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guyfieriii · 2 months

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We’re going out in style, babe (I)

God, it’s been a WHILE. I really lost all zeal for writing for a little while, until recently I watched the tv series ‘Mr. & Mrs. Smith’ (it’s so so good, you guys!! everyone go watch it) and it got the ol’ wheels turning. This was supposed to be a one and done thing but I got carried away and I lack the stamina to write a big whole thing so this’ll be a two-parter.

Anyway. This is my little version of it with Price. Angst and some stuff. The usual business. Haven’t written anything in months so please read this with the lowest possible expectations. Ya girl’s rusty.

Pairing : John Price x F!reader

Trigger warning : Explicit Sexual Scenes

It’s almost romantic.

The sight of husband and wife lay bare, broken and bloody. Look closely enough to see past the gore, past the ugliness set in a halo of ichor to see a sense of deliverance. The gift of release knowing they’ve met their end, and they’ve met it together.

Well, almost.

You choke out a wretched cough seeped in blood. One you’d feel rip into you, bullet holes and all, if you just weren’t so tired. You can taste it, though — coppery and astringent.

Punctuating.

This is it, you think, feeling the curve of your spine slacken at the relief of what’s coming.

I’m sorry, John.

The words spume against your lips, the only sound making it past them is a wet gurgle.

You’re grateful, for once, for the tears mar your eyesight. They keep you from seeing the true extent of his pain. You can feel it though, his agitation, his helplessness simply in the feather-light brush of his fingertips against your own. It can’t be easy, watching his wife slowly bleed to death beside him while he does the same. Seeing the way your lips turn ashen under a cochineal film of blood, watching the space between each breath lengthen gradually until all that’s left is the in between.

It’s slow. Painful. Each passing second permeated in struggle.

But better him than you.

Let me be first to go, you think in your typical manner of self-service.

It’ll all have been worth it, if only you’re the first to go.

“Oh,” It’s the first thing you can think to say,

“You’re English.”

It’s not the first thing you notice about him, though. No the thing that catches your attention at once is his eyes. Clear, calm and oh so blue. The sheer depth of them, though. Stare into them much longer, and you might not be able to find your way back out.

“Disappointed?” The question is dipped in jovial cadence. Thank God. He’s not offended.

“No. Not disappointed. I was only expecting—.” You pause, uncertain on what expectations you had starting out. Whatever they were, you can’t really remember now.

“What were you expecting, love?” He asks, simply and you know without a shadow of a doubt that it’s sincere. It echoes in the resting timbre of his voice, in the sharpness of his gaze which is dulled only slightly by something you might confuse for affection if you didn’t know any better.

You can only stare in response. Wait for the punchline that never comes.

Jesus Christ. He really does wants to know.

It’s unfamiliar territory for you to be in. To hold someone’s concern in your grasp the way you do his. However, as hard as it is for you to accept, it seems just as easy for him to simply give it away.

The weight of it makes your heart beat faster. Harder. Suddenly your mouth is too dry and you fight the urge to blink and break the spell. If he notices your discomfort, he says nothing about it.

An odd thing, really. That the two of you were matched.

“I’d like for our first day of marriage to not be a complete disappointment.” He prompts, still expecting your answer.

“Listen, uh—”

“John.” He supplies with a tone that makes you think you’re missing out on a joke.

Yeah, it’s a fake name. Haha. I get it.

“Jane.” You reciprocate, awkwardly.

“I’m Jane. And you’re perfect — er, John.” You declare with a sharp inhale only to be met with the scent of him. A bonfire is the first thing that your mind puts up front and centre. A bonfire doused out by a the lightest drizzle, so the smell of smoke still lingers. Along with it, the wafting aroma of cinnamon. Chocolate. All things warm and inviting.

You decide, in that moment, that you really really like the way he smells.

“Starting off with perfection, am I? At least give me till our silver year to really nail it.” He states, yet again, with such utter sincerity you almost miss the joke entirely.

“Till our—? Oh. Right.” You glance away, sheepish.

“This is yours; I believe.” Through your peripherals, you see a ring dangling at the top knuckle of his little finger. A delicate gold band. Simple and suited to your style. You glance at the finger right beside and see that he’s already worn his.

Right. Fuck.

“Uh, yeah. Thank you.” You reach out to take it, but he curls his finger back into his palm.

“Oh no, darling. Let me.” With the utmost care he grabs hold of your wrist, his thumb closing around your pulse — which much to your dismay is racing. It looks so slight, enclosed in his grip — which is paradoxically unyielding and yet so unbearably soft. A cushioned cage you might not mind being held captive in. You can’t bear to meet his eyes, so you keep your gaze downcast, intently focused on the way he slips the ring on your finger.

It’s not supposed to mean anything. Just work. Practicality more than something romantic. You’re spies and being married only makes it less likely that one of you will defect.

But for some reason it doesn’t feel that way. A moment shrouded in solemn intimacy. A promise. It feels that you’re bound to him, a stranger , just with the simple decent of a golden band down your finger. A covenant not meant to be entered into lightly — it’s an undeclared forfeiture of your life into the hands of another. So no, it’s not exactly romantic.

It’s something so much more.

“It’s official, eh? Mr. And Mrs. Smith.” Your hand still rests against the back of his and he makes no movement to release it.

You don’t much seem to mind.

You sleep in different beds, of course.

A habit formed with some difficulty, you’ll admit. There are times when you’ve parted ways in the hall like two men on the opposite ends of a duel — fingers curled around the trigger, waiting on the impulse to pull it. You’ve never given in but you’ve come close.

That fading post mission adrenaline leaves you pliable to your baser instincts, and you find yourself imagining all the ways he could make it better.

All the ways you could.

One night, in a hotel room in Verona, you found yourself skirting the precipice of giving in, with nothing but a 6 inch wall between the two of you.

You pictured it. Some other version of you, ready to take the plunge. This other you having the privilege of indifference in a make-believe realm wherein consequences don’t matter, and you tried to swallow the envy that rose up your throat like bile.

Tried and failed.

Your hands seem to move on their own accord as they slip between your thighs, your mind fabricating the illusion of his own taking their place.

A practiced dance of your imagination and dexterity that takes place often. More than you’d ever admit, even to yourself. You’d brand yourself in shame the morning after, and yet at night, all alone, you come at the thought of all the ways he’d take you.

He’s big. You know it.

You’ve caught glimpses of the outline of his cock in the bugle of his briefs like a voyeuristic pervert. He seemed big enough when flaccid, and you quivered.

You imagine the girth of him, hard and throbbing, promising all the ways he’d make it fit.

You use three fingers, push them deeper still and try to mimic the ways he’d fill you. You’re certain you fall short. He’d stretch you till your cunt had no give left, and then he’d stay there. Let you mold yourself to him, so he’d never feel the need to go elsewhere.

Knowing he’s within an earshot, you’re louder than you normally are. Much to the dismay of the men you’ve slept in the past, you were never vocal in bed. You’d reach orgasm, nearly mute and theatrics for the sake of male ego was something you couldn’t spare the patience for.

Tepid — that’s what they called you, disappointment oozing from each syllable.

You just couldn’t bare to disappoint John.

You put on what can only be considered a barefaced performance for the pure interest of his attention, expressing desires aloud you wouldn’t even dare admit in the privacy of your own self-contemplation. It spurs you on to climax, a fortissimo of vulgarity spewing from your lips.

In the aftermath you lay there breathless, caught unawares by just how far you took this little experiment of yours. Granted, it was all for John’s benefit but somewhere in the middle of it the pretence washed off you to reveal a gleam of authenticity.

Reeling from it, you’re unable to sleep a wink.

“Sleep well, then?” He asks you, the morning after.

“Uh huh. Some of the best night’s sleep I’ve had in my life, John.”

He looks at you like he’s about to call you out on it. Never does.

You resume your compartmentalized way of living soon after. Other than a shared fake name, your home, and the covert particulars of your questionable line of work, you two don’t share much.

Until a mission calls for it, you’ve managed to keep to yourselves a fair amount. You usually cross paths at mealtimes, which you never complain about since he wordlessly took it upon himself to do all the cooking, only letting you help clean.

Quaint domesticity at its finest.

“Safe to assume you chose high risk work as well.” He’d said over breakfast on your first morning there. “Why?”

You’d entered the kitchen to already find him there frying some eggs over the stove. You notice the little dining table to the side already set for two, a glass of orange juice poured for the both of you and toast points standing in their rack in the center of the table.

He gestured for you to take a seat before serving you a duo of over easy eggs and cup of coffee before taking his seat across.

Well, then.

Maybe there were some perks to this life of married domesticity after all.

“I thought I could use a challenge.” You offered him a half answer, as close to the truth as you could.

“And what was it that you did before this?” He asked

“Should you really be asking me that?” You countered.

“I think so, given that you’re my wife.”

My wife.

Enjoying the bit a little too much, aren’t ya John?

So were you, if you were being honest. But honestly never was your strongest suit.

“And why did you—?” You questioned him back in an effort to evade, “Pick high risk, I mean.”

“I’m ex-military, love. Figured I’d choose what I’m used to.” He answered you almost immediately, with not a hint of discomfort or thought of reserve. Either he was a fabulous liar—

Or he trusted you already.

And you didn’t know what to do with that.

“I like my eggs scrambled, by the way.

“Glad to know you feel comfortable your preferences for eggs with me, Jane.”

“Small steps, John.”

Six months in, and aside from a few close calls, you and John seemed to make a good team.

You’ve found that while he’s quick to improvise. Almost always, there’s a wrench thrown in the works, and while you might grapple over a changed course of action, he’s already adjusted to the new circumstances.

You’ve also found that he hates being separated from you in the field. You used to think it to be a manifestation of suspicion, to constantly have an eye on you.

Not that you’d blame him if it was. You weren’t exactly a fountain of knowledge when it came to sharing things of a personal nature. It would only be natural for a little mistrust to brew between a set of spies.

Married, or not.

You were disabused of that theory all too soon.

“Status update?”

“Made it through. I lost them.” You wheeze out, just barely.

“You good? You okay?” The fear in his voice is palpable through your earpiece as you stumble through to an alleyway and try to catch your breath. With the adrenaline waning off you finally feel the bullet that grazed your shoulder.

Flesh wound. You’ll live.

“Jane, fucking answer me.” He rasps, urgent and desperate. Like his sanity depends on your well-being.

It pisses you off, sometimes. Just how deeply he cares. Would you dare call him out on it, though? Now that you’ve been fed on it for months till your belly was ready to burst, like a stray turned house cat. Would you survive without it?

“I’m fucking winded, John. Just need to catch my breath. I’ll be better if we could get the fuck out of here and go—”

Home.

“—back.” You say, instead. “Let’s rendezvous at—”

“I’m coming to get you. Just stay put, yeah?”

“Jesus C—” You hiss through clenched teeth, pressing down the base of your palm into your shoulder to help slow the bleeding down. The pain of it shoots down your arm like veins of lightning, only adding to your irritation. “I’m not a child, for fuck’s—”

“Jane.” The tone of his voice shuts you up. There’s not an ounce of anger or annoyance in it. Only supplication.

Well, shit.

You knew from the very first day you met him — John was a man rooted in conviction. Hard to sway, even harder to deny.

“Fine. I’m waiting.”

He finds you hunched against the wall not 10 minutes later and you can see him visibly sag in relief. The moment he turned the corner and his eyes fell upon your own, his contracted brow-line receded, the rigidity in his stance eased, and the look on his face—

If the deities could speak to a man’s worship, you thought, this is what they would talk about.

“How bad is it?” He offers you a hand to help you stand, the other immediately seeking to find the wound hidden under the crimson blotted front of your shirt, tugging slightly at the neck of it to get a better look.

“I’m sure you’ve seen worse.” You suddenly feel all too shy at the thought of a little exposed skin in front of the man who is your husband. When his thumb grazes the underside of the wound, an unsuppressed flinch jostles you in his hold and his grip tightens.

“You’ll need stitches.” He murmurs, his movements now zephyr-like, fingers mindlessly wandering across the span of your collar bone. You can’t help but imagine the way he’d help you undress, fingers caught at the bottom seam of your shirt being gently lifted. His thumb hooking underneath — maybe just to unassumingly graze against the skin of your abdomen. Maybe to see what the rest of you would feel like against the warmth of his touch.

You’ve caught him staring — whenever you’re dressed bare in nothing but a tank top and loose pair of shorts, the lace hem of which dances so gently across the smooth expanse of your thigh. You’ve witnessed him stop in his tracks, his gaze trained downward for a moment too long to not be considered improper and just then you find it. The effervescent unsheathing of his jealousy, towards a garment of all things. It doesn’t stay long; you could blink and miss it.

But you don’t miss much.

So, when he helps you undress, later that night, and tends to your wound—

Would he stop there, you wonder?

Would you maybe want to find out?

The first time he does fully undress you, is on the eve of your first-year anniversary.

You’re greeted with a gift — a bottle of Laphroaig, 40 and garment bags with a little something for the both of you. Enclosed within an envelope is the note:

Congratulations on a successful first year of marriage.

“Be a shame for rest of it to go to waste.” You say, when John immediately reaches for the bottle. His thumb swipes across the label in an appreciative caress while he tips the cap in your direction as a way of asking drink this with me?

“Keen to dress up for me, love?” He unzips your bag to reveal a hint of luminescent satin — deepened cerulean, to match his eyes.

“I—”

“Because I am.”

You see it unfold before you — the extent of his imagination. Unfurling like an iris in bloom. His eye-line coasting across the length of your silhouette, pausing at slight intervals — the slope of your neck, the curve of your breasts, the pliable swathe of your abdomen. His fists clench in a trice and you feel the pulse of it hammering in your core.

A building reservoir of desire you’ve held back behind a dam of logic that strains beneath the weight furthermore.

He makes you feel at a loss — seemingly unpulsed by this conspicuous display of obscene want. Hunger for what is continuously denied.

Either he takes it on the chin like too good of a sport, or he simply hides it better than you do.

Either way—

You might as well try to even out the playing field.

With a rapid maneuver fuelled only by provocation and guile, you crook a finger along the collar of his button down, the palm of your other hand placed securely over his chest.

“I will, if you will.”

This was it — the fracture in the levee holding back a year’s worth of self-deception. With the curtain drawn on every enciphered impulse, you could finally meet him on equal, honest footing. The kindling that lay bare now set alight and you can only hope you aren’t scorched by it.

And if you are—

You pray it consumes you quick.

The rest of the evening just kind of blends together — three finger pours, a little music, some dancing, if you could even call it that.

John’s generosity with the scotch turned you sloppy, with all your past attempts at decorum now semi-liquid — like a condensed pour of honey out the jar.

“Dance with me, Jane.”

“Just want to get your hands on m’, don’t ya? Clingy fucker.”

Pot, meet kettle, you think to yourself.

Drunk or not, at least you’re self-aware.

It’s in the middle of the night when you jostle awake, with a dry mouth and a hammering in your skull that you feel in your teeth. Somehow, you made it to bed. Still dressed.

You smooth a palm across the creased satin encasing your body, bunching the fabric into your fists absentmindedly.

“Couldn’t bare to take you out of it just yet.”

You’re caught off guard to find John lounging in the chair in the corner of your room, your dulled senses inhibiting the reflex to reach for your gun.

“Never sneak up on a spy, John. Could’a shot you dead if I wasn’t this fucking hungover.”

“Thank God for small mercies. You’d make an awful widow.” His tone bleeds irony but there’s an undertone to it. It’s one you don’t recognize.

He’s since rid himself of his jacket and cufflinks, with the first few buttons undone and his sleeves rolled up and his arms crossed over his chest that rises and falls with every deliberate breath he takes. The picture of nonchalant inertia to the unknowing eye.

Not you, though.

You see the simmering thirst in a man who has been parched for too long, the certainty set in his eyes in search of an oasis—

And something else. An offshoot growing from the root of brackish resentment you can’t quite place.

And maybe, just maybe you worry you’re about to have your heart broken.

Not that you’d ever tell him.

“Fuck you.” You mutter, indignantly, massaging the bridge of your nose in an effort to ease the ache.

With lithe and measured movements, John approaches you. Through your peripherals you watch his feet get closer and closer with every step, until he’s inches away. With a firm-handed pull at your chin, he forces your gaze towards him— that indescribable tincture yet staining his features.

His head tilts imperceptibly, eyes narrowing in determination while he decides….what?

Whether to fuck you? Whether to leave you be and maintain the suffocating, acetic undercurrent you’ve maintained for an entire year in keeping your hands to yourself?

Whether to—

You stop your deliberations straight in their tracks as his hold on you tightens ever so slightly, his thumb disengaging from the rest to glide across your bottom lip.

Pulsing headache aside, you feel your entire being throb in anticipation.

“John—”

“Hush,” He takes advantage of your parted lips, probing the seam of them a little deeper. “Let a man savour a moment, for fuck’s sake.”

Seconds dissolve into minutes, as you wait with bated breath. Each lungful heavier than the last under the stifling pressure of a singular moment being pulled taut beyond belief.

“Jane, darling?” His voice is a mere whisper.

“Hmm?”

“How badly do you want to be fucked right now?”

A sizzle of defiance erupts deep in your belly. The urge to impugn stings the tip of your tongue when you see it. That look. That look that pummels down any defence you could even hope to construct. It demands sincerity, even when you can barely muster it on a good day let alone hungover and painfully aroused.

So, in the place of a rejoinder that would leave you both sexually frustrated and teetering the edge of combustion, you say the truth.

“So fucking badly, John. For months. Possibly from the moment we met.”

What hits you in that moment is disconcerting mixture of emotions: part relief at the unburdening of long-held truths, part self-consciousness at the ease in which just you’ve confessed them.

The latter dissolves almost immediately when you watch the resulting smile that etches itself across his face. A smile that screams pride. Absolution. The kind you’d find on a man who finally reached the peak of his dreams.

You were his Everest. Finally conquered.

“That’s my girl.”

His words leave you breathless. It’s not the first time he’s called you his, so it isn’t the novelty of the statement that floors you. It’s the fact that for the first time in a year, you recognize it to be true.

You’re his — been his for some time now.

The epiphany goes to your head like strong drink — and right on the heels of your previous state of inebriety, it’s all too much to take.

“Fuck, John. Just—” Whatever you might’ve said next is devoured by him in an abrubt dive to kiss you. It’s fervent and messy, all tongue and teeth leaving the viscid traces of saliva across your lips, jaw, and neck.

It’s an unremitting onslaught of his lips and hands — him touching you, tasting you at a pace you couldn’t dream of outrunning. Sometime in the midst of it, he’s managed to strip you both down without missing a beat. I’ll take care of it, my darling, he’d said when you protested to the number of layers that still lay between the two of you.

That was the thing about John. He’d not let a single demand of yours go unsatisfied. A depraved part of you wondered how far you could draw it out, test his endurance. Find the limit and shame him for it.

Needless to say, you never did.

Not out of decency, a trait of which you were always found deficient. It was only out of the fear of having had something unattainable only to eventually lose it. Fact of the matter is, there would be no limit to what you could ask of him.

Onto to simpler requests, then.

“Fuckin’ need you inside of me.”

His cock fills you up just as you’d expected— stretched to capacity, the head of his cock grazing against your cervix with a couple of inches to spare. You hiss through your teeth, your nails digging into his back to recompense for the building pressure.

“Shit, John. Fu—uck—” You pant, lungs convulsing beneath the strain of his weight pressing down on you, skin meeting skin at every possible junction.

“Should’a let me work you out first, then.” He grunts, lips latching on to the shell of your ear.

He forced an arm between the two of you, his fingers find your clit, drawing gentle circles. A direct juxtaposition to the shallow quick paced thrusts, while his other arm snakes around to border the crown of your skull. A preemptive measure for a good and thorough fucking.

Eventually the burn at the rim of your cunt subsides and you take more of him than you could’ve ever imagined. Right to the hilt. He draws back out, just halfway and looks, as if to admire his handiwork before slamming back in with a reverberant so fuckin’ tight, so fuckin’ good or some variation of the praise over and over.

A year’s worth of raked up want comes cresting over this one night— he fucks you once more with the privilege of leisure the second time around. When you’re fucked out, slack-jawed with a raw cunt dripping cum, he croons with self-satisfaction and promises you’ll take him again.

You do, naturally. Drunk on the smell of sex which weighs down the air in the room, obedience comes easy.

He’s gentler this time, softer in the way he touches you. Fingers raking over flushed, sweaty skin. His tongue gliding over every inch of you, twice over, like he means to really savour it. Catalogue what every part of you tastes like should this be the only chance he gets. He fucks you slow and deep, a litany of indebtedness perpetuating every movement.

There are things about him you commit to memory, as well. The lingering taste of his last cigar that glides across your tongue when he kisses you. The flickering pulse in his brow when he’s close. The weight of his cock sheathed within you, the sting that comes with it.

When the haze of prolonged unfed lust unfurls with a yawn of satiety, you find all that remains is a sense of premonition.

Of a tragic and bitter end.

#john price x reader #John price #john price smut #john price fic #TECHNICALLY I could end it with this but how rude would that be??

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yanderes-galore · 2 months

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I have a request. Could I please request a Yandere Princess Cadence for The Yandere MLP Virus AU?

Hm... sure! Doing this with Cadance could be cool! (She's a fav of mine) Using @koipaper 's idea for how the virus started (Hope I tagged the right person 😭) Not fully proofread!

Yandere Virus! Princess Cadance Concept

Pairing: Romantic

Possible Trigger Warnings: Gender-Neutral Darling, Obsession, Manipulation, Yandere virus, Blood, Violence, Death, Murder, Body horror, DARK THEMES, Forced relationship attempted.

Poor Cadance has no clue what Twilight has done.

The princess knew of the younger princess's crush, but didn't know the extent.

She had no idea Twilight tried to cast a love spell on you... only to do it wrong and curse you.

Upon being sent a letter of distress, Cadance left Shining Armor and Flurry Heart to check things out in Ponyville.

She worries for Twilight... especially if this really is some sort of emergency.

Cadance has no idea what awaits her.

When she arrives at Twilight's castle everything's a mess.

There's no sign of the princess... and Ponyville itself looks in disarray.

The Alicorn is careful, wandering the streets carefully.

She even cringes back when she sees blood in the streets.

What happened...?

Going further into Ponyville she's met with broken architecture and blood.

Perhaps even a corpse or two.

Soon she even sees the results of the virus.

Emancipated ponies... bloody wounds... all staggering about with smiles and bloodshot/dilated eyes.

It's by this point Cadance knows she has to escape.

But then a pony comes rushing away from a horde, fear on their face.

Cadance charges her magic and steps in, pacifying the infected while standing in front of the pony.

By the time it's all done the alicorn turns to the pony.

Said pony is you... injured and bleeding... shock written all over your face.

"P-Princess Cadance...!" You manage to gasp out. "You shouldn't be here!"

The alicorn is confused as you sob.

"P-Please... leave me be...! Save yourself!"

There's then movement behind the alicorn, she turns around to see a familiar purple alicorn staring her down.

The older princess freezes.

"Twilight...?"

The purple alicorn says nothing, looking maybe the worst out of all the infected.

Then her gaze stares at the other alicorn.

"Why do you have them?"

Cadance glances at you now standing behind her, you're shaking on your legs.

"Twilight... what happened...?"

There's shambling silhouettes that walk closer, Cadance recognizes them as Twilight's friends.

They're all infected....

"Give them back..." The purple alicorn rasps, stepping forward.

"Don't take what isn't yours...!"

It's then Cadance uses her magic to carry you, running off with you.

You're too weak to be able to warn her anymore... you're so tired...

Cadance flies and runs for her life, infected ponies following close behind.

She'll save you... you'll be protected...

She just needs to get out of her.

By the end of the escape attempt Cadance has a few wounds... but nothing bad.

By the time she manages to lose the other ponies she focuses on your wounds.

You're too tired to fight anymore... you're happy to be out of Ponyville...

But you fear for what happens next.

Cadance is oblivious to the curse you have, carefully taking you back to her castle to tend to your weak body.

You're kept in your own room while Cadance explains to Shining Armor what happened.

You may be bandaged... but you still cry.

Not from pain... but at the fact you realize you've caused all this.

Unless anything is done about it... you'll cause it all to happen again.

You fear corrupting Cadance... so you plan to leave once rested.

But as she checks up on you... you can see her gaze shift.

You fear it's already too late...

The Mane Six are long gone in their insanity... the rest of Ponyville might be too...

Your next goal is to escape the Crystal Empire... you have a theory on how to help yourself...

You need either Zecora... or Queen Chrysalis.

So, without thanking Princess Cadance... you leave.

Said Princess then freaks out when she sees you gone.

After all... the virus has settled in...

She won't stop searching for you...

Not until she has you... like every other infected pony you've encountered.

You're in danger without her.

#yandere my little pony #yandere mlp fim #yandere mlp #yandere mlp virus au #yandere princess cadance #yandere virus princess cadance #yandere infected princess cadance

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lottiecrabie · 22 days

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you know how lorde brought jack out at one of her shows and he played the guitar while she sang and they were very touchy feely and just gazing at each other the entire time? imagine a blurb like that on gto readers tour when her and matty are just friends now but there is still definitely underlying tension the entire time

i Know where this blurb idea came from I see you🫵

the screams rain over you, a torrential wave of love that you can’t help grinning at. you sit there, legs hanging off the stage, gripping your mic in silent awe. the world ripples in front of you, bodies of people — real, tangible, knowledgeable of your lyrics better than you sometimes — face you. the room seems larger, like entire cities could fit between these walls, like everyone you’ve ever known could be smiling back at you.

you use the energy like fuel. pretend your heart isn’t racing up your throat as you tilt up the mic. ‘i have a surprise for you guys,’ you say, teasing, confessional. another wave of screams, delighted in just being special. you laugh. ‘there’s a really special person here tonight. the producer of this album, my dear friend—‘ you barely need to let the name out, high-pitched cries already drowning it out, but still; ‘matty healy!’

he comes from backstage and he cracks the world open. stagelight transforms in soft sun rays, shining over your head until sweat pearls your forehead. strawberry ice cream lingers on your tongue. the faint smell of cigarette comes through, burning in the heat. he’s summer, even in the thick of this december month. you have to blink away, blind.

there’s a part of you way that will always be in august, and it throbs when he’s around you.

matty sits down beside you, offered a guitar by some worker. he waves to the crowd, working his charm easily. you have no sun to blame this flush on. you hope the stage makeup hides it, stop yourself from pressing the cold microphone to your cheeks and draw attention to it.

‘hello,’ you say. ‘not too tired?’

‘never,’ he answers, though it’s lost to the ears of the crowd, micless that he is.

‘i warmed the crowd up for you.’

‘you’re—‘ you aim the mic his way, graciously allowing the public into this moment, ‘—too sweet.’ you want to laugh. your chest tightens, in the habitual ways it still hasn’t learned not to.

something in you is angry that he’d dare say it here, in front of anyone, in front of everyone. not because he’s sharing anything personal, anything momental; because he’s not. to him, too sweet is any other phrase, and you’re left reeling from the slap he doesn’t know he gave.

‘we made pygmalion two summers ago, in this very city,’ you say conversationally, addressing the crowd. ‘i lived here for four months and so, forever, london will be the intrinsic pygmalion city. i don’t think i can walk any street without being washed with it.’

‘i live here and there’s still places i can’t visit without being reminded of pygmalion,’ matty says in the cadence of a joke. you chuckle for him, ever gracious.

‘there’s still wines i can’t drink,’ you attempt to volley back, but it starts feeling a little too raw, a little too real. you get the uncomfortable impression of being under a microscope, and you clutch the microphone with the need to swallow it all back.

matty steals the mic from your hands, eyes wrinkling with mirth. ‘this one used to say she didn’t like red wine.’

you roll your eyes, taking it back. ‘yes, well, i just—‘

again, matty’s fingers brush yours, angling the mic back to him. ‘—never drank the correct sort, yes, i told you so.’

‘stop taking my mic!’ you laugh, giving a look to the public as you gesture to him. ‘it’s a wonder we finished any song with all of this.’ you sit up straighter, attempting to put the show back on track. ‘and yet we did. you might know this one, it’s called galatea.’

again, a new wave of excited screams wash you. galatea is always a highlight of the night. the broken lyrics that come back to you, sung and cried, tears filling the eyes of the first row until you have to look away. this time, you don’t even attempt to watch them, instead turning to face matty, crossed-legged.

his fingers strum the chords familiarly; you croon the first words. you get projected on a sofa, red lights drenching the two of you, the stars shining just for you. he’s so known you might choke up. you have moved on, you promise yourself you have, but what can you do with all the knowledge you gain of someone? where do the memories go when you’ve stopped needing to play them back every night just to fall asleep. they can’t cease to exist, yet they can’t fit in the palms of your hands either.

his eyebrows tilt as he concentrates, bobbing his head. a curl strikes his forehead and you stop yourself from reaching up and brushing it away. parts of you wake up, called to attention. the need to wish and hope and yearn; to exist in the possible, nearly-not but just enough that it’s exquisitely painful. you think of new lyrics, you hate yourself for it.

the chorus cries out of you. you scoot closer, sing it to him. you’re back in a booth, angry eyes pinning him down vengefully. matty glances up and there must be something in you that has quietened, that has folded over and surrendered. he doesn’t look away from your stare. he doesn’t get overwhelmed with the weight of it.

your hand flies to his knee, as if to make sure he’s real. he is; flesh and muscle and that stubborn heart of his, beating somewhere far away from you.

for all the sun he represents, he doesn’t burn anymore. it’s a soft sting, like another memory buzzing in you. your fingers retreat. mournfully, you sing the next lyric.

you whisper the last words out, smiling faintly. his fingers halt. he stops suddenly; he’s there and then he’s not, per usual. the cries roar back to you. for all the worlds that exist in this very room, they always seem to cease when he’s beside you. a summery cocoon you craft out of nothings, one that’s off somewhere in a london apartment.

you turn back to the crowd, remind yourself of everything that is real too. ‘thank you,’ you whisper to them, a hand to your chest, vaguely bowing. thank you for being there when the ground doesn’t seem to hold you up anymore. you look at him. and then, a grin, waving an arm to him. ‘matty healy, everyone!’

#this is Barely flirty and mostly just rly angsty Sorry😭#angst #blurb #galatea take one #ask #matty healy x reader

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simpforfandom231 · 3 months

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i don't forget too well PT4

The night unfolded with a quiet cadence, the hospital room cocooned in a delicate stillness that only the occasional murmur of medical equipment dared to disturb. Renée, despite the hospital setting, found solace in the shared intimacy she and Y/N had woven into the fabric of their temporary sanctuary.

As Renée settled into the makeshift bed, the rhythmic rise and fall of Y/N's chest became a reassuring lullaby—a tangible reminder of the resilience they both possessed. The Marvel shirt, the familiar hoodie, and the soft boxers created a cocoon of familiarity, a testament to the strength found in the simplest of gestures.

In the quiet of the night, Renée's mind wandered through the corridors of their shared journey—the highs and lows, the laughter and tears, and the unwavering love that had become the bedrock of their connection. She gently brushed a strand of hair from Y/N's face, her touch a tender caress.

"You're my superhero, you know that?" Renée whispered, her words a declaration of unwavering belief. "We'll navigate through this together, and on the other side, there's a world waiting for us—a world filled with love, understanding, and the resilience we share."

The night wore on, marked by the hushed conversations that unfolded in the dim glow of the bedside lamp. Renée, with a vigilant gaze, watched over Y/N, her heart a mix of tenderness and determination. The hospital room, once an unfamiliar landscape, now bore the imprints of their shared history—a canvas painted with the hues of love, hope, and a fierce commitment to weathering storms together.

As dawn approached, the room began to bathe in the soft light of the morning. The nurse, making her rounds, acknowledged Renée's steadfast presence with a warm smile. "You're doing a wonderful job, Ms. Rapp. Y/N is lucky to have you by her side."

Renée nodded, gratitude filling her tired eyes. The nurse continued her checks, ensuring Y/N's physical well-being, and then left them once again in the quiet embrace of the room.

With a gentle sigh, Renée stretched her limbs, feeling the remnants of the night's vigil. She leaned over, placing a soft kiss on Y/N's forehead. "Morning, cutie. Let's face the day together, okay?"

The routine of the hospital resumed—nurses passing through, the distant sounds of medical activity, and the ever-present hum of life within its walls. Renée, clad in the comfort of the makeshift bed, prepared to meet whatever challenges the day held.

The morning light filtered through the curtains, casting a gentle glow on the hospital room. Renée, having just completed her morning routine in the bathroom, couldn't shake the melody of her song "Bruises" that lingered in her mind. Humming softly to herself, she felt a mix of emotions, her heart still heavy with concern for Y/N.

As she emerged from the bathroom, the room seemed to hold its breath. The silence was broken by a whisper so faint that it could have been a figment of Renée's imagination. "Come back, I miss you next to me."

Renée's heart skipped a beat. A flicker of hope danced in her eyes as she turned toward the source of the sound. Y/N, still nestled in the hospital bed, had uttered those words—a glimpse of connection breaking through the walls of dissociation.

A surge of emotions swept over Renée. "Y/N?" she called out, her voice a delicate mixture of excitement and concern. "Did you just say that?"

The response was a faint nod from Y/N, her eyes reflecting a hint of recognition and a longing for connection. Renée felt a rush of emotions—relief, joy, and a renewed sense of determination.

Without hesitation, Renée pressed the call button, summoning the nurse. The anticipation hung in the air as they waited for the medical professional to arrive. The nurse, recognizing Renée's urgency, entered the room with a promptness that mirrored the gravity of the moment.

"Something's happening. Y/N spoke," Renée explained, her eyes filled with a mixture of hope and worry.

The nurse approached Y/N's bedside, conducting a series of checks to assess the change in her condition. Y/N, still caught in the delicate transition from detachment to presence, gazed at Renée with a vulnerability that tugged at Renée's heart.

"She's showing signs of improvement," the nurse noted, a reassuring smile playing on her lips. "Sometimes, small breakthroughs like this can pave the way for more substantial progress."

Renée, unable to contain her emotions, reached for Y/N's hand. "You're coming back to me, aren't you, babe?" she whispered, her voice a mixture of tenderness and elation.

The nurse continued her assessments, making notes and adjusting the care plan accordingly. "It's a positive sign. We'll monitor her closely and make any necessary adjustments," the nurse assured Renée.

As the nurse left the room, Renée turned her attention back to Y/N. "I'm right here, princess. You're not alone. We'll face whatever comes together, okay?" she whispered, her words a promise etched in the quietude of the hospital room.

The morning unfolded with a renewed sense of hope. Renée, now by Y/N's side, engaged in gentle conversations, sharing stories, and playing Y/N's favorite songs. The hospital room, once a silent witness to the complexities of mental health, now echoed with the subtle rhythm of connection and progress.

As the day progressed, Renée remained vigilant, recognizing that the journey ahead might be filled with challenges, but also with moments of triumph. The melody of "Bruises" lingered in the air, a reminder that resilience could blossom even in the most unexpected moments.

In the quiet moments between conversations and shared glances, Renée and Y/N began to rebuild the bridge that had momentarily wavered. The hospital room, with its sterile walls, became a canvas for a narrative of healing—a narrative that unfolded with each heartbeat, each whispered affirmation, and each step forward on the intricate journey toward well-being.

As the day progressed and Y/N showed signs of emerging from her dissociated state, a subtle restlessness began to manifest. The pain in her wrists, a physical reminder of the struggles she faced, triggered an instinctual response—a desire to remove the bandages that concealed the wounds beneath.

Renée, ever-vigilant by Y/N's side, noticed the subtle movements and the pained expression that crossed Y/N's face. She gently reached for Y/N's hands, offering a comforting touch. "Hey, sweetheart, what's going on? Are you feeling uncomfortable?"

Y/N, still caught in the delicate balance between dissociation and presence, gazed at Renée with eyes that held fragments of recognition. However, the pain in her wrists seemed to override the connection, and a silent determination to relieve the discomfort took hold.

"I know it hurts, babe," Renée murmured, her voice a soothing melody. "But we need to keep those bandages on for now. The nurse said it's important for your healing."

A flicker of frustration crossed Y/N's eyes, an unspoken plea for relief from the internal turmoil. Renée, recognizing the need for empathy and understanding, continued to speak in a gentle tone.

"It's okay to feel this way, love. Your body is healing, and it's natural to want some relief. But we're in this together, and we'll make sure you're as comfortable as possible," Renée assured, her words carrying a depth of commitment that transcended the challenges they faced.

The nurse, alerted by the call button, entered the room once again. Renée, with a concerned expression, explained the situation. The nurse approached Y/N with a calm demeanor, acknowledging the delicate nature of the moment.

"Hey there, Y/N. I know it can be tough, but the bandages are essential for your healing process. We'll do everything we can to make you comfortable," the nurse reassured, her experienced hands gently assessing Y/N's wrists.

Renée, standing by Y/N's side, maintained a reassuring presence. "We're here for you, babe. If there's anything we can do to ease the discomfort, just let us know."

The nurse, after ensuring the bandages were secure and providing a mild pain relief option, left the room with a nod of assurance. Renée, still holding Y/N's hand, spoke softly, "I know it's tough, princess. But you're strong, and we'll get through this together."

As the day unfolded, Renée continued to engage Y/N in soothing conversations, recounting shared memories and playing calming music. The hospital room, though clinical in its surroundings, became a haven where the complexities of mental health met the unwavering support of love.

The arrival of the psychiatrist marked a pivotal moment in Y/N's journey toward healing. Renée, recognizing the significance of this session, welcomed the mental health professional into the room with a blend of hope and anticipation.

"Hello, Ms. Rapp. I'm Dr. Bennett," the psychiatrist greeted, extending a hand to Renée. "How has Y/N been since our last check-in?"

Renée, seated by Y/N's bedside, shared the developments and the subtle improvements Y/N had shown throughout the day. Dr. Bennett nodded in acknowledgment, her demeanor exuding a calm assurance. "Let's begin, shall we?"

As the session unfolded, Renée observed the exchange between Dr. Bennett and Y/N with a mix of apprehension and optimism. The psychiatrist, skilled in navigating the complexities of mental health, started with general inquiries about Y/N's well-being and emotions.

Y/N, still in a detached state but showing glimpses of responsiveness, answered the initial questions with subdued nods and monosyllabic responses. The room, despite its sterile hospital setting, transformed into a space where vulnerability met professional guidance.

However, as the conversation delved into the topic of Y/N's ADHD, a palpable shift occurred. Y/N, who had started to exhibit a bit more presence, retreated once again into a silent vessel—a manifestation of the dissociative state that had become a coping mechanism.

Renée, watching the transformation in Y/N, felt a pang of empathy. Dr. Bennett, recognizing the shift, adjusted her approach with a compassionate understanding. "Y/N, can you tell me how you feel about your ADHD? It's important for us to understand your perspective."

The question, seemingly innocuous, triggered a profound response. Y/N's eyes, once showing glimmers of recognition, now became vacant. It was as if the mention of ADHD had opened a floodgate of emotions too overwhelming to confront.

Renée, sitting by Y/N's side, gently reached for her hand, offering a silent reassurance. Dr. Bennett, attuned to the nuances of emotional states, continued to navigate the conversation with a delicate touch.

"It's okay, Y/N. We can take this at your pace. If there's anything you'd like to share or discuss, I'm here to listen," Dr. Bennett spoke with a measured calmness, creating a space for Y/N to express herself in a way that felt safe.

Despite the efforts, Y/N remained enveloped in silence—a silent vessel adrift in the sea of unresolved emotions. Renée, with a furrowed brow and a heart heavy with concern, spoke softly to Y/N. "Princess, take your time. We're here for you."

The session, though challenging, laid the foundation for the ongoing therapeutic journey. Dr. Bennett, aware of the intricacies of Y/N's emotional landscape, concluded the session with a compassionate reassurance.

"We'll continue to explore these feelings at a pace that feels comfortable for Y/N. It's a process, and healing takes time," Dr. Bennett explained to Renée, her words carrying a sense of hope and understanding.

As the psychiatrist left the room, Renée remained by Y/N's side, recognizing that the journey toward healing would be marked by both triumphs and challenges.

Feeling a gentle tug of exhaustion, Renée decided to step into the hallway, leaving Y/N in the care of the hospital room. The sterile, well-lit corridor stretched before her, with the distant hum of activity echoing in the air. Renée walked toward the hospital's small café, hoping a cup of coffee might offer a momentary respite.

As Renée stood in line, waiting for her turn, her mind oscillated between the complexities of the day and the hope that each small improvement brought. The scent of brewing coffee enveloped her, providing a brief sensory escape from the hospital's clinical atmosphere.

Returning to the room with two steaming cups in hand, Renée felt a renewed sense of determination. However, upon reentering, the sight that greeted her pierced through the fragile veneer of hope she had held onto.

Y/N, in her still-detached state, had managed to remove the bandages from her wrists. The sterile white sheets were stained with evidence of the internal turmoil Y/N grappled with. Renée's heart sank at the sight, a mix of worry and sadness washing over her.

"Y/N, no," Renée whispered, her voice laden with concern. She placed the coffee cups on the nearby table and hurried to Y/N's side. Gently taking Y/N's hands, she noticed the exposed wounds—a stark reminder of the pain that lingered beneath the surface.

Y/N, lost in the dissociative state, gazed at Renée with eyes that held fragments of emotion. The room, once a haven of potential healing, now felt like a battleground where the internal struggles manifested in tangible form.

Renée, fighting back tears, spoke softly to Y/N. "Princess, we need to take care of these. Let me call the nurse."

With a sense of urgency, Renée pressed the call button, summoning the nurse back to the room. The nurse, upon entering, assessed the situation with a calm demeanor.

"We'll need to rebandage these and make sure they're properly treated. Y/N, can you tell me what led to this?" the nurse inquired, her tone a delicate balance of professionalism and empathy.

Y/N, still caught in the silent vessel of dissociation, remained unresponsive. Renée, feeling a profound mix of emotions, shared the events leading up to the discovery.

"I just went for a quick break to get some coffee, and when I returned, this had happened," Renée explained, her voice laced with a hint of desperation.

The nurse, with a nod, began the process of rebandaging Y/N's wrists. Renée, standing by Y/N's side, felt a surge of protectiveness. The hospital room, now marked by the echoes of distress, stood as a backdrop for the intricate dance between mental health struggles and the unwavering support that sought to mend the wounds, both visible and hidden.

As the nurse finished the task, she offered Renée a reassuring smile. "Keep an eye on these, and if there's any change, let us know immediately. We're here to support both of you."

Renée, nodding in gratitude, watched as the nurse left the room. She turned her attention back to Y/N, who remained ensconced in the silent realm of dissociation.

"We'll get through this, princess.

As Renée sat by Y/N's side, grappling with the emotional weight of the recent events, she felt a deep longing for the presence of someone who understood both her and Y/N on a profound level. Ayla, a close friend who had been a pillar of support for Renée, seemed like the beacon of solace she needed in that moment.

With a sense of urgency, Renée reached for her phone and dialed Ayla's number. The phone rang a few times before Ayla's voice greeted her on the other end.

"Hey, Renée! What's up?" Ayla's voice, typically filled with energy, now carried a tone of concern as she sensed something was amiss.

Renée, her voice steady but laced with emotion, explained the recent developments with Y/N and the struggles they were facing. Ayla, always attuned to Renée's moods, immediately offered her support.

"I'm on my way. I'll be there as soon as I can," Ayla assured, her unwavering commitment evident in her voice.

Within a short time, Ayla arrived at the hospital, her presence a comforting balm in the midst of the turmoil. Renée, still seated by Y/N's side, looked up as Ayla entered the room. The exchange of glances between Renée and Ayla spoke volumes—a shared understanding of the complexities that life had thrown their way.

"Renée, how are you holding up?" Ayla asked, concern etched on her face.

Renée managed a faint smile, appreciating Ayla's ability to offer comfort without the need for elaborate words. "It's been a tough day. I'm just worried about Y/N, you know?"

Ayla nodded empathetically, her gaze shifting toward Y/N, who remained in the detached state—a silent figure lost in the labyrinth of her own thoughts.

"We'll get through this together," Ayla reassured, pulling up a chair to sit beside Renée. "How can I help?"

Renée, grateful for Ayla's presence, took a moment to collect her thoughts. "I just need someone here who understands, someone who knows both of us. I can't bear to see Y/N like this."

Ayla reached over, offering a comforting hand on Renée's shoulder. "We've faced tough times before, and we'll face this one too. You're not alone in this, Renée."

As the trio navigated the silent contours of the hospital room, Ayla engaged Y/N in a gentle conversation, speaking words of familiarity and warmth. Ayla's presence seemed to have a subtle effect on Y/N, as if the echoes of a trusted friend had the power to reach through the walls of dissociation.

"You know, Y/N, we were just reminiscing about that road trip we took last summer. The way you laughed when Renée got lost—it was priceless," Ayla shared, her voice carrying a blend of nostalgia and hope.

Renée, watching the interaction between Ayla and Y/N, felt a glimmer of gratitude. Ayla had an innate ability to bring a sense of normalcy to challenging situations—a quality that proved invaluable in the midst of mental health struggles.

As the day progressed, Ayla became an anchor in the storm—providing comfort, sharing stories, and offering a gentle reminder that the bonds of friendship could weather even the most tempestuous seas.

As the evening wore on, Ayla sensed the need for a brief respite and offered to fetch more coffee for Renée. "I'll be back in a few minutes. Take your time and look after yourselves," Ayla said, offering a reassuring smile before stepping out of the hospital room.

Left alone with Y/N, Renée settled into the chair, her gaze alternating between the sterile surroundings and Y/N, who remained in a state of detached contemplation. The room, illuminated by the soft glow of overhead lights, seemed to hold its breath, as if awaiting a shift in the delicate balance of emotions.

Minutes passed in a quiet dance of anticipation, the hum of hospital machinery providing a subtle backdrop. Suddenly, in a moment that seemed to suspend time, Y/N spoke—softly, hesitantly, but with a profound vulnerability that transcended the detached state.

"Renée," Y/N murmured, her voice carrying the weight of unspoken emotions. Renée, immediately attuned to the subtle shift, turned her attention toward Y/N.

"Yeah, princess?" Renée responded gently, her heart quickening with a mix of hope and concern.

"I... I need you," Y/N whispered, her eyes meeting Renée's with a depth of longing that spoke volumes.

Renée, sensing the significance of Y/N's words, approached the bed with a tenderness that only deepened their connection. Sitting down beside Y/N, Renée reached for Y/N's hand, their fingers intertwining in a silent pact of solidarity.

"What do you need, love?" Renée asked, her voice a soothing melody in the stillness of the room.

Y/N hesitated for a moment, as if choosing the right words amidst the labyrinth of emotions within. "I need you to... to come lay in bed with me. I just... I need you close."

Renée, her heart swelling with a mixture of love and empathy, nodded understandingly. "Of course, princess. I'm right here."

With a careful motion, Renée joined Y/N on the hospital bed, the sterile sheets offering a backdrop to the intimacy of their shared space. Y/N, enveloped in the warmth of Renée's presence, shifted closer, seeking solace in the embrace they had cultivated over years of shared experiences.

The quietude of the room became a canvas for unspoken conversations—the language of touch, the cadence of breath, the comfort found in the simple act of being together. Renée, mindful of Y/N's fragile state, held her close, offering the reassurance that transcended words.

As they lay there, the hospital room transformed into a sanctuary—a cocoon where the complexities of mental health and the resilient spirit of love converged. The hum of distant footsteps in the corridor, the soft glow of monitors, and the rhythmic cadence of their shared breaths painted a tableau of vulnerability and strength.

In the cocoon of their shared space, Renée whispered words of comfort, affirming the unwavering bond they shared. Y/N, in turn, found solace in the familiar contours of Renée's presence—the one constant in the ebb and flow of emotions that characterized their journey.

As Ayla returned with the promised coffee, she paused in the doorway, witnessing the poignant scene unfolding before her. The trio—Renée, Y/N, and the quiet sanctuary they had created in the midst of adversity—reminded her of the enduring power of love in the face of life's intricate challenges.

As Renée and Y/N found solace in their shared embrace, Ayla quietly entered the room, setting the coffee aside. The tender tableau of love and vulnerability spoke volumes, and Ayla, sensing the sacredness of the moment, hesitated before deciding to bid them farewell.

"Hey, I can see you both need some private time. I'm heading home for the night, but you know where to find me if you need anything, right?" Ayla said, her eyes reflecting a mixture of compassion and understanding.

Renée, holding Y/N close, nodded appreciatively. "Thanks, Ayla. Your support means the world to us. We'll reach out if we need anything."

Ayla approached the bedside, placing a gentle hand on Y/N's shoulder. "Take care, Y/N. Get some rest, both of you. And Renée, don't hesitate to call if anything comes up. I mean it."

Renée smiled, grateful for the unwavering support of her friend. "I will, Ayla. Thanks for being here."

With a final glance at the peaceful scene in the room, Ayla left, allowing the door to close softly behind her. The hum of the hospital continued outside, a distant symphony that underscored the intimate moments within the room.

As Ayla left, Renée turned her attention back to Y/N, who, in the gentle cocoon of their embrace, had drifted into a much-needed sleep. It was the first time Y/N had found respite from the detached state that had gripped her throughout the day.

Renée, a tender smile playing on her lips, whispered words of love and reassurance to the slumbering Y/N. The hospital room, now bathed in the soft glow of night, became a haven where healing unfolded in the embrace of dreams.

The rhythmic beeping of monitors and the distant echoes of hospital activity served as a backdrop to the serenity within. Renée, mindful of the fragility of the moment, gently adjusted the blanket around Y/N, ensuring comfort in every detail.

As Renée settled back into the chair, her gaze lingered on Y/N's peaceful form. The journey they were navigating, marked by the complexities of mental health, had brought them to this quiet sanctuary—a space where love, resilience, and the promise of a new dawn intertwined.

The night unfolded in a tapestry of quietude, broken only by the occasional rustle of hospital linens and the steady breaths of Y/N, finally finding repose. Renée, ever watchful, felt a profound gratitude for the moments of tranquility in the midst of the storm.

In the stillness of the night, as the hospital embraced its own brand of silence, Renée contemplated the challenges they faced and the strength that emanated from the shared bond with Y/N. The room, now an intimate cocoon where sleep and dreams held sway, stood witness to the endurance of love in the face of adversity.

As the night wove its quiet magic, Renée settled into a vigil of love, keeping watch over the slumbering Y/N—a guardian in the sacred realm where dreams and healing converged.

The tranquility of the night shattered as Y/N's peaceful slumber transformed into cries of panic and distress. Renée, who had momentarily left the bed to find some rest in her own chair, shot up at the sound of Y/N's screams. The urgency in those cries cut through the quietude of the hospital room, triggering an instinctive surge of concern in Renée.

"Y/N! What's wrong?" Renée exclaimed, her own heart racing as she rushed back to Y/N's side. The room, once a haven of repose, now echoed with the cacophony of Y/N's anguish.

Y/N, still caught in the grip of panic, frantically searched for Renée's comforting presence. The abrupt absence of her warmth and touch had spiraled Y/N into a state of disorientation, the boundaries between reality and distress blurring in the shadows of the hospital room.

"Renée! Renée, where are you?" Y/N cried, her voice strained with desperation.

Renée, bewildered by the sudden turn of events, reached out to Y/N. "I'm right here, princess. I didn't go anywhere. What happened?"

But Y/N, trapped in the labyrinth of panic, couldn't register Renée's reassurances. The disconnection between mind and reality heightened the intensity of her cries, creating an unsettling symphony of anguish.

In her attempts to understand and provide solace, Renée called for the nurse, her voice a beacon in the darkness of the night. "Nurse! Something's wrong with Y/N. Please, we need help!"

Within moments, the nurse arrived, her presence a calming force in the tumultuous scene. "What happened?" the nurse inquired, quickly assessing the situation.

Renée, her worry evident, explained, "I don't know. She was sleeping, and then she started screaming. She's panicking, and I can't calm her down."

The nurse approached Y/N, her experienced eyes scanning for any immediate signs of distress. "Y/N, I'm here to help. Can you tell me what's wrong?"

Y/N, still caught in the grip of panic, struggled to articulate her emotions. "I can't feel her. Renée's gone. Where is she? I can't feel her!"

Renée, realizing the source of Y/N's distress, gently took Y/N's hands in hers. "Princess, I'm right here. You haven't lost me. I'm not going anywhere."

The nurse, recognizing the signs of a potential dissociative episode, spoke in a calm, soothing tone. "Y/N, it's okay. You're safe. Renée is right here with you. Can you focus on her voice?"

Renée, in a bid to anchor Y/N in the present, continued to speak softly. "Babe, look at me. I'm right here. You haven't lost me. We're in the hospital room, and you're safe."

The nurse, working alongside Renée, began to guide Y/N through grounding exercises, encouraging her to feel the sensation of touch and focus on the tangible aspects of the present moment. As Y/N gradually emerged from the grip of panic, the room settled into a tense calm.

Renée, her concern etched on her face, held onto Y/N's hands, offering a constant point of connection. The nurse, satisfied that Y/N's distress was easing, spoke reassuringly. "It's common for individuals with dissociative tendencies to experience moments like these. We'll keep an eye on her, and if needed, we can consult with a mental health professional."

As Y/N's breathing steadied, the nurse offered a gentle smile. "Take it easy, Y/N. Renée is here, and you're safe. If you need anything, just let us know."

Renée, still holding Y/N's hands, felt a mixture of relief and concern.

As Y/N's panic began to subside, there lingered a palpable fear in her eyes—an unspoken plea for reassurance and an anchor against the currents of dissociation. Renée, still holding onto Y/N's hands, sensed the vulnerability that echoed in the depths of Y/N's gaze.

"Babe, I'm not leaving you. I promise," Renée whispered, her voice a gentle balm to the wounds of distress. The hospital room, bathed in the soft glow of muted lights, became a sanctuary where their connection transcended the barriers of fear.

Y/N, still caught in the residual tremors of panic, pleaded, "Don't go, Renée. Please, don't leave me. I can't... I can't handle being alone right now."

Renée, acutely aware of the fragile state Y/N found herself in, responded with unwavering assurance. "I'm right here, love. I won't leave you. We're in this together, okay?"

The nurse, having observed the delicate dynamics at play, discreetly adjusted the room's lighting, casting a soothing ambiance that mirrored the tenderness of Renée's presence. With a reassuring nod, the nurse withdrew, allowing the couple a semblance of privacy amidst the hushed symphony of hospital sounds.

Understanding the depth of Y/N's need for proximity, Renée made a decision. "Alright, princess. I'm not going anywhere." With deliberate care, Renée climbed into the hospital bed beside Y/N, creating a cocoon of warmth and comfort.

Y/N, eyes still wide with lingering apprehension, searched Renée's gaze for the anchor she desperately sought. "Hold me, Renée. Please, just hold me."

Renée, embracing the vulnerability in Y/N's plea, pulled her close, enfolding Y/N in a tender embrace. The sensation of touch, the shared warmth, became a lifeline—a tangible affirmation that, in this moment of fragility, they navigated the currents of fear together.

As Y/N rested against Renée's chest, the rhythmic cadence of their shared breaths created a symphony of solace. Renée, murmuring words of comfort, traced gentle patterns on Y/N's back—a silent promise etched in the language of touch.

"Babe, I'm right here. You're not alone. We'll face whatever comes our way, hand in hand," Renée whispered, her words a soothing melody against the backdrop of the hospital room's muted sounds.

Y/N, gradually surrendering to the sanctuary of Renée's arms, felt the tendrils of fear loosen their grip. In this intimate cocoon, the complexities of mental health, the echoes of panic, and the shadows of dissociation became fleeting specters—outshone by the resilient light of love.

As the night unfolded, Renée remained a steadfast guardian in the realm of shared vulnerability. The hospital room, once a witness to the echoes of distress, transformed into a haven—a space where the intricacies of mental health were met with the unyielding force of love and companionship.

In the quietude of the shared embrace, Renée and Y/N embarked on a journey of healing—one heartbeat at a time. The night, marked by the ebb and flow of emotions, became a testament to the enduring strength that flourished when love stood as a beacon against the shadows. And in the hushed serenity of their shared sanctuary, Renée cradled Y/N in a promise of presence—a pledge to weather the storms together, anchored in the unbreakable bonds of love.

#reneé rapp x reader #renee rapp x reader #renee rapp #renee rapp x fem!reader #reneé rapp x fem!reader #reneé rapp #fandom #fanfic

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shewrites02 · 3 months

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Tears for Me | Zoro x Sanji |

Thriller bark. What happens after Kuma leaves?

Zoro x Sanji

Request : Open

Word Count : 2.1k

Leave a comment if you enjoy ! :)

"CHOPPER ! "

His voice reaches the crew before he does. Heads turn to the mountainous piles of ruble as Sanji emerges on top of it , Zoro's limp body held in his arms like an unfortunate bride. Was he dead ? The cook's fingers tremble against the swordsman's skin. He could barely keep himself up. All the strength he had used to keep Zoro in his arm, and the pirate was not a light load to haul . Especially when the cook's right leg trailed behind him . Nothing but dead weight.

"Don't die ! Don't die ! Don't die !"

The cooks thoughts raced to the same cadence as his heart .

"CHOPPER ! "

Sanji let out another woeful cry ! This time igniting his crew into action. Luffy arrives at the scene first, his hands immediately reaching for his first mate . Sanji doesn't move . He tightens his grip around Zoro burrowing white fingertips into his tattered body . For the first time since he'd emerged Sanji's eyes leave Zoro to meet his captain's. Luffy doesn't recognize the cook . He's never seen the broken expression that laid on his face . Tears flowing down his cheeks in rivers. Luffy's hands retreat to his side and he takes a step back.

Chopper arrives next.

"W- what happened?" Chopper stutters out . His mouth drops agape and he briefly hesitates taking a step closer. His breath caught in his throat. Red stained every inch of the strawhats clothing. Droplets fell from their bodies onto the rocks, red splatters trailing behind them like a treasure map leading to X.

"Help him !... He ne- Hel-"

Sanji couldn't breathe. Despite every bone in his leg churning to dust the only pain the cook felt was in his chest . He takes a sharp breath in accidentally forcing his knees to buckle beneath him . He stumbled, but didn't fall .

"We've got him !" Luffy reassured , settling his hand on top of Sanji's.

Sanji released his hold on the swordsman. Not really having much strength to do anything else . Even if he had wanted to. Luffy takes Zoro into his arms at the request of the doctor and they rush towards the sunny.

The cook can feel the blood seeping into the cotton of his suit. It's still warm . The swordsman was still bleeding . Another sharp breath leaves his lips . Sanji collapses to his knees, his wheezing evidence of his lungs betrayal.

Nami and Robin arrive next .

"SANJI!" Nami cries out . Her arms not long enough , and her feet not fast enough to catch Sanji before his body hit the ground . She clings to his arm . Both hands gripping his bicep fervently. Sanji shuts his eyes in an attempt to regain some control over his breath. The women continue to speak at him . Their voices muffled in the background of Sanji's thoughts.

"Breath! Breath ! Breath !"

"The Swordsman didn't sacrifice himself for you to die here."

Finally ! Air enters his lungs with a deep inhale. The new sound of his crew mates voices' draw his eyes open . It takes Sanji a few blinks to clear the tears from his vision before he was finally able to see Nami. Her lips trembled. Tears filled her eyes as her brows furrowed to the middle of her face . Sanji couldn't help his scowl in return. How could she be worried about him when the swordsman looked like that?

"What if he dies?"

Nami's breath gets seized before it has the opportunity to pass her lips. She doesn't know what to say . Fearful of offering her friend false promises, that were beyond her powers to keep. Nami had never seen Zoro injured this badly before. She examines the look in Sanji's eyes then decides not to speak. Instead her hands tighten around him.

Franky , Brook , and Usopp arrive last.

"Let's get you looked at."

The navigator waves the men over to help Sanji to his feet.

—

The cook sat and watched the swordsman's chest slowly heave up and down , as if the weight of the air was too heavy for his chest to bear . Each breath rigid , and sounding more labored than the last. Scratches and scrapes littered his body , the bandages only able to conceal so much from chef's gaze.

"Stupid ! Stupid ! Stupid Marimo !"

The tip of the cook's dress shoes clack against the wood as he tapped his foot . He drives his palms into his eyes dragging his hands down his face. An attempt to wipe the exhaustion away . The cook wanted to sleep . But Images of the ex bounty hunter's limp body plagued his dreams. Some nights he couldn't even make it to the swordsman's body. He was forced to watch from afar as his crew-mate drew his last breaths. Some invisible and unmovable force keeping him away. Better to stay awake . Where he could watch the air fill and leave the green haired pirates lungs.

"It should've been me. " The words were a whisper in the wind . Leaving the room just as quickly as they left the chef's lips . "You couldn't even let me do this one thing for you."

"Have you talked to Sanji ?" Nami asked .

The navigator was picking tangerines , while the swordsman laid against the foremast feigning sleep. He opened his right eye at her inquiry , his brows scrunched into a scowl.

"Why do I need to talk to the cook ?"

An exasperated sigh left Nami's lips. She refused to believe a man as observant as Zoro hadn't noticed the changes in Sanji's demeanor. Shifting the weight of the wicker basket to her hip , she turned her torso to face him. No words , just a glare . When she didn't answer his question , Zoro opened both eyes allowing them to meet hers . The two stare at each other before Nami breaks the silence.

"You're gonna make me spell it out for you ?" She scolded.

Luffy, Nami, Usopp, Chopper , Robin , Franky, and Brook : Everyone who had come to see Zoro while he laid bedridden in the retched infirmary. The ones who changed his bandages , Feed him his meals , and read to him while he could do nothing but stare at the ceiling . Those are the ones whom cared for him. Not the shitty cook. Weeks later and still the blonde only had the fewest of words to spare Zoro , if any at all. If he hadn't known any better he'd go as far as to say Sanji was avoiding him . He couldn't help but take note of his disappearance from the deck. His usual outside smoke breaks seemingly less frequent . But Zoro smelled the fresh smoke that lingered on him when he served their meals.

The cook had even decreased the snide comments and insults he hurled Zoro's way . Even when the swordsman provoked him the best he could conjure were eye rolls and disapproving scoffs. Zoro couldn't understand the way his blood boiled at the lack of acknowledgment. And now Nami stood in front of him subtly inquiring if he had noticed... Of course he did.

"Feel free." Zoro shuts his eyes closed , allowing his head to rest against the mast yet again.

"Damn it Zoro!" Nami grabbed an orange from the basket it and chunked it as hard as she could at the green haired pirate. "You didn't see the way he carried you back to us ... the tears he cried!"

Zoro's brows shot to his temples before his eyes opened. an immediate wave of heat crawled its way down his skin. Tears ? The cook had shed tears for him? The swordsman didn't recognize the feeling that swelled in his chest. Butterflies ?... No. What he was feeling was much more violent than that.

"Sanji sat there every night until you woke up. Every. Single. one." Nami continued . "Don't think you're the only one hurting." - Zoro knew where to find the cook . The same place he had been hiding for weeks . He pushes the door to the galley open and is surprised when he doesn't immediately see the blonde in the kitchen. Where else could he be ?

The faint scent of smoke lingers in the air. Zoro follows the scent until he see its source. The bar. Sanji sat at the edge of the cushioned seat , a cigarette in hand and a half finished drink on the table .

"So this is where you take your smoke breaks now?"

"Why do you care?" Sanji grumbled removing the cigarette from his mouth ashing it into the tray on the table.

"You're avoiding me."

"I'm doing no such thing!"

Sanji scoffs , rolling his eyes. A failed attempt to distract the swordsman from the way his shoulders tensed at his words . He had noticed. Sanji brings the drink to his lips finishing it in a single gulp before placing the cup back on the table . He's hoping it'll be the cure to the tension his body is so desperately fighting off.

The swordsman narrows his eyes decisively before taking a few strides closer to the cook. He brings his hand to his chin forcing his eyes to meet his . "Don't lie to me." Zoro's voice was stern , but also soft . What he had hoped would read as anger only came off as concern.

Sanji jerked his head out from Zoro 's hands. He stands then shoves him away with the bit of strength he could muster . The wince is automatic when he hears the painful grunt the swordsman unsuccessfully suppressed.

"Tell me why you would shed tears for me and then act like I don't exist!" Zoro demanded grabbing Sanji's wrist to keep him from wryly fleeing the scene. Although bandages still wrapped his body , he had the strength to pull the cook back to face him.

Sanji adverted his eyes turning his head to the fish in the aquarium refusing to meet Zoro's attentive gaze . His stare already threatening to consume him. Despite not being able to see his whole face Zoro still noticed the red tinge on the blonde's cheeks. Had he embarrassed him ?

"I thought you were dead idiot!" Sanji's voice breaks at the proclamation. "Why cou- why couldn't you let me do that for you?"

For the second time today Zoro's eyebrows reach his temples. He is stunned . The cook wanted to trade his life for his. Genuinely distraught that he hadn't allowed it. That blood boiling feeling Zoro was beginning to familiarize himself with had returned. The marimo border-lined enraged at the question. Sanji asks as if it were a trade of a chore, a switch of night watch. Zoro had told him then "it's a warrior's job to risk his life in combat" and the ex pirate hunter was the only warrior on this crew.

"You spoke of my dreams and ambitions but , what about yours ? Why does your life mean anything less than mine ?!" Zoro barked . "Does Luffy not need you too?!"

It was Sanji's turn to be stunned. Mouth slightly open while he searched for the words to say. He couldn't find any he thought would satisfy the swordsman, so he spoke the truth.

"I'm just the cook."

Sanji had boiled his life down to those three words. Said it like it was reason enough to justify his death, like no further explanation was required. As though it was a common belief held among the majority. "Just the cook", worthy of no other titles or accolades. Zoro grimaced at the declaration.

"Don't fucking say that!"

Zoro's teeth were clenched. He brought his hand back to the cook's face and squeezed his cheeks forcing his eyes to meet his yet again, this time not allowing the cook any room to escape.

"You are so much more than that ! Do you understand? To Luffy, to this crew.... to me."

Zoro doesn't hesitate before leaning in and smashing his lips into the cook's. The kiss soft , but passionate. Zoro can feel the tears that now covered Sanji's cheeks against his own. The cook curled his fingers into the black fabric of Zoro's shirt as though he would disappear if he didn't. When the two finally separated, Zoro leaned his forehead against the chef's .

"Sanji." Zoro's voice was a whisper. Just loud enough for the two of them to hear. "Don't you ever say you're just the fucking cook again!"

--------------------------------------------------------------

A/N: Is there a such thing as too many thriller bark fics ?... Please tell me no. lol I think its only fitting that my first Zosan fic be thriller bark inspired ! I rewatched the arc after hearing about 103 mercies dragon damnation ,and just had to write this self indulgent piece lol (btw if there are any Ryuma fics in the works or already published , I would love a tag)

{If you would like to be added to my tag list just comment / message me. I would love to have you!}

@dinuxia-bhm

#ronoroa zoro #zoro roronoa #vinsmoke sanji #one piece #sanji #zosan #zosan fanfic #zoro x sanji #thriller bark #oneshot

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revasserium · 1 year

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heartslabyul #1 - magic

riddle.

he thinks it’s magic, the way you let things drip off you — like morning dew off a perfectly pruned rose; how your acceptance frames your smile like the sun frames the day, how your heart is large enough for the entire world to fit inside it. how you allow for the rules and the breakers, how you trust the promises and the makers — the ease with which you take his uncertainty and turn it into something sweet, something beautiful. how you can cup a broken glass in your hand and wonder at all the ways it might be fixed. he thinks its magic, how you draw laughter from those around you like drink, how the world seems brighter with you in it, with you sitting by his side at the head of the table, how your hand seems to fit perfectly in his. it’s a magic he has no name for, a magic that does not need to be cast in order to be felt, a magic that is innate to you, and he is learning, to be sure, of how to wield this kind of magic too — to taste the kindness like strawberry jam on his tongue. he is learning about the imperfections, about the cracks in the world, and how they too can be called beautiful.

ace.

he thinks it’s magic, the way you take all his teasing and throw it right back at him, quip for quip, jab for jab; he thinks that he must be going insane with how late he stays up thinking about you — of all the ways he might try to push your buttons tomorrow, and the day after, of how you might cock your eyebrow, how you might grin and turn his stomach into an entire circus of unruly animals, of how he could melt into your laughter, sink into glitter behind your eyes, coax you into just one more adventure, if only to feel you next to him, to share his lunch with you (however unwilling he might seem, he yearns for it), to chatter about the mundane with you — like history class or alchemy or how he still can’t get that one spell right, only for you to tell him that maybe he’s just not trying hard enough. and maybe he’s not — maybe he’s doing it on purpose. maybe, maybe, he just wants the magic of your voice, telling him to try it, to try harder, one more time.

deuce.

he thinks it’s magic, the way you take all the fight out of him, how your quiet echoes through him like the last bell of the day — how you can pull him back from the brink with just a touch, a purse your lips, a bat of your lashes. he melts at the sound of your cadenced breaths, at the soft shuffle of your uniform as you lean over to peer at his textbook during study period. he wonders if it’s normal to feel like he’s flying even outside of flying classes, if this is some kind of ancient magic they don’t teach in class, how you can tilt his world from its axis with a word, a smile, a single wink. he thinks its magic, the way he finds himself drawn to you, like your north to his compass rose, leading him towards a future that he never considered himself capable of — one that is both exciting and true, one that is both strength and fortitude, one that doesn’t make a distinction between too much and too little, but is settled, perfectly, right in the middle.

trey.

he thinks it’s magic, how you can whip up a dish in the matter of minutes, without measuring cups or weighing scales, he thinks is uncanny, how you can add a pinch of salt and a sprinkle of sugar, swirl the pasta sauce in the pan three times, bring it up to your lips to taste and just know that it’s ready. because you see, he grew up a baker, and his world has only ever been metered and measured, weighed and worried, and he marvels at the way you move through the kitchens, humming to yourself, tasting this and smelling that. you see, he thinks he could watch you for ages, how you navigate the spices and herbs, how you grin at him over the mixing bowl or ask him to help you steady a particularly large boiling pot, and he really thinks its magic, how you are the salt to his sugar, the savory to his sweet, the perfect balance, his other half — how the world tastes so much better with you by his side.

cater.

he thinks it’s magic, how you can be so much yourself, and never question it. how you’re so certain of your own identity that even though the camera lens, all it takes is a single glance for him to tell it’s you. how you never asked him of the ways in which he might split himself open, into halves, into fourths, eighths, sixteenths, just for you. the first time you see him pull of his signature spell, you’d simply clapped and smiled and told him that well, the more the merrier, right? and he thinks he’s been in love with you since — because you were the only person who told him that people contain multitudes and that we’re all someone else with other people and that we are all a kind of infinity, aren’t we? each person a vast sprawling galaxy of stardust and personalities, of bits of themselves that they might not even know yet, and isn’t it a wonderful thing to be able to explore that with someone else? so yes, he thinks, when he’s honest with himself, in the dark of his own room, not posing or preening for anyone else, yes — he wants to explore all the different facets of himself, and once he finds them, you’re the first person he wants to show them to.

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strangeswift · 9 months

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happy birthday to my best friend in the world, @elekinetic. pretend i finished this on time 🫶

Nancy Wheeler doesn't like hospitals.

There’s death and disease around every corner, it's always freezing cold, and the fluorescent lights give her a headache.

Plus, the vending machines always eat her quarters.

Most people don’t like hospitals, she knows that. But most people haven’t been chased through the sterile halls by a creature made of exploded human corpses, so Nancy likes to think she has an exceptionally good reason.

It’s that memory that haunts her now. It follows her down the brightly lit hospital corridor and makes her heart race as she walks a little faster, casting cursory glances over her shoulder. With every glance, she's half expecting to see a large mass of flesh and jagged bones gaining on her, leaving a trail of blood in its wake, staining the pristine white tile.

There’s nothing there, nothing but the memory, but she feels the bile rise in her throat anyway.

She focuses her attention on the numbers on the doorframes as she passes – 242, 244, 246.

248 - Maxine Mayfield.

She pauses outside the open door, taking in the sight. Bracing herself, maybe.

Max is almost alarmingly pale, though the dark circles under her eyes have cleared, making her look a little less sick and frail. Her arms lay at her sides, the casts having been recently removed. She wears a white hospital gown.

Max Mayfield has always looked like a sad kid, from the time she first moved to Hawkins – but seeing her like this is something entirely different. Laid up in a hospital bed, staring blankly ahead, her irises a milky blue color that betray her lack of vision. She looks helpless. Broken.

As shitty as it sounds, it’s hard to look at her. She’s just a kid – a kid that Nancy should have protected, but instead sent her to die. And she did. She died.

You’re just a kid, a voice that sounds something like Nancy’s mom tells her. But it's not true. It hasn’t been true for a long time.

“Who is it?” Max calls, in the vague direction of the door, “You’re supposed to announce yourself.”

She sounds frustrated, like it's a rule she’s reiterated several times before. It’s understandable, wanting some level of control.

Nancy clears her throat. “It’s Nancy.”

The scowl drops from Max’s face. “Sorry,” she says hurriedly, “I thought you were Mike.”

Nancy blinks. “You thought I was Mike? Why?”

“Your footsteps,” Max explains, “They sound like his.”

Nancy remembers having her mom and dad’s footsteps memorized, always listening for them during late night phone calls. Her mom’s were delicate and quick, while her dad’s were heavy and sluggish. She imagines having to experience the world that way, listening to the cadence of footsteps.

She steps into the room, acutely aware of the sound of her feet on the tile. “Can I sit?” she asks, resting her hand on the back of the chair next to Max’s bed, waiting for permission.

“Yeah,” Max says, granting it.

Nancy sits on the edge of the seat, her posture perfectly straight. She's stiff, she knows. Hopefully Max can't tell.

“How are you feeling?” she asks.

“Shitty,” Max answers, “and blind," she adds.

Nancy grimaces and gives a nod of acknowledgment before she remembers that Max can't see it.

“Sorry,” Max says, to fill the silence, “I’m just– I’m fine.”

“You don’t have to be fine,” Nancy says, shaking her head.

Max sighs deeply. "I know that."

She's heard it before, clearly.

“Everyone misses you,” Nancy tries, “Lucas and the boys, and Eleven.”

“El,” Max corrects automatically.

“Right. El,” Nancy amends.

Since Max woke up —since El got her back, that is— everyone's been taking turns visiting, so she's almost never alone, unless she asks for it. While Max was out, Lucas practically lived in her hospital room. He's moved back into the Sinclair house now, though he still visits twice a day. Nancy thinks he'd still be at the hospital all day if Max let him.

"Can I ask you something?" Max asks suddenly.

"Yeah," Nancy answers, "Yeah, of course."

Max pauses for a moment. "Vecna, and the monsters, and just– all this Upside Down shit we've dealt with," she says, "I've never seen you back down. From any of it. I've never seen you hesitate for a second. You just grab a gun and blow their heads off. I mean, you're like a total badass. It’s like– Like you're not afraid of anything."

Nancy shakes her head, a surprised smile creeping onto her face. "Was there a question somewhere in there?"

Max exhales sharply through her nose. "How do you do it?"

Nancy sees the way Max looks at her, almost reverent. And it's a little silly, she thinks, until she considers herself from an outside perspective. She thinks of herself at fourteen, the quiet girl who kept her head down and had just one friend. The girl who everyone thought was a priss. If that girl had seen her older self, feet planted firmly to the ground, firing shots into a demogorgon's gaping mouth as it roared, she thinks she'd probably be a little awestruck too.

Nancy remembers the first time she shot a gun. Standing in a field next to Jonathan Byers, gaze locked on a beer can, spurred on by the knowledge that her parents would disapprove. She remembers feeling like she was outside of herself, watching this girl who looked like her and felt like her but couldn't possibly be her, because this girl wielded a deadly weapon with measured confidence.

When she stops to really think about it —something she hasn't had the time or energy to do in years, constantly in survival mode— she almost doesn't know how she does it.

But the girl who fell through a tree into another world, who trembled and cried out for a boy she hardly knew, was not fearless. The girl who watched Will Byers, her little brother's sweet best friend grip his mother by the throat was not fearless. The girl who looked Henry Creel in the eye was not fearless.

Nancy Wheeler is not, and has never been, fearless.

Max fidgets, noting Nancy's lack of response. "I hate the way he was able to control me," she admits.

There's no question as to which he Max is referring to.

"When– If he comes for me again–"

"We won’t let him," Nancy interjects, her gaze fierce enough that she wonders if Max can feel it.

"We both know," Max says carefully, "that neither of us can stop that from happening."

“Okay," Nancy allows, "you’re right.”

"If he tries to get in my head again," Max says, "I want to be ready this time."

"It's not something you can be ready for," Nancy responds.

Max's face scrunches up, and Nancy can almost hear that's easy for you to say.

So she takes a different approach.

"When he got to me," she says carefully, "he showed me things." She pauses, takes a breath. "Do you know about Barb?"

"Like– a little," Max says with a shrug.

"She was my best friend," Nancy says, "My only friend, actually. And the demogorgon took her. He took her, I mean, just like he took Will. Only, she died in the Upside Down. Scared and alone."

She recounts Barb's death with a flat affect, like an investigator listing the facts of a case, the way she's heard Hopper or Murray do. She's thought about it so many times she almost feels numb, but in the icy, pins and needles kind of way.

"We were at Steve's that night," she continues, "and Barb wanted to leave. She wanted to leave and I– I told her to go without me, because I wanted to go upstairs with Steve."

She pauses. Max doesn't react.

"That was the last time I ever saw her. Until Henry– he showed her to me, and she was–" Her voice breaks, she takes a breath.

Do you remember what you did, Nancy? Or have you already forgotten?

That's how she knows he was taunting her. He can see her thoughts, and her memories, and so he knows. He knows she didn't forget. He knows it hangs over her like a dark cloud and casts a shadow over everything good in her life.

When I kill someone, I never forget.

"It was awful," she says quietly, "and it paralyzed me. There was nothing I could have done, because that's what he does. He uses your weaknesses against you."

Max closes her eyes, tilting her head back for a moment.

"It was Billy," Max says, opening her eyes, "He showed me Billy."

Immediately, Nancy knows that Henry taunted Max in the same way he did her.

"You couldn't have saved Billy," she says.

"Maybe not. But I could have tried," Max says bitterly.

"You would have died trying," Nancy argues.

"I used to wish he was dead," Max says bluntly.

Nancy's protests die on her tongue, caught off guard for a second.

"Before Starcourt," Max explains, "Before everything. I hated him."

"Max," Nancy says gently, "Billy was–"

"He was an asshole, I know," Max finishes, "A real fucking asshole. That doesn't make it okay."

Nancy shrugs. "I don't know, I think I've wished my dad would drop dead a few times before, and the only thing he ever did to me was not give a shit."

Max's eyes widen and she lets out a startled laugh. Nancy can't help but smile as she watches the tension leave her face. But it comes back just as quickly.

"He wasn't a good person," Max says, "and he sure as hell wasn't a good brother, but–" she takes a breath, "I wanted him to be. So badly. And just– now he never will, I guess."

Nancy thinks, for a moment, of Mike. She wonders if he's ever wished for her to just be an older sister. It's not the same, obviously. She's not Billy, not some abusive creep. But she's not Jonathan either. Mike isn't at the center of her life the way Will is for Jonathan. He's never needed her to prioritize him that way. At least, it didn't seem like he did.

"Whatever, it's stupid," Max finally says.

"It's not stupid," Nancy responds immediately.

Max reminds Nancy a lot of Mike. High strung, short tempered, a habit of pushing people away. But things are different with Max. Easier. There's no guilt that lies just below the surface, that builds and builds until it feels almost insurmountable, so you keep it buried.

And really, how is she supposed to talk to Mike when she's pretty clearly the last person he wants to talk to? She feels powerless with him. She feels powerless all of the time now. Her brother just got dumped by his girlfriend and he refuses to talk to anyone about it, her own relationship with Jonathan feels destined to fail, Steve Harrignton is making plans concerning her that she definitely had no say in–

Oh, and the world is ending.

There's nothing she can do to make any of it better, because she's not a great sister, or an exceptional girlfriend, or some kind of hero. She's not even the person Max Mayfield thinks she is, she's just–

She's just Nancy.

But she can talk to Max. Max is hurting and she needs someone, and Nancy can talk to her.

Max's eyes are glassy now, tears threatening to spill over.

“Hey,” Nancy says gently, “It's not stupid, okay?”

Max nods and takes a shaky breath. “Okay.”

#HAPPY BIRTHDAY ELLA KINETIC #nancy wheeler #max mayfield #stranger things #ficlet #idk that's enough tags ok bye 🫶

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toointojoelmiller · 2 months

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Have you ever consumed so many devastating TLOU fics that you your heart was at risk of being permanently broken? Does the thought of Part 2 being filmed right now and our collective timeline inching closer to *that scene* airing on HBO with Pedro and Bella make your palms sweat? Same!

My prescription for you is to read today's spotlight stories and remember that, actually, we can stop torturing these two at any time we'd like. (Personally, I won't, but reading Joel and Ellie father-daughter fluff once in a while is good for general mental health.) I'm always reading and writing angst and @becomethesun's fics always feel like a breath of fresh air - and, of course, makes me even more heartbroken at all of the what-could-and-should-have-beens that TLOU I promised and TLOU II used to torment us. She is currently writing a Sam and Henry live AU (Collaborators) that is an answer to my prayers. The two stories linked here are favourites of mine:

true blue by @becomethesun 18,505 words || 5 chapters featuring: family fluff, Ellie adapting to life in jackson, good dad Joel Miller, Ellie gets to be a kid

me and my dog (and an impossible view) by @becomethesun 6055 words || one shot featuring: family fluff, good dad Joel Miller, Ellie gets a dog

from @march-flowerr: "If I had to pick one fic only to re read for the

rest of my life, becomethesun’s “true blue is (it feels good to be known so well)” would probably be it. I’m hard pressed to think of a story that I hold dearer than this - five chapters, short but flush with all the small details and nuances of life in Jackson that we don’t get to see in the game. “True Blue” offers such a sweet catharsis while still holding to canon. Becomethesun gives us these compact, bright glimpses into Ellie’s daily life in Jackson: we get to see her goofing off with Dina and Cat, learning to relax into her relationship with Joel, finding her footing in her new family and community. It paints such a tender and clear picture of Ellie as a girl - not Ellie, the ex Fedra cadet, or Ellie the cure - but Ellie as a kid, with friends and questions and ambition and insecurities and a love for her little world so big that it is breathtaking.

In “me and my dog (and an impossible view)”, we’re introduced to Strelka, Ellie’s dog. She finds her as a puppy in an abandoned book store and brings her home to Jackson. Strelka sees her through her through her first rough days of school, sick days and snow days. I don’t really think much more needs to be said about this fic to illustrate just why it’s so good - Ellie gets a cute little dog that makes her happy. What more do you want, people??"

Re-reading these fics feel like coming home. There’s a lyrical cadence to becomethesun's words that I am drawn continuously to. I love the feel of her fics: the syrupy sweet way the story wends itself through from beginning to end, the way that all these intense emotions and elements are whittled down into simple, intimate moments, like making paper crowns with a friend or curling up with your dog after a long day. The real beauty of these fics is the way that becomethesun has chosen to take the small things - the mundane, the day by day - and has chosen to let them shine. To remind us that amidst real horrors - and let’s be real, TLOU has a lot of those - there is still good to be had, that the little things that make up a life well lived - the things we take for granted - are the most important things. That even when it feels like your world is ending, you can still sit on a porch with your family and feel safe. That at the end of the hardest days, you can always come home."

If you read and love this, please please show the author some love and leave a kudos / comment!! Happy fandoming y'all.

Joel Miller isn't dead if we keep him alive y'all.

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lullabyes22-blog · 2 months

Text

Snippet - Grief - Forward but Never Forget/XOXO

A half remembered promise broken...

Forward but Never Forget/XOXO

Snippet:

It was only afterward, when dawn's light slanted through the shutters, that the tears came.

"Fuck." Sevika's breath jittered. "Not again."

Silco said nothing. Just held her, awkwardly, as the sobs began. By now, he understood. She wasn't crying for him. Wasn't even crying for herself. It was an ache so far down, words couldn't give it shape. The best he could do was listen.

He'd learned how, with Nandi.

"I'm sorry," Sevika breathed. "This was a shit idea."

"You think so?"

"Fuck, no."

She fitted herself against the sinewy curvature of his body. Watery sunrays slid across the bedspread, nearly touching their twined legs. His fingertips traced the smooth dip above her hipbone. She had none of her sister's softness. But she had her strength. Silco liked strong bodies: the muscles, the scars. Proof of a lifetime's work, and the toll it takes.

Sevika's was young in those days. But the marks were already indelible. There’d be many more before the end.

And he'd be the cause of most.

"I miss her," she said. "I miss her, and she'd hate it."

"Hate what?"

"Seeing me like this." She wiped her webbed lashes. "Seeing me with you."

"She's past seeing." He felt a tremor, and circled her close. "What? It’s true."

"It’s not, Sil. The dead, they're always with us." Her head tipped back, eyes on the ceiling. "Sometimes, I hear her footsteps in the kitchen. I'll be in bed, just waking up. Still rubbing the grit from my eyes. And she'll come floating in, with that glide of hers, holding a cup of tea." Her throat worked. "That's what she’d make me every morning: a cup of tea. She'd put it on the bedside table, nudge me awake, and then go off to the Temple. And I'd lay there, listening to her footsteps in the hall. Waiting for the door to shut, so I could sneak a smoke with the window cracked."

"She knew you smoked in here?"

"She was deaf, not blind. But she let me do it. Said it kept the bugs out." She exhaled a too-wet laugh. "Now the whole place is crawling with roaches. There's stacks of dishes in the sink. Dust on everything. Nothing in the pantry. It's a shithole, and I can't stand to sleep here alone. But… I don’t want to move anywhere else, either. I always thought we'd grow old here. We'd die together. In this flat. On this bed."

"Like invalids?"

"Like sisters." She lay a palm against his chest, learning the cadence of his heart. "You’ve never had any, have you?"

"No." Silco was quiet a moment. "Just brothers."

"Vander."

"Before. Long ago." His fingertips stroked, lightly, up the vertebra of her spine. "I barely remember anymore. Except for the dirt. The hunger. The cold. I never gave a damn about dying in a bed. All I wanted was not to die at all."

"You haven't changed much."

His palm found the nape of her neck, and rested there. "I’ve no plans to."

"Hope so." She smiled, crescent-shaped, against the damp crook of his neck. "Hope you’ll always stay the same hard-driving bastard from the mines. With a bergamot in his pocket and a big speech for everything." Her eyes met his, darkly sheened. "Don't change, Sil."

"If death's the alternative, I'll do my best." He cupped her chin. "What about you?"

"Same." She bit the hollow of his palm. "Just a good-time girl from Oldtown. No money, but a mean right hook."

"Meanest in the Lanes."

"It's all my old man left me." Her eyes slid to the window. Daylight was cutting through the slats: the night was slipping away. "He was a piece of shit. Not always, mind. When Amma was alive, he was decent. Couldn't help himself. She was like Nandi, you see. Soft. Shining. Brought out the best in everybody."

"He loved her?"

"More than life. That was his endearment for her. Jaan. It's from the old country. Means life. He'd sit there at the fighting pits, the big brute, with bloody knuckles and a split lip. But the minute she floated into the stands, he'd be all mush. Like a little kid. You should've seen him." Her laugh vibrated against Silco's skin. "She spoke the language of the mystics. Same as Nandi. When she'd go to the Temple, he'd wait outside on the steps. All respectful, like a foot soldier. When she came out, he'd have little gifts for her from the market. Offerings, almost. Jasmine buds to braid into her hair. Cheap stone rings. Little sachets of perfumed incense. Sometimes, a book, so she could read to him. Her folk were lettered. She had a calligrapher's hand, and a scholar's fluency. Evenings, she'd teach us all: me, Rohan, Nandi. My old man, too. He couldn't pen more than his name, but he'd hang on her every word. Like the rest of us did. It's what she deserved." Sevika shut her eyes. "Then she died birthing Raakesh. And everything decent in my old man died too."

Silco thought of Mother, and her slow unspooling into madness after Daddy's drowning.

"Grief does that," he murmured. "It finds the cracks—and splits them wide." His palm smoothed a soothing path: her shoulderblades, her spine, the small of her back. "You were young when your father turned."

"Old enough to remember the difference." She nestled closer, her knees curling. "You couldn't unsee it. Nobody could. It was like an open wound. It bled all over. He bled all over too. With his brawls, and his bottles, and his fists. In the streets, he'd take it out on whoever crossed his path. At home, he'd take it out on us. Me and Nandi. Rohan. Sometimes even Raakesh, and he wasn't more than a tot." Her jaw gritted. "That was the worst. Seeing the fear in his eyes when our old man shambled home. The same eyes Amma had. She passed 'em down to all her children—and he couldn't look at them without losing his mind. Every day, we were a reminder of who was missing. A slap in the face. So he'd dish one out in kind."

"Nandi protected you."

"In more ways than I can count."

"And now, you're trying to do the same."

"Huh?"

Silco's thumb found the notch of her chin, and tipped her head up. Her eyes were a bloodshot well. "You think I'm on a self-destructive tear. Same as your father."

Her lips parted, quivering. Then: a sigh. "I know what grief does, too. Especially when it's not just grief."

"Meaning?"

"I told you. There's too much rage in you, and no place to put it." She lay her palm over his heart. "Nandi knew. She could tell right off. She tried to keep the worst of it at bay. She'd soothe you, and talk to you, and hold you. That was her gift, seeing into the hearts of people. Knowing what they needed. But her gift couldn't fix this. Couldn't fix you. She could only stanch the bleeding." Her fingers curled, as if capturing his heartbeat. "Now she's gone. And you've got nothing to hold you back. No one."

Silco said nothing. He only took her hand, and held it.

"I know," Sevika goes on, "what everyone says. How she was better than me, and all the rest. The good one. The pretty one. The patient one. But that didn't get her anywhere, did it? I'm the one still here."

"So you are."

"You are too." She blinked hard. But a tear slipped loose against her will. "You're all that's left. Of her. Of any of it."

His thumb traced the teardrop's path. "You've got it backwards, love."

"No. It's true. You're more like her than I'll ever be. You both had that specialness, that—I don't know. That grace. Like you were from a different world. Like you could change ours, with just a whisper. Vander's got it too. Only his burns bright as the sun. Yours… it's something else. Something down deep." Her lips were dry. They caught against his, like the words. "Don't lose it, Sil."

He gave her nape a firm squeeze. "I won't if you won't."

"I'm serious. When we take the fight Uppside, you've got to keep it wired. Don't go off the rails." She gripped him fiercely. "I'm no good with words, but I've got two fists. They're yours, as long as you don’t lose your head." Her voice cracked. "Don’t lose it. Promise me."

#arcane #arcane league of legends #silco #arcane silco #forward (never forget)/xoxo #forward but never forget/xoxo #nandi #arcane zaun #arcane piltover #sevilco #silco x sevika

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mysafehaneul · 8 months

Text

II.AQUAMARINE

JEON WONWOO X READER

WORDS: 7k+

GENRE: ARRANGE CONTRACT MARRIAGE AU! ENEMIES TO LOVERS!

ANGST, (obviously lol), Fluff, Smut (in future chapters not this one).

This is my original work for free comsumption because fuck capitalism but please do not steal it. All characters are orginal except The members of Seventeen, I do not own them. This is purely a work of fiction with no similarity with real life whatsoever, If any incident feel familiar, That is purely a coincedence. Please drop your feedback as it helps me feel motivated and improve. Happy Reading!

Previously On

CHAPTER 1

Here's the Picture that inspired this chapter.

CHAPTER 2: A RELUCTANT AGREEMENT

Ten years ago

Through the corridors of yesteryear, you recall the day when, in that bright classroom, red chairs and whiteboards, your professor's voice echoed through the room. The chirps of the birds could be heard from outside the window. Silent and attentive, like a gust of wind, he burst into the classroom, a whirlwind of energy and presence. Brown hair, tousled like a cascade of autumn leaves, His eyes bore the stories yet to be told; gentle and expressive, his brows arched as if to frame his emotions, a canvas upon which his feelings painted their masterpieces. And that smile, my goodness, that smile, a warm sunbeam peeking through the clouds, a constant presence on his lips, as if kindness itself chose to reside there. He tilted his lean body as he excused himself through the narrow passageway between the tables without knocking over the laptops or catching the professor's eyes.

Professor Stevens spun the pointer in his hand, expounding on the intricacies of change management. ''So as we can see from this point, change is an inherent part of life because the ability to adapt to a new circumstance is a hallmark of human resilience. From personal transformations to shifts within organisations, the psychological aspects of change and adaptation play a pivotal role in our ability to navigate unfamiliar'' His voice drew out and lost its trail when the movement at the back of the class disrupted his lecture. Catching sight of the intruder, voice laced with reprimand and amusement, he said, ''Stop right there, Mr. Mouse. Where are you attempting to sneak into?'' following his line of vision, all twenty pairs of eyes looking back at him. Through the collective attention of the classroom, Joshua could feel the burn of it as its evidence slowly rose to his cheeks. His embarrassment was palpable, an eloquent smile tucked away, and his gaze cast downward as if the most interesting object in the world were now on the floor beneath him. ''The class started twenty minutes ago, young man,'' the professor's voice resonated. With a sheepish grin and the shoulder strap of his backpack clutched tightly over his shoulder, Joshua lifted his head, his fingers finding refuge at the back of his head. ''Sorry, Dr. S,'' a hint of apologetic charm twinkling in his eyes. A swift retort danced in the professor's gaze. ''Party went too long,'' he quipped, and a ripple of chuckles traversed the classroom. ''Come here and sit in your assigned seat'' and went back to the lecture. Reclaiming the reins of the lecture, he went back to highlighting the nuances of adaptation, echoing through the walls. But his words faded into the background as you stood in the midst of that moment, your heart beating in a newfound rhythm. Your gaze was an unwitting lighthouse, locked onto him, and the cadence of his movement to his seat enveloped your senses. Your reverie was broken by a nudge from your best friend. Pulling you back from your daydreams. Her voice, laced with playful jes, reached your ears. ''I get that he's cute, but stop doorling.''

A smile adorned your lips. Rolling your eyes, you forced your eyes back to your professor. Unbeknownst to you, a pair of the same brown eyes got fixated on the person right next to you.

...

Present day

Laughter flowed like a melody, woven into the golden threads of the lamps and chandeliers above the table. Amidst the opulent splendour of the dining hall, the clinking glasses and the delicate harmony of forks and knives became the soundtrack of the evening. Your parents are mainly leading the conversations, engaging in animated conversations about Mr. Hoshimoto, the CEO of Tiger Baby Media, and his inexplicable obsession with tigers. ''I tell you,'' your father declared, his voice filled with mirth and the boost of wine. '' One of these days, he'll start adding 'rawr' at the end of every sentence.'' The collective laughter that followed enveloped the room with shared amusement.

And there, across the expanse of the table, was him. His eyes, as sharp and inquisitive as a fox, a shade of black as deep and enigmatic as the night sky, held stories untold, a universe of thoughts and emotions concealed within their depths. His gaze was both intense and preceptive, as if he possessed an innate ability to see beyond the surface and to delve into the hidden corners of the soul. met yours in a challenge, a dance of determination that played out in unspoken verse. With a lazy smile gracing his lips, he laid down his fork, reaching for his glass in sync with your movement, like a subtle mirroring of your actions. A silent duel of wills, a tug of intentions, unfurled between you both. His words echoing in your head: the information you believed was unbeknownst to the whole world, he is aware of it. You steeled your resolve; no matter what, you would not let him breach your composure. You will not let him have the benefit of doubt that he got under your skin. You gave a subtle cheer to the glass and brought it to your lips.

But the universe had other plans. For your mother's voice, a beacon of redirection cut through the atmosphere, dissolving your silent standoff. A victorious grin danced on her lips, a know-it-all grin that spoke volumes of maternal triumph. ''Mrs.Jeon is asking you something,'' she announced, her words pulling you from the magnetic pull of his gaze. You redirected your attention, a reluctant withdrawal from the battlefield of gazes, only to meet the warm and understanding smile of Mrs. Jeon, who encouraged familiarity with a dismissive wave of her hand. "Call me Sunmi," she insisted, her tone one of amity. "So, Y/n, I've heard you completed your education and now handle your father's business in Switzerland. Any particular reason?" Her inquiry hung in the air, a canvas upon which you painted your aspirations and your reasons for charting your own path beyond the shadows of legacy. "I like the weather over there," you offered, your chuckles echoing like a chorus that surrounded you. "On a serious note," you continued, eyes glinting, determination set like steel. "I wanted to expand my horizons beyond the family's shadow, learn about the world, experience life, and make friends." And then, the audacity in his gaze pierced through, his mocking remark barely veiled, ''who feel like family'' a reminder that he was present in every corner of your world, even here. Your gaze, unwavering and defiant, shifted from Mrs. Jeon to him, a smile that whispered "Fuck off" without uttering a word. And then came the probing question that shifted the air—a playful inquiry about your romantic inclinations.

So, Y/N, do you have any boyfriends or girlfriends? '' "Suni—"

"Honey, it's the 20th century. A girl can have options." Sunmi's voice, cheekily defiant, carried an air of rebellion, a mischievous smirk playing on her lips as she leaned on her palm and elbows on the table. a posture that didn't sit well with your mother's etiquette-driven sensibilities.

"We're all friends here, aren't we?" she mused, her gaze challenging the boundaries of decorum. With a calculated tilt of your head and your voice a blend of wit and audacity, you responded, "Not sure. I'll have to check my dungeon in Switzerland to see if he's still there." The room held its breath, a suspended moment, a tightrope between jest and earnestness. Then, like a storm breaking, the room erupted in laughter—a deep, soulful laugh that enveloped you, drawing you into its embrace. Among the harmonies of shared amusement, his laughter stood out—a sonorous echo that mirrored the rhythm of your own mirth. He has a nice laugh, you thought to yourself. And amid the laughter, Sunmi's declaration washed over you like a gentle tide. "I like you," she confessed, her words an embrace of shared connection. "I knew I was going to like you." As the conversation flowed seamlessly back to its course, you found yourself excusing your way from the table—a retreat to solitude in the powder room. Yet even as you left, your curious eyes met his, his amused smile leaving a lingering trace on your thoughts.

In the realm where awareness transcends mere information, a deeper truth takes root. Information, like fleeting gusts of wind, is consumed and forgotten, but awareness—ah, awareness—unfurls like petals, revealing what lies beneath the façade presented to the world. It's the art of observation that grants one the privilege of peering beyond the surface, uncovering the hidden layers waiting to be unveiled. Such was the state that Wonwoo found himself in on a Thursday morning, stirred by a curiosity that had lain dormant for far too long. As your graceful figure retreated from the opulent dining hall, a realisation swept over him like a gentle breeze. He became acutely aware that the waters of your persona ran deeper than what shimmered on the surface, and an inexplicable urge surged within him to plunge into those depths. A subtle clearing of the throat snapped his thoughts back to the present, a reminder that it was impolite to let one's gaze linger too long. Such introspective musings were often doubled in embarrassment when witnessed by the lady's father. Caught in an unspoken exchange with your father, their eyes locked briefly, and an unspoken recognition passed between them. Your father then addressed Wonwoo, ''Young man,'' he began. ''I have to tell you, you make your father very proud. He was telling me how you have a keen eye for property.'' ''He flatters me, sir'' "Good work deserves appreciation," your father said, his words carrying the weight of wisdom. "It fuels productivity and fosters competition among peers. Learn to seek what you want, my boy, and when you find it, treasure it." With a tender gesture, he kissed your mother's hand, a symbol of the appreciation he spoke of. The secret smiles exchanged between them held volumes of shared understanding. Wonwoo's father chimed in, ''I agree'' his smile echoing his agreement. Amidst these exchanges, a restlessness began to claw at Wonwoo's insides. He excused himself from the table, his fingers twitching with a subtle anxiety. He needed solace, a moment of respite, and smoke. And so he rose from his seat, excusing himself from the company and the conversation that had entrapped him.

"Would you like someone to show you the way?" Your mother's voice offered assistance, kindness colouring her words.

Politely declining the offer, Wonwoo left the room, his destination veering not towards the washroom but towards the haven of the balcony. The open air beckoned to him, a refuge to sort through the whirlwind of thoughts that spun within him.

...

The tendrils of moonlight that wrapped around you, a heavy ambience of anguish clung to your soul, reminiscent of a night shrouded in sorrow. Your feet, as if drawn by the moon's silver strings, carried you into the night, and with every breath of cool night air, you felt a weight on your chest that hadn't pressed down so heavily since the night you lost a piece of your world. As the moonlight bathed you in its ethereal glow, you found solace in its tranquil embrace, a moment of respite from the tempestuous memories that surged within you.

Two years ago

The echo of heavy footsteps reverberated through the halls of your home, carrying with them a grim aura that painted the scene as it unfolded before you. In the doorway stood police officers, their expressions etched with sombre gravity. A voice, tinged with urgency, pierced the silence as one of them addressed you.

"Do you know Noella Bulavia Hong and Joshua Hong?" The words hung like a haunting melody in the air.

"Yes," you replied, urgency tightening your voice. "She's a very close friend of mine—Noella'' Oh my Ella.

It was the dreaded moment when reality turned into a nightmare. "I am sorry to inform you, Ms. L/N," the officer's voice held the weight of crushing news, "but today at 1:30 am, there was an accident at the Bahnhofstrasse. Two cars collided, and a gas leak ignited a fire that resulted in an explosion. The occupants of both cars lost their lives."

No--- Your world spun in disbelief, and your mind was a maelstrom of chaos. Numbness spread like a winter frost, as if you were detached from the very ground beneath you. Tears flowed involuntarily, and your senses dulled as if robbed of their essence. A heart-wrenching void opened within you, an emptiness so profound that it felt like you were falling endlessly into an abyss. The weight of the night pressed upon you, suffocating your spirit.

'Noella, the girl with the most resplendent eyes,' your thoughts whispered, each memory a fragile touch that warmed your heart. Every laugh, every shared moment, is all fading into the bitter reality of the present. You have heard that when a soulmate departs, a part of oneself fades away with them. Today, you understood that agony.

Why her? Why her? What did she do to deserve this? Your thoughts spiralled into an anguished chorus. "When she finally found the love she always yearned for and the family she deserved,"

Sobs clawed at your throat, but you continued, driven by a desperate need for answers. "Officer, they had a son, Noel Hong. He's five years old; was he... He has blue eyes and

Words faltered, and incomprehensible emotions swirled within you. Officer Batch, a familiar face, placed a comforting hand on your shoulder, guiding you inside. The tea cup in your trembling hand was a lifeline, a futile attempt to find solace amidst the storm. But your thoughts slipped back to that dreaded call from Jeonghan, informing you of the accident.

"Fortunately, their son was not with them," he had said. "He was with his babysitter. Right now he is with Ms. Ashley, a child services officer. He's in the car sleeping."

Oh, Noel. Your mind groaned in anguish as you rested your head in your hands, trying to process the pain that gripped you. There was a honk outside, followed by a loud slam of the car door. A few beats later, Jeonghan rushed into the room, gathering you into a tight embrace. Sobs wracked both of you, two souls mourning the loss of the most important people in your lives.

"They're gone, JJ," you choked out, tears a torrent between you. "They're gone."

Victor, Jeonghan's partner, conversed with the officers before heading out to retrieve Noel from the car. "Where's Noel?" Jeonghan's voice trembled, brokenness painted across his face.

"Tante," a small voice roused you both. Noel's sleepy inquiry cut through the air like a blade, his innocence contrasting with the devastating truth. "Why are you crying? Where are Mama and Appa?"

Your heart shattered at the innocence that clung to his voice. You walked over to him, scooping him into your arms. Holding him tightly, you mustered a smile through your tears. "They went somewhere, little one. It's late; why don't Tante and Noel have a sleepover?"

"Without mama?" his voice trembled, mirroring your own.

"Yes," you whispered, your voice catching. "Today, it's just you and me."

You led him to your room, laying him down beneath the covers. He clung to your finger, his tiny hand a lifeline amidst the abyss of grief. In his slumber, he echoed the pain that reverberated within you. ''Tante, when will Mama and Appa come back'' for the first time in a while? You prayed for the first time in a while to know the answer to that question. ...

Descending back downstairs, the scene had changed. Officer Batch remained, as did Jeonghan and Victor. Ashley, the child services officer, stood, straightening her attire. Her condolences were heartfelt, and her sympathy was genuine. As she prepared to leave, her words lingered like a balm on your wounds.

"Firstly, I am extremely sorry for your loss."

The weight of her words hung heavy in the room. You looked around; the officer who had delivered the news had excused himself. It was now just the three of you, the grief englufing the room and the reality setting in.

Ashley's words took a practical turn, discussing procedures, cooperation, and the logistics of what lay ahead. But your thoughts drifted, images of Joshua and Noella surfacing like ghosts. You realised the danger Noel might be in—the very real threat that could have stolen him too.

"Jeonghan," you interjected, your voice calm yet resolved. "Noel's existence should remain hidden from the Bulavia family."

The room went quiet, the implication lingering in the air. ''The Bulavias are his only blood relatives,'' he cried, but you understood the darkness that lurked within their legacy. Victor's words echoed in your mind, urging you to see beyond the façade of their societal stature.

"They are murderers. Are you truly that naive to think their deaths were mere accidents?" The words tumbled from your lips, filled with an understanding forged from the past. "Come to your senses. We know what they are at the core; they may be arms manufactured for the world, but we all know—-'' you drew a deep breath, lowering your voice, '' they never cared for Noel. I am certain you can recall what happened when they learned of her pregnancy'' Jeonghan was now pacing as you sat down on the same chair as the officer Batch was once seated, recalling that horrendous sight when Joshua was beaten to pulp and Noella's brother slapped her to the ground—the horror she lived through till she came to the university. You were certain that if they got their hands on Noel, then one could only imagine the horrendous things they would do to that child. unshaken eyes and a composed voice, ''till the time I am alive, I won't let anyone touch Joshua and Noella's child''."

Jeonghan and Victor exchanged glances, their unspoken agreement cementing an unbreakable pact. A silent oath was shared among the three of you—Noel's protection was is and will be your first priority. Because every child deserves a childhood and no one will deprive him of it.

Present.

Your musings were interrupted by the persistent vibration of your phone against your dress. The moonlight cast a sombre glow, your thoughts mired in the past, and your heart still carried the weight of those memories. You glanced at the caller ID, Rema's name catching your eye.

Your phone stirred in your hand; its vibrations were a stark interruption to the calm. Your heart quickened, for her calls often held weighty matters. You answered, your voice soft yet tinged with an undercurrent of anticipation.

"Rema?"

Her voice carried a mixture of empathy and concern, her words threading a tapestry of news that would unravel your tranquilly. "Y/n, I'm sorry to disturb you, but there's a new development. A notice from the Swiss court has arrived."

Your fingers tightened around the phone, an invisible tension sweeping over you. "What is it?"

A heavy pause danced on the line, a prelude to a storm of emotions yet to come. "They're suing you, Y/N. The Bulavia family is filing a lawsuit against you, claiming that you've kept their grandson away from them."

Your breath caught, a tempest of disbelief swirling within you. Their intentions bore a weight that you couldn't ignore, and the accusation against you was an unwelcome intrusion into the sanctuary of your solitude.

"They're also alleging that you're an unstable person, unfit to care for Noel." Rema's voice carried a note of frustration, mirroring your own feelings.

The words hit you like a tidal wave, a surge of anger and desperation intertwined within your chest. The moonlight seemed to dim, the world tilting on its axis as the weight of their accusations pressed upon you.

As you processed the news, your back remained turned towards the entrance of the balcony. Little did you know that within the shadows, another presence lingered—WWonwoo, a silent observer in your moment of vulnerability.

Amidst the turmoil of emotions, your voice wavered as you spoke, your words a mix of resilience and defeat. "Rema, I... This is... it's unjust."

Her response was a reassuring echo in the night. "We won't let them tarnish your image, Y/N. I've already contacted our legal team, and the evidence is in our favour. We'll fight this with everything we have."

Your grip on the phone eased, and the connection between you and Rema felt like a lifeline in the storm. As you absorbed her words, the door leading to the balcony creaked open, but your attention was so consumed that you remained unaware of the presence that had joined you.

In the shadows, Wonwoo stood, his eyes upon your figure, his heart stirred by the depth of your emotions. Your strength and vulnerability were on display—a portrait of resilience in the face of adversity.

"We'll weather this storm together, Y/N." Rema's voice was a promise, a lifeline to hold onto in the tumultuous sea of uncertainty.

With a small nod, you replied, your voice a blend of determination and gratitude. "Thank you, Rema. I... I don't know what I'd do without you."

As the call ended, you remained standing on the balcony, seeking solace amidst the twinkling stars. The tendrils of cool air wrapped around you like a gentle embrace, a balm for the restless thoughts that stirred within. Unbeknownst to you, a presence approached, a shadow converging with your own.

A soft spark illuminated the darkness as a cigarette was lit, the warm glow revealing the figure that had joined you. Wonwoo's towering form, standing at a commanding 6 feet, casts a silent yet powerful presence. The tendrils of smoke that curled from his lips seemed like ethereal wisps of thought floating into the night.

"You're quite the enigma, aren't you?" His voice was a low rumble, a testament to the depth of his emotions.

Startled by his sudden appearance, you turned to face him, your eyes meeting the soft ember of the cigarette's tip. Your brows furrowed, and a mixture of surprise and accusation laced your voice. "Were you eavesdropping?"

He quirked an eyebrow, a hint of amusement in his gaze. "Eavesdropping would imply a certain level of secrecy. I believe the word you're looking for is 'overheard.'"

Your lips curled into a wry smile, and you crossed your arms, meeting his gaze with a mixture of defiance and curiosity. "Semantics. What's the difference?"

He took a leisurely drag of his cigarette, his eyes never leaving yours. "The difference, my dear, is that eavesdropping implies a certain degree of intentionality, while overhearing is simply a matter of being in the right place at the right time."

The banter between you was a dance of words, a subtle clash of wills that echoed in the night air. The moon above seemed to glow a little brighter, as if captivated by the exchange unfolding beneath its watchful gaze.

As the cigarette dwindled to a mere stub, his final exhale mingled with the evening breeze, a symbol of conclusion. He flicked the remains away, the glowing ember dissipating into darkness. "Well, my unintentional overhearing has come to an end. Shall we return?"

You nodded, a mix of annoyance and something else settling within you. The two of you turned to leave the balcony, making your way back to the warmth of the dining room. The moment you stepped inside, you were met with the knowing glances of your parents, their exchanged looks laden with unspoken implications.

With an inward sigh, you were about to find your seat when Wonwoo's actions surprised you. He pulled out your chair, a gesture both unexpected and oddly courteous. The corners of your lips twitched, an amused yet sceptical glint in your eyes. "I can sit down on my own, you know."

His lips curled into a faint smile, his gaze meeting yours with an air of playful challenge. "I'm aware. But isn't it polite to assist a lady?"

You rolled your eyes, unable to suppress a chuckle, despite yourself. "Chivalry isn't dead, I see."

As you settled into your seat, he took his own place across the table. The room was steeped in the echoes of your exchange, an unspoken understanding threading between you. The dance of words, the spark of banter—iit was a tapestry woven from different threads of emotion.

The clinks of silverware and hushed conversation enveloped the room once more, a symphony of togetherness and shared moments. Amidst it all, you and Wonwoo exchanged a fleeting glance, a silent acknowledgment of the dance you'd shared, a dance that had brought you both a little closer, even in the midst of your verbal jousting.

The evening had unfolded like a symphony of shared moments and whispered laughter. As the dinner drew to a close, the air held a blend of both familiarity and anticipation.

Mr. Jeon's eyes held a mixture of admiration and genuine warmth as he leaned forward, his words an echo of sincerity. "Y/N, my dear, your accomplishments are nothing short of remarkable. I sometimes wish I had a daughter like you."

A smile played upon your lips, a mixture of humility and gratitude. Beside him, Mrs. Jeon's gaze was softer yet equally sincere. "Indeed, dear, though we might not have had a daughter, there's always room in our hearts for someone as exceptional as you."

The words lingered in the air, like petals of praise carried by the wind.

And now, the time had come to bid adieu. Outside, the night awaited, and as the group made their way to the grand entrance of the mansion, the atmosphere was charged with the bittersweet awareness of departure.

A soft breeze brushed against your cheeks as you stood beside your parents. One by one, your parents exchanged pleasantries and farewells with the Jeon couple. When it was your turn, a sense of both anticipation and trepidation took hold.

Wonwoo's approach was graceful, his every step resonating with a quiet confidence. He first pressed a tender kiss upon your mother's hand, a gesture steeped in old-world charm. Then he shook your father's hand with the kind of firmness that conveyed respect.

And then, it was your turn. The air seemed to hum with charged energy as his eyes locked onto yours. The anticipation was palpable, and you felt his thumb gently trace the outline of your knuckles, a touch that sent ripples of sensation down your spine.

However, unlike how he bent to kiss your mother's hand, He raised your hand to his lips, but just as the moment seemed poised to unfold into something more profound, you made a choice. With a swift shift of your hand and a mischievous smile, you transformed the kiss into a handshake. His chuckles joined yours, a moment of shared amusement that danced like fireflies in the night.

The sound of his engine roared to life, a powerful crescendo that echoed the energy of the evening. Both cars began to glide down the drive, the mansion's gates awaiting their passage.

...

The road stretched before him, each mile carrying him further away from the evening that had etched itself deeply into his thoughts. The engine's low rumble echoed through the empty streets, a symphony of solitude that seemed to resonate with the weight on his mind.

You. The name seemed to echo in the quiet chambers of his thoughts, a refrain that he couldn't escape. Those eyes, your eyes, had held a certain fire that intrigued him, an ember of challenge that stirred his curiosity. The conversation he had unwittingly overheard in the corridor replayed in his mind like an elusive melody, each word resonating with a melody of its own.

As the penthouse came into view, its sleek lines and imposing presence a beacon in the night, he parked his car with the precision of someone accustomed to control. The lift carried him to his sanctuary, the living room, an oasis of shadows and scattered moonlight. The vast window transformed the cityscape into a tapestry of twinkling stars and luminous hues, a world outside the reach of his contemplations.

A figure graced the couch, legs crossed in a display of elegance that masked the complexity beneath. Eleanor Calder, a name that carried the weight of a past he couldn't quite shed, was a habit he yearned to break. He approached, the tension between them palpable, words unspoken yet hanging in the air like a tempest.

"Good evening, Wonwoo." Her voice was honeyed, a mixture of familiarity and ambiguity that had once ensnared him.

"Evening," he replied curtly, his gaze fixed on her as he took in her features illuminated by the faint glow. Glossy hair framed an alluring countenance, pouty lips, and eyes that held secrets of their own.

"How was the dinner?" Her question cut through the silence like a dagger, a reminder of the evening that refused to relinquish its hold.

"Fine," he replied tersely, the monosyllabic response a shield against the tides of memories.

"Is she as pretty as they say?" Eleanor's question was laden with a blend of curiosity and a hint of insecurity.

He let out a soft breath, the temptation to reveal his thoughts just shy of his lips. "Beauty is subjective," he said with a flicker of a smile.

She leaned closer, a sultry grin playing on her lips as she attempted to close the distance. "What about us, Wonwoo? Aren't we a beauty worth cherishing?"

His hand gently stopped her advance, a silent refusal that hung in the air. Her frustration surfaced, her lips trailing to his neck with a bite of aggression that carried echoes of their past.

"Why don't you like me anymore?" Her voice held a tinge of desperation, a question born from the shadows of uncertainty.

"You made your choice," he replied, his voice a mix of resignation and detachment. "Now you have to live with it."

Her retort was laced with bitterness, a blend of anger and longing. "That's never stopped you before."

The sound of shattering glass punctuated her exit, the remnants of a vase littering the ground as she left his presence. A sigh escaped him, a mixture of relief and exhaustion.

Slipping off his jacket and rolling up his sleeves, he loosened his tie and unbuckled his belt, the insignias of formality discarded as he sought solace in his sanctuary. With practised ease, he dialled Chan's number, a weary smile tugging at his lips as he heard the groggy voice on the other end.

"Late night, Chan?" he quipped, his voice tinged with amusement.

"You may think I don't have a life outside of you, but I do have a routine, you know," Chan responded with a hint of mock annoyance.

Without missing a beat, Wonwoo shifted gears. "Get the construction company under a pseudonymous name, the one we'll be using for the Oasis project, to contact me. There's something I want to discuss."

The connection remained for a moment, a silent agreement shared in the darkness. As the call ended, a wistful smile played on his lips, a plan unfolding in his mind.

The path of water droplets on glass mirrored his thoughts, his gaze fixed on the city lights that danced beyond the window. And as he moved towards the sanctuary of his private space, his mind held a singular focus that burned as brightly as the moonlight.

....

The morning embraced you with its crispness, each step propelling you forward along the winding path of the park. The rhythm of your breath is synchronised with the rhythmic beat of your heart. Amidst the rhythmic cadence of your run, your thoughts were momentarily interrupted by the chime of your phone. With a brief pause, you pulled the device from your pocket, and the voice of your assistant, Rachel, filled your ears like a familiar tune.

"Good morning, Rachel. Early morning?"

"Morning, boss. It's about the Vanguard Builders project. They're refusing to work under the current terms of the contract. They want adjustments made to accommodate our engineers, and there seems to be a lack of cooperation between the architects, engineers, and workers. It's turning into quite a mess."

The tinge of irony that life often offers "Weren't they the highest bidders for this project? Why the sudden defiance?"

"Beats me," Rachel replied with a hint of exasperation.

"By the way, who's heading the Oasis department now?" You inquired, a sense of curiosity weaving through your words.

"William Holmes," Rachel promptly answered. "Here's a fun fact about William Holmes: Jeon Wonwoo and he graduated in the same class."

The gears of thought spun in your mind, pieces of a puzzle falling into place.

"Rach," you mused, "who's the owner of Vanguard Builders?"

"Well, the acting head is Roland Thomas," she began.

"And the real owner?" you pressed further.

There was a pause before she answered, the realisation dawning on both of you simultaneously. There were a few clicks on the keyboard. "It's a subsidiary of JJ Group," Rachel replied.

"Jeon Wonwoo." You echoed the name with a mix of astonishment and determination.

"Rach, put the project on hold," you commanded, your tone unyielding yet composed. "And get in touch with his office. I need an appointment as soon as possible."

With a nod that only you could sense through the call, you concluded, "I'll see you at the office."

As you continued your run, the weight of the situation settled on you. What was it about that particular project, that particular place, that had him so resolute in its pursuit? With each stride, you felt the anticipation and tension growing, a prelude to the battle that lay ahead.

Upon returning home, you couldn't shake off the sense that this was going to be a long and intricate day.

....

In the seclusion of his office, Wonwoo perched on the corner of his desk, a solitary figure framed by the expansive window that offered a view into the bustling world beyond. His gaze was drawn downward, watching the city's heartbeat throb in the form of fast-paced cars and the hurried lives of its inhabitants. The city's rhythm was a stark contrast to the moment's stillness, his thoughts a tempest swirling in the calm.

As if sensing the weight of his contemplation, the door creaked open, and Chan, with a sprightly demeanour, stepped into the room. A subtle dance marked his steps, a rhythm of his own that added a touch of buoyancy to the space. With a cordial smile, Chan informed him about the call from your assistant.

"Sir, Ms. L/N's assistant called. They want to arrange a meeting," Chan shared, his words carrying an undertone of intrigue.

Wonwoo turned slightly, his gaze shifting from the window to rest on Chan. "What time did they suggest?"

"Anytime that's convenient for you, sir," Chan replied.

A calculating glint sparked in Wonwoo's eyes, and a faint smile touched his lips. "Tell them this. I don't want to meet her in my office. Arrange for a meeting at the restaurant in my hotel. Inform the staff there that I'll be dining with her. Confirm the details with her, of course."

The pieces of the puzzle were slowly falling into place, and Wonwoo found himself musing about the unbinding knots of destiny. As Chan nodded and left to carry out his instructions, Wonwoo's thoughts continued to wander. The game was afoot. The city continued its rhythm outside the window, and Wonwoo knew that within its cadence, a melody of possibilities was beginning to emerge.

....

A monstera plant stood sentinel by the door, a hint of nature's wildness juxtaposed against the sleek, orderly decor. An aquarium to your left provided a soothing contrast, an aquatic symphony of colours and life.

Rachael's entrance echoed with purpose, her heels punctuating the marble's silence. "Boss," she addressed, her tone threaded with urgency, "Mr. Jeon has agreed to the meeting, but not in his office. He's opted for the hotel's restaurant, Lyden."

You muttered an exasperated "son of a bitch" under your breath. Wonwoo's manoeuvring was a subtle art that kept you on your toes. The enigma surrounding his intentions was matched only by his persistence.

The thought crossed your mind—was he trying to be overly familiar, or was this merely a strategic ploy? His determination to procure the land was palpable, but his methods—oh, his methods—remained enigmatic.

Sighing, you confirmed the dinner for 7. The sooner you navigated this web, the quicker you could retreat to familiar ground. And marriage—well, that was a topic that had lost its novelty.

...

As twilight painted the canvas of the city, you found yourself within the opulent embrace of the Lyden Hotel—a sanctuary of luxury nestled in the heart of urban chaos. The clutches of your office attire remained steadfast, for the effort to change felt extraneous. Lavender notes wafted in the air, a soothing touch to your racing heart, and the art that adorned the lobby resonated with the lively atmosphere. The hotel's colour palette resonated with hues of purple and lavender, a tranquil dominance that contrasted with the usual gold and red. The gleam of lamps and chandeliers, cast in ethereal white instead of conventional gold, danced around you as an attendant, average in height and likely in his mid-40s, approached. His warm smile invited you to navigate this orchestrated rendezvous, his presence a gentle anchor to the surging tides of anticipation. But then a presence sidled up to you, and you met those dark eyes again. Wonwoo, your enigmatic companion, surveyed you with an intensity that mirrored your first encounter. A tinge of humour danced on his lips, shared only with you. He leaned in slightly, his voice laced with a jesting tone.

"You know, Ms.L/N, I've heard rumours that Swiss chocolate is so irresistible that it once convinced a diplomat to give up an entire country just for a taste."

You chuckled, playing along. "Is that so? Well, Mr. Jeon, I've also heard whispers that Swiss watches are so accurate that they can predict the future."

He raised an eyebrow in mock surprise. "Predict the future, you say? I must have missed that feature on my watch."

"It's a hidden setting, only activated when you're running fashionably late," you replied with a grin.

His laughter mingled with the ambient sounds of the restaurant, creating a melody that seemed to synchronise with the beating of your heart. "Ah, so that's the secret! I'll have to try it out sometime."

"Mr. Jeon," the manager began, addressing Wonwoo, "I apologise for the wait. And you must be Ms. L/N. Please, this way, your table is ready."

As the evening unfolded, a tapestry of conversation weaved between you. They served wine, but you abstained, aware of your responsibility on the road. Wonwoo, that audacious man, prodded you "You know, Ms.L/n, I've heard rumours about these smile police," he quipped, a playful glint in his eyes. "Apparently, they're quite strict when it comes to ensuring that everyone's lips are on an upward curve." You saw through his whimsical façade, demanding to know his true intentions.

''What is it that you truly want, Mr. Jeon?''

With a practised lean and a wry grin, he revealed his interest—your Oasis project.

You chuckled.

The weight of his intent hung in the air as he proposed a partnership, a 30-70 arrangement.

You, unperturbed, countered his proposition with grace.

''How about 40%?''His reaction was a study in composure—stillness giving way to a wry smile. He inquired ''What's the catch?'', arching an eyebrow.

The pasta found its way to your mouth, providing you with a moment's reprieve. Washing down with water, you said, "Would you like to marry me, Jeon Wonwoo?"

A few hours ago

"Rach!" you grumbled, rubbing your temples. "Rema's on line two." A quizzical look passed between you as to why she would call the office line, and then realisation dawned—you'd left your phone on the dresser, charging.

Rema's voice trickled through, laced with fatigue and worry. As she detailed the developments, a storm brewed within you. The lawsuit, the custody battle—the magnitude of it all pressed against your chest.

"They're claiming your lifestyle is unstable," Rema informed, her voice tinged with sympathy.

You scoffed. "Define unstable."

"Frequent moving, long absences, and—well, they highlighted the lack of a husband."

"Bullshit," you spat. "I don't recall the law stating that a single woman can't adopt her ward, bestowed upon her by the child's parents."

Rema's understanding tone resonated with the receiver. "I know, Y/n."

The conversation pivoted to the notion of marriage, and your disbelief was palpable. "So, I should get hitched just for a legal battle? That's absurd."

"Y/N, I'm your lawyer," Rema asserted, her voice unwavering. "I can't suggest illegal activities. But I can ponder the 'what ifs.'"

Your mind whirred, emotions settling into resolution. Closing every avenue that the Bulavia family sought to exploit. Even if it means Jeon Wonwoo,

Present

His reaction was a symphony of amusement,his eyes glinting with intrigue. He leaned back, beckoning you to elaborate.

"I don't like owing anyone," you began. "It seems I'm in a bit of a predicament. I find myself in need of a husband. If you agree—"

A grin played on his lips as he interjected, "So, when do you want to get married?"

You spluttered, momentarily caught off-guard. He was swift in his response, crafting a clever solution out of thin air. "You said you wanted a husband, and there's pressure on me to find a wife. Killing two birds with one stone" He shrugged and said, "Do enlighten me, Ms. L/N. I'm curious to hear about these circumstances that demand such a drastic solution." and you did. ...

In the car, As you drove Wonwoo to his place, the air was laden with silence, your thoughts whispering secrets only the wind could hear. The plans for Noel, your mutual benefit—it all tumbled through your mind. The contract, the call, and your parents

"Are you always this persuadable?" you inquired, your words filling the silent car.

"Only when it involves a beautiful lady in distress," he retorted, causing you to roll your eyes.

As you navigated through the city streets once again, you spoke of Noel, his significance, and the impending legalities. Wonwoo remained thoughtful, his demeanour subdued. With his apartment in sight, his voice resounded, seeking answers.

"So, he's not your son?" he queried, a sliver of vulnerability seeping into his tone.

"No," you affirmed. "Your informant was not as efficient as it seems, but he's like a son to me."

His curiosity blossomed further. "Do your parents know about it?"

You chuckled. "About what?"

"About Noel," he reiterated.

"No," you confessed, "they believe he was with Noella and Joshua that night, as they couldn't attend the funeral."

He nodded in understanding, his thoughts churning in the silence. . As he watched your car fade into the distance, a sense of purpose filled him. The evening's discussions had ignited a fire of determination within him. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone, dialling his mother's number.

As the line rang, his thoughts swirled like the city lights below. The memories of his grandmother, a regal and wise woman, were as vivid as ever. She had worn a unique ring—a family heirloom—that he had admired since childhood. He could still hear her stories, her voice rich with history and love.

The call connected, and his mother's warm voice flowed through the line. "Wonwoo, dear, how are you?"

He smiled, her voice a comforting balm. "I'm well, Mama. I was actually calling to ask Do you know where Grandma's ring is"?

tbc

A/N: Phew! its was a long chapter, hope you all liked it. Please drop your feedback in the comments or reblogs with tag or in the inbox as it motivates me and help makes the fic better.

msh

#seventeen #kpop fluff #kpop angst #fanfiction #aquamarine #jeon wonwoo x reader #seventeen fanfic #seventeen fluff #seventeen scenarios #kpop smut #jeon wonwoo #seventeen wonwoo #hoshi #wonwoo #joshua hong seventeen #jeonghan

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orqheuss · 11 months

Text

Not yet corpses (still, we rot)

(Ominis Gaunt/Sebastian Sallow/GN!Reader HURT/COMFORT)

Summary:

For a moment, everything felt still. Silence consumed the space, sucking all the air out of the room like the tide as a tsunami made its way towards shore. All Ominis could hear was the harsh ringing in his ears and the startled gasp from his counterpart behind him. Panic began to crawl its way into his throat once more. Sebastian’s heart stuttered in his chest, his words forcing themselves out around the lump that formed under his jaw. “Oh, dear God…” *** What were the boys doing while you were saving Hogwarts? *** Contains spoilers from the game Title from the song "Dirt and Roses" by Rise Against

Word count: 6k

AN: I’m moving all of my fics over from Ao3 to make them more accessible! These are my fics.

TW: - Blood - Gore - Anxiety - Detailed descriptions of injury - Near death experiences - Claustrophobia (only for a little bit, tho. I have it too and that's all I could write, lol)

“Knight to E5.” Sebastian quips, leaning back in his wicker chair, his arms crossed against his chest and a smug smile tweaking at the corners of his mouth. He watched the boy across from him regard the wizards chess board, the tip of his wand blinking that comforting red light he had grown accustomed to after years of friendship. It was probably not the most fair thing in the world to go against someone blind in a game that required sight over everything else, but that didn’t stop the brunette from trying his very best at beating his best friend in absolutely everything— he was nothing if not competitive. That being said, as much as he loved the idea of pulling one over on Ominis, the feat was nearly impossible . The blond was far too good. It didn’t matter if it was a game of gobstones, a duel in Crossed Wands, even exploding snaps, a game where sight was a necessity, all because of that blasted wand! The only thing that Ominis was truly bad at was potions, and even then he would likely still get an Acceptable on their OWLS. Sebastian felt that this round of chess was different, though. He could see the furrow of his partner’s brows in the low candlelight of the Undercroft, trace how his hand rested on his chin in puzzlement— fingers pinching at the skin there and stroking like tweaking an imaginary beard. He was currently in the lead, most of Ominis’ pieces resting broken on his side of the board. A truly violent game, that wizards chess.

A light tisk came from his companions mouth, his wand still gently coasting over the top of the board just out of reach of the pieces, before his eyebrows slowly rose back to their normal position on his temple, a mischievous smile making its way across his cheeks and a twinkle of something unrecognizable, but all the more devious, in his eyes. He leaned back in his own chair, adopting a similar cadence as his brunette counterpart, his body language oozing confidence. Sebastian shifted in his seat, eyes casting uneasy glances between the boy and the board as sweat began to bead on his brow. Surely not, he mused— there was no way Ominis figured out a new strategy.

The blond lightly chuckled, sensing the sudden nervousness of his friend. “Queen to E5.”

Bollocks.

Sebastian was helpless to watch the white marble queen piece shift its way across the board towards his onyx black knight. The matriarch stood from her throne, bringing her chair around to her front and up over her shoulder, before crashing it down over the head of his brave steed. The brunette scowled at the board before tilting his chin to the ceiling, his head cracking lightly on the back of the chair as he leaned away and groaned into the musky air of the hideaway, his arms thrown upwards in a show of surrender.

“You’re a bastard, Gaunt.”

Ominis laughed, his form slumping forward over the little end table they were next to as he waved his wand, collecting all the broken pieces and placing them back into the chess box where they would self-repair.

“No, unfortunately my heritage is legitimate.” He simpered, a light jab dancing on the tip of his tongue. “The juries still out for you, though, my dear friend. You have as much grace as a charging erumpent.”

Sebastian gasped in outrage, his hand dramatically fluttering to his chest and resting over his heart like a damsel in distress. “Oh, I’m wounded! You’ve wounded me, Ominis. How ever will I recover— doomed to live a life of desolate mediocrity at the hands of my very best friend?” He slowly slid out of his chair, letting gravity work its magic and flopping dramatically on the floor, limbs sprawled out like a flattened lizard.

The smaller Slytherin guffawed, a large grin splitting his face as he kicked his leg out towards the brunette, his shoe jabbing him harshly in the calf. “Quit it, you buffoon. You aren’t going to die because I beat you in wizards chess.”

Sebastian sighed heavily, the back of his hand slapping against his forehead in overzealous woe. “Oh but I am! I will never be the same, never! I shall cover all of my mirrors so I never have to see my failurous face ever again— cover my head with a ghastly bag to shield the world from my shameful dereliction!” Small sounds of sorrow continued to fill the air around them, long drawn out “boohoo’s” falling from the brunette’s lips at a consistent rate.

Ominis stood from his chair, stepping over the fallen idiot and plopping down onto the chaise lounge to their left, a book floating into his hand with the flick of his wand. “I think the entire student body would thank you for that.”

The blond laughed at the incredulous noises of his companion, leaning his head to the left quickly as Sebastian’s boot flew through the air right where he once was and smacked into the pillar just beyond. The taller Slytherin got up from the ground, muttering obscenities under his breath as he limped over to where his shoe landed, taking the time to lightly smack the blond on the back of the head before rounding the space and throwing himself on the other lounge chair diagonal to the opening of the Undercroft.

“You’re an arse, do you know that?”

Ominis smirked downwards towards his book, lethargically licking his finger before flipping to the next page with gusto. “Oh yes, I pride myself in it. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m only one to you— I’m quite nice to everyone else.”

Once his boot was securely back on his foot, Sebastian pulled out his pocket watch from his waistcoat; he checked the time, glancing in confusion at the gunmetal gate entrance of their secret space.

“Hey, have you seen our charge today? They’re normally down here by now.”

Ominis scoffed, a blank look crossing his face and a sardonic bite taking over his tone. “Do you ever think before you speak?”

Sebastian met his gaze with a blank look of his own. “Where’s the fun in that?”

The blond sighed deeply, raising a hand to his face and waving it in front of his unseeing eyes. “No, I haven’t ‘seen’ them today, nor have I heard from them.”

Lifting himself to a seated position, the brunette’s brows scrunched together in puzzlement, slight worry tipping the corners of his mouth into a frown. You normally met them in the Undercroft after dinner so they all could hang out until curfew. Today, though, you were missing. Sebastian couldn’t remember if he had seen you today at all, come to think of it. You were supposed to have potions with him, but in his hazy memory he remembers that your stool was empty. Where were you?

He turned his gaze back to the other Slytherin, confusion and concern lacing his tone as he spoke. “I haven’t either. Should we go search for them? They normally owl us if they’re going on a mission.”

Another sigh. “Sebastian, I’m sure they’re fine. They’ve bested practically the whole wizarding world in a duel at this point— they can handle themselves. Let’s just have a quiet night, yes?”

The Sallow boy threw himself back onto the chaise with a huff, his hands folding together and smacking against his abdomen. He knew that you were more than capable of taking care of yourself— he had seen it in action. Still, the knowledge of your fighting prowess did little to alleve his nerves. Each of the trials the Keepers were sending you on got more and more difficult— more dangerous. The thought of you getting hurt, or even worse, dying, made him feel ill. Ominis felt the same, they had talked about it before, but he was better at hiding it. Even now, though, Sebastian could see the telltale bounce of the blonds leg from nerves out of the corner of his eye. He was just as worried about you. You had told them all about the trials after they had stumbled upon you in the Undercroft a few weeks ago, bruised and bloody with at least five Wiggenweld potions scattered around you, as well as some gauze. Instantly the both of them had asked, nay insisted, that they go with you for safety, but you shut them down quickly— the trials were for you and you alone, no outside help. They reluctantly agreed to let you handle them, but they certainly weren’t happy about the arrangement, not in the slightest.

The two sat in silence for a while, their eyes drifting every so often over towards the Undercroft gate like you’d step through any moment. Worry began to claw at their throats like a rabid animal begging to be let out of a cage. Ominis’ leg had picked up speed around the five minute mark, no longer paying attention to the book in his lap and instead turning his ears minutely towards where you would hopefully be coming from soon. Sebastian was right, you would normally send them a letter if you were going to be out for the day— you knew how they worried about you. Silence seemed to spread around the room like a thick fog, its tendrils wrapping around the boy’s heads and slithering into their ears, leaving an unnerving ringing behind. They were getting antsy, anxious energy pouring from them in waves.

Just as they were about to move and suggest looking for you again, a loud, deafening boom rang through the room. Crates tumbled to the ground with a crash as the ground rumbled below their feet. It was like the earth below them, below the entire castle, was breaking apart piece by piece. Paintings fell from the walls around them, tables shook and tipped over, school work and books spilling across the floor in rivers. Sebastian sprang from his seat, sprinting across the small space and throwing himself next to a shaking Ominis, his arms wrapping around the blonds head to shield him from falling debris. The tremors continued for what felt like years before everything halted in their tracks— silence filling the room once again and only breaking around the heavy, panting panicked breaths that left the two boy’s lungs. They slowly de-tangled themselves from the other, their gazes lifting up from the ground to take in the damage around them. Dust covered every surface, clinging to their clothes and hair and dyeing everything a light grey.

Ominis spoke first, his voice whispering like he was afraid that if he broke the calming quiet everything would start all over again. “Are you alright?”

Sebastian sighed shakily, his heart hammering in his chest as he grabbed the blond's hand and squeezed. “Yes, I’m fine. Are you?”

He nodded. “What was that?”

“I have no idea. Sounded like it came from under the school— an earthquake maybe?”

Ominis shook his head, dust lightly falling from his hair and brushing against his shoulders. “In these parts? At this time of the year? Unlikely.”

Sebastian furrowed his brows once again. “Then what could it be? Should we go check—”

The brunette paused, his blood running cold in his body as his skin turned a ghostly white as sudden realization hit him like a speeding broom. Ominis seemed to have come to the same conclusion, his hands shaking at his sides as they both turned towards each other, brown eyes meeting milky blue in barely hidden fear. Only one thought passed between the both of them: you were out there somewhere.

The room began to shake again, the stone floor trembling with stronger aftershocks as more things began to slam to the ground around them. The duo quickly jumped up, their arms covering their heads from falling debris as their legs carried them as fast as they could go towards the exit and up the stairs towards the Defense Against the Dark Arts hallway. They quickly scrambled through the cabinet door, slamming it shut behind them as their feet nearly slid out from under them on the smooth tile floors of the main floor. Professors were running around, herding students left and right and ushering them towards their common rooms for safety. Sharp corralled them both, blocking their path from the rest of the school and their mad dash to find you amongst the chaos, and shoved them in the direction of the Slytherin common room, only turning away to look for more lost souls as the two boy’s got swallowed by waves of green and silver robes. Sebastian desperately fought against the stream of students, throwing elbows left and right as he swam towards the front and towards, what he hoped, was freedom from the crowd. A sharp cry came from his left and he shot his head in that direction, barely catching the sight of Ominis’ blond head as it disappeared in the hazard of students. His hand darted out, catching his friend’s shoulder before he could be trampled and pulled him to his side where he would be safe, clutching onto him like a lifeline in a storm as they were carried away, down the Grand Staircase and into the dungeons. Once safely inside, the ornate serpentine door slammed shut behind the students, bathing the room in startling silence once again.

The rumbling was muted this far under the black lake, only the sound of murky water splashing against the large bay windows of the common room filled the large, encompassing space. Students milled about, some retiring to their bedchambers while others sat on the various surfaces spread around the room. Tense whispers filled the air, questions and theories about what was happening swimming in everyone’s minds and entering through their eagerly listening ears.

“Was on the moving stairs when it started, I was. It was quite funny watching all the paintings scramble from their frames before they fell.”

“What do you think is happening? It seems to be coming from under the school.”

“I saw all the Professors run towards the Astronomy wing. What do you think they’re looking for over there?”

“Weasley had something in her hand before it all started— a bit of parchment. Looked as pale as the Bloody Baron after reading it. Wonder what it said?”

“I heard one of the Ravenclaw's say they saw some goblins over by the east wing. Do you think they have something to do with all of this?”

“Do you think they’ll cancel finals if half the castle is destroyed?”

The two fifth year boys stood apart from the crowd. Sebastian paced the length of the room, going back and forth a number of times, wringing his hands in front of his chest and worrying on his bottom lip with his teeth. Ominis sat on the bench in front of the large floor to ceiling windows, elbows bent atop his knees and long fingers wracking through his normally perfectly styled hair. Anxiety oozed from them like a poorly made potion seeping out of the bottom of its cauldron. No one had seen or heard from you before or after the chaos. They had to get back to the Undercroft— it was the best place to wait for you. The brunette caught bits and pieces of the conversations flowing around the common room, and each one set his nerves alight just a little bit more. Astronomy wing? Goblins? Oh Merlin. He knew, whatever was happening had to do with Ranrok. If it had to do with Ranrok, then you had to be there too. Sebastian spun towards his friend, quickly pacing towards him with determined steps and nearly throwing himself onto the bench to the blonds left. He leaned closer, whispering conspiratorially, just low enough so no one else would hear.

“Ominis, we have to get out of here. If we get back to the Undercroft, we can wait for them there. They know we’d be there.”

The smaller Slytherin inhaled deeply, his body shaking with tremors stronger than those rocking through the castle. “How are we going to get out? The room is packed— there’s no way we could sneak out undetected.”

The brunette hummed in thought, placing his hand on Ominis’ knee to steady his nervous jittering. It was up to him to come up with a plan, the room was much too loud for his companion to think clearly— multiple stimuli overwhelmed him easily. He racked his brain for a solution, every thought coming in small glimpses around the unending worry he felt for you. They’d have to be invisible to get out of the common room, there was no way another student wouldn’t see them leave.

A lightbulb sputtered to life in his mind.

Oh. Oh. That would work.

He squeezed the blonds knee before letting go and grabbing his wand from his robes. “I have an idea, follow my lead.”

Sebastian cast the disillusionment charm around himself quietly, watching his fingers and legs disappear into a slight trick of the light. Ominis nodded, doing the same to his right. They both stood as quiet as mice and made their way through the throngs of silver and green clad students, dodging and weaving around flying limbs before all but running up the grand spiral staircase and skidding to a halt outside of their common room door.

An eerie hush fell over the still castle dungeon. The rumbles had quieted down enough, only a soft vibration making its way through their shoes and shaking their bodies instead of the intense tremors that shook the building moments earlier. That had to be a good sign, Sebastian mused.

They both took off towards the Defense Against the Dark Arts wing, their legs pumping as fast as they could go. The setting sun cast shadows across the floor, catching on each piece of debris and drawing the brunette’s attention to just how much damage had been done. Sebastian grabbed Ominis’ hand, pulling him along and calling out obstacles in their path. They leaped over fallen pillars, dodged around scattered armor, and slid around corners, their shoes loudly squeaking on the linoleum floor and nearly sending them tumbling into walls with their haste.

Finally, they made it to the hidden cabinet leading to the school's underbelly. The blond threw himself against the door, unlocking it with a flick of his wrist and all but shoved the brunette down the stone steps. With a loud crack, the metal gate clipped shut behind them. They both heaved over, their bodies folded in half as their hands grasped onto their knees. Heavy breaths left their lungs from the exertion, sweat beaded on their brows from the heat of their bodies as well as from the intense nerves that shook through their bodies. Sebastian stumbled over to the table they sat around earlier, picking up one of the wicker chairs that had been knocked over from the ground and plopping himself down into it. Ominis collected himself, rolling his spine back into a standing position before beginning to pace. Each second of taciturnity filled his gut with more and more hysteric energy. His mind was going at the speed of light, horrible images of what fate could be befalling you slid behind his eyes like a demented moving picture show. All of his reserve flew out the window with the rest of his carefully curated apathetic coping mechanisms. His hands pulled at his hair, fingers digging into his roots and sending spikes of pain through his skull. The brunette carefully watched him from his vantage point, his eyes following each step of his companion as he made his way across the length of the rather large room. He could see the silvery tears that began to gather in the blond's eyes from his intense fear and called out to him in what he hoped was a calming voice.

“Ominis please sit down, you’re only going to work yourself into more of a panic if you keep pacing like that. They’ll be here soon— everything will be fine.” He cringed at the tremors that were present in his words, hoping the young wizard didn’t notice it.

The other boy turned towards the sound of his voice, quick as a whip, his eyebrows crinkled at his brow in dread and hands flailing around punctuating his snapped words. “What if they don’t, Sebastian? You heard the others in the common room, there were bloody goblins near the school! You know just as much as I do that that could only mean Ranrok is here. He’s probably the reason for everything that’s happening, and if he’s here that means that they’re down there, wherever in Merlin’s name there is, with him! They could be dead in some unknown tomb under the school and we would be none the wiser!”

Blinding, distressed anger struck down Sebastian’s spine as he stood from his slumped position. He snarled towards the smaller of the two, “Don’t you dare even say that. They’re not dead, they can’t be. Don’t even put that idea into the universe!” He could see the blond flinch at his harsh tone, his hands moving to wring together. The brunette sighed deeply, willing his heartbeat to slow down and his anger to disapparate. He carefully made his way towards Ominis, steps loud but gentle like approaching a startled animal, and placed his hand on the other's shoulder. He pretended it didn’t hurt him that he felt the boy stiffen under his touch. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have yelled at you, but we can’t think like that. We have to stay hopeful.”

The Gaunt boy relaxed slightly, his hands falling to his sides as he lowered his chin towards his chest. He sighed, “You’re right, it’s no use getting worked up. All we can do now is wait.”

Sebastian carefully led him towards the lounge chair he was sitting on earlier, gently pushing down on his shoulders so he would relax into the plush cushions before joining him. He tilted his head back towards the ceiling, eyes closed as he silently prayed to whomever was listening that you’d return to them safely.

***

The Undercroft filled with the sound of the large brass clock that resided in the Hogwarts clock tower, two loud clangs ricocheting off the stone walls that surrounded the space and filling the anxious ears of the two Slytherin’s that rested in its belly. Hours had passed since the tremors started; they long since puttered off and made way for the chilling quiet of the night. Both boys had not moved from their spot on the chaise lounge, each glancing longingly at the gate that led towards the castle hallways as they waited impatiently for their friend to return from what they could only imagine was a deranged war. They both fought valiantly against the sleep that clung to their bodies, each ticking second sending them closer and closer to sweet unconsciousness. They couldn’t sleep as long as you were still out there in Merlin knows what condition.

Sebastian sighed for the umpteenth time, his hands running through his already unruly curls and sending them into all possible directions. His leg bounced at his side, the muscle flowing with his anxieties and only being released by the constant movement. Ominis stood once again from his side, shaking the sleep from his person and beginning to pace the space once again. He couldn’t keep still any longer, not when you’d been gone for so long. Blond tresses fell in front of his eyes from his incessant hands combing through it. He took deep breaths, inhaling through his nose and exhaling through his mouth in order to calm his rapidly pounding heart. The silence was driving him mad, every little sound that wasn’t you coming through the metal gate was like a bullet to his brain. He feared the worst for you— the idea of you leaving this world without a word made his chest feel like it was caving in on itself.

The creak of the Undercroft gate broke both of the boys from their perturbed revelry. Sebastian sprung to his feet, head whipping to the side at the sound as Ominis spun on his heel and ceased his endless pacing as you stumbled through the doorway.

The blond made a small sound in the back of his throat, relief palpable in the air around him. “Thank Merlin you’re okay, we were worried sick about you!”

Sebastian’s heart stuttered in his chest, his words forcing themselves out around the lump that formed under his jaw. “Oh, dear God…” He breathed, his feet glued where he stood in shock as he took you in.

Ominis’ heart rate picked up exponentially. Tuning his ears to what was happening around him, he could hear the heavy breaths leaving both of his best friends with a renewed clarity. Your breathing was more stuttered than Sebastian’s, like you were struggling to suck in the air around you. Something was dripping lightly on the ground by your feet, the sound of its little plinks against the stone bounced around his skull like a small pebble skipping across the black lake. Pushing himself to focus more on the sound, the scent of copper filled his nose and sent a shiver down his spine.

With a pained whimper, your legs gave out and you crashed to the hard ground with a resounding thump.

Sebastian sprang into action, your noise of distress breaking him out of his stupor as he rushed over to your fallen form, calling out to the other boy in panic.

“Ominis, get the Wiggenweld potions!”

The blond stumbled over his feet, running towards the box in the far corner of the room that they filled with first aid equipment for moments just like this. The Sallow boy slid the rest of the distance between the two of you on his knees, arms outstretched to catch the top half of your body against his chest as the rest of your body gave in to gravity. He grasped you gently by the shoulders, moving your face into his vision and scanning you for injury.

“What happened? Who did this to you!?”

Your eyes were unfocused on his, black half moons coloring your bottom lids and the tops of your cheeks. Your voice was soft, barely loud enough for Sebastian to make out anything you were saying. He caught little snippets, mumbles of words like “Ranrok,” “repository,” and “Rookwood.” Blood dripped from a cut on your forehead, cascading down your incredibly pale face and staining the collar of your white button down. Your house cardigan was sliced open at the arm, showing a deep laceration stretching from the top of your arm to your elbow— Sebastian worried that if it was any deeper it would have hit bone. Your skin was almost grey from blood loss, your veins zigzagging under the flesh of your neck, chest, and arms like small strikes of lightning. He could see your knees through the rips in your trousers, the skin shredded and bruised, little bits of gravel dotting the wound like birth marks. One of your hands clutched your side, blood blooming through your fingers like a macabre rose bouquet. He carefully pried your fingers away to assess the damage and his breath caught in his throat, a sound of agony escaping from his open mouth. Through the hole in your shirt he could see multiple large, jagged slices in your side, each oozing buckets of blood. You winced as his fingers ran along your ribs, another groan of pain vibrating in your throat. He raised his eyes back to your face, irises dancing side to side as he tried to catch your gaze. Your entire body was shaking with adrenaline. He gently cupped your cheeks in his hands, forcing you to meet his piercing stare. His voice shook with dismay, the words leaving his mouth in a frenzy.

“I need to look at your side, okay? I need to see how bad the damage is. Just nod if you’re okay with that.”

You blinked slowly at him, a hand reaching out and wrapping around one of his wrists as you minutely nodded. Sebastian carefully took your hands into his and placed them on his shoulders for stability before unbuttoning the bottom of your shirt. His eyes were greeted with an enormous bruise, purples, blues, and blacks covering the skin of your lower left ribs and splintering out towards your chest. He sucked in a breath through his clenched teeth— you definitely had a few broken ribs. Your body began to slump against his, eyes fighting harder to stay open. He lightly slapped you on the cheek, frantically trying to keep you conscious.

“Hey, hey! No you don’t, you need to stay awake. Stay with us, okay?”

You laughed, wincing as your ribs shifted painfully, and smiled, your teeth stained a light pink from swallowing blood— you were absolutely delirious. “You should see the other guy.” Sucking in a deep, stuttering breath, your vision began to blur even more as your mind filled with numbing static. “I-I did it.”

Sebastian took your face into his hands once again, watching you with bated breath. “What did you do? Please, what happened to you?”

Your gaze focused on him finally, eyes softening as your smile stretched even wider. “I controlled it— the ancient magic, it’s inside me.”

The brunette blanched, his brain needing a second to catch up with your words before he laughed incredulously, head shaking in disbelief. “We can focus on that later. Right now, we need to stop you from dying, okay?”

Ominis appeared at his side, arms laden with as many potions as he could carry as he dropped roughly to his knees to your right. The oblong shaped vials clinked together as he haphazardly set them down on the ground, quickly drawing his wand and scanning you for any other injuries. Each pulse of his wand, each image blasted into his mindseye, sucked a little bit more color from his cheeks in horror. His hands hovered in the air next to your arm, shaking with barely contained terror as his mind fought whether to touch and comfort you or not touch you in case he hurt you even more.

His whole body vibrated, nerves completely shot to hell and his voice betraying every ounce of trepidation he held inside of him. "We need to get you to the infirmary! Why in Merlin's name did you come down here? You need a proper doctor, not us!"

You shook your head weakly, your speech slurred as your head slightly lulled in his direction. "Knew you'd worry— had to make sure you both were okay..." A breath. "Wanted to be with you— to see you...one last time..." It was getting harder and harder to breathe— each breath felt like you slammed your lungs in a bear trap.

Sebastian shushed you softly, lips grazing the skin of your temple as he whispered into your hair. "Quiet now, save your strength. You're safe now, you made it to us." He cleared his throat, adopting as much determination as he could muster. "You aren't dying today, alright? We won't let you, you stubborn bastard."

He gently lowered you so you were laying on your back and your head rested against the cool ground of the Undercroft, pushing the hair sticking to your temple back so he could clearly see your eyes. In his haste to move you, he didn’t notice that they were closed. Your breathing left your parted lips at a dangerously slow rate; your body finally giving out from the intense pain pulsing through your system. White hot panic screamed at the front of his skull.

“Hey! What did I say? Stay with us, dammit!”

You didn’t budge.

“Shit. Shit!”

Uncorking one of the potions, he pressed it against your lips with one hand and tilted your chin back with the other, whispering prayers for you to wake up as the bitter liquid slid down your throat. Ominis bit his lip hard, muffling the hysterical pants that threatened to leave his lungs. The taste of his own blood filled his mouth as it steadily dripped down his throat. He pressed his fingers against the pulse point on your neck, feeling for your heartbeat. It was soft, but still there.

The blond grasped one of your hands in his while the other still held his wand, coasting the tip of it over your body like he did to the chessboard hours before to check the status of your injuries. Your fingers were so cold.

Nodding towards the brunette, unseeing eyes never leaving your body and voice shaking, he shouted, “Give them another one!”

Sebastian pressed a second potion to your lips, watching it flow down your open throat as color began to return to your cheeks. His heart continued to slam against his ribs painfully, threatening to break out from under his skin.

The skin around your arm began to lace itself back together, the large cut that resided there turning into a barely raised scar— the same happening to the slice on your temple.

Another potion.

The bruising around your naval began to disapparate, the skin around your ribs painting itself to match the rest of your complexion.

He gave you the last of the potions, watching as the final scars of your battle stitched together and solidified at your side. Your flesh was red and angry around where the wound was, raised and burning to the touch, but no longer gushing enough blood to feed a small army of vampires.

Both boys held their breath as they waited for your eyes to open once again, each one counting the seconds that you remained unconscious. The space behind their eyes began to sting with unshed tears. Dread nestled itself in their chests and spread through their entire bodies like a wildfire, both fearing the worst— that you wouldn’t wake up, that the potions didn’t help, that you were still dying.

“Please don’t leave us. Not yet.” Sebastian whispered, leaning down and pressing his forehead against yours. His voice cracked with sorrow.

After what felt like a century, your eyelids fluttered open and you took in the world around you. The taller Slytherin leaned back so he could catch your gaze, breathed a heaving sigh of relief, tears gathering in his lashes and streaking down his cheeks as he gave a weak, watery chuckle. He brushed his fingers through your blood slicked hair, a soft smile tweaking the corners of his mouth.

“Hey, stranger. You scared us there for a second.”

You smiled up at him, eyelids slitted but finally open, finally alive. “Can’t get rid of me that easily.” You croaked, your voice raspy.

A harsh sob left their blond companion, his body finally slumping around the tautness he held since you entered the room. He rolled onto his back, legs thumping against the ground below as he brought his hands to cover his face, tears of pure, unbridled joy leaking through his fingers and wetting the dusty floor as light relieved laughs and muted curses spilled from his lips.

“You both are going to send me to an early grave, I’m sure of it.”

Laughing to himself, the brunette gazed down at you, his thumb lightly tracing along your cheekbone. “Let’s get you to the hospital wing, yes? Then you can tell us all about what happened.”

You nodded against his hand, letting him pull you up to your feet and wrap his hand around your waist. Ominis stood with you both, doing the same on your other side after pressing a careful kiss to your hair, squeezing your hand in his.

Safely tucked between your two boys, the three of you made your way out of the Undercroft and into the hallways of the castle you saved— the castle you called home.

***

like what you read? here's more!

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shibaraki · 2 years

Text

SYMBOL OF FEAR ┊ SHIGARAKI TOMURA

tags: GN reader, hospital setting, reader is a nurse, post war recovery au, canon divergence (tomura loses his quirk after he’s saved), this is not sexual, angsty, idk I just wanted to help him wash his hair :(

wc: 2.3k

“Don’t touch me!”

You exhale shakily, lowering your head with both hands held out in surrender. Slowly does it. You back away from him, stopping when the heel of your foot hits the wall.

Eyes alight and wide with fury, there’s a red bloom bordering the sclera. He must have thrown up again. The needle once in the crook of his arm has been torn out, his IV pole laid across the floor. With a white knuckle grip, he’s trembling violently enough to rattle the metal frame around his bed.

Nothing is decaying.

Gently, “Tenko—”

“That isn’t my name!” he spits. His voice is brittle, much like a cub's imitation of a roar. You feel your chest tighten. In your care is Shimura Tenko, once Shigaraki Tomura — The Symbol of Fear, undeniably frightened of you.

“Tomura,” you correct yourself. “I’m sorry. I acted hastily because I was worried about your IV. I shouldn’t have done that”.

Pale faced, skin visibly sore and dry. The bridge of his nose wrinkles, his upper lip pulling back. He snarls, even as it splits the surface wounds around his mouth. Viscous strings of saliva thin between his jagged teeth as he bares them in your direction.

“I know you’re still confused, and I wish I could give you answers,” you hold his gaze meaningfully for a moment before dipping your head. “I am only here to help you recover. That remains true whether you believe it or not”.

His chest rises and falls erratically, refusing to give a response. You simply watch as his gown falls forward with each rasping breath, revealing pale, scarred collarbones. There are streaks of pink running down the column of his throat, blood rushing to the broken skin.

You wait a few more minutes. Time moves forward, tenderly wearing on his defenses. As the anger melts away the expression on Tomura’s face is fearful. Eyes wide as they survey the room, unblinking until the sting is unbearable, then repeating the motions.

The clear helplessness struck a chord with you, playing the strings in your heart. Given all the atrocities he had committed, any normal person might say the guilt you felt for his treatment was misguided.

Yet with the knowledge of his upbringing plastered across every news outlet, the details of his family’s death and the near loss of his own self, there is an undeniably human part of you that seeks to reassure him. Cowering before you is Shimura Tenko, taken and misshapen. A small child whose flesh had been held over the hearth, repurposed to be the perfect tool for destruction.

And now the reason he was allowed to live, the sole reason for which he believes he received patience and love, is gone. He has found himself back at the start.

Cowering before you is Shimura Tenko. Quirkless.

“You have been bed bound for quite some time now,” you begin again, speaking with soothing cadence. He bristles at your tone, but the defensive snapping doesn’t return. He only scrutinises you.

“I’m sure you’d like to wash yourself again and get a little independence back,” you say, unsure if he is even aware of the bed bathing that you and the other nurses gave him during his induced coma. “There’s a wet room adjoined to this one with an accessible shower, if you’d like to use it”.

“I’m not a child,” he fumed.

Dignity is a fragile thing. You nod, softening your gaze as you do so, and tell him, “I know”.

Your acquiescence appears to startle him, the grip he has on the bed frame marginally loosening. His silence permeates the air, stifling as you inhale, waiting in anticipation for his decision.

Gradually, he sheds the reluctance and his limbs unfurl across the mattress. A sliver of bare skin between the end of his gown and the beginnings of his compression stockings. His body trembles with the effort it takes to scoot to the edge of his bed, and he hesitates to set his feet on the floor.

“Do you need me to—”

“No!”

“Right,” stupid question. You wince, averting your gaze to the bathroom door, enough that it is no longer pervasive but he is kept in your periphery.

Tomura grabs the IV pole from the floor, pulling himself up with it to stand. Reflexively, his pinky is extended away from it. He breathes in deeply and visibly steels himself before letting go, finger by finger, until he is upright without support.

He makes his way around the bed towards the ensuite, his gait slow and heavy as if wading through water. Neither of you say a word, and you follow him two steps behind, noting how his shoulders stiffen if you come too close.

The bathroom is clinical in nature, entirely waterproof and sealed. Beneath your feet are stone coloured tile, painted over with anti slip coating, and the walls are a washed out white. There is a slightly raised toilet with an adjustable grab rail beside it, and a basin between two mounted rails for stability.

Largest is the shower itself, wide enough for a wheelchair to fit. Attached to the wall are three dispensers, a fold down stool bordered by two metal rails, and tucked into the corner is a large blue shower curtain.

Before you can offer, Tomura reaches behind his head to fiddle with the string keeping his gown together. You turn away, pulling out the stool beneath the shower head and stretching to toy with the water, flinching as it rushes out of the head onto the wetroom floor.

A huff. The warmth of another body brushes against you. “Move,” Tomura gripes. Keeping your eyes up, you step back with both arms held out. He ultimately ignores them, bracing onto the grab rail as he lowers himself onto the stool beneath the spray. Pin pricks of water bounce off his back onto your clothes.

You make no comment about the small towel wrapped around his waist to protect his modesty. Reaching over, you pull the curtain across. “I’ll have to stay in the room for your safety, but let me know if you need anything”.

“Whatever,” is his succinct reply. You worry the flesh of your bottom lip between your teeth. His silhouette is murky behind the curtain. The pressure is loud, repetitive white static in your ears. You watch as his head dips to hang defeatedly between his shoulders, drapes of his hair falling forward with the movement.

“The dispensers on the wall are label—”

“I can read!”

Well, at least he’s energetic. With no further assistance needed, you slowly back away to sit on the closed toilet seat. A hospital gown, disposable pants and his compression socks have been left in a heap beside the door.

When the shower cuts off abruptly, Tomura’s frustrated growl echoes throughout the room. “This thing is broken!”

“Did you try to turn the temperature up?” you ask.

Aside from the staccato drip of water from his wet body, everything falls silent. You sigh quietly. “The system automatically turns off if you make it too hot. I don’t want it to scald you”.

“Why not?” he snaps. You can hear him playing with the buttons. “I can handle a bit of pain”.

You smile despite yourself. “I think you’ve had enough of that already”.

Tomura doesn’t respond, and instead restarts the water. As his body moves under the spray the direction changes, spitting against the inside of the curtain. Over the crescendo, you can hear the distinct mechanical click of one of the dispensers.

Tenko is to be tried as a villain, yes. He is patient of yours, too. But most of all he is a person, deserving of privacy and respect. So you temper the urge to talk further, and allow him this unencumbered space to think, folding both hands in your lap. Minutes pass, and you wait.

You glance up as he gasps. It’s a soft, pained sound, barely heard. “Hey,” he croaks, rapping his fingers against the curtain as he searches for the opening. “Can you…”

Moving instinctively, you grab a dry towel before pulling back the curtain. Tomura is still hunched over, curling into himself. The towel over his lap is soaked. Quickly, you scan him for any obvious injuries.

He’s covered in bubbles. You see his white hair sticking to his naked shoulders in spiked clumps, saturated with water. Thick scars of various shapes and sizes, slashes and starbursts mottling his back.

Then you notice he is pressing the heel of his hand harshly against his eyes. You lower onto your haunches, proffering the dry towel. “Press this where it stings,” you tell him.

His throat bobs as he swallows. Head turning, his expression is pinched in distress. Tomura keeps both eyes closed, blindly searching for the cloth and recoiling as he makes contact with you.

“Here, let me…” you bring the towel up to him, dabbing it gently along with one hand while the other shields his face from the spray. To your surprise he doesn’t object, but instead steadily thaws under your touch. You tense in the effort to remain upright as he leans more of his weight into your palm, nuzzling into the fabric.

There are still bubbles spilling over from his crown. He definitely used too much from the dispensers, but that’s best kept to yourself. Gingerly, you use your free hand to brush them away before they can slip down his forehead.

“Would you like me to rinse your hair for you?”

His response is muffled and short. “Tomura, I need you to verbally consent”.

“Fine,” he groans, voice clearer with his chin tilted away from the linen. “…Hurry up”.

You instruct him to hold the towel and he does so, going back into hiding as you busy yourself with angling the shower head and adjusting the pressure. “Okay. I’m going to hold the back of your neck. Is that alright?”

Another grunt, though this time it is paired with a sharp nod. Cautiously, you pull the stool further from the wall and turn it until his back is to the spray. “Let me know if you want me to stop”.

Carefully you slide a hand behind his head, cradling the nape of his neck like you would an infant. His elbows raise with him as you tilt him back under the shower, keeping the towel over his eyes.

His hair falls with the flow of the water. Aware of his sensitive temperament, you begin at the roots, lightly massaging his scalp with your fingertips. You do not progress until the rigidity has seeped from his body, relaxed and breathing steadily in his chair.

Tomura’s hair is unnaturally white, thick and coarse. It is long, too, falling to the small of his back. There are plenty of knots, and as you comb your fingers through the length to rinse away the bubbles, you find yourself pausing often to gently untangle them.

“Does that feel okay?”

“Mm,” he sighs.

“Don’t fall asleep here Tenko,” you laugh under your breath, “I can’t carry you”.

Your arm is entirely wet, and in reaching to squeeze the water from the tips of his hair, he has slipped into the crook of it. His head turns limply into your chest, and the towel slips from his face.

Where there was once a snarling, ferality in his eyes there is now a haunting contentment to them. He blinks up at you in a daze, the fluorescent light reflecting in the burst vessels around his iris. You watch each other silently, accompanied only by the pitter patter of droplets hitting tile.

Belatedly, he mumbles, “Mama…?”

Breath held, you smother the emotions that well up inside of you. Deep, deep down, you pack them into an already overflowing chest and lock it shut. After shutting off the shower, you tap two fingers against his cheek.

“Tomura?” you call him, concerned about his sudden delirium. The bridge of his nose wrinkles at the name. “I need you to come back to me, okay? Do you know where we are?”

Gradually, the recognition moves through his face. You witness brick by brick as he rebuilds his wall. Blinking away the haze, tension returns to his body, and he cringes away from your embrace upon realising his position.

“Tomura?” you’re both sad and relieved to see his upper lip curling in disdain again. Once more, you ask, “Do you know where we are?”

“In the hospital,” he rasps, cognisant again. “Get the hell off of me”.

You remove your arm from behind his head and he leans on to the grab rail, skin damp and pebbling in the tepid air. Hastily, you find him a larger towel and tuck it around his shoulders, unperturbed by his choleric hiss.

“Careful when you stand, your muscles relaxed quite a bit,” you give a small smile. He grunts. Intuitively, you know that offering to walk him would result in more embarrassed anger. “Do you feel comfortable enough to let me insert the IV back in once you’re dressed?”

Tomura sits himself up straight and readjusts the covering in his lap. “I’m sick of needles,” he says, avoiding your gaze.

Dark blotches seep through the towel as it soaks up the water. While the shower had been short, you think he already looks a little better like this. Clean. There was still a long road ahead, but before this he had never let anyone touch him without sedation, so you count it as a significant win.

“How about I do it after you’ve eaten, then?”

He peers at you through the curtains of hair, laid comically flat to his head. His appearance and his behaviour sometimes resembled a stray cat. More often than not, you had to remind yourself that he had been an extremely dangerous individual, responsible for tragic destruction all throughout Japan.

And here he was, “Can I have some ohagi?”

The figurative chest deep in your consciousness threatens to burst. You rub at the spot over your heart as it aches, and smile sadly.

“Sure, Tenko. I’ll have them send up some ohagi”.

#bnha x reader #shigaraki x reader #m.tomura #q’d #if anyone tags this mommy kink I will **** them . thank u

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acapelladitty · 6 months

Text

Jonathan Crane/Reader - Captive (Kinktober #9)

Summary: Held captive by Jonathan Crane, you find yourself victim to his cruelties as the reality of just how monstrous the Master of Fear can be truly sets in. (TW for noncon & various implied abuses and punishments)

Part 2: available here

Awaking with a start, the sudden brightness of the overhead bulb which dragged you from a restless sleep burns your eyes and you snap them closed once more as you find yourself momentarily blinded.

The filthy mattress providing very little comfort from the even filthier floor below, your body instantly screams its discomfort as you unfurl from your curled position. No matter how you recalled falling asleep, you awoke in the same state; with your body cramped and aching as it wound itself into the tightest ball imaginable. To protect yourself as much as you could.

Still disoriented by sleep and exhaustion, bleary eyes dart around the bare room as reality sets in- the horrid truth of your captivity a fresh trauma every time you awaken in the prison-like space.

A screech of metal and your body flinches away from the mattress, scrambling towards the furthest away wall as a familiar, tall figure creeps through the sliver of opened door. Your heart leaps into your mouth as the temperature of the room drops even further, a stiff breeze quickly sneaking in as the door is left ajar, its guardian showing no fear of a potential escape.

"Evening, pet." A deep voice greets and the cadence of it sends a deep shudder rolling through your spine as your back pushes even harder against the wall, your eyes now rooted to the floor to avoid any misstep.

Your trembling fingers clutch at the ragged blanket which he had so graciously provided after you begged for something, anything, to stave off the bone-chilling cold which settled in during the long nights. The fabric was frayed at the edges and rotted with holes which looked to be the result of moths, a stale scent clinging to the fibres. It was disgusting but you had carefully hidden the retch which threatened your throat as he presented it and, further still, hidden the disgust as you delivered his 'reward' for such a kind treat.

"No hello?" His voice drops any pretence, and your frightened eyes instantly snap to his own, the rounded wire-rimmed glasses doing nothing to hide the frigid emerald gaze below. "How unfortunate. I thought we had finished up our work on basic manners."

"Hello, D-Dr. Crane." You stutter out, panic tearing through your thoughts at your own stupidity for forgetting his rules. His lessons were cruel and never ended before both your body and mind were shattered, broken into a pitiful submission until he next decided you had slipped up. "I-I'm sorry, I've just woken up."

"Lazy." He sneers, genuine contempt playing in his features as he looms over you. "I've been awake for fourteen hours and the night is still young. Such laziness deserves correcting as I will not stand for a substandard little pet. Not when I have so kindly visited to check in on them."

His Scarecrow costume is tight around his body and your eyes drop to the telltale bulge in his brown slacks and the sight of it sparks fresh despair in your chest as you realise exactly what he is here for.

"No. No, please. Not again." You whine through jittering teeth, your knees drawing up flush against your chest as your fingers curl harder into the ratty blanket. "Please. No."

He moves quicker than you anticipated, and a shrill cry breaks free of your lips as his fingers latch around your shivering frame and push you down to the mattress. Whatever resistance you make is weak and pathetic, a lack of food and movement making your body feel lethargic and frail, even against his mild strength.

Stars flash across your darkening vision as his thin hands slams your head off the mattress, a sharp pain in your lower lip altering you to the fresh split in the skin there as blood pools within your mouth.

Apologies spill from your lips, disturbing the fresh cut further, and the words fall free thoughtlessly as your body tenses before going slack against any further brutality.

Just let him do what he wants.

He will anyway.

The blanket now fallen away, you lay there naked and stunned as the chill from the opened door washes over your bruised skin; the mottled colours of older injuries standing out starkly. His hand releases your head, and you cry silently as you remain as still as possible until a sharp kick to the outer thigh makes you yelp in surprise.

"Ready yourself."

Whimpering with shame as you draw your knees up and bend your head down, you present your naked ass, allowing him to move out of sight behind you as you hear the familiar sound of shuffling fabric and the rustle of a zip.

A sharp nail scores a harsh line across your ass and you can feel the well of blood immediately as he breaks the skin there. It's a sharp pain but against the other aches of your abused frame, it means very little aside from sparking a fresh whimper from your lips.

Openly sobbing as his finger presses against your asshole, you spread your knees further to allow him easier access - knowing that the punishment will be a lot harsher if you don't.

"Good pet." His finger pulls away and you flinch as a warm glob of spit lands just above your hole, the insufficient lube rolling across your ass as his finger returns to spread it carelessly. "Now, keep being good or I'll belt this ass raw and bloodied before enjoying my reward."

His cockhead bumps messily against your hole and despite the shuddering of your upper chest and face as they press against the cold stone flooring, you try to relax. Anything to make it easier and lessen even a little of the pain; even the lube was only for his own convenience, to ensure that he didn’t damage his own cock as he used you freely.

He enters your ass with a thrust which takes your breath away as you burn and stretch around him, forced to take half his length without mercy.

"Always so tight around me," he purrs, "pulling me in further like a whore." At the final word he jerks his hips forward once again and a broken sob flutters across the floor as his hips lay flush against your ass, the sharp sting of his entry a wretched discomfort as you feel hollowed out.

"Please, take it out." You beg, unable to stop. "It hurts. Y-you're killing me."

A callous laugh cuts across your words as his thin hand pulls your head free of the mattress and your scalp burns at the vicious tug as he tilts your head as far back at it would allow.

"Killing you? Don't be dramatic, pet. Why would I kill my favourite little project? You survived my toxin; you can survive a little fuck. If not, then maybe we should mix the two? My toxin is begging for another round inside that soft little frame."

Genuine fear stiffens your frame, your body thrashing and tightening your ass around him while he grunts at the sudden pressure, as you recall his toxin. You had lasted over an hour before passing out. A full hour of creeping shadows and horrific beasts tearing at your skin as you screamed and wailed and pissed yourself in terror. Awaking after that had been just as wretched as the ache of your abused body told you of just how much he had enjoyed your terror as you were lost in hallucination.

Even through the mania, you had heard his laugh. That high, cold laughter which mocked your suffering as he basked in the fruits of his labour. You remember him scolding you for the mess as he promised a cruel bath, little more than chilled water hosing you down as you retched and squealed under the hard pressure.

Snapping back to the present as his hand collides against your ass, sparking a dull ache in the abused skin, he continues his very real threat.

"What do you think would sink deeper; the needle or my cock?"

Mewling out something incomprehensible as you cough out some of the blood which has accumulated in your mouth, you clench your ass around him - ignoring the way it sparks a dull, throbbing pain in your guts - as you miserably await him finishing.

His pace is frantic and cruel, every thrust designed to inflict as much discomfort as possible as you writhe and bawl beneath him. Every breath is erratic, his panting broken up by feral growls and grunts as he nears his peak.

With a merciful swiftness, his sharp nails dig into the vulnerable skin of your hips as he drives himself as deep as possible as he comes. Heat pools within your mauled ass as he refuses to pull free, coating you with his release as he issues a strangled snarl, every inch the beast he truly was.

You press your head against the mattress roughly, pushing your tears into the stained fabric as he finally frees himself; his cock pulling from your ass with an obscene noise as you feel his cum trickle free of your abused hole.

Nothing else is said, his silence as oppressive as the cold air which now assaults your sweat- slicked skin, and you lie there pathetically sobbing into the mattress as you await his next torment.

It's not until a full minute later, several moments after the screech of the metal door alerts you to his exit that you even dare to move.

Slipping your fingers back to your ass, you brush against the tender flesh there as you wipe away his release - the very feel of it making your throat tight with an unrealised retch.

Wiping your stained fingers on the furthest edge of the thin mattress, you try to ignore the slight pinkish tinge to the liquid as you once again curl into a defensive position; a twisted relief that he had not followed through with his threat of toxin making you deliriously thankful even as fat tears roll across your filth-covered cheeks.

#jonathan crane #scarecrow #jonathan crane x reader #jonathan crane x you #scarecrow x reader #scarecrow x you #scarecrow fic #Jonathan crane fic #scarecrow smut #smut #a special request for a special beloved

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