#chap and house rule | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

ilium-ilia · 4 months ago

Text

In Limbo

simon "ghost" riley x fem!reader | mafia!au | masterlist

Prologue: overkill

tw: canon typical violence, death

It’s hard for Simon to keep his thoughts straight when there’s fresh blood on the ground.

Though he knows the blood is bright red, the pale grey cement of the empty pool gives it a russet tint. Oxidizing in front of his very eyes, he watches as the pear-shaped splatter dulls beneath flickering fluorescent lights. It’s a warning—fight hard, or his blood will be next to paint the floor of this empty, dilapidating pool.

No one else pays any attention to something as trivial as spilt blood. The countless voices that morph into cacophonous background noise are all focused on money. Men with twitching fingers are placing bets and making wagers, and if they’re lucky they’ll return home with more than what they had arrived with. Though Simon refuses to look outside of the sunken-in pool that cages him like a bad dog, he can feel the countless eyes searing his skin. He’s being measured. Sized up. Options are being weighed on if they think he has good odds.

He doesn’t care what they think.

An announcer on a jerry-rigged PA system mumbles something about last call for placing bets, and a few of the shapeless figures around him begin to scramble along the side of the pool. The chatter picks up, as does the shouting. Perhaps it’s the stone that encases the old pool house, but the men in charge have a way of making Simon feel as if he’s been thrown into the colosseum in ancient Rome. All he’s missing is a sword.

In five minutes, more blood will be added to the pool floor. Simon has every intention of ensuring that it’s not his.

Using the last few minutes of peace that he has left, Simon adjusts the wraps on his hands before securing the balaclava that obscures his face. The small bit of privacy that it provides gives him the tiniest semblance of comfort as he stands there like a pig waiting to be slaughtered. Underground boxing isn’t the most legal thing in the world, but being a butcher isn’t exactly a well paying job either. No one steps in the ring for fun—not in this establishment. These are high stakes, and higher rewards.

The only reason Simon even risks his skin in this hole is because the winner gets to take home twenty percent of the pot, and he’s got family to take care of.

Minutes pass and people begin to line the edge of the pool. Knowing his last few minutes of preparation is soon to end, Simon readies himself. He presses a thick soled boot against the concrete at his back where he pushes himself away from the wall and toward the large spray painted circle that decorates the bottom of the pool. The ring was drawn so long ago that the paint chips and fades in odd places, muddying what is blood and what is not. His opponent mirrors his actions on the other side of the ring. The man lazily saunters up to Simon, oozing a misguided confidence.

Out of all the spectators, the referee is the only one brave enough to sit on the ground with his legs hanging over the side of the pool. He’s a bored man who looks to be nineteen going on forty with sunken eyes and chapped lips—Simon notes how easy it would be to snap his scrawny legs by accident should the man find himself unfortunate enough to get caught in the crossfire of the fight. Like all the others in charge of this illicit operation, he’s clad in black, which makes the silver whistle dangling down his chest all the more eye-catching.

“Alright boys,” the referee shouts over the commotion around them. Simon attempts to put a name to the face, but fails. “The round starts and ends when the whistle blows. First to be pushed out of the ring or rendered unconscious loses. No weapons and… well, you guys know the rules.”

Both men nod before turning their attention to one another, using their last few moments to fully size one another up. Simon is taller, but that’s not exactly news. He’s well aware that his height and size is larger than the average man—a freak of nature, as his brother so politely reminds him—but that fact rarely seems to force anyone to shy away from fighting him. His opponent is shirtless, displaying a tense set of showy abs and ribs that dance beneath thin skin with each breath he takes. Simon internally rolls his eyes as the man cracks his neck. Muscles mean nothing; not when they’re being paraded.

Neither man wastes any time getting to work once the whistle blows. Simon’s nameless opponent didn’t bother to wrap his hands, and he flaunts tightly wound fists as he skirts around the edge of the ring. Refusing to be flamboyant, Simon keeps his arms tucked close to his face and chest, waiting either for the man to make a move or for the opportunity to attack. There is no need for him to show off or to prove himself to the people who placed bets on him—his only objective is to survive.

To win.

The man’s first punch is slow. Sloppy, even. A quick duck of his head and an adjustment of his hips is all Simon needs to avoid the blow. He dances like it’s child’s play and responds with a quick and sharp jab to the man’s exposed abdomen. The blow gives him a strained grunt in return. His opponent follows up with a weak punch intended for Simon’s face, something he easily blocks with his forearms. Speed and misplaced force seems to be the stranger’s tactic, something that doesn’t concern Simon in the slightest. Fortitude and stamina—he’ll exhaust the man before finishing him off.

Bit by bit the fight begins to pick up momentum. A quick jab on the right. A wide swing that sends one of the men ducking. Each blow is punctuated by the audience roaring in applause mixed with slight grimaces and groans. Two minutes pass and Simon’s cheek begins to swell from a nasty blow, and his forearms throb from all the hits he’s blocked. It’s nothing but scraped skin compared to his opponent, who’s attempting to ignore the blood that wets his chest as his nose spews like a faucet. Several drops manage to make a new home on the floor at their feet, only adding to the masterpiece of gore that stains the cracked concrete.

As the match goes on, the crowd begins to grow restless. Most fights only last a handful of seconds maximum, and the fact that it’s pushing into several minutes has people antsy. They want their results. They need their winner so they can claim their share of the sizable prize waiting for them, should they be so lucky. Instead of continuing the fight, of picking up the pace and doubling down, Simon’s opponent places his hands on his hips with a heavy sigh. There’s a slight pull to his lips, and the beginning of a titter that grows in his throat. The change in pace is enough to get Simon to pause.

“Look, man… I really need that money,” the man says, loud enough for only the two of them to hear.

Though Simon hadn’t expected anything friendly from the man, he certainly hadn’t expected something as insidious as this. Scraped fingers slowly dip into the pocket of his jeans where his opponent shows off the silvery sheen of a knife. Fully revealing it would instantly disqualify the man, so he keeps the majority of it tucked into his pocket and well out of sight. Still, there’s no mistaking the pocket clip or the threat that glints in warning.

He saunters up to Simon with a wide smile. He tries not to let his guard down despite the man’s sudden amicable composure, yet he finds himself stunned. The man still oozes that same, unwarranted pride. As if the match is already won.

“Just step outta the ring,” the man says flippantly. His feet tread carefully as he begins to close the gap between them like predator cornering prey. “This doesn’t have to be difficult.”

Simon doesn’t bother with a reply. Jittery neurons fire in his brain as he assesses his situation as fast as his mind will allow. The threat of a blade is real—terribly tangible—but flashing it would earn his opponent nothing.

He’s looking at a failure who doesn’t yet realize he’s lost.

Before the man can get any other bright ideas, Simon leaps into action. Though his size makes speed a difficult feat, he makes up for it in sheer force. Thick fingers wrap around a forearm, then there’s a twist of a wrist accompanied by a cry, and finally, bone on cement. Torn skin and chipped teeth, his opponent goes down with a frivolous groan that can hardly be heard over the sound of gasps and kvetching. His already sore nose is now well acquainted with the side of the pool, and the blood smears in a lighting-shaped streak as his knees buckle.

Not bothering to offer an apology, Simon turns away from the crumpled heap of a man on the ground only to be met with the soft face of the referee. He stands in the center of the ring where he gives Simon an enervated sigh, head shaking in disappointment as he blows his whistle.

“A little overkill, don’t you think?” the man asks as he spits the silver from his mouth.

Simon’s lips purse. “Overkill?”

“He was already well out of the ring before you made him kiss the wall,” he explains. “Technically, you did win, but they might cut your pay for bad sportsmanship. They’re not exactly trying to get anyone killed or disfigured here, kid.”

Bad sportsmanship. Simon knows that’s not really the issue here. Boxers dying during fights isn’t exactly good for business—or keeping things secret—and those who place bets usually get pretty sour when their lucky contestant is too injured to play. Still, taking a hit to his pay would dampen his night.

Huffing, Simon approaches his opponent once more with several shouts in protest. The man cowers, covering his face as he presses his back into the wall while muttering incoherent apologies. Simon kneels down to retrieve the hidden knife from the man’s pocket, and tosses it toward the referee. Clinking metal stuns the crowd into silence as all eyes lock onto the contraband as it skitters across the ground. Simon stands there with dull eyes.

There’s a short moment of hesitation from the referee. He opens his mouth, closes it, then smiles.

“And we have our winner!”

Ducking his head, Smon pulls himself out of the empty pool just as several security members leap in. They swarm his opponent like an angry hive of bees, but he doesn’t stick around to watch the show. As he weaves through the crowd, several people are brave enough to give him a pat on the back, though most stare at him with slight terror and the respect one gives to a dog with a nasty bite. He does not care about the heavy gazes—he’s won.

Things are quiet in the cash room; so quiet that Simon can hear his own heart. What used to be a locker room has been turned into a makeshift bank with large, heavy duty safes housing absurd wads of cash. That evening’s bettings, as well as everything leftover from previous weekends, stays locked behind thick doors and padlocks. A man with thin wired glasses sits at a rickety folding table as the banker—so to speak—counts Simon’s winnings by hand. Two men stand close by, armed to the teeth with illegal guns visible on their hips as if the very image of the weapons themselves are deterrent enough to keep everyone’s nose clean.

The banker glances up from the cash on the table, but neither man speaks as he returns to work. With a minimum bet of five hundred required to participate, Simon knows his winnings are in the thousands. It’ll take time for it all to be counted, but he’s not in a hurry; not at this time of night when the city ignites the sky and the porch lights wink to sleep for the evening.

“Ghost?”

Unlike most of the other fighters, Simon refuses to reveal not only his face, but his name. In fact, he had peeved the sign up representative a little when he refused to give the man his proper name, and in some sort of fit of annoyance, he was unceremoniously given the name Ghost. It’s a name that had gotten him laughed at when he first stepped foot in that bloodied pool. People deemed him nothing more than some stupid boy who dreamed too much of being in the WWE. After a few matches, people have learned to respect both the name, and the man behind the mask.

Simon turns to face the voice behind him and isn’t surprised to find a well dressed man approaching him with an easy smile. Donning a dress shirt and slacks, this stranger is the best dressed man in the putrefying pool house. The best smelling too, as Simon notes a whiff of expensive, woody cologne mixed with lingering tobacco. Though events such as illegal boxing were usually saved for the grunts, it isn’t rare for him to find the occasional well off business man feeding into their gambling addictions with something a bit more bloody than your average horse race.

“Yeah?” Simon responds stiffly.

Much to his surprise, the man holds his hand out for him to shake. There’s a dazzling silver watch that peeks out from beneath his sleeve—it’s probably worth half of his salary. Stretching the ache out of his knuckles, Simon courteously but cautiously takes the man’s hand.

“John Price,” the man introduces himself. “Quite the show you gave everyone out there.”

Simon hums as he shoves his hands into the pocket of his jumper. The sudden quietness isn’t lost on him, nor are the wary eyes that seem to burn into John Price. Even the guards look apprehensive despite the lead weighing their belts down. He tilts his head to the side, gesturing to the banker and his table. “Too excited to patiently wait for your winnings?”

“Oh. Oh, no. My wife doesn’t like when I gamble,” John chuckles. “No, I came here to offer you a job.”

It’s as if the ambiance of the room changes the very moment that proposal leaves his mouth. Shuffling feet, counting cash—it all ceases until it’s nothing but an echoing memory. There doesn’t seem to be any insidious intent or tone behind John’s voice, yet his offer still stops the very turning of the earth.

“Must be an interesting job if you’re scouting in a place like this,” Simon notes stiffly.

“Interesting and well paying,” John agrees. “I think it would be a shame to let those talents of yours go to waste.”

Talents? Simon nearly laughs in the man’s face at such an odd compliment. He’s not a trained fighter by any means, just obnoxiously big and brutally strong in a way most other people rarely ever have the misfortune of being. There are very few reasons why he would ever want to turn to a life like that—a life full of nothing but violence and fighting—and simply being offered decent pay was not one of them.

Here in this pool house, he can step out of the ring at any time. Something in the silence of the strangers around him tells him he wouldn’t have that same luxury with John Price.

“Thanks, but whatever it is, I’m not interested,” Simon deadpans before turning his attention back to the table.

The banker must have finished counting his winnings some time in the middle of their very brief conversion, because he holds out a fat stack of cash with impatient hands. Reading the queue begging for him to leave, Simon takes the stack before quickly shuffling through it and tossing a couple notes back on the table. The banker mutters an awkward thanks, but his eyes don’t leave John.

“Have a good night, Mr. Price,” Simon dismisses with a simple nod.

Just as he goes to leave, Simon is stopped in his tracks as John raises a hand in front of his chest. It would be easy to push past him, yet Simon obeys. Still smiling, John reaches into his pocket where he retrieves a small rectangular card before holding it out.

“Take this before you go. Just in case,” he insists.

Simon stares at the card for a long moment, studying its features. It’s nothing but plain white cardstock with a phone number handwritten across the face, which is oddly simple for someone with such a powerful aura. He’s inclined to believe that John had scribbled it down before entering the building, as if he had anticipated Simon’s rejection. Seeing no harm, he takes the card before hastily shoving it into his pocket, convinced he’ll forget all about it by the time he gets home.

“I won’t lie, it’s hard work. Not exactly an easy life. No more legal than what you did here tonight, either,” John says as his smile begins to wane. “But just know that if you do change your mind, I always take care of my men. Always.”

Unconvinced, Simon gives him a curt nod. “Sure,” he responds, voice hoarse. Then, he turns and strides out of the room, leaving John Price and that decaying building far behind him.

Simon doesn’t remove his mask until he’s several blocks away and the night begins to dwindle into nothing but a faint memory. The aches in his body begin to show themselves with a gentle pulse beneath his left eye and a throbbing in his ribs, ones he knows will only worsen by morning. With his earnings tucked safely away into the confines of his pockets, he hardly thinks about the numbers until his car is parked in front of his mother’s house.

It hasn’t changed much since he was a kid—it still has the floral patterned curtains obscuring the windows and the cement stairs with railing that squeaks whenever anyone leans on it improperly. The paint has begun to fade, sunwashed a pale azure that nearly blends in with the sky on a cloudless day. The inside has changed considerably throughout the years. Significantly less toys than he remembers, and more pictures of the long lost days of his childhood staining the walls.

He makes sure to exercise caution when unlocking the door and letting himself in. Like always, his mother has left the lamp on in the living room, providing just enough light for him to sneak into the kitchen. Several hand washed dishes sit neatly in a drying rack next to the sink, and he can smell the lingering aroma of supper. On the fridge, there are countless old photographs of him and his older brother from when they were younger. Toothy grins and stained knees—the annoying bastard used to be cute back then.

Digging his hands into his pocket, Simon pulls out the cash he earned and begins to shuffle through the notes. There’s more tonight than he can recall from any of the other nights he’s thrown himself into the ring. Plenty for him to live off of for a little while, in addition to what he already makes at work. If his math is correct, he could give his mother two thousand, though he can already hear her chastising him. He counts the cash and tosses it on the counter next to the bread box, then pauses. No, maybe he should give her three thousand, just in case his brother comes around asking her for cash.

Again.

“Thomas?”

It isn’t often that a man like Simon jumps, but all men know well enough to have a little bit of fear when their mother’s voice cuts through an otherwise quiet kitchen. He squints as she flicks the lights on, and it takes a moment for his eyes to adjust to the brightness. His mother stands in the doorway, tired gaze attempting to make sense of the scene in front of her. Though she had been freshly roused from sleep, her hair is well kept and her pajamas are only minimally wrinkled.

“Oh, Simon,” she corrects herself, surprised. “Everything alright love?”

He feels like a kid again getting caught red handed trying to steal snacks at some ungodly hour. Except, instead of stealing, this time he’s attempting to give something. It’s too late for him to shove the cash into his pocket and pretend he’s here for some other reason. A late night cup of tea, or a one o’clock talk. Ever since her eyes adjusted to the light, his mother’s been clearly scanning the bundle in his hands. Huffing, he continues to count the cash as if it’s of no importance.

“Didn’t mean to wake you,” his voice rumbles softly. It doesn’t take him long to finish counting, and when he’s done he straightens out the pile before shoving the remaining amount back into hiding. “Just droppin’ somethin’ off real quick. Don’t worry ‘bout it, just go back to bed.”

Ignoring his request, Simon’s mother shuffles across the room with a titter before she reaches the fridge. It isn’t long before she’s retrieved a bag of peas from the freezer, and she all but forces it into his hand.

“If you ice it now, the swelling should go down by Monday,” she says while raising the bag to his cheek.

Sighing, Simon relents. Leaning against the counter, he keeps his face shoved into the brutally cold bag and tries not to wince at the pressure. If anything, the bite of the frigid peas is worse than the bite of a fist.

“You have to stop doing this to yourself, Simon,” she lectures. Despite her short stature, she stares up at her son with her hands on her hips as if he’s still a child and not a twenty-six year old man. “Whatever money you’re making from this isn’t worth what you’re putting your body through. All bruised up like a peach, look at you.”

“It’s worth it if it helps get you through the month,” Simon retorts bluntly. Plastic crinkles as he adjusts the bag on his face. His fingertips begin to tingle.

“I know your mother is getting closer to being a helpless old lady, but I’m not there quite yet,” she chuckles. “I’m not going to be living out on the streets.”

“You will if you keep giving money to Tommy as often as you do.”

It’s difficult for her to come up with a response, because deep down she knows her son is right. No matter how much she wishes he wasn’t. The oldest of her two sons grows skinnier and more pallid every time she sees him, and the only thing he ever seems to be interested in consuming is cash. His expensive diet is insatiable, and unfortunately, she doesn’t have the fortitude to deny him his favorite meal.

“If he comes around again, tell him to talk to me,” Simon continues. Wincing, he pulls the bag of peas off of his face to offer his skin a little reprieve from the cold. “Kick him out if you have to. Unless he’s over for tea, he doesn’t need to be harassing you for money.”

Lips pursing, his mother nods.

There isn’t much left to their late night kitchen conversation. Sleep pulls heavy on his mother’s eyes, and all Simon wants to do is wash away the filth of that night down the shower drain. He places the bag of peas back in the freezer before giving his mother a quick kiss on the cheek. They quietly mutter their goodbyes, leaving him to quickly slip out of the kitchen and toward the front door. His hand hardly brushes against the dull, brass knob before he hears her call out to him once more.

“You stay safe out there, Simon.”

“Always, mum.”

The thing about Simon Riley is that his hands are always dirty. No matter how much pink tinged water swirls down the drain, he can never quite get the stench of death and raw muscle out of his skin. But it’s alright. Men like him—large, burly, and utterly terrifying—are meant to be this way. Hidden in the back of butcher shops, transforming once living creatures into something so unrecognizable that the average person is able to stomach consuming something that once looked at the same stars as them.

His face still aches, and it’s bruised a deep plum, but he ignores it as he attempts to wash his hands clean of stale blood.

Just as he finishes drying his hands, the small pitter-patter of feet catches his attention. Looking up from his station, Simon sees Meara, the young girl who runs the register up from. She’s kind enough, yet always seems eternally bored with the work at the shop, but her usual dull expression is replaced with one of slight concern. Leaning against the doorway, she jams her thumb over her shoulder while clearing her throat.

“There’s someone up front asking for you,” she says. “He’s uh… very adamant about speaking to you.”

Nodding, Simon tosses his paper towel into the bin next to the sink. “I’ll take care of it.”

There is a corpse waiting for Simon. Or perhaps a ghost. Some otherworldly being who’s been long dead with skin so pale it’s nearly translucent and gaunt cheekbones. Greasy blonde locks lay flat on this corpse’s head, neatly combed back as if the filth is there on purpose. Simon’s stomach drops as he witnesses the mess that’s become of his brother as he stands on the other side of the counter, yet the man smiles at him as if all is right in the world.

“Simon, hey man,” Thomas greets as he scratches the back of his neck. His scuffed knuckles don’t go unnoticed, but Simon doesn’t bother to mention the split skin. “How’s work?”

“What do you want?” Simon deadpans. “Mum finally turn you away? Come to beg me for cash instead?”

Whatever amicable persona Thomas attempts to wear quickly morphs into something more desperate at his little brother’s comment. He slumps forward, hands flat on the counter, and getting much too close for comfort. Simon can smell his breath; putrid, as if he has rotting flesh stuck in his teeth.

“Come on,” he says, nearly begging. “I know it sounds bad, but I just… This is serious, alright? Look, I couldn’t tell mum ‘cause she’d freak the fuck out, but I-I owe some guys a bit of money, okay? They’re getting a little impatient with me.”

A heavy presentiment hooks into Simon’s stomach, and then tugs with brutal force. Cracking his sore knuckles, he ignores it as he keeps his attention on his brother.

“How much?” he questions.

Sweating, Thomas’s eyes flicker throughout the shop, landing on everything but Simon. “I just need a couple hundred to keep them off my back for a while.”

“That’s not what I asked you,” Simon snaps. “How much, Tom?”

He swallows. “Seventy-five.”

“Hundred?” Simon pushes further.

“Thousand.”

Every muscle in Simon’s body turns to stone as he repeats that simple word in his mind over and over again. It’s an echo. One that threatens to crack his bones. He is well aware that his brother is an idiot—a dunce who can’t help but make choices that draw blood—but he never imagined he would get into this much trouble. Thomas still refuses to look at him, which gives Simon the time he needs to get his thoughts together and stay as level headed as possible, lest he worry Meara.

“How the fuck did you manage that?” he asks, keeping his voice low.

“That’s not important right now,” Thomas snaps, though he backs off when he notices just how sharp his brother’s glare is. “I-It’s a long story. Look, I can explain later, but right now I need you to help me. I think… I think they’re coming after me.”

“What do you mean, coming after you?”

A small bell rings with the opening of the shop door, and Thomas anxiously turns around to greet the two men like he knows them by their presence alone. As the men saunter inside, Simon catches himself memorizing their faces. He scrutinizes every detail until every angle of their faces is carved into his mind. They’re oddly well dressed, though their clothes are monochrome and dark. The sneers on their faces and the boredom in their eyes remind him of snakes. Forked tongues and sharp teeth—they grin like they enjoy blood and meat only for the smell of it.

“Oh, Tommy,” one of the men taunts in a sing-song voice as he approaches. “You took us for a good chase, but time’s up.”

“Look, I’m sorry man, I don’t have the money right now. Just give me another week,” Thomas pleads.

“You’ve already used your extended week,” one of the men snarls. His biting words manage to make Meara squeak from behind Simon, and he hears her feet scrape against the floor as she hides in the back of the shop. “You know the rules. If you can’t pay with cash, then you pay with blood instead.”

Trembling fingers brush against Simon’s arm as Thomas attempts to urge him to the back of the shop. “Get outta here,” he hisses with a pathetic squeak. “You don’t… you shouldn’t have to watch this.”

For a moment, Simon is back in the ring again. Cheering voices echo off cement walls as he’s caged and forced to rage against another man. He’s never been scared before—not there with his arms raised and hands clenched into fists—but he’s scared now. All it takes for him to spring into action is a flash of silver and the searing glint of light along the sharp edge of a knife.

The fight starts with Simon leaping over the counter followed by a crunch. Metacarpals and pebble-like bones twist and fracture beneath the crushing force of his grip, and the would-be-murderer in front of him squeals like a pig. Wrenching the pocket knife from his broken hand, he then drives his knee into the man’s gut. Air escapes between clenched teeth as the assailant drops to his knees where he clutches his stomach and dry heaves, spit dribbling from his mouth.

All noise suddenly becomes muffled as Simon straightens himself out to face the other man. He cannot hear the cries of the crumpled man at his feet, nor his brother’s warning. It’s hard for him to hear anything at all when he’s staring down the barrel of a gun.

Bracing himself, Simon charges toward the man as fast as he can. The distance is short, but it feels as if an eternity lies between their bodies before his elbow finally connects with a sputtering diaphragm. Both of them fall to the ground as a single, deafening gunshot rings throughout the shop. When he lands, he hits the ground hard, his shoulder taking a majority of the impact. Groaning, Simon rolls away from his attacker and pushes himself to his feet to prepare himself for a fight, yet the battle has already been won.

Thomas’s creditor lies on the ground with a blade embedded into his stomach. It fits so snugly in his abdomen it’s as if the object has never known any other home. All the man can do is lie there with careful breaths as he tries to paw at the wound, but it’s deep. A large crevice that pierces through more than just skin. More than just muscle. Blinking, Simon looks down at himself with his stained jeans and reddened fingers.

He just washed his hands.

“Fucking… Jesus fucking Christ… Oh my god, Simon,” Thomas stutters. Wide eyes stare at the fading life on the ground, yet he doesn’t dare to bring himself closer to his almost-killer. “Simon, he’s gonna… He’s gonna fucking die. What do we- Jesus Christ, Simon your arm!”

Hands begin to paw at him, but Simon can’t feel the pain. He can’t hear Meara’s trembling voice as she begs on the phone for an ambulance. There’s nothing. All he feels is the nervosity clawing at his chest while he watches the light flicker out of the eyes of the man on the floor. He can’t deduce what’s worse; the fact that he’s just killed a man, or the realization that taking a life is just as easy as butchering a pig?

It’s a long afternoon at the hospital. It takes eight stitches to close up the flesh wound that nicked Simon’s shoulder, but speaking to the police is ten times more painful. The questions. The interrogating. They speak to him as if they think he’s already guilty—as if they can’t see the remorse rolling off of his shoulders in thick waves. He isn’t able to limp back into his apartment until close to midnight, and even then he’s still unsure if he’ll remain a free man.

A murderer. That’s what he is now. Even with the torn flesh on his arm screaming at him that he would be a victim if it weren’t for his actions, he still feels the way that stranger’s blood sullied his hands. That was a life he took. A real, tangible life that used to breathe. Someone is dead because of him. Cold and stiff. Because of him.

Then, in the midst of his self-deprecation, he remembers his brother.

No—Thomas would have been the corpse. He still could be the corpse. Seventy-five thousand pounds is not easy to scrounge up—not when it’s worth more than an average salary. A dead man walking, Thomas only survived the day because Simon was there to take the hit.

It takes Simon three minutes to search through his trash can. He claws at the old take out boxes and rotting food all to find the now stained card that was gifted to him over the weekend. Pasta sauce muddies the phone number scrawled across the otherwise pristine face, yet he can make out each digit clear enough to punch it into his phone.

The line rings for so long that he fears no one will pick up, or that maybe he’s too late for this opportunity, but eventually the silky smooth voice of John Price bellows through the speaker.

“Hello?” he greets.

“Mr. Price, this is Simon Riley… Ghost. Is that job offer still on the table?”

follow @mother-ilia to be notified of updates | get early access to chapters here

#ilium writing #sr ilia #in limbo #simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #female reader

394 notes · View notes

gtgbabie0 · 4 months ago

Text

⋆⁺ ✮⋆⁺ Vampire!Caitlyn x Reader

Synopsis: {Caitlyn finds you bleeding on her doorstep, she saves you… kind of} AN: vampire girlfriends, vampire girlfriends!! ✮Masterlist is here <3

You had to be the most unluckiest woman in the world, born into a household whose love extended no further than a simple smile or a nod— your father, a magistrate who was rarely home and your mother? Left on your tenth birthday. The Nannie’s raised you, with their strict rules and punishments.

None of which prepared you for the true harshness of the world— the cutthroat work ethic that left you exhausted, the marriage proposals your father set up and told you nothing about, selling you off to the highest bidder like some broodmare.

They would all laugh if they could see you right now, curled up into a tiny ball on the porch of the supposedly abandoned Kiramman estate— hand weakly pressed against your side in a feeble attempt to try and stop the bleeding, warm, sticky crimson liquid seeping in between your fingers and pooling beneath you. Just your luck, of course, you’d get mugged the night before your engagement, to a Lord no less.

That’s where she found you, bleeding all over her doorstep practically offering yourself up to her on a silver platter— the pleading glint in your glassy eyes accompanied by that pathetic sound that escapes your chapped lips stops her from drinking you dry, just about.

Caitlyn didn’t have the patience for humans, they’re too sensitive, the tiniest of things sent them off into a tiff— she was in half a mind to leave, until you lifted your head upwards and stole her attention. Oh? you were so beautiful even in the face of death, a fading star she felt oddly compelled to save. It wasn’t sympathy that drove her to drag your body into her home, surely not, no, she had left all that behind, what? Centuries ago now, maybe more?

This was different, certainly, she could make good use of you, that was all there was to it, you’d be beneficial. The last of her maids were well— no longer on this earth, bless their hearts.

However, like most humans, you proved to be difficult. She had tried everything to keep you alive and everything had failed— typical. By this point, she was in too deep to just give up on you, damn the stubborn Kiramman genes. It’s why she takes a knife to her palm, dripping a few drops of her vampiric blood into your mouth— it was a stupid idea, turning you just to save you, it would bring a plethora of unwanted troubles, honestly what possessed her?

Caitlyn couldn’t lie to herself though, watching you wake up on her bed was quite a sight— one she couldn’t pry her eyes from as she looms within the shadows of her old bedroom, completely unbeknownst to you.

Your body felt heavy as if your bones were made from cement as you push yourself to stand up from the bed— a bed that certainly wasn’t yours, in a house that you didn’t recognise at all. Your body works faster than your mind, burning with panic as you rush through the hallways, frantically trying to find an escape.

Oh, how adorable you were— perhaps Caitlyn could have some fun for once. She stalks after you, candle flames snuffing out thanks to her cape as she walks after you.

“What? Is my hospitality really that awful?” Her smooth, velvety accent sounds throughout the room— you turn around with a sharp gasp, your back hitting the front door, hands clutching at the metal doorknob that you’re so desperately tugging at.

“you— you— yo-” the words came out all strained, tripping over yourself as you rattle the door with a desperate cry.

“I, yes I saved you, so the least you can do is thank me, my dear… it’s only polite.” She smirks, and then you see her for who she really is beneath the flickering lights of the oil lamps, the pointed tip of her fangs, the reddish hue in her eyes…

The realisation hits you and you waste not even a second before turning around and yanking on the door— crying out for help like some madwoman, hands banging on the thick old oak that doesn't budge, only groans in protest. Caitlyn moves swiftly, leaning up against the door with a small perplexed frown, watching in slight amusement as you scramble backwards, falling against the marble floor.

“You don’t want to go outside unless you wish to be reduced to cinders.” She sighs, rubbing her temples slowly.

You shake your head in disbelief. “Wha— what— you didn’t?” You tremble, shaky hands reaching up to poke at your teeth, hands feeling the dead coldness of your skin. You let out such a jarring cry. Humans.

The thought of letting you go popped into her mind, however, it went as fast as it came as she shakes the thought away, kneeling before you— hands held out defensively as she watches you curl up into a ball like some wounded, quivering animal. Poor thing.

“Don’t make this harder than it already is, dearest.” She coos gently, reaching her hand out to wipe her knuckle across your cheek to catch a stray tear. “The hunger will be horrific, I only want to help.”

God, she sounded too kind, the care in her words dripping with gentle sweetness— care? No this wasn’t who she was. Caitlyn sworn to herself long ago to leave such fragile emotions behind, behind with everything else. She quickly retracts her hand with a scoff.

“Hunger— what hunger?”

“Do I really need to spell it out for you?” Her tone was flat and emotionless once more.

Perhaps it was the adrenaline that made you snap suddenly. “Well, I’m sorry. I wake up in a stranger's bed, feeling like I’ve just had a house dropped on me— with you, whatever you are, chasing me.” Oh? Caitlyn was taken aback slightly at your angered tone, laced with the slightest twinge of sarcasm, it had her eyes slightly widening in surprise.

Her lips purse out slightly as she turns her head to the side, gaze fixed on some old painting. “I was not chasing you.” Her words come with a huff, stealing a glance at you from the corner of her eye.

Goodness, she looks much less threatening now, kneeling in front of you, arms crossed over her chest and pouting? It was a little funny and perhaps you would’ve laughed if the situation was different.

“Either way you need my help, so there’s no point in huffing about it.” She scoffs, sticking her chin out in confidence as she casts a judgmental gaze over you— your hair was a mess, mascara stains tracking down your cheeks, not to mention the state of your dress, the fabric ripped and stained with dried blood. You did look terrible.

So, reluctantly, Caitlyn extends her ever-so-gracious hospitality to you once more— letting you use her en-suite bathroom to clean yourself up, even giving you a hand-me-down dress. Which she didn’t expect you to be so, stunning in, but hells the thing— outdated as it may be— was practically made for you, the way it framed your figure so deliciously. She was staring.

Caitlyn blinks herself back into attention. “There, now you look less like you’ve just been murdered.” Her joke clearly didn’t land because you all but shoot her a mean-looking glare, too soon perhaps. Although you really shouldn’t blame her, it had been a while since she had conversed with another person.

“Well— that’ll do.” She breaks through the awkward silence as you busy yourself with tidying up your hair. Then she’s turning heel and just leaving, stopping at the threshold of the door as your hand darts out to catch hers.

Her eyes meet yours beneath the low, flickering glow of the oil lamps— confusion crossing over her face as your fingers curl around hers, looking up at her with wide eyes. You truly were so hauntingly beautiful. “Where are you going?” The sound of your scoff hardens her expression almost immediately.

“My study. And no you are not to follow me. If you need me, shout.” Her voice was stern, cold in a way that makes you shiver as she yanks her hand out from your grasp— defined brows knitting together in strictness. Study off limits it seems.

“So what am I to do? Sit around twiddling my thumbs all day?” Your bratty tone was met with an exasperated sigh, a quite dramatic one at that.

“You will clean each room— then you’ll have an hour to yourself, explore the library if you must. By the evening your first hunger will hit and well… well, we’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.” With that she’s walking down the halls, rubbing her temples and cursing beneath her breath, before you could bombard her with any more vexing questions.

A feeling of dread washes over Caitlyn as she locks herself in her study, rummaging through each and every book in hopes it might provide some guidance to help you through this inevitably painful process. She finds one book, one, with one measly chapter on a Vampires first hunger— she collapses onto her desk with a heavy sigh, face buried in her hands.

God help her, what had she gotten herself into?

185 notes · View notes

amywritesthings · 8 months ago

Note

hiii! for the hallosleepover, can I get jean x reader + enemies to lovers who unintentionally wear a couple’s costume to a Halloween party? 🥺

hallo-sleepover '24!

hello, anon! thank you for sending this in. i've never written jean as a main character before, so let's see how this goes, yeah?

saving horses, matching costumes.

pairing: jean kirstein x f!reader word count: 1.1k+ warnings: halloween party mishaps, miscommunication, enemies to kinda lovers, fluffy, banter, jean is a cowboy bc of the s4 mullet i dont make the rules credit: dividers by @saradika-graphics

read on ao3.

“Oh, you have to be joking.”

The complaint comes out of your mouth faster than you can stop it.

As much as you hate that your eyes lock onto Jean Kirstein every time he walks into a room (a sixth sense, if you will, after putting up with him throughout college and beyond) you’re glad it’s you who spotted him first.

You’d never hear the end of it if it’d been Sasha, who’s busy shoveling yet another candy apple in her mouth like she’s discovered the wonders of life — while dressed in a cozy yet outrageous inflatable cow costume.

Be friends! she says.

(As fucking if.)

He likes you, but he thinks you hate him! she claims.

(False. He hated you first, so you hated him second.)

This year’s costume had been a panicked choice when Sasha reminded you of Mikasa’s costume party a mere twelve hours ago.

Scrambling through your closet before work, the outfit basically built itself: a pink hat, some old cowboy boots, jeans and a denim vest and ta-da—

A cowgirl!

To be fair, you thought Sasha changed her outfit to a silly cow to match you when you texted her the outfit a few hours before the party.

The foreboding dots, however, are connecting in real time:

Jean walks into the house with a bandana tied around his neck, a deep brown hat, a half-buttoned white shirt, and fringed chaps.

He holds the door open, waiting for someone else.

Behind him waddles in Connie, dressed identically to Sasha as an inflatable cow. He sandwiches the puffy middle through the door before jumping out like a bursting star to greet the people mingling at the front of the house.

This?

This was an ambush.

“Whassajo?” Sasha slurs, cheeks puffed with food. She turns on a heel towards you, not in the least aware of her bulky surroundings.

But before you can answer, she recognizes the two walking through the front door, lights up and flings a hand to the sky.

“Connie!”

Sharing the same brain cell, the man in question pauses, posing in his cow costume, before pointing at his wonder twin. He lets out a battle cry and rushes over the best an inflatable costumed-person can.

Of course that gets Jean’s attention, his eyes searching the crowd until they land on you, and the drop of his smile confronts the uncomfortable truth:

You’re the only cowgirl at the party, and as far as you can see, he’s the only cowboy.

God.

Damn.

It.

“Yoooo, you matched us!” Connie yelps, slinging a puffy arm around Sasha.

“For the record I didn’t try to, but I also didn’t know you both had matching cow costumes,” you state, trying to make it abundantly clear that this? Not your idea.

“Oh, these ol’ things were a last minute thing,” Sasha states once she’s swallowed her food, grinning ear to ear. “And they were on sale at Spirit, so—”

Jean cautiously makes his way over to your little corner of the party with his hands shoved into his jean pockets.

Either the lighting is making his face red as a tomato or he’s genuinely as embarrassed to be wearing a matching costume with you.

He mumbles a greeting, keeping his chin down.

The Monster Mash plays for the fourth time from the speakers — no doubt a takeover from Yeager, wherever he’s hiding at this party.

Connie pipes up after a minute, letting go of his partner in crime. “Where’d you get one of those, anyway? I want apples.”

“Kitchen,” Sasha states, looping her inflatable arm around his. “C’mon, to the promise land we go.”

Like clockwork, they leave.

They fucking leave you — and Jean, for that matter, because he still stands across from you with his head down and hands in his pockets. His mullet is neatly combed under the hat, stubble grown out for the occasion.

(He looks good, but you don’t have to admit it.)

“...so.” Jean speaks, though it’s barely audible. “This is a thing.”

“Yep.”

“Designed for us to get along?”

“Probably.”

“Sasha told me to go as a cowboy.”

“Probably after I told her I was going as a cowgirl.”

“At least we’re not wearing the same colored hat and stuff, right?” he tries to joke, shuffling his boot to poke at one of the plastic pumpkins lining the room. “Because that would’ve been really damn freaky.”

After acknowledging his statement with a grunt, silence meets you.

For a moment, you wonder if maybe that’s the end of the conversation.

This presumed couple’s costume will be a mere coincidence and no one will think otherwise and the night will go on its merry drunken little—

“Sorry.”

The word surprises you to the point of looking his way, but before you can, he’s already sliding closer to talk directly to you.

“Okay. Hear me out, alright?”

Your brows slide up your forehead. “Hear you… out?”

“It…”

Trailing off, Jean scrunches his nose and takes the hat off his head to smooth back his hair.

“Ah, fuck, just let me get this out one time and one time only and if it’s a shitty idea? We’ll pretend it never happened.”

“Uh—”

“What if tonight’s a truce?” he interrupts, gesturing between your denim-and-pleather-clad bodies. “Whatever beef we have with each other could be fixed or something.”

You open your mouth to speak, but Jean keeps going.

“Because I don’t hate you. Connie says you think I hate you, or something, and I don’t really know why you would ever think I—”

“I thought it because you hated me… first,” you try to remind him, tilting your head in confusion. “You literally declared it freshman year in front of—”

“I didn’t actually hate you!” he whisper-shouts over the mouth, conveying his emotion without the outburst. “I didn’t. Seriously. I said some stupid shit to get Yeager off my damn back about you and I regretted it as soon as I said it—”

“What?”

“I just want a chance, okay?”

Finally, with his hands flexed before you, Jean seems to get to the point of his ramble.

Squeezing his eyes shut for a brief second, he exhales and softens in defeat.

“One chance — to show you I’m not some sort of douchebag because I got tongue-tied years ago. I’m not that moron anymore. Just… let me get you a drink or water or something, and I’ll fix it. And if I still suck to you, then at least I’ll have said my peace.”

For what feels like ages, you simply stare at him.

He stares back as the party lights twinkle like a halo over his cowboy hat, eyes rounded and pleading.

As much as you hate to say it, you’re intrigued.

Jean’s right: it’s been years.

Why hold an arbitrary grudge if it was genuinely an accident?

“...fine,” you relent. “But just one.”

Relief floods his expression, and he sheepishly tips his hat to you. “Yes, ma’am, just one.”

#jean kirschtein x you #jean kirschtein x reader #jean kirstein x reader #jean kirsten x reader #halloween fic #aot fic #aot x reader #aot x you #attack on titan fanfiction #aot fanfiction #snk x reader #snk x you #snk fanfiction #snk fanfic #jean kirstein fic #hallosleepover 24

231 notes · View notes

mrs-hatake · 4 days ago

Text

How JJK Men Hold Your Chin

Pairing: Toji x F!Reader, Gojo x F!Reader, Nanami x F!Reader, Sukuna x F!Reader, Geto x F!Reader & Yuuta x F!Reader. ⟡ Genre: yandere behavior, obsessiveness, manipulation, dacryphilia, over protectiveness, human sacrifice, mentioned assassination, foul language, female reader, HUMAN!sukuna ⟡ Word Count: 1k ⟡ O.D.P (Original Date of Publication): August 18th, 2024

A/N: i kinda went overboard with sukuna lmao MDI!!!

Toji

Toji’s eyes shoot open when the soft rattle of the window sliding open fills the bedroom. Whoever decided to ambush Toji, in his own home no less, is doing a piss poor job at it. The number one rule of breaking and entering is that you need to be as quiet as the dead…Or make sure you aren’t breaking into a room where the occupants of the house are in.

He doesn’t move, makes sure to keep his breathing deep and even as his ears focus on the soft thud across from his bed. The gentle rustle of feet on carpet is thundering. It makes Toji wonder which sorry idiot decided to attack him. He lies still. Waiting.

Toji senses a presence behind his back. The stare of the invader doesn’t feel oppressive but more hesitant. Big mistake. Waiting a heartbeat before striking, Toji quickly has the criminal pinned under him on the bed. A terrified screech stabs sharply in his ears, ringing like an alarm clock.

Leaning over, Toji harshly tugs on the string of the desk lamp on the nightstand. Dim yellow light floods the corner of the room where Toji’s bed is placed.

With the darkness gone, Toji’s eyebrows quirk at the sight below him. A pair of eyes stare at him in a vacuous stupor, her lips formed into a silent ‘o’ shape.

Toji blinks down at the frightened woman.

She blinks back.

Whoever sent her his way is a freaking dumbass. Aside from the fear drowning in her eyes, incompetence screamed at him. How did his enemies expect to dispose of him with someone as weak as her?

Lost in his thought, the woman raises her leg and tries to kick Toji off of her. Luckily, Toji’s reflexes are as sharp as a cat’s and dodges the attack. He yanks her leg down before pressing all of his weight on it, trapping her.

“Don’t kill me.” The woman pleads and it forces Toji’s head to tilt to the side in confusion.

“You’re here to kill me.” He says, as if it’s the most obvious thing, “It’s only fair I defend myself.”

His words strike a nerve. The woman begins to frantically shake her head, jostling Toji with her movement. “Please.” She whispers repeatedly like a broken record.

Having had enough, and with the exhaustion from today’s mission catching up to him, Toji’s large and calloused hand grabs the woman’s chin, successfully suspending her thrashes.

The tip of his thumb is brushing the edge of the woman’s chapped lip. The two, caught in a daze, are silent.

“Tell me why I shouldn’t kill you?” Toji’s voice drops to a murmur, his already deep voice growing deeper.

The woman continues to stare at him but there’s something calculative in her eyes, as if she’s contemplating the best course of action. Whatever she decided on, melts the tension from her. Her form relaxes under Toji but he still maintains his weight on her. It could be a trap after all. Waiting for him to drop his guard down before she strikes. Toji has been in the business for so long that such a childish trick is insulting.

“I’ll tell you who hired me.” The woman’s breath comes out shaken, broken.

Toji ruminate her answer before shaking his head, “Not enough.”

His response doesn’t deter the woman. In fact, it strengthens her resolve. “Not just the organization I work with but several of them. It’s like a betting ring.” She explains, her eyes hard, unafraid to meet him.

Toji thinks. People wanting him dead isn’t something new but that doesn’t mean he has the free time to hunt down every single one of them. However, what the woman says next sends a chill down his spine.

“They’re coming after your son.”

Her statement is a bullet shot straight to his heart. If what this woman is saying is true, then he needs to take her word for it.

“If you’re lying,” Toji’s grip on the woman’s chin is unforgivable, “I will kill you and your pathetic family.” he spits before letting go.

Satoru

The woman is panting harshly as she leans against the metal pillar at the underground train station. The ruckus of the coming and goings of the people blend into the background until it’s nothing but a gentle hum. She swallows her dried throat, thick and heavy, gathering whatever moisture to nourish the muscle. The woman’s back presses against the pillar as her eyes close shut. Greedily, she sucks air into her lungs.

Weakly, her eye opens and it darts frantically across the station until it lands on the departure board. The orange LED lights glaring harshly at her. Still, the woman squints as she reads the list and the corresponding time. Her train leaves in less than half an hour. She’s exhausted. Her legs are screaming at her from her earlier run and her throat is begging for water. But the woman pushes through.

With one final deep inhale, the woman pushes herself and makes her way to the platform where her train will arrive in ten minutes.

The woman hasn’t taken a single step forward when a voice wells up a wave of acid deep from within her belly.

“Found you.” A voice she once associated with reverence has her recoiling in horror.

Inchmeal, the woman turned.

Gojo Satoru is standing in front of her. Despite the gentle smile on his lips, Satoru’s blue eyes are as wild as a stormy sea, raging and fervent.

A blink and Satoru’s hand is cupping the woman’s cheek in a tight grip. She winces at the pain, reaches her hand to wrap around Satoru’s wrist to tug it away but to no avail.

“Oh, Y/N,” Satoru sighs as if she is some naughty child, “It’s cute that you think you can run away from me.”

The woman’s eyes pleads Satoru, begs him to let her go, set her free, but Satoru is blind.

With a powerful pull, Satoru yanks the woman into an embrace. His muscled arms trap her in an unbreakable cage.

“Let’s go home.” Instead of Satoru’s whisper resembling a kitten’s soothing licks, it feels like a spider crawling up her throat.

Kento

Warm hues of orange and pink spreading across the sky is the last thing the woman sees before her eyes shut close. She doesn’t scream as she falls to her death. Her descent is calm, freeing in a morbid sense. Though the curse is still rampaging the abandoned hospital, terrorizing the second year students, the woman accepts her demise with a serene smile.

The impact she has been embracing for doesn’t come to her. Well, not in the way she had imagined numerous times whenever the woman is sent off on a mission. Instead, a firm but pliable object breaks her fall.

Cinnamon and black coffee invades her senses. A roaring heartbeat echoes in her ears but before the woman can open her eyes, she is gently put on her feet.

“How can you be so careless?” A voice growling in her direction forces the woman’s eyes to open.

Blinking the black spots from her vision, the woman lifts her gaze from the ground to where Nanami Kento is standing just a few feet away from her. His muscles are stiff and his lips are pressed together in anger.

Oh shit.

“What were you thinking?” Kento continues, uncaring of how his voice is increasing in volume but the woman is shell shocked. Not from the fall but from the fact that, in the years she has known him, Nanami Kento is losing his cool.

“I’m fine.” The woman sighs in exhaustion as her hands dust her clothes free of dirt. She notices in her peripheral vision the second year students delivering the final blow to the curse spirit, their cheer turning into horrified groans when the curse exploded into tiny little pieces and it covers them with neon green goo. “I had it under control.”

Kento rolls his eyes, “Like hell you were.”

Worn out and oddly hungry, the woman turns away from her livid colleague. “I don’t have time for this.” she mutters.

“We’re not done talking.” Kento calls after her but the woman doesn’t meet his dark eyes, raging with an uncontrollable fire.

Just as the woman is turning to leave, Kento’s massive hand cups her chin and forcefully pulls her to face him.

“Look at me when I’m talking to you.” Kento seethes through clenched teeth. His thumb on the apple of her left cheek presses deeply into the supple skin, almost bruising.

The woman’s jaw clenches, the muscles flexing underneath Kento’s fingers on her right cheek. Her piercing gaze is unyielding but Nanami Kento doesn’t back down.

“Don’t you dare do that again.” Though Kento’s tone is cold and disapproving, the woman hears the concern loud and clear.

“Answer me.” He barks with the authority of a man who should not be challenged.

“I won’t.” The woman responds in a strained voice.

Sukuna

Sukuna’s hibernation is interrupted by cacophonous ceremonial chants reverberating from the forest below.

Year after year, Sukuna has reprimanded the villagers for their never ending harassment. They mistake his cursed lineage as an entity to protect his village when, in reality, the Ryomen clan was cursed by the Gojo clan three hundred years ago for violating the peace treaty because one member from the branch family decided to be a cocky little shit and terrorize humans and now Sukuna has to suffer the consequences.

Every first day of spring, the villagers leave animal carcasses at the mouth of his cave to satiate his hunger. When that didn’t work, the villagers sent wooden crates filled to the brim with glimmering gold coins and a crown decorated in sparkling diamonds to persuade Sukuna in blessing their harvest. Stupid villagers and their stupid myths. If they had bothered to open a history book, they would have discovered that Ryomen Sukuna is just as human as any of them. The only difference is that part of the Gojo clan’s punishment was to inject every member of the Ryomen clan with poison into their bloodstream that altered their genetic composition. Instead of having two arms and two eyes like everyone else, the Ryomen now have four arms and four eyes. Oh, and an additional mouth on their belly.

A satisfied moan falls from his mouths when his muscles pop as he stretches his four arms high into heaven. Scratching his side with one of his hands, Sukuna trudges to the mouth of the cave and watches with complete boredom as those fools travel the winding path leading to his habitat. Glancing at the sun, Sukuna figures it’ll take them another hour before they arrive.

When the villagers do arrive, they wordlessly leave their sacrifice at the cave entrance and leave, just as silent and unnerving.

With nothing better to do, Sukuna humors the villagers and steps out of his stifling home.

Despite it being early spring, the weather is still warm but the air has a certain bite to it. Not enough to warrant thicker garment but enough to appreciate the cool breeze caressing Sukuna’s skin.

Stepping outside, Sukuna comes to a sudden halt. His four eyes blink before they glance around the forest, searching for a glimpse of the villagers who will explain what this year’s present is.

Below him, just a few meters away from his feet, is a woman lying on her side. She is dressed in all white and her hair is fixed in a complicated updo. Gems dangle with each blow from the wind and Sukuna’s nose picks up hints of honey and vanilla.

Sukuna’s thick fingers massage the spot between his eyes while his other two arms cross in front of his stomach, pressing against his mouth.

Great, just great. Those idiots brought him a human sacrifice this year for whatever fucked up reason. Sighing, long and heavily, he picks up the unconscious woman and carries her into his cave.

It’s around nightfall when Sukuna hears soft groans coming from his bed. His upper right arm is stroking the fire to life while his lower right arm throws wood into the fire pit. His stomach has been growling for the past hour and his tongue keeps licking the curve of his belly button. If Sukuna will ever have the chance to fight the infamous Gojo Satoru, he wants to inject him with the same poison just so he can understand the hell Sukuna’s been through.

“You’re awake.” Sukuna’s voice cuts into the night air, deep and smooth.

The woman freezes on the bed and takes a moment to gather her thoughts before pushing herself into a sitting position.

When the woman turns to face him, Sukuna’s two pairs of red eyes roam over the woman’s face that’s painted with soft makeup to enhance her beauty.

“Greetings, Sukuna-sama.” The woman greets him in a luscious voice, no doubt a skill taught to her by the elderly women of the village. Sukuna resists rolling his eyes at their stupidity. Instead, he tosses the iron rod aside and saunters to his bed.

Though the woman bows her head in submission, her form lowered in a beautiful arch, Sukuna can see her trembling in her place. After all, Sukuna cuts an intimidating figure. Not just with his additional limbs and eyes but also with his height; totaling at two hundred centimeters. It’s a small wonder she is frightened.

An index finger that is as long and slender as the iron rod hooks under the woman’s chin and tilts it upward to face him.

A soft hum emits from Sukuna, “The villagers have outdone themselves with this year’s sacrifice,“ his finger glides down her neck, "heh, they must be desperate to please me.”

The woman says nothing. Her eyes are lidded and they are clouded in something that Sukuna cannot discern but they add to her charm. Flames flicker to life in Sukuna, sparking intense desire that burns through him like wildfire.

“I’ll take good care of you.” Sukuna vows, his voice lowering into a hummed whisper, each word heavy with yearning and licentiousness.

Suguru

The woman’s eyes are large and rimmed with tears as she meets irises colored in vibrant amethyst.

The man returns her gaze with feigned kindness and condescending pity. His hands cupping her cheeks are warm and they light a fire in her belly. His thumbs are slightly rough with callouses but they are gentle as they wipe away stray tears. Soft lips kiss the woman’s forehead, their velvety touch is soothing, imbued with a delicate tenderness that has the woman melting like putty in his arms.

“Now, be a good little girl and do as you’re told.” Geto Suguru’s voice is rich with sweetness and has a velvety timbre, resembling a bitter drink with traces of sugar. It has a propitiating quality to it that ensnares the woman in a sense of tranquility.

“Suguru.” The woman hiccups, vision blurred with unshed tears.

Suguru coos, the sound echoing that of a mother worrying over her child after waking up from a nightmare. He leans in, slowly and tenderly as if to not frighten her off, and licks each tear trail from each cheek.

“Suguru?” The woman sputters, her eyebrows furrowing in bewilderment as she tries to process what just happened.

Though the soft smile Suguru gives her radiates warmth, there’s a subtle glimmer in his eyes that hints at something the woman can’t recognize but it fills her with dread.

“There, there.” Suguru whispers gently, his hands still cupping her cheeks. His fingers are wet with tears but it doesn’t bother him.

“This will all be over soon.”

#toxic jjk #yandere jjk #toji x reader #gojo x reader #nanami x reader #sukuna x reader #geto x reader #toji x you #gojo x you #nanami x you #sukuna x you #geto x you #toji x y/n #gojo x y/n #nanami x y/n #sukuna x y/n #geto x y/n

83 notes · View notes

theorphicangel · 12 days ago

Text

heaven can wait | satoru gojo x reader | chap. 2

pair: guardian angel! gojo x fem! reader

description: the last thing you had expected was to come face to face with your very own guardian angel to which you had no idea that they existed.

now you have to deal with an annoying six foot-something angel who leaves nothing but feathers and chaos behind him. but as time passes you begin to learn more about him and he finds himself bending the rules just to be around you a little longer.

however there is one rule that guardian angels like him must always abide by.

they mustn't fall in love. ever.

tags: strangers to lovers, no curses au, modern au, satoru is annoying but you learn to love him, forbidden love, semi-slowburn, i think, eventual smut, fem! reader, angel! satoru, more tags to be added

art cred: @aidonotknow, original work is here, please check out their art!!!

taglist: @therealisttheillest @ohmygeto @bunheadusa @czarixoxo @lalalandincraz @descargueestoporgojosatoru @emochosoluvr @celear @thoreeo @moxieisanalien @amberbalcom14 @13-09-01 @k-kkiana @tyyqqaaa @ehcilhc @entr4p3 @fushiguroooozzz @marajafarli @slutlight2ndver @twinkling-moonlillie @pickledsoda @satansthiccasscheeksreblogacc @worganmalker @rorel1a

let me know if you would like to be on the taglist!

chapter two: explanations

wc: 970-something

author's note: this is a little shorter and i was debating to add it to chapter one but whatever. enjoy.

playlist

series masterlist | previous chapter | next chapter

You’re still choked up.

Your palms are sweaty and clenched as you try to come to terms with the stranger sitting in your house. There’s a bag of takeout sitting on the coffee table in front of the couch that he’s sitting on. Or perhaps lazing should be the right word to describe this…person.

He’s spent the last twenty minutes explaining to you the entire brief history and concept of a guardian angel. It’s confusing but you're grateful for the theology and religion classes you picked for extra credit. He hasn’t explained the important things yet like who sent him to you or how long he’s here for but those are questions you’ll ask later if he ever stops talking.

“Therefore,” He drags on, “ I was the reason you didn’t lose your life out there.” He points behind him with his thumb and a cheeky smirk on his face. You don’t respond to him having decided to remain completely silent throughout his whole explanation.

So.

Guardian angels exist.

This…man with giant angel wings is real. You’ve studied his face for the last few minutes but your mind still thinks that you’ve gone completely crazy. Maybe you woke up in the wrong universe today. Maybe you hit your head last night and haven’t realised that you’re living in a delusion.

“It’s normal to be confused.” Satoru disrupts your thoughts, reading your expressions. “I know it may not make a whole lot of sense right now and you’re totally discombobulated but that’s completely okay, it takes some time to get used to it.”

He’s surprisingly gentle about it all. As if he’s explained this a million times before. And judging from the fact that angels are immortal he probably has. You wonder how many other people he’s looked after. How many people is he protecting right now? How long has he done this for? How does an angel become a guardian?

There’s so many questions running through your mind at total speed and you can’t pick which one to ask first.

You’re silent for a little while but your angel doesn’t mind this. He watches you try to comprehend your entire situation.

“Satoru.” You test out his name on your lips.

“That’s my name.” he grins.

Your mouth opens. And then closes. The words you want to say out loud linger on your tongue, almost spilling out from your lips.

“I’m not sure how to say this but…”

“Go ahead.” he reassures, smiling to reveal a perfect set of pearly white teeth. What else would you expect from an angel from above? “There’s no such thing as a stupid question.”

“How do I stop this?”

“Stop what?” He tilts his head in curiosity.

“Stop you from being assigned to me.”

Satoru’s smile drops. This is a question that he’s never been asked of before, never in his many years of being a guardian angel. There’s something in his heart that churns at your sentence and at the tone of which you asked it. Sure, you don’t have to have anything to do with him but asking to end the contract with him was something he hadn’t expected to hear.

“I didn’t ask for this, I didn’t ask for any of this.” You explain in a rushed tone, “I don’t want someone watching me all the time and creeping me out and leaving fucking feathers everywhere in my home.” You rise from your seat. “I’m grateful to you for saving my life but I've survived perfectly well without a guardian before you arrived and I’m pretty sure that I’ll be just fine afterwards.”

At this point Satoru is confused. He’s never been in a situation like this, where you can’t even stand to look at him. Your tone isn’t asking but rather telling him to leave you alone.

He looks down at his hands as he thinks, his wings swaying a little. “I can leave but I can’t stop the contract put into place between us.”

“Well how does it stop?” you say impatiently. Your frustration is getting the best of you but you can’t help it, having a random creature in your house is enough to cause you to spiral after all you’ve gone through today.

There’s a pause and within that pause Satoru’s face turns completely serious. This time he’s not afraid to meet your gaze and there’s something in his tone that bites. “How’d you think?”

Oh.

The realisation hits you like a ton of bricks and you flop back down into your seat.

For him to end the contract you’d have to…die.

“Look, this is my first day and I don’t want anything crazy to happen, else there’ll be a lot of paperwork to deal with upstairs if you know what I mean. And there’ll be questions and I’ll be downgraded and–

“Downgraded?”

Satoru hums. “There’s a whole system to it but it wouldn’t make sense to explain it to you right now.” He lets out a sigh. He’s not giving up on you but he hasn’t had a human put him through the ropes like this in – well – forever.

“Nothing makes sense to me right now.” You retort.

Satoru raises his hands, “Look, all I’m asking is for you to trust me.” His eyes meet yours and the shade like blue diamond engrosses you completely. If anything he seems genuine and wants to simply do his job which is to protect you. If you’ll allow him.

“Can you do that for me?”

107 notes · View notes

kawacake · 2 months ago

Text

OFFSIDE CRUSH | “The chaos begins?”

Masterlist, prev, Chap 2, next

A/n: something quick and simple the next few chapters won’t have so much writing mainly ig post, bllk boys making TikTok’s and more. Also a like and reblog would be appreciated and comment if you wanna be added to the Taglist bye

The knock on your door is so light it barely qualifies as a knock, more like a baby knocking on the door asking for entry.

You open it to see Reo balancing a box of cookies, Isagi looking over both shoulders like he’s expecting to get tackled, Bachira grinning like he’s about to do something illegal, and Nagi… barefoot and yawning. “Reo told me to walk. That was annoying,” Nagi says by way of hello. “You literally live five doors down,” you say, letting them in.

They kicked their shoes off and fully entered your room. You took one of the crumbled cookies and started eating it till Bachira practically slammed a pack of cards in front of you. "We're Not Really Strangers," the package read, “We’re going to play, we're not really strangers but the cards are a tad bit messier.” Reo narrows his eyes. “You mean emotionally manipulative.” “I mean fun.” Isagi sighs like his soul just left his body. “Can I opt out?” “Nope,” you and Bachira say in unison.

Bachira wiggles his eyebrows and holds out the cards. “Y/N draws first. House rules.” You glance around the circle, Reo is lounging on your bean bag chair, Isagi is sitting cross-legged and visibly stressed, Nagi is slouched against your bed, staring at you with half-lidded curiosity.

You pick a card. “Alright. ‘What’s something you’ve never told anyone here?’” Everyone groans. “Wow. Starting strong,” Reo mutters, rubbing his temple. “I’ll go,” Bachira offers cheerfully. “One time, I replaced Ego’s black coffee with chocolate protein shake as an experiment.” “Did he notice?” you ask. “He said nothing. But the next day, there were two locks on the staff fridge.” Next card goes to Reo.

He reads it aloud: “Who’s someone here you wouldn’t mind being stuck with on a deserted island?” “I feel like there’s a correct answer.” Isagi said Reo shrugs. “Y/n.” “WHAT?!” Bachira gasps.

“You’re resourceful,” Reo says, cool and casual. “Also, you’ve got the ‘keep us alive’ energy.” “PFTTTT I wish I was practically spoon feeding my entire life I’d probably kill myself if I got stuck on a deserted island.” You confessed making the boys laugh at you.

“I’d still want to be stuck with Y/n too. She wouldn’t make me do anything.” Nagi said before Isagi spoke up “Okay but you’d die in like six hours.” Nagi shrugs. “Worth it.”.

Isagi draws the next one. “'What do you notice first when you like someone?'” He pauses. Look up at the group. “Don’t make this weird.” “Too late.” Bachira said Isagi sighs. “I guess… their smile.” “That’s actually cute,” you admit. Isagi turns bright red. “I literally hate this game.” He huffed out.

Then Nagi lazily reaches forward, picks up a card with two fingers like it’s heavy. He reads it slowly. “‘What would you say if you knew they wouldn’t forget it?’” No one says anything.

Reo leans forward. “Dude. You gonna answer?” Nagi glances at you. His voice is low. Almost like he’s just talking to you. “I’d say I like it when you talk to me like I’m more than just another player.” Silence. Actual silence.

Reo’s eyes go wide. Isagi makes a strangled sound. Bachira straight-up clutches his chest like he’s in a drama. “HELP WHY IS BACHIRA ACTUALLY CLUTCHING HIS PEARLS.” You say causing you and Bachira to burst out into a fit of laughter.

“Anyway.” Nagi flops backward onto your bed. “I’m tired now.” “Bro,” Isagi whispers. “You can’t just say stuff like that and nap.” “Well watch me.” Nagi said back now, grabbing a pillow and two of your blankets, throwing it on the floor and throwing the two blankets over him.

“Wow…” You say looking at the boy who was now asleep on your floor. “We’ll wake him up before we leave.” Reo said as the three of you continued playing the card game.

After what felt like twenty more questions Reo had fallen asleep so the other two boys finally decided it was time to go to bed so they woke Nagi and Reo up and they waved you bye as the four left your room.

yourinstagram

Liked by, reoofficial, clutchyoichi, sleepyseishiro, and 1,767,468 others

yourinstagram I wanna be able to fall asleep as quick as Nagi & Reo

View all 81,952 comments

rinwrecks Cool. now post game stats like you're actually paid to

yourinstagram why he clock my shit though…🥀 IT’S MY FIRST DAY GO EASY ON ME DAMN

user953 I want your job

yourinstagram I don’t, you can have it

sleepyseishiro Umm no you can’t have her job.

megumonster Girl wym “I don’t,” YOU DO!

yourinstagram WAIT CHAT I ACTUALLY HAVE TO GTS I ACTUALLY HAVE TO WORK TOMORROW

ChigiriH why are you now being aware of this

user035 exactly why you don’t need this job 🤦‍♀️

yourinstagram HO DO YOU EVEN HAVE A JOB YOURSELF

officialraichi we need a PR Manager for our PR Manager…

yourinstagram WAIT NO THAT COMMENT JUST BLEW ME

You closed instagram then clicked on iMessage to text your mom goodnight even though you doubted she was awake.

Fun Fact:

1. Y/n and her mom are 20 years apart and people often mistake the two for siblings.

2. Nagi isn’t aware of his feelings for y/n and just think he’s getting sick or something.

3. I wrote this in a span of 30 minutes FORGIVE ME FOR ANY MISTAKES.

Taglist🏷️: @amterasuu @inojinieeee

73 notes · View notes

gigglesandfreckles-hp · 3 months ago

Text

mostly jily, with some random marauders shenanigans, some fleamia, and a healthy dose of james and sirius being insane about each other

in progress

one more time now, with feeling // jily, second chances, fake dating, fww “Why us?” “If memory serves,” Dumbledore says, with a gentle, knowing smile, “you two were once rather good friends.” Lily feels something twist painfully in her stomach. Dumbledore’s gaze moves pointedly toward James. “And forgive an old man’s nostalgia, James, but I seem to recall you having quite a profound affection for Miss Evans at some point during your time at Hogwarts.” His blue eyes twinkle slightly, corners crinkling behind his half-moon glasses. “Whether that holds true today, I cannot say—but I find that such history can be remarkably persuasive when circumstances require...believability.”

it's brighter now // jily, modern muggle au, footballer jp, enemies-to-friends-to-lovers, potter fam “Oh, come on," James says, grinning. "I know you know who I am." Something strange flashes across her face. “Is that so?” He drops into the open seat across from her and gestures toward his face, smiling widely. “This doesn’t ring any bells?” “Your…face,” she clarifies slowly.

completed multi-chap

fever dream high // jily, failed fwb (sorta), summer before 7th yr, 43k The detail—his red ears, the tremor in his movements—lodges in her brain and refuses to leave. Even as he tries to cover it, the thought takes root, half-formed but persistent. James Potter, with his broad shoulders and sun-browned skin, his stupid hair that begs to be pulled, and his tendency to look at her like she’s the only thing in the room worth noticing… Huh.

tripping and falling are mostly the same // fleamont x euphemia (fleamia?), marriage of convenience, friends-to-lovers, 1930s, 36k “That was rude of me,” Fleamont says, wincing slightly. “It was,” she agrees without hesitation, raising an eyebrow. His shoulders drop a fraction. “I didn’t expect to see you here.” “Evidently,” she says dryly.

stumbling, though, is not so quick // fleamia, through the years, fertility issues, pureblood politics, 20k She’s lost the baby, she hears a healer explain. Baby? Fleamont’s voice cracks, startled and full of disbelief. What baby? There’s a tugging at her clothes, a wand pressed lightly against her abdomen. A potion that tastes dreadful. Gentle murmurings surround her—Fleamont’s voice, a healer’s, maybe even her mother’s. It couldn’t be her mother’s, but part of her aches for it to be. And then— Nothing.

every single time // jily, 31 prompts, some canon compliant, some au, 61k unrelated drabbles, fics, ficlets, and word dumps in response to jilytober 2024

a few of my favourites

because i couldn't begin to link all my one-shots. everything else can either be found over on ao3 or under the #my fic tag here on my tumblr!

we suffer in silence // angsty 7th yr jily, canon compliant pre-dating "It's fine, Evans," James interrupts, waving off her apology and offering a reassuring smile. "You've always been an exception to the rule." A hint of warmth spreads through Lily at his words. "You've never liked rules." He chuckles softly, his lips quirking up in a lopsided grin. "Which is why I never had a difficult time liking you."

keep pace // jily, canon compliant, 7th yr, friends-to-lovers, platonic jilypad (or romantic if you want) “So,” she says after a moment, her voice light, “is this a thing you do? Invite girls to kill themselves on a run after you find them crying. Or am I special?" Sirius laughs. It’s a sharp sound, almost surprised, but it makes her stomach loosen. “You’re special,” he says dryly, finally turning to look at her properly. He watches her for a beat longer than she expects, like he’s searching for something in her face—some answer she doesn’t know how to give. Whatever it is, he seems to find it.

just before dawn // platonic lilypad, fww, canon compliant “You can’t just sneak into someone’s house and steal their baby." Sirius looks up, his dark eyes glinting with exhaustion but holding a stubborn edge. “This isn’t just some baby. This is Harry,” he says, voice rough but resolute, as if that explains everything.

my church offers no absolutes // jily, canon compliant, 7th yr, pre-dating, grief/mourning She stares at him, her eyes the only ones open as the priest prays, but she can’t look away. James Potter is here.

amenable parameters // jily, canon compliant, seventh yr “Truth or dare, Lil?” “Dare,” she replies without hesitation, leaning back into the worn leather booth. “Obviously.” Hestia’s eyes gleam. “Go snog Potter.”

here lies // jily, canon compliant, seventh yr, established relationship, potter fam “Were we expecting you?” He looks slightly horrified, as if he’s forgotten an important appointment, and turns to his wife for help. “I’m sorry if— “No, dear.” Euphemia shakes her head, moving toward him and running a smoothing hand through his mop of messy, white hair. “Lily here was just depositing our highly inebriated son.” “Oh, that’s rather charitable of her."

#my fic #pinned post #jily #jily fanfiction #finally did one of these!!

67 notes · View notes

dxstoeskyvjbess · 3 months ago

Text

TAKEN ?!

𝓟𝗮𝗶𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗴 ; harry j. potter x fem!reader

𝓦𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀 ; none

𝓦𝗼𝗿𝗱𝘀 𝗰𝗼𝘂𝗻𝘁 ; 1.06k

𝓘𝗻𝗳𝗼𝘀 ; fluff | no house 4 reader - she isn’t really taken lmao

𝓝𝗼𝘁𝗲𝘀 ; randomly cooked this in arab class wow

𝓢𝘂𝗺𝗺𝗮𝗿𝘆 ; harry should know better than to get lost in thoughts at potion class. A very beautiful, taken and charming one specifically !

masterlist | navigation | rules

Harry James Potter didn’t mean to.

He really didn’t !

He walked towards the so-feared Potions class, silently repeating his mantra as if it somehow worked like a spell.

He was anxiously biting his lips and looking at the ground, his heart pounding hard in his chest.

Don’t start staring at her.

DON’T START STARING AT HER.

But honestly? Who could’ve imagined that the very first moment he stepped into the room, side by side with his ginger companion, an astonishing, beautiful, surely taken, and charming view would’ve blessed his watercolor eyes?

He had reasons to believe you had a boyfriend, and he definitely respected it.

But seeing you there—hair perfectly falling on your shoulders, smiling warmly at your friends, and innocently wetting your lips—bloody Merlin, he could’ve melted on the spot.

Therefore, after not even five minutes of mental suffering, Harry eventually gave up trying to act nonchalant or as if he understood more than one out of ten words coming out of Snape’s chapped lips.

And, he eventually gave up trying to hide the fact that he was shamelessly staring at you in awe, nearly salivating with his mouth open (which was the reason he earned some terrifying jokes from Ron, who was enjoying the situation way more than the brunette).

Harry noticed that even though you occasionally smiled and shared a word with your group every now and then, especially with the boy Harry considered surely your boyfriend because of the physical proximity and voices he had previously heard,

You were mainly focused on keeping up with Snape’s unamused lectures and doing whatever he was asking everyone to do, for how possible it was to do so. (Which Harry had no clue about—too busy at the moment.)

And Merlin, if he admired that.

What he didn’t admire, and wasn’t a fan of, was you randomly turning around and catching him in the act.

He was staring at you with an enchanted face and a dumb expression, and Ron was about to burst out laughing when he saw you raising an eyebrow in amusement.

And when Harry realized you were looking straight at him, his mind froze. He wasn’t able to look away, to smile back, or to do anything about it at all.

He just continued, completely petrified, wishing the ceiling could fall over them in seconds from there.

“Potter. Perhaps you’re too above us to attempt paying the slightest bit of attention?” Snape hissed before slamming a Potions book on his desk and storming back to his place.

“You kinda asked for it.”

“Ron, shut up.”

For Harry, the class ended with endless teasing from the ginger about how “obviously” he fancied you, and for you, it ended with the brunette stuck in your mind and a mission to complete.

As soon as every student got out, you casually walked towards the two best friends, your boots hitting the ground and blatantly announcing your presence with the noise.

“Hey, Potter, need to tell me anything?”

His head slowly, painfully even, turned around and met your figure. As soon as Harry met your knowing gaze, his hands felt sweaty, and he suddenly felt the need to run for his life.

He wanted to answer you, he really did, but he honestly wasn’t surprised with himself when the only thing that chickened out of his mouth was a suffocated groan mixed with a mumble and a pinch of shame.

“Cat got your tongue?” you asked, yet you knew with that sly grin of yours it wasn’t even hard to give that effect, and it was incredibly obvious you were enjoying this way more than he did.

“Uhm. Yea uh.. I mean, don’t you– isn’t your boyfriend right there waiting for you?..” the brunette was able to squeak out before clearing his throat and looking away.

Meanwhile, Ron stood with his arms crossed, smirking and actively listening to the conversation as he declared the two of you his new personal favorite comic show.

“Boyfriend? What are you even blabbering about now?” You blinked twice, confusion replacing every feeling you were torn toward a second before.

“Wait… is this about him?” You chuckled incredulously before pointing with your finger at the boy Harry was sure was your boyfriend.

“Potter, he’s my friend—and he’s gay.” You giggled lightly, taking your hand to your forehead and passing your knuckles over your eyebrows. The Chosen One can really be the dumbest, can’t he?

“Oh! Wow, uh…” he stumbled, and he couldn’t have been more glad and surprised at the moment. “So you’re…”

Before you could even begin an answer, Ron happily wrapped an arm around Harry’s shoulder and gave you the same treatment.

“She totally is, Harry! And you two should totally date sometime.”

“Wow, Ron, quick on your feet, uh?” Harry muttered unamused before taking the ginger’s arm off his body in a bothered manner and straightening his clothes.

“Well… I mean, if you’re… maybe we– could go somewhere? Sometime?..” His voice was unsure, and he looked as clumsy as ever, but you weren’t the one to deny such a pleasing offer, right?

“Well, that would be delightful.” You beamed playfully as you gave Ron a quick glance, mouthing ‘Thanks for the help’ before turning your head to Harry once again.

He had excitement splashed all over his face— it was almost funny to look at him grinning like a complete idiot.

But seeing the Chosen One so happy to have earned a casual date with you? Saying it made your heart swell was a big understatement.

The two of you exchanged a warm glance, and your smirk felt more genuine and less habitual every second you looked into his orbs.

In the end, you decided awkwardly staring at each other for five seconds was more than enough, so you cleared your throat and patted his shoulder lightly, maybe with a little mischief in the process.

“See you, Potter.”

You turned around and ran back to your friends.

Harry James Potter was SMITTEN.

──────────── ⋆♡⋆ ─────────────

✧ follow @dxstoeskyvjbess 4 more ! ✧

💬 || reblogs and comments are appreciated !

#dos’ writes ! 🦇#harry potter #harry potter x reader #harry potter x you #ron weasley #writerscommunity #x reader #harry potter and the goblet of fire #harry potter and the prisoner of azkaban

58 notes · View notes

wileys-russo · 2 years ago

Text

✨ alessia russo masterlist ✨

multi chap series;

maternal instinct masterlist

childhood sweethearts masterlist

☼ fics;

time management

head over (tar) heels - unc!era

head over (tar) heels ficlet - unc!era

my girl - unc!era

my girl ficlet - unc!era

alessia day

the striker and her wingman

drunk in love

passenger princess

passenger princess ficlet

the winner takes it all

bad dog

bad dog ficlet

toilet paper party

looks can be deceiving (2)

best friends sister

not so wise

miscommunication

miscommunication ficlet

kiss and make up - unc!era

three times you almost said i love you and the one time you did

going the distance - unc!era

the call up

hot and cold

stealth mode - unc!era

three little words

☼blurbs 2.0 (more linked here)

☼ blurbs;

self control

good morning sunshine

baby

co-dependancy

wag club

insomnia

jumpscare

touch starved

number one fan

time zone

new sofa

book worm - unc!era

road trip

sensative

oblessed

fancy footwork

headache

headache 2.0

debut

new house rule

big flexer p2

bambi

lucky

mambo italiano

favourite aunty

new style

personal heater

enemies

time of day

golden girl - unc!era

iced coffee

shut down

school yard crush

horror movies

mario kart

reckless

early mornings

wonderland

bruises

human shield

four legged wingwoman

you can't leave me like this

beautiful crazy

keep talking

keeping score - unc!era

sisterly duties

puzzle book

mother hen

chicken

recovery room

pizza party

#woso x reader #alessia russo x reader #alessia russo #woso imagine #woso blurbs #woso fanfics #woso

563 notes · View notes

captain-huggy-bear · 2 months ago

Note

Congrats on 1000 followers! Can i have I never want us to forget why we fell in love in the first place with kiefer sherwood? Thanks ❤️

TW: Lil' Angsty, marriage troubles 1000 Followers Celly Currently ongoing 🥳🎉 (please read the rules ends 21st April 2025) Big requests/full fic/big idea requests are closed at the moment but drabble and prompt requests are still open. Writing Masterlist

Married life was taking a toll on the both of you.

Between Kiefer's hockey schedule, 2 kids under the age of 2 and the stress of running a household on your own while he was away, you were starting to break. Both of you fighting more than you've ever done, starting to lose that spark, to feel...to feel like there wasn't a point to this. It was scary. You love Kiefer. Kiefer loves you. But, each day it was starting to feel like that wasn't enough. And he knew you were starting to feel that way. Could see it in the way you weren't as eager to see him when he came home from a roadie. Could see it in the way you were so stressed out juggling the babies, the home, while he was gone...

So he takes matters into his own hands because he knows something needs to change and it's not letting your relationship break until you hate each other. No. He loves you. He wants this and he just needs to bring it back, fix the problems.

"I'm going to hire a nanny for when I'm on a roadie." Kiefer can see the moment you process his words, face dropping like you've done something wrong because that's how you feel. Are you not a good enough mum that he's had to do that? Decided to do it without asking you?

"What? Why?"

"Because it's not fair that you're juggling 2 babies and the house by yourself...because I can see you're stressed, honey." You're an amazing mum, but fuck, 2 kids under 2 was a lot...2 kids under two when he wasn't there to help? Near impossible.

"I'm fine."

"Baby," Kiefer's hand brushes your cheek, tender, gentle in a way that it hasn't been in a while. God, when was the last time you cuddled? Kissed? Made love? It's hard to remember... the contact is so missed that it has your eyelids fluttering, leaning into the touch like a sunflower turning towards the sun. "You're not, I'm not...we're not."

The silence is loud, both scared to really talk about it, but Kiefer knowing it needs to be done. God, when was the last time you truly spent time together? When was the last time things felt like you? Like the couple you had been? When had he let things slip? When had you both let things become so difficult? So distant?

"I need you to let me do this, honey. The nanny, the chef, the cleaner. A babysitter so we can have dates again, the kids going to stay with one of the guys for the night...I never want us to forget why we fell in love in the first place and I'm scared we are." He's fully cupping your face now, stepping into your space, something he hasn't done in so long...God, you don't even curl up together at night anymore...a gap between you when you sleep like a canyon. God, you've missed it, the closeness, the intimacy.

It's why you concede because he's right...he's so right...You want to remember why you fell in love in the first place, what it used to be like with him before life got in the way and made things difficult. Made things so so hard.

"Okay, okay...I...I love you, you know that?"

"I know, that's why I'm doing this, sweetheart. I'm fighting for us, okay?"

"Okay..."

The kiss he presses to your lips is gentle but hesitant, a reminder that there's things to fix, but God, have you missed that. Missed the scratch of his beard against your skin, the tickle of his curls, the way his lips are always slightly chapped from skating on the ice all the time. The thrill it sends through you like your body is a livewire.

When Kiefer pulls back he stays close, forehead pressing to yours like now he's got the closeness, the distance is too much, too painful

"Demo's agreed to take the kids tonight, figured we could have some us time? Take you out for a nice meal, get all dressed up, make out like teenagers in the car? Y'know, like we used to? Would you like that?" It's the cheeky smile, the silly little reminder of how much you both used to want each other, the way you used to clamber into the backseat to make out, how bar bathrooms weren't safe spaces from you, that has you smiling. You want that back. The unadulterated joy, the intimacy, the closeness.

"Yeah...I think I would."

#Huggy's 1000 celly #huggy bear writes #kiefer sherwood x reader #kiefer sherwood/reader #nhl imagine #nhl x reader

51 notes · View notes

zablife · 3 months ago

Text

Becoming Mrs. Shelby (Part 19)

Tommy x wife reader

Summary: When you're allowed a moment alone with Tommy, he makes a shocking confession.

Part 18 Masterlist

Heels echoing down a dark prison corridor, you clutched the neckline of your coat to shut out the icy draft. However, if you were honest with yourself, it wasn't only the air giving you chills. Would Tommy want to see you? And if he did, how would he react when he learned you met with his enemy?

The guard in front of you stopped abruptly, causing you to press a hand against the cool stone wall to brace yourself against falling into his back. Suddenly all your questions fell away as you were instructed on a few basic rules. "Ten minutes, no touching and a guard will stand by at all times," the imposing man informed you.

"Thank you," you mumbled, stepping into the fresh air of an empty prison yard. Eyes roving the barren space anxiously, you heard the door open a second time and watched Tommy shuffle toward you in iron shackles.

The sight of him bound at his wrists and feet made your lower lip tremble with emotion, but you resolved to be strong. "How are you?" you asked, quiet and cautious as you awaited a reply that told you of his current mood.

Tommy's clear blue eyes flicked up to yours, the intensity of their color only enhanced by the soft gray of his prison uniform. "I didn't think you'd come," he uttered on a low breath.

"I had to speak with you," you answered simply.

Glancing toward the guard waiting by the door, Tommy indicated for you to follow him to the center of the yard where your conversation wouldn't be overheard.

Before you lost your courage you blurted out, "I know the truth about Grace."

All movement ceased at your words, Tommy's concerned expression urging you to explain.

"I know she was not only an agent of the crown, but a member of Section D. She worked with Father Hughes before her death," you rushed out as you remembered the strict time limit you'd been given.

Tommy stared in disbelief, brow furrowed at you before he asked, "And how do you know all this, eh?"

You could scarcely tell if it was a wave of rising anger or genuine curiosity which drove him. However, you needed him to confirm what Father Hughes had told you. "Father Hughes came to the house this morning with a proposition," you gulped, not yet having revealed the worst of it.

He scoffed at the news, turning his head away from you as he seemed to collect his thoughts on the matter. Tongue darting out to moisten his chapped lips, he nodded to himself. "So he's gotten to you too, has he?"

"You actually believe I'd do such a thing?" you hissed aghast that he would suggest betrayal. "I'm here to help you! Tommy, please, I need to know what happened the night of Grace's death. Not only for my own peace of mind, but to find a way to save your life!"

Tommy searched your watery eyes which pleaded with him in such tender insistence, he finally broke. “Alright, but we talk about it now and never again," he stated firmly.

You nodded your agreement, eager to hear what he might confide.

"Grace was shot at the charity gala for the Shelby Institute," he began, awkwardly shifting his wrists within the confines of the metal handcuffs.

"But who killed her and why?" you quickly interjected, seeing the guard check his pocket watch.

His eyes seemed to glaze over as he mumbled, “You didn’t know what she was like…”

"I think I do," you ventured. "Since I arrived everyone has told me of nothing but her poise and beauty. They all adored her so she must have known she had your heart as well," you whispered, afraid to acknowledge the ghostly presence between you.

“And that I would never divorce her,” Tommy added quietly.

Your heart sank as you gulped, “Because you loved her?”

“I hated her!” he roared in unbridled emotion. “I hated her cruelty and my hubris," he confessed, the force of his words startling you into silence. “I knew she was an undercover agent when we met and I was bold enough to assume I could extract more information from her than she could from me."

"So the image of a deeply devoted couple was nothing more than a twisted web of lies?" you asked, not fully understanding the relationship they'd forged.

Tommy only nodded as he didn't fail to miss tinge of sadness in your voice when you spoke of his first marriage. Though he tried not to encourage discussion of it, somehow you'd succumbed to the curse of believing in their perfect union like everyone else.

With an ache for you growing deep inside his chest, Tommy began pacing in slow circles. As he did, he recounted the reality of his life with Grace. "She relished the thought of being the perfect wife while making a fool of me. It wasn’t enough for her to take my name and my home. She wanted my pride as well."

You began to shake at his assertion, realizing everything you'd been told was a lie. After weeks of suffering to make yourself over in her image, you were shocked to learn Grace had been the enemy all along.

"The night before the gala she told me of her allegiance to Section D, how she'd collected secrets about me and my family throughout our marriage. She demanded I turn them in if I wanted to stay out of prison," he spat. "When I refused, she was outraged and I knew she wouldn't stop until she'd ruined me."

"How do you mean?" you asked, a pit forming in your stomach as you braced yourself for his answer.

"The night of the gala she stole the pistol from my jacket and aimed it at her chest," he revealed as you gasped in horror. " 'Do it, Tommy and then you’ll be free…' she told me, daring me to shoot her with a hundred guests in the next room."

"Tommy, you didn't!" you insisted, rejecting his confession as tears blurred your vision.

Leaning forward onto his knees as though he might be sick at any moment, he whispered, "I did, but it was an accident as we struggled for the gun. The bullet struck her in the chest and she died instantly."

After a brief silence, Tommy turned to you with sorrowful eyes. "It's haunted me ever since."

Forgetting the rules, you placed a hand to his cheek as you cried, "You didn't mean to do it. I know you didn't."

"No touching!" the guard barked, causing you to stumble backward from your husband.

"Oh, Tommy...what do we do now?" you begged of him, color draining from your face as the prospect of his acquittal slipped away.

He swiped a hand across his mouth as he thought and you wondered if there was anything to be done for him. You didn't yet understand why Grace forced his hand, but it was clear Tommy was guilty under the law.

That's when a sudden spark flashed in his eyes. "Grace's desk may still hold the evidence of her espionage," he reasoned. "If you can get the key from Mary, you might be able to find something we can use to blackmail Hughes."

"I will," you assured him just as the guard called out to you.

"Time's up!" the authoritative voice boomed from somewhere behind you.

Though you longed to embrace your husband, the moment would have to wait. As you were left standing alone in the yard, you said a silent prayer you'd have that chance one day soon.

Part 20

#Peaky Blinders fanfiction #Tommy Shelby fanfiction #Tommy Shelby x reader #Tommy Shelby x you #Tommy Shelby x y/n #Tommy Shelby

66 notes · View notes