#wip: the dead are bitter

[holmoris]

I'm in a bad mood so I'm gonna break a 15-year-old nda which probably isn't even valid anymore: blorbo I designed from a canned-in-2008 ds/pc metroidvania (working title signal shift) about extremely incompetent von neumann probes attempting to colonize a planet, badly.

Also the map editor, which (along with the animation system) were my first major contributions to any game; even if it was an unfinished one. Shame you can't add videos in reblogs because i've got a ton of em that are way more interesting than these.

Before it got canned we screwed around with a paper cutout look (which is also where my avatar came from as well as this metroid doodle i did to test some of the animation system stuff)

Still wish I could get at least the tools from this out so people could play with them; the animation format/editor took SO LONG to nail down and it was cool as hell and did Castlevania : SOTN style animations in absolutely tiny ram requirements by modern standards (maps the size of the entirety of super metroid with multiple rooms active at once, in like 30MB ram) but modernizing it would require porting the entire thing from C++98 to something modern and it's got insane macro abuse and has Fun(tm) types like void*** pointers being used all over the place.

having an oc you havent drawn / written about publicly yet that only exist as a concept is so funny. i have special access to this limited edition guy from my brain

[kookiestarlight]

Lines of fate: 01 | jjk

➵ pairing: tattooist!jungkook x f. reader

➵ genre: apocalypse au, exes to lovers (?) dad!jungkook, survival, angst, smut

➵ summary: the last thing Jungkook ever imagined was an outbreak that turned the dead into the living. But even more unexpected is seeing you—an ex he’s known nothing about in the past four years—with a small child who bears a striking resemblance to himself. As Jungkook grapples with the shock and the city spirals into chaos, the two of you are thrust back together, forced to confront unresolved feelings, long-buried truths, and the horrors of the deadly virus taking over.

➵ word count: 11.9k

➵ warnings: swearing (jk says fuck way too much), graphic depictions of violence and death, blood and gore, seizures, virus and zombies ofc, brief mentions of alcohol consumption.

➵ series masterlist

➵ a/n: it’s finally here!! <3 sorry this was postponed way longer than expected, all I can say is: life :,) anyway!! posting my writing again after years on hiatus definitely feels nerve wracking lol. this idea has been in my wips for literally years so I’m so excited to finally be sharing it with you all!! I would greatly appreciate your feedback and thoughts as it is something quite different from anything I usually write (it’s definitely been a kick in the ass) it’ll also really help me stay motivated to continue writing it. thank you for all the hype and excitement you showed for this fic before it was even released cause like hello?? that’s crazy to me😭 thanks for always showing my stories love and support🫶🏻 I’ve taken inspiration from all the zombie movies and videogames I’ve ever seen and played over the years (thanks dad). I should also mention, I had a very thorough plot for this planned out and it kinda went to shit in the process of writing so we’re kind of going off vibes only and 20% of the plot I had originally planned so yeah, bare with me🤪 I also want to say, updates on this will most likely be slow, but I will try my best to get them out as fast I can for you🙏 now that that’s over, I hope you enjoy this series as much as I am enjoying writing it!! this chapter is just the very beginning <33

The autumn sun filters through the large window with an amber glow as you take a slow sip of your coffee, the warm bitterness spreading in your chest as you attempt to chase some kind of comfort. But the loud hum of the city just outside and the muffled chatter of the bustling cafe are very much a grounding reminder of where you are — and where you really wish you weren't.

Your gaze travels down to your daughter sitting on the booth beside you, her little legs swinging off the seat contentedly as she picks away at her blueberry muffin. Completely oblivious to your ongoing little inner torment. Her big eyes flicker up to meet yours, brimming with glee. Brushing a crumb off her cheek, you force a little smile for her. 

Like a dull sting under your skin, you feel how little teeth of guilt gnaw away at you, not only because it’s been almost impossible to offer her a genuine smile in the past two days since you stepped foot in this dammed place, but because you simply wish you could share the same excitement as she does, and perhaps…feel more positive about this whole situation. For her.

But all you’ve been able to feel is guilt.

An incessant amount of it. Guilt and fear. Slowly brewing up inside you like some sort of poison that has had you feeling a little sick to your stomach.

”You’re spiraling again.” Hoseok pulls you out of your absentminded state, studying you over the rim of his half finished iced americano.

You blink. You often tend to forget how well he’s capable of reading you. Though you suppose that’s a skill acquired with nearly twenty years of friendship, and an unavoidable consequence of growing up constantly together, practically like siblings. 

Hoseok has been the only constant in your life for as long as you can remember, like a brother to you — conjoined at the hip as his mother always used to joke. It all began when you moved next door. With your parents always working late and often times far away from home, Hoseok's home slowly became your second one — the place you spent most of your childhood and adolescence and formed some of your fondest memories. A place where you were never alone.

You do suppose it’s no surprise the years and the unbreakable bond you’ve formed have given you exceptional abilities to know when something is off with just a simple glance. But it's never less surprising.

The corners of your mouth tug upwards into a tiny smile at his words, brows pinched in a pathetic attempt to hide your truth. “I am not.”

“You are. You’re thinking too much,” he stirs the ice in his drink with the straw, eyes flicking up to meet yours again. “Which if I may remind you, is one of your fatal flaws.”

You scoff, only slightly offended as you watch him take a slow sip. Pushing your sunglasses further up your head as you lean back. “Thinking too much is not my fatal flaw.” 

He’s may very likely be right about that, but of course, you’d never actually admit it.

Hoseok snorts, clearly unconvinced. His voice just above a whisper when he murmurs, “Right. Sorry. It’s definitely lying.”

Before you can argue, he leans forward to accept some crumbs of muffin Jieun is so eagerly offering him. The sight tugs at something deep in your chest, watching his expression soften to mush as he thanks her with that brightest, tender smile he only ever uses for her before he brings his attention back to you. 

“If it weren’t your fatal flaw, you’d actually be enjoying that overpriced coffee and oh—, maybe being reunited with your best friend again. I haven’t even seen you in like three months.” He shakes his head in utter disappointment, sitting back with a dramatic sigh.

“Hobi, I am so thrilled to be reunited with you, truly.” You roll your eyes ever so slightly and place a hand on your heart rather sarcastically as you say it, but deep down you hope he knows you’re only half joking. No one has done for you more than what hoseok has in the time you’ve known him.

You suppose all the change has got you in a rather sentimental state. But you bury it away. Hoseok deserves a nice time out with a friend for once too. He’s seen enough of your tears.

“Yeah?” he leans in, studying you with mock concern. Though not falling for it even a bit. "That's your thrilled face? You sure about that?” You almost laugh in response, but then, he shifts, looking more serious than just seconds ago. “You know,” he pauses, crossing his arms over his chest. “For someone who finally landed a nice new job and has everything working out, you don’t look all that thrilled to me, actually. That’s all.”

You press your lips together and glance down at your coffee, suddenly the truth a little too hard to face. You should be happy. He’s right. Because things really are starting to look up for you again. Everything you’ve spent the last few months wishing for has finally become a reality. And yet, you can’t shake the fact that there’s a deep buried sense of dread that seems to be getting in the way of that, a familiar fear that's been present for years, but only intensified since you stepped foot in Seoul again. 

Hoseok follows your gaze, watching you carefully, then nudges your foot under the table gently. “Come on.” He murmurs softly, eyebrows raised gently. “What is it?”

You suppose your real fatal flaw is your emotions showing up as flashy neon subtitles over your head apparently, or the fact you are simply terrible at hiding them, because Hoseok doesn't budge. He sees right through your little facade — always has. And as much as you know he is a great listener and that he genuinely cares to hear it all, always ready to give you a helping hand in any way he possibly can, you just don’t want to sound ungrateful. Not when anyone else in your position would be feeling over the moon right now.

Besides, you’ve never liked burdening him, or anyone for that matter. Never wanted to add more weight to the heavy things he already carries himself. He deals with so much of that at work already. So many problems significantly worse than your own worries. So you simply shake your head, putting on a small smile once again in hopes to appease him.

“I’m alright, Hobi. It's just…strange. Being back here. Overwhelming, I guess,” you admit, though only to half of the truth. “It’s so calm on the island. I suppose I got used to it. Everything here is just so intense. But that's all.” You cross your arms on the table as you gaze out at the busy streets. Hoping you don't sound as pathetic as you feel. Though in truth, this whole things isn't just strange. It’s all actually fucking terrifying.

In many ways it seemed like nothing here had changed since the day you left four years ago. The cityscape is as bustling as you remember – a stark contrast to the quietude and stillness of Jeju, where you had been building your new life up until now. People in suits rush back and forth and push into each other with no care, everything is always shadowed by a maze of buildings that don't seem to have an end. Cars weave through traffic like they want to crash into each other, and neon signs and billboards still flicker blindingly even in the daytime. 

The fact that everything remains the same, terrifies you. The rush, the stress, the chaos. That constant hustle and bustle that seems suffocating. It wasn't the reason why you left. but it was certainly a factor that made your life here something you wanted to escape from. It feels like stepping back into the life you thought you’d left behind for good. Like stepping onto a moving treadmill, when you no longer know how to run. Not sure if you’ll ever find your place here again.

Hobi hums in understanding, and the warmth in the familiarity of his smile helps lessen the knot that's been forming in your stomach all morning. And though you've only let out a tiny portion of what's on your mind, you already feel like you can breathe with more ease.

Sometimes, it’s not so bad that he can see right through you. Because you also tend to forget he’s the only one that truly gets you, understands you when even you struggle to understand yourself, and has never once been one to judge you, no matter how small or ridiculous it may be.

“Yeah, I get it. It can be overwhelming.” He nods slowly, letting the words settle. “But if I were you, I’d be damn proud of myself.” His expression is calm and his words full of sincerity as he speaks. “You did what you had to do, and now you’re doing it again. Making more big changes. Really tough decisions, and I know that’s not easy.” He pauses. “But you've always made it after all. This time won't be different. Besides, think about this, we’re close to each other now. I’ll be here for anything you guys need, you know that.”

Your heart softens at his comforting words, and the reassurance feels like it melts some of the tension off your shoulders. And for just a split second you feel that roar of confidence, thinking about everything you've accomplished, but it's not lasting, and deflates with the weight of your heavier thoughts.

You want to believe what he says — you really do. For your daughter's sake. Because this is finally your chance to start over and build something better. To give Jieun the life she deserves, something stable, a chance to thrive in a place full of new opportunities. 

A fresh start. 

After all, isn't that all you've ever been chasing?

You don’t want to allow your fears and the past to come in the way of that. But it's never so simple. At least, definitely not here — definitely not for you.

Because the truth is, being in Seoul again feels like roaming a haunted city. Tainted and plagued by shadows from the past, by who you used to be, and everything and everyone you left behind all those years ago when you ran and didn’t dare to look back. Being here now, you can’t shake the feeling — the apprehension and fear that everything you once left behind is lurking around the corner, ready to jump out and haunt you, making everything you've finally built up crumble to pieces once again. This place just gives you an indescribable feeling of…dread. Eeriness even. Enough for it to linger gut deep with a painful sense of discomfort that hasn’t eased since the day you arrived. As if you can never truly let your guard down.

But after all, it was an opportunity you couldn’t pass up, even if it meant returning to the city you swore you’d never step foot in again. The offer came at just the right moment, a lifeline after months of uncertainty and dead-ends. After losing your job, and endless nights crying yourself to sleep with the heavy burden of becoming a failure of a mother and not knowing how to make ends meet. You practically cried with joy the morning you finally got the call, and ignored the pit that formed in your stomach when you heard where it required you to move to. It had felt like you were about to reach the peak of a mountain, only to drop all the way back down to the bottom. But it was a steady paycheck, and a chance to finally give Jieun some stability. It wasn’t glamorous or grand — a position in a small marketing firm. But it was enough to rebuild. The breakthrough you so badly needed to start over and secure a future for your little girl. 

How could you possibly turn it down?

That was your biggest and only goal in life.

There was nothing you wouldn’t do for her. So you knew in that very instant you had to take it. Even if it meant returning to the place that broke you beyond repair. So you packed up your life and now, here you are. Back where you never thought you’d be. So far from the tranquility of the home you had made for yourself in a secluded tiny seaside town four years ago. Where you were happy. Where you didn't live in constant fear.

“I know this is what I need right now,” you speak softly, more to yourself than anything. You reach out, gently brushing your fingers through Jieun's baby soft hair, watching as she focuses intently on her muffin, completely unaware of the heaviness of the conversation. “I just don’t want to mess anything up…the job, you know, our new life here. I want to get this right. I don’t want anything, getting in the way of that.” You swallow thickly, fingers tightening around the mug of coffee in front of you, and Hoseok knows exactly what you mean by that. You hesitate, letting out a quiet breath before speaking again. “I know there's so many opportunities for us here but…I was happy in Jeju. Jieun was happy.”

Hoseok nods, slow and understanding. “I know you were. A city like this takes some adapting to, you know that.” He reaches out and gives your arm a gentle squeeze, “but give it time. You’ll settle right back in.” He says warmly, reassuring. You return a tiny smile, more genuine this time.

“Seriously though. Change is good. New home, new job, meeting new people…maybe even someone special…” he adds.

You scoff, eyes widening, only half incredulous at how fast he swerved the topic there. So typical of him. 

“Yeah no, thanks. You can stop it right there.” You shake your head.

“What?” Hobi leans back in his chair, crossing his arms as he waggles his eyebrows, a tiny smirk pulling at the corner of his lips, completely unbothered despite your clear opposition. “I'm just saying,” he adds in, raising his hands in mock innocence, though he feels like your glare could actually kill him. “You’re young. You’re no longer in that tiny ass town full of old drunk married cheating men. Everyone deserves a little fun. It wouldn't kill you to-”

“Hobi,” you sigh, cringing internally at the memories of disastrous dates you told him all about over the phone. You throw a pointed look in his direction, but Hoseok just chuckles. “I’m done with all that. Seriously.”

“Come on,” he presses.

“No. No way. I told you.” You interject, tone firm, not even allowing space for the idea. “I’m a single mother, Hobi. That’s been off the cards for years. I have different priorities now.” You straighten in your seat, making a point to scoop Jieun's hair back and out of her drink. These are your priorities now.

Hoseok raises a brow, watching you carefully, but there's no judgment in his expression now — just silent understanding. He leans back in his chair again, smile dying down, tapping his fingers absently against his iced americano before his gaze drifts over to your little girl. His expression softens, fondness flowing in his eyes.

“I know,” he says after a moment, his tone a tad more gentle. “But I’m just saying…you’re allowed to let yourself be happy again, you know. You deserve that.”

Something uncomfortable twists in your insides. Happy. What a simple word, but what a complex thing. 

You lift your eyes to meet his, the sincerity in his gaze cutting right through. You could argue, explain that you don't agree, that romance is a door locked for good. Not only out of fear, but out of necessity. It’s no longer just about you. You don’t have the luxury of reckless choices or fleeting little flings like you did before.

There's simply to much buried history to let anyone new into your life.

And deep down, you don't believe you deserve it. But you don’t voice any of that. There's no need to explain. Hoseok knows your history better than anyone, the pain etched deep into you, the one you carry like a scar beneath your skin. He knows Jieun's father plays a big role in that, even though you don’t dare to mention him and haven’t in years. He knows his existence and every memory he’s involved in is something you merely refuse to acknowledge. And though Hoseok wants nothing more than for you to thrive, he knows better than to press on the matter. 

Still, he hesitates before speaking quietly. “I’ve been here four years, and I’ve never seen him again.”

He says it gently, in hopes the information is comforting to you, to maybe put you at ease, but instead it feels like a small jab between your ribs. You stiffen, for just a second. You feel your heart begin to race a tiny bit faster. And you wonder when the mention of him will stop having this goddamn effect on you.

Hoseok notices, and regret quickly flickers across his face. He realizes he might have overstepped, treading on thin ice that he fears may slowly be cracking beneath him.

But it doesn't. You take a deep breath, and you simply nod. It’s okay. You know you can’t avoid it forever. Besides, who’s to say he even still lives here? The thought should be reassuring, bring you some sort of peace, be relieving. But it isn’t. Because the thought of ever seeing him again makes your palms sweat, and your chest a little tight.

“Yeah.” You say quietly. “You’re right. Who knows.”

You don't mention how many late nights you've stayed up, haunted with thoughts like if ever did make it out of here. If he ever made it to the states and accomplished all those things he wanted. If he's perhaps settled down and started a family or if he's stuck right where he used to be, how he used to be. You don't mention that sometimes, you mind even attacks you with the intrusive thought of if he’s even still alive.

You don't dare mention any of it.

Hoseok exhales, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m sorry. I just-” He pauses, voice lowering as he checks Jieun to make sure she's not listening, not that she would know or understand, but you appreciate that he does. “I know we’re not meant to talk about him–“

You push past it, giving a small dismissive shake of the head. Instead, you plaster on a small practiced smile, turning to glance down at the little girl beside you as well. It isn't something easy to avoid. But for the past four years, somehow, you’ve managed it. 

“Anyway. I am happy,” you say, voice softer now, steering the conversation elsewhere. “I get all the love I need from my little lovebug right here, don’t I?”

The little lovebug in question remains completely unaware of the heaviness of the conversation. Instead, her wide eyes are fixated on something outside, her eyes big and small fingers suddenly clutching your sleeve.

“Mommy, look!” She gasps, tugging desperately for your attention, she calls you again, tearing you away from your conversation. “The birdy!”

You follow her gaze, a small black bird just on the other side of the glass, and the simplicity of her joy softens you, eases the heaviness for a second. It really doesn't take much to amuse a child, and you’re glad to see at least someone enjoying her time here so far. “I see, baby.”

You smile with her, that is until, just a moment later, you notice… the small bird is no longer pecking at crumbs on the pavement. It’s… acting rather strangely. Its head twitches sharply to the side, body jerking with twitchy erratic movements as it flaps it’s wings like crazy, then suddenly, it freezes, before twitchting again.

Your brows furrow, unable to take your eyes off it. What the hell? Something about it sends a strange chill through you, suddenly understanding what had Jieun so surprised.

“Oh, I think that poor bird might have gone a little coo coo.” Hoseok turns his head to take a look himself, and you both exchange a puzzled glance, to which Hobi just shrugs with a mildly disgusted expression.

“What, you know I hate birds.” he whispers, shrugging like someone just walked over his grave, and you swat his arm and shush him, suppressing a laugh. You wouldn't want your sweet animal loving daughter hearing that. 

“Isn't that so weird. I’ve never seen one do that before.” You say, and hoseok tilts his head, staring at it with a mildly grossed out frown. “Probably has some kind of parasite or something. Not sure.”

“It’s gonna die?” she looks up at hobi, her little face full of worry. You wrap your arms around her, pulling her in closer.

“Not necessarily, bub. I’m sure it’ll be okay,” Hobi answers, trying to be tactful, however, Jieun doesn’t look convinced, but she nods sadly and resumes eating spoonfuls of her hot chocolate that's long gone cold. 

“Yeah, it’ll be fine baby.” You kiss the top of her head, as you glance out the window once again, only to see it’s no longer there. 

“So odd.” You shake your head, taking another sip of your coffee, and Hoseok nods and lets out a low hum, taking another sip himself.

“So, what’s the plan for the rest of the day? Are you actually gonna start unpacking, or are you going to let those suitcases rot in your living room for another week?” He taunts.

You chuckle. “I’ll unpack eventually. This little girl and I have a long list of errands left to do today.”

“Uh-huh.” He gives you an unconvinced look, then looks at Jieun with a dramatic pout, cooing. “My poor little monkey. Prisoner to moms to do list. I remember that feeling.”

She giggles, and you speak up. “Shhh, she loves errands with mommy, don't you-”

Suddenly, a loud crash sound from the back of the café, startling you all.

The sharp clatter of metal rings out and you hear a young worker gasp, emerging hastily from behind the counter as the previous muffle of conversation begins to die down. Heads immediately start turning towards the scene unfolding before them. 

“What the hell?” you murmur as you hastily turn around yourself, pulse spiked from the jump.

Near the back of the cafe, a chair is knocked to the ground, a mans body hunched over on the floor, shaking and convulsing with an unnatural force that seems to take over him completely. The man sitting beside him instantly scrambles to the floor next to him, shaking his shoulders in a failed attempt to break him out of whatever is happening as he calls out for help in a trembling voice, panicked.

“Oh my god, Hobi-” You gasp and your stomach twists as you take in what is occurring, grip instinctively tightening around your daughter's hand, turning her away from the scene. One of the members of staff pulls out her phone, announcing that she will call an ambulance right away, the man on the floor now surrounded by two other workers that instantly made their way over to him.

Hoseok takes just a few seconds to register what’s going on. “Shit.” He mutters, “A seizure.”

Instantly, he’s up on his feet, leaving you and Jieun behind and rushes over to help, but before he can reach the man on the floor, a young worker steps in front of him, his hands raised. 

“An ambulance is on the way!” he blurts out, eyes darting between the unconscious man and the crowd gathering around him, Hoseok noticing his eyes full of panic. “Please, just give him space.”

“It's alright. I’m a nurse,” Hoseok urges, trying to step around him. “Please, let me-”

This time, there’s no resistance — only relief in the young man's panicked eyes as he steps aside, allowing Hoseok through to where the man is convulsing on the floor.

Jesus christ. On his one day off. He thinks internally.

Without hesitation, Hoseok drops to one knee. “Don’t hold him down,” he instructs the mans friend beside him as he proceeds to unbutton the first few buttons of the man's shirt to facilitate his breathing. He presses his fingers to his wrist as best as he can, taking a pulse. He attempts to roll him on his side, but he seizes with too much force, limbs jerking far too erratically for him to do so. 

“Has he ever had seizures before? Is he epileptic?” Hoseok asks without tearing his eyes away from the man.

The man's friend just shakes his head. “No…no- he was fine right before.”

“Ambulance is just two minutes away,” the barista yells, phone still pressed to her ear. Hoseok nods but keeps his focus on the young man. Face contorted in concertation as he's checking his pulse once again before tilting his head to ensure he’s breathing properly.

You sit speechless few tables away, watching the scene unfold, your heart erratic in your chest. But feeling so much relief Hoseok was here. Jieun's small hand holds yours tightly, grip strong. She shifts in her seat, trying to peek over the booth to the commotion, but you gently pull her in beside you. Pulling her close, you brush a soothing hand over her hair.

“It’s okay, baby,” your whisper. “That man wasn’t feeling very well. But uncle hobi is helping him. Isn’t that so good? He’s really good at helping people remember. It's okay.”

Jien nods slowly, though her brows are still drawn together in concern. She doesn’t fully understand, but she doesn’t doubt your word, or her uncle's abilities.

Across the large space, Hoseok presses his lips into a thin line, his eyes watching carefully as the man's convulsions finally begin to slow, the violent jerking finally seeming to ease up. But just as the worst seems to have passed…Hoseok stiffens. 

There’s a concerning, deep purplish hue creeping up the man’s neckline, peeking through the gap of his unbuttoned white shirt. Dark veins snaking against his pale skin, spreading like ink through thin cracks. Hoseok swallows hard, alarm bells ringing at the back of his mind. 

That…that doesn’t look right. His medical knowledge kicks in, a thousand possibilities racing through his mind, digging for the most fitting answer. Is it cyanosis? an undiagnosed vascular disease? Possibly an infected wound? blunt trauma?

His mind dashing for answers in an instant, but before he can take a better look and unbutton his shirt completely, after what feels like a lifetime, the piercing wail of sirens cuts right through his thoughts, and just moments after, paramedics burst into the café, pushing past the gathered crowd near the Hoseok and the patient on the floor. Hoseok quickly regains focus, stepping back to allow them to take over. 

“He had a seizure. Approximately a minute long. His breathing is stable but—“ He hesitates for a second, then presses on, giving them a brief diagnosis and rundown. “I think he may have another underlying condition. Possible hypoxia.”

The paramedic beside him nods, wasting no time as they swiftly load him onto a stretcher. He stands back, his jaw tight, fingertips tingling with the urge to do more, watching as they wheel him out through the entrance. The murmurs of the coffee shop begin to start up again, confused and concerned looks turning left and right, but Hoseok can’t shake all the questions in his mind. 

He just hopes the guy turns out to be okay. The same way it goes with every patient he sees. You have to do your part and let go. That's how it works. but this time, he's left with a weird feeling bubbling inside.

After a few minutes, Hoseok turns back to your table. The moment his eyes meet yours, you’re already standing and asking, “God, is everything okay? He’s okay, right?”

“It’s alright,” Hoseok reassures you, though his tone is softer than usual. “They've got it under control.”

His gaze flickers toward Jieun, who’s still clinging to you, her small face twisted in worry as she glances between the two of you. She tugs your sleeve, her voice barely above a whisper. “Mommy…what happened to the man?”

“The ambulance people will take care of him and take him to the hospital so they can help him.” You say gently. She blinks up at you, then glances toward Hoseok, as if waiting for confirmation.

Hoseok lips form a small smile, crouching slightly to be at her eye level. “Your mom is right,” he says carefully, patting her head. “Sometimes when people don’t feel well they need a little help. That’s what doctors and nurses are for Jieun. It’s okay.”

Jieun watches him for a moment, and gives him a slow understanding nod. He then straightens and exhales, running a hand through his hair. “Let’s get out of here,” he murmurs, his gaze flicking back toward the road in front of the entrance where the ambulance is now setting off.

You nod, now feeling a weight of unease in the crowded space. It would probably be best to give them space to handle the situation, and to get some fresh air after that. So you retrieve Jieun's little pink puffer vest from off hobis chair and gently help her arms into, zipping it up snuggly to keep her warm from the afternoon chill, before taking her hand in yours.

As the three of you finally step outside, you're grateful for the crisp autumn air that lifts some of the heaviness off you. God, that was stressful. The distant sounds of the city hum around you, and life moves as if nothing happened.

“God, I hope that guy is okay.” You say quietly only for Hoseok to hear, taking your daughter's hand as you let out a slow breath. “First that weird bird and then that poor guy.”

Hoseok hums in agreement and gives a small reassuring nod, pushing his concerns aside. But you know how hard it is for him to switch off. How even when the emergency is over, his mind replays it again and again, analysing— wondering if he could have done more, if he could’ve done better. Even when he deals with stuff like this everyday, it’s never been easy.

“Jesus Christ. What's that saying, bad things always come in two’s? Three’s? ” He chuckles, letting out a huff. “I told you, there’s never an uneventful day out here.” Hobi shakes his head, forcing a smile to lift the mood. But his body still buzzes with tension. Then, in one swift movement, he scoops Jieun up, swinging her into his arms. “Now, time for ice cream?”

Jieun giggles loudly, kicking her feet excitedly at his words, all her earlier worries forgotten. “Yes!”

“Hobi, she just had a hot chocolate. Do you even have space for ice cream, Jieun?” You say, trying to sound stern, but the sight of them giggling together pulls a real smile out of you. And something inside already tells you you’re going to give in.

“She’s with uncle hobi now, there’s no rules.” He sing songs, walking ahead of you with your daughter in arms, all smiles as she squeals at his gentle tickling. The spitting image of joy if you ever saw it.

And for just a moment, you try to push away the nagging feeling that’s been pressing at the back of your mind. 

Because maybe, just maybe, this time, everything will be just fine after all.

Jungkook steadies his hand, a quiet hiss of pain getting lost in the low thrumming of the tattoo gun that fills the quiet studio, lulling him into that comforting sense of calm he knows so well. It’s a fairly big piece, he’s been here hunched over for hours now, that familiar dull ache creeping up his back, but he barely registers it. Because all that matters is the art taking form beneath his touch. 

Here, in these moments, it's when the feels most himself. Distracted, at peace, In control. Something he’s never found that easy outside of these four walls.

Every stroke, every line falls exactly where he intends it to. In a way, the rest of the world seems to fade away — no worries, just ink and skin, art coming to life. And it grants him a satisfaction nothing else can quite offer. And if there’s one thing Jungkook prides himself on, it’s his work and dedication. He built this place with steady hands and relentless effort, and he knows damn well he’s good at what he does. Confidence hasn't always been second nature to him, but time and experience have definitely sharpened him.

He leans back slightly to take in the work before him, his disheveled strands of dark hair falling over his eyes as he uses a paper towel to wipe up some excess ink from the client's forearm before glancing up. “How are we holding up?”

The young guy shifts in the chair, letting out a breathy chuckle. “Let’s just say I felt that last bit there.”

Jungkook nods, noting the slight sheen of sweat on the guy's forehead. He’s just glad he’s not a squirmer. That shit makes his job so much harder than it needs to be. 

His own body is the canvas of plenty tattoos. All colours, shapes and sizes. He's more than numb to the pain now. But he gets it.

“You’re doing really well. I won’t torture you much longer. We’re almost done with the worst part.” Pressing the pedal again, he feels the familiar vibration travel up his arm, he tongues with his lip piercing, a habit that signals his concentration. His hair is dusting over his eyes as he continues with the last bits of shading and does the final touch ups of all the smaller details. Another forty five minutes pass, broken by lighthearted conversation here and there. Though Jungkook never used to be one for making conversation before, he has long mastered the art of letting his mouth wander while his hands and precision remain steady and focused.

“Alright, and we’re done,” he wipes down the fresh ink one last time before setting the tattoo gun aside, letting out a silent exhale as he wheels back, peeling off his black gloves to grab the aftercare instruction sheet, ready to spew his usual little lecture he knows most people don’t even pay much attention to.

“Sit up slowly.” Jungkook instructs.

When the guy finally stands, he marvels at his tattoo in the mirror. Jungkook feels a flicker of pride swell in his chest. No matter how many times he does this, seeing the completed, polished work and his client's expressions of amazement never gets old. “Looks sick man. Better than I imagined.” He beams, twisting his arm under the light, his smile spreading all across his face.

“Good choice with the design.” Jungkook replies with a faint smile tugging at his lips. He then places the protective film, gives him a quick rundown of the aftercare and hands him the sheet. “Take care of it. Follow the aftercare instructions and it’ll heal nicely. And you know, any issues just come by or give me a call and I’ll check it out.”

“Will do. Thanks man, it’s perfect.”

As the last client of the day slips out with a final wave and he hears the bell over at the entrance ding, Jungkook finally feels the exhaustion set in — the kind that only comes after hours of steady concentrated work. Fuck, he really does need to work on his posture. He stretches his back, then cracks his knuckles, stretching his toned, inked arms over his head. But despite the tiredness, he feels no rush no rush to get back to his empty apartment.

He never does.

Instead, he takes his time wiping down his station, tidying all his clutter and ink in the methodical and organized way only he understands — something Yoongi always grumbles about when borrowing his space. But this is his sanctuary. He makes the rules. And yoongi may complain, but he accepts it.

When he's done cleaning up, Jungkook emerges into the entrance area of the studio, rubbing the back of his neck and ruffling his hair at the nape.

Yoongi stretches in his chair behind the front counter, arms lifting above his head as he lets out as wide yawn, smacking his lips as his eyes land on the younger. “Christ, I thought you were dead in there,” he says deadpan, watching as Jungkook attempts to roll out the tension coiled in his shoulders, stifling a yawn himself. “Or are you? I genuinely can't tell.”

“Very funny.” Jungkook mutters, slumping onto the leather couch with an over dramatic sigh, throwing the back of his arm over his eyes as he lets his body sink into the plush cushion. It’s moments like this he’s really fucking glad they invested in a good sofa. He wants it to swallow him.

“Sure you can survive the schedule tomorrow? We’re fucking packed.” He says.

Jungkook’s brows knit together as his eyes dart over to Yoongi, eyeing the printed schedule in front of him as he rubs his jaw. “What? You think I can't handle it?”

Yoongi shakes his head, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. He coughs into his fist, a rough dry sound that echoes through the quietness of the now empty studio. “I know you think you’re some kind of machine,” he gives the younger a pointed look, “but let me just remind you that you are, in fact, very much not.”

Jungkook's lips quirk. “Woah, woah. I’ll be fine. Unlike someone who sounds like they've caught the plague.” Lifting his arms from his eyes just enough to peer at Yoongi, he swings his arm as if to push him away. “Stay away from me with that. I can’t afford a day off anytime soon.”

Yoongi scoffs, waving a dismissive hand as he coughs into his fist again. “Relax, it's just the dust. Or if you’re lucky enough I've caught that shit going around. Won't be on your case anymore for at least two weeks. That's if I survive.”

The sound is muffled by his arm as Jungkook lets out a tired chuckle, but his eyes remain closed. “Now you’re just trying to get out of work tomorrow, hyung. I know your little tricks.”

“If anyone should be trying to get our work, it should be you. Admit your running on fumes.” Yoongi drops the piece of paper to the desk and crosses his arms, looking right across to Jungkook, his eyes squinting lightly.

Jungkook feels his heavy gaze, but he's not in the mood to face one of Yoongis lectures right now. He can’t exactly argue that. Because he knows Yoongi is not entirely wrong. 

He's working six days a week, morning till night, barely stopping to take a breath. Hell, it would've been the entire seven days of the week if Yoongi hadn’t raised hell the day he suggested it. Jungkook had tried to reason with him, insisting that Yoongi would still get his days off as usual, that he’d open up the studio alone on weekends and get everything sorted for the week ahead. But it was never about that, and he knew it.

Jungkook has always had a knack for picking up self-destructive tendencies. A slow brewing kind of self destruction, pushing himself way past his limits, working himself down to the bone until he can barely function. And Yoongi simply wasn't going to stand back and watch it happen all over again right in front of his eyes.

Most days, he only eats because it’s Yoongi who shoves food his way, whether he wants it or not.  Prepping meals and stashing them away in their mini fridge in the back room where Jungkook can find them, labeled with a little note in his unmistakable messy handwriting that reads “eat.”

Because behind his serious facade, Yoongi had always tried his best to care for him. 

From countless nights of dragging his black out drunk body home back in college, and many times after college as well. To picking him up from the streets at 4 am after he got into a nasty fight, bruised and bleeding and sobbing his heart out alone on an empty sidewalk. Yoongi didn’t question it back then, didn't hesitate. He never does. He just helped quietly with no second thought, allowing him to sit with his silent sobs on the car ride home. He had always been there, offering him a home when he had nowhere else to go, offering everything he had if it helped Jungkook from drowning.

It was Yoongi that had seen the potential in him and had patiently guided him to finally see it for himself, helping him build this studio from nothing — helping him build every piece of furniture, putting up every shelf, painting every wall, making sure Jungkook finally had something to call his. 

And now, despite all the hardships, he’s come further than they both could have imagined.

Yet deep down, Yoongi knows no amount of help can stop Jungkook from being who he is, not when he has it so deeply rooted in himself to self sabotage in every way he possibly can. It's simply how he’s wired. Yoongi has long accepted that some things are simply beyond his reach, and that Jungkook won’t ever fully change. And he may never admit it out loud, but somewhere in his heart, as the eldest, he’s always felt an unspoken weight of responsibility for Jungkook. That's why he tries relentlessly to guide him towards better choices.

Even though Jungkook has matured and come a long way from his troubled past and the reckless kid he used to be, he’s far from eradicating his bad habits entirely. He knows he’s working himself down to the bone. He knows it's not healthy. Unrealistic for him to sustain in the long run. But he doesn’t like himself when he’s unoccupied. 

He doesn't like the quiet.

Because when there’s silence, there’s space for his mind to make noise.

So that’s what he does. He works, works until he can exhaust himself to the point of passing out, too drained to even feel. It means no thoughts can haunt him when his head hits the pillow. And he’s okay with that.

Besides, he loves his job. That's a fact. The only thing he’s passionate about. All he’s ever found himself to be good at. He doesn’t need anything or anyone else. 

Or at least, that’s what he tells himself.

“Fumes are still fuel,” Jungkook shoots back. He reaches behind his head to grab an old vintage manga off the small side table, flipping through the pages without really reading.

Yoongi studies him for a moment, his sharp gaze softening just a fraction. He shifts in his seat, resting his elbows on the counter, zeroing in on him as if he were ready to throw out a serious scolding, like he did back when he was a kid. But his next words are nothing but gentle. “You know, if you wanna keep up with that schedule, you’re gonna need sleep. I can close up if you wanna head out first.”

Jungkooks expression falters — just a flicker. But he covers it with an exaggerated groan. It does get on his nerves ever so slightly, just slightly. What is it with everyone always underestimating him? Treating him like he's not capable of making his own decisions. But his tongue toys with his lip ring as he continues flicking through the pages, feigning nonchalance. “I’m good. I wanna sketch out a few new designs first. Got some ideas ratting around.”

Yoongi squints at him, clearly unconvinced. “You do know that old couch isn't a substitute for a bed, right? and you could just…do that at home.”

Jungkook tosses the comic aside as he shrugs, already bored of the conversation, his inked fingers drumming relentlessly against the worn red leather. “I focus better here.” Is his simple answer, but before Yoongi can speak, a loud siren cuts through their conversation, blaring jarringly as it flashes by across the street. Almost instantly another follows, and then another.

Instinctively, both of their heads turn towards the window, though it only gives view to a small glimpse of the larger front street, most of their view blocked by the building across from them, all they can see is the bright lights flashing as they rush past.

“The hell’s that about,” Yoongi mutters, straightening in his chair.

Jungkook furrows his brows, pushing himself up on his elbows to get a better look outside. But from what he can see, everything seems normal enough — cars passing by, people going about their night and a few students heading home from late study sessions. Nothing in particular out of the ordinary.

The studio is located on a fairly quiet smaller side street, on the outskirts of the city, just a little further from the booming heart of Seoul. It’s never as busy or chaotic here, much quieter.

“Accident, maybe?” Jungkook guesses, a tired breath slipping past his lips. It’s still Seoul after all. When is it ever completely quiet? 

Yoongi hums in agreement, but as if on cue, another set of sirens blares through the streets, overlapping with others as the noise grows, this time it’s police cars too, wailing violently and urgently before fading into the distance as they speed away. Jungkook glances at Yoongi, who meets his gaze with an equally puzzled expression.

“Must be pretty bad.” Jungkook says.

Yoongi just pulls out his phone to check the time and sighs. “Well, whatever it is, I'm not sticking around to find out.” He pushes himself to his feet, patting his back pocket to pull out his dented pack of cigarettes before reaching for his jacket draped over the back of the chair.

A slight sense of uneasiness crawls up Jungkook's spine. That was about four ambulances and three police cars if not more. That’s….that’s a lot. But he soon brushes it off. “I’ll check the news later.” He mumbles, letting his heavy body drop back against the soft cushion, with no energy or intention to move.

Yoongi tugs his jacket on, tossing him a small glance. “Well, if you’re gonna stay here, at least don’t fall asleep on that damn couch again. You drool, and it’s gross.”

Jungkook chuckles, though it's half hearted. “I won’t ruin your sacred couch, hyung. Don't you worry.”

“Good.” Yoongi deadpans, heading toward the door. He flips the neon sign to closed before turning back to Jungkook once more, his tired features softening just a touch. “Don't stay too late. Tomorrow is fucking packed and you’ll regret it when youre half dead in the morning. And don’t forget about that girl you booked in at 9.”

He presses his eyes shut for a moment, letting out a breath. The girl needed some touch ups to her tattoo but had a busy schedule and no time to visit any other day or at ay other time. So Jungkook did the favour, and offered to book her in before opening time. But fuck. He really does need to stop bending his schedule for people.

He knows he’s going to regret it.

Jungkook just waves a dismissive hand, already getting comfy on the couch. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll leave soon.”

Yoongi doesn't believe him, but he doesn't argue, just pulls out a cigarette from the pack and raises his hands in surrender before he pulls open the door. “Alright. See you tomorrow.”

Jungkook hums in acknowledgement. “Rest up, Hyung.”

The studio fades to dead silence once the door closes. Though sirens still echo faintly in the background.

Stretched out on the couch, Jungkook stares at the ceiling a little longer than necessary. His limbs feel heavy, exhaustion pressing down on him heavily. He wants to work on those sketches, he wants to push his limits a little further. But his body seems to know what's best for him. And within minutes, he’s passed out.

When Jungkook’s eyes crack open, it’s to the gentle sound of rain pattering against the windows. But it’s not rain the noise that woke him. Distant voices shout over one another, and the erratic wailing of car alarms and sirens blast in a near distance, sounding like he’s still stuck between consciousness and a dream. Jungkook blinks, then suddenly, screeching tires follow into a loud crash, something heavy and metal hitting the pavement. His heart spikes, and his body jerks up instantly before his mind can register what the hell is going on. The sudden movement makes him lightheaded, blinking as he tries to shake the disorientation fogging his mind.

Shit. How long had he been out?

He curses under his breath, his head throbbing. Did someone just fucking crash their car outside? In his dazed state his fingers fumble for his phone in the front pocket of his jeans. He squints, the bright screen glaring back at him painfully in the darkness of the studio.

11:48 PM.

The first thought that comes to mind is drunk people causing a ruckus. It certainly wouldn't be unusual for Friday night. But then… he stops to listen. Are they breaking in? then his mind steers more towards the possibility of some petty street fight, or some idiots causing trouble. It’s the only conclusion his sleepy can come to.

But then, he hears it. 

Raw, panicked, screams erupting from the streets outside. It sounds close. Really close.

What the fuck? 

Jungkook feels a sickening pit form in his stomach.

Because that's definitely not the drunken shouts of a fight, not the sound of some petty fight or a car accident. It’s the kind of scream that crawls under your skin. And Jungkook knows the sounds of panic when he hears it. He feels his heart beating in his chest now, fast and strong. Something isn’t right. Before his mind can think  further, he pushes off the couch and yanks his leather jacket from the armrest, pulling it on in a swift motion, feeling a little dizzy as the room slowly begins to spin from getting up so fast. 

Behind the front counter he crouches, reaching for his motorcycle helmet. But his grip isn't steady, his palms suddenly feel a bit sweaty. The air in the room slightly suffocating.

His mind scrambles as he finally strides for the door, all he knows something is telling him he needs to get out. He’s ready to leave and check on what's happening outside, but just as his fingers brush the cold metal door handle—

A loud bang crashes into the large front window of the studio.

The impact rattles the entire front window, the glass shuddering violently as something smacks right into it with bone crushing force, causing large cracks to expand from the center like a spiderweb, blooming outwards across the glass. The helmet drops to the ground with a loud thud and Jungkook stumbles back in the darknesses, almost crashing back into the front counter as his breath gets stuck in his throat.

Jungkook freezes. His entire body completely paralyzed as he watches a thick, dark gush of red begin to trail down the ruins of the window. His eyes slowly follow it upwards and then…then he sees it.

A face, wedged between the shards of glass.

Jungkook sees the face of a man...except, it can't be. The skin is unnaturally pale, sickly white, dark veins bulging beneath the surface, tiny pieces of glass wedged everywhere into its flesh. Blood coats its entire mouth, dripping to the floor beneath — but it's the eyes… They send a shot of terror right down Jungkook's spine. 

They’re clouded and gray, almost white and eerily vacant, yet somehow, they’re locked right onto him.

Jungkook feels like he can’t take a breath, his chest tight as his eyes grow with complete shock and confusion.

Then, it moves.

Its head twitches in a slow agonized form before it seems to fully register Jungkook's figure standing right across. It cocks his head towards him completely with a grotesque sound of craking and lunges forward, slamming its hands against the glass with inhuman strength. Giving it all his power to break inside. It lets out another groan, a guttural broken sound as it reveals a row of blood stained teeth, the deep red liquid dripping from its mouth.

Jungkook swallows hard. If he moves will it move too? Will it...chase him? He feels like no oxygen is reaching his lungs, or his brain, his mind struggling to even process what he is seeing. That…that can't be real. It can’t be human. All he can do is watch as his heartbeat pounds like a hammer in his chest, louder than the sirens and screams growing outside, louder than the animalistic banging against the window.

That…thing is trying to kill him. It’s going to kill him.

It doesn’t stop. It claws at the glass, smearing the blood, desperate, mindless — growing more violent as it seems to realise its stuck. But the glass creaks more with each hit, trembling under the pressure of each movement, and Jungkook realizes it might not hold up much longer. He has no time.

Move.

He has to move.

Like a spring snapping, his body finally kicks into action. He stumbles backwards, feeling glass beneath his shoes as he tries to hold in a breath, his eyes fixed on the creature as he tries to back away with steady steps. After a beat, he sprints towards the back of the studio, running as his body pushes through the beaded curtain into the back room. 

His hands fumble frantically in his pocket — keys, keys, keys — but his hands are trembling too much to grip them. Fuck.

Jungkooks mind races with a thousand questions colliding all at once. But none of them make sense. None of them are even remotely rational.

That thing. It wasn’t human. Then what the hell was it?

Another jarring bang echoes in the studio, followed by a loud screech. But Jungkook doesn’t look up. He doesn’t have time. His only thought is to get out of here. Fast. He needs to get away from whatever the fuck that is. He needs to get to his motorcycle. He needs to get the police.

His fingers finally curl around cold metal. The keys. With a sharp inhale, he yanks opens the heavy back door leading into the tiny side alley and slams it shut behind him as he rushes out.

It’s dim, lit only by a flickering street lamp near the end, casting eerie shadows across the brick walls. The air is cool and damp, the smell of rain fresh on the damp asphalt and the sound of sirens and shouting voices in the distance become even clearer than before. But Jungkook can't see the one thing he’s looking for. His gaze darts around frantically and he feels a dreadful realization claw at his throat. 

His motorcycle is gone. The spot where it’s always parked is empty. 

Jungkook panics, his hands coming to his hair. Fuck, fuck, fuck. As he looks around helplessly, his breath only grows more erratic. He finds no other option but to run, so he runs to the end of the alleyway, running right towards the screams and tumult, and when he reaches the end, the scene unfolding before him almost kicks him to his feet.

The once quiet street had turned into a horrifying scene. People mindlessly running away from something. But what his eyes land on almost immediately is on a young woman in the middle of street, clutching her neck with both hands, her body swaying as she chokes out for help before she drops to her knees, her body shaking. Jungkook watches in horror as someone else runs right past her, coming from the same direction, white button up shirt soaked in something dark as his features display a kind of terror he’d never witnessed before. Across the street, an older man is pulling down the storefront gates as he locks himself inside, letting two kids in high school uniforms scream and kick as they beg to be let in, screaming and crying.

“What the fuck...” the words escape involuntarily in a quiet mumble to himself, his hands coming to his head.

Jungkook blinks repeatedly, completely aghast. But he doesn’t think— just moves, bolting down the street. His thick leather boots slam against the wet pavements as he runs, his dark hair blows in the air, his skin covered in a layer of sweat as he weaves past a fallen trash can and then a body, his breath ragged as he tries not to slip on the broken glass. The rush of adrenaline coursing through his veins too strong to even feel his body protesting.

Rounding a corner, he nearly collides into another person, but his hands instinctively come up to push them away, almost knocking them to the ground. He doesn’t have a space in his mind to think about it or time to dwell on it. His body acting on autopilot. The more he runs, the more people seem to be running in the opposite direction. Away from something. His legs burn as he sprints faster, but coming off onto the main street of Jongno, he comes to a halt as he takes in the state of the streets, pupils blown as something terrible dawns on his expression.

The city is in shambles.

Everything.

Chaos.

Cars sit abandoned in the middle of the road, their doors flung open, some have crashed into street lamps and traffic signs, into each other at intersections, even buildings, the smoke clouding up into the dark sky. Blending with the red and blue of wailing sirens. People are everywhere. Hundreds of people are running in all different directions — some screaming, some covered in blood, some sobbing and some seemingly unmoving on the ground. Pushing and tripping against each other, running, but most don’t even know what they’re running from, simply following the crowd. 

How many more of those rabid people were there? How far had this spread? 

He wants so badly to be wrong, but something deep inside him tells him this is something big.

He stills for an instant, trying to orientate himself. He scans the street hurriedly for the best route to avoid getting stuck in a crush, to avoid more of those things…but all he sees is the panicked chaos spreading by the second. 

Jungkook feels like he’s outside of his body, like this is a dream, a nightmare he’ll wake up from any second now. He closed his eyes for a second and inwardly prays for it to be just a bad dream. But the air is thick with the acrid scent of smoke and blood, and the pounding in his chest is too real. The world around him still screams, set aflame.

This can’t be real.

This…this can’t be happening.

Just a few meters away from him two figures wrestle on the ground — except one of them isn’t fighting back anymore, and the other is hunched over them, their head buried in the victim’s throat. Jungkook staggers back, his stomach lurching at the gut wrenching sounds of someone being mauled alive, bile burning the back of his throat when he watches infected pulls back, large chunks of flesh dangling from its bloody mouth, dripping crimson.

The truth slams into him, but his mind is till fighting to accept it.

People are killing people. Eating people. Except…they're not people. They’re monsters.

Jungkook scans the crowd for an escape route, desperate. After a moment, he catches sight of the least crowded street, it's right on the way to his place. He takes a sharp breath and runs, runs non stop down a dozen blocks. But as he navigates the frantic roads, he spots something as he runs past a small street. Stopping him in his tracks. He notices a tiny figure huddled up alone at the beginning of an alleyway, wearing bright pink, shoulders trembling and hands pressed over her ears as she sobs violently. 

A child, no older than three or four if Jungkook had to guess. He halts, heart pounding as he registers her small frightened face, streaked with tears. 

He should keep running, he knows he should. His body is urging him to just keep moving, his insides shaking with adrenaline. That’s not his responsibility. He hasn’t stopped for anyone. But the burning images of what he’s just witnessed flash fresh in his mind. And something deeper roots him in place. Something inside him twists, snaps almost, an unfamiliar instinct that overrides his own confusion and fear.

Ah, fuck it. 

Before his mind can catch up with what he’s doing, he rushes into the alley, approaching the child cautiously with slow steps as he gets closer. He crouches down to her level, looking over his shoulder nervously. “Hey, hey, hey, it’s okay,” his voice is gentle but hurried as he searches her face. “Where are your parents? Are you lost?”

The small girl just looks up at him with large, wet eyes and a trembling pout, her hands balled into tiny fists. She doesn’t answer, just stares, whimpering and hiccuping softly, like she’s been warned to not talk to strangers — especially not ones clothed head to toe in black, covered in tattoos and piercings like himself. He glances around, hoping to see someone rushing towards them, any sign of this child's parents so he can just hand her over and run, but there’s nothing, just the crowd at the end of the alley pushing past in frantic waves and yelling, no one stopping to even look in their direction. 

He has to do something.

“Do you…where did you see your parents last-” a loud metal bang echoes in the distance, making Jungkook and the child flinch, a heavy breath escaping him. Fuck, his mind races as he realizes she’s truly alone. The girl just sobs more and he curses under his breath, eyes pressed shut as his mind scrambles for what to do.

He can’t just leave her alone in whatever the hell this is. But what the hell is he supposed to do?

“Uh, alright,” he coughs, throat dry, and speaks softly but hurriedly, trying to mask his unease as he reaches out his hand. “Come with me. It’s not safe here. I’ll… I'll help you find your parents.”

He’ll take her home, get her out of danger and call the police. That’s what he should do. 

It’s the right thing to do.

Okay. 

He hopes she knows he’s only trying to help. God, his pulse races every second he’s standing here still. They need to move. Now. She just stares at him, uncertain, then slowly reaches out with her tiny fingers, clasping his much larger hand with a surprising grip. She must see past his intimidating exterior, or be so terrified that she’ll take up any offer of being reunited with her parents, either way, her innocence makes Jungkook's heart sting a little. He can't just leave a child out here, he has to help her before something terrible happens to her or she falls into the wrong hands. He doesn't know what the hell to do, all he knows is they have to run, run right now and get away from this, and-

Suddenly, a piercing, desperate voice breaks through the havoc of noise, loud enough to catch Jungkook's attention.

“Jieun!” 

The sound makes his entire body lock up, his heart jumping in his chest as he turns toward the voice. 

Running towards him, just feet away, eyes filled with worry and tears, he sees you.

Jungkook feels the blood drain from his face. 

For a split moment, the world seems to fall silent. The noise, the screams and chaos, the sirens — all of it blurs into a distant hum in the back of his mind. He feels like the air is knocked straight from his lungs as he slowly takes in your face, a slightly more matured version of a face he once knew every inch of, a face he’d buried away along with every memory he’d tried so hard everyday to annihilate ever since you disappeared from his life. A face he could never forget, not even after four painful years.

It can’t be.

No, no, no-

But it’s real, because there you are. Lunging forward and arms out reaching for the little girl beside him with thick tears of relief flooding from your eyes. The child lets go of Jungkook's hand instantly and her tiny feet pat across the concrete as she launches herself into your embrace, leaving him behind to watch, frozen and stone cold like a statue. 

“Mommy!” She cries.

Jungkook feels his stomach drop. He thinks he's going to throw up.

He must’ve heard that incorrectly.

Mommy? That child is…

He feels like he can’t move, blood cold as he watches you crumble to your knees, gathering the little girl into your arms with a grip that looks suffocating, as if she might disappear into thin air again. Your whole frame trembles as you hold her close, relief pouring from you in loud, choked sobs, your fingers getting tangled in her wet hair as you comb though it desperately.

That’s.. your child?

“Jieun, oh my god, baby. You’re here, you’re okay,” your voice cracks with all the pain your body just underwent, whispering against her temple. “Are you hurt? You’re not hurt are you, baby?”

The last thing you remember is being in the convenience store when the chaos began. When you walked out you had no choice but to run into the crowd. How Jieun was holding your hand and in the blink of an eye, her hand slipped from yours. You turned back, screaming her name, but she was gone, just another small figure lost in the stampede of a city falling apart.

By the time you fought your way out of the crowd, Jieun was nowhere in sight. Your heart is still hammering loudly between your ribs, mind stuck on the past horrifying minutes since she disappeared from your side.

But as you finally look up… all your relief shifts, eyes darkening with shocking realisation that mirrors the expression in the man standing just feet away when you. Heart hammering in your chest as if it recognized him before your eyes do.

You blink once, twice to make sure your eyes aren’t deceiving you. Completely distraught.

If Jungkook thought he was stuck in a bad dream before, he’s certain now this is all a cruel, sick and twisted nightmare. He feels his stomach churn. The weight of clashing emotions and utter disbelief thrown over him. So many questions he can’t yet voice crashing into him like a bucket of ice cold water, making his blood run cold.

This has to be some kind of sick joke. 

All of it. 

“Jungkook?” Your voice trembles, barely a whisper, as if the sound of his name out loud might shatter you to pieces.

He’s standing in front of you, drenched from the rain, his wet dark hair hanging messily in his face — so much longer than it used to be. He has new piercings on his face, and his features have definitely matured. He looks…different, yet somehow exactly how you remember him. His big dark eyes lock onto yours, and for a moment, you feel your world stop. 

“Y/n?” His voice cracks slightly, like he’s just been punched in the gut. “Wh…what are you doing here?” but there’s no anger in his voice, just confusion, and perhaps, a hint of something painful. His words hang heavy between you, getting lost in the sounds of the burning city beyond this tiny street, and you feel a paralysing weight on your chest. Your mind reeling beyond comprehension.

You open your mouth to speak, ready to say something, anything. But you feel like you’ve forgotten how to form words. So you close it again, no words come out. His eyes flicker from your face to the little girl clutching your side, and you feel a pit sinking in your stomach. God, please no.

This can’t be happening — not here, not now. 

Not like this.

You want to bolt, to run and not look back like you always do. You wish the earth would just swallow you entirely. But all you can do is stand there, your heart pounding faster in your chest, mouth dry.

You try to step around him, desperate to move forward, to escape this horror. But before you know it, his hand catches your arm. He grips you gently, but with a force that indicates he won’t let you slip away again. His touch almost makes you fall to your knees.

“Come with me.” 

Your body stiffens at his words, and you swat your arm loose of his grip. You lift Jieun into your arms instinctively, fingers curling around her small body as if the mere act of holding her can shield you from everything. From him, from all the pain, from all of this living nightmare.

“No,” you say, the word coming out broken, like your breath is caught. “I can’t go with you. I need- I need to get hobi-” 

“My apartment isn’t far,” he cuts in, not giving you space to say more. “We need to get off the streets.’’

You hesitate, watching his gaze scurry between you both again. Everything in you is telling you to just run, to put as much distance as you can between yourself and Jungkook. Willing this conversation to die before it can even begin. Before he can start asking questions you’re not ready to answer. Before you have to face things you’ve already buried deep. Before it’s too late.

You need to leave. But Jieun is shaking, clutching onto you for dear life as she whimpers against your chest, and the sounds of screams still ringing in your ears. And there’s infected everywhere. You’re stuck in the middle of a warzone, and you have no idea what to do, no idea where to go.

All you know is you need to get Jieun out of this. Away from danger.

“Have you not seen what the fuck is going on? People have gone fucking insane!” His tone grows harsher now, trying to knock some sense into you. “We need to move.”

A gut wrenching scream echoes from somewhere beyond the alley, closer than before this time. Too close. 

Jungkook swears under his breath, running a hand through his hair, torn between a storm of brewing emotions and the immediate danger closing in. His jaw tightens as he looks behind him then back to you. “Y/n, we need to go. Now.”

You shake your head violently, and you can feel hushed tears burning behind your eyes. You can’t breathe, can’t think clearly. All you can feel is Jieun trembling in your arms.

“Please-” his voice drops, raw and desperate. Almost a plea.

And don’t know when or why it happens, but the next thing you know, your feet are moving. You’re running with everything you have left in you.

Somehow, the world is ending, and you’re allowing yourself to be guided by Jungkook down streets devoured by chaos, heading to the only safe place around you. 

His home.

➵ taglist: @amatun28 @ahgasegotarmy116 @knjs95s @jeoncookiebar @badaspice @lachimolalajeon @tearykth @lovingkoalaface @jcrl99 @hellbornsworld @mortqlprojections @xumyboo @honeymeraki @justanarchiveforfics @iamnotdrunk420 @iveivory @k-p0p-4ever @jksjx @yoonberriez @lotustv @hannahmae18 @eclipsethemagic @bybyash @rjooniesdimples @minimoninini @satisfied18 @pinkpunkdynamite @jheneeko @sungiesworld27 @neuviloved @somehowukook @iohwa-com @lola75111 @hanversace @ot7even @rie-pdf @futuristicenemychaos @chl0buggy @happycheesecakedelusion @busanbby-jjk @minyoongi7016 @stellamalonesolaria @qyurryus-m @ex7stance @dchimminie

[thisiswhereikeepdcthings]

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[anachronic-cobra]

If people keep having amazing ideas I'm never going to get any of my WIPs done. Here's a oneshot of @bigidiotenergytm 's Vasileios (transmasc Penelope) reuniting with Odysseus

-----

Through twenty years of solitude Vasileios had suffered since Odysseus' reluctant call to war. Ten years of uncertainty since the news of Troy's fall. Four years of tension with the arrival of the suitors, and three years of bitter mockery of what should have been a wonderous gift from the goddess Aphrodite. And yet, Vasileios had never been more terrified than in the hundred seconds since Telemachus had announced the arrival of Odysseus.

It wasn't that he didn't trust his husband. They'd made vows to one another. Even after twenty years, he was home. Odysseus had built their wedding bed as a monument to their immovable love, built him a palace around that wedding vow. If, after twenty years, he was still the man who'd loved so fiercely, he could surely accept this.

But, said a treacherous voice in his mind, those vows had been made to Penelope, not to Vasileios.

The door creaked open. And there he was.

Odysseus.

The first thing Vasileios noticed, to his shame, was how frighteningly small his husband was. He looked as though he'd been hungry for a very long time. His beard, though roughened by sea salt and a few days longer than usual, was neatly trimmed. Where had he found himself, Vasileios wondered, that he would care for his appearance but not for his health?

His eyes were hard, framed by dark circles, and angry in a way that had never been aimed towards his love.

"Who are you," Odysseus demanded, a hand clenching the bow at his hip as the other hovered over the quiver at his other side. "What have you done with her? Where is my wife?"

A lump formed in Vasileios' throat.

"I remember once," he said softly in lieu of an answer, "beneath a certain olive tree, that you made me a promise. Do you recall what it was?"

Odysseus' hand lowered slowly from the bow, confusion furrowing his brow.

"We promised to love one another, then and always, no matter... no matter..." Vasileios blinked rapidly.

"No matter how life changed us," Odysseus finished. His body slackened as the tension left him in a rush. "Penelope? Is that... are you...?"

"Vasileios, now," the king's consort explained with a watery smile. "I know it's... rather a bit more literal than we meant it then, but I hope you can still see that I am me."

Odysseus dropped the bow. It clattered to the floor, echoing his footsteps as he crossed the room. He raised a hand, slowly, gently, as though afraid to frighten him.

"...there is a lightness in your eyes I can't recall ever seeing," he said, brushing a hand over Vasileios' clean-shaven cheek and down the well-groomed beard at his chin, "although I dreamt of them every night."

Those gentle fingers brushed a tear from Vasileios' cheekbone.

"You look different," Vasileios noted, before chuckling in embarrassment. "Though, I suppose I'm not one to talk, am I?"

Odysseus smiled, soft and small, as if the expression were afraid to show itself. "I am not the man you fell in love with," he admitted quietly. "It would be remiss of me as a husband to renounce my love simply because you are no longer the woman I married. But I ask, Vasileios, could you fall in love with me a second time, if you knew what terrible things I've done to return to you?"

Vasileios couldn't suppress a sob of mixed relief and empathy. "W-what sort of things did you do?" he asked, fighting to regain his composure. The hand retreated from his cheek.

"Reddened the sea across every island I landed upon," Odysseus declared in a dead voice, his eyes betraying the depths of pain he truly felt. "Sacrificed men I loved with all my heart, because the love I held for them could never compare to that which I hold for you."

Vasileios' hand was lifted softly, clasped between two worn with unfamiliar scars.

"The atrocities I've committed cannot be undone," Odysseus whispered. "Could you still love me as the man I've become, even if I am not your kind and gentle husband?"

Ah, this foolish man. Vasileios stood, pulling away from his touch and pretending it didn't burn behind his eyes to do so.

"If it's true that you have changed so irrevocably," he said, "can you do something for me? A simple task, just to bring me peace of mind?"

Odysseus looked at him quizzically, but with naked hope in his eyes.

"Will you move our wedding bed from this room, so that we might enjoy each others' company in greater comfort?"

The change was stark as the question visibly settled in Odysseus' mind. His gaze darkened with hurt, then with anger. His fists clenched at his sides.

"How could you ask this of me," he asked, the devastation in his voice nearly shaking Vasileios' resolve. "I built this wedding bed with my own hands, a monument to my love for you. I built a home around my love for you!" He was shouting now, anger boiling from the sea of sorrow. "A symbol of our love, our vows, to be as steadfast and everlasting as its very roots in the soil. And you ask me to cut it from those roots?"

Vasileios crossed the distance between them fearlessly, cradling the face of a man who still wore the blood of a hundred others as he stared into his fury with an anger to match.

"Only my husband would know this, or care for its preservation," he shouted in return, tears streaming down his face, "and you dare to try and convince me that you are no longer that man?"

The anger drained from Odysseus so quickly that Vasileios worried for a moment that he may faint. He tucked his king's face into his neck, burying his nose into curls crusted in blood and sea salt.

"I would fall in love with you a thousand times," Vasileios declared, anger at the loss of time turning to wetness on his face and in his husband's hair. "I will fall in love with the man you have become, and every man you've been for twenty years, and every man you will be until we both embrace the shroud of death."

Odysseus' shoulders shook.

"And I ask, husband," Vasileios continued, pulling himself away to meet the king's red-rimmed eyes, "can I ask the same of you? I am not the woman you loved. I am not your sweet and soft Penelope. I have changed much to keep this household safe, to bring myself some happiness in the face of my grief. I will never be her again, and I do not wish to be. Can you love me as I am, and for every man I will be?"

Odysseus pulled Vasileios' hands into his own once again.

"Vasileios," he said seriously, "if I am still the man you love, you cannot tell me you are not the person I married." He turned their hands over, tracing his partner's fingers. "These callouses from your weaving, I know them. I had memorized them a thousand times, so well I could follow a map of them more closely than any of Ithaca." His hand slid up Vasileios' arm to a spot on his wrist. "This scar from the knife you learned to wield in secret as a child, I know it too. This strength," he caressed his upper arms, "from decades of working the loom, I know how these arms have held me, and will again. These things are you, my love, and I know them."

Hands cradled Vasileios' face. Two thumbs traced the dark circles beneath his eyes, wiping away fresh tears. "I do not know this tiredness to your face, nor the wrinkles that adorn it. I do not know this grayness to your hair." Odysseus drew a tentative hand through the softness of his lover's mane. "But I want nothing more in the world than to know them as I know all the rest of you, my love."

Vasileios sobbed, finally caving to his desire to cling to Odysseus like a child. His husband's arms wrapped around him just as tightly, as though afraid he would disappear the moment he let go.

"I love you." It didn't matter who said it first. There would be plenty more to fill their lifetime.

[minsyal]

She Was His

Tywin Lannister x Reader

Summary: Sad-ish.. Written fast and slowly at the same time. It’s been in my wip for… a few years now. Enjoy 💕 not mega edited, apologies for any grammatical thingies.

Word count: 2800

An overwhelming race of the steadfast beating in her chest exploded as soon as the fields were flooded with a haze of crimson. Flags waved proudly in the wretched wind of the summer day, creating a sea of blood upon the grassy plains. The first harvests of the summer crept in from the false spring of years past, providing the first taste of freshness in two years.

She could hear the heralds heralding from the gates of King’s Landing where forces encroached on the sky scraping walls. With enough focus, she could spot him riding in front. Rising gallantly from a white steed, the Lannister patriarch sat with a stiff back and cold resolve. Pleated drapery cascaded down from his broad shoulders to attach to his narrowed hips. Everything about him bled with an unwavering confidence, the same confidence that had stolen her heart from her intended many years previous.

“Princess.” The Master of Whispers was always lurking around corners and concealing himself within the shadows spoke. His hand was cold and plush against her shoulder as he delicately reached out to guide the princess away. “You should be in the Holdfast where it is safest.”

“There is no threat.” Her tone was resolute and her shoulders squared as she shook loose from his light hold. The Grand Maester was also nearby, listening as the two conversed. “Lord Tywin is here for our protection.” Her defense was as strong as the impenetrable stones holding the earth down. Beliefs cemented in centuries of faith grounded her as she, for the first time in years, felt a wave of calm wash over her body.

“A precious assumption from a naive heart.” He, Varys, paced the small space of the stone tower. “Have you considered-”

His words meant nothing to her for he spoke in an ill favor of her beloved lord. She would have none of his lies. Fleeing his presence, she joined the Grand Maester at the window’s ledge. Her fingers were warm against the cold stone that separated her from the open air. “It is anything but an assumption, my Lord.”

“Lord Tywin has not taken a stance during the Rebellion.” Varys tucked his chin to his chest as he eyed the silken fabrics that hung from his wrists. “Greeting the city with thousands of armed men often is not a welcoming sight. Should Lord Tywin decide that his faith with the crown has run thin, it will not end well for the Targaryen dynasty.”

“It will turn in our favor.” Pycelle insisted, pressing his shaking fingers to the heavy chains that hunched his back. “Lord Tywin has served the Targaryen dynasty valiantly and faithfully since the day he became Lord of Casterly Rock upon his father’s death. His heir serves in the King’s Guard and his daughter was set to wed Rhaegar.”

“The crowned-prince was slain on the Trident and Prince Rhaegar was wed to Elia Martell.” Varys reminded the room, though his words were not warm.

The mention of his name made her suddenly uncomfortable. “Rhaegar is dead, but that does not mean that Cercei’s love for him has ceased. She would have married him if not for my father’s decisions.” She pressed her hand firmly down on her stomach to quell the fluttering butterflies that bounced from its walls as she looked into the blinding glint of his crimson armor. “Let him in.”

“My princess,” Varys tone had become concerningly low, “do not allow your love for him to shroud your rational thought. There is a reason that Lord Tywin had not chosen a side in this war. At the death of your brother, he joins the battle. Does that not leave a bitter taste upon your tongue?”

“He will not allow us to crumble.” She defended, a sweat breaking out on her forehead. “He was my intended for many years. This is a way for him to finally have my father accept the betrothal. The Lannister army will assist us in quelling this rebellion once and for all.”

A hush fell over the room as the uneven footsteps of the king echoed up the stairwell. His were followed closely by another, a younger man covered in heavy armor. All eyes were focused directly on the painted wooden door that separated the overlook from the rest of the Keep.

Hobbling into the room, thin and frail, Aerys used any railing he could to maintain his balance. A wild look clouded his lilac eyes, fluctuating from pinpricks to full dilation. Nobody present was truly sure if he was aware of his surroundings. Behind him stood Jaime Lannister, a dashing young knight with hearts to spare. Though popular among the crowds of maidens, she wondered who he was truly interested in.

Pycelle and Varys plead their cases to the lone judge who seemed to go in and out of listening. His fingers shook as they gripped at the golden crown of tangled wings placed heavily atop his brittle hair. For a moment he pressed his thinning lips together and contemplated deeply in a way that she had not seen him do in decades. Deep in the cavernous depths of his mental prison, he listened to the voices that instructed him in his daily life. “Lord Tywin cannot be trusted, my king.” One voice, foreign and shrill, urged while the other, mature and shaken, suggested differently. “Lord Tywin will protect this city. He will end the rebellion.”

Aerys did not ponder on his options for an extended period of time. His decision was made in the filling of a lung as he muttered the few words aside from garbled madness he had in the past few months.

“Let him in.”

Those words seemed to mean nothing to Aerys as his eyes glazed back over from his position in the room. He did not look to his daughter nor his council who all dispersed throughout the throne room. Pycelle began his short jaunt to the front gates where he instructed a footsoldier to deliver word from the King that the gates should be opened to Lord Tywin.

“Come, princess.” Varys began to pull the princess’s arm, but found a stone wall beneath his fingertips. “We must get you somewhere safe.”

She was unmoving and uncaring of what the Master of Whispers had to say. Any words that came from his mouth were null in her mind.

“Princess, you must go now.” Varys pulled forcefully at the princess’s arm, so much so that the sleeve of her gown tore in his fingertips. Any other instance as such would leave a man without his head but an urgentness in his chest compelled him to act with ferocity. “Lord Tywin and his men are not here to ensure your safety.”

She couldn’t, wouldn’t, believe it.

All the years Tywin spent as Hand of the King he had vied for her hand. He had, on multiple occasions, taken her to spend the summer months in Casterly Rock where she could live freely and happily. He had planted seeds of safety in her core that had only cemented her trust in him, and hindered Varys’s attempts to guide the girl away.

None of it mattered, though. Tywin would get what he wanted in the end even if his desires had to adjust to the circumstances.

~~*~~

“What of the girl?” The path to King’s Landing had been an easy one, one that Lord Tywin had made many in the past.

Red velvet cloth draped thickly over the encampment that laid near the forking of Blackwater Rush. The room was occupied by a select few. The men within were to carry out the most heinous of crimes. Though reports conflict, it is generally accepted that the sinister deeds were ordered by the Lannister lord. In the distance laid their destiny, one that would alter timelines that had been set in stone for centuries.

Lord Tywin adjusted his jaw from where it had been clenched harshly to the right of center, keeping his lips pressed into a thin scornful line. “Leave her to me.”

~~*~~

Her feet could not carry her fast enough away from Varys. Echos of his pitchy voice rang through the walls and into her eardrums, beating away like sticks upon clashing cymbals. Heavy material glided across the floor, sweeping every bit of dirt and debris into its train as she ran desperately for the throne room. At the very least, she knew that Ser Jaime and her father would be there, waiting for their fates.

It was an odd moment of willful ignorance on the princess’s part. Deep in her heart she knew that she was running to her death. She was painfully aware of the chaos that ensued in and outside of the walls that had protected her for her entire life. The screaming in the streets were not joyous. No bells rang for celebration. Scarlet embers flecked with honeyed gold were not that of the evening sunset.

The screams were pained, filled and overflowing with an extinguishment of life. Sounds of bells were morphed from crumbling walls and pounding doors as foot soldiers stormed through the cobblestone streets. The evening sunset was not due for hours. Fires were set across the city, illuminating the rising smoke and ash that clouded the sky in a display of power.

She should have left.

Within the throne room, she was met with a sight that brought bile rising to the top of her throat. Churning upset her stomach and she heaved on a dry tongue. Though his skin had paled throughout the years, he looked particularly gaunt lying on the floor with ichor trickling from his neck. His fingers were curled into fists that bruised purple down to his wrists. Thin and stringy hair that once glittered in the vibrancy of the midday sun was now filled and bland, painted a shade of garnet similar to that of Lord Tywin’s armor.

If it weren’t for the circumstance, she could have said that Jaime looked particularly regal upon the Iron Throne. Downcast eyes focused on the glint of steel in his lap, concentrated rivet directed at the dense pressure that moved his shoulders downward.

“Ser Jaime?”

She could see the turmoil in his eyes as he looked up from his seat. The princess should have fled for Dragonstone, Jaime thought as she took heavy steps in his direction. He refused to listen to the nagging voice in his head telling him to do what was honorable. Her fate was already sealed.

“Ser Jaime?” She repeated, steps growing faster in speed and more uneven as she clutched at her chest and neared her father’s corpse.

“Ser Jaime? Please!” Anguished sorrow bled from her lips as she placed a hand gently over her father’s heart. It had not beat a single time in nearly ten minutes.

Footsteps fell in large groups from the Throne Room’s main entrance. The doors were left open from when she had come through them, allowing Tywin and his small garrison east entry.

Tywin Lannister stood there before her, his crimson armor dulled from bloodshed. Whose blood stained his chest, she did not know, but given his stature and ease of movement one could presume that he was relatively unharmed. A simple halting of his hand had the remaining infantrymen stalled in the doorway, the majority turning their backs to the room as they surveyed the hall outside. Tywin began his approach.

Faint screams bounced off the walls and into the rafters of the room, rising upward like plumes of heavy black smoke until they disappeared into the air. The princess was beside herself, her hands now red with her father’s ichor matching the front of her dress where he had bled as she groomed his hair out of his face. For all that he had put her through, he was still her father.

Tywin was upon her now, his face hardened as he watched her shoulders relaxing as the weight of her situation fully dawned on her. She turned to him then, eyes filled with tears that streamed down the contours of her face.

He had always thought of her to be particularly beautiful. In the warm summer months, he had spent many hours courting her in the privacy of his own home. There was a hope in him back then that they could wed and from their union would come heirs that he could marry off to solidify his power. Whether there was true love for her in there was questionable.

There was nothing about the princess he disliked. She was agreeable, fairly intelligent, and held onto his word like it had been written by the gods. Although, she did not worship him. A clear admiration for the man was displayed on her features, especially so when he was leading council meetings or sitting the throne in the place of her father. She had told him on many occasions that she wished to be able to hold the room the same way he did. In fact, there were many things he found he did like. Her company was comfortable, always melding into his presence as if she had always been there. No one would argue her beauty either. Similar in looks to that of her mother, the princess was soft and ethereal in appearance. She dressed in beautiful gowns and always smelled slightly of rose and mint. Even now in the chaos of the sacking, she held that same look.

“What does this mean for me?” The words fell like a feather from her lips, floating softly downward to the floor where her gaze was focused.

When no answer came from Tywin she turned and looked upward at him. “My lord?”

There were truthfully only two possibilities for her future and Tywin knew that.

He extended a hand down to her and stiffened when she accepted it and rose to meet his gaze. Trembling fingers wrapped around his. The entirety of her body was shaking. He took the opportunity to pull her into his chest despite the hardness of his armor. A gentle hand smoothed down the back of her hair and rested on the nape of her neck.

“What will come of me now?” She repeated, enjoying the way he embraced her. Calming to his touch, she deepened her hold on him.

“The war is over, princess.” Tywin hushed her tearful sobs, pressing a light kiss to the side of her head as her crying intensified. “The house of the dragon has fallen.”

The princess only looked into his emerald eyes when his gloved finger guided her vision upward. He knew he should not have allowed himself to indulge in the moment. Robert Baratheon would not let a Targaryen, especially the sister of Rhaegar, live peacefully. He personally saw to the death of the prince and Tywin did not intend to let him see to the princess’s end.

Knowing that no guard dared to turn their heads in their direction, Tywin drew the princess near and placed a light kiss to her lips. Their personalities in that moment were completely opposite. She was ravenous, starved of his touch and seeking validation in his arms. Her hands found the dimples of his waist, barely detectable through the armor, and rested there. If it were not for the metal, she would have dug crescents into his skin.

On the other hand, he was calm. A storm brewed in the pit of his stomach, but he did not show it.

She let out a soft breath when the cold metal sunk itself into her chest. Tywin held her still, not allowing her legs to give out. One hand held the blade firmly by his side, soaked in her blood. The other was cradling her body, holding her to his chest. An uncomfortable warmth oozed from the bodice of her dress. It added depth to the blood that already stained his breastplate.

Her lips parted to speak but nothing could come from her lungs for no air remained. Pleading questioning eyes met ones that would display sorrow and remorse if they could. It would be a cold day in hell before Tywin would admit what he had done was wrong. Every fiber of his being scolded him, but his own selfishness was not enough to start a war with a man who had just won his own.

Tywin knew that the only end for her that he would accept was the embrace of death. If not for his blade, Robert Baratheon would either have the princess killed or marry her to claim the throne. Selfishly, Tywin could not bear to see her wed to another.

She was his.

Her love, her body, her heart, and her death was his.

That was how it was supposed to be.

[pandora-writes-one-piece]

The Meet-Cute - Kid's Story - 4

Source for pic

Imperfect 4 🔞

Word Count: 3880

Tags and Summary can be found here.

Special Warning: English is not my first language, I apologise for any possible spelling or grammar mistakes.

Notes: I was going to post a WIP Wednesday, but then I thought that a new chapter might be even better! I'm in the middle of writing chapter seven, so I decided I didn't have to wait for a full week to pass before uploading a new chapter! Especially because I'm diving head-first into a deliciously angsty scene! Until then, let me know if you enjoyed this one! (Not too much, but a bit NSFW in here)

Here's a Spotify Playlist I created for this story if you want to check it out!

Masterlist

Divider by @cafekitsune

“So, what's the verdict?” Shanks steps closer to the tractor, his hand in his pocket, and a heavy scowl still turning his lips downwards. 

Kid sighs but doesn't take his eyes or his tool off the half-bolt he's trying to remove. “Ye should just give it a proper funeral and be done with it.”

“So it's not salvageable?” Shanks stops next to Kid, his presence intimidating, though Kid doesn't even tense up. 

“Well, it's givin’ ye more trouble than it should, boss. I mean, I can replace the engine but–”

“Stay away from my daughter, Kid,” Shanks blurts out, interrupting Kid, who scoffs out a bitter laugh before finally giving up on that bolt to stare at the older redhead. 

“I knew this was comin’,” he nods slowly, then shrugs. “Maybe ye should tell her to stay away.” His cocky grin only seems to make Shanks’ anger rise. “This ain’t one-sided.”

Kid continues to try and wrench the damned bolt from the engine, but Shanks places his hand on his forearm, gripping him to a stop. “You think this is funny, Eustass?” Their eyes clash, and tension builds as both their scowls increase. “She’s my baby girl, and you’re…” Shanks sighs heavily. “...not good enough for her.”

Kid’s jaw ticks twice before he locks his gaze again with Shanks and lets out a dry laugh. “No shit.” With a scoff, he yanks his arm away, drops the wrench on top of the tractor, and wipes his hand on a dirty rag he’s got hanging from his tool belt. “Don’t worry, boss. We’re just havin’ fun.”

Opening his arms and cocking his eyebrow in a defiant manner doesn’t exactly produce the results Kid was hoping for. He’s taunting Shanks, he knows that, but the accusations are making him angry, and if the old man takes a swing at him, maybe he can blow off some steam. 

But Shanks has the advantage over him. Not only is he older and wiser, but he’s also much cooler and more collected. The only sign that lets Kid know he’s pissed is the clenching of his fist against his leg and the narrowness of his eyelids. 

“You better watch it, Eustass.” His voice sounds sharper and carries a warning edge to it. “The moment I see her shed one single tear because of your shit, I will come for you.”

Now we’re getting somewhere.

A low chuckle escapes Kid’s lips, and he cocks his brow one more time. “That a promise, boss?”

Shanks’ presence looms around the barn as if it’s a living thing, and for a moment, Kid’s grin falters. He knows he’ll never be able to achieve this presence of mind. Shanks’ rage is not ferocious, not explosive and wild like his, it’s a low simmer, a kind of rage that warns and instills respect. “I’m dead serious, Eustass.”

“Aye,” he agrees with a tilt of his head. “Consider me warned.” The air clears as Shanks takes a step back. “But I ain’t takin’ responsibility for her actions, old man.”

Before Shanks can reply, you come in through the barn door with two cold beers in hand. Shanks thanks you before turning around and leaving. Kid just grunts and opens his with a flick of his finger, then gulps it all down without a word. 

Your smile falters as you look back at your father’s retreating form, and then back at Kid’s scowl.

“What happened?”

Clenching his fist, Kid crushes the beer can into a pile of metal with his prosthetic hand and shrugs. “We had a disagreement. It’s settled, don’t worry yer pretty head over it.”

He shrugs it off and gets back to work, turning up the music on his phone and effectively shutting out any more questions you might have, sobering your thoughts. He knows the edge in his voice is a dead giveaway, though, but there’s nothing he can do about that. 

-*-

Kid leaves shortly after that, telling your father that he’s going to order a new engine for the tractor, and that might help to keep the thing running for a few more years - he hopes. You sense tension between them, and all the lines in Shanks’ face become edged and sharpened. 

Kid barely says goodbye to you, doesn’t tell you when to drop by to help with Victoria, nor does he offer any more witty or flirty remarks. After what almost happened between you two earlier and the way you can still feel the ghost of his fingers pressing your skin, he acts like it never happened.

Fuck this.

“Dad,” you start just as you’re clearing the table after dinner. “What did you say to Kid?” You’ve been skirting around the issue throughout the meal, not wanting to ruin the nice night the two of you seemed to be having, but you have to ask. 

Shanks stiffens, and his hand pauses midway to storing the water in the fridge before he resumes his actions and forces a smile your way. “What do you mean? When you went to grab the beers?”

Good. He’s not feigning naivety. You nod and let him continue.

“We talked about the tractor.” Loading up the dishwasher, you don’t press, giving him more time to mull over what words to say, what he wants to share with you, or not. But he doesn’t add anything else, and your throat starts to heat up with anger. 

“Just that?” 

“You know,” he shrugs. “Just guy stuff, nothing you should worry about.” 

“Really?” The plates rattle inside the machine when you close the door with more force than you should. “Then why did he leave without saying goodbye? Did you threaten him?” Shanks sighs, running his hand over his face. “You saw what happened! You realized we were about to kiss and scared him away, didn’t you?”

“Can you sit so we–”

“No! Answer the question.” You approach the table and the chair he sat back down in, but instead of taking the seat opposite, you clasp your hands on the back of the chair and face him with a frown. 

“I just told him not to hurt you–” you scoff, “–and to stay away.” Shanks flinches, already anticipating your reaction, and you deliver.

“Unbelievable.” You shake your head with incredulity as you start to pace the kitchen. “Is it because you don’t trust me, or my judgment?”

“I don’t trust him.” Shanks’ eyes pierce yours, and he tries to reason with you. “I told you he’s dangerous, he’s an angry and unpredictable man, volatile and reckless–” 

“He’s never acted that way around me!” You snap at him.

“You’ve just met him! It’s all happening too fast, Bug. All I want is for you to be careful, he’s not right for you.”

Oh, this is rich. Your father, who has been absent for half your life, suddenly shows interest in who you want to be with. The man who only visited once or twice a year? The man who - in your entire four-year relationship - spoke to your fiancé fewer times than you can count on both hands? Oh, no.

“Then who's right for me, Dad?” you challenge, keeping your thoughts to yourself.

“Someone safe. Someone stable. Someone who can be there for you and support you, not be the one to drag you into his problems, but to keep you from them.” Shanks’ voice has an edge to it, and his words sound rehearsed. How many times has he practiced this speech in his head? How often does he think of the perfect person to be by your side?

“I’ve had that, Shanks.” He freezes when you use his name, feeling the ice enveloping your words. “I’ve had safe. I’ve had stability. I’ve had someone who could support me, even though he never did.” You take one step back from the chair and approach your father, hoping he can see the pain behind your eyes. “And do you know how well that worked out?”

Shanks looks down, and you see his throat bobbing, pushing down regret and powerlessness. But you continue because - even though you didn’t even realize it until now - the pain of your father’s absence has always been hidden, hurting, and clawing behind your chest. 

“He hurt me, Dad. A lot. And where were you then?” You wait, but Shanks doesn’t answer. His hand clenches on top of the table as it turns into a fist. “It’s a little too late for this fatherly concern now, isn’t it?”

With a punch to the table, Shanks gets up swiftly, worry lines filling the space between his brows as he searches your eyes - pleads with them - but you give him nothing. “I’m trying! I’m here now, and I won’t sit idly by as you get hurt again! Not this time. Not on my watch.”

You look up at him, defiance still lacing your every action. “Guess what? I’m an adult. I’m not a child anymore, and you can’t send me up to my room and ground me. I make my own decisions, and I own up to them. You had your chance to protect me when I was younger, naive, and embracing a relationship with a man I thought was safe. You weren’t there!” 

You will not cry. 

“We’re done here. Thank you for your concern.” You turn around, meaning to go upstairs and sleep the irritation away, but he’s not done yet. 

“I know him. I know how he is. I was him when I was younger. I will not allow you to make that mistake.” Your head snaps back in disbelief. “You are an adult, but this is still my house.”

You trap a scoff behind your teeth. Looks like you’re both being stubborn now. So, instead of climbing upstairs, you turn towards the door, already raising your arm to grab your purse. 

“I get it. Your house, your rules.” You pause only to collect the keys to your car and turn back to your father, a scowl pursing your lips as you will your hands to stop shaking. “Maybe it’s time I found my own.”

And before he can say anything else, you’re opening the door and stepping out into the stifling, oppressive night. 

-*-

You were going to drive aimlessly just to clear your head, maybe head out to the beach, see wether the sea air could calm your nerves. Instead, you found yourself driving down a familiar road and ended up parking the car in front of Kid’s garage. 

Your heart hammers incessantly against your ribs in a warning staccato rhythm. What are you doing here? Is it just the need to defy your father? Or is it something else?

Ignoring your confusing thoughts, you step out of the car, rage and anger still running hot inside your veins. You need an outlet. Now.

You try the door to the garage, and it’s open, so you push it and stride purposefully into the cramped space. 

“Sparkles?” Kid is leaning against a workbench. The small TV is on, and he’s holding a beer in his hand. There’s a half-eaten sandwich discarded to the side. He places the beer next to it and eyes you with curiosity. “Yer car gave out again?”

“No.” You glance around, trying to see if Killer is there, but you don’t see him. Good. 

“Then what the hell happened?” You barely give him a chance to finish his thought. Getting into his space, one hand clutches his sleeveless shirt, and the other one reaches up, gripping the back of his neck, nails digging into his skin. You give him one heartbeat to pull away, but his pupils only darken when he understands your intentions. 

So you pull. 

And willing lips crash against each other, desperation seeping through the touch, hunger consuming every motion as you keep pulling him down because you’re still dangling on the tips of your toes. 

Kid grunts, lowering his body. His hands glue themselves to your waist, and in the beat of a pulse, they roam under your top, claiming your skin. Your mouth opens with a gasp when the contrast of Kid’s cool prosthetic causes a shiver, turning your skin bumpy, and he takes advantage by claiming your tongue with his. 

You let a moan escape your lips at the feeling and nearly melt when his fingers climb your neck and curl around your hair, gripping and tilting your head for easier access. His kiss is consuming, needy, desperate - exactly how you feel - but you need more, so much more. 

As if reading your thoughts, Kid hooks his hands on the back of your thighs, pulling you up and then turning you both around as he sets you on the workbench. Your breathing becomes labored, and he parts the kiss as you pull up your shirt, craving the skin-to-skin touch, thirsting for his lips on any - every - part of your body. 

“Kid,” you pant, breathless.  

“Are we stoppin’?” His voice is a caress against your heated skin as he peppers kisses all over it. 

“No.” Yours is a breathy whisper. 

“This is just fun, aye?” Kid’s teeth graze your jaw, and you open your legs more so he can slot himself between them.

“Yes. Just fun.” You don’t need anything else right now. Just an outlet, an escape, a way to bury all the unwanted thoughts. Your legs wrap around his waist, and you bring your bodies flush, feeling how hard he already is. “Fuck.” The friction - the sweet friction - sends a wave of pleasure up your spine, and you arch your body, head lolling back, opening your neck for Kid to take. 

He snarls as he latches his lips onto the hollow of your throat, and you fight a wave of dizziness at the feeling. His tongue laps out, and he follows the shape of your collarbone before descending with maddening, precise, open-mouthed kisses. 

“More,” you urge, fingernails digging into his scalp, your hips rolling against him, yearning for more, so much more. 

Kid complies. His fingers inch beneath the waistband of your pants, dipping under your panties, and you hold your breath, waiting for his touch, craving it like it’s oxygen. 

Then he stops. 

His fingers stop trailing down, his lips stop worshiping you, and he freezes. Fuck. 

“Kid?” Your throaty voice does little to quench your desire, and you try again, this time holding his face with your hands so he looks at you. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothin’.” He growls, baring his teeth before latching his lips onto yours again. He’s all fire and want, and you’re melting into his touch, thoughts vanishing - just like you wanted them to. All that matters is the unbearable heat being created by both of you. 

Kid’s fingers inch a bit lower, and his index finger grazes your throbbing nub, making you moan into his kiss, your strength nearly failing you as you ground your hands on his broad shoulders. 

The noise he breathes into you just makes you clench around nothing and pant harder into him. Suddenly, he punches the workbench with his prosthetic hand with a startling clang and pulls his flesh one away from the place you wanted him the most. Breaking the kiss comes next, and you nearly stumble off the workbench as your lips try to follow his. 

“Fuckin’ hell!” he curses. There’s definitely something wrong. 

“Wha–” you breathe hard, trying to find your balance because you’re still dizzy from want and your body is buzzing and thrumming from his hands and his heat. “What is going on?” Your eyes dart to his pants, trying to see if it’s a performance problem, but from the bulge you see there, it sure as hell is not. 

Kid steps away from you, and suddenly the night turns freezing cold. He clenches his prosthetic hand while the flesh one rubs his face hard as if he’s trying to erase his thoughts. “This ain’t happenin’. It ain’t a good idea.”

What?

“Are you being serious right now?” Is he kidding? After all the flirting, the banter, the heated looks, and the tension? He backs down? 

Oh. Shanks.

“Is it because of my father? Of what he told you?”

Kid looks at you for a fraction of a second, and you’re unsure of what you find there - anger, frustration, maybe? Then, he scoffs, stepping to the side and opening a cabinet to take out a bottle of scotch. “Well, that ain’t helpin’.”

Hopping off the workbench, you straighten your clothes, but your heart is still hammering relentlessly against your ribs. “He doesn’t dictate my life.”

“Ah.” He points at you with the hand that’s holding the bottle before taking a swig. “There. Yer pissed at him, aren’t ya?” You raise your chin but don’t agree or deny the accusation. “This what it is, then? Just a way to piss off yer old man?”

“Don’t you dare turn this on me, Kid. I was willing, and I thought you wanted this too! ‘Just for fun,’ right? You asked!”

“Aye.” He grits his teeth and averts your gaze, something completely unreadable in his eyes before he looks away. “Changed my mind.”

Your throat dries up and you contemplate hitting him in the head with that freaking scotch bottle. “Unbelievable.” A humorless laugh escapes your lips before you can stop it, frustration building up to insurmountable heights. “Want to tell me why, at least?”

He remains silent for so long that you consider just turning your back on him and leaving. “I ain’t right for this…”

You don’t know what’s worse, the feeling of rejection or the feeling of being slighted. Because you’re not crazy or imagining things. He flirted back, he kissed you back, and he was hard for you. This is not about want or desire, this is something else. And whatever it is, he’s pushing you away. 

“I’m not asking for commitment,” you say in disbelief. “I just… I just wanted–”

“Aye, I get it.” Kid kicks a stool away from him, and it rolls aimlessly on the garage floor before tucking itself under the workbench. He seems to be struggling to get the words out. “Listen, Sparkles, when I do the ‘just for fun,’ it’s a one-time thing, alright?” He sighs and avoids your gaze. “I ain’t doin’ that with ye.”

Oh…

“I want yer help with Victoria and… fuckin’ hell.” Guess he just decides to be blunt. “I want ye around the garage more. I like yer company. So… fuck, just…”

“Alright,” you whisper, and he looks at you. “I think I get it.” You don’t quite get it. He wants you. But is he looking for something deeper than a one-time thing? Or does he want you around only as a friend, even though he’s attracted to you and doesn’t want to ruin the friendship?

You’re too much of a coward to ask. 

“I’ll see myself out.” You don’t even give him enough time to stop you. You just turn and leave.

-*-

You end up wandering aimlessly like you first planned, driving the night away, lost in your thoughts. You return home in the middle of the night - closer to dawn, actually - because your little outing did nothing to quell the frustration inside of you, but did everything to increase it. Thanks to it, you’re not only pissed at your father but also at Kid.

You climb softly up the stairs, trying to be as quiet as possible, because even though you’re furious with Shanks, you’d hate to wake him up in the middle of the night. 

Though you were wrong for thinking he was asleep. When you reach the top of the stairs, you can still see light coming from the crack under his door. He was waiting for you to get home safely. 

The knot in your chest tightens, but this time it has little to do with your frustration and everything to do with guilt. You shouldn’t have snapped at your father like that. He thinks he’s protecting you - in his own way - and you were somewhat unfair in blaming him for not protecting you from Ichiji. 

He was right before. He’s here now, and he’s trying. 

Your hand grips the rail harder as you roll your lower lip between your teeth. Maybe you should give it a little more time and pretend you didn’t notice he was still up. You could talk tomorrow when both your heads feel clearer.

But then again, it doesn’t seem like your father will be getting much sleep. 

Guilt twists in your gut again, and you don’t want it to anymore. With a sharp exhale through your nose, you walk over to his door and knock lightly. 

There’s a beat of silence before Shanks answers. “Come in.” He sounds… defeated.

You open the door slowly, your head peeking inside before your body follows. Shanks is lying on top of the covers, one leg over the other, head leaning back against the headboard as he stares at the ceiling. 

“I’m home…” you say tentatively. 

“Hi, baby.” Shanks forces a smile, his eyes wearily locking with yours, as if he’s unsure if you’re about to start yelling at him again. “Sit.” He pats the bed as he scoots over to the edge, giving you space. 

With a heavy sigh, you sit beside him, gnawing on your words and avoiding eye contact. 

“I’m sorry,” you both exclaim at the same time, then burst into chuckles. Shanks clasps your hand in his and squeezes. “Let me go first. You have every right to be angry with me–”

“No, Dad, don’t,” you interrupt, finally looking into his eyes. “I was angry and said a lot of things I shouldn’t have. It’s all in the past, really, and you had no way of knowing that I needed you before. Not when I didn’t ask for help.”

“See, that right there is the problem.” He whispers your name, and the lines between his brows deepen. “I shouldn’t have to wait for you to reach for help, I should’ve been there to realize you needed it before you even asked. I know I failed as a parent, and I have no excuse for it. But now I want to do better if you let me.”

Shanks scoots over to your side and places his arm over your shoulders, pulling you against him. “I know you’re not a little girl anymore, and I know I was out of line. But…”

Shanks’ throat bobs, and he’s struggling with what he wants to say, knowing it will just stir up the same discussion as before. “I know,” you spare him. “I’ll be careful. How about that?”

“I just don’t want you to get hurt, baby…” This time, you find it difficult to hold your father’s gaze. Kid’s rejection earlier stung, and it’s still quite fresh.

“You can’t protect me from everything, Dad.” A sliver of a smile curves your lips. 

“Tell me about it!” Shanks agrees with an indignant huff. “But I still want to try.”

A warm feeling replaces the cold, numb tendrils of guilt inside your gut, and you hug your father’s torso. He really can’t protect you from everything, you know that. But as annoying as it may be, you’re still happy he’s trying. 

“I love you, Dad.”

“Love you too, honey.”

Tag List: @rosidaze @beachaddict48 @armiliadawn @jintaka-hane @sprinkklz @baby5555 @hopelesslover06 @mars-mizuko @sleepykittycx @nerium-lil @eustasscapitankid @ren-ni @jqperi @elysian-asphodel @daydreamer-in-training @iloveyoushanks @thegalaxysedge22 @kyllium @keiva1000 @chibinasuu @my-name-is-heartache @laidenbreecatchall @moldychefboyardeecan @dazzlingstarlight23 @bearg-bia @babyboofangirl @praline357 @tremendoushorsepatrolgoth @traffys-heart @cherileecore

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|Chapter 5🔞|

[unboundprompts]

hellooo!! I love your account, it really helps me get out of motivation slumps. I was wondering if you could help me with titles for a wip I'm working on? It's about a cowboy / cowgirl (not sure yet) vampire, who feeds on the outlaws they catch and bring in [possibly with a side romance arc where they fall in love with a priest] Thank you so much in advance, I hope you are having a wonderful day!!

Cowboy Vampire / Priest Title Ideas

-> feel free to edit as you see fit.

Bloodtrail

Penance

The Devil Rides at Dusk

The Pale Rider

By Moonlight, By Rope

Hell for the Wicked, Home for the Damned

God and the Gun

Saints Don't Bleed

In the Arms of the Damned

Thirst in the Desert

Even the Dust Cries Mercy

The Dead Don't Hang

Crimson Saddle

Whiskey and Blood

The Cross and the Fang

No Salvation for Sinners Like Me

Bitter Is the Night

Ash on a Holy Wind

He Drinks from My Throat, I Pray for His Soul

Heaven Ain't Far, But It Ain't for Us

The Damned Ride West

[bee-a-garbage-shipper]

DC x DP Fic Rec List

Gen

A Little Overshadowing Never Hurt Anyone By Playedcrowd5610 [WIP]

This day was just getting worse and worse for Danny. First, he gets dragged to Gotham City with his parents for some 'ghost hunting' convention, and then on his first flight out, he gets captured! Now he's stuck in a Fenton Tech Containment device in some strange cave filled with cars, computers, and for some reason... A dinosaur? He has no idea what to do or how he will escape... Jazz is gonna kill him. The Bats have been having a hard time recently. For the last few weeks, glowing green creatures from all over had been flocking toward Gotham City. Now Tim was staring at the first ghost they had been able to capture and interrogate. He had glowing green eyes and bright white hair. And he… He just possessed Tim, didn't he? Or... Danny gets kidnapped by the Batfam and seeks a way out, a little overshadowing never hurt anyone, right?

Bus To Nowhere By foldingfacets [WIP]

Is it running from your problems if your problems consider you to be a dead imprint of consciousness that killed their son? Yes, but Danny tries not to think about how his nightmares of his parents trying to kill him came true when they found out he was Phantom. After being on the run from his parents and the government for a couple of months, moving from town to town, Danny ends up in Gotham City and decides to risk staying in Batman's territory. He'd take the wrath of Batman over live vivisection via beloved parents or being studied and torn apart by the government. Besides, he's not a meta. Being dead is a medical condition.

If You Give a Bat a Burger By Cielle_Noire [WIP]

Strange things are going on in Gotham: A series of crimes linked only by a sentence uttered. A drug that no one seems to be selling, but lots of people are taking. An old enemy reborn, or someone pretending to be him. Graffiti that can't be photographed by normal means. Bartenders disappearing without a trace. John Constantine is also there. Danny wants nothing to do with any of it. He just wants to sell burgers and survive. Actually, he'd like to go home again, but since that isn't possible, he'll stick with burgers. Gotham's vigilante's have other plans. This is why Danny doesn't do favors.

To Whom It May Concern By Sagoberattare [WIP]

When Danny and Jazz finds out they are clones, they did not process that like a normal person. No, they decided that since they could magically write to them that they'd use their "bio-parents" to vent their frustrations and maybe mess with them a little bit (hey, you try and find a healthier method to finding out one day you were cloned by a pair of mad scientist who decided to raise you). Danny figured he could rant and rave without freaking anyone out. Jazz thought it be a good way air out grievances and bitterness at a audience that wouldn't care. Two birds with one stone if you will. Unfortunately most of the "adventures" they write about are horrifying. Cue several very concerned people desperately scrambling to find their dumb (possibly meta and or undead) children and rescue them. Inspired by this prompt

My Superpower Is Being A Single Dad By QueenOfTheQuill [WIP]

What is Jason supposed to do when presented with multiple superpowered toddlers locked in an unethical government experimentation facility: not adopt them??? AKA not only is Danny de-aged to toddlerdom, so are his sister, his clone, his evil future self and half his class. Who are all liminal enough to have access to ghostly abilities. Time to make this Gotham's problem. AKA Jason doesn't so much fall into single fatherhood as he is violently catapulted.

Death Defying [Dick x Danny]

Holding Me Now in Hand By DisillusionedDanny [Complete]

After Tim Drake tells his family about his new insane chemistry teacher, Dick Grayson decides to do some investigation himself. What he wasn't expecting was to instantly fall in love with the chaotic science teacher. Danny had managed to make a new life for himself in this new dimension as a science teacher at Gotham Academy. He had a fulfilling life, teaching the kids of Gotham how to survive on the streets and then at night protecting the bats who roamed the streets. Now, to make things even better, he had somehow caught the attention of Dick Grayson. If Danny had to be honest, his life was going pretty great for him. Now he just needed the other shoe to drop.

Falling For You, Again And Again (Adventures In Getting Kidnapped And Meeting Your Soulmate) By ziazippy5379 [WIP]

Danny gets dragged to some event in Gotham and meets his soulmate. The first meeting goes great. The rest of the night not so much.

I’m Falling For You (Now We’re Both Falling) By ziazippy5379 and Milaley [WIP]

Danny Fenton is just your average big city paramedic living in one of the most dangerous cities there is: Gotham. Or is he? What most people don't know is he is a retired superhero from the small town of Amity Park known as Phantom. After the burn out that comes from being a lone teenage hero and a difficult reveal to his parents he decides he needs to get away. And what better city than Gotham for a man who loves to help in medical crises. Dick Grayson: detective by day, superhero by night. Well that's what he was until the reality of working for the Bludhaven police department set in and his depression took over. Now he's quit his day job and works for his adoptive father's charitable organization. But that doesn't stop him from continuing his superhero work as the one and only Nightwing. But when these two soulmates meet on a rooftop at night and their timers run out, happily ever after isn’t as easily achieved as one might think.

Dead On Main [Jason x Danny]

Like Betta Fish Do By PaperPuffin [Complete]

Danny had ended up trespassing in Jason's haunt. He didn't mean to. Total accident, he swears. (He blames Johnny.) So he bought the other halfa a basket of bathbombs and chocolate as a 'sorry, please don't disembowel me' gift. It was the proper thing to do, alright? Everything was going to be just fine. Then things got a little out of hand.

Half-Lives By Turnipberry [WIP]

Something is wrong with Jason Todd. That's not new. Someone having answers about why... that might be. Someone maybe being able to help... that definitely was. Danny just hopes its not to late.

Danny Fenton: Dead and Loving It By HyperKid [WIP]

Danny and Jason meet by chance in a graveyard on Christmas Eve over a certain someone’s grave. Neither expect to ever see the other again, until they run into each other at a coffee shop less than a week later. And once they’re both thinking clearly, there’s obviously something wrong. Between working out what to tell their families, what’s actually going on, and just… well, being happy pains in the ass and proud of it, it turns out Team Batfam and Team Phantom all over are a match made in Heaven. Now all they have to do is persuade Bruce that Jason having new friends hasn’t hailed the apocalypse.

Rooftop Express By EmeraldsAndAmethyst [WIP]

Danny Fenton just wants to help his big sister be comfortable in Gotham. But he is getting so done with not being able to fly around freely. Danny tries to do things on the up and up but just progressively accidentally starts looking more and more like a new rogue trying to get set up. His parents must be retired super villains, which might not mean anything. But the rest of the evidence isn't very promising. And then he finds a half-ghost no one knew anything about. Befriending him in the suit instead of out isn't helping his 'definitely not a super villain' case in the slightest.

Dead Tired [Danny x Tim]

Wanted: Dead and Alive By Astereae [Complete]

"Hey, I do I... Do I know you?" Danny asks, a hand coming up to brush something off Tim’s cheek. "No," Tim says. "We haven’t met." "Oh, no, I do." Danny says, and he smiles, teeth white and sharp. "You’re that guy who rearranged my guts!" Rearranged his- Tim glances at the knotted scars on the boy’s abdomen. He can see the shine and shadow of haphazard stitches that weren’t meant to hold forever, that tore and healed over. His- This- "WHAT!?" Nightwing shouts, equal parts confused and delighted. Tim’s fucked. OR Danny Fenton's been in GIW captivity for 4 months. Tim Drake gets kidnapped by the GIW one Tuesday evening in May. Considering how many of the Bats and the Birds have died and come back to life, it was only a matter of time for some people interested in the afterlife to come poking around. The detectives can't seem to uncover any information about the mysterious white vans, however. And they keep losing the mysterious boy who seems to be the one person in Gotham to know anything at all.

Better Halves (And Other Such Falsehoods) By Astereae [WIP]

Danny’s looking at him like he’s crazy. His hair’s dried up into a mess of waves, and there’s some tomato seeds on the corner of his mouth. “You just bailed me out of jail. And you think this is a good idea?” “I don’t have bad ideas, Fenton. And like you’ve just said, I have collateral on you.” “So you’re blackmailing me into pretending to date you?” Tim shrugs. “Or you could just sign the NDA.” OR Danny's trying to recover all the shards to an entity's chalice so that it'll stop destroying the zone while tensions rise amongst his subjects- and trying to finish high school. Tim's juggling his case load, his work as CEO, and does not have time to be embroiled in a sex scandal right now. If that means he has to pretend to date a very suspicious heir to a rival company, then so be it. It's a mutually beneficial relationship. So what if Tim's becoming a little too intrigued by the illusive, powerful Phantom? So what if Danny can't stand the Justice League for leaving him to deal with all of Amity's problems when he was just 14? That's a superhero thing. And their fake boyfriend has no clue that they're a superhero.

The Price Of Peace By JoyLess_NightSky [WIP]

The Juistria League - the alliance of the major countries of the continent Juisitria - has long since stood for peace. Unfortunately there is one country that is a thorn in their side whenever they try to solidify that peace: The Infinite Lands, a country of barbarians to the north where the only reason they survive is the magic in the air. Where the magic is so strong that even children develop a talent, which they themselves call "the blessings of the dragons". The country that, last time the Juistria League had tried to negotiate, had waged a war more brutal then anything seen before on them, for over a decade - right until the moment a rebellion caged him. Not long ago, his murderer took the title. And now, that very same newly crowned High Chief demands negotiations of them. Bruce would rather die, would rather see Gotham and all of Juistria in flames than to allow that man to take one of his children. Tim, however, makes another decision before he could say that. Now, everyone has to hope Phantom will be happy with the boy. Meanwhile Danny is just too stunned that they actually agreed to that to do anything about the sudden engagement.

Who You Gonna Call? By jaemyun [WIP]

In freshman year of high school, Danny pulled away from his friends without explanation. At sixteen, he disappeared. Sam and Tucker presumed him dead. His parents insisted he was taken by ghosts. As young adults, they run into him in Gotham, of all places. It's a stroke of luck that brings their best friend back to them. If only it was that easy for the Bats to find the god damn engineer that's been running circles around them while they try to track him down. Tim's not sure what he'll do first when he finally finds the brilliant bastard - kiss him or punch his teeth in.

Better Off Dead By DisillusionedDanny [WIP]

Tim wakes up to find himself as a ghost in the Infinite Realms after a battle that went wrong, or maybe right. Now with the help of a ghost named Danny, Tim learns that death is not always the end and that maybe he was made to be a ghost.

Tim Drake's I.E.F. (Invisible Eldritch Friend) By Half_Dead_Ham [WIP]

The last thing Danny expected while haunting his new favorite pastime while bored (read: homeless) was to find out his secret identity. It was cool though, and he helped the dude get through the days easier now. He expected even less, though, to be caught rooting around in his fridge by their butler. The last thing Tim expected while getting stalked was to get used to the unseen creature and how they started taking care of him. He expected even less for them to be the same age

Jason x Danny x Tim

I'd Die (Again) For Y'All By GroundedGryphon [WIP]

Six years after he died, Danny Phantom is captured by the Justice League and expects to be handed over to the GIW. Five years after Phantom appeared, the Justice League still doesn't know if he's a villain or a hero and just want to talk with him. Two years after Jason Todd's return, Red Hood and Red Robin finally find a reason to work together. One year after she last heard from her brother, Jazz learns he's being held by the Justice League. Right now, Martian Manhunter has a splitting headache and all hell is about to break loose.

[melanchol1cs]

THE AMERICAN DREAM

leon kennedy x f!reader

word count: 2.4k summary: living the picture perfect marriage with leon. masterlist | taglist | wips

18+ MDNI. DEAD DOVE. typical american marriage, mentions of abuse, throwing up, drugging/use of drugs, gaslighting, leon being mean and condescending — he’s very ooc in this one, non-con, basically somnophilia, unprotected sex, p in v, choking, slapping, spanking, spitting, fingering(vaginal and mouth), degrading language.

a/n: 100 FOLLOWER SPECIAL !! thank you so much everyone <3 sorry if the writing on this ones a little sloppy, this one’s mostly self indulgent and i was half asleep when making this so i didn’t really know what i was writing down. anyways, hope you guys enjoy this, love you all xx.

you loved your husband. your relationship was everything you’ve ever wanted. a nice house in a beautiful suburb — white picket fence and all — a doting husband, and an idyllic life that seemed straight out of a hollywood movie. each day was laced with domestic bliss.

everything was perfect, living the dream with the perfect husband. you don't even remember the fact that he took you away from your family. or that he was systematically drugging you, slipping small doses of amnesiacs into your food and drink to keep your memory fuzzy and prevent you from remembering the fact that he was basically abusing and raping you on a daily basis. the drug kept you docile and unquestioning.

sometimes, you have nightmares about it, though you can’t really remember anything, and you think they’re just things your brain like to make up.

you woke up with a start, your hands clenched tightly into fists in the bed sheets as your breath came in sharp and fast. the room was quiet, except for the soft ticking of the clock. it’s the same nightmare, the same thing that leaves you feeling disoriented and unsettled, but you can't recall the details.

you felt your husband shift behind you, his warm body pressing against yours. "mm, baby," his groggy voice rumbled sleepily, his hands slipping around your waist to pull you closer against him, a touch meant to be soothing. his chin rested against your shoulder, his lips trailing languidly across the nape of your neck. “you okay?”

“another nightmare?” he murmured lowly, sensing your unease.

"i— i'm gonna throw up,”

a slight pause and then leon sprung into action. he immediately rolled over and gently pulled you into his arms, cradling you against his chest while he carried you towards the bathroom.

“it’s alright, sweetheart. let it all out,” he soothed, his voice a soft, comforting murmur as he cradled you closely. he leaned you over the toilet, holding your hair back as you wretched and retched.

he held you close to him, gently massaging your back with one hand, stroking your spine soothingly with his fingers, all while using his other hand to hold your hair back.

“i’ve got you,” he whispered softly, pressing gentle kisses on the crown of your head, his arms holding you firmly yet gently as you hunched over the toilet. his free hand reaches over to grab a clean towel and wiping away any remnants of vomit from your lips.

after a few moments, your body slumped and you gasped for breath, leaning against him for support. he continued to hold you gently, running his fingers softly over your clammy skin.

"tea?" you looked up at him with hazy eyes, still feeling queasy. the room was spinning and your stomach churned at the mere thought of food. but the idea of drinking something soothing sounded nice.

"yes... please,"

he ushers you into the kitchen, fetching a tea bag and a cup from the cabinet and pouring in some boiling water from the kettle. he sets the cup on the table and takes a seat across from you.

“here,” he hands you a steaming mug of tea, his large hand brushing against yours for just a moment. you take a sip and it tastes strange — slightly bitter and with a weird aftertaste. but it does seem to ease the churning in your stomach.

he sighs in relief as you take another sip of your tea, not noticing the small pill dissolved in the cup.

“there we go, sweetheart. i know you've been feeling a bit under the weather lately. that’ll help you relax and feel better in no time,”

he smiles warmly, pretending to care about your wellbeing, when in reality he's just trying to keep you sedated so you don't realize what a hellish existence you're living.

you blinked slowly, the warm tea feeling good as it slid down your throat. the room was still spinning a bit, but you felt yourself starting to relax. leon watched you carefully, relieved that the nausea seemed to be subsiding.

“feel dizzy,” you mumble slowly.

he reached across the table to pat your hand gently. "there, there sweetheart. why don’t i take you back to bed so you can rest? you’re clearly exhausted,"

without waiting for a response, he helps you to your feet and steers you towards the bedroom. you stumble and sway on unsteady legs, unable to resist as he guides you. once you're on the bed, he covers you with a blanket and tucks you in snugly.

"oh, my poor baby.. i’ll join you in a few minutes, just gonna wash up the dishes in the kitchen."

you can barely keep your eyes open as the drug pulls you under. your last thought is wondering why you feel so tired all the time, before slipping into a deep, medicated slumber. you snuggle deeper into the blankets, your eyelids growing heavier by the second. leon lingers by the bedside, watching you with a mixture of amusement and anticipation.

soon, your breathing evens out and your body goes limp, succumbing to the drug's effects. leon smiles, satisfied. he knows he has a window of opportunity before you wake up again. without wasting any time, he quietly slips up your nightgown, exposing your tender flesh to his hungry eyes and eager touch. his hands roam freely over your body, groping and squeezing as he pleases. he reaches up and cups one breast with each hand, weighing them appreciatively.

he leans down and starts planting wet kisses across your neck and chest, staying close so you don't stir.

then he's on top of you, shoving his pants down and mounting you roughly.

your moans and protests are muffled by your sleep-addled state as he ravages you mercilessly, using his big, strong hands to hold you down and shut you up.

“l-lee—leon,” you manage to mumble.

leon silences you by reaching down and forcing two fingers into your mouth, thrusting them between your lips.

"shh, ‘ts okay baby," he hums into your ear, giving your cunt a light slap that makes you yelp around his fingers. "such a good girl, taking it so well," he praises you with a growl as he works your mouth open with his fingers, stretching your jaw wide for his invasion. your protests are swallowed by your own gag reflex as he fucks your face with no regard for your well-being.

your mind is hazy and you can't seem to rouse yourself enough to push him away. he's just too strong, too overpowering. you're at his mercy, helpless to resist as he takes what he wants.

his fingers finally slip free from your mouth, coated in saliva. he uses that same hand to roughly spread your legs further apart, pleased with how easily he’s able to violate you in your vulnerable state.

he flips you upright and pulls your hips back, exposing your pussy to the air. he runs a finger along your slit, feeling how wet he's made you.

"look at you, getting all worked up over nothing," he chuckles darkly, spreading your lips and poking his big finger into your entrance.

“so wet f’me,” he coos, sliding his finger inside you and starts to pump it, scissoring it to stretch you. you moan and wriggle against him, still only semi-conscious.

leon ignores your attempts at protest, too focused on his own pleasure. his hips start rocking, his hard cock rubbing against your thighs as he uses you like a doll. “fucking slut, getting off to this," he growls, giving your clit a harsh pinch that makes you whine. his words are thick with insincerity, a mocking edge to his voice as he uses the pet name he knows you love. in reality, he despises you and views you as nothing more than an object to use at his leisure.

you try to push him away with your sleepy hands, clawing and flailing your arms, but he pins them to the mattress easily. he's too strong, and you're too weak from the drugs coursing through your system.

“be good and stay still," he growls, smashing his mouth down on yours to muffle any screams that might escape. his tongue probes aggressively at your lips, seeking entry. you cry out as he thrusts his thick cock into your resistance, splitting you open and making you scream. his hips start pounding into you with renewed vigor, bouncing off your ass as he breeds you hard and fast. the bed creaks and shifts with each brutal thrust.

"so fucking tight," he groans, starting to piston his hips, using your throat for leverage.

he grunts and growls as he ruts into you like a beast, your body sloppily pressed against his. your head is forced to bob up and down on his cock as he thrusts, drool streaming down your chin. your muffled whimpers and protests are lost around his shaft. “look at that, you take my cock so well baby," his filthy words are punctuated by sharp smacks to your ass and thighs, keeping you off-balance and unable to fully rouse. he's relentless, using your mouth and body for his own sick satisfaction.

your struggles weaken further as the air gets cut off from your lungs. he pauses to spit in your face, the slick substance mingling with your tears and drool. “what’s the matter sweetheart? can’t breathe?" he taunts, smacking your face. "just relax, you can take it." he punctuates his words with a sharp smack to your inner thigh, making you gasp and squirm beneath him.

the bed frame creaks ominously with each powerful thrust, threatening to give way and spill you both to the floor. his hands are everywhere, gripping your hips, pulling your hair, slapping your ass. he's completely lost in his own pleasure, using you as a means to an end. you try to squirm away from him, but it's futile. he's too strong, and you're too drowsy. he simply reaches up and clamps a hand over your mouth, muffling any cries for help.

"quit fucking squirming," he growls. but somehow, he’s lying. he wants you to fight back, to struggle and make it harder for him. it's more exciting that way. your throat burns as he continues to use it as leverage, twisting your head with every brutal thrust. tears stream down your cheeks, your eyes squeezed shut in fear and pain.

saliva and juices run down your thighs as he slams into you without mercy. your mind is fuzzy and disconnected, unable to fully process the assault on your body. all you can do is endure, a ragdoll for leon to use and abuse as he sees fit.

"atta girl," he hisses. "take it, baby." he punctuates his words with another sharp smack to the ass, the sting adding to your growing pile of discomfort.

you can only moan and mewl in response, too far gone to resist. your body is numb, your mind foggy and detached.

you try to nod, too weak to do anything but comply. he loosens his grip on your throat and moves his hand back to your hip, pulling you against him roughly. his cock throbs inside you, swelling up further as he gets close to coming.

"fuck, gonna cum," he warns, his hips redoubling their pace. you moan helplessly as he breeds you hard and fast, the bed creaking and shifting under you. he slaps your ass hard twice, the sound echoing in the room. he groans, coming with a loud grunt. your body is wracked with shudders as he fills you with his cum, your cunt clamping down on his shaft to milk him for every drop.

when he finally pulls out, you're left gasping and sputtering, drool dripping down your face. you lie there in stunned silence afterwards, sprawled beneath him in a puddle of your own fluids. leon collapses on top of you, pinning you to the bed as his chest heaves with exertion.

you're still drifting in and out of consciousness when leon rolls off of you and onto his side, facing away from you. your mind is a fog, struggling to process the events that just transpired. a small sob escapes your lips as you try to make sense of the pain, confusion, and shame that's flooding through you.

after what felt like an eternity, leon reaches over and pulls you into his side, pressing your body close to his. you can feel his warmth, his heartbeat, away his arms are uncomfortably resting atop your skin.

slowly but surely, the fog in your mind starts to clear. you become aware of the dull ache in your throat, the soreness of between your legs, and the disgust you feel for yourself.

fresh tears spring to your eyes as the reality of your situation comes crashing down on you.

"shh, calm down baby," he whispers, stroking your hair soothingly. but his touch is cold and clammy, sending shivers down your spine.

your body feels heavy and numb, your mind hazy and disconnected. slowly, your eyes flutter open. the room is blurry, the edges fuzzy. you try to move, but your limbs feel like lead. leon's face swims into view, his features distorted. "you had a bad dream," he murmurs, his voice sounding distant.

"just another nightmare, sweetheart. it’s okay, i'm here." his words are slurred, his face wobbly. you try to focus, but it's impossible. your vision starts to tunnel, fading to black. the last thing you hear is leon's gentle humming, lulling you back to sleep.

when you wake again, you'll have no memory of the nightmare, no recollection of the way he violated and degraded you. the drug will ensure that. all you'll know is that you slept fitfully and woke up feeling unwell.

tags: @crowleyco @arcane5019

[ransomwrite]

Bounty

Din Djarin x GN!Reader

Summary: After being on the run from an organization, you finally have a chance for freedom. Until a certain bounty hunter tries to catch you.

A/N: This is just my oc's backstory but I turned it into an x reader fic for others to enjoy. Title is still a wip. Feel free to correct me on anything!!!

Word Count: 1084

✧.*✎~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~✎*.✧

Living a life on the run wasn't the life you expected, but it was better than being trapped in that ship. With the screams of the damned and the gnawing feeling that your soul was slowly turning to dust. Every command a shard of ice in your chest.

It was a blessing to run away, to have your own sense of freedom–even if it meant running from bounty hunters trying to take your head. You'd rather have a tiny piece of hope rather than be back at that ship.

They trapped powers and used them, dangling it over and blaming it on you when something goes wrong.

Keeping the powers deep inside was hard, they called out. Every emotion can activate it in mere seconds. You had to keep moving, no time to settle down if you wanted to hide, never bothering to remember names, faces. It didn't matter in the end.

The streets of the recent place you visited were crowded, voices overlapping one another and the bitter smell of various foods. You sneakily take a few as you pass the markets, squeezing past people and keeping your head down.

You hear someone mutter your name, you think nothing of it and think you misheard someone saying something else, when a hand suddenly reaches out to grab your shoulder, keeping a firm grasp as this person flips you around to face them. They wore gray armor with a darker cape, their visor was tinted so you couldn't see anything about this man, staying silent as they examined you.

"Excuse me...?" Your voice is low and quiet against the crowd that moves around the two of you. You try to shrug away his grip, but to no avail. He squeezes it tighter then lets go and looks for something.

In their hand was now a puck, revealing your face and a price that hung over, it showed just how much you were worth to the eyes of your bosses. You tensed up, but didn't give in to this man. You couldn't go back now. Not when you have your freedom.

"Y/N. There's a bounty for you. You're coming with me." Their voice was low, no room for anything other than business. He extends a hand reaching out towards you, but you take a quick step back, bumping into someone.

"Who are you exactly?" You keep your voice leveled, this man did seem experienced with bounties, but you wouldn't be intimidated by his voice and stature.

"Mandalorian." He answers gruffly, slowly reaching for his blaster. You remembered how you'd be treated if you head back, a punishment would hang over your head. But there was no chance on running if-

The stall right next to you both falls, multiple things falling, it makes the two of you turn to see a small green creature with pointed ears, trying to eat something while the owner of the stall yells at it.

You take that as an opportunity to run for it before the other could turn back to you. Dashing past the crowd, apologizing as you bump into a few stalls before turning around to see the mandalorian with the tiny creature in his hands chasing after you.

You look for a way out, eyes darting around for a chance to escape. Making a run for the alleys, you don't look back to see how close the bounty hunter was approaching.

Your heart thudded in your chest as you wove through the maze of alleys, barely dodging crates, running on pure instinct. The Mandalorian's footsteps echoed behind you—closer now, way too close. Every turn felt like it could be your last. Sweat blurred your vision, and the stone beneath your feet seemed to shift. But all of it was for nothing when you turned at a corner for a collapsing building, meeting a dead end.

There was a strange hum in the air as you stood there with fear, something just out of reach of your senses. It was as if the world around you was pulling tighter, squeezing you like a vice.

You turn back while your breathing picks up, fear coursing through your veins to see the mandalorian and his little creature heading closer. Your stomach dropped and tears pricked in your eyes.

“Sad that our chase had to come to an end.” They sigh, no teasing in their tone, only a cold, annoyed one as he puts the tiny creature down, not wanting them to be harmed.

“Please… I can't head back! I don't want them- do you know what they do to me?” You try to reason with him, but he continues to approach you.

Unable to control the fear in you, everything feels too much and yet you couldn't do anything. Then you sense something, and before you could process it, you hear a piece of the building break and fall towards where the creature was running off to.

The bounty hunter notices it too late and turns towards it, before they can run, your adrenaline acts before you can think.

Time felt like it ticked down, the adrenaline and fear helped as you felt a familiar pull at your chest, a burning flame, as you extended your hand. Wanting to reach out and save the creature.

Before the debris could hit, a glowing, green barrier appeared out of nowhere. Blocking the stone from hitting Grogu, letting him quickly run away before it flickers and suddenly disappears.

Din runs up and scoops up Grogu, he saw what happened but couldn't understand it. He turns to you, seemingly zoned out as your eyes glow a bright green before going back to their normal hues, and your hand extended.

“You…” He muttered, realizing you had somehow saved Grogu. You had made something strange happen to save a life.

You tensed up and turned to the bounty hunter, cussing under your breath. You stood there for a moment and quickly ran off.

Din watches, struggling to process everything. The credits were right there, he could easily catch you now and ask to raise the price after finding out you had powers. He had a job to do. He was a Mandalorian, after all. But something told him to let you free for now.

[changelingsandothernonsense]

Wip Whenevers

Got tagged by @skyrim-forever @silly-little-diary @sanzas-reverie @pocket-vvardvark Thank you for the tags, I will be commenting shortly <3

No pressure tagging @smolpocketmonstercoffee @redyn-nerevarine @scholarlyhermit @truth-01001001-liar @snowy-weather

I've been drawing and editing this week, hoping to get the Ashlander Burials doc up by Friday. Did another one of those Ashlander portraits (here's the individual post).

Featuring a Spirit Cairn and a super tired Josh some time in 4E 210-11.

Also painted some eyelids on this render so... He's looking more Josh and less Potato.

I have a small snippet about death rites during warfare under the cut.

Prior to Red Year, we used to have rituals around how to handle enemies who had been vanquished in battle. It was common for bands of young warriors to go on raids across the West Gash, Ashlands, Grazelands and parts of Azura’s Coast and Molag Amur. These bands would often clash with farmers, guard patrols, small villages and each other. Fights between rival bands would get quite heated, often seeing a stronger warlord cannibalising the armies of those who were weaker than them. Such practices were seen as essential for a young mer who wanted to make their mark as a warrior and achieve the status of Gulakhan.

In the chaos of battle, it is important to remember that those we’ve vanquished will remain attached to their remains. These ghosts will always be ferocious, attacking whoever passes through that battlefield. In the interests of preventing what is already a dangerous countryside from hauntings, a warrior must take an offering [gú’un]from the dead. Each major tribe has a preference for what offering must be made, each preferring certain sections of the body. The Zainab of the Grazelands took a felled enemy’s ears, the Ahemmusa of the Bitter Coast preferred gú’un in the form of hair or teeth, the Erabenimsun of the Eastern Ashwastes of Molag Amur preferred to take the heads of their enemies, and the Urshilaku of the Northern Ashwastes and West Gash preferred to take the right hands of their enemies. It can appear to be a barbaric practice from an outsider’s perspective. I know I had a hard time understanding the process of gú’un when I first witnessed it due to certain similarities the practice has with unsavoury elements of settled Dunmeri society. It is, however, a practice designed to achieve a different outcome than what the Camonna Tong seeks to achieve. In the case of gú’un, the aim is to cleanse the battlefield and ensure that the clans are not set upon by vengeful spirits. It is this practice that the Tribunal invoked when they removed Indoril Nerevar’s face.

Gú’un must be completed by fire, as with all rites that concern the dead. Though in this case, one is not looking to appease or to bind the ghost, nor are we looking to release them into the Aubris. No, gú’un is a separate ceremony intended to silence a ghost and render it harmless. Oftentimes, this is to ensure the spirit of the deceased cannot return to Nirn in any meaningful way. To burn a body part that has been offered in gú’un is to destroy our enemies in full. It is a fate that many would not risk, and it is why the process it takes to become a warrior is so arduous. To know that falling in battle may be your ultimate end and still choose to fight inspires respect within the clan and “strengthens the spirit”, so to speak. The souls of Ashlander warriors are robust and hold a lot of power, making those that are unbound and have succumbed to madness deadly to the unwitting traveller. Taking a part of the body tends to goad an enemy ghost into following us back to a pyre far from any camps. This disorients what are already confused spirits and makes their attacks less precise. The absence of the whole of their remains makes for further disorientation as we throw our offerings into the pyre, silencing those ghosts that have followed us forever. A ghost cannot properly manifest if their body is not whole, regardless of whether they are mummified, cremated or allowed to decay naturally. This keeps their spirits in a sort of limbo, unable to cross over either side of the coil. Eventually, these ghosts disappear. It is considered a heavy burden to bear, which is why those who have practised this keep part of their heads shaved in contemplation. One should not express joy over such practices, though this has not always been the case in the past; it is how we treat the practice in the current day. The loss of so many of our own in the events that closed the Third Era has forced many of us to reconsider how we must approach such practices. We only practice gú’un in extreme circumstances, where we believe the vanquished dead may pose a danger to the living. Raids are rare on Solstheim, only being practised on the odd brigand’s camp or during skirmishes with the Skaal and Telvanni. I have not proceeded over such a ceremony in almost a decade, and three before that. The silencing of a ghost for gú’un is rare, but it is not unheard of.

[lizardkingeliot]

Hello, lovelies, and happy WIP Wednesday! I'm just here to drop off a tiny sneak peek of the first chapter of my upcoming rockstar Lestat/photographer Louis fic. I have no clue when I'm going to start posting but I'm hoping to have at least the first chapter up sometime next month.

But for now, I hope you all enjoy~

—

Louis felt his heart stop dead in his chest. All my songs are about you, Louis. “Twenty-eight tracks,” he heard himself saying somewhere far away. Suddenly—it was like he was floating just outside of himself. Spirit leaving his flesh like a burden lifting. “About me.”

All Lestat said in response was a breathy little—“Oui.”

Louis drew an enormous breath and let it leak back out. His heart was in his stomach. His stomach was flopping around on the floor. “About how pissed off you are at me.”

“Why would I be upset with you, Louis?”

Louis couldn’t help the laugh that puffed from his nose. “Bitter, then,” he said, trying to sound irritated but unable to keep the tenderness from his tone. “About someone else suckin’ me off a hundred years ago.”

Lestat was silent for a second or two. The rustle of him shifting crackled on the other end of the phone. “You analyzed the lyrics,” he said at last, every syllable coming out unbearably tender.

Louis laughed again, a little harder this time. “I listened to the lyrics, Lestat,” he said, and shut his eyes, and called on the image of Lestat’s face from the video. Called on the image of Lestat glowing in the dark on the other end of the phone. “Not exactly an academic pursuit to understand what you meant with that one.”

Louis pressed the phone to his ear. He could hear the drum of Lestat’s heart on the other end. Calling out like a siren ten time zones away in New Orleans.

“And so now you are angry with me,” Lestat said, his voice a purr in his throat. He sounded far too pleased with himself.

“No,” Louis said. And meant it. There were a thousand feelings roiling inside him and anger was the least of them all. “But I’m startin’ to think you want me to be.”

[loafelife]

The Wizard and His Knight AU

Welcome to the Continent of Chaotic.

Each Kingdom is a color of a Chaos Emerald. (The world is a WIP and suggestions are welcome! Just focusing on the boys right now.)

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

The Emerald Kingdom is facing a new, terrifying threat, and has called upon the Ruby Kingdom for their aid. A foreboding evil, known only as the Black Doom, is slowly consuming the fields of Green Hills. This viscous black sludge envelopes living beings, controls them like puppets, and annihilates everything else in its path.

Fire holds it off temporarily, but it’s not enough. Each time they burn it back, it returns stronger within days.

Desperate, they plead for the help of the Ruby Kingdom’s infamous Mad Wizard—the only man powerful (and reckless) enough to challenge it. However, much to his dismay, the Ruby Kingdom won’t let Ivo travel to the Emerald Kingdom alone. The threat is too great and the trek too long for him to go alone. So, for his protection, they need to assign him a knight.

There’s just one problem: Ivo Robotnik has driven away every knight assigned to him.

He called them idiots, distractions, and detriments to his work. And truthfully? They were. They hovered over him, repeatedly knocked things off of tables with their cumbersome gear, whispered behind his back to their superiors. They feared the way he held himself, the intent and wild focus in his eyes when he thought no one was watching. He loathed them, he hated being treated like a caged beast under surveillance.

But this time, the Kingdom isn't sending a regular knight. They're sending the legendary Obsidian Knight.

A swordsman shrouded in mystery, with an unbeaten record since his sudden appearance seven years ago. The man with no known origin, no defeats, and no allegiances. The perfect man for the job.

Ivo is determined to get him to leave within a week.

The Most Powerful Wizard and the Strongest Knight on the Continent.

Surely, it'll work out… right? (They have no idea what kind of chaos they’ve just unleashed upon the world. Because when these two finally get in sync—gods help them all.)

The High Wizard Ivo Robotnik

The Grand High Wizard of the Ruby Kingdom.

Universally acknowledged as the smartest man in all the Kingdoms (He knows it, and he’s insufferably smug about it).

Drinks his tea strong and bitter so he can work long into the night.

Uses shards of ruby in his work—power sources that also glow with a constant, almost eerie red light.

His eyesight is starting to fail him from decades of reading in the low light of the Ruby's glow (He wears spectacles for reading but complains about them constantly).

Secretly practices forbidden blood magic (He doesn’t care what the Kingdoms think—he just keeps it hidden to avoid execution before his work is done).

Fiercely private—despises interruptions, especially people in his space.

At first, Ivo finds the Obsidian Knight just as intolerable as the rest. Too silent. Too observant. But unlike the others… the other man doesn’t fear him. Wary at first sure, especially when the practice of Blood Magic was discovered. But in little time he started watching Ivo not with suspicion or concern—but with awe.

That’s what makes it dangerous.

Aban Stone (The Obsidian Knight)

Crown Prince of the Amethyst Kingdom—though only very few know that now

Hated the cold pedestal of royalty and being tethered to one place.

Was forced into an arranged marriage with the heir of the Diamond Kingdom and fled instead.

Passionate about herbology and spellwork—his only permitted chosen studies back home in his kingdom

Wears a full set of matte black armor that makes him quiet, gives him a bit more height and quite intimidating.

Has roamed the Continent for 7 years, becoming a legend for his skill and tactical mind

Most of the Amethyst Kingdom believes him dead by now; even those still searching have mostly forgotten what he used to look like

Though strong and unreadable in battle, Aban is a kind soul. He sees the world with wonder and a quiet care that not many do. And when he sees Ivo work—when he watches him manipulate raw ruby light, rewrite reality with blood and brilliance—he doesn’t look away.

He looks in admiration, amazement- and something else that the wizard couldn't quite put his finger on.

That unnerves Ivo more than any threat he had faced so far in his journeys. Made an odd warm sensation bloom in his chest.

No one has ever looked at him like that before.

Where others saw madness, Aban sees genius. He listens.

He respects Ivo’s space, his rituals.

He doesn’t shy away when the wizard bleeds onto runes as he murmurs quiet incantations. He offers him tea without a word, making it in the most palatable the Wizard has had in years. Tends his strained and occasionally bleeding hands without comment. Defends him fiercely when others dare to cast doubt or caused a threat.

Ivo begins to look forward to hearing Aban's light humming when he sharpened his blade. He even starts to wait in slight anticipation for Aban’s footsteps down the trail. Starts watching him from the corner of his eye when he’s supposed to be pouring over his books.

They’re not together—not yet. But the tension is growing, slow and undeniable.

And the closer they get, the more dangerous their bond becomes.

Because once they finally understand one another? Once they choose each other?

There will be nothing left to stop them. Laws be damned.

If you'd like, ask me about my AU! I’ll try to answer all prompts—maybe even doodle some scenes too. I’ve been a little shy when it comes to talking to others in this fandom, so this is me coming out of my shell a bit.

[strong-with-the-sarcasm]

Sarcasm's Rec List 2: Electric Boogaloo

[Thank you to everyone who voted!]

Masterlist Previous Rec List Mundane Macabre (main blog)

[Hardcover/Anger Management ship]

Red is Hood’s Favorite Color by mango_sushi98

Sonnet 29 at the End by ew_selfish_art The Rapid Growth of the Fenton family tree by Lunaml (First entry of the series)

If you find a vigilante in the dumpster by lunamugetsu (WIP)

The Night Will Come But Not To Stay by ectoentity (WIP)

Friendly Neighborhood Vigilante by Elizabehta_Beilschmidt  (WIP)

Somehow whatever’s eternal in me knows whatever’s eternal in you by DemonicoAngel (WIP) (This has to be one of my favorite works in the hardcover ship) To hell and back by Ocearna (WIP)

The Night Will Come But Not To Stay by ectoentity Advent Reunion by Shynnohwen (First entry of the son of the hood series)

[General Recs/no particular tag]

This Way Madness Lies by ConspiracyCrows (WIP)

Foundling At The Door by Spaced_Ace (First entry of the House of Elle series)

I can be both even if it’s hard (and it’s hard) by multi_fandomfreak (WIP) (What if Sam and Tuck went to get Jazz before Danny came back out of the portal?)

Staring is rude but so am I by Imshookandbi (Let Sam unleash that anger at her parents, as a treat)

Ghosts on a plane by NightShiftShenanigans

We All Have Our Christmas Traditions by Multisakublossom (Tucker-centric)

Alfred and the Tiny Attic Squatters by Shynnohwen (WIP) (Alfred is the real patriarch of the batfam, we all know this)

Like and Survive - Phantom's Guide to Young Hero Survival by robinasnyder (WIP) (Grown up danny, first hero, gives life advice, makes ripples) Visitant Lights by Shynnohwen

5 + 1 Meeting the Nightingales by elizabthemerald

Please Don’t Take My Sunshine Away by FearlessHades (WIP)

Son of the hood? By Valiantlybold (first entry of the Danny Wayne series, wonderful) Wayne’s Haunted Mansion by Tathartiel (WIP) Spelunking by SummersSixEcho (First of the Ghost in the Family series) regular boy: daniel wayne by phantom_o_writes (WIP) Dad from Mars by Animefangirl1221 (WIP)

Undead Lockpicking or How Danny shamed Superman into changing his locks by Milaley Contractual obligations by Calix, Tathartiel (A twist on the usual DC recs: This one is steeped to perfection with Hellblazer lore. Wonderful and epic, well done to the authors!)  

[Dead Tired]

The Batfamily Can’t Communicate by miistical

Bitter, had the Heart by CastrianAmore (WIP)

[Demon Twins]

The Sketchbook by Notrus You’re Not Who I’d Thought You’d Be, and I’m Glad For It by Nanenna

The Parent Trap by Nanenna

my starlight by hollowgast1  (WIP)

Loss Like A Severed Limb by Littlestartopaz

The Devil’s After Both of Us by TheWritingOwl

[Dead Silent/Deaths Dance]

Full Time Hero, Full Time Disaster by halfagone

Lex Luthor’s Ascent from Supervillainy to fatherhood by halfagone (WIP) (This feels like reading an epic) By My Count by TheStrange_One (WIP)

[Dead Serious]

Artificial Wingman by TheSleepyKitsune (WIP)

Love Like You by DisillusionedDanny (WIP)

Press Heart to Subscribe by Die_Erlkonigin6083 (WIP)

Webbing Up A Family by Agelaius_Ace

Peter the Pizza Guy by Irisen  (WIP) Along Came A Spider by RagsnBones (Cassandra Cain/Peter Parker) Butler Spider by Danny_shells (WIP)

Time flies by (bye) by whyiseverynametaken

Little Red Spider Hood by Cashmire

You With the Watercolor Eyes by DefinitelyNotIndecisive (WIP) A Long Way From Home (And No Way Back) by Vivia_wants_boba (WIP) Homesick by NotSoSweetHeh

Red and Blue are hero colors by Cashmire (WIP)

Spider-Man or Spider-Spider by disappear_rapidly  (WIP)

Spiderhead by emmacortana

Archnomaly by Songue85 (WIP)

Nothing Left to Lose (Dick in New York) by seekrest (WIP)

A/N: Congrats to 3am me for double checking the links worked properly. I hope y'all enjoy these reads!

[djarins-cyare]

Din Djarin: The Contractor

I had no access to my WIPs for a few days this week, so my brain started inventing scenarios… ‘imagines’, I guess? This (totally unedited) one came about when I happened to scroll past the first two pics of Din on Pinterest, and the memory of Joel telling Ellie he used to be a contractor sprang to mind…

Well, your [SWU-techno-thingy] is broken. Great. Trying to keep your irritation in check, you call the repair company, who politely assure you they’ll send over their best guy immediately. It’s late in the day, and dusk is approaching fast, so you guess you should be happy they’re willing to send anyone out at all.

After a lengthy wait, during which your irritation seems to grow exponentially, your repairman pootles up to your home on his banged-up speeder, parking outside. Unhurriedly, he grabs his tools and trudges into your home, nodding a greeting but remaining suspiciously quiet and not even giving his name.

Perhaps doing a late job has made him grouchy. Yeah, well, not having a working [SWU-techno-thingy] has made you grouchy, too. Get in line, pal.

You show him the problem, and he spends a while trying to get a better look at it, peering into the inner workings and sighing. He mumbles “hmm” an awful lot, sometimes tutting and shaking his helmet at what he sees, and he takes plenty of readings with various tools.

Eventually, he concludes his analysis and tells you it’ll cost double what you were quoted when you called earlier because your [SWU-techno-thingy] is entirely dead. Apparently, he needs to replace your [thingamajig] in order to realign your [whatchamacallit] and get it running again, which requires brand-new parts and a lot of labour.

When you baulk at this, he simply shrugs and says he doesn’t set the rates; they’re determined by the Guild. Then he stands there, looking annoyingly smug, waiting for you to authorise him to start work.

You reluctantly agree and leave him to it, stomping off in the hope that you can find something to occupy yourself while he works.

Frustratingly, you can’t, and when you return shortly thereafter to check how it’s going, you find he’s taking a break. What the hell? A break already???

As much as you try to keep your anger in check, you virtually yell that he’s supposed to be on the clock and he’d better not be charging you for the time he’s spending sitting around doing nothing!

He grumbles something about missing dinner (with a womp rat, of all things!) for this, puts down the bowl he was drinking from, and huffily grabs his tools to get to work.

Finally, he starts the job you hired him for, and you stick around to monitor him, slightly worried he might try and push his luck again. But it seems like he’s pulling his weight at last — tools a-turnin’, sparks a-flyin’. He seems to know what he’s doing.

After a while, you start to realise that what he’s doing is actually pretty impressive. You can’t deny he looks skilled and competent — almost badass — as he expertly fixes your [SWU-techno-thingy].

Satisfied he’s now earning his fee, you leave him to it for a while, once again trying to find something else to occupy you.

But it’s not long before you find yourself back again, keen to know how he’s doing. For a moment, you think he might’ve fallen asleep because he’s lying down, and the bitter taste of annoyance returns, but… oh nope, he’s just getting a better angle for the repairs.

He keeps working diligently, so you let him continue without disturbing him.

After what feels like a lifetime, he finally tells you he’s all finished.

As you inspect his work, you notice him standing off to the side like a kid waiting for the teacher to grade his class project. It’s sort of sweet, in a way.

It seems like he did a decent job, and you tell him so, handing him payment with a smile, which he accepts with a nod. He then collects his stuff (an impressive display of strength), bids you goodbye and turns to leave.

You escort him to the door, thanking him again and watching your taciturn repairman walk away from your home.

Now that you have a working [SWU-techno-thingy] once again and have recovered from being quoted an extortionate price for its repair, you revise your opinion of your contractor. He’s skilled, and aside from being a little huffy to start with (though you concede he was probably just hungry), he seems like a nice guy.

Plus, as he walks away from you, you can’t help but admire his perfect ass, remembering how good it looked earlier when he bent over to grab his toolkit.

Almost as if he can feel your gaze, when he gets to the edge of your property, he turns back to look at you, lingering for a moment, meeting your stare in that intense way of his.

Your pulse picks up, and for a second, you think he might come back — that he might push you inside and have his wicked way with you, give you a decent seeing to with those skilled hands of his.

The moment you share is electric, and you imagine a plethora of debauched scenarios as you stare into his T-visor with hope…

…but it passes as he tears his gaze away, hurriedly loads up his rusted speeder bike, and climbs on. He gives you a final nod as he pulls away, departing from your life as swiftly as he arrived.

Oh well, it was surely a ridiculous thought anyway.

You return inside and try to get on with your evening, but your thoughts keep drifting back to your contractor. Why can’t you stop thinking about him? He barely even spoke to you.

Eventually, you cave and admit it. You’re attracted to him. He has a magnetism you don’t understand, yet you can’t deny its pull on you. But there’s nothing you can do about that… is there? And he might not feel the same anyway.

You keep thinking about the look he gave you when he left. There was something there, you’re sure of it.

So… okay. Are you really going to break something else to get him to come back?

Yes. Yes, you are…

[adebaran-ff]

🗡️ My first time writing Merthur!

And of course, I had to make it full of grief, repressed feelings and Arthur realizing way too late.

WIP for the Merlin Bingo – Pride Bonus Square.

It takes place during The Servant of Two Masters (S4E6), right after Merlin disappears in the forest.

Agravaine tries to convince Arthur that he’s as good as dead. Spoiler: Arthur doesn’t take that well.

✂️ A little preview:

He remembered telling Merlin that no man was worth his tears. And yet here they were. Unrelenting and bitter. Just like the promises he hadn’t kept. You won’t die, Merlin. And now, with the chance of losing him forever, there were so many things left unsaid that he regretted. Some he’d never even dared to think.

What do you think so far? Would love feedback or suggestions!