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witherby · 5 months ago

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If Punch line can trigger Jason easily what would happen is she ever met Harley?

Let's explore that!

Punchline: First Session

Masterlist is Here!

"I need your help."

Harley perks up, gasping, and rushes over to hug Batman tightly.

"I never thought this day would come," she says, jumping up and down and clutching a gauntleted hand. "Yes!! Yes I would love to be your therapist! We have so much to work on, starting with your parents. I really think you never internalized the event and haven't given yourself any space to grieve after —"

Her hands get squeezed gently, recapturing her attention. Blue eyes meet white lenses, and she furrows her brow.

"Okay, that's fine!" She sighs. "Can't say I'm not disappointed, but if one of your kiddos is looking for help instead, I'm still more than hap—"

"Not one of mine," Batman gently interrupts. "This is a...very delicate case, Harley."

"What's delicate mean in this context, Batsy?" She asks. "Delicate like schizophrenic? Delicate like CPTSD? Delicate like one wrong word away from explodin' and killin' everybody in a mile radius?"

"Delicate," he says, "like...this might hit too close to home for you."

"Me?"

Batman nods. Harley hums, equal parts curious and cautious.

"Any good psychologist worth her salt won't let a personal connection get in the way of providin' aid," she tells him. "If the patient isn't somebody I can help myself, I'll help ya find someone who can. When can I meet 'em?"

Your file lies scattered across the floor of the cave. Harley stares wide-eyed at your picture while she trembles on her hands and knees. Bruce, having changed out of his suit, kneels beside her with a steadying hand on her back.

"Oh," she whispers, "Brucie, she's so small for her age. And her age!! Sh-she's..."

Harley shakes her head. Bruce continues rubbing small circles in her back. When she leans against him for support, he holds her upright.

"How'd he keep a kid hidden for eight years?" She whispers, voice thick. "I know I fucked off to go play Happy Family with Ivy, but..."

"Nobody knew," he says. "Harleen, don't play the blame game, not for this. He kept her a secret for a reason; no one was supposed to know."

Harley lifts her hands to her face, rubbing her eyes before any tears can well up and fall. She takes deep, calming breaths, gathering her focus, then carefully collects the papers and stands with his help. She draws a pad and pen out of her pocket.

"I ain't promising anything," she says, looking up at Bruce. "This is...this is a whole different ball game, 'specially with that chucklefuck as the daddy. But I'm gonna try, okay?"

He nods. "Take your time. You were the first person I thought of, but don't force this if it's too much."

Harley gently squeezes his hand in acknowledgement. She walks past him and down the hall towards the containment cells, heels clicking quietly against the floor. She dug out her old coat with the name tag pinned to it and even threw her hair back in a low braid to appear as non-threatening as possible. The closer she gets to your door, the more the wonders if you would've been more comfortable if she showed up in her combat getup and mallet.

"Miss Punchline?" She calls, stopping in front of your cell. A cursory glance of your environment tells her immediately that you're under-stimulated. She writes that down. "I'm Doctor Quinzel. Do ya mind if I come in and chat with you a while?"

You cease all movement. You'd been sitting with your back to the door, gently stroking the head of the teddy bear Alfred gave you while muttering Mistress Mary's nursery rhyme, but when you hear her, you practically turn into a statue. Unless she actively stares at your back, Harley can't even see you draw breath.

"Miss Punchline?" She repeats calmly. "I won't come in if you don't want, but I'd really like to talk to you."

"...Popsy talks about you, sometimes," you say. Harley can't decipher your tone, but the words make her feel cold all over. "Says he used to miss his favorite gal."

"I'm sure he's mentioned me once or twice," she says, clearing her throat. "But I'm old news. Why don't you tell me about yourself? I'm gonna punch in the door code now, okay?"

You don't move. Harley unlocks your cell and walks inside, getting a better look at how sparsely decorated it is. The bed is clearly unused and half of the activities left here would cause an ordinary child to lose interest in about an hour without company. Overall, Bruce and his family are keeping you in a dreary room. If she accomplishes nothing else today, it's a guarantee that she's gonna get you better accommodations.

Harley walks around the room until she can see you face-to-face. Once she's in your periphery, your eyes snap to her and follow her every movement like a predator. She lowers herself to the ground, taking a seat a few feet away from you.

"There you are," she says kindly. Your smile is just as placid as the one in your photo. "I like ya make-up. The swirly pattern on your cheeks is very cute."

You don't respond, though your smile widens briefly. Highly receptive to praise. Your eyes don't leave hers, scanning, assessing, calculating. Harley doesn't feel like you're about to attack her, but you're clearly juggling something around in your mind.

"Bet you're thinking about mine," she continues. "Normally I like puttin' on the face paint, but sometimes my pores gotta breathe, you know? Well — the pores I got left." She glances down at her hands, paper white like the rest of her body from her dip in a vat of acid. With relief, Harley notes that your unpainted skin is a healthy color. Even though the bar's lower than Hell, it's nice to know that at least the Joker didn't immediately treat you to a dunk of your own.

"Punchline, I'm gonna be frank with you," she says.

"Nice to meetcha, Frank," you chirp, grinning mischievously. Harley lifts a brow.

"That was funny," she praises. "I know your, eh, Popsy, he places a lot of value on bein' funny. Used to say nothin' was worth the effort if it didn't amuse him at the end of the day. I'm sure you know that already."

"A giggle a day keeps the boredom away!" You say, pitch and cadence matching that of your father's. Harley knows that the grip on her pen is too tight. She breathes deep and forces herself to relax. "Ohh, hit a nerve, Frank?"

"I'm doin' just fine," she says. "What's boredom look like for you and Popsy?"

You separate your hands, fingers splayed wide, and make explosion noises.

"Do you get caught up in that explosion?"

Your smile doesn't change but your eyes get sharp. Harley makes a note.

"It's hard keepin' him entertained all day, every day," she says. "I would know. But I'm gonna tell ya somethin' your popsy probably never has."

Harley scoots a tad closer to you, reaching her hand out and gently taking one of yours. She can feel every bone in your hand and has to utilize all of her training to school her expression.

"It's not your job to make yer popsy happy. In fact, it's not your job to make any adult happy. Grown-ups shouldn't rely on their children for emotional regulation."

"Couldn't rely on you, either, could be?" You snicker. "Since you ran away."

"I left him because he was treatin' me like dirt," Harley says, a little more firm than necessary. "He's real good at drawin' you in, Punchline. Shows you an ounce of praise that makes you feel invincible, makes you wanna do anything he asks to get more of it."

Harley lets go of your hand to tuck a lock of emerald green hair behind your right ear, brushing gently against the shell. The edges are distorted, flatter than your left.

"He's also real good at draggin' you through the mud, makin' you feel like everything's your fault. Like you got no choice but to make it up t'him. Ya never wanna get on his bad side cause he really makes you feel it."

You tilt your head away from her hand, eyes dropping back down to the teddy bear Alfred gave you. You resume petting it, slightly faster and rougher than before. Harley makes a note.

"His anger's always more powerful than his joy, Punchline," she says, "but both of them are destructive. I wanna help ya break away from his cycle."

"No thanks," you say, "if I wanted to be a washed-up, third-rate party clown, I would!"

Harley feels a wave of pity for you. It's obvious you're just regurgitating your father's words back at her, and she's not surprised. Change doesn't happen overnight, especially not for you.

There's so much work to do, but Harley's not afraid. You may look and behave similarly to the Joker, but you're young and still impressionable and already starting to pull away from him without even realizing it.

"I can tell yer getting upset, and that's the last thing I want," she says, climbing to her feet, "so I think this is a good stopping point for today. But I'd really like to see you again. Would you be alright with that?"

You blow a raspberry at her, then cackle. Harley exhales sharply through her nose, giving you a fond smile, and pats your head as she steps past you and opens the cell door.

She can do this. She will do this. For you.

But, first thing's first.

"Brucie, you're kidding me with the furnishings! How's the richest man on the planet gonna put a kid in such a shitty room!? Don't look at me like that, mister. You brought me in t'do a job and I'm gonna do it right!!"

#el speaks #punchline au #harley quinn #batfam x reader

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tacticaldiary · 2 years ago

Text

A Fighting Chance

Pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Reader

Genre: Hurt/Comfort

"When was the last time you kissed me and meant it?" Her voice drops into something akin to defeat.

And Simon...Simon feels like the rug's been pulled from under his feet.

Part 2, Masterlist,

"What're those?"

"Papers."

Ghost pauses halfway through opening the document, glancing up at the curtness of her voice. "Papers? She doesn't meet his eyes, gaze fixed on the table of the little booth they're sitting in.

The ice in her drink is long gone, watering down her coffee into something that tastes as bitter as her heart.

It had taken months for her to finally make this decision. Days of talking with her lawyer, crying alone at night and coming to the gruelling acceptance that this was for the best. It was best for both of them.

There's not many things that unsettle Simon. He's had blood stain his hands; his own, his comrades, and his enemies. Had almost any injury you could think of marring his skin, been prodded and ripped into, been the one on the opposite end of the knife.

But as he slides out the documents, turns them over, Simon's never felt more apprehensive.

He stills, reading the first few lines, clenching his jaw. "What is this?"

"I want a divorce."

And something in him crumbles at her defeated tone. Like she's already decided. Like he doesn't even have a chance to ask why or talk it through.

"No." He says tightly, putting them down and crossing his arms.

Her gaze shoots to his. "You can't just say that."

"I did. I won't sign them."

"I want this." She argues, and Simon swallows back the lump in his throat at how utterly tired she looks.

"I don't."

She's the light of his life, the one good, untouched piece of joy he gets to see. Something other than the bloodshed and violence he lives in.

"Simon," She says, shoulders sagging forward. "I can't do this anymore."

"This isn't the solution, love." He feels like his skin is crawling, the beginnings of unfamiliar panic clawing at his chest when she doesn't react to the pet name.

Doesn't smile, doesn't flush that beautiful red, doesn't squirm.

When she doesn't respond again, tight-lipped and clammed up and so determined to not look at him, he asks the question burning a hole through his tongue.

"Why?"

Deep down he knows. Knew this was coming but that part of him is buried under the thudding of his heart, and the rush of blood in his ears. Everything feels deathly still and moving too fast at the same time.

"Why?" She repeats, something in her stirring at the question. Her brow furrows and she switches from a cautious indifference to disbelief and frustration quicker than Simon can process. "Are you serious?" She huffs out an incredulous laugh. "You're away for months at a time and I'm supposed to what? Wait for you at our doorstep and wag my tail all happy when you finally come back to me?" Her grip tightens on her drink.

"Even when you are home, it's never about us. Never about me and you. You lock yourself in your study with your work, don't talk to me unless you come out for dinner or lunch. When was the last time we went out?" She demands. "When was the last time we went on a date? The last time we slept at the same time in the same bed?"

Simon clenches his jaw but says nothing, at a loss for words. It only encourages her to keep going, spewing thoughts that have been boiling over for the past few years.

"You barely look at me when we're home, I had to drag you out of the house to get here! You left halfway through our anniversary dinner last year because work called you in. Sometimes...sometimes I feel like you're only with me because it's easier than leaving and starting over, and that fucking hurts. It hurts when you can't bear to spend five minutes with me away from work. I've been telling you this for ages but you just...you don't listen to me." She leans forward, drink completely forgotten and hits the final nail in the coffin.

"When was the last time you kissed me and meant it?" Her voice drops into something akin to defeat.

And Simon...Simon feels like the rug's been pulled from under his feet.

"I never even know if you're coming home to me." Her voice cracks, and she hugs her middle, taking a deep breath to steady herself. "So yes, Simon, I want to separate. I'm not happy, not like I was when I met you." A sheen of tears she refuses to let fall.

"You can focus on work like you love to, and I can...I can move on."

It was so good when they started out. She found him endearing, dry humour and brooding and all. It was special, those first few years, and she'll always care about him but this...this waiting, this hurting, laying in bed at night alone and cold and crying...it wasn't right. It wasn't what she wanted and she wouldn't force Simon to want it when he clearly didn't want to.

"Fucking hell, I love you." Simon says quickly, stumbling over what to say. He reaches out for her hand on the table, but she pulls it away before he can grab it. It stings more than he can convey, makes the reality crashes down onto him.

He's about to lose her.

Because he couldn't fucking bear to pull himself out of being 'Ghost'.

It was always a rough couple of weeks during his leave. The adjustment to civilian life was a slow one for him, but that's not really an excuse at all.

"I don't think you do."

Simon blinks at her like she's slapped him. "You...you don't think so?" He repeats, running a hand through his hair. She nods, one nod, quick and so sure that it makes his chest ache.

Fuck. He's absolutely messed up.

"Everything's finalised on my end." She says. "You just need to sign them." Her voice is soft, almost like she's coaxing him.

If there's one thing he knows, it's that he's not touching those fucking papers. He's not losing someone he loves again.

"I'll take time off." He says, the intensity of his gaze makes a shiver run down her spine. "We can work through it, yeah? You can't spring this on me and not give me a chance to protest."

She shakes her head, "You're only taking time off because I'm upset." She tries to explain. "What do you think is going to happen? We spend a month together doing what we used to, and when everything's a little more stable you leave again. Distance yourself. Shut me out. Then we're back to square one."

"Won't happen." He says like he hasn't been doing it for the past few years already. "You...I can't lose you, darling." He leans forward. "Let me make it better. Give me a few months-"

"Simon-"

"A week."

"A week?" Her eyes widen. "A week to...what, prove that you'll change?"

"One week."

She worries her lip between her teeth, considering. One week wasn't a long time, but hope was dangerous in a situation like this.

"I'm not letting you go over something like this." Simon says. "I can't."

"This isn't about you." She crosses her arms. "You really think you can turn just...reverse the past few years in a week?" Maybe it's foolish of her to want him to say yes, to fight for her and realise that she's been hurting, but goddamn doesn't a small part of her scream at him to do it anyway.

"Not trying to reverse it." He folds his arms, and she can see the tense line of his shoulders as he takes in the situation, gears turning in his head as he plans how he's going to work his way out of a situation so precious and daunting as this.

Part of him didn't think it would ever come to this. Yes, he can be cold and aloof but Simon thought she knew that he loved her through it all. No matter what.

When was the last time you kissed me and meant it?

Fuck if that doesn't tear through his chest more painfully than any caliber bullet ever could.

He takes her in quietly for a moment.

The woman he fell in love with. The person that gave him a reason to keep going, a motive to feel anything other than the cold efficientness of loading a gun and firing. Soft touches and warm smiles, something so at odds with the rough life he's used to.

Sitting there in front of him, she looks more beautiful than he remembers, and it only proves to make his stomach sink like a stone at the notion of seeding any doubt about his feelings in her heart.

A right fucking bastard he was for it.

"I'm sorry." He breathes out, much softer than the gruff voice he's been using with her. "I'll do better. Just give me a chance, yeah?"

For one horrible moment, Simon thinks she'll decline. That she'll slide over the papers again and demand he sign them.

But she considers his words for a moment before nodding once.

And it's all he needs.

A fighting chance.

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Part 2

(11/10/2023)

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vampyrixdarling · 1 month ago

Text

— 「𝑷𝑨𝑹𝑻𝒀 𝑶𝑵 𝑴𝒀 𝑫𝑬𝑨𝑻𝑯𝑩𝑬𝑫」

╰┈➤ MASTERLIST

Killer! Elliot x Reader (Gender Neutral)

Summary: You meet a new killer. You fight for your life until the very end.

Warnings: violence (described), swearing, blood, gore (described), THIS IS UNIRONICALLY SO OUT OF CHARACTER I know but he’s a killer so I can do what I want,, I know rainbows appear and flowers bloom on the ground this man walks on but bear with me

Note: My first oneshot in a YEAR. I took heavy inspiration from @/aamx1i and @/prettyxknife on Twitter/X with their killer swap Elliot concepts, along with @sourle on Tumblr with their Upside Down AU. Check them all out!!

Word Count: 3,295

❝𝘑𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘯𝘢 𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘺 𝘰𝘯 𝘮𝘺 𝘥𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘣𝘦𝘥, 𝘐'𝘮 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘭𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘮𝘺 𝘭𝘪𝘧𝘦 𝘦𝘭𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘤! 𝘑𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘯𝘢 𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘺 𝘰𝘯 𝘮𝘺 𝘥𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘣𝘦𝘥!❞

WHAT a terrible day.

Your car slowed to a halt as you pulled into the driveway, using your foot to press the brake pedal. It took a little force, but it soon abided. You grabbed the gear, pulling it down. As it shifts, you hear a plastic ticking. You shifted it to “P”. The engine hissed and whined as it cooled down and rested, probably happy to have a break. Heaven knows you would be.

WOW! Good job! You successfully parked your car and prevented the car accident that might’ve been the last straw in your already miserable day!

Finally, you took the keys out of the ignition and tilted your head back, letting an exhausted, heavy sigh pass your lips. The engine stopped, and so did the other unpleasant noises coming from god-knows-where that you knew you should be concerned about. You’d get it checked out eventually. Money’s tight, and this thing hasn’t kicked the bucket just yet.

It wasn’t the best, nor was it the most reliable, but it tried its best for you. It got you to work and back— sometimes even to the grocery store if you asked nicely. You two had a love-hate relationship, to say the least. Some days it would start, happy to assist you in getting to work on time and causing no problems whatsoever. On other days, it would decide to throw a huge “fuck you!” in your face, sputtering, coughing and whining as you swear it tried to see heaven right then and there just to further inconvenience you. You couldn’t decide whether or not it was spite keeping the car alive, or the gods taking pity on you. Maybe both.

For now, it was just you, the deafening silence, and the air freshener dangling from your rear-view mirror that you desperately needed to replace. It didn’t even smell anymore, and it had long since dried. At least it lived a long and fulfilling life, you supposed.

You closed your eyes, content with sitting just a little while longer. You’ve been on your feet all day, you deserve some rest. The seatbelt felt a little tight against your chest, but it was able to be ignored. Every sensation and noise felt like too much. You took a slow, deep breath in through your nose. You counted to four. Ignoring how suffocating being in such a cramped space felt— almost as if the walls of the car were sinking in on you— you held it in for a few moments. Slowly, you exhaled through your mouth for the same four seconds.

Repeating this, you found yourself to be less overwhelmed. Less like you were about to snap at any moment. More at peace.

You slowly opened your eyes. Your surroundings remained the same. You opened the driver's door, tightening your grip on your keys as you shut it, slightly cringing at the slam. Calm down there. You’re okay. Everything’s okay.

You smile to yourself at the thought of soaking in a hot bubble bath surrounded by scented candles in the dark. Maybe some slow, relaxing music to go with it. Leave your terrible day at the doorstep, there’s no need to bring it home.

You inserted the key into the lock, twisting it to your left. It unlocked for you without a problem. You were just about to open the door when you heard someone call your name. Looking behind you, past the Roundabout, was your elderly neighbours’ house.

Mr. Thomson was a nice guy. Divorced and remarried his fair share of times, he never seemed to run out of stories to tell you. Even if sometimes it was just him going on and on about nothing. But you’d listen. You always did. His wife was a nice lady as well. She made you tons of baked goods. Some you’d eat, some you’d save for leftovers, and others you’d bring to work as a treat for your co-workers.

The old man sat on his lawn chair on the porch. His grandchildren must be visiting him, that thought being confirmed as you saw three little ones playing on the grass. He had a smile on his face, raising a hand to wave at you. Forcing a smile, you waved back at him. The children didn’t seem to notice you, probably too distracted.

The door opened, and you stepped inside your humble abode. You kicked off your shoes, using your heel to close the door, and hung up your jacket. You twisted the lock to the right. Better to stay safe than sorry, your mother always told you. You never know what’s going to happen.

You were so exhausted, you hadn’t even noticed the red and black colour the sky had become.

———————————————————————————

It hadn’t been long since you, along with a few others, were forsaken. Damned to this eternal hell, cursed to die time and time again— each more brutal and painful than the last. But to you, it felt like forever since you were ripped from your home. The last thing you remember was coming home from work. You didn’t even get the chance to say goodbye to anybody.

You wondered, for a brief moment, if anyone bothered to look for you. If anybody noticed. If anybody cared.

You grabbed the last wire, your grip tighter than you had intended. Carefully, you connected it with its other half. The bar filled completely with a neon green that glowed bright, and you heard the engine buzz.

You let out a satisfied sigh, standing up and checking your surroundings. There was nobody around you, and not a sound could be heard. As relieved as you were to know that you weren’t anywhere near the killer, you were even more worried about where they might be. The things you can’t see often scare you the most, or whatever. On the bright side, this wasn’t your first round at the hotel…

Was it “Shedletsky” again? Maybe “007n7”? You haven’t met a lot, but those were the ones that you heard the most about from the survivors that came before you. They also told you that there were more. Some were more dangerous than others. Some would end you quickly and painlessly, while others preferred to draw it out. The thought itself made you shudder.

You were originally with a man named Colton at the start of the round, though you two went your separate ways not long after. A stupid move, in retrospect. The Western cowboy was probably halfway across the map by now, most likely searching for other survivors. Though he had a revolver on him at all times, so you trusted his ability to keep himself protected and be a reliable sentinel for others.

You quickly decided staying here wouldn’t be the wisest decision, you were basically serving yourself on a silver platter for the killer just standing there. So you walked out of the closet, glancing around the room one last time. The window was still blocked by a wall of bricks. The bed was made neatly, the white sheets and pillowcases somehow not dirty, and the red blanket looked unbelievably soft. Oh, how you wish you could rest…

The tall lamp remained off, and the only other door in the room was closed, boarded off with two thick wooden planks. Even if you did manage to get them off, the door didn’t look like it even had a handle. In fact, the door itself seemed affixed to the wall almost like a decoration, or like it was one with the wallpaper. Beside it was a large wooden table with nothing on it.

You froze after you heard thumping from the hallway. They creaked on the wooden floorboards, the sound echoing throughout the hallway. They were getting louder the closer they approached. Not exactly heavy, but they carried some weight.

Oh god. Was that the killer? Or one of your friends? Do you really want to take your chances?

Maybe you didn’t need to think too hard about it. You began to hear a faint song. It didn’t sound familiar by any means. There wasn’t a way out of this room without being in their direct line of sight. And you weren’t sure you wanted to risk anything.

So you made a spur-of-the-moment decision. You quickly hid in the same closet as the generator, using the half-wall to cover you so you weren’t visible. Not unless they looked inside. Which they wouldn’t, right?

You really need to stop freaking yourself out.

You held your breath as somebody walked in. He had a large pizza cutter strapped to his back, and the spikes on the edge of the blade looked sharp and bloody. The handle was light gray and seemed to be almost as tall as he was. How heavy was that thing anyways?

Please don’t notice me… You thought to yourself. Just leave already.

He held a large knife in his hands, the blade splattered with blood as well. He gripped it tightly, looking around the room, then back towards the exit. His eyes glanced at the generator, and then at you. You froze like a deer caught in headlights.

He was a well-built man. He was average when it came to his height, though he was a little taller than you. His messy yellow hair, which perfectly matched the tone of his skin, was tied back in a low, lazy ponytail. He wore a buttoned-up red uniform shirt with the sleeves rolled up above his elbow, dark gray baggy pants, dark uniform shoes that matched, a black bandana, and a red work visor that read ROBLOX. On top of those, he wore large black gloves and a white apron, which was very noticeably covered in copious amounts of blood.

You two stared at each other for a few agonizing moments, neither of you moving. The silence was unbearably loud, and the air felt suffocating. His expression was unreadable as he practically stared into your soul. You could hear the faint sounds of your breath as you convinced yourself to get a grip.

…You immediately got out of the closet and sprinted out of the room, only for him to follow behind. His footsteps were loud as he was quick to catch up to you. You ran across the hallway, into a very similar bedroom. Though this time, the table was a decorative skull. The table seemed too heavy to kick, so it would be useless trying to slow him down with that. There was an open doorway on the far side of the room, and you wasted no time in heading that direction.

You can’t let him catch you. If he catches you, you’re dead for sure. There wasn’t anyone with you, nobody could help you. You have never been more thankful for picking up jogging.

Running through the next room and taking a sharp turn, you could feel yourself growing exhausted. But you couldn’t afford to take a break. Not with him right on your tail. You refused to look behind you for that very reason.

You found yourself in a very large room, the carpet a fun pattern, and tall, yellow pillars scattered throughout the room. And many little walls. Maybe if you were lucky, you could trick him.

So you tried. You attempted to juke him out by running around a yellow wall, the poster attached reading FUN RULES. As you were turning, you felt as he grabbed a fistful of your hair, yanking you back towards him. You gasped, glaring and attempting to elbow his stomach. Tears pricked your eyes. It can’t end here. It won’t.

He glared at you as well, gritting his teeth as he slammed your face against the wall, throwing you carelessly to the ground afterwards. You wiped your nose with the back of your hand, cringing at the crimson liquid smudged. With you now down on your back, he raised the knife, the tip aimed down, pointed at your torso. You quickly rolled out of the way as he slammed the blade into the ground where you previously were. Using your time preciously, you crawled away from him, got up, and delivered a swift punch to his face.

Self-defense at its finest.

He grunted, hissing as he stepped back and held his nose. He soon recovered, taking the pizza cutter from his back, and swung at you. You let out a yell, ducking before it could hit you. The swing of the cutter was heavy, aimed perfectly at where you once were.

The other survivors were nowhere to be seen. It wasn’t impossible that a good chunk of them were dead. For all you know, you and one other person could be the last few remaining. You didn’t have any chance to check the timer, though. Not when you’re fighting the killer.

Most would call you stupid; a select few would applaud you for your bravery. But it was too late to run. You weren’t even fit to be fighting close and personal like this; that was the sentinel's job. But desperate times call for desperate measures.

You delivered another swift punch to the killer’s face, and he returned the gesture with a quick slash to your torso. You screamed, the blood seeping through your clothes. The pain was unbearable. Though somehow you still had the adrenaline you needed to keep going.

You couldn’t run away now. Not while you’re injured like this. You won’t give up. You swung at him again, but it was in vain. He grabbed your wrist, twisting it and kicking you away. You clenched your teeth, using your other hand to cover the fresh wound.

Thin layers of sweat covered both of you. Your own breaths were quick and ragged as you began to struggle to keep up with the violent dance unfolding between you two. With every strike you deliver, he replies with just the same. He seemed to be losing his patience, if he even had any. With every kick, every slash, every punch, you felt yourself grow tired. Yet he kept going.

Forgiveness was a privilege. He’s not playing your games any longer.

As the fight progressed, you began to fear what would come next. With each hit he landed on you, each hit you landed on him, the end was approaching. Each tear through your soft flesh and each new bruise that formed on him. You two gave it your all. He had the upper hand, undoubtedly, but you had spirit. Determination.

In the end, this was futile. This meant nothing. A few rounds more, and you’d see him again. Yet you’re fighting him like you have everything to lose.

He’d be lying if he said he didn’t admire that.

You winced as he grabbed a fistful of your hair, his other hand wrapped tight around your throat as his pizza cutter lay abandoned on the ground. His expression was one of anger and irritation. He towered above you. You glared back at him. Sweat coated his face, and his eyes were focused solely on you. You were bloodied. Weakened. You could’ve not bothered to fight. You could’ve run and prayed to the gods that you didn’t die. But you had to make this difficult for both of you.

Without hesitation, he kneed you in the stomach, threw you to the ground, and picked up the pizza cutter for the final time. You looked half dead, and you felt that way, too. The same could be said for him. He didn’t look any better. You gave a slight smile, knowing your efforts weren’t totally in vain. He was limping a bit. Congratulations!

But your adrenaline was leaving you, and blood loss was greeting you, further proven by that warm, red liquid that stained the carpet, draining out of you more by the second. But you didn’t give up. Even to your death, you’d remain fighting. You wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing you surrender.

You wouldn’t get the chance as he raised the weapon, offering you one final glance as he struck.

It hurt.

A lot.

Your breathing slowed down, and your head felt cold. Blood trickled down your forehead, decorating the blade in thick layers. Your eyes began to close. You were overcome with exhaustion.

This wasn’t the last time you two would meet. You both knew that well.

But you weren’t alone. Even when you were dying, he remained close. You couldn’t tell why.

It wasn’t long before your breathing stopped fully, your vision went dark, and you died.

———————————————————————————

You sat up, cringing at the headache you now had. You couldn’t decide which hurt more. The wooden floors of the main cabin felt uncomfortable beneath you.

Caleb and his twin sister Dakota were at the dining table, a deck of playing cards beside them.

Despite Caleb’s sometimes insufferable nature, he is a pretty decent guy. He always cracks jokes in stressful moments, and was actually a part of a garage band prior to being sent here. Dakota is the more mature and “responsible” of the two. She had a part-time job as a barista before all this. She was going to college to study architecture.

Isabella was on the couch. She had a tattered journal that she’d write in all the time, detailing… something. You weren’t sure. Something crazy about an entity watching. She seemed oddly fascinated. Almost fixated. Colton and Casey weren’t anywhere in the main area, so you could only assume they were the last survivors.

“Hey, you’re back!” Caleb smiled, turning over in his chair to look at you. He leaned back, which was met with Dakota flicking his upper arm. He winced, shooting her an annoyed look as he sat properly.

“…Yeah.” You replied. “I fought for my life, thank you.”

Caleb flipped a card over at the same time as Dakota, and she took both of them. “Honestly,” Caleb started. “I can’t even blame you for going down. He was a tough dude. His uniform seemed familiar, though, with the colours.” He remarked.

“Builder Brothers. You know, that pizza place?” Dakota chimed in.

“Builder Brother’s Pizza? Dude, I loved that place!” Caleb enthused with a grin, leaning back on the chair once more. “Heard it burnt down, though.. which sucks. Their sausage pizzas were amazing.”

“Of course you’d like the sausage.”

Dakota snickered at her joke while Caleb rolled his eyes. “I’m going to choose to ignore that joke.”

Dakota smiled and rolled her eyes. “Come on, we’re just messing with you. Seriously, though, he must’ve been an employee or something. No clue how he ended up here.”

“The same way we all did?” Isabella proposed, taking a brief break from her journal. “Or maybe he was just... always here? Since the very start? We already know we weren’t the first to come here, maybe the people before us had to deal with these guys, too.”

You glanced at her, and she looked back. “It’s possible, no? We’ve found tons of evidence that could prove this, have we not?”

As the group continued to talk, you found yourself thinking about him. You sighed, looking towards your friends.

“…I think I’m going to go back to my cabin. That round was more than enough for me.” You said, walking towards the door. “Oh, yeah, that’s cool. Do you need anything?” Caleb asked. You shook your head. “I should be fine. Thank you.” You replied. He nodded.

You stepped outside into the cold. The dirt crunched beneath your feet as you made your way to your cabin.

You’d use that death as a lesson for next time.

The door to your cabin opened with a creak, and you closed it behind you. You’d deal with this—with him another day. For now, you’d sleep.

fin.

#‧˚꒰🍷꒱༘‧— 𝑽𝒂𝒎𝒑𝒚’𝒔 𝒘𝒓𝒊𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈.#Forsaken x reader #Elliot x reader #Forsaken Elliot x reader #romantic #oneshots

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er-osion · 6 months ago

Text

My Tears Ricochet

pairing: Kaz Brekker x gn!Reader

summary: A fic inspired by Taylor Swift’s ‘My Tears Ricochet’. Kaz says some things to you in anger after a heist so you end things and move out of the Slat. Months later and Kaz can no longer bear being separated

word count: 2.6k

warnings: hurt/comfort

you can see the full taylor swift song-fic masterlist here

⋄∘∗⋅⋆≁≁⋆⋅∗∘⋄

The door to Kaz’s room slammed shut. You tried not to wince at the noise, tried not to move lest you show how upset and afraid you were. Things had gone bad, really bad. The heist should’ve been simple but sometimes things just don’t go to plan, sometimes human error messes things up. Now you stood in the room you shared with Kaz, bracing for him to give you hell for the awful night all of you had had.

“Do you just want to see your teammates die?” Kaz snapped, back turned to you as he paced around the room.

“What kind of question is that, Kaz?” You spat back, offended. “Things go wrong, we’re all human.”

“That’s one of the weakest excuses I’ve heard for inadequacy in a long time.”

Your eyes went wide, “Inadequacy?!” You repeated, aghast. “Watch it, Brekker.”

Kaz let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head and running his fingers through his hair. “If you don’t want to be called ‘inadequate’, don’t do foolish things, you behaved like a rookie tonight!”

“The others have made mistakes just as bad, if not worse before, yet when I do it it’s the crime of the century?” You threw your hands in the air, tone quickly rising to meet his anger.

“No, this heist could’ve been the heist of the century if you hadn’t royally fucked it up!”

“Kaz, I know you’re upset, we all are. But yelling at me won’t change the events of the evening, it will only make things worse.”

“Oh don’t try and get all ‘holier than thou’ on me. You don’t want to get yelled at? Then don’t act like a fucking idiot.”

You blinked back tears of frustration and hurt. You and Kaz had had your fair share of arguments, being in a relationship with someone who didn’t know how to express their feelings properly can lead to that. But his behavior was out of pocket and undeserved. He was supposed to be your biggest supporter, not tear you down.

The argument raged for another two hours, growing worse and worse by the minute until you’d had enough.

“Kaz, shut the fuck up!” You cried. “I’m done!”

He froze, fury overtaking his expression before he took a step back and blinked. “What?” His voice was grating.

“I’m done.” You repeated in a hush, throat and chest tightening impossibly.

“The hell do you mean, ‘you’re done’?”

“I mean I’m done with this, with us.” You concluded defeatedly. Kaz didn’t say anything, his expression didn’t change, as if he hadn’t truly understood what you were saying or the implication of your statement. “I can’t be with someone who’s going to degrade me for making human mistakes. We’re supposed to help one another, not demean each other and if you still don’t understand that after all of these years… then I think my time is better spent elsewhere.”

You straightened your back and rolled your shoulders in an attempt to pull yourself together despite the tears blurring your vision. You waited for Kaz to say something, anything. The silence was deafening.

“If you want to be a quitter then fine, quit. I don’t need someone who behaves like this anyways.” Kaz hissed, turning his back to you as he was no longer able to look at your distraught face.

You puffed in disbelief. Your heart was burning. How could he so easily throw you away? Throw everything the two of you had built together away? You shook your head and began gathering your things. You could feel Kaz watching you out of the corner of his eye but he never moved from his spot and never said anything.

When you’d finished gathering your belongings you scurried out of the room, needing more than anything to be out of that suffocating atmosphere. You decided to stay with a friend going to university. He asked no questions when you had showed up at his door in the middle of the night with all of your things, just let you in and helped you settle into the guest room.

When you woke up, mid afternoon the next day, your friend, Arthur, assured you that you could stay as long as you needed. The next few months were torture for you. This sick feeling in your stomach never went away and your chest never stopped hurting. Merely eating, breathing, and moving became a task. All motivation to do anything left your body and you wandered around your friend’s apartment like a ghost. Nothing felt right, not anymore. Kaz had always told you that your fighting spirit had made you brave, had inspired him, yet he was so quick to turn it against you. The tears you cried over that man were endless.

****

Kaz has been a worn wood boat against the raging sea of his emotions these past few months. He’d been off his grove, on edge, messy, and all the Crows had noticed. To put it simply: Kaz Brekker had been a wreck of a man since the night you broke up with him. Nothing was the same, nothing was tolerable anymore.

Everywhere he went, you haunted him. Your ghost and the ghost of your relationship taunted him in spectral defiance, proving how small of a man he was. He still wears the rings you’d gotten him underneath his gloves, he couldn’t bear to part from them. The nicknacks you’d given him over the years that he kept scattered around his office and bedroom stayed in the same spots because he was too scared to get rid of them. Because getting rid of those nicknacks and the rings meant putting a real end to that chapter of his life.

He had spent the last few months cursing you, everything you’d ever brought to his life, your memory. Because being angry was easier than being hurt. But still, he missed you more than anything. Saints, he missed you so much it hurt. No injury could ever compare to the pain in his chest that had been stabbing at him since you walked out the door. When you’d left, you had carved out a piece of him and took it with you. There was so much empty space in Kaz’s soul he had to put daily effort in not getting lost in it.

Kaz hadn’t seen a trace of you since you’d left. He couldn’t decide if that was a bad or good thing. But tonight, he couldn’t handle it. These past few months have been unbearably painful, this hole in his heart was no longer ignorable. He knew he probably didn’t have a chance at reconciliation. Hell, he probably didn’t deserve a second chance with you. But Dirtyhands didn’t give up without a fight. So he decided to find you, talk to you, and try to convey his all-consuming regret. And if you wanted to move on, then he’d respect that. Because that’s the very least he could do for you.

It wasn’t hard to figure out where you were. You didn’t cover your trails and Kaz had an excellent recon team. But when Inej told him you were staying with some friend from university named Arthur? The cane-wielding young man almost threw the papers off his desk. He’s ashamed to admit it, but the jealousy that instantly bubbled in his stomach burned and churned all the unpleasantness he’d been feeling lately into a monstrous wave. If that good-for-nothing had tried at all to swoop in and replace Kaz in your life, this “Arthur” would learn how Kaz got the name Dirtyhands.

And that’s how Kaz found himself outside of this stranger’s apartment, standing out in the wet cold, unable to bring his gloved hand up to knock on the door. He’d chosen a time in the evening when he knew your new roommate would be absent for a while, Kaz wanted zero interruptions during whatever was about to go down.

You were torn away from your book when you heard a sharp knock at the door. Confused, you slowly got up and went to open the door only to reveal the very last person you expected to see tonight.

You stared at Kaz for a long while before beginning coldly, “What do you want?”

Kaz internally flinched at your tone. “I’d like to talk.”

“Do you want to talk to me or yell at me?” You retorted, feeling petty.

Kaz screwed his lips shut to keep himself from saying anything stupid, “Talk.” He reiterated.

You looked him over before stepping aside, wordlessly letting him in. Kaz strode inside the apartment hastily, observing the space with a critical eye. “So you’ve been staying with your friend, Alex?” He purposefully asked incorrectly.

“Arthur. And yes, he’s been incredibly kind and understanding of my situation.” You rebuked.

“Not too kind, I’m sure.”

“You have no reason to care.” You painfully reminded him. Kaz didn’t say anything, knowing you were right. Kaz stalked around the main room, pretending to take a great interest in the decor as he tried miserably to plan what to say next. You watched him move about, scrutinizing his every move and waiting for him to speak up. You weren’t sure why he was here, but if he wanted to apologize then it would have to be in his own words.

“I…” Kaz started but then trailed off, unsure of what exactly to say. The dark haired man sighed, his mind exhausted with frustration, and plopped down on the couch. You stood unmoving from your spot in the center of the room, still watching and waiting with a raised brow. “I came to tell you that you didn’t deserve to be yelled at the way I yelled at you. Even on your worst days you’d never deserve to be treated the way I treated you.”

You blinked in surprise, Kaz was never an openly apologetic person and you could tell he was unfamiliar with this area of communication by the way he stumbled over his words. You moved closer sitting in the chair opposite him. You could tell he still had more to say so you nodded at him, silently letting him know to continue.

Kaz took a steadying breath and readjusted his grip on his cane. “I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that, I shouldn’t have let you walk out the door. I can’t sleep at night, all I hear are your whispers. I can’t keep moving about my day without at least trying to repair things between us. Even if you don’t want to return to the way we were, I needed to tell you… all of this.”

Your throat tightened and you clutched desperately onto your pant legs for some grounding. Your mind was spinning. You wanted to still be angry with him, you wanted to yell at him and berate him. But here he was, the man you loved sitting in front of you, apologizing, expressing regret over his actions, and telling you he’ll respect whatever decision you make after tonight.

“You hurt me Kaz. You know how to weaponize words and you turned your stockpile against me and we’re supposed to be allies.”

“I know, I know and I’ll hate that memory for the rest of my life. I’m a deplorable man, but the last thing I ever want to do is hurt you, and I can’t begin to describe the discontent I’ve felt after that night.”

You looked down at your hands, no longer able to maintain eye contact with Kaz with the way he was looking so intensely at you. “I… I don’t know where to go from here Kaz.” You admitted honestly.

“I’m not quite sure either. But,” Kaz paused, trying to gauge your reaction to his next words, “we could start by moving you back into the Slat.”

Your gaze snapped back up to the brown-eyed man in front of you, heart stuttering in your chest. “With you?” You questioned, voice shakier than you’d intended.

“Preferably.” Kaz confirmed.

You looked Kaz up and down, scanning his face over and over for any sign that he was just messing with you, just trying to get your hopes up before brutally smashing them down again. But all you could find was ground-shaking sincerity. Fear and reverence swirled in his coffee-eyes and it knocked the wind out of you.

You took a weak breath in. Maybe you weren’t strong, but the man you’d loved for years was sitting there trying to reconcile and you weren’t going to lie and say you weren’t ready to jump at the idea. You didn’t want to give up on the two of you. Kaz Brekker was your everything, is your everything. You can’t imagine your life without him in it, so yeah, you were going to try again with him. If things didn’t work out this time, then you’d take the hint and start the process of moving on. But you were determined to work things out, because Kaz was here telling you just the same and you’d be damned if you didn’t take this opportunity.

“It’s going to take a bit for me to readjust to us. I want to try again Kaz, start over. I want us to work because I believe in us, I believe in you.” You uttered seriously and Kaz’s breath hitched at your words. He felt hope again, for the first time in ages he felt bright shining hope and restored vigor.

“I’ll give you all the time you need and more. I’ll give you whatever you need, all you have to do is ask. I don’t mean to let us die without a bare-knuckle fight. I’ll dig up the corpse of us and pull our ghost from the depths of the Underworld if that means we can get a second chance.” Kaz fervently promised, leaning so far forward he was barely sitting on the edge of his seat anymore. You smiled at his goreish analogy, always the dramatic Kaz Brekker even when trying to repair your relationship.

You nodded and sighed contentedly. “I won’t let us die without a fight either– but be warned; if you ever disrespect me like that again, I’ll rip you a new one Brekker.” You warned with a playful smirk tugging at your lips.

Kaz made a noise between a scoff and a laugh, “I fully expect you to, but I won’t be giving you a reason to ever do so.” You grinned with satisfaction at his words, getting up from your chair and telling him to stay put as you gathered your things.

You waited for Arthur to come back before leaving the apartment, so you could explain the situation to him. He was more than happy for you, glad to see you in any mood other than depressed for the first time in ages. You made Kaz stand in the hall for the interaction, as you noticed your friend growing quickly uncomfortable with Kaz’s searing glare.

Before you knew it, you were back in the Slat with the love of your life. You seamlessly melded right back into his space and Kaz could finally breathe freely again. Things were right, they were the way they were supposed to be now that the two of you were back together again. Kaz had never felt such a sense of relief as he did watching you settle down for bed in your shared room. Kaz Brekker was no man of faith, but he swore to every Saint above that he’d never take you for granted or disrespect you ever again, lest he die a painful and humiliating death. He didn’t deserve your second chances or forgiveness, but he’d work every day to try and deserve it, to be the partner you deserved.

#kaz brekker x reader #kaz brekker x you #kaz brekker #kaz brekker imagine #kaz brekker fanfic #six of crows #six of crows x reader #x reader #x you #kaz brekker fic

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thorin-is-a-cuddler · 1 year ago

Text

Fighting the bear

A/N: Benedict and Anthony are jealous of the time their wives, you and Kate, spend together. They come up with a (not so) glorious plan to get your attention. Based on a prompt I received.

When Anthony entered the living space, he‘d certainly not expected to stumble upon Benedict peeking out one of the large windows with the curtain hiding most of his face. He furrowed his brows, waiting to be noticed, but realized after about ten seconds that it was in vain.

He held on to his arm behind his back and shifted slightly on his feet, amusement slowly trickling down his face as he decided to speak. „Brother?“

Benedict almost ripped down the tender fabric, turning around like a rabbit who heard a dog bark, the curtain swishing almost weightlessly over his head.

„Erm… brother!“ He answered in greeting, imitating Anthony‘s pose, hands behind back and chest jutted out, while nervously weighing up and down on his feet. His mind seemed to be galloping at high speed to come up with something to say. „What nice weather we have today, do we not? Nice indeed!“

Anthony hummed shortly in agreement, his amused eyes searching his brother‘s face to assess the situation. He walked over to the table with the afternoon biscuits to hide his smile and pour himself a cup of tea. Benedict had always been an open book. Whenever one of the brothers had played a prank in their youth, one look at Benedict‘s face had sufficed to give everything away: who had done it, when they had done it and sometimes even what they had done.

Now was no different.

„Tell me,“ Anthony slurred, turning around with a lazy smile, „is whatever you have been spying on, something I should rather not be telling your wife?“

Benedict stiffened with indignation. „Of course not!!“ His angry glance was burning into Anthony’s until it changed into a pensive one, his eyes looking up towards the ceiling.

„Though it is true that you should rather not tell her… but not for any such reason you might be suggesting!“

Anthony hummed again, the little silver spoon clinking in his tea cup. He took a long sip and made an extra loud smacking noise after he finished. Benedict‘s eyes grew narrower and narrower. The tension in the air would have been visible to anyone, like a floating purple cloud. Anthony put his tea cup back down and smiled at his brother. And then he was already dashing to the window.

„No, Anthony!!!“

Benedict cursed, when his brother took a turn about the sofa to confuse him and it actually worked, the younger Bridgerton losing the chase to his former spying position at the window.

„Well, look at that,“ the elder brother exclaimed teasingly, „our two wives conversing in the shade of the trees.“

Then his smirk fell and his brows grew closer together. „Our two wives conversing in the shade of the trees…“ he repeated, now with no remaining trace of amusement.

Benedict lifted his brows and nodded. He certainly had not expected his brother to look just as disgruntled as he felt. „Again!“ He added to Anthony‘s phrase, extending his hand and stepping to the window as well, ending up shoulder to shoulder with his brother. „What is it they keep talking about? Don‘t they ever grow tired of their conversation?“

Anthony hummed, now in a much more serious manner, his hand moving to his chin to touch it cluelessly. „They spend an awful lot of time together. I wonder if they are talking about us…“

Benedict‘s eyes grew in terror. „What would they be saying?“

„How am I supposed to know?“ Anthony hissed in distress, one hand wandering to his neck tie to loosen it a little. „Is there something you did?“

„Something I did??“ Benedict fired back, his voice uncharacteristically high from a strong feeling of disbelief. „What do you suppose I should have done?? Is there something that you did??“

„Of course not!“ Anthony‘s eyes were burning coals, when he turned his head around. They were staring at each other with their uncomfortable, helpless fear of having disgruntled their wives, covering it up with a good portion of self-defending anger. Until Benedict moved up his eyebrows and allowed a small huff of laughter to escape his lips. He dropped his forehead on Anthony‘s shoulder and groaned.

„What are we doing? Why are we fighting? I don‘t even know what‘s going on.“

Anthony‘s face relaxed at Benedict‘s words and he as well was shaken by a small sound of amusement considering their behaviour. He patted Benedict‘s head on his shoulder and looked back down at their wives who were currently laughing at something.

„We are acting like children,“ he concluded, giving Benedict a self-deprecating glance when he moved his head up again. „Did we really get this dependant on our wives since we married? Can we seriously not bear it to see them be content without us?“

Benedict winced at his brother‘s words. „It‘s come to this. I am jealous of your wife. Now that is a phrase, I never thought I‘d utter.“

Anthony chuckled quietly and bumped his shoulder against his brother’s affectionately. „If it‘s any consolation, I believe I am subject to the same affliction.“

Benedict grinned at him and Anthony realized that he hadn‘t been spending an awful lot of time with his younger brother recently. He looked at him with fondness and placed a hand on his shoulder.

„You know, I don‘t think I‘ve ever truly said this to you. But you‘ve grown into quite the man.“

Benedict‘s eyes grew large for a second, his surprise moving his features like a curtain, revealing an unexpected fragility. Then it rushed close again, avoiding the showcase of little boy emotions and replacing them with a teasing smirk - it was the Bridgerton way to deal with emotions and Anthony could not blame him for it. „Sorry,“ Benedict snickered, holding up his left hand with the wedding ring, „I am already taken.“

Anthony groaned in a good-natured manner, before grabbing his brother and putting him in a headlock, making him break out into boyish giggles that he certainly hadn‘t heard in a while.

They stumbled around the room for a while, before Benedict managed to break free, bringing the sofa between them. The jealousy of their respective wives was quite healed as they looked at each other with big grins, both gasping slightly from the effort of their rough-housing.

„Look at that,“ Anthony laughed, putting his hands on the backrest of the silky piece of furniture between them. „We can still have fun on our own, when it‘s just the two of us.“

„You mean,“ Benedict clarified with a grin, „that you can still have fun by means of torturing me!“

Anthony clicked his tongue and shook his head at him. „Come now! I didn‘t even tickle you!“

Narrowing his eyes to slim slits, Benedict took on a more defensive posture. „Don‘t even think about it. I am not the least bit ticklish anymore.“

Anthony barked out a taunting laugh. „Oh, sure. Care to put that to the test?“

Benedict stood up tall and held up an index finger. „I have a way better idea.“

Anthony was curious enough to lend him his ear.

——————

You liked Kate. You liked her very much. And you were over the moon that the two of you had married a Bridgerton and were now practically family.

She was well-read and funny and liked to make fun of her husband as much as you did of your own. Sometimes, all it took to settle an argument you‘ve been having with your respective other (not forcibly better) halves was a chat with a good friend. And Kate was one of the best.

You‘d been enjoying the afternoon together, chatting about this and that and taking a few breaks within the house to drink a cup of tea and fetch some of the books you wanted to talk about. When, quite rudely, your peaceful conversation was interrupted.

Wailing sounds were the first you‘d heard of them, before the pair of your husbands came into sight. Benedict was practically hanging from Anthony‘s shoulder, the older brother carrying him around the rose bushes in your direction. Red stains on both of their white shirts added up to the fright their sight installed in you.

Kate jumped to her feet, when you were still too stunned from the horrible sounds of pain Benedict was producing to move an inch.

„What happened?“ Kate shouted, running closer to them to meet them halfway. Your wobbly legs barely allowed you to get into a standing position. In your mind you were moving through water, as you approached them.

Anthony was sweating slightly from the effort of hoisting your groaning husband through the garden.

„We were attacked.“ He rasped out, trying to position Benedict in a slightly more comfortable position with his free arm.

„Attacked?“ Kate asked in disbelief. „By what??“

„A dog.“ „A bear.“ The brothers responded at the same time. Anthony shot his head around to glare at Benedict who was biting his lip through his rather dramatic groaning. Quickly, the elder Bridgerton recovered from the moment of surprise.

„He‘s hallucinating!“ He quickly shot out in an attempt to explain their differing answers.

Kate took a step back and eyed them both suspiciously, but the concern was still visible on both your faces. „Where did this happen?“ She asked, as you tried to lift Benedict‘s head with your hands to be able to look at him directly.

His cheeks were surprisingly cold to the touch and you did not manage to find the wound that had caused the red stains on their clothes.

„Does it matter?“ Anthony hissed at her. „I am glad I was there to save him. The animal was big enough to resemble a small bear indeed!“

„You didn‘t save me,“ Benedict hissed, his stance changing slightly as did his voice. „I chased it away all by myself, you merely found me.“

With narrowed eyes you watched as Benedict sent a quick glance in your direction. Too quick for your taste. Raising a brow in Kate‘s direction you suddenly found it hard not to smirk. Kate who had already crossed her arms in front of her chest and was looking at Anthony with a rather unimpressed expression.

„Whatever you say, Benedict,“ Anthony huffed, looking at both of you as if to say that his brother had lost a marble or two. „I‘d think it best we bring you to your room to allow you to recover.“

„Not before you get the story straight!“ Benedict insisted, the hand that had been holding on to Anthony‘s shoulder grabbing him by his nape now. Anthony hissed in pain and loosened his grip on his brother sufficiently to make him slide down Anthony‘s side. Benedict cursed and wrapped both arms around his brother‘s neck to keep from slipping.

You and Kate were watching the spectacle with growing interest and lessening worry. Whatever was going on, you could not say. But you did know that your beloved husbands were acting out an embarrassing scene in front of you, one, they had apparently memorized so badly that they forgot to act altogether.

„You are clearly not in your right mind right now,“ Anthony grumbled, wrapping his arms around his brother‘s waist to hoist him up again. „You‘re bleeding and… and the blood loss is making you foolish.“

„Foolish??“ Benedict gasped, his feet searching for solid ground in his outrage. „Who is foolish?“

„Both of you quite clearly are.“ You testified lazily, bumping your shoulder against Kate‘s. „I did not expect to ever see them ridicule themselves to such extents.“

„Neither did I, to be honest,“ she mumbled, looking on with a growing interest. „It is rather entertaining.“

„I agree,“ you responded, when Benedict‘s stained arm flung in Anthony‘s face and left a big red mark on his nose. „What do you think they used for the blood? Marmalade?“

„Oh yes, it appears so.“

„You ruined it all,“ Anthony rasped furiously, trying to free himself from Benedict‘s grip and simultaneously wiping at his face.

„I did??“ Benedict growled, keeping Anthony in half a headlock himself by this point. „You had to go off about being the hero of the day! You made me look weak!“

„Ohh, you want to look weak??“

You raised your brows in amusement, when Anthony‘s fingers started digging into your husband‘s ribs, making the younger Bridgerton gasp, before he practically started howling with laughter.

„NO DON‘T!!“

Retrieving his arms from around Anthony‘s neck, he tried to brush the other‘s hands off his middle, but was twitching and cackling too hard to manage any coordinated movement.

„ANTHONY NO!!“ He wheezed with laughter, as his brother managed to force him to the ground, the unfortunate position leaving him exposed to Anthony’s mercy.

„I thought you said you weren‘t ticklish anymore!“ The elder Bridgerton teased with a mischievous smirk, dwelling in the raucous laughter of his younger brother.

„That is clearly not the case.“ You chuckled, raising your shoulders cluelessly when Kate sent you a look that basically asked what on earth was happening.

„I suppose these two needed some time alone.“ You concluded, warmth filling your chest at the thought of the brothers spending some quality time together - without their wives.

„(Y/N)!!!“ Benedict got out between breathless giggles, „HELP ME!!! PLEASE!!“

You chuckled, all anger at the shock the brothers had installed within you wiped away in a single blow.

„Am I to save you from the bear now?“

Kate laughed at your words and waggled her brows. „I think I can be of bigger support in this situation.“

Anthony shot his head around at his wife’s words and suddenly jumped off his brother like a cat that got in contact with water, when Kate stalked towards them.

„NO!“ He simply yelled, before taking off, practically running away from his wife, who - never one to shy away from a challenge - chased right after him.

Benedict remained gasping on the ground, his cheeks reddened from laughter and his eyes reflecting the glow that came with the tears mirth could bring about.

You bit down on your lip to keep from smiling and quickly walked over to drop down on top of him, chuckling when he held up his arms defensively. „No more, please!! No more!“

Grinning from ear to ear, you took his hands to interlock your fingers. „I think you‘ve suffered quite enough revenge for your little prank.“

Sheepishly your husband groaned at your words, closing his eyes and tilting back his head. „It sounded like the perfect plan to get your attention, back when we came up with it.“

„That‘s because you turn into a ninnyhead, when you and your brother are together.“

With a grin you took in your husband‘s indignation.

„Did you just call me a ninnyhead?“

„The loveliest ninnyhead of all!“

Benedict squinted his eyes at you and tried to come up with a retort. Quickly he realized that he had none and instead broke out into soft chuckles. He removed his hands from your grasp and brought them to your hips to pull you even closer to him, your fingers moving to his face to caress his cheeks. „Is it a crime that I was dying to get your attention?“

„Not at all. It was simply ridiculous. Especially the part with the marmalade!“

Benedict shook his head at himself and even blushed a little. „I suppose love makes you do silly things.“

You smiled at him, bending down to join your lips together. „Love does. Your love for me surely. But apparently brotherly love is not to be excluded.“

Benedict snorted, but his eyes revealed the truth of your words. He would always be Anthony‘s little brother. And that bond was no less important than the one you two shared.

#bridgerton #bridgerton imagine #benedict bridgerton imagine #anthony bridgerton #ticklish!benedict #bridgerton tickling #anthony and benedict #sibling dynamics #benedict bridgerton wife reader #bridgerton reader insert #benedict bridgerton x reader #bridgerton siblings #kate sharma #kate and reader

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abyssruler · 2 years ago

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TROPES

ft. jing yuan, dan heng, blade x gn!reader

JING YUAN - reincarnation

They say the Arbiter General of the Luofu only takes a lover every few decades, each one doomed to end in the tragedy that befalls that of a love between a short-life species and a long-life one. It’s widely speculated why the famed general chooses to continue taking short-life species for lovers, knowing the ending that would come about such a union. Jing Yuan cares not for idle gossip, save for the fact that people spread misinformation about him taking multiple lovers, but he can hardly tell everyone that he has only had one lover throughout his centuries of life. It’s just that you always happen to die far too soon for his liking. He fears sometimes, during those first few years after your death, that you’ll never come back, that one day he’ll wake up and realize that hundreds of years have passed without you. But you never fail to appear decades later with a smile on your lips and an apology on your tongue, soothing years’ worth of worries with a few measly words. Sorry, Yuan, I’ll be sure to live longer this time.

DAN HENG - soulmates

The Imbibitor Lunae was not only tasked to bear the responsibility of being the High Elder of the Vidyadhara, he was also destined for a love that spanned beyond lifetimes. Dan Heng knows of the story between the previous incarnations of you and the Imbibitor Lunae. Reincarnating at the same time, falling in love, and repeating it all over again in a never ending cycle that Dan Heng had been sure to end—that was, until he met you. Jing Yuan told him of your decision to forcefully reincarnate as well after Dan Feng’s crime, so it stands to reason that you shouldn’t feel anything for Dan Heng at all, what with this incarnation of yours having never met him in this lifetime. And yet, you keep looking at him with such softness, something like nostalgia in the tone of your voice as you spoke with him, that he can’t help but feel as though he, like his previous incarnations before him, can do nothing but fall into that never-ending cycle of love and being loved.

BLADE/YINGXING - time travel

Yingxing thinks you’re strange. Not in a bad way, of course, only that your mannerisms and way of conduct when it comes to him and his companions is odd. He’s caught you almost calling Dan Feng the wrong name, Dan He-something. You keep demanding Jing Yuan to spar with you for what you dubbed was a ‘rematch’, though Yingxing has no recollection of any instances of you and Jing Yuan fighting before. But it all pales in comparison to the way you act with him. You’re overly familiar, smiling and talking to him as though you’ve known him for years instead of a single month after he discovered you wounded on an alley with a broken blade. He still remembers the look of relief on your face when he crouched in front of you in concern. Blade, Kafka’s gonna kill me, this is the fiftieth sword I broke this month, was all you said before passing out. Despite the oddity of your first meeting, he found himself getting close to you, drawn in by your smile and your laugh and the tender way you looked at him. He imagined spending what remained of his life with you, but you disappeared a day before he was supposed to confess his feelings. It isn’t until many years later, when Elio is introducing the newest member of the Stellaron Hunters, that Blade connects the dots amidst his fractured memory. And it isn’t until another few years that you confirm his suspicions. Blade, you won’t believe what I just went through—or rather, when!

#blade’s got too long hrng it’s because it deserves a fic of its own hehe #honkai star rail x reader #hsr x reader #jing yuan x reader #dan heng x reader #imbibitor lunae x reader #blade x reader #yingxing x reader #gn reader

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sevarchive · 4 days ago

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what the crown forgets ༄.°

a barou shoei royal au story. 6.9k words

a/n: this piece was written for a ticket from the ask roulette carnival! the requester got their surprise prompt, and this was the result. to see what their emoji unlocked (or check your own entry), visit their original ticket here!

synopsis: in which a servant girl and a crown prince share a love too tender for a kingdom built on cruelty, and years later, all that remains is what the crown chose to forget.

the palace was a place of noise. of clashing swords, echoing heels, and voices that never spoke gently.

it was built on sharp corners and sharper intentions, a labyrinth of polished stone and glinting steel. but tucked away within it, past the marble stairwells and velvet-lined corridors, was the old greenhouse, a forgotten space of moss and warmth.

and that was where he found you.

you were kneeling in the dirt, sleeves rolled to your elbows, replanting a frost-wilted herb with trembling fingers. a smear of earth stained your cheek.

barou shoei was twelve. even then, he carried himself like he owned the world. chin high, spine straight, eyes narrow and unflinching. there was a harshness to him, a precision; as if he couldn’t bear the idea of being out of control, even in stillness.

he wasn’t supposed to be there. you weren’t supposed to speak to him. but when you finally turned, your gaze met his with the calm of someone who didn’t know to be afraid of royalty.

or maybe you did. maybe you just chose not to flinch.

he didn’t say anything at first. just watched you press your hand over the roots like it was a prayer. when you moved to wipe your brow with your wrist, he spoke for the first time, quietly, but with an edge like steel unsheathed.

“…why’re you here by yourself?”

you blinked, startled. he was taller than you’d expected—broad-shouldered, arms crossed like he was bracing for impact, but his voice had come out softer than you'd ever imagined it could be.

“oh,” you said softly. “then i’ll go, if you want—”

“no,” he cut in quickly, then looked away, clearing his throat. “i mean. you don’t have to.”

there was a beat of silence. you weren’t sure how to respond. his eyes drifted to the ground, then to the half-wilting pot you were cradling. the tips of his ears had gone faintly pink. then, gruffly, as if needing to reroute the conversation somewhere safer:

“that plant. why are you doing it by hand?”

you glanced down at your dirt-smeared fingers, curled around the base of the wilted herb.

“because she’s still alive,” you murmured, voice low, like you didn’t want to disturb her. “and i didn’t want to hurt her more.”

barou stared, quiet for a second too long. his brows pulled together, not in annoyance, but something closer to... confusion and curiosity.

“she?” he repeated. “you gave it a name?”

“no,” you said, shaking your head. “but she’s still trying. even if it doesn’t look like it. it felt wrong to just rip her out.”

he looked at you like you’d said something foreign. like your kindness was a language no one had ever spoken to him.

“…that’s dumb,” he muttered, scratching the back of his neck. “but… not in a bad way.”

you smiled, just barely. “thanks… i think?”

“don’t get weird about it,” he grumbled. “i’m just saying. plants are usually trash after they wilt. but that one looks like it’s… i dunno. hanging on.”

you tilted your head. “kind of like you?”

barou froze. you weren’t even teasing him, just observing, honest. but it made him go stiff, like no one had ever looked at him that closely before.

“…you talk too much,” he mumbled under his breath, but there was no venom in it.

you just went back to your work, still smiling. and even though he muttered something about how you were “too sentimental for your own good”.

he went back the other day.

at first, he didn’t speak. he would sit on the stone bench as you worked, arms crossed, judging your technique with the same intensity he reserved for sparring drills. sometimes, he'd correct your posture. sometimes, he'd mutter complaints about the lack of order in the greenhouse, kicking a crooked pail back into line with his boot. you learned quickly that he hated chaos. hated weakness. hated being seen as anything other than perfectly composed.

but one day, he came bruised.

a fresh cut split his bottom lip. dirt clung to his royal tunic like shame, and his right hand was bloodied at the knuckles. it looked like he'd hit something harder than bone.

you stood quickly, heart stammering. “what happened?”

he stopped in the doorway. not tense, just still, like he hadn’t expected anyone to ask.

“training,” he said, voice low, almost hoarse. “i lost control.”

you’d seen boys from the training courts before. you’d cleaned scraped knees and bruised ribs. but this was something else. and the gold embroidery on his collar suddenly meant more.

your voice dropped. “you’re one of them, aren’t you? you’re—royalty. then i should’ve said… your majesty.”

but instead of smugness or pride, his expression changed. sharpened. something between irritation and sorrow.

“don’t call me that,” he said, flatly.

you blinked. “but—”

“i’m not a title,” he muttered. “just call me barou.”

you paused. let the name settle.

“…barou,” you repeated, softly.

he glanced at your hands, now clenched nervously at your sides. “are you gonna keep staring, or are you gonna fix it?”

you looked up, startled—then exhaled a shaky breath and stepped forward. “let me see.”

he hesitated and you could feel it. this invisible wall between you. his pride, his silence, his need to stay strong, even when bleeding. and the moment your fingers touched his, he went still. not tense. just… quiet. like no one had touched him gently in a long time.

you cleaned the wound in silence. the cloth turned red quickly, but he didn’t flinch. he just watched you, like he couldn’t decide if you were real.

“you’re not afraid of me,” he said, voice softer now, barely more than breath.

you glanced up. “should i be?”

his jaw flexed. “everyone else is.”

you wiped the blood from the edge of his palm, careful, slow. “that must be lonely.”

he didn’t respond.

but his fingers curled slightly, just enough to brush yours.

“and you?” he asked, eyes shadowed beneath the bruise on his brow. “what should i call you?”

you blinked. “y/n.”

he said it under his breath once, like he was trying it out. like it was something he didn’t want to forget.

and when you finally let go of his hand, he didn’t move. not right away.

because for the first time, someone hadn’t bowed, hadn’t cowered, hadn’t tried to make him into something else.

you just called him barou. and for now, that was enough.

years passed.

he kept coming back. you were reassigned from greenhouse duty to kitchen scullery, then to laundry, then to armor cleaning, and yet somehow, he always found you. a rustle of silk in a storage room. a shadow behind you at the well. an apple left in your apron pocket.

you never spoke of what it was. you weren’t allowed to have something like this.

but on your seventeenth birthday, you found a ribbon in your sleeping quarters, deep crimson, finely woven. no note. no mark. but you knew.

he found you that night in the abandoned training yard.

he didn’t say hello. he just walked straight up to you, took your hand, and placed it on the hilt of his sword.

“you should know how to hold it,” he said.

and so you trained. in secret. in shadows. you learned how to parry his strength, how to spin on muddy ground, how to find stillness even when your chest was heaving. he never went easy on you. you never asked him to. and when you dropped your guard, he would sneer, not cruelly, but the way a king corrects a knight: with expectation.

dusty and flushed from training, hair tousled, tunic wrinkled, he’d drop beside you on the old stone bench like it was the only place his shoulders could rest. he always brought something to share. a piece of fruit. a crust of bread. sometimes just a quiet moment.

some days, you talked. some days, you didn’t need to.

but that night, the summer air was thick and slow, the kind that made everything feel like it was holding its breath. you sat beneath the open windows, legs drawn up, a slice of peach cupped in your palm. he sat closer than usual, shoulders brushing, knees touching.

he didn’t say anything at first. just tilted his head back, gaze turned to the stars like he was searching for something bigger than the palace walls.

“you ever think about leaving?” you asked, voice soft.

“all the time,” he said.

you turned to look at him. he didn’t turn back, but you saw the flicker of a smile on his lips.

“but not if it means leaving you behind.”

your heart fluttered. he finally turned his head, and you were suddenly too aware of how close he was—how his eyes softened when he looked at you, how the air between you had thinned into something fragile and bright.

“you don’t have to say that,” you whispered.

“tsk. what if i wanted to?”

the silence hummed, full of every shared moment that had brought you here. and then he leaned in, slow, hesitant, like he was giving you every chance to pull away.

you didn’t.

your lips met his, soft and trembling, the kind of kiss that said thank you and don’t go and i see you all at once.

when you pulled back, you didn’t speak. just pressed your forehead gently to his, letting your breath mingle in the quiet.

his eyes fluttered shut. his hand found yours, warm and certain between you.

“i’ll protect you,” he said, voice steady despite the softness. “no matter what. always.”

and in that moment—summer pressing against the windows, his promise tucked between your ribs, you believed him.

but peace was never meant to last in a palace built on power.

the morning after he kissed you, the world resumed like nothing had changed, bells rang, steel clashed in the courtyards, and you were ordered to scrub floors like always. you didn’t see him for days. no notes. no apple. nothing.

you told yourself not to panic. that this was just how things worked. that you were still just a servant. that it had meant more to you than it did to him.

but on the seventh day, when the sun dipped behind the spires and you thought maybe that night would pass like all the others…

there he was.

waiting in the old storeroom behind the kitchens, hair damp from training, chest rising and falling fast like he’d run the whole way there.

“you weren’t at the usual spot,” he said, half-breathless.

“you didn’t leave anything,” you replied, a little too quickly.

he stepped forward. you noticed the new bruises on his arms, the scuff on his jaw.

“too risky,” he murmured. “they’re watching me more.”

you swallowed. “then why are you here?”

his eyes found yours. “because i meant what i said.”

you didn’t realize how much you needed to hear that. how tightly you’d been clinging to the memory of that kiss, of his hand in yours, of the way his voice had sounded when he made that promise.

he reached for you, not with urgency, but with care. fingers brushing your wrist first, asking. you stepped into him.

and for a moment, it was simple again.

you let your head rest against his chest, and he let his chin settle into your hair. no words. just breath and heartbeat.

but even then, the world was shifting.

whispers in the hallways. council meetings that ran too long. messengers arriving from distant borders. you didn’t understand the details, but you didn’t need to. you could feel it—like thunder in your bones.

one night, you caught barou alone in the old training yard again, slashing at a dummy like it had insulted him.

“is something wrong?” you asked, approaching carefully.

he didn’t stop.

“barou.”

he stilled, blade raised mid-air.

“there’s going to be a war,” he said, not turning around. “maybe not now. but soon.”

you felt the chill of those words run through you.

“then we’ll run,” you whispered. “if it gets bad—we’ll leave. like we always talked about.”

but when he turned to face you, something in his eyes had changed.

“i can’t run,” he said. “if i do, they win. and this kingdom will stay the same forever.”

you looked at him. and for the first time, he didn’t feel like the boy who kissed your temple with shaking hands.

he looked like a prince.

no, like a king, waiting to be crowned by fire and consequence.

“you still promise?” you asked softly. “to protect me?”

he nodded once. “even if i die doing it.”

and the terrible thing was: you believed him.

you always had.

the tension had been building for weeks.

you could feel it in the halls, in the way soldiers passed without speaking, in how the palace windows stayed shuttered even when the sun was high. whispers curled like smoke through the scullery: about distant borders, about broken treaties, about the blood already spilled in places you couldn’t see.

one night, someone was knocking at your door and you opened it.

and there he was, standing in the glow of a dying lantern, eyes wild, mouth pressed into a line like he’d swallowed everything he wanted to say and couldn’t hold it back anymore.

his voice was low. steady. but you heard the tremble beneath it.

“i’m leaving at dawn.”

your breath caught.

not leaving the palace. not leaving the city.

war.

you didn’t speak.

because if you did, you would’ve begged him not to go. and he would’ve hated himself for still having to.

“i couldn’t go without seeing you again,” he said.

“you should’ve let me sleep,” you whispered, tears already rising to your throat. “it would’ve hurt less.”

“no,” he said. “it wouldn’t have.”

then he kissed you.

harder than the first time. desperate. full of heat and grief and everything neither of you knew how to say. his hands cradled your jaw like he was afraid you’d break apart. your fingers fisted in his shirt, dragging him closer like you needed his heartbeat to remind you you were still here.

the world disappeared.

he touched you like he needed to memorize every part of you. like he had to leave himself behind in your skin. there was nothing soft in it—only want, only devotion, only the kind of tenderness that hurts because you know it can’t last.

you said yes to him like it was a promise. like it was a goodbye. like you had nothing else left to give but this.

he was careful with you, but not hesitant. you were both trembling, both too full of each other. he held your gaze the whole time, wouldn’t let you look away. and when your bodies finally came together, you felt something inside you give.

not just your innocence. but every last part of you that had ever belonged to anyone else.

you gave it to him. willingly. entirely. forever.

after, he wrapped you in his arms and pulled you into his chest like he was afraid the world might come crashing through the door. he didn’t speak for a long time.

“i don’t want to go.”

you swallowed. “then stay.”

“i can’t.”

you pressed your forehead to his collarbone, hot tears sliding down your cheek. “then lie to me. just for tonight.”

he held you tighter.

“i’ll come back,” he whispered, even though you both knew what kind of promise that was.

you slept in his arms, still aching, still full of him, heart pounding like it was trying to hold the moment in place.

but when you woke up, he was gone. the sheets were cold. the candle had burned out. and where his body had been, there was only silence. a crimson ribbon lay by your pillow.

you held it to your chest and cried until your throat was raw, until the ache settled deep into your bones.

a week later, you were reassigned. no explanation. no reason. just a new uniform. they transferred you to the queen’s wing—higher in the palace, nearer its heart, yet farther from everything that had ever mattered.

you kept your head down. you worked. you watched.

the queen’s chambers gleamed: golden, still, filled with mirrors. sometimes, you glimpsed your reflection but didn’t recognize the girl staring back.

the queen did.

she started watching you—closely, openly. draped across her chaise with a glass of wine in hand, she’d trace the rim with her finger and say nothing, while her gaze followed your every move like a cat waiting to pounce.

at first, you thought it was suspicion. later, you realized it was design.

she would call you closer for the smallest things: a dropped ring, an adjustment to her sleeve, a whispered command you had to lean in to hear. you obeyed without question, feeling the noose tighten every day. the other maids stopped speaking to you. some wouldn’t meet your eyes.

and then— one evening, a nobleman brushed past you in the corridor.

“the queen has asked for you,” he murmured.

you told yourself it was just another errand. but your hands were shaking before you even opened the door.

war strips you. not just of sleep. not just of hunger. not even just of fear. it carves the softness out of you with a serrated blade and then feeds it to the dogs.

i came back with blood under my nails and a silence so loud it roared in my skull. the scent of rot and burning flesh had woven itself into my skin. i scrubbed until it peeled. it didn’t leave.

they said we won. they cheered. called me their “savior.” poured wine i didn’t drink and pinned a new medal over an old wound.

but all i could think about was her.

her.

every time i sharpened my blade. every time i stitched my own skin shut. every time i watched men die choking on their teeth, i thought of her.

the way she used to kneel in the dirt with green on her fingers. how her laugh used to sound like it didn’t belong in this world.

how she looked at me—like i was human. like i was something worth saving.

i didn’t want the throne. i wanted her.

so the moment the gates rose from the horizon like some cruel promise of home, i didn’t stop. didn’t sleep. didn’t breathe.

i didn’t even change out of my armor.

i went to find her. they said she’d been reassigned again. i stormed through the corridors like the war hadn’t ended. like i still had something left to fight. and then i found her.

the door slammed open so hard it bounced off the wall.

heat punched out of the laundry room. wet, sour, thick with steam and soap. but i didn’t feel it. because she was there.

bent over a basin. sleeves shoved to her elbows. hair pinned up like it hadn’t changed. like nothing had changed. like i hadn’t just killed for the right to see her again.

my body locked. my chest seized. her head turned, slow and hesitant, until her eyes met mine.

and for a heartbeat, i felt nothing.

then everything. all at once. too much to hold.

and then i saw him. a man. standing next to her.

a guard. one of the queen’s favorites.

his hand was on her. gripping her elbow. holding her steady, like she couldn’t even stand on her own. and she didn’t move.

didn’t push him away. didn’t look ashamed. didn’t even flinch.

my hands curled into fists, nails digging in so deep they split the skin. my jaw locked so tight something cracked. heat roared in my ears, rushing too fast. my vision blurred at the edges, everything turning white.

she looked different.

paler. hollow. like someone had carved something out of her and left the shell behind.

but i didn’t see the bruises.

didn’t see the silence in her eyes.

all i saw was him. and her.

and red.

because if she had moved on, if everything we had meant nothing to her— if i went to war with her name burning in my mouth, only for her to let someone else take my place—

then i wasn’t the king. i was the fool.

and i would rather bleed again than be that. so i turned around.

didn’t speak. didn’t breathe. didn’t look back.

because if i had, i would’ve cracked. would’ve asked. would’ve begged.

and kings don’t beg. they burn.

the palace changed after that day.

not with screams. not with blood. just silence.

doors that closed too slowly. eyes that lingered too long. a coldness that clung to my skin like frost. i kept working, head down, hands steady. but the quiet had teeth.

people stopped speaking when i entered a room. guards ignored me. the cook who used to smile didn’t even look up. no one had to say anything cruel. the silence did it for them.

one morning, on my knees in the queen’s chamber, i heard laughter. polished. practiced. not hers.

then—his voice.

barou.

i froze. my cleaning cloth slipped from my fingers.

but it wasn’t him. not the boy who found me in the greenhouse, who once whispered that he saw me. not the boy who kissed me like he’d lose himself if he let go. this voice was hollow. empty. a stranger wearing his skin.

he didn’t know i was there. and i didn’t move until long after the voices were gone.

the queen didn’t wait.

whispers bloomed like rot. soft, poisoned phrases behind velvet curtains. and then she arrived, the noblewoman.

her carriage was blue as glacier glass, drawn by white horses brushed to a silver sheen. her cloak shimmered with real pearls. she stepped down with the kind of grace that’s taught in ballrooms, not learned in dirt-floored kitchens. her father controlled the eastern ports. her mother had danced for kings. she bore three ancestral titles before her name and had never been made to scrub her own floor.

she was everything the court admired—quiet, clean, soft-spoken, and untouchable.

she was what i could never be.

i was born in the servant’s hall. my hands smelled of soap and iron. my name was not stitched into any family crest. the closest i came to silk was folding it for someone else.

she stood beside him in the court garden like she belonged there. he wore ceremonial black. she wore cream silk that glowed like ivory in the sun.

the queen’s voice rang out like a songbird in a cage, declaring the engagement to the entire court. applause followed.

he didn’t speak. didn’t look at her.

didn’t look for me.

and still—i waited. like a fool. i watched the curve of his fingers as they handed him the parchment. i waited for a pause, for his jaw to clench, for his hand to falter.

but he didn’t hesitate. he signed his name in perfect, cold strokes.

like it meant nothing. like i never meant anything.

i heard the news the next morning from two maids whispering by the stairs.

“the prince is engaged.”

that was all. no celebration. no pause.

in the scullery, i folded linens until my fingers burned.

then i poured wine for their feast, hand steady, bile in my throat. and when they toasted to love, they used the same cup he once held to my lips.

two years later, the crown prince and his betrothed had a child. a son.

the palace rang with it—bells from the towers, parades in the streets, silken banners unfurling like blessings from the gods. nobles toasted to the future. servants wept with joy. the queen smiled like a woman who had won a long, quiet war.

and you were still here.

two years after the war. two years after he signed his name beside another’s. two years after he promised he’d come back—only to never even look for you again.

still, you remained.

a shadow in the queen’s wing. a servant without a name. a girl who once held the crown prince in her arms and now scrubbed the floors he walked over with someone else.

you thought you had learned to live with it.

the ache. the silence. the way your body moved on instinct, not desire. the way your reflection looked like someone who had died quietly in a hallway no one cared to name.

until you heard the name.

rael.

a beautiful name. chosen with care. celebrated like prophecy.

you heard it first in whispers, maids cooing in the halls, stewards discussing cradle embroidery. then the queen spoke it aloud, and the word settled over the palace like divine command.

and you knew.

“if we ever had a son...” “rael,” he had said, gratingly soft. almost reverent. “only if it’s with you.”

you remembered the breath between your bodies that night. the promises he couldn’t make. the weight of him above you, around you, inside you—like he needed to leave part of himself behind.

and now that name belonged to another woman’s child.

not just the name. not just the word. everything.

the son. the bloodline. the heir to a kingdom you nearly died for.

the same name that once made your chest bloom now felt like a dagger twisting slow beneath your ribs.

he hadn’t just moved on.

he’d taken the one piece of your once shared future and handed it—whole, unshattered—to someone else.

you did not cry at that moment. you worked until your hands ached. bit your cheek until your mouth filled with blood. when the bells stopped ringing, you slipped away, barefoot, into the dark.

the greenhouse waited like a tomb. ivy choked the walls. the door groaned. glass lay cracked in the corners. but the bench was still there. still yours.

you sat. pulled the ribbon from where it had slept—hidden beneath your sleeve.

crimson. frayed. soft from too many nights clutched in shaking hands.

you remembered everything.

of him. of you. of the way he once looked at you like you were something rare, something worthy. the way his voice softened when he spoke only to you. how he kissed you like he feared the world would tear you from his arms.

“you’re the only place in this world where i don’t have to be a prince.”

and you believed him.

you believed in him.

and now you mourned not just the love, but the version of yourself who thought it would be enough. you weren’t angry. you were hollow. you stared through the cracked glass at the stars above.

they did not blink. and the silence devoured what little remained.

but one night, while she slept, they came for her.

rough hands yanked her from the cot. she barely had time to gasp before her wrists were bound, her bare feet scraping stone as she was dragged through the corridors like a criminal. no one told her where they were going. no one told her why.

it wasn’t until she was thrown onto the cold marble floor of the great hall, knees scraping raw, that she saw them—lined up in rows like vultures. the courtiers. the queen. the guards. and him.

barou stood beside the throne, impassive in ceremonial black.

then they told her.

the crown prince’s heir had nearly died in the night. fevered, choking, blue-lipped. a poisoned swaddle. a servant’s carelessness. a plot, they said. treason, they whispered. no—murder. attempted assassination of the future king.

her name was the one they uttered. her hands were the ones accused of lacing arsenic into the cloth. her crime was already written before she could speak.

there was no trial. just a proclamation. just silence.

she tried to speak. to defend herself. but her words were drowned beneath the queen’s verdict.

she looked for him.

but barou didn’t flinch.

not when the guards hauled her to her feet. not when they dragged her into the courtyard.

snow fell that night.

they cut her hair first—rough, uneven handfuls torn from her scalp. her body trembled, not from cold, but from the way the world had gone silent around her. no one spoke. no one stopped it.

then the blade came.

they carved the word slowly into her back. seven letters.

‘ፕዪልጎፕዐዪ’

she didn’t scream from pain. not when they dragged the blade across her back. not when they ripped the hair from her scalp like it was nothing. not when the crowd jeered like dogs around a corpse.

but when she looked up—

and saw him.

barou. he was at the edge of the crowd like a statue carved from cruelty and marble.

something inside her cracked. her lips trembled. blood pooled at the corner of her mouth, thick and metallic.

“s… shoei,” she choked, voice mangled. her eyes searched his face. desperate and broken. hope rotting in her throat.

“p… please…”

his gaze didn’t falter.

it didn’t soften.

for the briefest second, their eyes met.

and she gave him everything she had left. the last word in her body. a threadbare whisper carried by frostbitten air.

“s…save me…”

barou blinked once. expression blank. his jaw clenched, not in pain, not in regret, but in control. then, coldly, without a flicker of recognition—

he turned away.

the crowd roared.

the knife returned to her back.

and the snow turned red.

seven years after the crown touched his head, king barou shoei ruled a kingdom forged in silence and steel.

he expanded borders with ruthless precision. forged alliances with kingdoms that once sneered at his youth. built fleets. doubled the army. rewrote tax laws. crushed corruption in courts with a flick of his wrist.

the palace whispered about how cold he’d become. they said his voice had lost its weight. that the king never took mistresses, never laughed at banquets, never drank more than a mouthful of wine.

he built an empire—and ruled it like a tomb.

but some nights, when the halls were quiet and the air too still, he woke in a cold sweat. his hands would be clenched, his breath shallow, his heart pounding like it remembered something his mind refused to forget.

he never dreamed of the crown. not of state dinners, nor of treaties, nor of gold. only her.

he dreamed of snow. of her knees in it, trembling. of her hair in knots, her shift torn, her mouth bloodied where she’d bitten it trying not to scream.

he remembered how her eyes searched for him in that crowd—desperate, wide, shining with something more agonizing than pain.

she looked at him like he was the only thing left that could save her. and he let them take her. let them carve her down with steel and silence. let her bleed into the frost without raising a single word in her defense.

that moment had never left him. not in seven years. not across every throne room or celebration or inked signature.

he had fought so hard to become king.

but he had let the one person who ever saw him as something more than a crown be destroyed while he watched.

and no matter what he built, no matter how high the walls or loud the bells—he would never be able to unlive that moment.

then, one night, the kitchens reported a broken supply line. the lowest department. one of the underworkers had collapsed.

he shouldn’t have gone himself. it wasn’t a king’s duty.

but something—some pull, like gravity or guilt—dragged his feet down the winding stairwell. past the noble halls, past the servant wings, deeper, until the walls turned to stone and the light burned low.

and there, hunched beside a broken crate, cloaked in rags, was someone barely shaped like a person. her back was curved, spine bent from years of labor. her hair was matted. her skin—where it wasn’t caked in soot—was pale and tight over bone. her fingers were bloodied, swollen from cold or overuse. she was breathing, but barely.

he saw her.

but not really.

he saw what was left of her.

she blinked slowly. as if even that cost her something.

“…your majesty.”

he flinched.

her voice was not her voice. it was dry parchment. frayed and faint.

“i thought maybe you forgot i existed,” she said. “but i guess i just became too inconvenient to keep buried.”

barou knelt, too stunned to speak.

“i’m not mad,” she whispered, eyes fixed on the stone. “i stopped being mad around year three. that’s when i stopped dreaming too. now i just… wake up. work. sleep.”

a breath.

“if i’m lucky.”

barou’s jaw clenched. his chest burned. “y/n—”

she didn’t even blink. “that’s not my name anymore. they took that the day they carved letters into my back.”

his hands trembled.

she kept going, voice numb, automatic, like she was reading from a list she had to repeat just to remember who she used to be.

“they sent me to the lowest department. sanitation. we scrubbed rot from the gutters. hauled waste from the chambers. they fed us mold. we drank rust. if you got sick, they left you in the dark until you didn’t wake up.”

her hands curled in her lap, barely more than bone.

“once, i broke my ankle. kept working on it. because if you stopped, they stopped feeding you. and sometimes i think… maybe i should’ve stopped. maybe i should’ve just disappeared like the rest of them.”

barou’s breath hitched.

she looked at him.

finally.

and he couldn’t breathe.

“remember the night you came back?” she murmured. “and you saw me. with a guard?”

barou’s eyes closed. he’d buried that memory so deep it lived like poison in his blood.

“he wasn’t touching me by choice,” she said, voice as hollow as the silence between them. “and neither was i.”

“i was drugged,” she said, like she was stating the weather. “they held me down. poured it into my mouth while i screamed. i don’t remember all of it. only pieces. the burn in my throat. the ceiling spinning. hands that didn’t feel human.”

she blinked slowly, like each word took effort. “when you saw me, i could barely breathe. i couldn’t move. i couldn’t even cry.”

barou trembled.

“she planned it. the queen. said you needed to see me as… tarnished. that it would make it easier. to forget me.”

the silence was thick. heavy. it wrapped around her like chains.

“she said if i told you what really happened, she’d kill my family,” she whispered. “not just banish them. kill. my father. my mother. my little sister. every one of them. she described how she'd do it. how she’d make me watch.”

barou’s chest caved like something inside him cracked beyond repair.

“i had no choice,” she said. “so i let you believe i betrayed you. because if i fought back, they’d suffer. if i tried to explain, they’d die.”

she looked at him now. not in anger. not in hate.

just emptiness.

“so i stayed quiet. i let you hate me. i let you look at me like i was nothing. because i thought maybe i could protect someone… even if it wasn’t myself.”

she laughed. but it was dry, and brittle.

“but it didn’t matter. did it? you didn’t come for me. you didn’t even ask.”

tears spilled down barou’s face. not pretty ones. ugly, violent ones. his shoulders shook like the weight of his crown had finally broken him.

“i should’ve known,” he rasped. “i should’ve fought for you. i was supposed to protect you. not—” his voice broke. “not let this happen. not let you suffer like this. alone. for seven years.”

she didn’t answer. didn’t comfort. didn’t even blink.

“i only knew how to fight for you,” he said hoarsely, “but not how to believe in you.”

her voice was barely more than breath.

“that night. seven years ago,” she whispered. “when i looked at you. when i mouthed ‘save me.’”

her lips trembled, just once.

“you turned away.”

a silence.

then, like something inside her cracked just enough to let memory bleed through—

“i screamed that night,” she said. “not from the blade. not from the cold.”

her eyes finally lifted to meet his.

“i screamed because i realized i could die right there. in the snow. and no one would care.”

her throat worked. her next words were raw. unforgiving.

“not even you.”

the silence afterward was unbearable. like the whole world had stopped breathing.

she blinked slowly, as if she were trying to stay awake in a nightmare that had never ended. her voice came softer this time—hoarse, ruined.

“i waited for you. through every lash, every brand, every night i couldn’t feel my hands from working until they bled. i kept waiting. thinking maybe you’d remember the way i used to laugh. the way i begged you with my eyes.”

she touched her chest, as if searching for a heartbeat that never returned.

“but you just watched. like i was nothing. like i was already gone.”

barou’s hands were shaking now. his mouth opened, but there were no words. what could he say?

you mattered? i didn’t know? i loved you?

none of it could undo what had already been done.

and then she said the final blow,

"you said you'd protect me," she murmured, not even looking at him.

"you held me like i was the only thing in the world that mattered. you swore you'd fight for me."

a breath trembled through her chest.

"but when it counted... you didn’t protect me." "you protected yourself. your crown. your name. your pride."

her eyes finally met his—and they were hollow. scorched.

"you let them call me a traitor."

another breath. thinner this time. almost broken.

"and the worst part?" she whispered. "you believed them."

her gaze locked with his.

“you just watched.”

and then, her voice cracked, just once, before it shattered completely.

“i survived everything. the whips. the work. the hunger. but that moment? that was the first time i wanted to die.”

a pause. a breath. a final blow, sharpened by seven years of silence.

“because if you could believe i was capable of that…”

her lips trembled, her next words nearly breaking on her tongue.

“then maybe you never really loved me at all.”

and that— that was what destroyed him.

then she collapsed; like a marionette whose strings had finally frayed. like her body had grown tired of pretending it still had anything left to hold.

she didn’t cry. she didn’t scream. she just… sank.

her bones touched stone with the weight of a life unraveled.

and when she spoke, her voice didn’t crack—it withered. like it had forgotten how to carry anything but loss.

“i can’t stay here anymore.”

barou stepped forward. hesitating. like he didn’t know how to touch something already ruined.

"Y/N—"

"DON’T."

she flinched when she said it. like the sound alone hurt her lungs.

"don’t say my name. you let them strip it from me." she whispered, curling into herself. “i’ve given this palace everything. my childhood. my body. my name. for seven years i scrubbed floors with blood on them. served wine to the same people who laughed while they branded me. i slept beside rats. i drank water that turned my stomach. i was whipped for standing too long. then whipped for standing too little."

her hands trembled where they clutched the hem of her ragged cloak.

“it took everything. and when i had nothing left to give… it kept taking.”

she looked up, and the eyes that met his weren’t hers—not the girl he kissed under the moonlight, not the one who once called him by name with warmth in her voice.

these eyes were empty. shards of a person who had learned how to survive without living.

“p-please,” she whispered. “if you ever l-loved me… even once…”

her voice broke. then shattered.

“i don’t even want revenge. i don’t want justice. i don’t want apologies from you that come seven winters too late.”

her fists curled into her rags, trembling like she could hold herself together if she just gripped tight enough.

"i want to wake up and not see stone," her voice trembled. "i want to taste food without choking it down because i’m scared i’ll get hit for chewing too slow."

she swallowed, hard. like even speaking hurt.

"i want to sleep without flinching every time i hear boots in the hall."

her fingers twitched. her eyes didn’t.

"i want to stop counting the days since someone last called me by my name. not ‘thing.’ not ‘it.’ me."

her voice cracked.

"i want to stop being afraid of my own name. i want to stop being afraid of my own reflection."

then, barely louder than breath:

"i just... i want to remember what it felt like to be a person."

she gasped like her lungs were giving out.

“get me out of this place.”

barou couldn’t speak. couldn’t move.

her hands curled against the floor, fingernails cracked and bleeding.

“just let me leave.”

she bowed her head.

“let me live.”

and with the last of her voice, she whispered:

“get me out of this kingdom.”

she bowed her head. no sobs. no tears.

barou didn’t speak.

he just looked at her—the girl who once smiled at him in a garden full of light, now hunched and broken, barely breathing, barely her—and he felt something inside him splinter beyond repair.

slowly, like approaching a dying flame, he reached for her. his fingers trembled as they closed around hers, cold, brittle, bird-bone thin. she didn’t flinch. but she didn’t hold him back.

and then, without a word, he nodded.

that night, cloaked in silence and moonlight, the king—crowned, feared, untouchable—carried her in his arms. no guards. no herald. just him. just her.

he passed the garden where she first held his hand. he passed the corridor where he first kissed her. he passed the greenhouse where she once bloomed.

and she wept silently in his arms, not from hope—she had none left—but from the ache of finally being seen again.

he didn’t say goodbye. didn’t beg her to stay.

because he knew.

this wasn’t mercy. this was too late.

he let her go, not because he stopped loving her. but because loving her had never been enough. and this… this was the only thing left he could do right.

the gates closed behind him. and she disappeared into the dark.

not a servant. not a lover. not a traitor.

and when he finally turned back to the palace, it felt heavier than any crown.

because kingdoms forget. they rewrite sins with silk and ceremony. but monsters—monsters remember. and in every mirror he passed,

he didn’t see a king.

he saw the boy who promised to protect her. and the man who watched her bleed.

the years wore me gently, then all at once.

time hadn’t been kind, not really, but it had made me quieter. softer at the edges. my back didn’t ache the way it used to—not from labor, but from memory. my hands still bore the scars, the calluses, but they didn’t shake anymore. my hair, streaked with gray, was tied back with the same red ribbon—frayed, but still holding on. like me.

i sat beneath an old tree at the edge of the palace gardens. the same ones i used to sneak through barefoot, heart full of foolish, fragile things. the greenhouse was long gone now. swallowed by ivy and stone. but the tree remained. and somehow… so did i.

i thought i was alone. until a shadow came—small, hesitant. a boy, no older than twelve. his shoes were too clean for how muddy they were, and his eyes were wide with something he didn’t yet have a name for. he looked like someone i used to know. not the eyes. but the mouth. the way he stood, like the world owed him answers.

“…why’re you here by yourself?” he asked.

my lips barely moved. not quite a smile—just the ghost of something long forgotten.

“to remember,” i said. “and to forget.”

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤdedicated to @oorosiidinmotive

#sevarchive 🍎#theaskroulette #blue lock #bllk #bllk x reader #blue lock angst #blue lock fluff #blue lock au #barou shoei #barou shoei x reader #barou shoei x you #barou x reader #bllk barou #blue lock barou

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perreqult · 3 months ago

Text

ENOUGH ✶ will smith

REQUESTED BY: anon !

summary: will never feels like he’s enough, so you have to make sure he know he is

word count: 0.7k

contains: angst—fluff, kissing, swearing, insecurities

notes: this was NOT proofread so bear with me here

The sharks were officially eliminated out of playoff contention, and Will felt terrible. He knew it wasn’t entirely his fault, but it sure felt like it.

No matter how many times you told him how good he was doing, he just always felt like he could do more. Enough to get the sharks to the playoffs, enough to everybody around him proud, enough to make himself proud.

He’d wound up at your apartment after the news that entailed the guarantee of not getting to the post season. All he wanted was to be close to you. You were all that could be comforting to him.

That’s how you found the two of you lying on your bed, holding each other tight. Will’s even sadder than you could’ve imagined, somber even.

He’s laying on your chest like he usually does when he’s frustrated or upset, practically limp, drowned in thought.

You two have barely said anything to each other after he’d gotten here. You really didn’t need to. You knew he was going to want to be close to you, to feel your arms wrapped around him, one of the only things that could make him a little less sad.

“I love you.” Are the words that come tumbling out your mouth, finally breaking the silence.

“I… I love you too.” Will says, speaking up, he looks up towards you and you lock eyes. He looks tired, frustrated, sad, everything he could be— should be.

“Do you wanna talk about it? You know… being eliminated and all.” You say it unconfidently, not knowing if that’d just make him feel worse.

His gaze softens— atleast you know his mood isn’t getting any worse. He thinks about what he’s going to say before he finally spits out “It sucks.” He says it flatly, tiredly. He looks away like he’s embarrassed to say it.

“I know, Will. Just don’t think there was something you could do— more. You did amazing, it’s not supposed to be easy.” You say softly. You run your hands through his hair, something that always gets him calmed down and lifts his mood.

His face flushes a bit of red, he always gets like this— even if you give him the slightest amount of affection.

“Yeah.” He says. He looks and sounds unsure of it, like he thinks you’re lying to him.

Sometimes you wonder what you could do to make him feel enough, because he is, he’s more than that. He’s everything to so many people, you just wish he could see that.

You pull him even closer and lay a kiss on his forehead. He gets even redder. “Will, you’re amazing. There’s not a doubt in my mind when I say that. You’ve done so much.” You tell him, peppering him with kisses after each word.

He gets even redder, and even lets out a giggle, something you haven’t heard in a while. Something you missed.

You figure if that lifted his mood you might as well repeat it. You dash kisses all over his face, Will continuing to lightly laugh, a grin spreading over his face.

“I love you. Like, a lot. Don’t ever pull that ‘I could’ve done more’ bullshit again.” You tell him, still pushing kisses atop his face.

He lets out a laugh, like a real laugh. That just motivates you more, seeing Will happy is the best part of your day, always making you smile.

The next morning when you both wake up and head to the bathroom to get ready, you just now realize that you’d forgotten to wash your lipstick off, Will’s face was absolutely covered in lipstick marks. How you didn’t realize while you were kissing him? No clue.

The next time you two can get together the same cycle repeats of Will pouncing on you, craving your touch and ending up with 50 evident marks of affection. Marks to show he’s more than enough for you, more than enough for everyone.

#nhl #hockey #will smith hockey #will smith ² #san jose sharks #fanfic #laura’s fics ✍️

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the-palelady · 3 months ago

Note

YAY REQUESTS ARE OPEN! :D can I please have a lil smth with Simon and his squadmate? I thought about this and ho boi now I feel all sorts of emotions.

I feel like Simon is the type of person to sometimes lose it and push himself to his limits, especially during training. And so he would be ok, but Y/n sees through the facade. And so BAM! Simon is laying down from exhaustion, with the summer heat making everything worse. He desperately needs water, but cant move and every recruit is staring.

We see Simon and imediately go Mama Bear ™️, almost scolding Simon for this despite being lower ranked than him. We bark orders at others to look away, while we give him some water behind his mask.

When Simon gets better and remembers, he is pissed that we might have looked at his face, and says so. We sass back that no tf we dont and that next time he should take care of himself. Simon can only be flustered by us, because 1. We are right and 2. We took care of him in the heat of the moment. He can only sit there like a scolded puppy

Guess who has a bigger crush on us now :)))

i’m so so sorry this took so long!! i drafted this up twice and never got it where i wanted it to go, but we’re finally here!!

It had been a week since he had collapsed in front of a group of recruits, and the whole thing replayed clear as day in his mind. A broken record repeating itself in his mind as he did anything and everything to try and forget about it.

Ghost could still feel the exhaustion that seeped into his bones that was somehow worse that day than it ever had been. The sweltering heat felt more like molten lava than anything. It didn’t help the recruits also seemed to get under his skin more than usual, primarily you, your already defiant nature seemingly ten times worse. Yet for some reason that day you were different. Your sarcastic remarks were instead replaced with quizzical expressions, eyes narrowed, assessing him. He could still feel your eyes watching the way his steps faltered, the twitch of his eye when his balaclava seemed to become one with his skin because of the sweat underneath.

He felt like an open book under the scrutiny of your sharp gaze, his patience dwindling at your rare silence.

Until everything went quiet, for just a moment.

Admittedly, Ghost could hardly remember who he was speaking to or what he was saying, likely terrorizing some poor recruit who had messed up their stance during training. All he could remember in that moment was one second he was standing, and the next he wasn’t.

His eardrums rang for a beat, then it was replaced by a voice.

Your voice.

You shouted to some recruit to grab some water, their rushed footsteps padding off somewhere Ghost couldn’t see. His vision was blurred, your figure above him just a shadow in his eyes even as you bent down at his side, grabbing the base of his neck and holding him up.

You mumbled something, your voice soft, caring, a contrast to what he was familiar with when it came to you. Then he felt the push of damp fabric underneath his jaw, moving its way up and over his nose.

At the time, Ghost didn’t register that you had lifted up his mask. Instead, he laid against the ground, neck comfortably cushioned by the palm of your hand that seemed so cool despite the heat that threatened to suffocate him.

“Hey!” He didn’t react to your screaming, only mentally begged that you’d hurry the hell up and press the bottle of water to his lips.

“What did I say? I said turn the around! Gawking like this is a fucking zoo.”

It was like heaven found home within that single bottle of water when it finally pressed to his lips, the cool liquid making Ghost’s eyes almost roll into the back of his head. He barely paid any mind to your annoyed grumbling.

“I have half a mind to kick your ass you know?”

What?

“Our Lieutenant, our superior, supposed to be an example for us, but instead you’re wearing yourself thin. I mean look at you: bags under your eyes, boots hardly tied when you showed up to training. Barely pushing 0900 hours and you’re already on your ass trying to catch a quick fucking cat nap.”

You continue to dig your own grave as you go on about how he isn’t taking care of himself, how he is supposed to be leading you and the other recruits. If Ghost weren’t on his ass he’d throw you off base himself.

However, that’s what he thought at the time.

Rather than ponder on the rage he felt at your words, he instead realized two things, the first being you were right. Ghost always put the job before himself. Things were easier that way. Instead of living in his mind he dedicated his entire life to his career even though it was as physically taxing as it was mentally.

The second thing he realized was that you had seen his face.

At least half of it.

And for some reason this ate him alive more than the rest of the situation.

A week had gone by and he had done nothing, but allow his anger to grow. Admittedly, you were right. He didn’t take care of himself. Even so, he couldn’t live with the fact that you had seen something that was meant to stay hidden under the shroud of his mask. You had seen the man underneath Ghost, the man he had pushed down and kept hidden for so long.

The anger grew, festering like an untreated wound, puffy, hot, and seething red, blood boiling. Ghost knew anger could lead people to make stupid decisions, and yet here he stood in front of your door, chest rising and falling, fists clenched tight at his sides. His nails left crescent indents on his palms, those same fists coming up to bang heavily on your door.

The sound echoed throughout the hall. Ghost didn’t even notice some people had peeked their heads outside of their doors before retreating back inside. He finally heard the click of your lock before your door slid open.

You wore the usual military issued attire, grey sweatpants and a t-shirt. Your hair was damp, a hand running a towel through it to catch any excess water. Your expression was neutral even when your eyes met Ghost’s, and for some reason his words got stuck in his throat.

“Lieutenant?” He continued to stare at you, almost completely forgetting why he was here, “What do you want?”

The words were caught in his throat. What did he want? Why the hell was he here exactly? It was like all the hatred he held for you suddenly packed its things and vanished. Although he couldn’t say he necessarily hated you. There was just something about you that got under his skin.

The two of you never exactly got along. You questioned authority, his especially. Despite your ability to outperform the other recruits, your behavior was contentious. You were a thorn in Ghost’s side. You’d roll those sparkling eyes of yours when he’d have to adjust your hold on your gun, a rare occasion. He’d bark at you when you’d run ahead of the group during your morning runs. Your head would tilt back as you’d let out a laugh, a sound that made his fingers twitch, a song that he could get used to hearing. You always saw light in a world you knew was so full of darkness, and that just-

“Hellooo? Lieutenant?”

“M’face.”

Your eyebrow arched almost immediately at his words and lack of context, the confusion written all over the way your eyes darted from where his lips would be underneath the mask to his eyes.

“Other day, during training. When I collapsed, you saw m’face knowing damn well I keep what’s underneath hidden for a reason.”

The tone of his voice was accusatory, and he couldn’t help the way he took a step closer towards you. Even so, you didn’t make a move, hip pressed into the doorframe, arms crossed over your chest. When Ghost continued to remain quiet, the only thing you offered him was a scoff, looking down at the floor beneath you as you crossed one ankle over the other.

“Didn’t see a thing, actually.”

There it was. The sass. Ghost could already feel a blood vessel coming to the surface right above his eyebrow, twitching, desperate to burst.

“Ya lucky I didn’t take ya arse to the curb the moment ya decided to mouth off, but looking at something ya have no busin-”

“For Christ’s sake…I didn’t see your damn face, Lt!”

Your shout echoed throughout the hall, but this time no one peeked out. Ghost’s searched your face, your eyes closed. Your hand came up to massage your temple.

A sigh left you, “What’s underneath…it’s none of my business. I would never step over a boundary like that no matter the situation. Kept my eyes closed…”

Ghost could still detect the annoyance laced within your tone, but your voice was softer now.

“Just wanted you to understand the gravity of the situation,” your gaze was resolute when you finally looked up at him, “Everyone here knows how…incredible you are at what you do, Ghost, but none of the dedication you put into this job will matter if you don’t take a step back.”

His ribs vibrated with the beat of his heart, his ears pulsated wildly, rendering him practically deaf as you spoke. Johnny and Price had told him a few times to take a break from work. He knew their concern was genuine, but this was different.

You weren’t them. They didn’t pry open a piece of his mind and make a spot for themselves there as you had, insistently taking up his thoughts like some clingy house cat. That anger he felt slowly dissipated into a forgotten mist, evaporating off of him as he deflated right before your eyes.

“But next time you want to accuse me of something, at least ask first before almost ripping the damn door right off the hinges, hm?”

You raised a brow when he failed to answer you, something foreign fluttering within the pit of his stomach when he failed to maintain eye contact with you. Rapidly blinking to disguise his sheepishness, he nodded.

“Y-Yea…”

He chose to ignore the smirk he was met with when he finally looked back at you.

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fuctacles · 1 year ago

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What goes up, needs assistance coming down

For @steddiemicrofic "top" | 510 | G | no cw | established relationship | if you saw me post this earlier and delete it bc i pasted the wrong version, pretend you didn't | Ao3

Sometimes, when Eddie writes a particularly delicious twist in his campaign, he wonders how in hell he had repeated senior year two times.

But then this shit happens.

Because he's been in this exact situation before, and smart people are supposed to learn from their mistakes. Thankfully, Steve is supposed to get back from work any time now. Maybe he loves him too much to make fun of him. After Eddie bears the humiliation of calling out for him because there's no way he'll figure out Eddie's out here.

As soon as he hears the car pull in and the door slam closed, he yells out,

"Steve!"

The steps crunch on the gravel, rounding the house, and his worst nightmare comes true. Because he hears more than one pair of footsteps. Double humiliation it is.

"Eddie?"

Aaand that's Henderson. The last person he'd want to see right now.

"Hey, man. What's up?" he asks nonchalantly his favourite kid, who grins up at him.

"How about you tell me, huh?"

"Oh, because I'm on a tree?" Eddie scoffs at him. "Har har, Henderson, very clever."

His rescuer isn't looking very rescue-y either. He's just standing behind Dustin with a bemused expression, eyeing the ladder lying prone below the tree.

"Why?" is all he asks.

Eddie sighs and points to the coils of fairy lights he had dropped to the ground in his panic after the ladder fell.

"This so doesn't answer my question." Steve raises his eyebrows disapprovingly. "Henderson, put the groceries away, help yourself to the fridge. Your dads need to talk."

"Gross." Dustin makes a face but snatches the grocery bag from Steve. He turns back to Eddie while walking away. "Good luck!" He gives him a toothy grin. Eddie flips him off, but his eyes are focused on Steve, who's setting the ladder back up. Soon, they're at eye level, as Steve leans on the top of it.

"Why?" he asks again. "Why would you do that again?"

Eddie looks away, hoping Steve will postpone this interrogation until after his feet are back on the ground.

"I had this, okay? It's not as bad as the roof. If the ladder didn't fall—"

Suddenly, Steve's face appears in his periphery. His eyes are stern.

"You should have waited for me," he points out.

Eddie makes a face. Okay, here he goes.

"I wanted to surprise you. I saw how you liked the lights around the Wheelers' garden," he explains, hoping the heat over his cheeks is imaginary. Henderson was way too close for him to be humiliated like that.

Steve's face softens.

"Baby," he coos, leaning into his space.

"Please don't—"

Steve ignores him, landing a soft kiss on his lips.

"My sweet boy," he murmurs, and now Eddie's positive his face is red.

"Can you put me on the ground first, please?"

Steve gives him a boyish grin but helps him climb down the ladder without further teasing.

"Thank you—" he barely makes out before Steve's on him, peppering his face with kisses.

"The cutest metalhead in Indiana."

#steddie #stranger things #steddiemicrofic #steddie microfic may #steddie microfic #steddie ficlet #steddie fluff #eddie munson #steve harrington #mine #cj x steddiemicrofic

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creature-wizard · 7 months ago

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What an AI generated website can look like

Hey folks! I just encountered a website that's obviously AI generated, so I figured I'd use it as an example to help you spot websites that might be AI generated content farms!

First, the website is called faunafacts.com. And one of the first things that sticks out to me is how low-effort the logo is:

Regardless of whether a website is AI generated or not, a lazy and low-quality logo is a big clue that the website's content will also be lazy and low-quality.

If we click on Browse Animals, we see four options: Cows, Wolves, Bears, and Snakes.

Let's click Wolves.

The first thing I want you to notice is the lack of topical focus. Sure, it's all about wolves, but the content on them is all over the place. We have content on wolf hunting, a page on animals that resemble wolves, pages that explain the alleged social structure of wolves, and pages on wolf symbolism.

A website with content created by real people isn't going to be all over the place like this. It would be created with more of a focus in mind, like animal biology and behavior. The whole spiritual symbol thing here mixed with supposed biological and behavioral information is weird.

The next thing I want you to notice are the links to pages on topics that are quite frankly bizarre: "Wolf vs Mastiff: Things You Need To Know" and "Can You Ride A Wolf? (No, Because...)" Who is even looking for this kind of information in large enough numbers that it needs a dedicated page?

Then of course, there's the fact that they're repeating the debunked wolf hierarchy stuff, which anyone who actually knew anything about wolves at this point wouldn't post.

Now let's look at what's on one of the actual pages. We'll check out the wolves vs. mastiff page, and we can soon find a telltale sign of AI: rambling off topic to talk about something completely unrelated.

Both animals are carnivores. In the wild, wolves hunt large animals like bison, deer, and even elk. Sometimes, they may also hunt small mammals like the beaver.

Mastiffs, on the other hand, are mainly fed with dog food. As a dog, a mastiff left in the wild will eat anything. However, it will have difficulties hunting, as this instinct may have already departed the dogs of today.

A mastiff is not an obligate carnivore. Dogs can eat plant matter. Some say that dogs can survive on a vegetable diet.

Dogs being made vegetarians is a contentious issue. Scientifically, dogs belong to the order Carnivora. There is a movement today to convert dogs to a vegan diet. While science has nothing against it, the fear of many is that when dog owners do this, a vegan diet will certainly have an impact on the species.

This page is supposed to be comparing mastiffs with wolves, but then it starts talking about the vegan pet food movement. This happened because large language models generate text based on on what's statistically likely to follow the last text it just generated.

Finally, the website's images are AI generated:

If you know what to look for, this is a very obviously AI generated image. There's no graininess to the image, and the details are both unnaturally smooth and unnaturally crisp. It also has that high color saturation that many AI generated images have.

So there you go, this is one example of what an AI generated website can look like! Be careful out there!

#lmms #large language model #ai #critical thinking #fake websites #ai generated websites #discernment #recognizing ai

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gremlingottoosilly · 1 year ago

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The art of hospitality (Nanami Kento x fem!Reader)

Life wasn't that good after you dropped out of college. Luckily, a friend of a friend of a relative was willing to take you to live with him so you could watch over his weirdly big house while he was away on endless work trips. Nanami never thought that investment in the kindness of his heart would pay out like this. He is not complaining.

Tags and CW: Yandere, mild dub-con, non-consensual masturbation, Nanami is a panty stealer, light age difference, power imbalance, housewife kink AO3

Some people are just not built to fend for themselves. Nanami can name a few, even though the sentiment leaves a bitter, bun-haired taste in his mouth. He shouldn’t think like this – like him – but it’s as impossible as not thinking about a panda bear after you just been prompted with hot imagining one.

He can only repeat that he isn’t like this. It isn’t like him. Some people are just not built to fend for themselves, so people like Nanami are doing everything in their power to protect them. Weak are ruling the society and this is exactly how it is supposed to be. Strong should be content with not having any gratitude, happy that they were able to help. This is exactly how it’s supposed to be, and yet… — Thank you so much for letting me stay here, Nanami-san. With the lease and everything coming up, I just… His cheeks aren’t dusted red because this won’t be a normal answer to the situation. He isn’t blushing because he is somewhat not used to receiving a little thank you from a nice girl next door that he allowed to live with him and watch over the house while he is away on the missions(dumb, dumb girl got kicked out of the apartment after a failed lease renewal and found him through a friend of a relative). He knows how grateful you are – not having many things or a lot of money saved, you probably would have moved back to the countryside if it weren’t for him. For a girl like you, it would be kissing your dreams goodbye. Not like sleeping on his couch is any better for someone your age. There is curry on the kitchen island. He recognises the packaging – generic brand from the convenience store he sometimes walked passed during missions in Asakusa. Hm. Last time he touched your cooking(four days before, when he actually managed to drag himself to the house without losing too much sweat) it was made from scratch. He isn’t complaining because he still wasn’t the one to cook it. Asking a girl in dire circumstances to play housewife would be… You don’t pay rent, you get half of the groceries from him(ever-lasting meal planning for everything, even when half of it gets thrown away after a nasty curse hunt is leaves him on the other side of the prefecture for few days in the row) and you don’t sleep on the couch. He has a perfectly comfortable guest bedroom with fresh sheets for you.

Maybe, you could play housewife a little bit. It’s so stupid for someone in his position, but the packaging of a store-made curry almost made him question the decision to help you in the first place. He didn’t…didn’t expect you to cook for him, of course. He only took you in because being a young adult is tough and not having any friends in a city as expensive as Tokyo can crush a girl like you. He doesn’t know what is this feeling blooming in his chest. Maybe, the remains of the last exorcism are still clinging to him. — You found a job? You tilt your head, your (adorable) lips in a surprised impression. You probably never thought he’d give someone like you this much of his mind – not with how little you talked before. He might come off as too harsh – but he still looks you in the eyes, his gaze only softens because of the glasses he still insists on wearing even inside the house. Nanami promised to himself to not bring work home – but it’s hard to even determine what is home anymore. Maybe it’s a space on the couch, right next to your sprawled legs. Maybe it’s his bedroom. Maybe it’s… — Yes! It’s a convenience store, so it’s part-time, but… He frowns. You close your mouth immediately, lips pursed. Nanami doesn’t want to intimidate you – it’s just six thirty, already too late to be in a serious work mood – but it’s hard when you look simply divine with that scared impression of yours. He shouldn’t bully non-sorcerers, but some people are making it hard. Impossible. He almost understands Satoru. — This is all? — Well, they allowed me to pick more shifts, so I could actually start paying rent. N…not all, but just to thank you for letting me stay with you. You’re kind, he must give you that. Most people in your situation would already make him feel like overstaying their welcome, breaking the simple comfort he found in living on his own, and deflecting his family’s worries about not having anyone to settle down with. He isn’t thirty yet, he shouldn’t worry about it – yet, the thought itches at the back of his mind, Empty house. Most of his older coworkers were itching to ditch overtime because they wanted to meet with their families. He did it because after fighting curses(and returning to doing so) normal human life isn’t something he’d give much thought to.

— You don’t have to pay. I thought we established that. — I have to start somewhere, right? M…maybe I could save up and get a proper apartment. Still, Kento doesn’t like the idea that he might come home one day and won’t find you sitting on the couch and watching TV. Not because you just went out for a quick girl walk, or decided to go shopping – but because you got a big job, a normal job, and you won’t rely on his kindness anymore.

Some people aren’t made to fend for themselves. Nanami wonders what would you look like if you ever saw a curse. If you were affected by at least one. He…he shouldn’t think like this. You’re lucky that you’re normal. — Paying for three months' rent, the key, and the debt would be impossible with a part-time store job. — I could live with a roommate! Or three… — What difference would it make for our current situation? He puts a hand on the back of the couch. Mere inches from your head – and he can see the surprised expression on your face only getting…more surprised. You are cute for a dropout – ahe he certainly doesn’t mind having you sleeping here. Taking care of the house for him. If he only knew that you also weren’t fully against the proper commitment to this place. Like that little job of yours has any value in terms of experience and…

— I don’t want to intrude too much, Nanami-san. I’ll just get out of your hair as soon as possible, yeah? He would love for you to get into his hair, come to think about it. He had some terrible headaches lately – maybe it’s the job taking its toll again, maybe it’s a lingering curse that he is too exhausted to notice. He doesn’t sense anything besides the overwhelming need for you to come around – and yet he knows he can’t expect you to do that. — I can pay you.

— What? He wonders if the surprise on your face is going to be embedded in your features forever. He wonders what expression would you have if he’d proposed something more provocative. With something that would leave you panting and gasping and gaping. He shook his head. Too early for this – and too late, also. He already loosened his tie and it made the headache less permanent, but if he’d proceeded to imagine how your pathetic, useless (normal, college dropout) mouth wide around the base of his cock, he would have to excuse himself from the house altogether, Preferably moving back to the countryside you tried to run away from. — If you insist on working…there instead of taking time to actually improve yourself, I could pay you to watch over the house. You gulp, tensing up immediately. He must have come off too strong – but he is way too tired to control his tone, and you should be mature enough to handle the conversations like this. He wasn’t kicking you off – quite the contrary, in fact. But, young adults should take the time to be young. But, young adults should be serious enough to behave like adults – and you shouldn’t bury your ambitions while living with four roommates and their boyfriends and college and drinking and… Sometimes he forgets how not much older he is than you. Maybe this is why you’re so hesitant towards getting help from him – someone that you could imagine in the position of a boyfriend instead of a providing and caring figure. That’s bad, really. Nanami would like for you to see him as your husband. — I couldn’t accept it, Nanami-san. You’re already…already doing so much. “Too much” he can get from your frowned expression. Too much of a lonely man with a big house and no one to watch over it. Too much for a man who doesn’t acept any form of payment from you – a man who didn’t even insist on having you cook and clean, since he got a system that would be too much bother to teach someone other than him. System that you cracked in first few weeks, almost making him believe that the salryman dream he lost after returning to Jujutsu Tech, can be still obtained. Still within the reach of his fingers.

The woman of his dreams – if a man like him allowed to have them – is sitting on his couch and gushes over paying him for letting her stay. Like he isn’t the one who should beg for her to not run away. Alas, even dream girls can be a bit…dumb. Stupid. Pathetic in a way that would be insane to anyone else.

Nanami is ought to be a bit more firm with his dumb girl that still thinks she isn’t his. — I would appreciate you cooking way more than any money I’d have to take out of your savings. — But… — You shouldn’t rush into jobs just because you think I would throw you out. I won’t. — It’s…funny. In a way.

— What is so funny? His hand creeps over the edge of your seat, edging on taking a handful of your hair and tugging. Not because he wanted to hurt you – but because setting you in place would be the desirable option right now. Your inability to believe in the kindness of his heart is almost adorable, if it weren’t also so frustrating. It’s a smart choice, although – would be insane to ask you to believe that a man who took you in did so out of the kindness of his heart. But, Kento doesn’t want for you to be smart and make choices that would benefit you. But, Kento wants for you to rely on him – and making smart choices isn’t going to include that. He could just force you, your weak points already accessed – he knows where to push, where to cut, where to ass a little pressure, so you’d stop being so stubborn. He doesn’t want to hurt you, but sometimes you need to crack a few eggs in the process. Sometimes being good doesn’t mean being nice. — I thought you really wanted to get rid of me at first, Nanami-san. He has been stealing your panties since you first stepped foot into his house. It was a mistake at first – neither you nor him knew how to live with someone so close after reaching adulthood and moving out of dorms where the social boundaries are much, much less permanent. You were silly and forgetful, sometimes mixing your laundry with his. Something as small as a pair of panties, no matter clean or not, were prone to get lost in the laundry area, forgotten in a pile of clothes you already washed – and if Nanami was a lesser man, he would have scolded you for not having the basic courtesy of keeping your things away from his. If Nanami was a bigger man he wouldn’t have slipped a lacey pair into a pocket of his pants, fidgeting on the fabric while you gushed over having to buy so many necessities all of a sudden, or apologized for wrecking havoc in his bathroom. Even now, when you’re embarrassed and warm, trying to explain your point of view to him, he is still playing with your underwear, buried deep within the pocket of his work clothes. He luckily didn’t run into Satoru today – he doesn’t really want to know if his Six Eyes could detect something as scandalous. Not in a normal sense, of course – you’re an adult, if a bit irresponsible – but in the form of him having connections. Someone to return to.

Nanami wants to push you on your knees and take his rent right out of that surprised, open mouth of yours. You don’t wear any makeup, you’re at home, after all – but he would buy you some adorable lipstick, some sweet lipgloss, just so you could smear it all over his cock, choking and drooling. He wants to be a good man, a patient man, but he has your panties in his pocket already, and it’s always a fresh pair every few weeks – not enough to make you suspicious that this isn’t the washing machine eating it, but also desperately low for someone like him.

He wonders if you would be even softer than the tender silk of the things you wear. — Why would you think I accepted you, then?

He knows why you might be nervous – his attitude isn’t the most welcoming one. He can be soft if he has a reason you – but being soft for too long will make you spoiled. Bratty. He likes women with character, but not women with attitudes he can’t control. Even your sitting position, with both of your legs on a couch, is something he could change with a few spanks on the bare skin he can clearly see from under your shorts. Wearing this when there is a man in the house – how scandalous. How precious. He wonders if all the lingerie sets he already bought for you (getting exact sizes is quite easy when he already knows your proportions divided by 7), will be a nice look on you. For you.

— Maybe it was your one good deed for the month, but then you’d get annoyed and… He touches you – for the first time in weeks. Maybe the first time since he shook your hand all those time ago. The first time he touched you while you weren’t sleeping, at least. Fully conscious, aware of the man in front of you. (Nanami liked to watch you sleep, sometimes. Stressed people have a bad habit of attracting curses, and he wanted to make sure you wouldn’t invite anything in the safety of his house. It’s what he keeps telling himself when he inevitably ended up at the food of your bed, hands on his cock, stroking it slowly, knowing a dumb girl – naive girl – won’t wake up even if he’d decide to finish on your face. He never would – not until you’d ask him to, at least. He hopes that he will be a good person even after you do) Nanami’s hand is on your cheek, holding you softly. Gently. You’re surprised because this is the first time he touched you so softly – so intimately. You’re blissfully unaware of the fact he was touching you so, so much already. Stroking your ass, your tits, your face when he felt particularly tender – when he knew you were too tired of whatever you were doing while being unemployed and having everything catered to you to notice that he is touching you. — I won’t get annoyed with you.

You press your face against his hand, taking in his touch. He has soft hands – cared for, manicured carefully. He takes care of his appearance and you’re embarrassed to appreciate that about it. To even notice – he isn’t yours, probably doesn’t want to be, but he allows you to live in his house even though you suck at being a proper housewife, and it should mean something. It does mean something – you smile and close your eyes. You want to do something for him because he already did so much for you. The possibilities are making your ears burn. — How can I repay you if you don’t want rent then? He can think of a few ways. The possibilities will make your ears burn. — You can start by actually cooking.

And he will call in to fire you later.

#yandere #yandere x you #yandere x reader #yandere nanami #nanami x reader #nanami x you #nanami kento #jjk #jjk x reader #jjk smut #yandere jjk #jujutsu kaisen #jjk nanami #nanami smut

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