the hand was placed, it was removed. Villain blinked away the black blotches and took gulping breaths.

"Pathetic," Nosey growled and grabbed the back of Villain's neck, picking him up, and ramming him against the wall. An volcano of stars erupted in Villain's vision as the room tilted.

Nosey smacked him against the wall like that a couple more times before grabbing onto his wrist and stepping down. A crack and a scream echoed throughout the soundproof room like dynamite.

"Think you are done. Do you think that you are done!" Nosey laughed wickedly as they discarded the villain on the ground.

Then the beating took place. Kicks and rabbit chops battered Villain's body until he couldn't even move to defend himself. Unconsciousness loomed at his vision, but each new flare of pain brought him back to the waking world.

His broken arm loosely hung, a bone popping out of the skin, as his body convulsed. But Nosey wasn't done. No, they went over to the wall and grabbed a wooden bat and began to hit Villain until his ribs began to break. One crack after the other, after the other-

Nosey flopped down on the ground next to Villain, carefully cradling their own head with their left hand as their right picked Villain's up.

"Do you see that window Villain?" Nosey asked. "It leads right out into the city. We are even on the first story. An easy escape if you weren't so weak." Nosey wrapped their arm around Villain's heaving shoulders in a brotherly fashion. "But that's okay. You can stay with me," Nosey chuckled and grabbed Villain's chin, prying his mouth open. The villain gurgled and spat in response, but allowed Nosey to keep him in that hold.

Nosey reached into their back pocket and revealed a syringe.

"Power suppressant. Don't worry, I know your weakness. Can't be drugged or you will die. Blah blah blah. Hero's mind reading powers are good for one thing at least. But this-" Nosey stroked the clear syringe and whistled. "-is a masterpiece."

Villain tried to remove his throbbing head, but Nosey's grib was too strong.

"Can't have you dying on me when we are having so much fun," Nosey wrapped Villain into a close hug as they plunged the needle into his neck.

"Enjoy your stay," Nosey chuckled before leaving the room.

Before leaving Villain, alone and in pain, to deal with himself.

[jiikyu]

Taste of Marigolds In Bloom

Herb of the Sun — Or Marigold was often used during the Middle Ages as a love charm. Carrying one of these brightly colored flowers was thought to bring love.

Though be warned for they are also poisonous.

Chapter I. You find a lost girl in Musutafu, unknowingly the experience ends up being a life changing encounter. Be it for better or for worse.

∘◦ ✿ ◦∘

All characters are 18+

Yandere!Mirio x Fem!Reader(AΩβ)

Y/N = Your Name

F/N = Your Full Name

E/C = Eye Color

H/C = Hair Color

Warnings: Yandere/Unhealthy Behavior + A large dose of sweetness in the beginning :)

Next Chapter Here❦

∘◦ ✿ ◦∘

Rounding the corner brings yet another flashing sign desperately trying to catch your attention. It’s noon and Musutafus streets are at their peak, narrow pavement overflowing with bodies. Winding your way through the mobs as you make your way to the small cafe.

You are meeting a friend in celebration.

With the perfect combination of brisk fall air and the sun warming your cheeks with kisses you ignore the tugging of your heart attempting to weigh you down. 

You had done it. 

Somehow you had qualified for the transfer over to U.A.

Though, it may not be the course you had dreamed of as a child  — Being born quirkless had made that impossible — It’s a celebration none the less! One you were more than excited to share with your friends.

Even if deep down you know you don’t deserve the transfer. 

You had hoped for the fresh air to be soothing before your meet up... But with the streets busier than ever the constant bumping of shoulders and bags is starting to take an edge on the nerves you’ve managed to keep under wraps.

Maybe it’s nothing, maybe it’s just your damned Omega instincts acting up, but the crowd just isn’t appealing anymore. A moment away from the constant onslaught is all you need.

Finding your way through the living maze to where you know Musutafus Park sits overlooking the city streets. The park is a well known treasure, covered in playgrounds and fountains it’s quite popular for tourist, it’s crown jewel however is the All Might statue centering it. Even local food stands patrol its borders for customers. 

Just standing at the Parks sidewalk already leaves you with a calm.

That’s before you notice you are not the only one away from the packed crowd. Out of the corner of your eye you see the small figure, something you would have never payed attention too normally but something about the image just doesn’t sit right. 

A young girl with silver waist length hair she stares unmoving at the edge of the amalgamation of people. You cannot help but notice the way her small hands clutch together, or the way her eyes follow each passerby, one by one. Almost as if looking for something — No, looking for someone.

Your blood freezes.

You’re probably wrong. Her family probably knows exactly where she is and they’re coming for her right now. Probably... You’ve already begun to make your way towards her.

You make sure to stop a few feet away before making yourself noticed.

“Hi.” Your voice is gentle, so much so it almost gets swept away in the noise of the city. And for a moment you think it had but her crimson strawberry eyes turn to you in acknowledgement before returning to the mob, refusing to look away. Your suspicions only grows at her behavior and you know you have to continue.

“My name is F/N. I go to U.A.”

At the mention of U.A. she turns to you fully... And you see the spark of hope in her eyes, though it only lasts a second before returning to one of caution. It’s strange for someone so young to have such a strong sense of perception. It has the alarm bells in your head growing louder. 

All your studies and practiced lines start racing through your head.

“Here! I have my I.D. with me!” Reaching for your bag you fumble to grab your student I.D., once in hand you make sure to hold it out for her to inspect. “You can call me Y/N, what’s your name?”

The girl gives a long moments pause, looking between you and your picture printed on the plastic carefully before whispering a response. 

“Eri.”

“That’s a pretty name.” You smile. “Do you know where your parents are Eri?”

“I don’t... live with my parents.”

Well shit.

Your classes hadn’t prepared you for this. What do you even say to that? Luckily you don’t have to wrack your brain too much before the lost girl continues.

“I was with my friend before I-I got lost in the crowd.” The girls hands fidget together nervously, lip quivering. “It’s... it’s just that I know he must be so worried right now.”

Her eyes begin to well with tears.

“It’s gonna be okay!” The words slide off your tongue without thought.

It is?

“We can wait for your friend here, how does that sound?” Eri stares at you with big strawberry eyes and you can only pray you sound as confident as the actors in movies. Not even close. Ignoring the thrumming of your heart you give your best smile. The girl gives a shaky nod before reaching up a hand to messily wipe away the moisture from her eyes.

...

You haven’t even waited a full five minutes before you notice Eri staring at something that isn’t the crowd. Not thirty feet away is a concession stand covered in pictures of sweets. 

“I’m kinda hungry...” You lie. “Do you want something from that stand over there?”

Eri’s crimson teardrop eyes shoot up at you beaming. “That s-sounds good.”

∘◦ ✿ ◦∘

At least some luck finds your favor.

You walk right up to the register without having to wait in a line. Asking Eri what she’d like her small finger points to cursive words of the chalkboard menu.

Caramel Apple.

The concession worker hands the ruby red fruit to Eri’s waiting hand. She stares at it with childlike wonder before saying her third quiet ‘Thank you.’ and you then proceed to give your third ‘No need to say thanks!’.

You both take a seat on the open bench besides the food stand. A good vantage point to watch the endlessly moving crowds of people... Subconsciously your teeth find themselves digging into the wall of your cheek. Staring at the horde, it becomes all too clear just how hopeless your efforts are.

Had you made the wrong choice? Yes. Every second that passes is further proof of your error. You should call the authorities now...

You are not a real hero.

A heavy sigh leaves you. Gentle breeze moves through your hair, using the hand currently not holding your own sticky apple to tuck H/C locks behind a ear. You have yet to even take a bite of the your waiting apple before the unexpected happens. Absentmindedly looking over Eri’s head of silver strands you see a figure most definitely sprinting towards the two of you. And you think your heart just about stops in surprise.

“Eri!”

The young girls head swivels to the direction of the mans cry. Noticing how she visibly lights up your shoulders lose a bit of the suddenly built-up tension.

“Mirio!” Eri leaps from the bench abandoning your side to meet the person you can only assume to be Mirio. Unconsciously you stand as well, finding yourself puzzled by the sudden urge to stay by her side.

The man stops his marathon to get down on one knee, arms outspread to meet Eri. She runs holding her caramelized apple high above her head flying into the embrace, making sure not to get the sweet stuck in his sunshine blond hair.

You hadn’t even noticed how your feet moved on their own and now your standing just out of reach, just incase...

“I’m so sorry! I’m so sorry Eri! I looked everywhere!” The man sobs into the hug. You watch Eri’s small hand reach up and pat his shoulder in consolation. The blond pulls away from the hug to properly look at Eri. “Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

“I’m okay! Y/N helped me.”

At her words Mirios soft blue eyes fall to the next closet person.

You.

You take this as your cue to further approach, taking a step towards the two you notice it. The aroma of sandalwood and seashore reaches your nose, tied together by a sharp hint of lemongrass. The natural scent radiates off the blond man, but it doesn’t assault your senses, most likely with the help of blockers. You’re painfully familiar with suppressants and blockers, taking your own prescription that dulls your own scent and helps with heats. These days it’s uncommon to meet someone that doesn’t use some form of blocker, even patches or daily gummies are enough to take the edge away from hormones.

Even you have to admit it’s a rather comforting scent for an Alpha of his stature. One would have to be blind to not see he’s built like a brick house, well-defined muscles barely hide under the thin material of a white tee. And when he stands... It’s clear he towers over you. 

A little unnerved by the size difference but you still want to be there for Eri, incase she needs you. Just as you open your mouth to speak your words fall silent. The blond having leaned forward, bowing his head towards you. 

“Thank you so much for looking after Eri! I take full responsibility for not keeping a better eye on her in the crowd.”  Mirio says this with while facing the concrete below, and you stare blankly for probably a little too long.

Oh.

“It was no trouble for me, really!” Unsure how to accept the show of gratitude you try to wriggle your way out. “It’s just, I go to U.A. and all... But I think it’s something anyone would have done.”

Mirio straightens his back at that, mouth forming an ‘o’ shape in surprise before turning to a hopeful smile, palm wiping away the moisture of his eyes. “You go to U.A?”

“Yes, but it’s nothing fancy-“ Your hand rubs the back of your neck sheepishly and your eyes are suddenly trained to the ground. Already feeling shame heat your skin at the prospect of admitting the course you somehow managed to snag in Japan’s most prestigious Hero School. “-I’m in the business course... I’m actually quirkless.”

You end your statement with a fake laugh, like it’s some kind of joke.

The joke must’ve landed flat because there’s only silence and you swear you hear your pulse quicken. Afraid to look up from the hole your eyes currently burn into the leather of your shoe. Afraid to see judgment. Steeling yourself for the worst you look up...

Deep pools of blue stare back at you, overflowing with warmth and wonderment — It almost takes you aback. Something swims just under the surface of those ocean eyes though you’re to dazed to notice. Mirio breaks the spell you’ve fallen under with a heartfelt grin.

“I think that’s something really special Y/N.” Those words just about short circuit the wiring of your brain. “That, there’s so many hero’s with quirks it’s easy to just let someone else step in and take care of the situation.”

“So I can’t thank you enough for taking care of Eri. For being the one to step in and save her.” His large hand pats the top the girls head, ruffling the silver locks playfully, the corners of her mouth upturning to a shy smile. “And for fixing my mistake.”

You’re completely at a loss, for words, for thoughts. It’s like this man just read your emotions and there’s nothing you can say.

So you don’t.

Instead a tear rolls down your cheek and your vision begins to blur at the corners. Promises of an oncoming flood.

Mirios smile falls.

You barely notice him take the first step towards you, a whimper threatening to escape your throat in anticipation of contact, but it never comes. The Alpha having stopped just out your reach, large hand twitching at his side. He doesn’t touch you. Instead the smell of tidal waves and wood flares to life. A soothing gesture usually done between courting mates, bonded pairs or the pacifying of a child. All of which you are none. Regardless you respond to it without thought, finding yourself calmed by the sea you’re able to take a breath. After realizing what he’d done you waste no time in hiding the evidence of the tear by smearing it under your thumb. Crushing it.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.” His voice sounds genuinely pained and you wonder... Had he used his scent subconsciously or consciously?

“No, I’m sorry.” You’re embarrassed at your own weakness. What a terrible display. “I should get going.”

“Are you okay?” Eri’s small voice breaks your thoughts, still holding the uneaten ruby apple in one hand.

“I’m fine don’t worry. I’m sorry Eri, I forgot I’m meeting a friend today, but I’m so glad I got to meet you.” You say crouching to her level, saying your next words in a quieter childish tone. “Just make sure Mirio doesn’t lose you again!”

It’s meant as a tease but there’s some concern bled into the jab and the young girl nods her head in all seriousness.

“Bye Y/N!” Eri, the shy girl, gifts you a smile before grabbing Mirios hand, her digits dwarfed by his own. “Thank you for the apple!”

Standing you notice Mirio hasn’t moved an inch away from you. You may have only just met but the Alpha appears to be lost in thought. Soft features resting frozen, thick brows knitted together in concentration, as if... Noticing your eyes on him he drops the look in one smooth motion, giving you just about the brightest smile you’ve ever seen.

“We’re not gonna make the same mistake, right Eri?” The blond gives a reassuring squeeze to the girls hand and she returns the gesture by tightening her grip. Mirio shoots a goofy thumbs-up in your direction before turning away, Eri following at the hip.

His last words are spoken with his back to you. “Thanks again Y/N. I hope we see each other again at U.A.”

Wait does that mean...

Mirio attends the same school as you?

“Y-yeah!” The reply barely leaves your tongue. The whole situation may have scrambled your brain but you can’t help the warm smile that stretches over your features.

Watching the two disappear into the dying crowd you feel your phone vibrate in your back pocket. Grabbing the device you lightly tap the home button to see...

Nine unread texts and three missed calls?

How had you not noticed your phone going off like crazy? Your friend is going to kill you.

∘◦ ✿ ◦∘

And you had missed it.

Missed the way ocean blue eyes sought you out one last time before getting lost in the sea of strangers.

[pearlsephoni]

BokuAka Week 2021, Day 6: Hanahaki AU

Can also be read on AO3!

Rating: T

Fandom: Haikyuu!!

Pairing: BokuAka

Characters: Keiji Akaashi, Kotaro Bokuto, brief cameo from Haruki Komi

Word Count: 2,662

Summary: Keiji Akaashi is forced to grapple with three new pieces of information: 1) He is in love with his captain. 2) Hanahaki disease is real. 3) He keeps coughing up cherry blossom petals.

A/N: CW mentions of blood and descriptions of pain. No violence, but Akaashi does go through it in this one, sorry (but there's a happy ending!)  Further author’s notes can be read on AO3.

@bokuakaweek2021

The first petals came after practice. 

Akaashi had long suspected that his feelings for Bokuto went beyond those of an underclassman in awe of his captain, or even those of a best friend. But the sight of damp cherry blossom petals sticking to the inner curve of his elbow after a coughing fit still made his stomach drop. He couldn’t tell if the ache in his throat was from the coughs or from his own panic pressing in, nor did he really care. His mind was too occupied with the realization that hanahaki disease was real, and that somehow, he now had it. 

Which meant his feelings for Bokuto weren’t returned. He’d never assumed they were, but the confirmation in the form of pretty pink petals falling from his lips still made disappointment crowd in with his panic. 

He didn’t realize what he must’ve looked like to the rest of the team, standing there in the clubroom with his eyes fixed on his arm, until Bokuto’s voice broke through his thoughts. “Akaashi, what’s with the cough? You okay?” 

“Ah, yes,” he gasped, hastily crushing the petals in his hand before Bokuto’s arm could land across his shoulders. “I just need some water.” 

“Oh! Here.” Akaashi took Bokuto’s proffered bottle without thinking, his focus fixed on making sure he didn’t wince at the foreign taste of flower petals mixing with the water. 

He was fine as he and Bokuto walked together after practice, the tickle in his throat only returning when they parted ways with a bright smile and “G’night, Akaashi!” from Bokuto. A few more petals fell from his lips when he walked away from those warm eyes, but that was the last he saw or felt of the impossible flowers for the rest of the night. 

Part of him hoped it was a fluke, like an overnight cold, something that would go away quickly. Maybe the universe or fate or whatever made this happen would decide it was a mistake and leave him alone. 

Those hopes were dashed the next morning, when Bokuto’s shouted greeting and run to his side at the school gates made petals fall from Akaashi’s lips just as he pressed his elbow to his face. 

There was no way to tell how long his feelings for Bokuto had been romantic. All that mattered was now that Akaashi knew, it was relentless. Love was a stubborn thing, making his heart ache with longing and his lungs ache with creeping branches. It panged whenever he was around Bokuto, which was almost every moment they weren’t in class. 

Every shouted “hey hey hey!”, every high five, every call of his name on and off the court, every time an arm was slung around his shoulders and pulled him into Bokuto’s side, Akaashi ached and ached, until he wasn’t sure if it was longing or the flowers that choked him up. 

Because that was the thing about hanahaki disease, Akaashi came to find out: it didn’t just worsen with time. His love acted like fertilizer to the flowers, making petals brush the back of his throat whenever Bokuto did something that made his heart clench. It felt like a sick joke that the flowers were hardest to hide from the very person he wanted to hide them from. 

Not that he wanted anyone to know about them. He ended up getting into the habit of turning his back to people when he coughed, because that was the only way he could crush the petals in his hand before they would be spotted by anyone. The habit continued even when the petals falling from his lips became full cherry blossoms. 

It shouldn’t have surprised him when Komi plopped down next to him and Bokuto during warm-up stretches and asked, “Hey man, have you been feeling alright?” 

“Komi-san?” 

“You’ve been coughing a lot lately, and your voice sounds kinda rough. You should probably let Coach know if you’re not feeling good.” 

“Akaashi, you’re sick?” Bokuto gasped, hand shooting out to press against his forehead. 

Akaashi managed to catch his wrist before his hand could reach his forehead. “I’m not sick,” he sighed, gently placing Bokuto’s hand back into his lap. “It’s just...allergies.” 

“It’s June.” 

“My mother has some late pollinators in her garden.” 

There was suspicion in Komi’s eyes, but also genuine concern, and Akaashi could feel guilt at his lie creeping through him. “...Alright. Just take care of yourself, okay? We can’t have our star setter passing out on us!” 

“Bokuto-san is the star.” 

“But I can’t make my star spikes without your star tosses!” Bokuto pointed out, looking very proud of his logic. When Akaashi sighed, he could feel newly-bloomed petals rustling at the back of his throat. 

——————————————— ———————————————

None of the paintings or stories or poetry about the disease had prepared Akaashi for the pain. The ache of his unrequited love was somehow surpassed by the scrape of branches and leaves and flowers in his lungs and tearing his throat, staining his mouth red and tainting every breath with the taste of copper. 

But he kept playing volleyball. He didn’t know how he hid his affliction from his coach and teammates, how he managed to keep pushing himself to send the perfect tosses and calculate the perfect strategies on the court. The sharp pain in his lungs and throat simply faded into the ache of exertion, an ache that felt worth it whenever Bokuto beamed a triumphant smile and held his hands up for a high ten. 

After every game, he could barely breathe because of the flowers crowding his throat. After every game, he kept his mouth clenched shut against the petals sticking to his tongue as the teams thanked their supporters and shook hands with each other. After every game, he somehow managed to duck away to the bathroom to cough the flowers into the toilet. 

It went on for months, and he never said a thing, never told a soul. And then, one day, after another triumphant victory, a bloodstained petal snuck out between his lips and nearly stuck to Bokuto’s arm. Akaashi’s hand shot out and grabbed at it, but not before Bokuto’s sharp eyes caught sight of it. “Woah, what-?” 

“Excuse me,” Akaashi choked out, hand fixed over his mouth as he ran to the nearest bathroom. 

His mouth felt fuzzy with the flowers fighting to burst from his lips, until he couldn’t even lock the stall door behind him in his rush for the toilet. His first exhalation over the bowl was a stream of cherry blossoms, a bouquet of pink petals stained with his blood that was never-ending. 

He didn’t know if he could breathe, didn’t know if his knees were bruised from how quickly he landed on the floor, didn’t know how long he was bent over with the force of his heaving coughs. He could only feel the brush and scrape of the flowers flooding out of him, until finally, finally, the only things in his mouth were the taste of blood and a few stray petals. 

The flowers were no longer forcing their way out of his body, but he could still feel the coiled stems pressed in his lungs with each breath, and the brush of petals already creeping back up his throat. It hurt. Somehow he had ignored it during the game, but kneeling there on the tiles of the bathroom, the pain of his ruined lungs and throat and mouth reared to the front of his mind. 

And with the pain came the tears. His throat closed tight around the flowers as he finally succumbed to the pain, his agonized sobs wracking his body and echoing around the bathroom until they were the only thing he could hear…except for the sound of the bathroom door slamming open and a familiar voice calling, “Akaashi?” 

His sobs hiccuped in his chest, and he lunged for the door to the stall he was crouched in, but he was too slow. Before he could push it closed, Bokuto was standing in the way, eyes wide as he took in what must’ve looked like carnage to him: Akaashi on his knees, blood drying around his lips and mixing with the tears flowing down his cheeks, and a toilet bowl full of cherry blossoms floating in red. “Akaashi?!”

“Bokuto-san,” he choked out, voice so hoarse he could barely understand his own words, “please go-”

“Are you ok?! What’s going on? We need to take you to the medics, that’s a lot of blood, what’s with the flowers? Never mind, come on-” He had an arm around Akaashi’s waist and Akaashi’s arm over his shoulders before the setter’s pain-clouded mind could process his words. 

“Bokuto-san, wait…stop…” 

“Wait for what? ‘Kaashi, you’re bleeding a lot, and from your mouth! Were you coughing up blood?! You could die from that, we need to go-” 

“Stop!” Akaashi shoved Bokuto away, the ace’s surprise working in his favor as he managed to escape his hold and send himself back onto the floor. “Just stop. Listen to me. The medic can’t cure this. Nothing can.” 

“W…what?” 

He’d never seen Bokuto at a loss for words before, but he couldn’t dwell on how wrong that felt. He had to take advantage of the rare moment of quiet. “I’ll…I’ll be ok. I just…need a few more minutes in here, by myself, and I’ll be back with the team.” 

“Akaashi-” 

The worry in Bokuto’s eyes made guilt and love clash around Akaashi’s heart, and made the flowers in his lungs expand with a new growth spurt. He could feel them begin to crowd back up his throat, the first few petals just tickling the back of his tongue and threatening to make him gag again. “Just go, please, I-” 

Another sob tore out of him before he bent back over the toilet to release a fresh wave of cherry blossoms, the tiny flowers piling on top of the previous bouquet. He could just barely make out the sound of Bokuto’s gasp over his own pained coughs, and it was enough to make tears mix with the bloodstained flowers pouring out of him. 

Then there was a hand on his back, rubbing wide, slow circles between his shoulder blades, and the familiar smell of Bokuto’s sweat and the detergent of their uniforms surrounded him. It was a show of quiet support that was both exactly what Akaashi needed and the last thing he needed, as the love that swelled in him made yet another set of flowers bloom. 

“Don’t, don’t tou-” was all he could choke out before his words were replaced by cherry blossoms. But Bokuto understood, and the hand and comforting smell fell away until Akaashi could push himself from the toilet with a pained, rattling gasp. 

Silence fell over the bathroom. He could feel Bokuto’s eyes on him, and he kept his own gaze fixed to the floor like a coward, nearly flinching at the droplets of blood on the tiles. It felt like it took both a second and an eternity for Bokuto to speak. “Who is it?” 

“What?” 

“You have hanahaki disease, right? Who…who gave it to you?” 

Raising his eyes to Bokuto’s felt like the scariest thing he’d ever done. He didn’t know what he hoped to see, nor what he was so afraid of seeing, but he didn’t expect to find Bokuto crouched on the floor next to him, brows furrowed over eyes that shined with tears and lips that quivered. 

Never in a million years did Akaashi think he would see so much fear and grief and care lining his first love’s face. Perhaps it was his surprise that made him tell the truth. 

“You.” Bokuto’s eyes widened and his lips parted around a silent gasp, and Akaashi’s lips curved into a wavering smile that he could only hope looked reassuring. “It’s you, Bokuto-san. I’m sorry.” 

“Don’t say sorry.” 

“I know you don’t feel the same way, and that’s ok. I’ll be ok.” 

“You could die.” 

“I could.” He tried to stay calm, wanted more than anything to stay calm, but the thought of his death looming so close made his voice shake. 

“Because you don’t think I love you back.” 

“If you did, I wouldn’t have this disease. But it’s ok, Bokuto-san. I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want you to shoulder the responsibility.” His throat burned with every word, but they poured out of him anyway in his desperation to ease the guilt in those golden eyes. “Please don’t blame yourself.” 

The grief in Bokuto’s eyes changed into frustration...then determination...and then, before Akaashi could move, there were hands gently cradling his face, and lips brushing against his own in the softest breeze of a kiss. “I’m sorry, Akaashi. I’m so sorry I didn’t tell you.” 

“Bokuto-san?” 

“I love you, too. I didn’t say anything because I thought I would scare you away. I was happy being your captain and ace and best friend if it meant you would stay with me.” 

In all their bad games, in all of Bokuto’s descents into his dejected mode, Akaashi had never before seen his eyes swim with tears the way they did now. He never wanted to see the sight again. “Please don’t. Don’t force yourself because of me, Bokuto-san, I couldn’t-” 

“Akaaaaaashi, listen to me! I’m telling you the truth!” 

“But the disease-” 

“I think that was because you thought I didn’t feel the same way. But I do! I really do, Akaashi!” 

Akaashi could only stare and hiccup with a sob. Words rarely failed him, but his shock made his tongue feel heavy and his throat seal up yet again. His disbelief must have still been clear on his face, though, because Bokuto let out a frustrated huff before he leaned in again. 

This kiss was firm, more assured, and Akaashi could only grip at Bokuto’s sweaty jersey as the older boy kissed his top lip, bottom lip, the corner of his lips where blood had dried. He’d never imagined his first kiss would be like this, tasting of blood and aching with pain, on the floor of a bathroom after a game. 

But with each press of Bokuto’s lips, he let himself respond a little more, kissing back, parting his lips on a soft gasp, letting his hands trail up to those broad shoulders. Every kiss sang with Bokuto’s true feelings for him, making love spread warm and true through his veins, and for once, the feeling wasn’t tainted with the pain and panic of flowers blooming inside him. Instead, the ever-present pressure in his lungs slowly eased, the scrape of branches and flowers faded, and he could feel the growth inside him shrink away. When he pulled away, it was to suck in a deep breath for the first time in months. 

“Akaashi?” 

He met Bokuto’s questioning eyes with a smile. “You really do love me.” 

“Huh? Yeah, of course I do! That’s what I said!” 

“I know, but...the flowers, Bokuto-san. They’re gone. I...I believe you.” One last cough escaped him, and with it came a dusting of petals...and then the ache in his throat was gone. His voice was still rough, but he couldn’t taste blood anymore, and there was no rustling of petals with his sigh. “I’m okay.” 

Bokuto stared at him for a moment, eyes flickering around his face, before a wide smile finally split his face. “You’re okay?” 

“I’m okay.” He didn’t know that Bokuto could be so gentle, that his hands could be so careful on his cheeks. It was enough to nearly make him cry. But he swallowed back his tears as his hands covered Bokuto’s. “We should go. The team-” 

“They can wait a little longer.” 

Protests rose in his throat where branches and flowers used to be, but they faded away when Bokuto’s lips were back on his. He was right. The team could wait a little longer.

[ginazmemeoir]

Mmkay so this is just a fic idea that was swirling in my head, based off the tale of Kacha and Devayani. hope you like it :D

tagging some : @gopikanyari @momo-all-the-way @carmen-riddle @taareginn @reddish-green-personality

@holding-infinity-and-a-book @aadyeah @weird-u @the-fault-in-our-inquilab @dragonfairy1231 @allegoriesinmediasres @mango-pickle

The afternoon sun poured through the trees. A breeze flowed through the forest, picking up pace and then lazing back, like a cat trying to chase bees. Kacha, Sharmishtha, Prabha and I had gathered near a brook. It was our favourite spot in Vrishaparva. There were no prying eyes, and devas did not interfere in asura territory so we were safe from them as well. Everything seemed a bit too bright and colourful whenever Kacha was around. He chalked it up to the fact that his mother was a yaksha, so he had a connection with the forests. I sighed as I admired him – his flowing shoulder length locks, his wide nose and high cheekbones, his smile, the way he talked with the cows, his biceps as he whirled around his lathi. “Quit ogling him and just go up to him already or you’re gonna end up alone in a pit” said Sharmishtha, elbowing me. “I don’t even know what you see in him. I hear the other asuras call him a ‘deva bastard’ and a ‘twink’.” “That’s because they’re jealous of him. No asura could match the way he looks, or the way he behaves” I reply, cutting off Prabha’s useless critiques.

The wind picks up pace once again, and Sharmishtha gets up chasing her dupatta. A blue lotus flutters and drops near my feet, and I pick it up. It shimmers as if dusted with moonshine, and its scent made the fullest of roses in bloom in spring smell like stale bread. Prabha put it along with the other flowers in my gajra, and said “Even Lakshmi wouldn’t look half as beautiful as you when she sees you like this” she laughs merrily. I push at her playfully, and that is when Kacha arrives there. He was mostly silent, listening, observing, so it made me feel as if the lotus was a drug when he said, “Devayani, can I have that lotus?”

I hastily pluck it from my hair and give it to him. Sharmishtha returned by then, leaves in her hair, and her torn dupatta in her hand. “It was stuck in a branch and I had to climb 6 feet to retrieve it.” Kacha was oblivious to her rant, and he kept looking at the flower, as if studying a complex problem. “Do you like it Devayani?” he asks. I stare at him, slack jawed, dumbfounded to reply for a minute. “Yes she does. Now Kacha why don’t you get her those flowers?” “After all aren’t you the one who brings flowers for her priceless gajras?” say Prabha and Sharmishtha in order, teasing Kacha. A blush creeps up his cheeks, as he replies, “Lady Devyani is my guru’s daughter, it is my duty to serve her.” What I wouldn’t give to hear those words, but spoken with love instead of reverence. “They grow near the river’s source, in a lake nearby. That is the only place you can find these blue lotuses.” Sharmishtha says. Determination fills Kacha’s eyes. Sometimes I do wonder if he lies about his half yaksha parentage, for there is certainly something… different about his eyes. “I will return by dusk with your cattle Lady Devyani.” He assures me, and leaves for the lotuses, getting his lathi for the trek up ahead. I don’t believe his promise at all. Twice he’s promised me before, and twice before have the other jealous asuras murdered him, and twice before has father resurrected him through the mrita-sanjeevani on my plea. I look behind him, hopeful for the love budding in his heart, and dreading for his safety.

Dusk creeps its way into the ashram. I stand at the gate, looking anxiously for any sign of Kacha, when the asuras, led by Atibala, arrive at the gates. They were clearly coming after making merry, and I could smell the scent of honey wine on them. “Guru Shukracharya, please come accept our obeisance” says an asura, slurring his words and giggling half way through. Father arrives, in his flowing white dhoti and beard, annoyed at the disturbance in his prayers to Shambhu. “Who is it at this late – oh Atibala! Come, it is always great to see an old student!” says father, as he invited Atibala and his companions. Maybe he wouldn’t greet them the same way if he knew they were the ones who had murdered his favourite disciple in cold blood twice. Or maybe he did know, but chose to ignore it. Atibala brings a pitcher and a goblet towards father and offers him wine. Father took the goblet and greedily inhaled the scent, swirling the vessel. An enthusiastic wine connoisseur, father downed the goblet in one gulp, remarking afterwards that it tasted different. Atibala attributed it to fanciful terms like the right serving temperature, touched father’s feet and left. Father soon after retired to his chambers, leaving me alone.

The sky is now dotted by stars, illuminated by the first rays of moonlight, and I start panicking. There is still no sign of Kacha. I rush towards father’s chambers and wake him up. “Father, Kacha hasn’t returned yet. Please do something!” I cry. Father immediately gets up, all hints of the sluggishness from the wine gone. He instructs me to light a lamp, and to wait outside. After what feels like eternity, but would have been a blink of an eye for him, he calls me in. His expression is gaunt, and his hands are trembling. “What happened father?” I ask, warily. “Kacha is no more.” he says, as if tired. “What?” I reply, shocked. “I SAID HE IS DEAD. HE WAS CUT DOWN BY ATIBALA AND HIS PARTY, AND THEN THE SON OF A BITCH BURNT HIM.” “Father, you are the only person in this universe who can revive the dead. Twice you have revived him at my behest, I vow father this is the last time I ask of you, please bring Kacha back.” I plead again, trying to calm father’s rage. He goes into a meditative trance again, but returns back quickly, this time even more shocked than last time. “Kacha is in me.” I am too stunned to even comprehend what he means. “Atibala mixed his ashes in my wine.” Father says, disgusted and horrified at himself, his students, and fate’s cruel turn.

Dread floods me. I cannot choose the man I love, about whose love I’m not even sure, over my father. Father, as if sensing my thoughts, says in a resigned tone, “Devyani, I can only resurrect Kacha on one condition. I will have to teach him the mrita-sanjeevani, which Kacha will then use to resurrect me back once he comes out of my body.” Father sounds like a defeated man. Obviously, such a heinous act by ones students was bound to leave a teacher like this. I kneel beside father’s bed, holding his hand, calming and healing him through my powers, as he starts chanting the mantra. Slowly, a faint light starts emitting from him. Kacha then emerges, making a sickening sound as he tore through father’s abdomen. Immediately he kneels down beside father, laying his hand on his chest, and utters the mantra. Father’s stomach seals up, and his breath returns to him as he opens his eyes. He still has that odd look of resignation on his face, and looks at me with – pity?

Today has been a lesson to me, a lesson that matters of the heart while shouldn’t be rushed, should certainly not be stayed, lest the heart’s wish never take wings. I can’t even bear the thought of losing Kacha again, not without telling him how I felt about him. “Kacha,” I start, as I move towards him “, I am in love with you. I love you like the dawn loves the sun, like the river loves the sea, like the clouds love-“ “Stop Devyani.” Kacha says, interrupting me midway. I fear what’s going to happen. Is he offended? Or does he not love me? “Devyani, I must return back.” Kacha says. “Where?” I ask him. Kacha had showed up on our door once, and each time I asked about his origin or parentage, he shied away. “Back to Amravati.” he replies. The deva capital? I look at father, who has instead chosen to look at the floor. I look back at Kacha.

I now realize the heartbreak that poets so fondly mention, as if stating the weather. How idiotic they are. Heartbreak wasn’t beautiful. It wasn’t even painful. It was draining. Everything I thought I knew was a lie. The man I had fallen for saw me as nothing more than a tool. All those times I caught him looking at me, or when he caught I, was a performance. His demeanour? What about his silent laugh? Was the way he blushed earlier today also a performance, part of an elaborate use to manipulate me? A thousand questions flood me, but only one sentence makes it out of my mouth – “You lied to me. You-you used me?” Tears blur my vision as I take a step back. “You are just a deva spy, and you used me.” Kacha stays silent, his shoulders hunched and head bent. “And you knew – you knew and you kept this a secret from me!” I whirl at father. He looks at me with tear stained eyes. “Devayani I-“ “Don’t you dare even take my name out of your filthy impure tongue!” I shout as I turn back to Kacha. He flinches at my tone, and I see the glistening tears on his face as well.

“You knew how I felt about you. You knew I loved you, and you knew I would get father to resurrect you each time you died. Had you told me your truth, I would’ve kept my distance, I would’ve stayed out of your way, I would’ve respected you for fighting for your faction, and yet. Yet you chose to manipulate me and my love, you conniving betraying lying cheating deva bastard!” Kacha looks taken aback at my words. I can feel my features contorting from my rage and pain. I can feel the hurt I’m causing, the way my tongue bleeds Kacha’s heart like he bled mine. I muster all my powers, and then I utter words that would cause Kacha the most suffering – “Kacha. You have seen my love so far, but now you will see the power of my hatred and my wrath. Kacha, I curse you to never be able to use the mrit-sanjeevani. I curse you to forget the knowledge to use the same mantra for which you have died and returned to the world thrice. Let the devas know that their spy failed.”

Kacha’s expression turns to stone. He bows to my father and touches his feet, and my father, the chivalrous, honourable man he is, blessed the man who almost killed him and broke his only child’s heart with a curt “May you emerge victorious in all future missions.”. Kacha then flies out of my house, and a blue lotus, with petals that shone like moonshine and fragrance that made the fullest of roses blooming in spring smell like stale bread, falls at my feet.

[sweetestlamb]

I Love You, Where Are You Going?

Summary: Y’all already know what it is. Episode 15 continued through my dirty pervert mind. For @truccieeboo​ and @emanmc24​ who always support me and wanted some desk fun. Ko Mun-yeong and Moon Gang-tae having fun on a table, that’s all. 

Author’s note: I am tipsy and that ending made my brain (and vagina) explode, excuse any typos or grammatical errors its just because I’m fucked up in every sense of the word. 

I love you. I love you so much. I love you Ko Mun-yeong. 

How dare he say those words to her now when she was trying to do the right thing? She had been selfish her whole life and the one time she was attempting to be selfless, he was making her regret it every step of the way. How long had she yearned to hear those words, never expecting they would mirror her own ill-advised love confession so long ago. 

She had been so stupid back then with no clue about what love was, spewing out whatever she thought would get a reaction out of him. Whatever would make him stay because he was the only person who ever came to save her, despite her darkness and lack of empathy he followed her everywhere she went and wanted to be with her. He was such a fool, had been since he was boy. 

Why couldn’t he just leave? She was giving him an out, absolving him from his meaningless guilt, who could fault him for not wanting to be with the daughter of the monster that murdered his mother? That monstrous blood was flowing through her veins as well, she had tried her damnest but she couldn’t escape her mother’s curse. Their relationship was ill-fated, not destiny. She was a fairy tale writer and she hadn’t been able to predict her own ending, how  ironically pathetic. 

She twirled the dead flowers in her hand, trying not to think about him. It was futile he was all that filled her head, the desperation in his voice as he declared his love for her. She hadn’t been expecting it, not in the slightest, why couldn’t he just leave her alone? Hadn’t he called her a one-time event, why did he keep coming back for an encore of the world’s saddest show? Maybe Jae-su was right and he was a psychopath, at the moment she couldn’t argue against the point. 

The loud bang of the door crashing open violently pulls her from her thoughts, and she hears stomps nearing her. With a sigh, she hides the flowers, not wanting to give him the wrong impression; he needs to leave and take Sang-tae with him. This has gone on for too long. 

“Mun-yeong.” His deep voice echoes in the spacious room as he rounds the corner to find her at her standing near the table. 

Gang-tae prowls towards her, determination in his eyes, unnerving her to her core. “I love you. Why are you running? What’s wrong?” 

Anger pools in the pit of her stomach as she cuts her eye to look at him, who is he to offer his love now? She can’t have it now, her mother has poisoned their seed of love and anything that blooms now will be deadly, grotesque and ugly. She rises and presses past him, hoping to escape to her room and regroup his resilience had not been expected, he was supposed to leave quietly and without a fight, where was her repressed Moon Gang-tae? He chose the worst moment to unpin himself and unleash on her like a hurricane. 

His tight grip on her arm both shocks her and stops her in her tracks, with wide eyes she gasps at him, “If you tell me you love me one more time I’ll--” With a snap of her jaw she cuts herself off, not quite knowing how to complete that sentence. What would she do to him? Pushing him away was proving futile and he was hammering at the walls she was building back around her heart. 

“You’ll do what? Do this?” He retorts defiance ample on his tongue, before his fingers tighten on her arms and he leans up and steals a kiss. Nothing more than a peck but her reaction is instant, her body heats as her heart races, pumping blood to her cheeks and...other regions. While she is dazed by the spontaneous kiss, he further surprises her by bending suddenly and lifting her into his arms, all the air in her lungs is vacuumed out as he places on her on the table. Her eyes search his own in question and reprimand, what was he doing? Why wasn’t he leaving dammit! 

Before she can question his actions, he tilts forward, his eyes fixated on her lips. With a gasp, she jolts back, backing away from his hungry seeking mouth, but he is not deterred as he presses forward further forcing her back onto her arms to escape his kiss. She retreats until her back hits something solid, the table, she has nowhere else to go, he has her cornered. With all her strength she shoves at his shoulders, his eyes never leave her mouth, his body is barely rocked from her push. Like a mouse hitting an elephant. 

Swiftly he climbs onto the table, hovering over her body and snatches her arms, firmly placing them above her head. His body is unbelievably hot above hers, heat radiating off and burning her skin, she pants from the heat. 

“Why are you fighting me? You don’t want this?” His voice is slightly condescending as if he has no belief that the answer is no. Arrogant bastard. 

“No. I don’t, get off me. I told you to leave. Get lost!” Her scream reverberates off the walls, but his face is unchanging, as if he did not hear her declaration at all. As if, she had said nothing at all, he smiles at her warmly, sighing fondly before whispering onto her face, “Liar.” 

She tense under his weight, her wrist warm clasped in his  snug hold, he continues on leaning into her space until each word lands with a puff of moist air on her reddened skin, “You want this. You’ve always wanted this, why are you fighting it now that I’m giving it to you? Take it. Let me take you.” 

Her body responds to his suggestive words, images of that kiss infiltrate her mind, she thought that was the extent of his passion, never anticipated that he would be like this? He usually become flustered from small pecks and the brush of her hands, how could this be the same Moon Gang-tae? Her wonder must have reflected on her face because he answered, “You look surprised, did you think I didn’t want it too?” He scoffs, “I want you all the time. I’ve thought about taking you in every room of this castle. I never answered your question that day, yes Mun-yeong, I want to sleep with you. I want to sleep with you so badly.” 

Involuntarily she feels herself become moist, his words setting her body ablaze and with renewed strength and adrenaline she pushes him again, harder, satisfaction bubbling when he falls off the table, but her victory is short-lived as he snatches her again, slamming her wrists back onto the table with more force than before, too formidable for her to move even in the slightest. With fear lacing her voice she demands, “Stop! Let go of me, I told you to stop!” Angry tears filling her eyes, he’s saying everything she has wanted to hear and its destroying her defenses, she has to get away. 

His lips smash into her own as she tightly presses them together, forbidding his tongue from entering her mouth, her last defense. He swipes at her lips harder, unrelenting in his pursuit to devour her, but she is steadfast thrashing in his arms violently and eventually he pulls back with a final lick across the expanse of her mouth. The hunger in his eyes is palpable and smothering her. 

“Coward.” 

The word stops her in her tracks, she peers up at him baffled at his audacity, letting him go was the bravest thing she has ever done, how dare he minimize it? Wasn’t he the one who had spewed out that crap saying if you loved someone enough you had to let them go, was that reserved for good people? Why was she not allowed? 

“How dare you--” 

His tongue cuts off the rest of her statement, as he uses the opportunity to thrust his way into her mouth, tongue sliding against her own, swallowing her complains as he presses her into the table. 

She loses herself momentarily in his taste, his tongue wrecking havoc on her slack mouth, as he invades her, brutal in his conquest, leaving nothing in his wake. Licking and sucking until her mouth feels tender and raw from the attention, finally she snaps out out of her trance and bites down on his slithering tongue, he jolts back with a cry, hands freeing her wrist to cover his mouth. 

“Get off me, Sang-tae will be here soon and..” 

“Shut up.” 

What. “What?” 

“You heard me. Shut. Up. I don’t want to hear about anyone or anything else. I love you and I know you love me. A kiss is better than a fight and this” He boldly grinds into her pelvis, making her quiver, “This is the best of them all.” 

Without a moments notice, he rapidly begins to unbutton his own shirt, fingers flying down the straight row of tiny buttons. She feels lightheaded, thankful for the stability of the table underneath her, her knees buckle as she watches him. He flings the shirt on the ground revealing the pale glow of his skin, muscles flexing at the motion, his abs tantalizingly on display as she feels the arid desert that her mouth has become. 

“I remember the first time you saw me shirtless. You couldn’t keep your hands off me, what’s stopping you now? Do I need to pretend I don’t want it?” He smirks from his spot above her and her face flushes at the memory, it seems like a lifetime ago. “I wanted you then too, you are the prettiest thing I've ever been offered. I’m never letting you go, Ko Mun-yeong. We are meant to be together.” 

Tears prickle in her eyes at his words, she wills them not to fall. He grabs her hands once more, she tries to resist but her trembling hands are no match for his firm grip, slowly he brings her hand to his body, pressing her palms into his skin, letting out a guttural moan at the sensation. 

She tells herself to pull away, push him again, run away, anything but her body ignores her pleas remaining under his spell as he leans forward, pulling the pin securing her hair up out from its hold, purring in satisfaction as her hair falls in loose waves around her face. Tendrils tickle her cheeks as he lovingly pushes her hair back, stroking her head before his fingers tighten and she winces at the unexpected constraint. 

“Let’s be brave together, huh?” With those last words he lunges at her mouth, devouring her fruitless protest, using his grip on her hair to bring her face ever closer as he laps at her mouth, pushing and pushing until he breaks through the seal and tastes her paradise, he moans into her mouth, the vibration tingling on her lips. 

The intensity of each kiss never falters as he delights in his acquisition of her, messing her hair up with a firm hand, tugging at her dress, before palming her breasts through the tight-fitting material. He roughly maneuvers his hands around the full mounds, twisting them as he pants, “This dress, you shouldn’t wear this dress again. It looks uncomfortable and I want to punch everyone who looks at you in it.” 

She can’t stop the moans that slip out at his demand and his nimble hands wrecking his body, She feels him groping at her back, looking for the zipper and knows that he won’t find one, at least not there there is a hidden zipper inside the dress that must be carefully handled as this dress is vintage and one of a kin--

Krrrrrrrrrrrrr

She flounders on the table taken aback by the sound, unaware of what that sound could possibly be until she feels a cool breeze on her back. Her dress. He was ripping her dress. 

He was ripping her one of a kind vintage dress. 

“Are you insane?! What are you doing? Stop ripping my dress, are you an animal?” She shrieks at him, red consuming her face from anger and...arousal. She couldn’t deny it, seeing this side of him was invigorating as it was terrifying. But she would never let him know that, he was already too big for his breeches. 

As coy as he looked teasing her with that fucking ribbon, he innocently gazes down at her before apologetically replying, “My hand slipped, I couldn’t find the zipper. I’ll buy you a new dress, one that didn’t look uncomfortable.” With that quip, he shreds the dress down the center, peeling it like a banana from her sweltering skin. She is unable to subdue the whimper that falls from her lips and a knowing smirks swells on his face, fuck fuck fuck. 

Contemptuously, he flings the ripped material on the floor, leaving her in her underwear and boots, his eyes running obscenely up and down her body, he fingers at the lace that encases her most private areas. Matching red set bright against her skin, his eyes trail down to her boots, darkening before leisurely strolling back up and landing on her face. She is sin personified, tempting him and today he’s ready to repent, she will be his salvation. 

He crawls back onto her body like a wild cat, pouncing, ready to devour its prey. Within seconds, he drags his finger from her moist center to the valley of her breasts, intent clear in his eyes. She stares back, attempting to muster up some strength but she knows the fight is lost, she can no longer resist him. Her body uncoils in acquiesce and that is the only permission he needs before, sliding her bra out of the way and swallowing her hard nipple. His teeth are unforgiving at his gnaws at her like she is truly a meal to be eaten at the table, his hand kneads the breast not in his mouth, she squirms and pants beneath him, pleasure percolating under her skin. 

“Moon Gang-tae!” She moans at a brutal bite at her breast, before his tongue slithers out to sooth the pain. He releases her nipple with an audible pop before meandering to her neck, sucking at the delicate skin, unforgiving in his pursuit, his hands still roughly palming at her heaving chest. Through the rush of blood to her head, she hears him panting out, “You’re going to look even prettier with my marks. Everyone will see them.” 

That doesn’t make her preen, at all. She is unaffected. Completely. 

After sucking at her neck until she feels like her skin might rip just like her dress, he draws away to survey his masterpiece, his broad shoulders even broader with the wave of pride that wafts off him. Making her head spin again he snatches her off the table, pulling her up until she’s sitting as he distracts her with wild kisses. Then she feels his fingers at the clasp of her bra, he struggles momentarily and she fears she’ll be losing a bra today as well, but he figures it out unhooking it and prying it from her body. Pressing into her with his equally naked chest, he presses her back onto the table, bra carelessly discarded. 

His fingers run along the side of her body, teasing her as he continues to lick at her tongue, allowing her no reprieve from his onslaught. Seductively he begins to rub his rigid cock into her, thrusting into her, groaning at the pleasure. His hands latch onto her hips, controlling her movement, forcing her to grind into him as he chases his pleasure. His harsh breaths land on her face as her eyes devour the sight of Moon Gang-tae lost in passion, it’s beautiful. if she were an artist she would draw it and capture it forever. 

Despite her tender inklings, he is not gentle as he draws away from her, grabbing the thin cloth of her panties, burning eyes locked on the flower they are protecting, before peeling them off her skin, she feels a blush form on her cheeks, disbelief that this is happening to her, Moon Gang-tae is seducing her. 

“Beautiful.” He sighs, eagerly lowering his face until he is level with her face, locking eyes with her as they have a silent conversation. 

I love you. 

I want you. 

I will protect you. 

Let me keep you. 

Eyes never leaving hers, he pokes his tongue out licking down her body, swirling around her breasts, meandering down her soft belly, lapping at slight swell of hip before settling at her entrance, hot breaths landing on where she aches the most. She moans in anticipation but when she forces her eyes open- when had she closed them?- she finds his nonplussed face, peacefully staring back at her, as his fingers stroke her sides. 

She looks at him. 

He looks at her. 

She huffs in annoyance. 

He smirks cockily. 

“Beg for it.” 

Her body spasms at his calm request. She defiantly glares at him, “In your dreams.” 

With a dark chuckle he answers, “Already happens there, I want it in reality now.” 

She moves to slide off the table, but then her legs are snatched and he glides them open, his mouth following suit as he places her on display, moist pink lips opened and glistening. With another bout of careless strength, he drags her legs over his shoulder, so his face is directly in her pussy, his every breath landing inside her. She shivers at the sensation, twitching in his hands. Control slipping away. 

He licks his lips like he is preparing for a big meal. Her knuckles are white from her death grip on the table. 

“Beg. For. It. I want to give it to you Mun-yeong, just ask nicely. Be a good girl, huh?”

His words wash over her in sensual waves, be a good girl. She hates it but she wants to be his good girl, to feel his huge hand cup her head as he praises her and makes her feel invincible. Drenched now from his words. 

Swallowing to bring moisture back to her mouth, she uses the last reserve of air in her lungs to obey his command, “Please Gang-tae, please.” 

His eyes light up in excitement as he caresses her naked body, “Such a good girl.” He praises her caressing her downy skin and then he plunges into her, slurping up her juices, the sounds obscene in the bitter quiet of the room. 

Using broad strokes of his tongue, he swipes at her clitoris, slamming her hips back onto the table when she jerks viciously from the pleasure. She whimpers at his manhandling, overwhelmed as he eats her with reckless abandon. She wraps her legs around his face, desperate for his touch and he moans in approval, lapping at her sweetness, hungry for more. 

His tongue is sin itself as it moves inside her, soft and then hard, gentle and then hard. His inconsistency leaves on feeling on edge, each time she edges to the end, he stops and teases her with kitten licks, devious glances informing her that this is intentional. He wants to wreck her and leave her boneless on the table. 

She grabs his head, “Please, please, I need more.” And those words are all it takes, he presses in with all his might, scraping every ounce of pleasure and joy from her body, gently biting at her clitoris until she sees stars, the moon, the entire fucking galaxy. 

When she thinks she’s going to burst from the euphoria, he presses two long fingers into her, as his tongue plays with the swollen bud. His fingers are unforgiving in their plunder, pressing deep into her hole while his tongue moves rapidly against her, the dueling sensations dragging her closer and closer to the edge, before she feels herself falling, spiraling into the abyss. 

She screams her release, “Moon Gang-tae!!” 

He doesn’t stop immediately, riding her body as she convulses on the table, weakly trying to push his head away, wrung out and teetering into too much.  He ignores her pushes until he is good and ready. 

She collapses on the table, body sprawled in all directions as she recovers from her climax, sweat pooling on her skin, her breaths gradually returning to normal. 

When she finally opens her eyes once more, his gaze is devastating, too many emotions swirling in his expressive eyes. 

“Amazing.” 

She blushes in response, his eyes heavy on her skin, her eyes fleeting around unable to remain on his face, sudden shyness overcoming her. 

After a deep breath, she begins to sit up, pressing him away, body weak and lethargic after the intensity of her release, but his dark eyes land on her face and she ceases to move. 

“Where are you going?” 

She tilts her head in confusion, shouldn't it be obvious?

“You think we’re done? That I’m finished with you? That was just the beginning...the appetizer. We’re just getting started.” 

With a devious smile, he promptly grabs her hips and flips her over, then slides off the table to drag her body to the end until her legs are dangling off the table with her ass hoisted in the air. He strokes the soft plumpness of her ass, before grinding his body onto her naked skin. His dress pants are smooth on her skin and the sensation drags a moan from her lips. Then she hears the obvious sounds of him undressing, looking back over her shoulder, she watches as he drags the zipper down, unbuttons the pants and they fall to the ground, with a hard look at her, he steps out of his boxers, leaving him naked and gorgeous. 

His heavy erections hands ominously between his trunk like legs, engorged and angry-red, resembling a missile waiting to explode. She gulps as she observes the way it twitches in his hands, she almost misses the next words he lets out from her fascination with his cock, “Next time I want you on your knees for me but I can’t wait any longer right now. Not being in you is driving me insane.” 

Her breath hitches from his promise, the look on his face lets her know that it is a promise, images of her on her knees with her mouth open flood her mind, his bitter taste on her tongue as she sucks him deep, his hand on her head as he calls her his good girl and surges in her hungry mouth. It is enough to make her faint. 

With a sharp smack on her ass, he drags her from her erotic fantasy, “ You look lost in thought, I don’t want to be jealous of myself so pay attention to me.” 

Roughly grabbing her, he presses into her, sliding between the tight seal of her thighs, brushing against her pussy but drawing back before he can enter her, he teases her continually until her head starts to swim, she will die if he doesn’t fuck her soon. She tries to press back but his iron grip stops her until she finally glares back with questioned filled eyes. He gazes back at her once again, calm as if his dick isn't hard as a rock right now, as if he doesn’t want to just ram into her and fuck her until the table breaks. 

“What are you waiting for?” She bites out, distraught from the lack of sex that is occurring.

He simply raises an eyebrow, waiting. 

Beg for it. 

He is thrusting into her with steady movement, eyes locked on her face as he smears his precum on her thighs, making her feel filthy. She decides she has done enough begging today, those pleas would sound delicious on his lips too. With a fluid motion, she rolls onto the tips of her toes, thankful for her years of ballet, the stretch unnoticeable on her strong legs, arching her back until her ass is high in the air. With his eyes locked on her face in surprise, she brings her fingers to her mouth, sucking them until they are soaked in her saliva. 

She trails them down her own body before she reaches her destination, her wet center, opening her lips and pressing her wet fingers in, body sinuously twisting at the feel of her hands on herself. Gang-tae’s jaw drops from the sensual show, lost in her fingers and their fluctuation. Playing with herself, she rubs against her walls, legs shaking at her own ministrations. He watches her, dazed and amazed, his cock hardening at the erotic sight that he will lock away for those lonely nights. The thin thread of control he had remaining snapping under pressure. 

Her hands are ruthlessly yanked away, “You win. I need you, please.” 

Victory comes in the form of his hot cock piercing through her moist opening, taking up all the space until the pressure is enough to knock her on her stomach, his thrust is measured and unplumbed, taking his sweet time. Until he is fully stuffed inside her, she whines at the slight discomfort, breath racing now. For a few seconds, there is nothing but quiet and stillness. 

Then he is moving, and it feels like being in the eye of a storm. Tumultuous, destructive and beautifully catastrophic. He plunges into her, hips smacking against her ass, her body slamming into the table with every brutal thrust. Her fingers scratch across the sheets covering the table, her moans are deafening to her own ears but Gang-tae can be heard loud and clear regardless, “I will never leave you, we were meant to be. Look how perfectly we fit!”

Her head is dizzy as he places a hand on her back, molding her into the table as he rides her hard, cock dragging on her sensitive walls, unrelenting crashes into her hot tight body. 

His hands slide into her hair as he pulls at the strands, tears collect her in eyes from the pain but she presses into his harsh touch, eager and wanting. He yanks her hair as he rams into her body, over and over and over again. Deeper in her body than anything has ever been, drool spills from her mouth pooling and soaking into the fabric. 

As her body coils in pleasure, she feels his fingers at her core, searching until they find her overly sensitive bud, with a flick of his wrist she is falling again, thunderous crash, caught between his brutal grip on her hair, his crushing press on her clit and his vicious piston into her overstimulated body. 

“Moon Gang-tae! Moon Gang-tae!”

Her second climax is as gratifying as the first, if not more. Her toes curl as her walls milk him, tightening around his cock until she feels the gush of him releasing into her,searing thick streams filling her up. He grunts out her name in response, “Ko Mun-yeong.” Before collapsing onto her back, their sweat laden bodies sticking together. 

Slowly, their breaths synchronize and then she watches his beautiful arms tense as he uses them to propel himself off her.  He doesn’t go far before taking her hips in a gentle hold and turning her over, his eyes glossy with over-bounding emotions, the biggest one love. 

It is clear as day on his face. He loves her. 

He wraps her in his arms, lifting her once again before turning to the stairs and carrying her in his bride’s hold. She feels delicate and precious in his arms. 

“I love you Ko Mun-yeong.”

She sighs, damn him. She was finally trying to be a good person, but if he wants her to be selfish, she can do that. She will selfishly hold on to him forever. 

“I tried to do the right thing, remember that okay? I tried to let you go.”

He smiles at her, the smile is identical to the picture Sang-tae drew that she has hidden in a drawer in her room, eyes crinkled and joy emitting from his very pores. She is helpless at the sight of it and with a defeated sigh she replies, “I love you too......You idiot.” 

His chuckle rocks her body as he carries her up the stairs, before she freezes in fear, “Wait where is Oppa? He’s not here right.” She hastily looks around. 

“Don’t worry he’s not here. I told him we needed time to make up, he said it was fine because a kiss is better than a fight. We kissed a lot so he’ll be happy.” He dodges her hand as she goes to smack his head. 

She really is stuck with this guy forever. 

Maybe they are destiny after all. 

[shidarekan]

red (bakugou katsuki)

description: bakugou has mixed feelings about a certain color.

genre: mostly angst, perhaps a little fluffy at the end?  kinda???

word count: 850 

tw: reader (you!!!) death, vague descriptions of killing and gore

-

a/n: hiya!  miko here :>, it’s my time to start my onslaught of angst >:DD muAHAHAHAHAHSKDJF-

-

bakugou has come to hate the color red.

now many may find that pretty ironic, hell, the kid's eyes are red for fuck's sake, he looks into them every time he aggressively destroys his toothbrush with his teeth.  

it's the color of roses that his father and him give to his mother on mother's day, albeit him doing it begrudgingly, but he won't deny that the flowers look pretty all wrapped up in brown paper and tied together with the thin pink ribbon around their stems.

it's the color of the autumn leaves on trees at the park you used to drag him to for pictures and dates.  his favorite season, with the two of you bundled up in sweaters and subtly matching scarves.  he remembers how you used to bury the bottom half of your face in the woven fabric, eyes twinkling as you snapped another picture of him gazing at you with those red eyes of his, a matching red blush tinting both his and your cheeks.

but,

it's also the color of blood,

its metallic taste;  he can imagine it on his tongue from the times he has bit his lips a little too hard, or swiped his tongue across them before giving his opponent a wicked grin after a hard punch to the face.

it's the color of everyone's blood;  him, his classmates, his teachers,

you,

he remembers seeing you lying there, on the ground, paralyzed from the blow you just took to save the male from getting even more injured than he already was during the fight, but now look at you, broken, bloody, and bruised.  

bakugou can barely keep himself up from crashing onto the rough concrete, falling to his knees beside you as they skid against the floor.  his hands are so shaky, cupping your cheeks that have already lost their warmth.  

he's terrified, and he doesn't know how to stop himself from holding back the sob that bubbles from the back of his throat.

and now he's holding you in his arms, ignoring the blood from one of his head injuries that's dripping down and down from his hairline, around his eyes, down his cheeks, mixing with his tears, and coating his lips, metallic.

he hates the color red so much,

you're covered in it, and so is he as he squeezes his arms tighter around you and cries out.  your lifeless body somehow feels so much heavier than it really does, it weighs on his shoulders, his conscious.  he should've been the one lying in a puddle of red, not you from protecting him on this mission.  

he's supposed to protect you, he's vowed to, but he lets out a hollow laugh and remembers, "promises are meant to be broken," right?  he wishes he could've multiplied the pain he was feeling now, as punishment for ever saying that phrase, even as a terrible joke.  

he pulls back from the position the two of you are in, chest to chest, one of his hands on the back of your head and the other on the small of your back.  he lays you down, back in the puddle of red you've dripped out, and places one last bloody kiss on your forehead before rising to his feet.

he wants to mourn for longer, but he knows he can't, the person who had painted you red is still there, bounding toward him, ready to launch another attack and-

all bakugou sees is red.

he's blinded with red, landing explosion after explosion on the opponent, yelling, screaming, the pain he feels from the color has got him smashing the enemy to bits, little specks of red,

he takes a moment to breathe, but alas, he's surrounded in red, red, red, and he hates it, and he repeats these words until his vision finally sees black.

-

he doesn't remember when he woke up, how he did, or even how he ended up in the white hospital room with his friends and family fussing over his injuries and unsurprisingly enough, trying to keep his mind off of you.

but he still remembers, he'll never forget, the day he came to hate the color red.

the next few days, weeks, months, years, were like a blur.  for the most part, he was back to being himself, a hero, a son, a friend, just without you,

but it's not like you've disappeared from his life completely, he still visits you everyday, you being buried under one of the trees you loved to take pictures under so much during autumn.  

he places the red asters at the foot of your gravestone after he brushes away a few red leaves aside.

he hates the color red, but, here he is, surrounded in red, red, red,

you've always loved the color, comparing it to those ruby red eyes of his, and remembering the red blush that'd bloom across your cheeks convinces him, that he doesn't really hate the color red as much as he says he does.

after all, he's here, standing before your grave, surrounded by red, red, red, and,

you.

[aethelar]

If there are meanings to the various plants Graves hacks and coughs out of his lungs, he doesn’t care to know them. He knows enough, obviously, to recognise them as a sign of unrequited love and to know that they are not, by themselves, fatal, but otherwise, ergh. He’s not going to pore over books dissecting the language of flowers to divine the true meaning behind what he spits into his kitchen sink. This one’s red and crumpled in a soggy mess, does that mean his heart’s in pain from his passionate yearning - no, it means the fucking twig it’s attached to scraped his throat and came out bloody, and it’ll be a hell of a lot more than just crumpled by the time he’s finished setting fire to it.

It’s disgusting. Everything about it is disgusting. The stringy stems catching on his teeth, the way he coughs and it comes out lumpy with just-opening buds, the taste of fucking pollen that he can’t scrape off his tongue, it’s disgusting. And! That’s before you even factor in that, apparently, Graves’ feelings are literally choking him he knew the damn things were dangerous who in the seven hells ever thought they were a good idea. Being slowly throttled by your emotions wasn’t romantic in the great oil paintings and love stories of the past and it isn’t romantic now. It’s a pain. A disgusting, foul-tasting, inconvenient - a fucking foot long branch, are you serious, all thin and delicate and dotted with tiny white flowers but that doesn’t change the fact that Graves had to deepthroat a fucking branch and then somehow hide the evidence once he hacked coughed and choked the damn thing out.

So no. He is not enjoying Newt Scamander’s extended stay at MACUSA to help sort out the beast laws. Fuck off.

“Oh, Mr Graves!” Newt says, with his stupid floofy hair and his stupid lopsided smile. “I made you coffee.”

“It’s just Graves,” Graves grumbles for the eighth time, dropping his coat over the back of his chair with a barely-hidden sigh of relief. It’s a bitching coat, but it’s also not December anymore, and as he rolls up his sleeves and debates undoing another button at his collar he thinks, ruefully, that it might be time to move into more seasonally appropriate jackets.

No, he decides. Some berk impersonated him all through winter. He didn’t get the chance to wear his bitching coat when the weather was cold, so he’ll wear it now to make up for it. He looks good in black and he’s willing to suffer for fashion, it’ll be fine.

The coffee, when he takes it, is a perfect temperature. It always is. Given that Graves is forty minutes late today (fucking tree in his fucking lungs), this is something of a surprise, and he can’t help the quizzical eyebrow he raises at Newt.

“Magic,” Newt says, fluttering his fingers like an idiot and capping it off with a quirked grin. A stupid quirked grin. With the stupid dimples that come with it. And - the man has freckles, the fuck is Graves meant to do.

“Ta,” he says, slightly strangled, and downs the coffee in one. If he has to chew to swallow the fecking bouquet that appeared in his mouth in reaction to Newt’s everything, that’s no business of anyone else’s, and he refuses to let anything show on his face that might suggest the coffee was less than perfect. Newt’s got a lot better at making coffee in the past few months. It hasn’t tried to climb out the mug in weeks, Graves doesn’t want to discourage this sort of progress.

Nor, later, does he want to discourage the way Newt leans forward, speaking too fast and caring too much as he lays out the things they’ve achieved and the plans he wants to put in action, or the way Newt flicks his gaze back to Graves for support then launches into a passionate response to some complete moron’s doubting skepticism.

He does that a lot. Look to Graves for support. Grindelwald left his mark, and though his aurors know it wasn’t him, the easy trust they had in him is... not gone. If it was gone, then so would Graves be, it would hurt too much to stay. But it’s not so easy anymore for them to remember that Graves has their backs and will keep them safe.

Or maybe the easy trust in his intentions is still there, but the glaring evidence that he couldn’t keep himself safe makes it irrelevent. Either way.

Newt, though, Newt never had a relationship with him for Grindelwald to twist and turn sour, and Newt never falters in surprise when the new Graves snaps and hurts and bites down the things he wants to say and struggles to hold onto the person he used to be and - not that Graves does, not all the time, he’s fine, honestly genuinely he’s fine, he’s just. Finer. When Newt is around and doesn’t expect anything from him that he doesn’t remember how to give.

What Newt expects is for Graves to believe in what he’s trying to do. What Newt expects is for Graves to point out the impracticalities and the legal obstacles and work with him to help him through them. What Newt expects is for Graves to down whatever foul concoction Newt is passing off as coffee and tilt his head and listen when Newt speaks too fast and admit that maybe, maybe Newt doesn’t care too much, maybe the system was wrong and Graves was wrong and Graves could stand to care a little more.

Newt only expects it because that’s what Graves does. It’s different.

“If you’ll excuse me,” he says, and goes to vomit out a fucking florist in the mens’ room.

“I thought you dipshits were meant to be in my lungs,” he complains, wincing as the bile burns his throat. He’s on his knees, one hand braced against the wall, and even when he stops retching he takes a moment before he tries to stand. He gets as far as an unsteady crouch before light-headedness threatens to overbalance him and he has to hold onto the cistern to stay upright.

“Breathe,” he growls, frustration and pain in his voice as he fights the urge to grip his chest. It feels tight, like heartburn, like thorns growing around his ribs, and it’s a struggle to get enough oxygen around the forest growing inside him. “Fucking - breathe, moron.”

“Graves?” a voice asks through the door. It’s Newt. Of course it’s Newt. None of Graves’ aurors would track him down if they were worried about him. It’s not like they did before, why break a habit.

“Give me a sec,” he says, and tries to keep his footsteps even as he staggers to the sink and washes his hands. In the mirror, there’s blood smeared at the corner of his mouth, and he gets rid of it with an angry swipe of his wrist. “I’m fine. Sorry. Bad timing.”

“No, it’s ok,” Newt says, still waiting outside the door. “You don’t need to apologise.” He pauses, then, hesitantly, “It’s ok if you’re not fine too, you know.”

Graves stops. Hands on the edge of the sink, shoulders hunched, head hanging low. The tap is still running. He can feel a tickle at the back of his throat but he’s exhausted and his ribs hurt and he closes his eyes and ignores it. “I know,” he says, coming out thickly around the flower on his tongue.

In the most romantic of the stories, the hero holds out, refusing to admit his feelings until he’s all but dying from the disease. The flowers aren’t fatal by themselves, but lungs aren’t meant to hold a garden. Then he swoons, or faints, or collapses dramatically in his true loves’ arms; they realise the truth and music swells in the background, and with tears in their eyes as they understand that only their love can save the hero, they kiss him.

Curtain falls. Lights dim. Flowers bloom. End story.

What, Graves would like to know, is romantic about telling someone their choices are to love you or see you die. It hardly seems fair. More like a thinly veiled threat, and he will not make a murderer out of Newt.

He opens his mouth and drops the flower - single, large, white - onto his palm, then crumples it in his fist and throws it in the bin. “I know,” he says again, once his mouth is empty and he can talk. It comes out tireder than he means it to and he shakes himself, squaring his shoulders before he opens the door.

Newt frowns at him in poorly-hidden concern, but doesn’t press it. “They called a break,” he says instead. “Do you want a coffee?”

“Yeah,” Graves says, allowing himself a faint, resigned smile. “I’ll make you a tea.”

And. That’s ok. It’ll have to be ok. The flowers are resistant to any spells or potions he tries to control them with so he works on his feelings instead, if they’re the source of the problem. He’s not sure how effective it is, but if he tells himself that he doesn’t love Newt, then maybe he won’t. Or - if he tells himself that if he loved Newt, then surely he’d respect the fact that Newt apparently doesn’t love him in return, and therefore as a sign of Graves’ love he should stop loving Newt -

He tells himself a lot of things. The plant life falls more to flowers and less to trees, which is a bonus, but it doesn’t stop coming. Graves is short of breath more days than not, and he’s losing weight from both the lack of appetite and the amount of time he spends throwing up. That’s ok too. He rearranges his schedule to put himself on less field duty and give himself more paperwork, and if that gives himself more time working in the office with Newt, then that’s just another bonus in life.

The fact that he has to give up his coat is not, but even with cooling charms it’s too heavy and it leaves him flushed and dizzy and lightheaded from the heat. Newt’s coffee progresses from mostly-liquid to mostly-drinkable and Graves likes to think he’s managed the correct balance of tannin and sugar in Newt’s tea, and life goes on. Quiet days, working on the beast laws in companionable silence, sitting to the side in meetings so Newt can take centre stage and shine. Tilting his head with a fond smile and watching the way he waves his hands as he talks too fast and cares too much about the latest creatures in his case. His freckles. The way his excited grins gives him dimples. The increasing worry in the way he frets over Graves and makes sure Graves knows he’s there and just waiting to be allowed to help.

Graves doesn’t allow him. Hanahaki is insideous. Love me or kill me is a horrible thing to say to someone. Maybe if the damn flowers weren’t there he’d’ve done something, but. The damn flowers are there. They come thicker, and faster; he wakes up wheezing in the night and he holds the bannister when he goes up stairs, he stops bothering to eat because everything tastes of pollen and he’s pretty sure Newt’s hiding nutrient potions in his coffee, he’s nearly there with the beast laws and he drags himself through because his fucking feelings are going to kill him but at least he can tie off his loose ends before he goes -

“Graves,” Newt says, leaning towards him with panic in his eyes. His voice echoes. Graves’ chest burns, thorns and trees and clamping vines; he’s coughing but he can’t - “Graves. Graves,” and fuckdamnit, Graves clamps his mouth shut and refuses to let this be a fucking romance because it’s not romantic to spit weeds in your kitchen sink and wipe the blood off your chin it’s disgusting -

He hacks, coughs, chokes; he heaves and dry heaves; dizzying white spots overtake his vision and his lungs give in; the last thing he sees is Newt.

He wakes up.

He wakes up, and his chest feels... unfamiliar. It’s been full of plants for so long, he’s forgotten what it’s like to breathe. He pushes himself up, achingly, slow, holy fuck had he really lost that much muscle that even this is a fucking trial, but there’s an exhausted resignation behind his anger.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Newt asks from the uncomfortable metal chair next to Graves’ uncomfortable metal hospital bed. “You nearly died.”

He looks pale. Drawn. Lack of sleep, Graves identifies, though the worry’s been dragging on him for a while.

“I didn’t want you to feel obligated,” he says, stiffly. 

“Obligated?” Newt repeats. “To what, help you? I offered enough times, I thought it was obvious I wanted to. Besides,” and here he starts to get heated, running his hands through his hair in agitation, “You were dying. How did you let it get so bad? Why didn’t you - this has been going on for months, I thought you just didn’t want me to help you. I didn’t realise you were happy doing nothing!”

“Who the fuck else was meant to help? I can’t control it.”

“Who - what? Wait.” He squints. “Graves,” he says slowly. “What did you think was happening?”

Graves hunches his shoulders. The urge to say nothing and try and deflect is ridiculously strong, but he’s not actually five anymore, so. He doesn’t. “I had a damn garden in my ribcage,” he says. “Picking flowers out my teeth like the heroine of a trashy novel.” He fought it as long as he could, and then he couldn’t fight it and Newt was there. Newt saw. And when Graves woke up, Newt was still there, and the flowers weren’t. He hunches his shoulders and hates the tiny part of him that’s glad Newt was a decent human being and didn’t let him die, because there’s nothing romantic in dying to love. It’s shit. Love me or kill me is shit. The whole thing is shit. He didn’t mean to drag Newt into it.

“Hanahaki,” Newt identifies, and fucker, he looks surprised. “You thought it was hanahaki. Graves. It wasn’t hanahaki.”

“I think as the one living through the fecking thing -”

“Graves,” Newt repeats, more insistently. “It was an infection of a parasitic plant you inhaled as a spore that was growing in the lining of your lungs. It wasn’t hanahaki.” And, when Graves just glowers at him dubiously, “Hanahaki is unrequited love. If it was hanahaki...�� he hesitates, then braces himself and continues, overly casual and awkward with it. “If it was hanakahi, it would’ve stopped. Um. Months ago. So it wasn’t and you don’t have to worry and if it ever happens again please go to a doctor instead of hiding it?”

Go to a doctor, what’s a doctor meant to do? There’s no spell for a broken - wait. What.

The only way to stop hanahaki is for the other person to love you back.

What.

“Months ago?” Graves croaks out. Newt nods, his awkwardness now highlighted with a blush across his freckled cheeks and the bridge of his nose. “Months. You. Months?”

“I made you coffee,” Newt points out, as though that was supposed to be a defence for the fact that, apparently, Graves’ love hasn’t been unrequited for damn months -

“Do you want to be requited,” he blurts out, because why not, why ever the fuck - this is exactly why he never confessed his feelings, fuck it, do you want to be requited what in the seven hells is he saying. “I mean, if, uh, if you wanted to, um, we could. If. You want?”

Newt ducks his head. Probably to hide his laughter. Why. Why does Graves do these things to himself.

“Yeah,” Newt says, too softly for someone bemoaning the idiot that’s fallen in love them. He looks up through the ridiculous floof his his hair and he’s still blushing, but he’s also smiling, tentative and hopeful and very much not being pressured into anything by a stupid romantic disease. “Yeah, I’d like that.”

“Oh,” Graves manages around the entirely different sort of lightness in his chest. “That’s. Good.”

It’s also an insane kind of whiplash to deal with, and one that might take a while to sink in. He’s learnt both that Newt loves him and that his lungs, apparently, have been infested with spores for the past god knows how long. If Grindelwald did this there will be hell.

He just - spores? Fucking. Disgusting. Spores were meant to produce mushrooms, weren’t they, which might be no less horrifying in theory but at least they’d’ve been easier to bring up than branches.

God, imagine if it were cactuses.

Actually no. Don’t imagine that. What the fuck. Back to Newt loving him, that’s a much better thing to focus on, it’s a delightful thing, it’s, holy shit. It’s.

“You love me,” he says, with that sort of wondering disbelief that comes when something sounds too good to be true. “You’re not just saying it because flowers?”

“You drank the coffee I made you,” Newt says instead of answering. “No one ever drinks the coffee I make them. I can’t make coffee. I can’t believe you drank it.” And, when Graves just looks confused (whiplash, plus he nearly died) he just smiles again and says, “Yes, Graves. I love you and I’m not just saying it because flowers.”

“Oh.” That’s. That’s good. That’s. Yeah. “I think I love you too.”

(thank fuck it wasn’t cactuses)