#THEY LEFT HIM TO DIE IN THE PIT OF THE DAMNED. STABBED BY THE ONE HE LOVED. THE ONE HE FORSAKE HEAVEN AND HELL FOR. STRIP FROM HIS WINGS | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

fentyjjk · 1 year

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dark angel navi | 0 | 1 | 2 | 3

synopsis after dying and coming back to life as a vampire with an unrelenting thirst for blood, jungkook is on the run. it doesn't matter where he goes or how he just needs to keep running. away from the hunters, away from the people he killed the first night he came back, he just has to keep moving...but then he finds you.

pairing jungkook x fem reader

genre vampire au, supernatural, unrealistic historical fic, romance

warnings smut, suicidal ideation, suicide attempts, sexual assault (not between mc and jk), brief depictions of rape (again, not between mc and jk), murder, LOTS of blood

The hunts began after he went into hiding. He didn't have a purpose by running and hiding in the forest. He was terrified of himself. The sun hurt his eyes and intimidated him into the deep crevices of a cave. He was immortal now. His youth meetings at the church would detail the grave lengths of immortality such as the necessary feedings to keep his nonexistent heart alive and full, the ring of absolute silver bestowed by a pastor to grant sun indifference. Staying alive while being dead was too much. Jungkook prayed God would have mercy on him and take his life once again. Forgive him for the bloodshed caused and allow him to rest in peace in heaven with his mother.

But he knew that was unlikely, the fiery pits of hell would be more fitting for a demon like him.

It had been two full months since he’d left the town, since he’d fed and he’d grown fairly weak. His body rapidly lost weight and the muscle that he’d packed on when he was human. The pale skin deepened to a sheer gray. The black veins beneath his skin prominent under the moonlight. He knew what he had to do, but he didn’t want to go back to town and kill more people, his friends, his neighbors. So, he stayed in the cave embracing death with open arms. That is until a small herd of bunnies came into the cave fleeing from the heavy downpour outside the rocky settlement. Their little hearts were thumping quickly, he could smell the blood beneath the fur.

It's not human, he mentally chanted as he tore into all twelve of the bunnies. Their blood was not as sweet as the townspeople, but it sufficed his thirst for the night. His skin returned to “normal” the deathly porcelain he’d grown accustomed to and his vision was sharper. He leaned back against the jagged cave staring at the red bunnies surrounding him. He sobbed.

Why him?

It wasn’t long before he was hungry again. months had slipped between his fingers in minutes. He barely slept. Most days he spent crying or staring outside the cave pondering on what to do. He wanted to die. He settled on that thought. By some ungodly nature he was a damned bastard and he wanted to meet his demise quickly.

Snowfall returned once again signaling an entire year had passed. He swore he’d only been away from town for a few months, but a year had passed before his eyes. He wasn’t living anymore. He had a conscious inside of a shell. He wanted to rid himself of life and so that night he snuck out of the cave. The sheet of icy white snow tickled his feet, but the coldness was numbing to him. He couldn’t feel it.

He sought out a stick and using his elongated nails he’d trimmed it into a sharpened triangle. He just needed to stab himself in the heart and all would be well according to the myths. He slipped back into the cave holding the stake a few inches from his chest as tears silently rolled down his cheeks. This was the only way. It was either this or hurting more innocent people. He pushed the stake out and swung inward, piercing his chest. The pointed end broke off into his chest, black blood pouring from his wound. Dropping the stake he laid back, as his vision blurred he knew he was going to die. A smile of relief pulled at his lips and with one last tear leaving his eyes darkness encompassed him.

But life hadn’t been kind to him.

Hours felt like seconds and those seconds worked to repair his wounded heart and the scar surrounding it.

Unwillingly he was still “alive”

Jungkook quickly sat up laying his hand over his heart, the wound was gone and all that remain were his bloodied dark clothing. Killing himself was unsuccessful. The thought of not being able to die by his own will brought more tears to his eyes. He just wanted to die already. Wallowing away without food (read: blood) took so much effort every bone in his body deteriorated slowly. The stories he’d heard of vampires dying because of forced lack of blood transpired over centuries. It’d take generations for Jungkook to ween off the blood of his massacre from a year ago. He didn’t want to wait that long.

He was a murder and he couldn’t even spare himself from guilt by killing himself. Life was cruel. He layed back on the dirt staring at the pile of rocks that made the cave. Each one relied on the one above it, beside it and below. If the rocks fell hopefully he’d be in the cave and be crushed to death. It’d be more painful and he wasn’t sure when the earth would shake violently again in what his town called the “wrath of god” but he hoped it’d be soon. He dug his fingers into the dirt letting the soil fester under his nails, bugs crawling over his arms and before he would’ve shaken them off. When he was human he had an immense fear of the tiny creatures, but here in the darkness of the woods, in the cave they were his only friends beside the bunnies he feasted on.

His eyes began to close, his body had exhausted itself by repairing his wounds, sleep beckoned him behind his fluttering lids, but he couldn’t drift off. He smelled smoke, but most importantly he smelled people and they were close. Jungkook cowered to the farther edge of the cave, but he heard them inching closer to the beginning of the cave, they were coming inside. “Tell the other men to check by Harthorn River.” Jungkook’s eyebrows drew together, he knew that voice.

“Dad, what if we give it a rest? We’ve been looking for a year.” Another man spoke. “You know how dangerous these caves are, they could collapse at any moment.” The second man continued, Jungkook could smell the sour notes in his scent, the worry tangled with masked frustration.

Namjoon.

“Son, if you’re going to be a little girl about it, stay outside with the other men.” The crunch of leaves under boots sounded again and Jungkook looked around. What could he do? Where could he go? There was no doubt he could rip into the men in seconds, but he didn’t want to do that. The image of the townspeople bodies piling the streets is forever burned into his memory and he never wants to witness anything like that again.

Jungkook noticed a rock at the top of the cave protruding out. His idea was a long shot and by the steady increase of feet padding closer to him he only had one chance to make it. He stepped back using all his strength to jump. He grasped the edge of the rock easily holding himself up, his nails digging into the rough surface painfully. The men entered so he stayed silent sprawled at the top of the cave watching them shuffle inside the tiny space.

“Look at this.” Namjoon's dad swung his boot kicking at the bunny closest to him. The small animal rolled to the side, Jungkook's canine marks and blood imprinted into the once pure white fur. “This sick freak has been eating bunnies.” The sour scent from earlier got stronger, more potent, it was overwhelming. Looking behind Namjoon’s dad he could see why.

Namjoon was staring at him.

“See, son? Your friend is damned to be a bloodthirsty demon for eternity!” His voice bounced off the walls ringing in Jungkook’s ears. Namjoon quickly lowered his head when his father glanced at him solemnly nodding.

“Bakun,” one of the men at the further edge of the cave called, “we found something.” Bakun gritted his teeth. Jungkook was near here somewhere he could feel it. Reluctantly, he followed the men out. Namjoon remained still, his torch lighting Jungkook’s features as he raised it higher dried blood stained his hands, chin, and clothing. He looked dirty. Nothing like the clean, neat friend from before.

“Jun—“

“Namjoon, stop playing and get your ass out here!” Namjoon swallowed his heart rate picking up, the steady thrum of blood was so inviting. Jungkook could almost taste it. While his scent was slightly bitter nothing covered the sweet smell of blood, it was making him dizzy. His best friend—or used to be best friend grimaced and left the cave leaving Jungkook alone again. He let go of the rock dropping onto his hands and knees in a crouch.

There was no doubt in his mind, they were hunting him and they’d be back.

Jungkook hid in the cave afraid of stepping out and being caught. He knew what he was capable of but just because he could didn’t mean he wanted to. This meant he was no longer scavenging for small bunnies and animals alike; he was starving himself once again. His body lay frail and sweaty. He was burning up. He’d removed his clothing to ease the heat but it only got worse, he could feel every gust of wind prick his skin as if they were little daggers. He was in so much pain. He heard it again, the sound of footsteps, fast and determined, headed straight towards the cave. It was just one set this time, the steps abruptly halted, a large thud sounding followed by a bone chilling yell for help.

Namjoon.

Jungkook’s hunger was long forgotten as he pushed off the cave floor into the forest, the sun was blinding and irritated his weak skin, but Namjoon’s heart was pumping hard inside his chest, he was afraid. Jungkook heard a snarl and looked up to see a figure holding Namjoon by the nape on a tall tree branch. He could barely see the man's face, only his dark hair, but he saw the shiny canines he barred at Namjoon's neck.

“No!” Jungkook shrieked. He was goddamn emotional. He couldn’t stop the tears forming in his eyes as the male stood high above him, he was too weak to do anything.

“Who is this?” The male asked, waving around Namjoon's body as if he weighed nothing.

“M-my name—“ the male growled behind him, digging his nails into his skin as a warning. The smell of blood drew Jungkook in his eyes, clouding with darkness. He was losing himself again. He covered his nose with his hand backing away from the tree.

“I’m asking him.” He pointed down at Jungkook the exact same elongated black nails that adored Jungkook’s hand were on the mans as well. He was like Jungkook, a cursed demon, but the sunlight wasn’t bothering him. Jungkook would laugh if the situation were any different. Namjoon stood at around six feet tall and the man behind him although buff had a much shorter stature than him and yet he easily held Namjoon by the neck.

“Namjoon,” Jungkook cleared his throat, his voice weak. He hadn’t spoken in so long. “My best friend.” The man looked between Jungkook and Namjoon wearily, his sharp eyes narrowing. Jungkook looked utterly terrified of him, how cute. Restraining a coo he jumped gracefully landing on his feet as he let Namjoon go. As soon as he hit the ground Namjoon’s legs buckled, paralyzed with fear, a muffled sob burrowing into the leaves as he cried into the ground, he thought he was going to die.

Jungkook stared at the back of his neck, blood was seeping from the small crescent incisions. He walked forward, dropping his hand causing even more of the sugary scent to erode his senses. Namjoon’s body trembled as he cried, causing the blood to dip below his collar bone beneath his cloak. Jungkook almost pounced on him, a firm push back causing him to stumble effectively snapping him out of his trance. “You wouldn’t want to kill your best friend, right?” The man whispered as to not scare the panicked man below them. Jungkook returned his hand to his nose, stepping away. “Namjoon, I am so sorry for my impoliteness, I was afraid you were hunting Jungkook.” Namjoon sniffled, turning onto his back, the sweet scent of blood less potent.

“You two know each other?” He mumbled wiping his cheeks with his cloak.

Yoongi hummed, disagreeing. “No, but I will kill anyone that hunts my kind.” He smiled, his sharp teeth poking through his lips. “I’m Yoongi.” He held out his hand, but Namjoon didn’t take it. He eyed his outstretched hand wearily. “Any friend of my kind is a friend of mine.'' Namjoon took his hand standing up, his eyes darting between the two.

“How do you know his name then?” Namjoon asked. He was always the smarter of the two wanting to gather every bit of information he could muster in a subject and usually that was pertinent to school, but as of late he’d researched all the books he could for vampire occurrences in their small town and not once had he heard of a Yoongi.

“He’s been the talk of the town,” Yoongi shrugged, leaning into a tree shade as he crossed his arms as a low chuckle escapes him, “everyone's keeping an eye out for the black eyed demon, Jungkook.” He scoffed, he still couldn’t fathom the fact that Jungkook outshined him so quickly.

Back in the 1600’s he’d killed the entire town after the murder of his sister, a vampire like himself. He left two women alive, one he had been fond of (read: in love with) before his rampage and the other a God fearing woman. The two women were chosen intentionally. They were both pregnant. Yoongi's “friend” was pregnant with his child even though she didn’t know it. He frequently sat outside her window listening to the sound of her heartbeat and eventually a few nights after they slept together he heard two heartbeats. It wasn’t the other woman he left in town, he placed her on the opposite far end of town away from her, them. The sound was too small, too faint to be anything but a growing child.

His child.

Yoongi’s choice of keeping them alive didn’t come without a deal. He told them he’d keep them alive if they instilled fear into the news townspeople about the monsters lurking in the shadows. They shouldn’t be messed with. Vampires. And they both did. Yoongi’s friend even gave Yoongi a beautiful baby girl—who was then killed by a migrating town when they realized the baby could cry without a heartbeat. The woman who bore him the child, the woman whom he loved, took her own life. She was distraught after the death of her baby. Yoongi spiraled, acting out another rampage. That one had lasted two decades, at the end of his wrath on the town he made sure to plant vampire babies everywhere, most of which were swiftly killed off. Although some remained it was very few and they never came back to that god forsaken town. Jungkook, Yoongi assumed, had been one of his offspring; no other vampires lurked in the forest but Yoongi. He never picked up on the bittersweet scent of death on anyone in town. Jungkook was his son.

But beyond taking his spotlight Jungkook was nothing but a scared little boy. Sure he was nineteen, but he was afraid of his power. He didn’t embrace it. Yoongi watched the other night as the men entered the cave. He would let Jungkook handle it, but at the hint of trouble, he’d swoop down and kill every man in sight, that was the plan but it never came to that. Jungkook had some sort of moral code that Yoongi couldn’t comprehend and to his surprise everyone walked out of that cave alive.

He didn’t understand him.

“I’m not a demon.” Jungkook mumbled, his words muffled beneath his hand, but Yoongi heard him just fine. There it is again, the misunderstandings. Yoongi had seen Jungkook in town before, during his monthly hunts for blood. When he would snag a human being no one would notice disappearing, more often than not that was homeless people or the sick and elderly. Jungkook was strong before his transformation but this gift, this power multiplied that by a ton. Jungkook was not only stronger and faster, no cursed disease like the one that killed him could affect him ever again. And yet, he didn’t want it. He didn’t crave the God-like power that Yoongi had unknowingly given him.

“Well, you’re certainly not a human.” Yoongi remarked hearing a low snarl in turn. “What? Are you offended? You’re dead, Jungkook, just like me.” Jungkook turned away fully prepared to leave Yoongi behind, he didn’t need this. He didn’t need protection, he wanted to die, he wanted the curse bestowed upon him to be taken away, he didn’t want to be a demon or anything like the sarcastic asshole named Yoongi.

“Jungkook, wait.” Namjoon followed behind him tugging at his wrist just before he entered his hideout inside the cave. “I came here to talk to you about what’s been going on in town while you’ve been away.” Yoongi watches the two silently, scoffing as Namjoon unties his cloak spreading it out along the leaves. A little dirt won’t fucking kill you, Yoongi thinks as they sit down facing one another. “There’s been some..offerings for your life: food rations, animals, gold. The whole town is set on killing you.” Namjoon explains as Yoongi’s eyebrows raise.

“The whole town, aye? That includes you?” Yoongi questions, stalking forward.

Despite his earlier behavior Namjoon still fixes Yoongi with a harsh glare. “No.” Namjoon says, turning his ridiculously broad back to Yoongi.

“Nammo—“

“Namjoon.”

“Whatever, this isn’t anything new, we know—Jungkook knows he’s being hunted. Why’re you really here? You’re the son of that guy, right? Banku-“

“Bakun.”

“He was leading the hunters right to Jungkook. How do we know this isn’t a set up? Or you weren’t followed? Wouldn’t your father notice you’re missing?” Yoongi’s sharp eyes stay on Namjoon, but he still notices Jungkook recoil into himself, distancing himself from Namjoon. Even if unintentional Yoongi is glad to have planted a seed of doubt inside Jungkook when it comes to Namjoon. Humans have proved to Yoongi over the years that no matter the emotional weight of the relationship prior to a person transforming humans would always uphold the ideas of the church which is that people like Yoongi, like Jungkook needed to die.

For fucks sake Yoongi’s closest friend ratted him out to the village after he turned.

Although Namjoon’s scent hadn’t spiked with anything bitter which would clue Yoongi into Namjoon lying or having ill intentions, the problem is that Namjoon seems intelligent, he could’ve learned how to mask his scent if he looked for the right information.

“No he wouldn’t.” Namjoon replies, turning all his attention back to Jungkook. “Kook, there’s something you need to know…” Namjoon says carefully, pausing as he contemplates how he should word this. Namjoon has no clue how he’d fare in Jungkook’s position especially after the news he has for him, but he has to tell him it’s only right. “Yes my father is leading the hunts physically but behind the scenes…” Namjoon inhales a shaky breath. “Dae-young,” he looks away from Jungkook as he sees him perk up at the familiar name. “He’s the one offering the most for your death. Gold, his land, his animals, all of it.” Yoongi stares his eyebrows raised in confusion as the solemn atmosphere settles around them. Jungkook’s eyes turn glassy and Namjoon looks borderline uncomfortable.

“Anybody wanna clue me into who the hell Dae-young is?” Yoongi asks, rocking on the balls of his feet.

Namjoon looks up, opening his mouth to fill him in, but Jungkook is faster with tears in his eyes he says:

“Dae-young is my father.”

#jungkook ff #jungkook x reader #vampire jungkook #vivwrites #jungkook fanfiction #ff

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rivangel · 2 years

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happy alternative ending to this!!! | 1.0k

What was a grove is now raddled with horror and destruction, a battlefield. Trusses crushed and tree trunks split, downturned, snapped like twigs. Blood spatters the gnarled grasses and beds of flowers. Bloodthirsty earth. It came down to the two of you up against all of them.

You must be outside reality, in a world of war—where this happening is possible. That’s your first thought, because Levi is a small, crumpled form on his side in the mud, like a kicked dog.

You scream his name through the biting wind; your wires screech as you descend. The reality of the rapidly approaching ground is entirely lost on you.

Let him be alive. Let him be okay, please—

Maybe it's a trick of the eye, but you swear you spot the slightest shift of movement from his arms and blades.

Only by the skin of your teeth do you avoid crash-landing by dropping into a half-crouch. Force of the drop sends volts up your legs; your boots earn an additional dash of mud.

Clicking free your two dulled, beaten blades, letting your triggers zip back into the gear, you scramble forward on your hands and knees to his side.

"Levi? Levi!"

A throaty groan can be heard. You gasp.

First aid. First aid.

"You're okay, you're okay..." Muttering his name like a prayer, you stabilize him by maneuvering him onto his back. Your hand bullies between his head and the gnarled grass to cradle it. You feels chills to find it oddly wet.

He moans in protest, but still, no response.

Upon closer inspection, his fists are tight on his triggers, still steaming faintly. He hasn't been like this long, and he has to be conscious, or clinging on at least. At least that ever-present worry wrinkle between his brows is present.

Fresh blood paints his temples and cakes his hair. His nose bled heavily too—a few drops soaked through his cravat. Older blood has darkened and thickened. Wet soil and earth smears his uniform.

So much blood, but his face has retained its natural pale pallor at least. He's not bleeding anywhere vital. Maybe it isn't even his.

Your fingers slide under his uniform collar, feeling for his pulse. It's strong, but rapid. "Captain Levi, Levi, wake the fuck up right now. W-Where's Nibbles? Where are you hurt?"

"...'m fine," he rasps. He cracks his eyes open and squints, and it's then you see the cause for the pit in your stomach. One pupil is bigger than the other. A bad concussion. That seems like the worst of it.

You could laugh. Only Levi would say that in this kind of state. "Fucking bullshit. Where are you hurt?"

"Not hurt," he mumbles. A sigh shakes its way out of him. His eyes close again.

"No, don't go to sleep."

His damned stubbornness. Scooping him up, you lug him into more of a sit. You take his hand with you and squeeze with force to break. The pain will help keep him awake. And you need to.

"I—I don't have any flares left. I think my horse is dead, so, so we need Nibbles. If we get left behind, we'll die. Remember? The Titans are gone, but we d-don't know—"

"S...Stop shrieking," he slurs severely. He raises one arm and touches his temple with a painful cringe. "Shit. My head..."

You let out a big breath, cheeks hot, and command your voice not to falter. “We need Nibbles. You're hurt."

Nothing.

"Don't sleep. You know what, I’ll love you forever if you just stay awake! I love you, okay? I love you.”

His body goes stiff as he leans up a little straighter. His lashes bat when his eyes open, with an annoyed look in your direction. He rasps your name. "Not helpless. Don't be stupid..."

It was just a moment of weakness. The sheer relief you feel causes you to fall back on your butt when he gives you nothing more than a nudge away. Grabbing one of his triggers, he stabs one sword in the tender earth for stability to climb to his feet. With a hiss, he shifts, heavily favoring one leg.

His head bows, and turns. "Are you hurt?"

"No," you blurt out. "No. No, I'm okay. The Titans are gone."

"Good. Good work. Th... Then get up." He wavers briefly. "My gear's fucked. Can't stay here." Then he raises his other scuffed hand, and a piercing whistle shatters the forest's silence.

That snaps you out of your shock. You shoot to your feet, steadying him as he abandons his scabbards and gas, which drop with a hard, dull thunk. Your dulled blades are traded for his fresh ones, as if this was business as usual. Relief and anxiety in equal measure swim through your mind. It's dizzying.

He could've died. If he fell asleep, or if you were gone for much longer, he could've been made an easy snack, too.

But he didn't, and he wasn't.

The worst seems to be over, and so, as the clopping of horse hooves begins to beat from far away, coming closer, your other arm closes around him, hugging him tight. A sob bursts out of you, muffled by his neck. He smells like sour steam, sweat, and wet earth, but he's warm.

"Hey, hey... Save the tears for when we're back with the others," he murmurs tightly. Despite his words, his arms rise up to hug you closer to his frame all the same. His hand slides over and cups the nape of your neck.

You do likewise. I thought you were dead. I thought you were dead, patters on in your mind. "I thought you were..."

"I know. I'm nnnot," he slurs. Nibbles' galloping is heavy at your back now. "Les' go."

The sudden appearance of Nibbles, towering and as black as night, feels like deliverance from hell. Like a savior. While Levi reins him in, you reach in his saddlebag, and shoot off a purple emergency flare. It isn't worth much since you're about to be off, but the others can pinpoint your location now, at least.

"What about your leg?"

His glazed eyes land on you. "My leg..."

"Something's wrong with it, right?"

His brows draw in confusion.

Wordlessly, you take his waist and guide him to the saddle. Indeed, he's limping. "Levi?"

"...It's sprained."

"Good thing we have transport, then. I'm helping you up."

Levi seems none too happy with that, but he doesn't resist. Stiffly and with some difficulty, he manages to swing up into his saddle, followed by you, slotted in behind him. If he starts to lose consciousness again, you can't have him falling back.

Firmly, you pin his grip to your abdomen, and whip Nibbles' reins, heading off in the direction of the formation.

#i have a heart after all #levi drabble #aot drabbles #levi ackerman angst #levi ackerman drabble #levi ackerman x you #levi ackerman fluff #aot fluff #levi x y/n #levi x you

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enj4s · 2 years

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JUDGED TOO QUICKLY ー TOKYO REVENGERS (1)

summary: Y/n had a sleepover with toman, everything was going well until she heard them talking shit about her which turned out to be a misunderstanding (which gone wrong)

pairing: tokyo revengers x reader

warnings: cursing. blood. knife mention.

genre: angst. comedy (?).

Y/n: your name

N/n: Nickname

💌 ˖ ✶ parts! :: [ 1 𖥔 2 𖥔 3 ..]

Female!reader. Au. Light changes from anime and manga.

Having a sleepover with Toman at the Sano house hold? This got to be the most fun thing ever.

Well, that's what you actually thought. Hence seeing the boys smacking the shit out of each other, gossiping about other gangs or girls.

You just deadpanned at the fuss the members were making while trying your best to swallow the cakes and snacks Emma and Hina were stuffing in your mouth for the past two hours.

You were sure Baji twisted atleast one bone in his body while trying to impress you with his weird ass backflips. Pah-chin and Peh-yan were in the guest bathroom puking their organs out for accidentally eating some biscuits without checking it's expiration date which turned out to be 2 years ago.

Giving a quick glance to your watch, Damn. It was 3:21 AM, how in the world can they have so much energy at such time.

"Oh wait let me get a knife so I'll open this one up n/n," Emma said with a pretty blush dusting her cheeks. "You already did so much for me, I wouldn't wish to tire you, I'll go get it for you." You said holding Emma's wrist and pulling her back gently as if she was made of glass. Emma's face turned red and Hina just huffed and pouted in pure jealousy.

You really were just taking the opportunity to escape the girls' clinging for atleast a minute.

"Emma don't you dare steal my y/n!" Mikey spat and glared at his baby sister.

"YOUR y/n?!" Baji jumped on him and pulled him back to the chaotic fight that he started.

With that you stood up to get the knife yourself, stubbornly ignoring the blonde girl's protests.

Fetching the knife from the kitchen counter you made your way back to Mikey's room where everyone was.

Each step brought you a weird uncomfortable feeling in the pit of your stomach, since you don't recall everyone suddenly being this quiet before you left.

Shaking your head, you just shrugged the weird feeling off and decided not to start over thinking about such things. As you got closer to the door the hushed voices were now clear as daylight and enough for you to hear. It was strange how the group was being secretive.

Curiosity ran over your veins so you just leaned against the wall eavesdropping. "I..I love her?! Seriously, what? I'd rather die!" Mikey uttered in disbelief and mockery before he bursted out in laughter along with the others joining him soon after.

"Yeah...how could mikey love such...a thing, let along even tolerate her presence around him." Added Mitsuya, his tone held so much disappointment.

You furrowed your eyebrows, face crunched up in confusion, "Who're they talking about.."

Ignoring the painful pang in your chest you continued listening to their conversation, refusing the possibility of them trash-talking behind your back.

"For real, I'm only using her for good grades, grandpa would keep nagging me if I don't get a good score by the end of this semester..Plus she's so weird? How in the world can someone score a 100 on all tests when she always sleeps in class and barely pays any attention to the lesson, let alone the fact that she doesn't even attend much." piped Emma

You've heard enough. Their conversation just proved you right as much as you were hoping for the opposite, Emma always sat next to you in classes you shared and always fights with Hina to switch seats with you. After all, who other than you was a literal genius and smart enough to get the best scores in tests and only comes to school in exams period and to flirt with her fan girls in school.

"The way she tries to fit in and join our gang is so embarrassing, had to restrain myself from stabbing my ears so I won't have to listen to her bullshit." Smiley laughed out.

"Please, i'd rather perish than have people say things like this about me." Souya muttered, sighing heavily.

You had hope that this was just a misunderstanding, or perhaps they were talking about someone else, right? But the way they described the girl they were bashing only indicates that you were the center of mockery and insults.

"Such a whore, pfft."

You started to wonder for how long you've been nothing but a nuisance to them and for how long they used you for their own needs.

"Talk about not having any self-respect, she probably bribed the teacher to give her good grades.." Draken added

But weren't you the only one who got brutally injured when you stood up and protected Draken to the very end when Kiyomasa was ready to kill him?

"Or maybe she went around whoring herself out to them.." Takemichi snickered

Wait, weren't you the one who always was ready to beat the shit out of anyone who dared to bully Takemichi?

The girls, How dare they.

Weren't you the only one found almost gouging a girl's eyes out with scissors and got suspended for a month when she dared to slap Emma and call Hina a bitch?

All of the sadness and bitterness you were feeling soon turn into a fit of anger. Face contorted with pure rage.

You clenched your jaw as your grip tightened on the sharp object you were holding. Your rage and anger got the best of you. Mind already running with many thoughts. Failing to notice the knife that had cut through your palm that was slowly seeping with blood and painting the wooden floor a crimson red.

You didn't notice any of that, not until pain coursed through your veins, you dropped the knife in panic and let out a sharp hiss which alerted the group.

Mikey rushed over to where the sound came from only to find you crouching down on a bloodstained floor with your injured hand fully exposed to him.

The boy lets out a gasp as he rushed to your side. "Oh god, y/n?! What happened, are you okay?!" Manjirou frantically asks, his hands found their way around your wrist, panic washing over him when he saw how damaged your hand was.

"Huh what's going o- Y/N?!" Hina shouted out, hands flying to cover her mouth, voice wobbly at the sight of your immobile body.

Soon enough everyone was surrounding you, asking questions that for sure weren't gonna get answered any soon.

They didn't deserve it.

"God! Y/n just say somethi-" Mikey was interrupted by a harsh slap to the hand that was holding your wrist.

You abruptly stood up, your silent has got you some worried glances from the others.

God. What the fuck was wrong with you, why would you get upset over suchーthings. You never get enough do you. What more do you want? You got all the guys roaming over you, worried and sick to their stomachs. Hell, Emma and Hina even shed tears.

Right. You didn't want their pity. You don't need it.

Mindlessly pushing mikey's off of you causing his back to come in contact with the hard wooden floor, you wiped the blood on your jacket and went over to where you put your stuff.

Gathering your belongings you pushed through the worried crowd and made your way over to the door.

With a promise to never see them again.

💌 ˖ ✶tags: @un0rin ☆ @rosemary108233

#tokyo revengers #tokyo rev angst #tokyo rev x reader #manjiro tokyo revengers #tokyo revengers x y/n #tokyo revengers toman

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elias-code · 3 years

Text

The Feeling’s Mutual - c!Techno x Reader

PT 1 because I‘m taking too long lmao

Characters: c!Technoblade x gn!Reader, Philza, Quackity, Charlie S

Summary: [from an ask] The reader is kicked out by Quackity from Las Nevadas and was forced to roam around to look for somewhere to live and they end up in Techno’s cabin after passing out in the tundra. At first, you have a shared hatred of each other, but you end up warming up when you figure out he’s been making you breakfast.

Warnings: Exile, mild malnutrition, corruption

————————— Enjoy :3 —————————

“Ooh! I get to go visit you now! Like a vacation!” Charlie cheered.

“No, Charlie,” You sighed, continuing to follow him out of the city, “I’m getting exiled. I don’t think Quackity will let you visit me,”

He frowned, confused. He wasn’t the best at understanding broad concepts like exile and all the drama that brought it about. He just thinks you’re one of his best friends, and that Quackity is also his best friend. Now, Quackity was in no way your friend as you once were. He banished you for the dumbest thing, just because you challenged his integrity. Unbeknownst to Charlie, Quackity was giving away trade secrets, rigging elections and his casinos. You didn’t join him to scam people, you just wanted a new start after L’Manburg.

You walked with him in silence past the bright neon lights and street lamps of Los Nevadas. You were never going to be allowed back here, even though you built half of the damn place.

“So if Quackity doesn’t let me visit, can you visit me?” Charlie asked solemnly.

“Again, probably not,” You stuffed your hands in your pockets and half-smiled at him, “I don’t think he wants to see me back here. Ever,”

Where were you even going to go? No one would take you. Quackity had made many enemies, who were, in turn, yours, and now no one you were allied with alongside Quackity will be friendly except for Charlie. But Charlie was his lapdog, nothing could touch him and you weren’t going to be allowed around him anymore.

Your enemies list was vast, all the way up at the top, finally overtaking Technoblade, was Quackity. Congrats, Big Q, you piece of shit.

Charlie stopped at the end of the road, finally realizing this might be the last time you see each other. He wanted to cry, but he held it back. There’d always be hope, he could sneak out, you could sneak in. But you’d have to do it all in secret, and it just didn’t feel right to him.

“I’m gonna miss you, Charlie,” You said.

He smiled weakly at you and pulled you in for a slimy hug.

“We’ll see each other again someday,” He stated.

You wanted to believe that, but the pit in your stomach just sank further as the embrace came to an end. You’d have to get going, this would be the last time you see him, or Los Nevadas for that matter, in a long time at least.

You spent days wandering. Just as you suspected, no one would take you in. Not even Niki because of your governmental associations. You found the occasional scrap of meat or stale bread in some chests along the prime path, but you felt so sick to your stomach that it became hard to eat anything you found.

From the desert to the ocean to the plains to the tundra you roamed. You hunted with what little supplies you had.

There had been no food for days now, the snow was the only source of water within sight. There were no signs of life, no people, no animals, only the occasional dying tree to sleep under in the blistering cold. As if things couldn’t get any worse, the blizzard came.

Blinding white all around. The only sound audible was the whistling of the wind in the frozen, rotting branches above you. At this point, you’d gone numb, the only thing you could feel was your heart beating heavily in your chest as you lost consciousness.

“We couldn’t just leave them out in the snow, Techno! That’s just cruel!”

“They’re with Quackity, Phil. Don’t make me explain this again,”

“I’m not going to let you throw them back out,” Phil explained, “No one would willingly come here, Technoblade. They have a reason, I know it,”

You opened your eyes cautiously. It was warm, you were covered in a thick red cape and a few blankets, the fire next to you was roaring. Whatever argument was taking place had moved further into the distance, out of earshot.

Everything ached, but at least you were warm. You let yourself come to your senses. Maybe the exile was all a nightmare. Maybe Quackity wasn’t a dumb bitch after all. But where were you? Whose bed was this? Whose-

It’s Technoblade’s cape.

Your eyes widened as you shot up out of bed. The pain in your legs was sickening, but so was being in this man’s house. You ran to the fireplace and grabbed some sharp steel tongs, meant for poking at the logs, for protection. His footsteps moved closer, the conversation was over.

You brandished your weapon and prayed for dear life.

The door creaked open and he stepped through, shutting it behind him. He stared at you, looking down at the weapon and then back at the tossed bed. He looked unfazed by your threatening pose. You were more scared than he was.

“I lend you my cape,” Technoblade points at the bed, “And you decide the best move for you is to stab me?”

Guilt crept into your throat.

“What am I doing here?” You hissed at him.

“Phil found you under a tree,” He chuckled, “And decided he wanted to adopt someone else,”

“Aren’t you supposed to kill me or something?”

“Why? Should I?” He threatened, taking a step towards you.

You stepped back, bumping into the table behind you, “That- That’s what you do,”

“If it were up to me, you’d probably be buried in the snow by now.”

You scowled at him, rediscovering past hatred towards him and using that to fuel your rage.

“I’d rather be left out there,” You spat, “Not stuck in here with you-“

“Again, I agree, but Phil is the one you should be angry with if you don’t want to be here,” He rolled his eyes and held his hand out.

“I’m not giving this back to you,” You growled.

He stepped forward and snatched the spear out of your hand, tossing it behind him, out of reach. He leaned forward and hissed in your face, “Don’t try anything, kid,”

You swallowed your pride, weak and unarmed. Whether you liked it or not, you’d have to stay with him for a while. No one would take you in, so it was either deal with Technoblade or die. You might as well use this to your advantage.

Days went by where you never even saw Techno. Phil took care of you most of the time, but he didn’t have any room in his house with Wilbur being there and all, so you were forced to sleep in Techno’s cabin. It became easier and more manageable as time went on. The only time you ever really saw him were the latest hours of the night when he’d come home and, if you were lucky, at dawn when he left.

Breakfast usually materialized at your doorstep every morning around the same time. Sometimes it was yoghurt, sometimes fresh fruit, sometimes cold meat and oatmeal, but it was always delicious. You suspected Phil was behind the mysterious meals, that was until you asked him about it.

“I don’t think I ever said, but thanks for breakfast,” You smiled at Phil as you helped him load firewood into the horse’s saddlebags.

He looked at you, perplexed, to say the least.

“What breakfast? Don’t you just eat whatever Techno has?” Phil replied.

Your stomach turned, letting the past couple of weeks turn over in your head. You shouldn’t have assumed Phil was the one making your food. You should’ve asked before you just started gorging yourself every morning.

Phil watched as you turned pale and hopped on the horse. He thought that you just ate whatever Techno had in his pantries, and never questioned it. Now, all was revealed. Techno had been making you breakfast.

For most people living as a guest in someone else's house, having breakfast brought to their door would just be seen as a sweet thing, but it was dangerously blown out of proportions when it was your ex greatest enemy doing it without you even knowing. You silently reasoned with yourself that if he was going to poison you, you’d be dead already. That comforting fact backfired as you realised he could have killed you so easily. Your emotions were on a rollercoaster, and your stomach sank deeper and deeper as the more intrusive thoughts crept in.

You needed to catch him in the act. Something about The Blood God making you breakfast created sentiments of self-worth out of thin air. Part of you wanted to prove it to yourself, and part of you wanted to embarrass him for it.

The familiar shine of daybreak made the room glow orange. The fire had gone out that night, as it usually did, but the cold felt like nothing now that you had a mission to accomplish.

You slipped out of bed, clad in leggings and a simple green shirt. The floor was icy on your bare feet but you trodded out the door and down the stairs, heading for the kitchen.

The dining room was salmon-pink, highlighted by the bright orange flickering coming from the fireplace. It was already warmer down here than it was upstairs, the fire must’ve already been on for a while by now. The kitchen was out of view, but you could already smell fish frying from the base of the stairs.

Making your way through the archway, you spotted Techno’s red cape on its hook by the door next to the thick winter coat you loaned from Phil. Below them, both were black boots, sprinkled with half-melted snow. The floorboard below you creaked when you stood in the doorway to the kitchen.

Techno spun around, startled by the noise. His face flushed with guilt temporarily but was quickly replaced by a furrowed brow and confused eyes.

“What are you doing awake? It’s five,” He implored.

“I could smell the salmon,” You shrugged and moved towards him innocently.

He turned back to the fish and turned the stove off, sliding it onto a plate.

“What’re we eating today?”

“You just said,”

You scoffed and conceded. It was a dumb thing to ask, but he wasn’t supposed to answer. It was only meant to highlight the reality that you knew what he’d been doing. Nothing in his expression, now unreadable, made you think he didn’t know that you knew he’d been making you breakfast.

He gently pushed by you, letting his arm brush against yours. It made your heart skip a beat, probably out of fear, you told yourself. Your skin went cold, but you followed him into the next room where he put the dish on the table and gestured for you to sit.

“You don’t seem to hate me anymore,” You mumbled.

“I never said I hated you, just that I don’t like you,”

“Well, you don’t seem to not like me either,”

He blinked at you and sat across the table from you.

“Where are you going today?” You said with a mouthful of food, “To do mysterious things, I imagine,”

“I was going to stay here today, actually.”

You stopped eating.

“I finished my mysterious duties,” He mocked.

Well, he wasn’t going to budge on where he’d been going the past few nights, but that wasn’t particularly important right now. What caught your attention was that he was staying here for the day. Again, meaningless to most people, but with him, it was surprising.

He began snickering, just at your face.

“I was never the one that hated you,” He laughed, “You were the one who brandished that poker at me,”

Your face flushed red with embarrassment, “I can be resourceful, at least,”

He continued to laugh at you, the absurdity of the situation hitting him with full force. Right now you wished you could hit him with full force.

“Alright, alright,” He took a deep breath, “I do have some questions for you,”

You looked up at him, annoyance plastered on your face.

“Shoot,”

“Why are you here instead of Las Nevadas?”

“Because Quackity kicked me out, and-“

“How did you know I made you breakfast?” He cut you off.

“I asked Phil, but-“

“Why did Quackity kick you out?”

“I asked him too many questions, just-“

“Do you still hold any loyalty to him?”

“No, but-“

“Questionnaire over, thank you for participating,” He stood up and excused himself from the table, heading back to the kitchen.

Techno never left again after that. He stuck around and made an effort to make you annoyed and uncomfortable every chance he could get. It was becoming a sort of game with him, and you were more than happy to play along. It made it easier to get along with him in general. There’d be no more dreading seeing him, no more awkwardness surrounding your avoidance.

Now, you had other things to be awkward about. If you passed each other a bit too close in a doorway, when you tripped over a rug in the living room, the fact that you were sleeping in his bed, the abrupt flirtatious nature of the man you were now sharing a room with.

You never really thought about it, but before he moved back into his room onto a makeshift bed, he’d been sleeping on the couch. He’d wake you early in the morning when he’d get up to make breakfast, and whenever he did leave to run errands, he’d wake you late at night when he came home.

One morning, around eight, he woke you purposefully.

“Get dressed, I want to show you something,” he whispered, gently shaking you.

You groggily complied and eventually found your way to the front door where he was waiting for you.

“No breakfast?” You asked.

“Breakfast after,” He said, opening the door.

He was dressed in his usual clothes, but he carried a large satchel with him. Inside were different scraps of leftover meat and some bones. He didn’t tell you what for, but you were too tired to ask anyway.

You followed him through the fresh snow, crunching under your feet. It was drowned out by mindless conversation that you both kept up to stay awake. He brought you to a distant hill in a clearing, where a cliffside was awaiting. The conversation stopped as he told you to wait, and he went over to the wall and pressed a rock into the stone.

You could faintly hear the sound of pistons firing before the rock slid down slotted into the floor.

The sound of dogs barking filled the forest as hundreds of dogs and puppies spilt out of the entrance. Most of them went running to Techno, who was now holding the bag aloft, out of reach from the dogs. Some of them ran to you, their tails wagging happily at their new potential playmate.

“Pretty cool, huh?” He shouted.

“Holy-“ You stopped and pet the large, black dog that jumped on you, “Where’d you get so many dogs?”

“Long story,” He began to throw chunks of meat into the writhing pile of hounds, who were now obsessively sniffing you.

“I do this three times a week,” he said as he made his way over to you, “It’d get done a lot faster if you could help now that you’re living here full-time,”

“Wait,” You looked at him blankly, “Full-time?”

“That’s the idea,”

You thought for a moment, “Where am I going to sleep?”

“We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it,” he said, handing you some chunks of meat to throw.

By the time Techno’s bag was empty, it was almost noon. He shephered them back into the cavern and shut the door behind them. They were very well trained, when he commanded them all to sit once they got inside, there was no hesitation. The puppies were confused at first, but they followed along with the pack flawlessly.

Leaving the clearing, you talked with him freely about your plans for the future at the cabin. It didn’t mean you’d live there forever, knowing Techno, he might end up being hunted out of the tundra eventually. But for now, you were sticking with him.

It was strsnge to think that you were once mortal enemies, staring each other down on the battlefield with nothing but rage coursing through your veins. Now, you were cheerily chatting about what it would be like to settle down together. Between the two of you, mutual feelings of respect and redemption. The distrust was long since buried.

#c!techno x reader #c!technoblade x reader #techno x reader #technoblade #technoblade x reader #techno dsmp #dsmp x reader #dream smp #dsmp #mcyt x reader #mcyt #eli exile #elias original

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lovely-jily · 3 years

Text

hi warning i cried while writing this, but don't be mad at me because i'm just giving you more content for your therapy session!

im sorry in advance

James's lips were soft against Lily's, his touch just as gentle. He gingerly held one hand on her back while the other rested in the back of her head, entangled in her fiery hair.

They got together in mid September , and James fell just as the leaves did as the weather turned colder. Something about her made him forget about the war going on, about all the evil that was not only present in the world but was targeting her specifically. She brightened up the dark and heavy world that was brewing outside the walls of Hogwarts. Even when one of her neighbours, a muggle family, was found dead over Christmas.

They were sitting side by side on the couch in the Head's office, firelight dancing around the walls. They had long given up on their paperwork and instead got to work on each other, something they had done too often nowadays.

Her hands were rested on his jaw and entangled in his curls, grasping as Lily increased passion.

James, feeling rather excited as the 17-year-old would be, brought his hand to her cheek. It was soft and... And wet?

Immediately he pulled away, glancing at her face. It was flushed and sticky with tears, causing James's heart to drop to his stomach. She had been silently crying. Hard.

"Hey, what's going on?" He asked, voice filled with concern. This seemed to come on suddenly, as they had only been kissing a couple minutes. Moments before they were having their usual friendly banter, joking about who did the most work between the two. They hadn't mentioned anything of the war or the loss of her neighbours, which had of course that loss left a cold pit of fear inside both of them. While it had only been a month, Lily said she stopped having nightmares. If she was still upset to the point of tears, she hadn't let on.

James felt stupid. It would certainly still be affecting her immensely; how could it not? Her back was stained with a muggle-born shaped target, and he knew she couldn't ever feel safe as long as the war brewed on, killing muggle-borns and blood traitors alike.

She turned her face away as he tried to reach for her face, urgently wiping at her eyes and cheeks and sniffing, "It's nothing."

She faced him, a small smile forcing the corners upwards on the lips James was just kissing. She reached for him, but he grabbed her wrists and pushed her back gently.

"Lils, what's going on? Don't even attempt to tell me that it's nothing," His voice was low and soft, the concern pulling his eyebrows together. His expression was struck with worry, and this was precisely what she was afraid of.

"I don't want to worry you," She looked down, voice barely loud enough to hear. She then looked up at her, green eyes swimming with tears, "We do too much of that."

"Lily, you can't make that decision for me. Besides," He gently cupped her face in his hands, pushing away the strands of hair that were stuck in her tears, "Whether you want me to or not, I spend every waking moment worrying about you. You might as well make it easier on me and tell me exactly what I should be worrying about instead of me trying to guess."

She chuckled softly and leaned into his touch, bringing her hands to his forearms. She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, before sadness overtook her face again.

"I'm afraid," She said, taking a sharp and shaky inhale, clearly failing at calming herself down.

"Of course you are," James said, pulling her into his lap and stroking her hair, "I would find it strange if you weren't."

"No, James," She pushed back slightly, looking at him with tearful eyes, "I just-"

Her voice choked up, and she let out a harsh sob.

Watching this was horrendously painful to James. The love of his life was breaking down in front of him, and there was nothing he could do about it.

"You just what?"

"I've just spent so much of my life hating you, and it breaks my heart because what if-" She let out another sob as the tears started to fall, moving her hands to his face, "What if something happens and I end up spending more time hating you than I did loving you."

The lump in James's throat grew as the words found their way into his chest, stabbing into his heart. What was full of so much love just moments ago now felt damaged and cracked, all its contents leaking out of it.

She didn't say anything either and simply buried her head into the nape of his neck. There she sobbed heavily, wrapping her arms around him and grasping tightly at his shoulders.

James held her tightly as a tear fell down his cheek. The world was vile, cruel, and unfair for several reasons, but the only thing he could think about was how angry he was at it for making her feel this way. She was days away from being eighteen. She should be worried about her N.E.W.T'S, not their lives.

James let out a deep breath he didn't realize he was holding. He could be angry later. This moment wasn't about him.

"You know you can't think like that," He said quietly, the words feeling as heavy outside of his mouth as they were inside. He knew that they were pointless. Nothing he could say or do would make her feel better, and that's the things James hated the most. There wasn't anything James wouldn't do for the people he loved, especially Lily. He had long since decided that if he was going to die in this war, it would be for the people he loved.

"I know," She said into his neck, sniffing softly. She wasn't crying as hard now and her breath was starting to steady, "But how can I not?"

James looked up at the ceiling, fighting for the right words. She was right. He'd be lying if he hadn't thought of similar things. He'd be lying if he said he didn't wake up sweaty and panicked after dreaming about losing her.

He inhaled and tried his best to give her some real and honest hope.

"We both know that I can't promise you lots, and I can't promise you that nothing terrible will ever happen," He started, receiving a shaky sob from Lily that gutted him, "But I can promise you that I will spend every second of every day fighting my damn near hardest, just for the smallest chance that I could spend the rest of my life with you."

Lily looked up at him, her bottom lip stopped quivering and she let out a soft, sad smile that she used to kiss him gently. James was crying too at this point, overwhelmed by love and sadness alike.

"I love you, James," She said quietly, her smile was softer now, looking a little more hopeful despite the lingering sadness in her emerald eyes.

"I love you more."

She took a shaky breath and said softly, "Let's try our best to move on, yeah?"

It was her turn to gingerly wipe his tears. She had stopped crying and held his gaze, love pouring from her green to his hazel before she softly kissed his damp cheeks.

"Nothing good comes from dwelling on the past. We can't change it, as hard as we may try."

He nodded and squeezed her tightly as she kissed him again, hands on his face.

They slept on the couch that night, holding each other a little tighter than they usually did.

We now know that Lily's worst fears came true, and that James more than perfectly fulfilled his promise, but it's important to note that Lily loved James so much more than she ever hated him. And to them, that's what mattered.

#sorry he he #i'll give you some fluff soon i promise

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sisterspooky1013 · 3 years

Text

Better Than Sex

Author: SisterSpooky1013

Rating: Teen and up

Words: 1666

Tagging: @today-in-fic

Read it on AO3

“Better Than Sex Cake” Mulder read aloud from the menu before looking across the table at Scully with his eyebrows raised in question.

They had just concluded an evening traipsing through an (alleged) actual ghost town, though no signs of ghosts were to be seen. Just a lot of graffiti, dirty mattresses and a used condom or two. Now they were sitting at the first diner they came across, Mo’s Café, and Mulder was considering the sex cake.

“Knock yourself out, Mulder, I’m sticking to coffee.”

“You aren’t curious as to whether this cake is, in fact, better than sex?”

“Well I’m sure it’s better than bad sex, but if it were better than great sex the population would die out because everyone would skip procreating and just eat cake.”

Mulder considered her statement. “Isn’t ‘bad sex’ somewhat of an oxymoron?”

She gave him an incredulous look. “Are you being serious?”

Now it was his turn to look incredulous. “The only bad sex is no sex, as far as I’m concerned.”

Scully shook her head ruefully. “Must be nice to be a man.”

Just then the waitress came by to take their order. Scully requested coffee and dry toast, while Mulder opted for coffee and the aforementioned sex cake. After she collected their menus and retreated to the kitchen, Mulder eyed Scully appraisingly, gaging her mood. Sometimes she was open and willing to talk about things of a personal or private nature, other times she kept her lips as tight as a steel trap. He suspected he might have a chatty Scully on his hands, and didn’t want to waste the opportunity.

“So, if I’m understanding correctly, Scully, there would be a circumstance under which you would choose a piece of cake over sex?”

She screwed up her mouth a little, not in consideration of how to answer the question, but whether to answer it at all. “Depends who the sex is with, I suppose, but yes, I could think of a few times where cake would have been a more enjoyable option.”

“Hm” was his only reply as he sat back against the seat of the booth, absorbing this information.

“Are you saying you’ve never had sex that was subpar enough that cake would have been better?”

He pulled in a deep breath and looked to the ceiling briefly, and she could imagine him running through his mental file of sexual encounters. “I don’t think so, no.”

“Is it wrong that I feel compelled to kick you right now?” She asked, just a hint of playfulness in her voice.

He laughed.“I’m not saying that every single time was Oscar-worthy, but even the worst was still better than some flour and butter.”

“And they say male privilege isn’t real” she deadpanned as the waitress came by to present them with two coffees, cake, toast and a tray of sugar and cream. She mixed the accoutrements into her cup while Mulder sipped his black, followed by a bite of the cake, which looked like a basic white cake with some kind of custard and whipped cream on top.

“This is pretty good, though I can’t say it lives up to its name” he said around the food in his mouth, pushing the plate towards her and holding out the fork suggestively. She took it and stabbed a small bite, meeting Mulder’s eye as she pulled the tines from between her lips. It was good, as most cake is, but nothing to write home about.

“Well?” He asked expectantly.

“Well what? She returned, wiping her finger at the corners of her mouth.

“Is it better than sex?”

She paused before answering, knowing that Mulder was going to keep picking at this until it got uncomfortable. He liked to do that, to see how far he could get her to go before she blushed and demanded they change the subject. He took immense pleasure in making her squirm, and even more in getting her to reveal something personal that he normally wouldn’t be privy to. Sometimes, she had as much fun indulging him as he did in goading her. She wasn’t above sharing something that she knew would shock him, just so she could see the look on his face. She liked that she could still surprise him.

“Not better than all sex, but certainly better than some of the sex I’ve had, regrettably.”

“What would make sex so bad that cake is better? I must know.”

“I think you can use your imagination, Mulder.”

“Come on, Scully, you could be saving some poor woman from ‘worse than cake’ sex with me in the future. Consider it an act of charity.”

She shook her head at him, but couldn’t hide the smile that tugged at her lips.

“Your answer lies in that drawer full of tapes that aren’t yours, Mulder.”

“How’s that?”

“Let’s see, sex starts when the man presents his erection and ends when he ejaculates. The woman howls like an animal no matter what he’s doing, though her orgasm is never mentioned. There is no foreplay. Would you like me to continue?”

He swallowed a mouthful of coffee he’d been holding, afraid he might choke. He’d never heard her speak so openly about sex before, especially not sex she had personally experienced, and though he’d been the one who initiated the conversation he was suddenly afraid he was going to have to walk out of this diner trying to hide a bulge in his slacks.

“Fair enough, Scully, but porn isn’t real. It’s like an action movie. No one actually hangs off the skids of a helicopter mid-air, it’s just fun to watch.”

“I’m glad to hear that you’re aware of that, Mulder, and I would implore you to spread the news to the rest of the male populace.” She punctuated her statement with a loud crunch into her toast.

Mulder’s mouth fell open slightly as he studied her, trying to tell if she was joking or embellishing.

“People really do that? Have sex like they do in porn? Men you’ve slept with?”

She rolled her eyes. “Mulder, if you’re going to sit here and tell me that you have never done that, even as a young man, I’ll have to call BS.”

He put his hands up in defense. “I’m not saying I emerged from puberty as Don Juan, but I don’t recall ever not being invested in my partner’s experience. I’m sure my skills were lacking at the outset, but I always tried.”

She looked at him derisively from under her eyelashes. “Well then, you really should get out there more, Mulder. Share your gift with the world.” Her voice was laden with sarcasm.

He laughed and ran his hand over the back of his neck. “How am I coming out to be the bad guy, here Scully? I’m not the one who gave you a ‘worse than cake’ lay.”

She smiled at him but her tone remained facetious “of course not, you’ve demonstrated that your skills in this area are unparalleled.”

“Damn straight!” He said with a slap of his palm on the table, and they both erupted into laughter.

They held eye contact as the laughter subsided, awkwardness descending over the conversation. He had made reference to the two of them having sex, which was a topic he’d only made innuendo about, never mentioned directly. Trying to break the tension, Scully finally spoke.

“Well, I guess you can see why I don’t bother dating.”

“I guess I can” he replied, swiping the last crumbs of cake off the plate with his finger.

“Why don’t you date, Mulder?” His expression registered surprise. “Or do you? I don’t want to be presumptuous.” She felt a pit in her belly at the idea that he may actually have a secret love life.

“No” he spat out, chuckling a little. “No, I definitely don’t date. It’s just too complicated I guess. I’m kind of a serial monogamist anyway.”

“Really?” Now it was her turn to be surprised.

“Yeah, for the most part. I’ve had a couple flings, but the vast majority of the women I’ve slept with I was in a relationship with. The emotional aspect is important for me.”

She studied him, imagining a version of Mulder who would be so considerate and giving. She didn’t need to imagine it, really, she’d seen it. While he was capable of being selfish and obtuse, he had also been incredibly tender and caring with her on many occasions. He had certainly shown a proclivity towards chivalry; opening doors for her, walking closer to traffic on the sidewalk, helping her into her coat or holding an umbrella for her. The idea that such gestures would extend into the bedroom was logical, but it still set off a stirring in her belly. In what other ways might he be so attentive to her needs? She swallowed the last of her coffee and tried not to think about it. Maybe later, but not here. Not now.

“Well, I hate to state the obvious here, Scully, but I don’t think you’re going to happen across the guy that will give you a 5-star experience if you never put yourself out there.” As soon as the words left his mouth he wanted to kick himself; why the fuck was he encouraging her sleeping with other people?

She smiled demurely and shrugged “for now I get my thrills from ghost busting and the occasional slice of really good cake.”

He bobbed his head and smiled back, pulling out his wallet and setting his bureau credit card on the tabletop.

In truth, she had already happened across that guy. He was sitting in front of her at a shitty diner in the middle of nowhere. And while she hoped that she may enjoy that 5 star experience in the future, for now just being in his presence, laughing and seeking the answers to the mysteries of the universe together, that was better than sex.

#the x files #txf #dana scully #fox mulder #gillovny #msr #sculder #xf fanfic

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pomegranates-and-blood · 3 years

Text

νοσταλγία (Chapter 44)

νοσταλγία Masterlist

Pairing: Ivar/Reader

Word Count: 4.7k

Warnings: The usual.

A/N: Hi, hope you like this! Ik I still have a winter blurb request to get to, I’ll probably post it sometime during the week. Thank you!

Btw, ‘mḗtēr’ is Ancient Greek for mother, and barley is a symbol of Demeter. :)

You are sitting on your bed, already dressed for the night, when Ivar comes into your bedroom.

You lift your gaze from your failed attempts at embroidery patterns that Thora makes look so damn easy, and watch Ivar walk closer, his free hand reaching to tug off the cloak over his shoulders.

You don’t miss the angry way he takes it off, or the stronger-than-needed stabs of his crutch against the ground.

He sits down before you on the bed, and you do not hesitate to move close, your legs on either side of him as you rest your brow between his shoulder blades, enjoying the familiar movements of his back as he starts to work on the braces of his legs.

Your arm wrapped around his torso, you let your hand travel up and down his stomach, smiling when he reaches back to put a heavy hand on your leg.

“Will you tell me what is wrong?” You prompt.

“Jarl Olavson was defeated.” He tells you curtly. Your hand stills, and so does your breath.

“Defeated?”

“Yes, defeated,” Ivar bites out, a movement of his head as his shoulders rise and fall with an angry breath. “Considering how we met, you should be very familiar with defeat.”

“Hey,” You chastise, tugging on his hair as reprimand. After a moment, he breathes out through his nose, and his hand tightens on your leg. You take it as an apology, certain none will actually leave his lips. “By whom?

Ivar doesn’t answer.

He should know by now that he says as much with his silences as he does with his words.

If it were King Alfred’s army, he would tell you. If it were any other Vikings that were somehow stupid enough to battle Ivar’s lieutenant in York and lucky enough to defeat him, he would tell you.

He wouldn’t tell you if it were the man he admitted to having in chains and on a moment of irrational impulsiveness, he let go free.

“How did he win? I would think he didn’t have the numbers after Strepshire.”

“He didn’t, not then,” He accepts, finishing taking off the braces of his legs. “But he does now.”

“Do you think his King aids him now?”

“No, it wasn’t Alfred’s army. We would have known if it were.”

You swallow down the pit of worry in your stomach, and move back on the bed, settling under the covers and waiting for your husband to join you.

He does soon after, discarding his shirt without a care for the cold that still bites, and -for reasons beyond the obvious ones- you keep your eyes on him.

You watch as he grabs a fistful of the pants’ fabric to move his legs, and you cannot help but notice the furrow between his brows, you watch his wrist expertly trapped in the chains that dangle above the bed as he settles for bed and you cannot help but linger on the tension that strains his shoulders.

If Stithulf managed to grow in power in such a way during the winter, enough to defeat the commander of York’s forces, most likely forcing him to retreat to the formerly Saxon city, then…even if neither of you would like to admit it, it is Ivar’s fault, and maybe yours.

Ivar let Stithulf go because of the deal you have made, because he wanted more time. Before he left you had to bite your tongue to keep yourself from requesting that of him, and you didn’t bite it when it came time to ask the Gods for the same thing.

And now, warm under the covers and laying on your side as your Ivar lays by your side on his back, pale eyes searching the nothingness of the space above him, you feel the tinge of worry, of regret.

You ran from Fate once, when you decided to go to Eleusis even while aware that the Gods -your own or others, you aren’t yet sure which- summoned you to Scandinavia; and you burned for it. You fought, and you lost, and you died.

You dread to think maybe you ran, maybe Ivar ran.

“Their movements, their…formations,” He stops himself, a twitch of irritation in his nose as he debates with himself whether to speak or not. “They don’t fight like Saxons.”

“They never did,” You offer, quietly. “And if you are right, and most of the Arabs survived…”

He shakes his head, sitting up on the bed once again. You take a moment to watch the outline of him bathed in the low and warm light of the dim fires, before you sit up as well, shuffling closer and bending your legs underneath you.

“It is more than that, it isn’t just the foreigners,” His words die with a frustrated sigh, his left hand closing into a fist before it releases when it doesn’t find the familiar handle of the crutch he can grab tightly onto. Past the clear tell of gritted teeth, he admits, “When we sail back to England, we will be going in blind.”

“You still have time.” You say, but it seems it goes unheard.

“How can I prepare if I can’t…predict him?” He asks, and it isn’t really a question you think he wants an answer to. If he did, all you could offer would be that he would have to fight like the others do, the ones that don’t have his mind that seems to let him get ahead of his enemy’s moves, his eyes that seem to let him foresee his enemy’s plans. But, you don’t say anything, instead resting your chin on his shoulder and letting one of your hands trail down his back. Ivar grits his teeth, and stays silent for a long time. After a while, he turns his head slightly to you, “What would you do?”

“You’re asking me?”

A shrug of the shoulder you’re not resting on, and Ivar offers simply, “Why not?”

“I have never led an army.”

“Your commander did, and he obeyed you.”

You lift your eyebrows, and insist, “He died because of it.”

“I am not planning on doing that,” He clarifies, the beginning of a smile on his lips, “Obeying you, or dying.”

Your eyes narrow at his taunt, and you retort, “Why are you asking me, then?”

“I’m curious.”

“I don’t have any answers. I am not…” You take a breath, and mull over your words before you start again, “One of the things I admired Narses the most far was how he…” A small smile curves at your lips, and you look at the nothingness ahead, somehow able to see clearly in your mind’s eye the cocky smile of the young Strategus as he hooked the spear under his arm and bowed mockingly at you. “He was never caught off guard. He was foolish, and he refused to stick to a plan most of the time, but…with the passing of time I started to think he counted on that, on the lack of a plan. Back in Greece, the battles we won were because of his adaptability, as much as any strategy I could…suggest to him. I insisted on a plan, and he was smart enough to not defy me, s-…”

“I wouldn’t say smart.”

Your lips curve into a smile, and you lift your head off his shoulder to meet his gaze directly. Ivar leans back, falling back on the bed, and you follow, leaning over him as your hand travels up and down his chest.

“What would you say then, love?” You ask, a challenge and something else. You bring yourself closer, “Would you say bewitched?”

You remember being in that small hut in Aneridge, able and willing to forget either of you had names and stories, and daring ask him, are you one to believe Stithulf’s tales that I can bewitch men to their deaths? Blind them and have them follow my every whim?

And, more importantly than that, you remember the way his eyes remained on you, a slow blink as he considered his answer. You remember the tone of his voice that made a shiver run down his spine when he replied, not through magic.

His smile is challenging, mocking, but Ivar shakes his head instead of answering.

“You were speaking of how you won, back in your homeland.”

“He…adapted, a lot. Too often for my liking,” You furrow your nose, and your husband chuckles, his hand warm as it travels up and down the arm you’ve draped over his chest. “My pride kept me from accepting we had to change our tactics, I will admit that. Maybe that arrogance was my downfall.”

Your eyes fall from his, and you almost want to ask, order, don’t let your arrogance be yours.

The words are at the tip of your tongue when the voice of one of Ivar’s guards on the other side of the door startles you.

“Someone is requesting the…the Queen to, uh, meet with them.”

“Is it Rúna’s husband? Is it the baby?” You ask, already scrambling to get out of bed at the mere thought that she is to give birth now. It has been a difficult pregnancy for her, and you’ve given stern orders to her husband to come to you when the time comes for her to deliver.

“No, uh…your mother, my Queen.”

The air is knocked out of you with those words, and you stand unmoving for a few breaths too long. You feel the cold of the floor seeping into your very bones through your bare feet, but you feel rooted to the ground.

A quiet call of your name, and you turn wide eyes to Ivar. He searches your gaze, a strange sort of hesitation in his expression that is probably born out of whatever he sees in yours, and he says your name again.

You blink, swallowing hard.

“Go to her.”

You nod your head, but don’t move for a couple of heartbeats, until you have the cold startle you into movement. Wrapping the robe over your nightdress, you slip into your shoes and step out.

Letting the two guards lead the way to one of the back rooms of the -now deserted- longhouse, you try deciphering if what runs through your veins right now is thrill or dread.

Sieghild stands tall by one of the stone pit fires near that are lined up near the walls, surrounded by seats; her shield not at her back but, as always, close to her. At the sound of your steps, she turns around, the same almost-crooked smile on her face, the familiar face with traces of ink in the shape of the roots of Yggdrasil, the same green eyes of your childhood.

You stumble over your own feet as you run to her, and never before have you felt as time disappeared and you were suddenly a child again as you do then.

“Mḗtēr!”

Sieghild embraces you tightly, with the desperation of having thought you lost forever, the relief at having you back, the anger at your disappearance; strong arms wrapped around you and lifting you a bit off the ground. You breathe a relieved laugh that sounds like a sob, your own arms wrapped as strongly as you can around your mother.

“Little one, you are alright, you are alright.” She whispers, and even if she talks to her own fears and not you, you still nod against her shoulder.

“I thought you were-…”

“I am here, child. The Gods wouldn’t call me to Valhalla while you still need me.”

You look into familiar green eyes and offer a helpless shrug, “I’ll always need you.”

“Then I shall always be here.” She promises, pressing a kiss against your forehead like she did when you were a child.

But you weren’t, your heart bitterly wants to say, words you keep at bay by biting your own tongue.

For now, you close your eyes at the rough touch of Sieghild’s battle-worn hands on the sides of your face, you let her brow press against yours and the familiar scent of iron and the always underlying scent of those fields of barley you would run through with her as a child.

When you step back, you feel the months-old anger come back, you feel the uncertainty and resentment settle over you like a warm cloak, and you meet Sieghild’s eyes, unwavering.

“I would like a word with my mother.” You state, keeping your gaze on her. You watch as our mother watches the people leave the room, watching out of the corner of her eye as the last of the men closes the door behind him.

She turns to you with a smile that is in part mocking and in part proud.

“I always did say you were Fated to rule, did I not?”

Many times she told you that, usually angrily, when what she stubbornly calls your ‘Athenian nobility’ shines through.

Galla spares you a glance out of the corner of her eye, the faintest quirk of a smile on her lips, her words a tease and something else as she quips, “Born with a crown on her head, this one.”

Many others have implied the same, sometimes in praise and often in reprimand.

Ivar meets your eyes, an unwavering edge to his madness, a darkness to the curve of his smile, as he promises, “Don’t lie to me, Priestess. You were made to rule, to command. Don’t pretend otherwise with me.”

You shake your head, “Fate has nothing to do with it.”

“Doesn’t it?” She retorts, but it isn’t a question she expects an answer to. Instead, the shieldmaiden strides to the seats by the dimmest hearth in the room. She always has done that, ever since Eleusis, making sure you aren’t near open flames that make your skin crawl.

You walk to her, hands folded in front of you, and take a seat before her.

“You gave me up. You arranged for me to marry Ivar, and you never told me.”

A deep breath, like she was expecting this, and Sieghild leans back, a hard nod of her head.

“I did,” She offers no other explanation for a few moments, before adding, “I had my reasons.”

“Which are?”

Her eyes narrow as she looks you over, a quirk in her mouth that speaks not of a smile but of something wilder, and Sieghild’s voice is icy when she asks,

“Who do you think you are, to demand anything from me?”

Your answer is unwavering, and you don’t even think twice about the words that are to leave your lips, “Your daughter.”

Sieghild holds your gaze for a few breaths, before looking away with a grunt and the clear tell of gritted teeth. She was expecting something else out of your answer, the years alongside her let you see that in that small gesture.

A twitch in her nose, furrowed for only a moment, and Sieghild offers, voice unusually quiet,

“I told you since you were a child about the path the Gods, yours or maybe mine, had woven for you,” Green eyes pierce into yours, and for a moment you are saying goodbye again, in the outskirts of Aneridge and by the gates of Eleusis. She swallows, and continues, “You ran once, and I lost you, I had to leave you behind and let those damned Christians burn you alive. I couldn’t let you run again.”

“That is why you asked me,” You state, not even a question. The night she left you behind on the edge of that forest plays behind your closed lids with striking vibrance. “You took me there and told me we were at a crossroads, the…the world between worlds. I chose to stay.”

“It was Fate you did so.” She retorts with a sigh.

And that word grates at your ears. It always has, ever since you have had memory.

Your eyes fall shut, and you take a deep breath to remain calm.

“You know, with time passing I had forgotten how much I hate that word leaving your lips,” You grumble, mostly to yourself. Sieghild still chuckles, but it is dimmer than usual. The errant thought that maybe you don’t know what the usual is for your mother anymore crosses your head, but you dismiss it easily enough. Finding your strength, your anger, you meet her gaze and with your head held high you insist, “You cannot hide behind Fate, mother.”

For all the times she has accused you of your own fair share of arrogance, few times she has admitted you take after her in that regard. Now, more than any other time, her own arrogance, her own pride, are apparent in the way she bristles at your words, suddenly sitting straighter.

“I don’t hide, little one. You know that.”

You shake your head, at her resolve, at her unwavering certainties, at her abandonment. Your eyes wide, you lift a hand and point a finger at her, too late realizing that is a gesture you have seen often in the man you married.

“Fate didn’t chain me to Ivar’s side until you made a deal with him!” Your voice thunders at the same time it breaks and you do not care. Your lip curls into a snarl, or maybe something more fragile, something more broken. “You fulfilled what you were told was Fate, because you believed it was inescapable.”

“And you stayed behind to die in Eleusis because you wanted to fight Fate,” She retorts, green eyes blazing. “How is that any different?”

“It was my choice.”

“And it was my choice to send you to Kattegat.”

You hate the way your lower lip trembles, the way sorrow wants to overpower pride, and succeeds.

You furrow your lips, raising your chin as you insist, “You abandoned me.”

“I did what I should have when you were younger. I saved you.”

Your nails dig into your palms, and you stand up. The chair makes a horrible sound against the wooden floor, and you pace away from the table, shaking your head to yourself.

Your mother follows you with a challenge shining in her green gaze.

“You didn’t save me.”

“You are alive, you are safe. I wouldn’t ask for anything more.” She crosses broad arms over her chest, head titled to the side.

You feel your lip curling into a snarl, your hands trembling at your sides as the anger that burns in your blood demands you do something.

Voice thundering, you demand, “I would have!”

“And you would have died for it!” Sieghild barks back, voice rising as well. “You think you would have survived Stithulf if it weren’t for that boy, huh? You think that damn Christian would have kept you alive for much longer?”

You shake your head, feeling like a chastised child under her burning green gaze.

“Ivar isn’t the reason I survived.”

“He kept you safer than I ever could, even if he didn’t realize it, even if you don’t like accepting it, little one,” She retorts, standing and walking closer. “You are arrogant, but you are also smart. You know it is true.”

You shake your head, stepping back.

“You didn’t tell me, you just left me behind in that place, and I-I was alone, and…” Your eyes fall shut and you find yourself almost compulsively twirling your wedding ring as you try finding resolve again. Without opening your eyes, you take a deep breath and ask, “Why come back now?”

“I told you to survive until spring came, I knew we’d be together again after the winter,” She tells you, quietly, almost mournfully. “Even if you hated me, even if you hate me now…what I did, I did for you. To keep you alive, to let you have a future.”

“All my life, I-…” You furrow your lips, consider your words and start again, “You more than anyone knows how important it is for me to be…free. Free to choose, free to…be. You took that from me, you let Ivar take that from me.”

But Sieghild doesn’t falter, even if her eyes give away more than she would like to admit.

“It is a privilege to be able to live life in the way you have, little one. To never have your beating heart be the only thing that you can count on, that you can call your own. The truth is that there is no reason for freedom without life, not the other way around,” Strong arms crossed over her chest, your mother insists, “Between seeing you in chains and seeing you on a grave, I know which I prefer.”

“Does it matter which I prefer?”

Her silence is enough of an answer, and you sit back down on your chair, twirling your wedding ring on your finger. You notice the way your mother’s eyes travel to the movement, but if she has anything to say about it, she keeps it to herself for now.

“When you love someone, someone that you know will go where you cannot follow once death touches them…” She starts, slowly, deliberately. “Is there anything you wouldn’t do to keep them alive? Keep them with you?”

“I never tried keeping you, or anyone, from your dear Valhalla.”

A quirk of her mouth, humorless and challenging, as she sits back down as well, “I taught you to lie, don’t try it with me.”

“I’m not-…”

“Four years ago, on the outskirts of Circe, you did what you had promised you wouldn’t do. Do you remember, little one?”

You bite your lip to keep it from trembling, as you take in your mother’s pale features, “You could have died.”

“And what glorious death it would have been,” Sieghild retorts, not missing a beat. Her smile is wry, tired, but still irrevocably hers. “Better than whatever awaits me in this bed, that’s for sure.”

“You won’t die here either.”

“I better not,” She warns, closing her eyes. You are worried about the sunken look on her face. Your leg bobs up and down anxiously and you feel your fingers fidgeting as you itch to get to work on making something, anything, that will make it better. “To be robbed of a chance to enter Valhalla because my child is too stubborn t-…”

“Valhalla cannot have you yet!” You snap, blinking past the burning in your eyes when Sieghild opens her eyes to meet your gaze. “Your Gods cannot have you yet, I-I need you with me.”

“Of course I remember.” You retort, gritting your teeth. She has always had this infuriating way of hers of deliberately and obviously guiding you with questions to say what she wants you to, to admit what you refuse to.

“What I did was no different. You dragged me from the battlefield and insisted on delaying the inevitable by tending to my wounds, because you didn’t want to lose me. Even if it cost me what I live and fight for, you want-…”

“You Varangians and your glorious deaths,” You groan, rolling your eyes, “You lived. You lived to fight in another battle and die another day.”

“And you lived to see yourself free once more.”

“It is not the same.”

“Explain why, then.”

That gesture, it is the same as the life that once was all you had known, of her routinely throwing a stick your way, smoothing the ground with her boot and demanding an explanation for the newest battle you had witnessed, or the latest historical one that you had been drawn to.

You sigh, tired beyond what you think you could express with words, “Mother.”

Sieghild considers you for a moment, gaze travelling over your features, taking you in as if a stranger. Maybe you are, in some ways.

She softens after a breath, shoulders lowering as she takes a deep breath.

“I…I had a dream, the Gods showed me that when the ground was softened, when the earth thawed, you’d be returned to me. So, I was certain I would find you once spring came.”

There’s a part of you that tries thinking of it all and tries making all the pieces make something that makes sense, and that part whispers that the Gods let Sieghild see that spring would see you returned to her because it was when spring came that you would make your choice, that you would be free to leave Ivar. That part of you has a heart that beats along the cadence of all the prophecies and half-coherent visions that have plagued you and others, that part of you feels like blind eyes looking directly into yours and bloodstained lips whispering you will not find your belonging amongst flowers.

But that part of you is trying to accept a world where somehow what has happened, what you have lost and what you have suffered, has a reason. It cannot have a reason, it cannot be inevitable.

So, you search your mother’s gaze and ask,

“Why spring?”

“We can set sail away from here now that the season allows it,” She replies easily, and you lean back in your seat, irrationally stunned. Sieghild raises her brows, “Have you already forgotten all that was keeping you here was the harshness of winter?” Your eyes lower from hers, and Sieghild takes a breath, “Ah, but it isn’t the season what keeps you here now.”

You shrug, reaching for the bread and picking out a piece with your fingers as you mumble, “You were the one to tell me all my life that my Fate lied in Kattegat.”

“Many would say your Fate is to fight for Greece.”

You lift your gaze to hers, head tilted to the side.

“My Fate would be to rule over it,” You correct her, and the lines on your mother’s face deepen when she smiles. “But I have no interest in doing so.”

Sieghild looks you over, green eyes shining with something you could swear looks like pride. Eventually she leans back, an arm stretched over the back of her seat and her head tilted to the side.

“You will be staying in Kattegat then?”

You bring the piece of bread to your mouth, offering another shrug, “It is my home.”

“Kattegat is?” She drawls out the words, lifting her brows. Your eyes narrow as you are put on the spot, and there is no hiding the bite in your tone when you ask,

“Why do you ask questions you know the answer to?”

Your mother shrugs, “It entertains me.”

There’s a sigh making its way past your lips before you can stop it, an exasperated but fond one. In the look you and Sieghild share there are more words than either of you would ever dare to say aloud, and you lean back in your seat, picking another piece of the bread.

“Where were you all this time?”

“With King Angantyr of the Black Danes, mostly,” She chuckles to herself, “All the way in England they speak of Ivar the Boneless’ witch, you know.”

“As long as men have tongues to speak, they will speak lies,” You offer around a shrug, words that were of someone you met along the Silk Roads, and though you do not remember their face, you remember their wisdom, and you know your mother does too. Still, she narrows her eyes, almost suspicious, and you clarify, “I am no witch, mother.”

“But you are his.” She sentences.

“Only because he is mine as well.”

Her eyes shine with a glint you haven’t seen in years when she smiles, and you find yourself smiling back, heart lighter.

After a breath, your mother leans forward and quietly asks, “Do you trust him?”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“Of course I do.”

The shieldmaiden nods once, and takes a deep breath, “We have matters of war to discuss then, you and I. Your husband too.”

You frown, and when she stands up you do the same. Your mother simply starts walking, long strides towards the front of the longhouse. You scramble to catch up, asking questions as you go,

“What? Why?”

“I had a plan, you see. I didn’t come to Kattegat now on a whim.”

“You are hiding something.”

“Not for long. I had counted on using this…information to our advantage if you were to decide to leave, but…” She looks at you out of the corner of her eye, “Plans change, little one.”

____ ____ ____

Thank you for reading, hope you liked it!

I have a lot of fun writing Sieghild, she’s like the Priestess without the snobbiness lol. Main example of how much fun I have writing her being the length of this chapter lol, sorry. But yeah, they had (have) a lot of things to work through, though they are, much like the Reader and Freydis, on very different world perceptions when it comes to the issues they’ve discussed, so ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Taglist: @youbloodymadgenius @heavenly1927 @toe-vind-ek-jou @xbellaxcarolinax @angelofthorr @samsationalwilson @peachyboneless @1950schick @punkrocknpearls @ietss @itsmysticalmystery @revolution-starter @the-a-word-2214 @fae-sedai @crazybunnyladysworld @funmadnessandbadassvikings @stupiddarkkside @aprilivar @msrawog

#ivar the boneless x reader #ivar the boneless imagine #ivar x reader #ivar the boneless #ivar #νοσταλγία masterlist

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comfyswitcherblanketfort · 4 years

Note

Hello, sweetheart! I have a prompt for you ❤️ Geralt has chronic pains since the mutations. Sometimes he can't get up, because everything hurts so much. Sometimes he does not eat for days (weeks...), because he cannot go out hunting. As the years have passed, he has managed to mask the pain on his face. Nobody needs to know. His brothers have already looked for a cure, but the potions only ease the pain for a few hours. +

+ When Jaskier started following the witcher on the path, whenever the pain became unbearable, Geralt told him that he had picked up a contract. A contract that would perhaps take days. And then he went into the forest as far away as possible, so that no one would be able to hear his cries of pain.+

+Jaskier knew he was lying. But he just didn't know what he was lying about. Until one day, tired of this situation (he's his best friend, for God's sake!), Jaskier decides to go after Geralt and find out what's going on. You can change anything you want ❤️

BAAAAAAABBBBEEEE

listen I lived the chronic pain life for a while and if someone would have just told me to shut the fuck up and confront the problem things would have been WAY easier lmao

Warnings: Lots of swearing. ye ole self-depreciation. chronic pain.

__________

His back had ached for the last six decades; this sort of twisting torment was nothing new. His second round of trials had induced horrible spasms and, according to Vessimir, Geralt had broken the restraints usually used for young witchers and damn near writhed off the table before the sorcerers had restrained him. He hadn’t had a good night’s sleep in sixty years because of it.

Eskel and Lambert had sourced out different potions and spells over the years, sometimes putting him under Axi just so he can sleep despite his body, but with the extra mutations came heightened adaptability. If he took any potion too frequently it stopped working, used any spell too often it would barely touch him. While this made his job much easier, and much safer, he was in a never-ending nightmare of shooting and radiating stabbing pain emanating from various points in his spine. It was worse than any stab wound or monster bite he’d ever endured on the bad days, a dull throb on the good days.

Traveling with Jaskier was surprisingly helpful in this aspect. He made it easier to get rooms with real beds and didn’t care that Geralt’s limbs draped over him in the only comfortable sleeping position he could find most nights. He insisted on getting Geralt hot baths he would never be offered on his own and once blackmailed someone into letting Geralt into a sauna. Of course, Geralt had never told him, there was no point, but having an advocate when he couldn’t, or wouldn’t, defend himself was nice.

However, as with most things in Geralt’s life, things eventually went to shit. A fall off a two-story roof chasing a vampire the week before had depleted the few potions Eskel had scrounged up for him last they spoke and, bed or no bed, there was no way Geralt could stay with the bard and pretend he was fine. The longer he tried the more explosive his behavior, and well that wasn’t fair was it?

He had gotten up early, before the pain had time to settle in the pit of his stomach and make him nauseous, to head off to the foothills. Giving Jaskier a lie about a contract a town over and meeting up later, he headed to collect Roach and disappear.

Mounting was a miserable affair, even with a hay bail to help him up. His leg nearly gave out from what felt like one of Yennefer’s electric shocks running the length of the limb before he had the bulk of his weight over the saddle. But once he was on, he was relatively fine. Not trotting fine, but comfortable enough to go at a steady pace out of town without groaning or screwing up his face in agony. It wouldn’t do to scare the townsfolk if he wanted to come back and collect his bard.

He let Roach meander as far as she wanted off the road running parallel to a stream, letting her choose where they’d be camping for the night once they were far enough from civilization.

He hated doing this, letting his guard down and in the wilderness no less, but he was holding himself upright on the pommel by the time Roach found a sandy bank next to the stream. He practically fell out of the saddle, unbuckling the girth and giving its bulk just enough of a tug to let it fall off the mare’s back. Even the little effort put into untacking was agony, but he needed his bedroll off the saddle and Roach needed a break. He collected the wood he would need for a fire before he let himself rest, knowing that as soon as he stopped moving the muscles would tighten and cramp up, making it impossible to move until morning.

He was peeling his shirt off ever so gingerly when he heard a twig snap. Dropping the garment back over his shoulders he gingerly turned to peer into the woods in the sound’s direction. If something or someone came upon him now he was at their mercy unless he could muster enough energy for a sign.

“A contract, huh?” Jaskier stepped out of the treeline with his arms crossed and a surprisingly parental look of disappointment on his face.

Geralt relaxed a little, plastering the mask of calm on his face as he got back to tugging his shirt over his head, “You followed me?”

Jaskier deflated, dropping his bag and lute next to Roach’s tack as he moved to help Geralt out of his clothes, “I knew you were hiding something from me, but this? Geralt? How long have you been injured?”

The witcher laughed, wincing at the dull ache through his entire torso from the previous effort of keeping himself in the saddle, “Half a century? Give or take.”

“What?” Jaskier sounded offended, why was he offended?

Geralt just grunted, clenching his jaw to keep from yelling as he stood and waded into the stream of snowmelt. All the air left his lungs when he lowered himself into the freezing water, but as it lapped over his back and sometimes even his shoulders he felt a small bit of relief. Being able to lean back a bit and be supported by the current was almost intoxicating after all his muscles had nearly turned to stone over the course of the week.

Jaskier was now standing at the bank with his arms crossed and a look of fury on his face, “I’m your best fucking friend- don’t look at me like that we’re using the ‘f’ word today- and you tried to hide a debilitating long-term injury? Geralt what the fuck?”

“I didn’t want to bother you.” Geralt huffed, doing his best not to get angry. He hurt and he was vulnerable and Jaskier was using the ‘f’ word and getting his hopes up.

“Oh shove it up your arse. You make everything else my problem, why not this?” Jaskier was on the verge of yelling and Geralt still couldn’t figure out why.

Geralt stared forward in silence, calmly noting his hands shaking from the cold, or maybe it was the pain, he didn’t really know.

Jaskier swore and turned to rummage through their things, arranging and rearranging things as he waited for Geralt to get out.

However, Geralt didn’t want to get out. He wanted to be left alone to be miserable in peace. He wanted to have one fucking day where he didn’t have shooting pain running through most of his body. Long ago he’d given up hope of a day free of pain, now he just wished for an aching sensation rather than this bullshit. He also found he was liking the water. It wasn't as cold as it first was and his breath was coming easier.

Jaskier rolled up his trousers and waded out to the middle of the stream where he sat, “C’mon Geralt, you can’t stay here all night. You’ll die.”

Geralt frowned up at him, “I like it in here. Hurts less.”

“Dumb Fuck, you’re turning blue. Out. Now.” Jaskier held a hand out and Geralt found raising his arm was nearly impossible. He got it about halfway to the bard’s palm before he stalled out, shaking and staring at his hand in horror.

“I- Jask I can’t-”

Jaskier sighed, “You’re damn near hypothermic, here.” He reached down and hauled the witcher out of the stream, ignoring his grunts of pain as he walked him back to the fire he’d started. Jaskier went about stripping his soaked pants off, toweling him off with his old shirt, and redressing him all while glaring at him. Jaskier made him sip some boiled water before he bundled the both of them in one bedroll, wrapping himself around the still shivering witcher as completely as possible.

“Th-thank you.” Geralt gasped as Jaskier angrily shoved his arm beneath Geralt’s lower back, the warmth alone was lovely but something about the way his spine laid over the extra bulk was even better.

“You’re welcome.” Jaskier growled, head tucked into Geralt’s chest, “I’m still furious with you. It’s been over a decade and you didn’t think to tell me?”

Geralt swallowed back tears as he felt some of the tension ease in his back, “No one else really cares…”

Jaskier tilted his chin up to look at the witcher like he was sprouting a horn out of his forehead, “The fuck do you think I’m doing here? You think I enjoy being run out of towns and almost dying every other day? Shit, Geralt, you’re smart but sometimes you’re fucking thick.”

If it wouldn’t have hurt Geralt would have playfully smacked his shoulder, but moving any part of his body was a risk at the moment, “Thought you liked the adventure.”

“No, dumbass. I care about you. A lot.” Jaskier settled his head back down over Geralt’s chest, “In the morning I’m taking you to a healer. Or a sorcerer or mage or anyone who will give us answers.”

“Julek…”

“Shut the fuck up and sleep. Cute nicknames won’t get you out of this one. I’m still furious.”

#geraskier #geraskier fic #angry jaskier #chronic pain geralt #the witcher #the witcher fic #geralt of rivia fic #jaskier fic #chronic pain #listen i asked myself how many times i could make jaskier swear and it was fun #regan writes #comfy writes

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milliedazzledust · 4 years

Text

Turning Pages (Kol Mikaelson imagine)

Request by @scallisonbaby : Could you write an imagine for Kol, she’s the daughter of one of his main enemies, she tried to keep it a secret but he finds out and klaus tries to kill her saying she’s probably spying on us but Kol proctects the reader.

Words: 2858 words

A/N: this doesn’t follow the chronology or history of the show. Kinda felt inspired, this is long

Y/N knew she was screwed the moment she saw him. The brown eyes, disheveled hair, handsome smile and smartass attitude, not to mention this british accent that could make her swoon. Yes, Kol Mikaleson really was her weakness. She suspected he knew it and played with it anytime he could. She hadn’t known the Mikaelsons for long but had helped them countless times.

Several years ago, before the family came back to New Orleans, she had come to seek shelter. Her path had crossed Marcel’s. He had come to her rescue before some vampire could kill her one night and she confided a whole part of her story she wished she could forget to him. She had expected him to ask her to leave and never come back to his city, but instead, he had agreed to help and hide her.

Ever since, she had kept that secret and had sworn no one would ever find out. Before New Orleans, she had another life, another name. A one she despised more than anything with a man she no longer considered family. She’d learn of his implication with Klaus himself later on when the man she had succeeded to avoid for years came back, hellbent on revenge against the Mikaelsons.

« How exactly do you think this is gonna go when they’ll find out ? » Marcel asked her, handing her a bottle of beer.

She sighed. Sitting on the couch in his living room, her feet crossed on the table, she took the beverage and leaned back, staring at the ceiling.

« I think Kol is gonna kill me » She answered.

« Kol isn’t the brother you should be worried about »

She gave him a side look and pursed her lips before taking a sip from her bottle.

« Family’s a real bitch sometimes, huh ? » She half heartedly joked.

« He’s not your family, not anymore. Not since you came to New Orleans »

She smiled at her friend.

« But your father has become powerful enough to kill an original over the past couple of weeks and you know he’s gonna try to destroy them »

Again, she sighed.

« What am I suppose to do ? »

« I know you don’t want to see him, but you might just be the only one who can stop him »

« Do you really think he’ll listen to me ? After all I’ve told you ? »

« Lucien is … well … complicated, but not beyond reason »

She chuckled.

« Complicated ? Is that your definition of psychotic maniac killer ? »

Marcel stood up then turned to the girl, offering her his hand.

« You owe it to yourself to at least try »

She rolled her eyes.

« Damn you and your moral Marcel » She muttered, taking his hand and getting up.

With a heavy heart, she let him take her to the compound. So far as she could remember, she always had felt scared of her father. When she was a child, often she felt like she couldn’t breathe. Her heart would race at the simplest sound of his feet approaching. Countless times she cried herself to sleep, hoping he wouldn’t hear, otherwise he’d come to show her what it was to be strong and not weak, as he would put it.

Marcel took her to the French Quarter, knowing whatever Klaus was planning, it was certainly to lure Lucien into the compound. He wasn’t wrong. The moment they step foot inside the Mikaelson’s mansion, one of them was already flying across the room, landing with a loud noise on the staircase. The vampire she had once known as her father was standing in front of Niklaus as his brother got back on his feet.

« You should’ve ran while you still could » Klaus threatened him.

« And miss an opportunity to kill you ? » Lucien laughed.

Klaus grinned, taking a step back. He silently nodded at his sister Freya. She instantly started chanting ancient words, a grimoire in one hand, the other raised in defense against him. In a matter of seconds, Lucien was on the ground, screaming in pain.

All this time, Y/N stayed behind Marcel. It was her way to shield herself from him. No one except Kol acknowledged their presence. Instinctively, after a quick look at her, he put himself in front of her. For a moment she thought it was to allow his brothers to attack, but when she felt his hand clasped around hers, she knew he was trying to protect her from the fight to come.

Suddenly, almost as quick as it started, her father stopped screaming and laughed. She’d recognize that evil, wicked sound anywhere.

« Did you really think this would work ? » Lucien proudly stated, standing up.

Freya took a step back, glancing at Klaus. Whatever spell they had planned, it wasn’t working on him. They all looked tense when he casually crossed the magic border around him with ease.

« Let’s get this show on the road, shall we? » He grinned.

The Mikaelsons spun in a defensive stance. Elijah launched himself first and made Lucien fall, but the vampire was quick to get back on his feet. Klaus used his speed to attack but the other creature anticipated his move and threw him against a wall. Angry, he got back up, breaking a chair and stabbed him with it. Lucien took the weapon out of his chest and Elijah used this distraction to get behind him and try to strike. It was no use. The other vampire turned before he could do anything and grabbed his arm, breaking it in the process. Seeing his brother struggling, Kol glanced behind him at Y/N before rushing to help him.

« Don’t move » He warned her.

He squeezed her hand one last time and ran to Lucien, punching him and making him lose his grip on his brother. Y/N watched in horror her worst nightmare happening. Soon, Marcel joined the fight and the violent dance started against the vampires. Her breath suddenly got caught in her lungs when she saw her father twist Kol’s arm, making his knees hit the floor. When Elijah and Klaus tried to get closer, he pulled harder on his shoulder. Kol winced in pain and his brothers stopped dead in their tracks.

When Y/N saw her father’s fangs retracting and the black veins running on his face, she swore her heart stopped beating. Right then, out of pure fear for the man she loved, she deciding she could no longer stay back.

« Enough! » She yelled.

His mouth wide opened, close to Kol’s arm, he looked up at her and smirked. For a moment it all sounded quiet. Everyone was completely still and no one moved over the silence of the room. The invisible tension was almost palpable as she took a tentative step toward him.

« Let him go » She told him, her voice quivering.

Still wearing that god awful smile, he looked back at her, pleased by her intervention.

« Stay back, Y/N » Kol warned her before, worried she would try to come closer.

She stopped in her track. As she looked around the room, she could see the questioning stares around her and she knew this moment would change everything, but she couldn’t let him hurt this family.

« Please … stop » She whispered, her eyes watery.

« Why would I ? » He darkly chuckled.

« Because I’m asking you »

Her lips quivered as she forced herself to take a breath.

« Y/N, step back. He is dangerous » Elijah advised her.

Lucien let out a sinister chuckle, raising an eyebrow.

« They don’t know, do they ? »

She pursed her lips, silently answering his question. Once again he loudly laughed, finding the situation amusing.

« Marvelous ! »

From the corner of her eyes, she could see Klaus started to put the puzzle into pieces. She was screwed and she knew it.

« I’ll come back if you let them go » She offered, ignoring Kol gaze on her.

He bitterly smirked.

« You chose your side when you fled my home, Y/N. And for that you will die too »

He tightened his hold on the vampire beneath him when he started to fight back at his words.

« And your pathetic lover with it » He spitted.

« You left me no other choices ! »

« You were supposed to rule by my side! » He screamed. « You were suppose to defeat the Mikaelsons with me ! »

« Those were your plans, not mine » She cried.

Again, she saw his fangs retracting and she felt the fear growing in the pit of her stomach.

« I’ll teach you what happens when you betray your own father, Y/N ! »

This was it. They finally knew. She saw each Mikaelsons widened their eyes in surprise. Marcel took a defensive step toward her when she noticed Klaus starting to shift, angry. What hurt her the most was the way Kol stared back at her. His jaw tightened, his fist clenched, he looked betrayed and it broke her heart. Before any of them could process the news or react, she watched her father plugged his fangs into the arm of the man she loved, making him scream in agony.

« No! » She shouted, running to them in a vain effort to save him.

Before she could even reach Kol, she felt her body being pushed and her back violently smacking a wall. The force of the impact made her close her eyes just for a second but when she opened them back, she noticed her father had fled. Ignoring the physical pain she felt, she tried to stand up.

« I’ll kill you! » She heard Klaus yelled at her.

He reached her at an impressive speed, clasping his hands around her neck. With all the power he could, he strangled her, and the girl was no match against Klaus Mikaelson. Marcel was quick to come to her rescue and threw the vampire attacking her across the room.

All Y/N could focus on was Kol cries. The man was on the ground, Freya and Elijah by his side, fighting an invisible force trying to kill him, fighting a fate brought by her father. He screamed in agony as his brother tried to hold him still while their witch sister had already started to gather ingredients for a spell.

« We don’t have long » She told them.

« Why are you protecting her ?! » Klaus shouted to Marcel. « That wicked woman lied to us! »

« She had no choice, Klaus! »

« So you knew ! You knew she was a spy send to destroy my family and you said nothing! »

« She’s not with him ! »

« Do I care about terminology ?! He is her father ! »

Elijah watched Y/N as she tightly shut her eyes at his brother’s words.

« Enough, Niklaus! » He shouted at his brother. « This is not the place, nor the time »

Kol was still restless on the ground, the spasms making it harder for Elijah to hold him still. His skin had started to become sickly pale. Y/N stared at him, a few feet away. Never had she felt so guilty and ashamed. She could see his misery and knew the mere sight of it would haunt her for the rest of her life.

« Freya, do something ! » Klaus urged her when his brother stared to violently shake.

« I’m trying ! » She responded.

She quickly gathered everything she needed around her, working as fast as she could.

« I’m gonna need Lucien’s blood » She informed them.

The brothers shared a look. They knew wherever the man was, they wouldn’t reach him in time.

« Would … would mine work ? » Y/N softly suggested.

« Yes »

« You’re not coming anywhere near him! » The hybrid shouted back.

« Niklaus, let the woman help! » Elijah answered him.

He nodded at her and she almost ran to Freya, offering her arm to her. She winced when the witch cut her skin but her eyes never left Kol. Freya finished her spell and mixed all her ingredients, adding Y/N’s blood then handed a cup to Elijah. He brought it to his brother’s mouth, forcing him to drink. The girl waited by his side, anxious. She hadn’t noticed the tears on her face, nor her hands trembling. She let out a breath of relief when she saw the man stopped shivering.

« Leave, now » Klaus firmly ordered.

« Are you serious ? She just saved your brother! » Marcel warned him.

« It’s … it’s alright, I’ll go »

She stood up, shaking with emotions, ready to collapse in tears, and walked to the door. She took a look back, needing to make sure he was alive.

« He’s gonna be alright » Elijah reassured her.

She nodded, glad he at least wasn’t showing any sign of anger toward her then glanced one last time at Niklaus.

« You and I share one thing in commun, we didn’t choose to have a crappy father. I thought you of all people would’ve understood that »

He pursed his lips, holding himself back from answering.

« I’ll leave New Orleans tomorrow » She told them. « I’ll try to draw him out of the city »

« You don’t need to go » Marcel told her.

« Just … tell him I’m sorry, okay ? » She asked, looking one last time at Kol.

Marcel sadly nodded at the girl before she disappeared. For a while, she just wandered around the streets, enjoying the eery atmosphere of New Orleans one last time before going home and packing.

Leaning over the balcony of her home later that night, she stared at the life still roaring so late in the city. A man on the street was playing the sax while some people danced to it. She could hear the noise from Rousseau’s, the laugh, the music, the chatter. Bourbon street and its live music and vibrant people felt so alive and inviting, a chaotic contrast to what she was feeling. Time seemed to slow as she tried to photograph this memory, a keepsake to give her strength in the rough times she knew would come against her father. She felt a sudden gush of air behind her and shivered, knowing what it was before he even spoke.

« Were you really expecting me to let you go that easily, love ? »

She closed her eyes, a tear rolling down her cheek. All the noises around her disappeared. All she could hear was the loud silence and his heavy presence. She tensed when she felt him take a step closer, scared he might say something that would definitely hurt her.

« Kol… » She whispered.

« Why ? » He simply asked.

She pursed her lips, trying to come up with an answer that would be enough to make him understand.

« I was scared »

« Of what ?! »

« My father has done terrible things »

He grabbed her wrist, making her sharply turned to face him.

« Y/N, have you seen my family ? » He argued. « Did you think I would judge you ? Do you think so low of me ? »

« Are you alright ? » She suddenly asked, not acknowledging any of his questions, her eyes scanning his body for any sign of injury.

« What ? »

He seemed lost for a moment.

« Your wound » She explained. « Has it healed ? »

« That’s beside the point, Y/N »

« You almost died because of me »

« Because of him » He corrected her.

In a second he was in front of her and entangled his hand in her hair, his thumb softly stroking her cheek.

« Why, Y/N ? » He asked in a whisper, his eyes pouring into hers.

She felt small under his gaze, unarmed and vulnerable.

« I didn’t want to remember » She admitted. « I just wanted to forget him, forget he existed, forget the years of … »

She stopped herself and he knew why. He didn’t need her to say it to know Lucien had hurt her, badly.

« I didn’t think I’d see him again » She kept going, a lump forming in her throat. « I thought I was free, Kol »

She starred right back at him, a sob escaping her throat.

« I thought I was finally free » She told him, her shoulders shaking with every word.

He dragged her to him, squeezing her as she melt down in his arms. It was more than crying, it was the kind of desolate sobbing that comes from a person drained of all hope. He felt her sank to her knees before she could touch the ground and tightened his hold of her. He waited patiently until she was calm enough to take a step back.

« There’s no way I’m letting you leave the city, Y/N »

« I have to make him go. Besides, your brother will have be beheaded if I don’t disappear »

« The hell with Niklaus, he can go fuck himself for all I care »

She rolled her eyes at him.

« I’m not letting you go » He vehemently stated, cupping her cheeks.

« He’ll come back for you. All of you » She muttered.

« Well good. We’ll be waiting for him »

« Kol … »

« Mark my words, Y/N ; I am NOT letting you go » He repeated.

He leaned into her and kissed her forehead, then her nose, then softly, her lips.

« I can’t let him get to you » She confessed.

« And I can’t let you go near him. This is a dead end, love, and you’re not winning this argument »

She chuckled.

« I really thought I’d lost you for a moment »

He smirked.

« Never. You’re stuck with me for an eternity »

#kol mikaelson #kol mikaelson x reader #kol mikaelson imagine #kol mikaelson fanfiction #kol mikaelson imagines #kol mikaelson fanfic #elijah mikaelson #klaus mikaelson #the originals

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mirrorgrets · 3 years

Text

i hate you, i hope you die

Warnings: suicidal thoughts, graphic descriptions of violence

Pairings: Pannacotta Fugo/Giorno Giovanna (but like. barely.)

Wordcount: 2,224 words

Summary: Fugo returns to Passione and everything falls back into place. He's sworn his loyalty to Giorno and Giorno trusts him. But he hates the very same boy who saved him.

The thing is Fugo hates Giorno.

No, that's wrong. It's more like he wishes he hates Giorno.

When he sank to his knees, lips barely grazing Giorno's knuckles, he felt a pit in his stomach growing bigger and bigger as he said his vows. He felt like he signed his life away to this angel of death. For what? For guilt? For nothing? For a lack of understanding as to why he was still alive and not them?

Sometimes he stares at Giorno, notices little details that he doesn't think anyone who doesn't stare at Giorno for too long notices. Details like how he has an odd habit of pulling his collar when he's nervous; like he has a single pockmark just where his jaw meets his neck; like he stands a bit straighter when someone raises their voice; like he raises his hand like he wants to cover his mouth when he laughs; like he cycles through certain hair ties and ribbons throughout the week.

It drives him insane that at this point, he might know more about Giorno than he knows about Bucciarati, Abbacchio, and Narancia combined—and that says a lot. Bucciarati found him when he was thirteen and it was just them for a while. It was just the two of them in Bruno’s apartment, careful footsteps turning into comfort and routine somewhere between the shootouts, the blood, and the stitches. Then Abbacchio arrived with wary eyes and a sharp tongue and way too many apologies before he settled into his actual asshole self. At that point, Fugo moved out into his own apartment which was only two blocks away. Then he found Narancia, maybe out of inspiration from Bucciarati or something, and while they tried to keep him away from the life of a Mafioso, he weaseled in somehow, manifesting a stand fair and square.

Fugo wonders what it might be like to murder Giorno. He dreams of it when goes to sleep, which isn't often because he hardly goes to sleep nowadays and most of the time, sleep catches him and not the other way around.

Sometimes Giorno dies by his hands around his neck, sometimes it's Mista's stolen gun, sometimes it's by an ax, sometimes it's with a tie, sometimes an encyclopedia. But it's never Purple Haze Feedback. Never his own stand. And dream Giorno who's dying knows this all the damn time. Dream Giorno will look at him with the widest eyes like he's looking at God Himself, like he's a revelation meant to be worshipped. Sometimes his hands will cup his cheek (sometimes bloody, sometimes shaky); sometimes he'll push his forehead against Fugo's; sometimes he'll hold Fugo tight, sometimes like he's made of glass; and sometimes he'll lean in far too close and apologize to Fugo.

He hates that he always wakes up before Giorno can take his last breath and hates himself even more for feeling that way.

Fugo avoids Giorno when he can.

Somehow it's easy and at the same time, not. He meets him whenever he receives an assignment, and Giorno looks like he wants to speak to him. But he never pushes and Fugo is allowed to leave and fuck off and kill more people with a gun, a knife, or anything. At times, Fugo will stay just a second more and wonder if Giorno will take a step or half a step like he said he would but he never does so he leaves and wonders why he feels like he just woke up from his fucked up dreams.

When Fugo isn't murdering or interrogating someone, he's usually doing the dull administrative tasks of Passione like sorting through the legal jargon to find loopholes and accounting for logistics or whatever the hell he can get his hands on because he wants to stay busy, damn it.

His chest feels empty most of the time. It's not like he doesn't know why. It might be depression but he doesn't care enough to forge a prescription this time round. Or maybe it's because no one is pushing him to forge a prescription, unlike last time. Or well, Sheila E tries to make him forge a prescription and she did steal a bunch for him, orange canisters full and all. But she doesn’t force him to take them. She doesn’t hang around his shoulder unlike Bucciarati did when he… unlike when Bucciarati did with his straightforward stares and the little notes he left around Fugo’s apartment. She doesn’t make snide remarks unlike Abbacchio and doesn’t keep him company in the dead of night when everything is too loud even when it’s just quiet. She doesn’t remind him like Narancia did with all the subtlety of a douchebag riding a Ferrari.

So the canisters stay full but Fugo keeps them by his bedside because maybe one day and well, he likes the reminder that at least someone cares.

(Murolo does his own thing too but when he does, Fugo’s far too gone to even remember what Murolo does and the man never reminds him so he’s grateful for that too)

It's not like Fugo is afraid of dying. He goes into each mission like he might die and when he comes out alive, buzzing with manic energy that makes him want to break down and punch the nearest object in the vicinity, he's always disappointed. Sometimes he looks at the gun he owns in his bathroom and he wonders if he should just pull the trigger and collapse, his head bashing against the toilet, bleeding out to die if he doesn't hit the right spot.

He pulls the trigger every other day but the cartridge is always empty.

Today is no different from other days. Fugo startles awake, eyes blinking rapidly as he realizes that he did not kill Giorno. He stumbles into his bathroom, washes himself, looks at the mirror, looks at the gun, takes it and points it between his eyes, pulls the trigger, and leaves for work.

When he arrives at Passione's headquarters, he heads straight to his office to look over the legal documents Giorno asked him to look over. He doesn't bother to greet anyone since no one bothers to greet him. He's the traitor of Passione and he's fine with that. It keeps people away which means there are fewer people to perform for and fewer people to try to keep away.

The day goes by as usual. Fugo works through his pile until there’s almost nothing there and then some guy he never got to learn the name of drops a bunch of more work for him to do just before lunch. And Fugo won’t eat lunch until he’s burnt out or Sheila E comes to collect him from his office and forces him to eat. Fortunately for him, Sheila E is away on a mission with Murolo so he can do whatever he wants to do without anyone giving him those disappointed stares.

In all honesty, Fugo feels like he’s mellowed down. The six months away from Passione forced him to at least hold back most of his anger and he played piano in some restaurant as a job and he was good at it.

But he didn’t enjoy it. After playing, he would go home, wreck his already shitty apartment and return everything back to how it was before he crashed on his couch. So maybe the reason why he feels like he’s submerged underwater half the time because he feels like he’s playing a piece on the piano before he has to go home, just going through the motions, and pretending.

Fugo stretches his arms and looks at the clock on his desk. 10:45 pm. Time to head home then.

Then it all comes crashing down.

Or more like, Fugo feels like he’s been ripped out of the water, like he’s gone on those stupidly high and fast waterslides that children aren’t allowed on because when you hit the water, you tumble around and experience some kind of vertigo, except it’s in reverse and it feels worse.

Because today is the last day he saw all of them alive. The last day they were all together as a team. The last day before he betrayed them, except he always felt like they betrayed him and not the other way around.

He’s never even visited their graves.

It hits him so hard that he stumbles out of his office and he doesn’t care if there are people around because he just needs to get out, get out, get out.

He’s in the garden before he knows it, and he sinks into the grass and tries to breathe because what the fuck, he feels like he stopped breathing that day and only remembered to breathe now. He feels like crying but he keeps it in and just tries to remember how to properly push air in and out of his lungs even if it stings because in the past, there would always be a warm hand on his back and a soothing voice, and he knows that person will never stand behind him anymore and give comfort because he’s dead.

Minutes pass by and slowly, Fugo can breathe like normal again even if he’s so fucking tired. He collapses on the grass and stares at the night sky, distantly remembering his astronomy lessons when he was still Pannacotta Fugo, child of the wealthy Fugos.

He can hear grass being stepped on and gentle footsteps approaching him and it’s no surprise to see golden curls hanging low and emerald eyes staring back at him.

Fugo hates Giorno so, so much.

"I hate you," Fugo tells his boss. "I wish you were dead. I hope you die the most painful death possible."

Giorno blinks. "Okay. That's fine." He says, slowly. "You're not the only one who wants that."

"When I sleep, I dream that I kill you. I've killed you hundreds of times." Fugo continues, slowly pulling himself up and sitting down beside the most powerful boy in Italy, their knees almost brushing.

Giorno doesn’t shy away, instead, he moves closer to Fugo and their knees are touching. “How do you kill me?” His voice is barely above a whisper and Fugo would laugh if he could but this isn’t the time.

"Different ways. Sometimes I strangle you, sometimes I shoot you, sometimes I hit you with a book, sometimes I stab you."

"No Purple Haze?"

Fugo pauses but shakes his head. "No Purple Haze," he confirms.

Giorno is silent for a minute more and Fugo looks back at the stars, his mind silent for the first time in months.

“I’m sorry. I’m not good at this,” Giorno finally says and he flops down on the grass. “I should’ve let Mista get you.”

Fugo snorts. “Why? Mista doesn’t care,” there’s no malice in his voice, and it’s just a fact.

“No, he does. It’s just… you know, he needs time,” Giorno explains. “Just like you needed time.”

Fugo leans in closer to Giorno and he realizes this is the first time they’ve spoken to each other in months, like, really spoken to each other. It almost feels like a dream when Giorno lifts his hand up and touches Fugo’s cheek like he’s made of glass.

“I hate you,” Fugo says, leaning more into Giorno’s hand. “I wish they were the ones alive and I was the one who died. I wish they were the ones alive and that you never came into our lives.”

“It doesn’t work like that. I’m glad you’re alive,” Giorno says, eyes wide and far too bright. Fugo wants to pull away because his mind is starting to catch up and time away from Passione taught him some things academia and murder couldn’t teach him.

“This doesn’t usually work like this either,” Fugo points out.

Giorno uses his other hand to pull Fugo closer and Fugo can see more things he’s sure no one’s never noticed before like the fact that Giorno has the lightest freckles on his face and that his lashes are really long. “I’m sorry. I’ll do better now,” Giorno tells him. “You should go visit a therapist. We can visit the graves together. I’ll make sure you eat lunch somehow.”

Fugo wants to laugh again but all he feels is a year's worth of grief finally burst and he’s crying again like he did in the restaurant except it feels more real rather than that half-assed performance that felt too perfect and picturesque. Giorno pulls him even closer until there’s no space between them and Fugo buries his face into the crook of Giorno’s neck and feels Giorno hold him tighter.

“I thought that giving you space would be better. I’m really sorry, Panna. I felt like I came off as too much when we first met again. Then I didn’t know how to push anymore and really, that’s no excuse but I’ll do better.” Giorno whispers.

“You’re good, don’t worry,” Fugo takes a shaky breath, half lying, half telling the truth. “Don’t worry.”

Fugo peels him away from Giorno and helps his boss up. Their foreheads are touching and Giorno’s holding onto his hand so gently, it makes Fugo feel sick again. But he squeezes back and knows that they’ll be okay one day.

Not today, but one day.

Notes: wrote this last night listening to fiona apple and just thinking abt phf and how fugo is 16 and giorno is 15 and they're probably not as in touch w their feelings like they might think they are :| or something lol

if u have thoughts or anything feel free to tell me in the comments :>

#peace out i will never write anything for this again #i think #fugio #fanfic #jjba #purple haze feedback #jojo's bizzare adventure #vento aureo #golden wind

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desdemonafictional · 3 years

Text

Zombie apocalypse au

30 min speed write (ended up being closer to an hour)

Rattrap had two traits that made him a stand-out on the field of "not getting your guts ripped out and eaten by deranged terrorcons" and the first of those traits was that he was a coward. which was to say, he was a survivor. He was resourceful. When other mechs were running into burning buildings for their dear departed grand-mentor's ceremonial sword of office, Rattrap was already halfway into the subway vents and making for uptown. When other mechs were making grand stands and planting flags in things, Rattrap was haggling extra repair kits out of the quartermaster.

The second trait was that he knew how to engineer a big goddamn conflagration of dynamite.

"Come on come on come on," Rattrap said, three minutes into stripping the wiring from a household appliance and running out of time.

"They are crossing the boundary," Dinobot told him. "They will be upon us soon."

"You think I don't slagging know?" Rattrap shot back. "Hold the frag on, I just gotta--there's a battery under this but it's corroded in ta place and I can't get--"

Dinobot reached down and with one swift motion ripped the battery compartment free of the vacuum drone. Rattrap blinked at his hand for a moment.

"Sheesh," he said, and then got to work.

They were at the edge of the makeshift barricade here; just behind Rattrap was the relative safety of the stacked and welded furniture blockading off the local energon depot and the surrounding structures. Right now he'd give just about anything to bolt over that wall and back into the smelly cramped field hospital on the other side.

"We are running out of time," Dinobot said, in that tone that meant he'd gone all pinched in the face. "As usual, it falls on me to carry your weight--"

"My weight?" Rattrap shrieked. "You lizard brained jackplug, I'm doing all the work here! You're just standing around criticizing!"

There was a rattle of metal as Dinobot brought his sword up to rest against his shoulder. "Very well," he hissed. "I shall cease standing around."

"Yeah, yeah," Rattrap said, biting off a length of copper wiring. And then his head snapped up. "No no no wait a fragging second you--"

But it was too late, Dinobot had already taken off into the street. Down the hill where the trolley used to run, until the poor sucker got a chunk taken out of his engine by a turning passenger, violet-eyed shambling shells were crossing the first layer of trip wires that Rattrap had laid down days ago, when this motley crew of survivors first staked out the block for something defensible. But there were so many of them now, after weeks of rampant chaos and unrestrained nibbling--when one fell, another one just started the slow clumsy clamber over its body.

Rattrap swore violently, for all the good it'd do him. He just had to--and the circuit, that needed--Primus what he wouldn't give for a nice safe radio detonator--

He bolted into the street, tripping over himself in his haste, lumpy Frankenstein of a bomb tucked against his chassis. Dinobot was down there, at the bottom of the hill, sword plunging and stabbing, twisting and ducking backwards out of the swiping reach. He was holding his own in the tight corridor of the street, between the high sided buildings and the trip wire piles, but not for much longer, if Rattrap was any judge. Which he was.

Up above, there was a flash in the cloudy daylight--some frame with good long grasping limbs had scaled the side of a building, and as Rattrap pounded closer over the pavement he could see its poisonous violet eyes, the gaping mouth forced open with spiraling rows of stalagmite teeth. Dinobot reared back for another strike, all his attention fixed on the swarm before him-- the sharp point of his elbow, the hilt of his sword--

"Retreat!" Rattrap shouted at him. "Reconvene! Get the frag back, whatever you warrior types call it!"

Dinobot was too good at what he did to stumble at one surprise shout, thank Primus and all his merry monsters. But he didn't actually fragging retreat.

"Am I speaking vernacular here or what?" Rattrap demanded, but by then he was nearly level with Dinobot, and there was no point in wasting time because the damn crawler, up on the wall side, had decided to take a clumsy leap at them both. It landed on the back of Dinobot's kibble, and in the .5 nanokliks it took for Rattrap to realize how close its mouth had gotten to Dinobot's vulnerables, he'd already swung the only weapon available to hand directly at its awful slavering head.

It went over sideways. The bomb in Rattraps hands started to hiss.

"Oh slag," he said, as Dinobot staggered forward a step and then turned his gaze on the contraption as well.

"What did you do," Dinobot bot demanded.

"Don't ask!" Rattrap howled, and slung the thing deep into the gathered mass of grey and groaning bodies. He grabbed Dinobot's wrist. He shouted, "Run!"

They'd barely made it halfway up the hill when the reflection of pavement went searing bright with orange flame, the concussive force of the blast throwing them both forward, onto hands and knees, where they scrambled to push themselves forward and upright. Heat seared their backs, making joints pop and liquid lines swell dangerously, but they kept going, until they were at the barricade, and without pause or discussion Dinobot was heaving Rattrap up to the handholds and then scaling after him.

At the top of the barricade, which lay unevenly but as wide here as Rattrap was tall, they both paused to furiously vent heat from their overworked systems.

"What the frag was that about," Rattrap demanded, while his systems wheezed. "I nearly had it, you didn't need to run off and start swinging."

Dinobot snarled at him. "If I had not run off, vermin, you would be grey and oozing by now."

"Fat chance," Rattrap said. "Ain't no jangling scrap heap gonna get the best of me. I don't take chances."

"No?" Dinobot's lip curled up into a sneer. "Then what was that rushing down into the fray just now?"

"Aw, pit, don't you start."

"One might almost think you had developed a taste for the heroic," Dinobot said, teeth bared and optics glittering.

Rattrap collapsed backwards, throwing an arm over his face. "I shoulda left you to die, you big metal bird brain. I shoulda let em make scrap bits outta you."

"Hmm," Dinobot said. "Well. Perhaps next time."

#dinotrap #maccadam #transformers #beast wars

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nightswithkookmin · 4 years

Note

Hii, me again. 😅

Jungkook made a three syllable poem with "min yoongi" name. At the last name of "Gi" He made yoonmin. Is he try to expose that yoonmin is a thing/ or real??

Ahjumma.... why are you being like this?

What did I do to deserve this ghettory?😟 It's too early in the year to be this ghetto uno.

Don't be like that😒

You are asking me, Goldy- GOLDY of all shippers, if I think JEON JUNGKOOK is confirming his boyfriend of seven years and counting is in a relationship with another member within the same group...

Doing what exactly in that relationship??

Is JK cockholding? What's going on.

KWENCHANAYO?!

You think BTS will survive two members dating the same guy in the same group???

Never mind that it's Jeon Jungkook and Park freaking Jimin- Mr I'm greedy and Mr I don't share my friends.

Like make it make sense to me please😭

After everything we've been said on my blogs for months now, you still asking me this??

You are bold, I'll give you that.

Now tell me slowly and in coherent words why I shouldn't pull your hair and give you three quick punches to your throat- ninja style👀

Someone get her before I snap their neck💀

For the last time-

NEITHER 🤺OF🤺JIKOOK🤺 IS 🤺 WAS🤺 HAS🤺 HAD🤺 PURPORTS TO HAVE🤺 WOULD HAVE HAD🤺 COULD HAD HAD🤺 HAD HAD HAD🤺IS HAVING 🤺 ANY 🤺ROMANTIC🤺 FEELINGS🤺WHATSOEVER 🤺 DESIRE🤺CRAVING🤺 WET DREAMS🤺 YEARNING🤺 PASSION🤺ATTRACTION🤺 AMOROUS 🤺INTENT🤺TOWARDS🤺 ANY🤺🤺MEMBER🤺 IN🤺 BTS🤺BESIDES🤺 EACH🤺 OTHER🤺

GET🤺 OUT 🤺OF🤺 YOUR🤺 IMAGINATION🤺

If you are new to the shipping community I suggest you familiarize yourself with every ships dynamics or at least Jikooks- if multishipping isn't exactly your thing.

Jikook's entire dynamics is founded on JK teasing JM to death. It's their thing.

He's said he enjoys teasing Jimin because he loves Jimin's reaction to when he's being teased. In fact, the entire group have said same about Jimin.

Did you see JM's reaction to when JK called out the Yoonmin comment in the dynamite reaction VLive?

Did you see RMs reaction too?

He is trying Jimin with these Yoonmin jokes. He's gonna get stabbed. Lmho.

Jimin reacts strongly to when JK in particular teases him with ships, Yoonmin more recently. Yet he didn't seem to mind when V did it.

V used to be the biggest Yoonminer on the planet rooting for and encouraging certain interactions between Yoonmin. Lmho.

Jimin himself perpetuates Yoonmin as a ship.

It would be an insult on his intelligence for anyone to assume he didn't know exactly why people ship two people together or what interactions and moments is considered a moment in shipping sphere.

Statements like, why can't Suga hyung look me in the eye, why does he say I'm irreplaceable to him, insinuates something and he knows this.

Once upon a time, JK couldn't look you in the eyes too. Still can't sometimes.

Jimin has a presence and he has a hold on these men and he knows it.

He goes out of his way to create the impression he and Suga have a very close bond and dynamic- I'm sold on it. Lol.

'5 Jms? As expected. You'll fall in love with them' not sure if JM said the last bit in the BE.TS Vlive, yall check for me.

It's crazy then that he turns around to react the way he does when JK teases him with his ship with Suga.

It seems to me, Jimin knows the intent and energy behind such seemingly harmless jokes- JK can be petty and passive aggressive with these things. You'd think he is joking but deep down he would be pouting and throwing tantrums behind cams🤧

It's Jimin apologizing and looking like his spirit left his body as he sat on the edge of JK's bed in the new Jersey VLive for me.

He needs to free Jimin.

Talk of things I'm getting too old for- Let's talk about why he posted his version of the bridge in disease online🤧

Not to say he shouldn't have posted it. I support that he did wholeheartedly. Deadass found his groove since he started unbuttoning the front of his shirts in 2020.

He's reclaiming the spotlight, putting himself at the forefront unlike before where he'd resigned himself to a supportive role watching his hyungs be at the center of things.

Now he's been talking about that he wants have sexy dance performances like Jimin, write rap melodies for RM, share his own music, try on a solo career one day- we get it. You found yourself Mr I'm independent asserting myself yall better fuxk off but chilee not at the expense of Jimin! 🤺

I mean it's a broad spotlight and they both can share it but damn is someone changing drastically. Not sure if I should be proud or terrified.

It's great and amazing and I'm really truly happy with where he's at mentally and physically since 2020- it's a great sign, don't get me wrong. Significant improvement. His becoming is long over due but he didn't have to grab the spotlight from Jimin like that.

Jk vs JM isn't something I'm a fan of.

It's a shame it didn't work out? What do you mean JK. I'm sorry but Jimin's version is amazing too!😟

What the actual hell JK😭

Back it up. This is not how to Jikook🤺

On guard sir🤺 on guard🤺

Dude did Jimin dirty🤧🤧🤧🤧🤧

I need a refund😭😭😭😭

Here I was waiting for y'all to get on your Jikook agenda and post that first Jikook selca of the year and you are there shipping Jimin with your bandmate and thiefing his shine. Who taught you that?!😥

Y'all are competitive but y'all don't compete with eachother's shine! JIKOOK 101😭😭😭

You share it😥

Show me where in the books this new development falls under. Show me

You winging it and it's unconstitutional😟

I rebuke it in Jesus name!

Someone beam me up.

You got these 13 year olds coming in my DMs telling me you are not supportive of your man's career.

I don't have time for this shit.

SOMEONE BEAM ME UP! Kirk!

If you've watched their Be behind video, and you've seen Jin talk about how RM complained to him when Tae chose Suga's version over his version you'd know where JK is coming from or where I think he is coming from having JMs version chosen over his.

Watch their Be self interview on yt too.

He said there's a melody he worked on for RM and when Jhope thought he got snubbed he recommended he release it instead- to quench his artistic drive perhaps.

That is why he released this song. He did it for himself. Like he said, he won't put out a song unless he was confident about it.

Suga have said time and again how the music and melodies they create never go to waste because they can repurpose it like he did with Telepathy I think.

Even JK explained he was reserving the melody he made for RM for a future group song.

He could have repurposed this or something.

When Jin talked about V vs JM's Christmas song and kept repeating how much he preferred Jimin's song to Tae's because Jimin"s was bright and upbeat, he made sure to clarify he wasn't implying Tae's song was bad. He was just indicating preference.

I won't lie, I was happy he preferred my bias's song but it made my VMin heart ache a little.

V and JM made very different songs, they shouldn't be compared to eachother in that way.

I don't like competitions. And I don't like when two artists are pit against eachother- which is exactly what these two versions of the bridge is doing out here.

I will literally die if in an interview JM is asked about his part and JK isn't. I can't do this😭

Those saying JM's is better make me sick, and those saying JK's is better make me nauseous. They both great. Point blank purr.

What's even more heartbreaking is hearing how excited he really was to share that bit with Army. Dude's eyes was glistening and everything. His bunny smile! 😥

Thats what makes this very hard for me.

The JJK in me is overjoyed and excited that he is doing things that make him really happy. I'm proud of him.

But the PJM in me just😕

I even feel more guilty that I prefer JM's version this time around😭😭😭😭

I feel like I'm betraying JK🤧

I was so happy seeing JM recieve all the love and attention I know he deserves.

Then here comes his boyfriend

'Hold up what about me!' Lol.

Imagine if RM releases the version of Blue and grey he made for Tae and it turns out we prefer that to the version Tae chose💀

Imagine that.

This has been a recurring theme throughout late 2020 to date. Jk's been choosing authenticity and self interests and passions over anything else and I couldn't be more happy for him.

Like we discussed, he's been learning to compromise too lately, which is great.

But honey this is a red flag. Deadass.

To me anyways😏

I've been a strong advocate for a certain level of independence and detachment in Jikook's dynamics because they lowkey exhibited codependency tendencies in their dynamics which is great for us shippers but not so great in the long run for their relationship or them as individuals .

Maybe I'm thinking out loud and prematurely here. I mean we are only beginning to have intimate access to their raw unscripted selves.

I don't think it's not that much of a big deal. RM and JM have equally shared their own versions of fake love on the internet but it is an interesting development in their dynamic to me.

I remember how happy JM was about his version of fake love, and it remains to date one of my favorite beats even though he was just spewing nonsense on that track. Lol.

He was so excited when he shared it with JK and Jin. He said when he showed it to JK the first time, JK said he loved it very much- how loving and supportive is that!

More of this please. Thank you.

PMS is a bitch y'all🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣

Has me in my feels about this.

I'm pretty sure JM is the one that even encouraged him to share his part in the first place. Won't put it past him.

'Ya Jungkook, release your version too'

'Army will love it'

'Right but I don't want it to seem like- Goldy is crazy you know'

'Goldy who now?'

'What about the thirteen year old fans-'

'Aht aht aht Who cares about them.'

Lmho.

I mentioned a few times on here how I felt JM seemed to have been demanding 'space' and a little bit of breathing room in their dynamic which was causing a little bit of tension here and there middle 2019 through to March last year and it all sounds like drama and speculation but...

May be if I told y'all I am a witch and my analysis of their relationship is based on mediums, phantom whisperers, empathetic readings or tarot cards y'all will leave me alone?🤥

Y'all don't seem to have a problem with the witches and empaths who be doing the same shit I do out here😒

Like we are all 'reading' these mens!

There's nothing wrong with 'psychoanalytically' evaluating a ship you know? Chilee.

Imma call myself a witch if it will get y'all off my back😹😹😹😹

I mentioned JK equally embarking on his own journey to assert himself within the group and within the relationship due to this?

But damn I did not see this one coming.

This is a red flag for me. And no, it doesn't mean they are broken up or having issues in their relationship.

Jk's TMI indicates they still been spending a lot of time together.

This is just a sign there's too much independence in their dynamic now- if you know what I mean.

Relationships flourish based on how attached we are to people- too much attachment is a problem, too little attachment is equally bad.

Jikook have always had a problem with over attachment in their dynamics in my opinion, to the point it was lowkey unhealthy- the jealousy, not being able to 'act professionally' within a group and work environment, having problems with being separated however briefly, constantly wanting to be where the other is etc.

Less attachment isnt necessarily a bad thing either. It means less of all the 'toxic' aspects of their relationship that over attachment brings but too much of that too can trigger anxiousness and insecurity and resentment.

Especially if one of them hates change. Cough Jimin.

With that comes all the wild aspects of love such as possessiveness, jealousy and I know JM doesn't do too well in that department...

In my opinion, I see JM as having a problem when JK breathes down his neck emotionally speaking, and at the same time he has a problem when he is too emotionally distant.

All this is interesting to me.

Who do I need to talk to to give me more of Jikook interactions individually or jointly?

I want to see more of their interactions beyond the overly staged, dramatized fanservice and official content.

Spending a lot of time around eachother and eating each other's ramen- pun intended, does not reflect on how intimate you are.

Intimacy requires depth and depth requires attachment.

How you treat eachother's needs and goals, dreams and desires is equally indicative of the intimacy in your relationship.

That has always been one distinctive quality of Jikook's ship.

And so I wonder the thought process that went into this decision. I know JM wouldn't object to JK sharing things like these or doing things that make him happy even if it has the potential to impact his own shine in any way.

Jikook don't compete against eachother.

I keep saying this.

Remember when I said I found it sus that JK was lying there staring at JM with his hands in between his legs?

Did yall see what the run editors said when JM and JK went up against each in the pool?

'Jikook don't play by the rules'

Jimin had to push JK in the water to end whatever ancient sex ritual foreplay rooted in kamasutra they had going on. Bless him.

And in so doing, he lost to JK.

Whenever they go up against eachother, one of them intentionally lose even though they are both very competitive.

Isn't that why JK said he'd rather 5 Jms so he can watch them compete against eachother?

When JK first made that post, I felt it was out of pettiness or a move to 'humble' JM.

I thought of when he'd posted that photo of himself with a hickey after JM had 'dated' him during the JinMinKook live.

I rolled my eyes and asked, 'what yall gays up to this time?' Why you out here humbling your man?

Anywho chilee we will never know.

At ease.

Signed,

GOLDY

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cheyningdiamond · 3 years

Text

Seen You Once Before...

Oh boy another SherHank fic? Yes. Yes it is. WARNINGS: Death, Gore, Blood, Crying, Topic of giving up on life, This is gonna be a depressing fic sorta so just be weary

It was a cold rainy night in Nevada. Sheriff was about to be executed by the agents for his cowardly acts and being deemed 'obsolete' by the Auditor. Sheriff hung his head, not wanting to look up as the Agent had a gun pointing to the back of his head. They were mocking, laughing at him. "Weeell, poor ol' cowboy here's gonna yee his last haw, ain't that right, fellers!?" One mocking his accent. "Such a shame... He lived as a coward and he'll die as one too~" The other laughed. The third one glared at them both. "Just shoot the fuckin' pussy in the head. I wanna grab a bite to eat soon." Sheriff tightly closed his eyes, staring down at his hat in front of him. His hands were tied behind his back and at this point, he didn't wanna even attempt to escape. All his life was had been nothing but failure. He failed to kill Hank.

He failed trying to protect Nevada. He even failed the Auditor. No matter what he did, who's side he was on, it just led to death, failure, and regret. He snapped out of his deep thoughts as he felt the barrel of the gun poke at the back of his head, touching his greasy light brown hair. "Any last words?" The agent smirked. "...Go fuck yerself." He replied coldly. "Ohoh, finally decided to grow a pair... Little too late for that, cowboy." He cocked the gun, and Sheriff closed his eyes again. They heard a gunshot, followed by an explosion, but it only left Sheriff on the ground with ringing ears. He opened his light brown eyes and witnessed the agent dead behind him. His head had been completely blown off and the gun beside him was on the ground. He looked up, seeing a familiar muscular black-wearing figure pounce on another agent, smashing his head into the wall, leaving red paste stained on the silver metal-like material. The last agent shrieked and tried shooting at Hank but ultimately missed. The agent was backed up by the window and with an easy kick, was sent flying out of the 4 story window, dying upon impact with the cold hard ground below. Sheriff looked up weakly, seeing the fire coming out of the hallway through the room doors. What shined in the fire was the red glasses wearing mercenary, staring down at him. His metal jaw was exposed and his outfit was torn slightly, like he had been through a rougher fight not too long ago. Sheriff knew he must've came to kill him off too, so he closed his eyes. "Just do it quick, Wimbleton... Ah know it's comin'..." He had tears forming in his eyes. He was deathly afraid of Hank. And Hank knew this. He was roughly lifted up by his jacket, but was thrown over the taller figure's shoulder. He blinked and watched Hank as they ran down the hallway, carefully not getting too close to the fires that burned down the facility. Sheriff started to reluctantly squirm. Where were they taking him!? Why won't they just kill him off!? He was waiting! There was nothing else! Sheriff started to yell. "Git off'a me!" He barked, kicking his legs weakly. This earned a very gruff. "Knock it off." From Hank. The metallic jaw had given him more of a echo-like and steel-grindy voice. Sheriff kept kicking as they reached the exit. He had to witness Hank shooting and killing every guard that got in his way from the room he found Clayton in, to now. They were finally outside in the pouring rain and Hank rushed to the van. They were pretty much in the clear now and Hank opened the trunk of the van, setting Sheriff in. Without hesitation, Sheriff kicked him in the knee, making him stumble back. He regained his posture and angrily grabbed the smaller man by his jaw, pinning him down to the trunk floor. "Now dammit, stop!" Hank snarled. Sheriff had tears in his eyes, but he was pissed. "Wh-Why th' Hell didn' you let me die back there!? They were doin' you a damn favor!" He hiccuped as he glared up at the Wimbleton, who stared coldly back with his red, blood-colored glasses. There was definitely blood stained on them. "Just. Stop. Squirming..." Hank growled. He forced Sheriff to sit up and pulled out a knife. Sheriff breathed sharply, thinking it was going into him as he closed his eyes. 'Finally, just end it. Please.' He thought. Hank pressed his body up against the Sheriff and began cutting the ropes that restrained his wrists. Sheriff just gave up. Obviously his time wasn't coming today. "Why're you helpin' me!? Last time ah checked, you wanted me dead!" "Well, things change, don't they?" He got off of him, removing his knee off of the truck and took Sheriff's hands, pulling him out of the trunk. "Come on. We're leaving." "A-Ah ain't goin' nowhere with you..." "You don't have a say in this. Now get in." Hank opened the passenger side of the van. Sheriff backed away, holding his shoulders. "A-Ah said no..." "Clayton-" Hank grabbed his arm, now furious. Sheriff snapped. "A-Ah said NO!!" Out of anger, he slapped Hank hard across the face. His glasses had fallen

onto the ground

and even broke from the sheer impact of the slap. Sheriff looked at Hank, then at his hand. Holy fuck. Did he just slap Hank fucking Wimbleton?? Ohh no. Hank held the side of his face and his ear rung from the impact and glared at Sheriff. Sheriff's eyes got big. Slapping Hank wasn't the only thing that shook him to his core... He stared deeply into his eyes. Those different colored eyes. She flashed in his memory. The train. Sheriff stared and started to shake. More tears fell from his face, his mouth was slightly agape as he started to say the name. That name. Hank glared and put his hand over Sheriff's mouth before he could even utter it. "...We're going. Now." Hank grabbed Clayton and shoved him into the seat and shutting the door. He walked over and got in the driver's seat, slamming his door. Clayton could tell he was frustrated now. This sent fear chilling up his body. No fucking way. Hank was once... A friend of his? Someone he got along well with!? He couldn't even believe, or even imagine Hank and him being friends. Or even sharing a laugh over something... Sheriff felt his stomach pit from the overwhelming stress. Both from earlier and now becoming too much. Hank silently drove away from the burnt down building, looking at it through his rearview mirror. Sheriff wanted to speak. He was pissed. He was afraid. He was confused. Why was- How did- Who- He couldn't even form questions in his head right now. Hank stared at the road as he drove. Only thing that could be heard was their gruff and heavy breathing. Sheriff stared into Hank's eyes as he drove. At this point, he decided to just figure out what was going on now. "...Wh-Where're ya takin' me...?" Hank ignored him as he drove. "...N-Now dammit, answer me!" He snapped, his voice shaking and cracked. This made Hank talk. "I'm taking you to our facility. You're still beat up and you clearly need a place to stay now, yeah?" He glared at him. "S-Since when did you even care...?" "..." "Why are you helpin' me!? What good have ah ever been to you fer you to help me!?" "Oh fucking Christ, can't you just be thankful!?" Hank suddenly yelled, feeling his temper get the best of him. "No! Yer a damn menace! A blight! All you want is people dead so long as it fills yer sick desires!" "I kill who I must. And in about 3 seconds if you don't shut your damn mouth, I'll add another on my list..." "Do it!!" Clayton screamed. "Ah ain't got nothin' anymore!" The cowboy started to come down into choked sobs as he yelled. "Ah failed my people, ah failed Nevada, ah even failed workin' for the Auditor because ah was too weak!" He glared at Hank. "So just fuckin' do it already! What's been stoppin' ya!?" There was a screech as Hank slammed his foot on the brake, roughly pressing Sheriff against the dashboard from the jolt. "Urgh-!" He grunted as he put his hands in front of himself to stop himself from smashing his face with the dashboard. Hank closed his eyes and started taking deep breaths. Was he, trying to calm down? That was rare... As far as Clayton knew the only stress reliever Hank knew what to do was kill kill kill. Hank slowly opened his eyes after a minute passed, staring at the dusty road they were on. With a low growl, he finally spoke. "...I don't know." Sheriff looked at him. "As far as I'm concerned, I should've had you dead ages ago... …But, I never did. I could've easily killed you back there before Jeb stabbed me dead. Every little attempt I just let you go. Is it pity? Do I feel bad for you? Fuck if I know." Clayton stared at Hank. "...What happened to you?" He spoke. "You were gonna be a mother. You had a calm life. You had a normal life as a normal person, man or woman, no matter! Why th' hell would you go and create all this chaos!?" Hank stared down, looking away from him. "I wasn't exactly fully innocent when you first met me, Clay..." Clayton stared. "H-Huh-?" "I had already killed a man. A man who was nothing but a drunk. A man who I unfortunately had fallen for." He started up the car as he

finished talking. "That was just my luck. But don't ever go and tell me I was innocent before. I never was. Never will be." He kept driving as Sheriff stared. "Yer, husband... Ya killed him?? That's why he was deceased when we spoke?" "...It was more self defense. He was gonna kill me and my son. I couldn't let him. So, I just..." Hank shook his head. Of everyone he killed, that was the last kill he ever wanted to talk about, let alone think it. "I don't wanna talk about it. Will you shut up and just let me take you back to get patched?" Sheriff sighed and nodded slowly. Fuck, he felt horrible now. Never would he thought they would've killed a soul back then. It was a silent 15 minute drive. The radio station played music but it was static and cut off every now and again. Clayton finally had the courage to speak up. To apologize. "...A-Ah'm sorry, Hank..." Clayton looked down. "For what?" "F-Fer everythin'... This whole war, what you went through... Er, givin' ya the big one eariler..." He looked at his hand, which still ached. Slapping teeth and metal really didn't tickle on the hand. Hank sighed. "It's, whatever. It's over now so no need to dwell on it." Clayton sighed. "Just- why? Why cause all this unnecessary violence? Why create this madness?" Hank kept his eyes on the road, but had a grim look. "...I can't exactly say... I never intended for this to be a full war." Sheriff shook his head. Everything was peaceful back then. Everyone played music, they all had a good time, just, living. Now look at it. The once gray-blue skies now black and red. Hank finally stopped the van once they were out at the hideout doors. He got out and opened the Sheriff's door. "Out. No more struggling..." Clayton nodded slowly and stepped out. With a hand on Clayton's shoulder, Hank led him inside... What was gonna happen? Was this where he was going to live...? Sheriff took a deep breath and just decided to wait and see...

#my fics #sheriff #hank #madness combat #holy shit this took foreveerrrr #if enough ppl like it i will continue #just not tonight am exhausted

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scorpionyx9621 · 4 years

Text

I Hope Hopeless Changes Over Time: A Red Hood and Batman Fic

*Source of the image I found off of Pintrest. I tried to find the original artist but the link on Pintrest led to a dead Tumblr account. If anyone wants to find/point out the account to me so I can give proper credit to the artist please please do.*

I wanted to make a fic based on an ask I did from the lovely @dilfbatman about Jason and Bruce. I hope people enjoy this mini-fic that I've expanded upon.

TW: Blood, Physical Assault, Suicide Ideation, Swearing. Bruce being a shitty father but trying. Jason having demons

3.75K words.

Bruce was uneasy about Jason staying over at the Wayne Mansion. Even with other members of the family around. Jason has done so much wrong and has hurt so many people. However, at the end of the day, Jason still is his son. So when he gets a call from Jason in a hushed voice asking Bruce to stay the night. He hesitated for a second, but acquiesced, Jason was nothing if not independent, so to be asking Bruce outright to stay at the Wayne Manor meant something was wrong.

"Master Jason wouldn't reach out to any of us unless something was gravely wrong, Master Wayne." Alfred had reassured Bruce, who was staring absentmindedly at the glass case which housed Jason's old Robin costume. The costume that Jason had died in. Bruce always tried to repress the memory of holding his son's cold, lifeless body. The pain he felt from losing his parents burned in his heart as an everlasting stab wound. But the pain from losing Jason, his son, it was too much to bare.

"I'd be welcoming to Master Jason, but keep your distance. Master Damian is spending the night at Jon Kent's house, Master Richard is in Blüdhaven, and Master Timothy is with the Teen Titans tonight. I'll rest assured Jason doesn't try anything to harm you. But don't try to encourage a confrontation." Alfred explained. He always seemed to understand Jason to a tee after he came back to life.

"I don't know how you do it Alfred, you can read the boy like a book." Bruce had retorted. Cocking a half-smile to the man who raised him since his parents died.

"Master Wayne, Master Jason wears his heart on his sleeve. He always has. And one of the reasons why you two fight constantly is because, for as terrific as a detective you are, you are horrifically inept in reading the emotions of your children." Alfred had stated, those words bit Bruce. He wasn't expecting such sharp words from Alfred. "We failed Master Jason. And he's hurt, he's been hurt for years because of it. However he keeps choosing to come back and try and trust again. We needn't come at him with accusations of ulterior motives, but we should be supportive." Alfred stated.

"But cognizant of what Jason is capable of." Bruce added back. Jason may need help, but he's still dangerous. He has tried to kill Bruce and the rest of the Robins multiple times. He wants to trust Jason and warm up to him again. But the man who wears the Red Hood and stalks the streets of Gotham killing those he deems criminals is not his son anymore.

Alfred and Bruce greeted Jason as he walked in the large double doors of the Wayne Manor. The first thing Bruce noticed was the dark circles under Jason's eyes. It seemed as if the man hadn't slept in days. Jason was wearing sweatpants and a fitted black wife beater, accentuating his muscles. Jason would have looked more intimidating had his body language not suggested he was as disheveled as he was, physically and mentally.

"Thanks Alfred." Jason had said meekly towards the butler. He took one step into the mansion and looked at Bruce. Bruce noticed as soon as Jason's eyes met his, his tired irises contorted into anger. His lips pursed downwards but Jason chose not to say anything. Instead just walking past Bruce pretending not to acknowledge him.

"Master Jason, you will be staying in the guest suite on the main floor. I've already prepped everything for your arrival. Please make yourself at home." Alfred had said. Jason just shook is head as he headed towards the hallway leading the guest suite. Bruce didn't notice it immediately but the stench Jason had emitted stung in the air. It smelled like stale liqour and body oder. It seems Jason hadn't bathed in days. Bruce had wanted to say something but chose not to.

The evening went by quietly enough. Jason had taken a shower and changed into another fitted wife beater but still sported a tired energy about him. Alfred had put together a beef pot roast for dinner with red potatoes, carrots, onions, and celery over garlic mashed potatoes. A favorite dish of Jason's. The three of them ate quietly as Bruce continued to size up his son. He was conflicted. At one point he saw the man who blew up the head of a Gotham security force member with a torture decide he had created. On the other hand, he saw the boy who would beg for Bruce to buy him more books after he finished the maximum amount a library card would allow for a week in the span of 3 days. The son who told him being Robin gave him magic.

The dinner ended as it began. With awkward silence and the father-son duo eyeing each other. One with cautious trepidation and the other with abject hate. Bruce had decided not to go on patrol tonight as he felt he needed to be at the manor should anything happen while Jason was here. An uneasy sense of dread built over Bruce as he had said good night to Jason as the two passed by each other in the halls. Jason simply spat 'Bitch' at Bruce and walked into the bedroom. Bruce had been bad with other people's emotions, but something didn't sit right with the way Jason was carrying himself. He had decided to stay up tonight regardless. A sense came over him after being sworn at by Jason. A sense he hadn't felt in a long time. He felt as though his son needed help.

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"You're a monster"

"Jason is a murderer"

"Stay away from Jason, he'll kill you."

"No one wants you around, Todd"

"You're just a good guy trying to be bad"

"This is the kid you had to replace me with as Robin? Bruce he's pathetic."

"I can't believe my daughter wasted the Lazarus Pit on a miserable failure like you."

"Maybe I'd be better off dead"

Jason tossed and turned. It's been days. He couldn't get the voices out of his head. Those whispery, moany voices that taunted and tormented him. He knew it was a result of the Lazarus Pit. Ever since Roy died and everyone left him the voices started taunting him again. He tried everything he could to get the voices to stop. He drank, he read, he worked out, he did everything he could. The only way the voices became quiet were when he was beating the ever-loving shit out of some criminals. This was not the mindset Jason had wanted. He wanted to go back to being supported by Bruce, the man who betrayed him. He knew that Bruce was weak. He couldn’t kill the Joker because of his weakness.

Jason got up and walked over to the connecting bathroom to the suite that he was staying in. He went to the sink and splashed some cold water on his face. Against his better judgement, Jason looked up to the figure he saw in the mirror. He took note of his jawline, his face, his green eyes, his muscles.. but one thing that caught his eye was the fucking skunk streak of hair at the top of his head. The physical reminder of his dip in the Lazarus Pit. He had just re-dyed the spot not two days ago and it already came back. He did everything he could to try to hide the streak. It’s what he hated most about his new body. The pit wiped away all of the scars he had on his body. And any new fresh scar or wound would just fade in a matter of moments due to the effects of the pit. The only thing that ever stayed was that damned streak.

Jason had nothing but disgust and contempt for the man he saw in the mirror, which, ironically, was himself.

“You’re just using the sarcasm to hide your hatred.”

“It’s your fault that everyone hates you.”

“Killing the sick of the masses to save those who are weak is your calling”

“Those reptiles deserve to die”

“I don’t want to kill unless I don’t have to.. I don’t want people to hate me..” Jason tried reassuring himself. The voices in his head kept getting louder and louder. “I want Bruce and everyone to love me again....” He continued to try to re-assure himself. It was a false sense of hope as always. His mind soon wandered to a moment where he was on top of Dick in a fight. Confronting his older sibling and reciting a quote he had heard from a Japanese philosopher and optimist as he had the barrel of a gun placed against his older brother’s temple.

“Do you know what the most convenient phrase in the world is, Dickie? It’s ‘I’m sorry.’ Anyone who hears that is obligated to forgive, no matter how hurt or angry they might be... There's no more disgusting phrase in all the world. It's used to displace your suffering unto others so you can escape your sins... The moment you employ it, your suffering becomes the other person's. A thing can be unforgivable, but oh, if they apologize... I say there's no reason to accept that suffering. You don't have to forgive them. Cast aside the mask of your conscience.“

“Stop this. Please stop this.” Jason had begged aimlessly into the air. He didn’t want to live like this anymore. He didn’t want to live, period. He just wanted all of this to end. He had caused so much pain and so much suffering to the people of Gotham all so he could attempt to hurt Bruce. But those words kept repeating in his head. He knew he had to stop this. He needed help, he wanted to go to Bruce and explain what was going on but Bruce would just have him institutionalized. His murderer of a son starts hearing voices in his head? A one way ticket to a padded room.

Jason suddenly stared back into the mirror and saw something he detested. The green eyes that stared into his soul. The one he hated more than anything else. Was himself. This thing was staring him in the face mocking him, and he wanted it gone.

“Do it Jason.” the voice had beckoned from the mirror. “Kill them all. Slit Damian’s throat and watch the fucker bleed. Bash Tim’s stupid face into the concrete until there’s nothing but mush. Rip Dick limb from fucking limb. Watch Bruce as you choke the last bit of life from his eyes. I promise all the pain will go away once all of this is done.” the voice sounded almost sweet as it promised to do all of this. Jason just retched as he saw the green eyed monster promising poison to him. He felt his vision fade to black.

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

STOP IT. SHUT. UP.

*CRASH*

Bruce had jumped up from the chair he was sitting on in the library, the voice came from the suite that Jason was staying in. Bruce didn’t have time to think. He just ran towards the noise. He threw the door to the suite open and ran to the bathroom. There he saw Jason in front of a heavily cracked mirror. Jason was hyperventilating and he saw blood oozing from Jason’s fist which was pressed against the mirror. Bruce saw from the reflection that Jason had split open the left side of his lip seemingly from a shard of glass. It wasn’t long before Jason glanced up at the imposing shadow in the mirror and noticed Bruce’s presence.

“YOU STAY THE FUCK AWAY FROM ME BRUCE.” Jason had shouted at his reflection. Jason was shaking. Bruce had wanted to assess the injury that Jason gave himself. But he knew he was cornering a scared animal if he pressed any farther forward. Bruce stood their frozen. Pondering between trying to press forward upon a killer, or to check up on his son.

“Jason, I just...” Bruce was cut off by another scream as Jason turned around.

“IF YOU COME ANY CLOSER I SWEAR TO GOD I WILL KILL YOU WHERE YOU FUCKING STAND YOU PIECE OF SHIT.” Bruce finally got the cue. The hitch in Jason’s voice. This is the same hitch his voice made when he was a kid and was angry at Bruce. Alfred was right. This is his son. And right now Bruce needed not to be the Batman approaching the Red Hood. He needed to be Bruce, to help his son.

Bruce walked forward to Jason, still shaking as blood oozed from the gashes of glass on his fist. Bruce decided against everything in his gut telling him to stop this criminal. This monster who killed for sport and to prove a point. He needed to help Jason, his son.

Bruce was knocked back by a fist to his chest. Glass imbedded itself into Bruce as he felt the sting of their shards. Jason was right, he was going to hurt Bruce if he approached. Oracle was right, Jason had been abusing venom. The quick gain in muscle mass was proof enough but the stinging pain in Bruce’s chest also proved that hypothesis. Jason barred his teeth as his eyes displayed a seething hatred. Bruce would have been frightened on any other day. Today, Bruce felt a feeling he hadn’t felt in a long time. Bruce collected himself and got up to approach Jason again.

“I TOLD YOU I’M GOING TO KILL YOU BRUCE. I FUCKING HATE YOUR GUTS. I WANT YOU TO DIE. I WANT ALL OF US TO JUST FUCKING DIE.” Jason screamed even louder this time. A hot stream of tears worked their way down Jason’s cheeks. Bruce no longer saw a rage-induced monster but the boy who took a tire iron to his gut on the streets of Gotham. The boy who would was thrilled at every opportunity he got to show Bruce the A’s on every test he got in school. This was his baby boy who needed his help.

“Jason Peter Todd that’s enough.” Bruce said firmly, but not harshly. Jason stared directly into his eyes. “Jason. I want you to listen to me.”

“Go to hell you motherfucker.” those words which escaped Jason were laced with poison. Bruce didn’t waver.

“You can punch me as much as you want Jason and I’ll deserve all of it.” Bruce came closer to Jason. Jason proceeded to physically make himself smaller. Like a scared animal. Bruce remember what he did to Jason after he had seemingly killed The Penguin. How he beat Jason to within an inch of his life. His heart plummeted to his stomach as he saw Jason cower like a scared dog over his approach.

“What are you going to do Bruce, beat me to a fucking pulp again? You hate me more than you hate the fucking Joker, don’t you?” Jason asked. Bruce truly saw the fear in those green eyes. He had to take a moment and realized just what he was doing. He unclenched his jaw and relaxed his shoulders as he approached Jason. This time he was back within striking range of his son.

“Jason. I failed you. I have been failing you for the past 10 years since your death. I have failed this city and this family in providing the protection it needs. I couldn’t kill The Joker because I’m weak.” Bruce sucked at emotions and emoting. But Bruce hadn’t felt this shaky and wavering since the day he lost Jason. His son needed to know the truth. He deserved to know the truth. “Jason I never hated you. I hated the actions you have taken against the people of this city. But I’ve come to realize that the hatred and contempt I’ve held is because you do what I can’t do.”

“Oh so now you’re coming over to apologize? I don’t owe you shit after what you’ve done to me.” Jason had stated. He may have been acting like a pinned animal. But his mouth will never not cut like knives.

“Jason, when we had fought in the abandoned apartment. And you had the Joker with you. You had tried to shoot me after I had turned away from you.” Bruce said. Inching ever closer to Jason while trying not to be imposing. “In that moment, I threw the batarang because I knew you were going to retaliate against me. But I need you to know in that moment I turned away. I turned away because I decided I wasn’t to be the one to decide the Joker’s fate. He had taken your life and it wasn’t up to me to decide. I want nothing more than for the Joker to pay for the countless lives hes taken and ruined.” Bruce swallowed hard as he felt tears beginning to well in his eyes. “I failed you because I couldn’t kill the Joker. But in that moment, I wanted nothing more than to have my baby boy back. I wanted you back in my life. I still want you back in my life.”

“Bullshit. Fucking BULLSHIT.” Jason spat at Bruce. The emotions were flooding out of his face. Anger, hatred, fear, but most of all sadness. Jason’s voice began wavering as he began to cry. “If you loved me why in the fuck have you never realized I’ve been trying to help the people of Gotham. Instead every time I take matters into my own hands all I meet are your fucking fists. I hate your guts Bruce. We’d all just be better off fucking dead. It’s all Hopeless. I’m hopeless.”

Bruce took a deep breath. He tried to find his resolve. He wanted nothing more than to be able to reach out to his son again. “You’re absolutely right Jason. I’ll bet Gotham would be a whole lot better without me. Without the pain I have caused. And no amount of apologies will fix the pain that I have caused you. No words will ever take back the transgressions I have taken against you.” Bruce was crying this time. “But know this. You always have been my son. And I love you so much. The day I lost my parents was agony. The day I lost you, I felt like I had lost myself I felt I had died a bit inside.” Bruce choked out. “We both have done so much we regret. If I could take back all the times I hit you I would do it in a heartbeat. But no amount of sorry will take back that pain. I shouldn’t be in the position to be asking this. But I just want my son back.” Bruce swallowed. “You have every right to hate me, but I will never stop loving you. You aren’t hopeless and you never have been. You never have been a burden. You are valued by so many people. I. I love you my son. I love you Jason."

Jason’s face relaxed from a position of contempt and hatred and soon was overcome with years of pent up tears. Jason let out a hearty scream as he proceeded to weep and sob. As if a dam had broke and was threatening to engulf a town in an apocalypse. Bruce went against everything he had known and was screaming from the inside of his body and wrapped Jason in a hug. He was almost as large as Bruce himself and barely fit around his arms. But Bruce held his son and hugged him tight. Jason was crying uncontrollably.

“I’m hearing these voices. They’re telling me I’m a monster and a killer and that I should kill all of you.” Jason shouted between sobs. “But I don’t want to. I’m so afraid Bruce. I don’t want to hurt anyone unless I have to.”

“Just breath Jason. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. Let it all out.” Bruce had solidified his resolve and worked on being there for Jason. He couldn’t run away this time. His son needed him more than ever. And Gotham be damned. He’s not making this mistake twice. He’s staying here. For Jason.

It felt like hours before Jason had run out of tears and sobs. Jason was fading and seemed like he was about to fall asleep. The shards of glass that were imbedded in his hand seemingly prevented Jason from bleeding out. Bruce had saw Jason’s eyes glaze over as his breathing calmed.

“Jason, I’m going to pick you up and take you to bed.” Bruce had said, asking for permission from his second son. Jason simply nodded as he starred off. He was numb now. The pain seemingly gone for the moment. Bruce lifted Jason up and was taken aback by just how heavy his son was. He truly was 225lbs just like his records showed. This wasn’t the son who hid under the cabinets when Bruce first brought Jason home. But Bruce still saw the boy as his son nonetheless. As Bruce laid Jason on the bed Alfred had approached with a first aid kit. Proceeding to begin to clean up Jason’s hand. Jason was so exhausted he barely felt any of the picking and pulling or the iodine going into his wounds. He kept his eyes fast forward on Bruce.

“Bruce. I. I’m sorry.” Jason had said meekly.

“Don’t apologize Jason.” Bruce had stated. He ran his hand through Jason’s hair, giving a soft massage to his scalp. “You get some sleep now. I don’t think you’ve rested in days.”

Bruce had remembered the time he had read Jason to sleep. This time he had thought back to a poem that struck him from his phone. It was from a famous lyricist and singer. As Bruce pulled up his phone he had found the poem and recited it as Jason fell asleep. Things are far from perfect or even better. But tomorrow was going to be the first day of the rest of his and Jason’s lives.

“They told me once, ‘there's a place where love conquers all’

A city with the streets full of milk and honey

I haven't found it yet, but I'm still searching

All I know is a hopeless place that flows with the blood of my kin

Perhaps hopeless isn't a place

Nothing but a state of mind”

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pHEW GOD THAT WAS LONG. I hope you all enjoyed the fic! This was my first published attempt at angst and whump and while I feel some parts are cringe. I am proud of what I made.

Big thanks again to @dilfbatman for inspiring this fic. The inspiration of the title is the song Hopeless: by Halsey. The quote about I’m Sorry is from the character Shadow Maya Amano from Persona 2: Innocent Sin. And the poem at the end is the first part of the lyrics to the song Good Mourning by Halsey.

#Jason Todd #Red Hood #Bruce Wayne #Batman #Whump #Angst #Hurt/comfort #Non-ship #Bruce being a good father #Jason trying his best #Jason getting the rest he deserves #The two have gone through so much but they can get help #TW Blood #TW Physical abuse #TW Swearing

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