#The sheer power he has wipes away his soul like its far beneath him

[completeoveranalysis]

[6]

Oops yes that is indeed a bad news! If Syaoran soundly won the fight last time and now he's even Stronger? No chance! The win rate is not high! Things are not going well at all!

Though that shot of him with the glowing eye? With Fai’s glowing eye? Contrasted against Lava Lamp's eyes squinting in effort and pain? Amazing! Terrible! Awful! I love it!

DID LAVA LAMP SET SYAORAN ON FIRE???

APPROPRIATE! BIG WIN FOR TEAM METAPHOR!

NOW THAT’S A CERTIFIED SYMBOLISM!

OOF didn’t really need Evil Wolverine to pop in and explain Fai’s eye to Fai himself BUT SURE I GUESS HE MIGHT AS WELL AT THIS POINT. He really is almost a parody of himself. 

But yes, thank you Evil Wolverine, Fai’s magic gets stronger the more he uses it (and Fai avoided using it as long as possible, but Syaoran is absolutely going wild with it). 

I suppose this is just Evil Wolverine’s way to remind us he’s still here and definitely important somehow, and isn’t completely emotionally overshadowed by the whole Syaoran thing. 

[curly-bangtan]

A Drop of Heaven III: Broken Skin (M)

[Series Masterlist]

Pairing: ot7 x reader // this chapter: Yoongi x reader, Seokjin x reader

Series summary: Seven vampires have secretly been roaming the darks of your world for millennia. Each brother selects a Feed who becomes supernaturally bound to him, whose blood will be fed on until their inevitable mortal death. They have spent their eternity hunting for the exorbitant rarity that is angel blood - the most heavenly of food for vampires that fuel them with desire, lust and satiety. So what happens when they all find you, the first angel-blooded being they’ve encountered in two centuries?

Genre: vampire au, poly au, smut, angst, enemies to lovers (e2l)

Warnings in this chapter: blood drinking, soft!Seokjin, mentions of depression and suicidal thoughts (gets a little dark), graphic violence, Yoongi being abusive and sadistic, dom!Yoongi, rough unprotected sex, BDSM I guess?, spanking, biting, choking, hair pulling, feeding during sex, degradation, ass job, hate sex, own cum consumption

Word count: 11.4k

A/N: I do not condone Yoongi’s behaviour at all, it is horrible and not intended to be romanticised!! He is obviously a vampire so violence is a habit built from centuries, but it’s also still not okay. And everything that happens is consensual. I’m honestly so scared that this is too much but I might just be overreacting. I hope you like this update because there were parts that were so difficult for me to write. :(

[prelude, i, ii, iii, iv, v, vi, vii, epilogue]

❦

Kissing Seokjin feels like sinking into a cloud after plummeting from the heavens, soft, cold, delicate. You don’t think you’d truly realised how plump his lips are until they are on yours, catching your every breath. You sense his initial shock, feel the fumes of confusion swirling in his chest. Because still, you haven’t stopped feeling, just feeling, him.

His body is tense at first, unmoving. Yet his lips contradict its language by slowly moving around yours, the motion so natural, so fluid, that it doesn’t feel like the first time you’re kissing.

Despite the coolness of his skin, all you feel is a warmth enshrouding your every sense, but mostly your heart. The sire bond doesn’t stop forming, building brick by brick between your souls like a bridge crossing the vast ocean. You see him on the other side, so far, yet so clearly. You’re walking towards each other, no, maybe even running. Full speed.

And then you collide.

And coalesce into one entity.

You don’t register it until your leg has swung around him and he has pulled you onto his lap, hands so gentle that you wonder if you’re imagining his touch. There isn’t a single thought in your brain right now, just a humming, faint colours swimming.

Every single movement is slow, heavy, as if you’re underwater and a pressure is resisting you, but pleasantly so because it makes every movement feel more impactful. Your eyes flicker open just a moment to confirm that this isn’t a dream, and you’re met with such dazzling beauty that makes you question your reality more.

This doesn’t feel real.

Yet at the same time, you’ve never felt anything more real.

Especially as your hands travel to his face, cupping his smooth cheeks, fingers gripping onto him so not to get washed away by the current. Every time you touch, you melt into him.

Not to mention all his sensations overwhelming yours, the way you feel his turmoil at his own conflicting emotions for you. How he cares deeply for you already, wishing just to be close to you in any shape or form because he craves the humanness of love. Yet also how he knows that love, be it platonic or romantic, has long since been vetoed as an option in his life, and given your dynamic, will never not crumble.

Seokjin shudders under your caress, as if he also cannot believe this is true. His hands sliding up your legs on their own accord, not greedily, but not of innocence either.

Then he’s guiding you onto your back and up the bed until your head meets the plush of your pillow, tongue rolling over yours like evening waves. Neither of you think to stop, take a breath, assess the situation. Because the bond between you doesn’t allow you to do anything except be together.

But when his fingers reach up your top, he freezes. Rather than your skin that he was expecting, is the rough lace of the bodysuit you are wearing.

You had both forgotten about that amidst all this. And suddenly, the few minutes before where he had entered the room to the sight of you trying on this raunchy undergarment feels like an eon ago.

His eyes lock onto yours, fingers stroking the patterned material as he softly asks, “Can I?”

“Yes,” you sigh into him, “please.”

Heartbeat unsteady but strong, you feel your whole body tremble under him as he smoothly slides your cotton joggers down to reveal your bare thighs. And when you pull your sweatshirt over your head too, Seokjin thinks he’s forgotten how to breathe.

His insides feel warm from the feeding of your blood, but his groin feels even warmer. He doesn’t think he has ever experienced such a strong physical desire for any of his Feeds in the past. Never anything so potent, compelling. He feels as though he is flotsam, swept away by the ocean into the depths of you.

You look up at him, eyes wide with a confounding innocence that you somehow have maintained throughout the affliction you’ve endured. The thin white material of the lingerie hugs your body so dearly, the floral lace like grapevines across your torso and up to your breasts. The sheer mesh does little to hide the colouration of your nipples. Seokjin feels his bulge growing painfully.

Your hand droops down his front, an action of harmless intent, yet sets fire to his gut. He falls back into you, mouth finding yours as his fingers dart up your legs, marvelling at your soft spotless skin, the same skin that used to be painted with scars and bruises and cuts that dig deeper than flesh, but have miraculously been wiped clean. It had felt like a rebirth.

It is evident from his hesitant touch how nervous he is, his throat quivering. It has been so long since he has remotely felt so alive; it moves him beyond his comprehension.

And it is as if you can sense that he wants you to do so, you break the kiss to flip him around so you are straddling him once again. From the way you sat over his crotch, dressed like a doll in white, Seokjin knows that he’ll come undone under you.

Rather than sealing his lips again, you just watch him for a moment, chest rising from the fervour. Your thumb traces his forehead down to his chin, then brush the corner of his mouth. His eyes fall shut, quaking under your touch, trying to calm the storm in his mind.

Then it darts down his chest like a little mouse to palm his arousal over his slacks. Seokjin gasps, a sound that you enjoy too much. He feels hefty in your hands, already, throbbing at the friction you rub. Your core is blazing at his reaction, his whimpers.

But then, in a flash, he sits up and holds up a finger for you to stop, eyes that are trained on the door shifting immediately. “Wait here.” is all he says before he zooms out from beneath you and through the door that joins your room to his.

You don’t even have time to register that he’s gone until you’re plopped onto the mattress, alone.

What?

Sense is slowly starting to ebb back into you. Had you done something wrong? Wait, well of course, you hadn’t even asked his permission to kiss him. But that doesn’t explain why he had asked you to wait before leaving so hurriedly. This scene reminds you of…

And lo and behold, as you creep up to the door to his room, you hear someone knock. Your attention quickly turns to the second door that opens to the hallway, but you realise that the sound was too muffled for it to be coming from there. No, someone knocked on Seokjin’s bedroom door.

Ears straining to listen as you press the side of your face against the wood, you hear powerful steps enter the room.

“Good night. What can I help you with? Why do you look so troubled, Namjoon?” Although the words are barely audible, his name rings sonically into you. A strange yet familiar rope tugs on your soul.

You think you hear him sigh, and you can imagine exactly the frustrated frown he must be plagued with. “I… I don’t even know how to begin to talk about it, hyung. You know what I’m like…  with words…”

“Yes, of course.” It could be your imagination but there is still the smallest hitch to Seokjin’s breath, yet to his credit, he is hiding it well. “Your debility in expressing your true feelings is second to Yoongi. What’s the matter?”

“Have you felt it yet?”

A pause.

“Felt what?”

“The bond.” Namjoon’s voice is a husky rasp.

You tense because it almost sounds as though it pains him. Unconsciously, your hand grips at your chest, the memory of its violent cinching when your soul was first tethered to his haunting you.

“Th- Why…?” Seokjin sounds as though he’s been asked a deeply personal question. You suppose it is.

“Hell, it’s so- so intense this time. In our centuries, I don’t think any Feed bond has ever been this powerful. When I fed on her yesterday, it felt like we were physically bound together, like the Gods tied us together and I couldn’t walk away from her no matter how much I struggled. I didn’t feel myself, I felt so… human.”

Your blood freezes. You hadn’t known, or even considered, how the sire bond must have felt for him. Do vampires feel everything more heightened due to their superior senses? Or less because they have been numbed over time? That bond with Namjoon felt vastly different from Seokjin. It’s true what he said, it was like your souls were bound by rope. Supernaturally unbreakable rope. And though the initial impact has eventually worn off, everytime your mind lingered a second too long in the thoughts of him, you felt its reminder tugging at your core again.

“I…” Seokjin seems slightly dumbfounded. Whether it’s because he finds himself relating so much to that feeling, or because he’s surprised it had been that strong for his brother too. “Maybe it’s because we haven’t tasted angel blood in too long; it has always driven us a little wild in the past, this time only exacerbated by how much we’ve missed it.”

“Possibly… But, I mean, I really wasn’t myself. I k- I lost control. I felt things, emotions that I can’t make sense of. I can’t even begin to describe them to you.”

“You mean, you felt affection for the girl?”

Silence. You hear your own heartbeat.

Affection?

There was a longing in the way Namjoon had kissed you, like all the anger and frustration you had riled up in him had somehow melted into a flood of desire. And you, yourself. Something had felt warm, pleasant, in your core. You hadn’t wanted him to stop, not even an inkling.

Such contrast to the spiteful words you had been throwing at each other only a minute before he fed on you.

It’s definitely the bond.

“Affect- No- Don’t be ridiculous. Why would you say that?” Namjoon splutters. You can imagine his cheeks staining in colour.

“Namjoon. I know you like to distance yourself from your Feeds, maintain a dynamic in which you always view them as your prey. But you are allowed to grow fond of her. It’s happened to us all before.” There’s a resignation in Seokjin’s tone, like this is a conversation that has been had many times before.

“I’m not growing fond of her! It’s the bond, it’s overriding my sense.”

“Namjoon-ah.” He sighs, exasperation crisp in his muffled voice. “Yes, it is all very much the effects of the sire bond. But you know that the bond manifests in such that reflects on the vampire right? Its shape and form, its intensity, its hold over you. It tells you more about yourself than you’re willing to admit.”

You perk up straight. You don’t think you want to continue listening. You don’t think you want to face the knowledge of what this magic means; it would elicit too many unwanted thoughts, confusion, dilemmas. You don’t want it. You don’t want to think about the deeper reflection of Namjoon’s feelings, and yours too.

So, stealthily, you sneak back onto the bed in your best efforts not to make a sound that would announce your eavesdropping to the vampires next door.

Sat near the edge of the bed, you stare at your wrist, at the fresh wounds that Seokjin’s fang had punctured. It’s starting to hurt now, as you stray away from the state of euphoria that came with the settling of the bond between you. You hadn’t noticed before when you were kissing him, but your hand is slathered with dried crusted blood.

You pick at it. Even licking it to see if your blood truly tastes that divine. It tastes metallic all the same.

Don’t think about the magic. Don’t think about Namjoon. Don’t even think about Seokjin. Just stop thinking for a second. Stop questioning. Stop wondering. Stop before you go crazy.

Thus you sit there blankly until Seokjin finally raps softly at the door after his conversation.

“Come in.” You remember you don’t need to speak up for him to hear you - he’s got vampire hearing.

Visible bother is worn on his expression as he enters. He gazes at you differently now. And once again, it’s like you’ve both awoken from a trance. No longer leaping into each other. The realisation sits bitterly in your stomach.

It wasn’t real, was it?

“Let me heal you first.” It’s the gentleness in his voice that make you sad.

And so you obediently lap up the rich scarlet liquid oozing out of his own wrist. You try to ignore how its taste threatens to tip you over and fall back into him again. You try to ignore that warm embrace you feel around your heart.

Is any of it real?

Soon, the two holes disappear along with the growing sting of your raw flesh. As good as new.

You refuse to look at each other at first, as you put on your clothes to conceal your suddenly very self conscious body and he fiddles with the embroidered collar of his shirt. This isn’t regret, but there might possibly a drop of shame, at what you had been doing.

“Um… That was Namjoon…” Whether or not he knows that you were eavesdropping, he doesn’t show.

“Oh.” You simply utter.

The tension is a tangible thing between you. The residual buzz from the bond is still present, tingling under your skins. If you focus hard enough, you can just about hear whispers of his emotions, but only barely.

After a silence that pains you both to be a part of, Seokjin clears his throat. “I don’t want to give you the wrong impression of the kind of person I am. I’m not usually… The sire bond that fixes between a vampire and an angel has never been very well understood in my time no matter the research I’ve done. It’s guarded not only by witch magic and demonic powers, but also celestial strength of the heavens. It… warps the mind and senses.”

It’s a factual statement, yet you feel many underlying implications. It warps the mind and senses. As in what you did wasn’t really of your own wills, is that what he means? It stings, because it had felt so real. It was real. For you anyway.

“But…”

He realises your interpretation, and his eyes soften. “It’s complicated, the paradox of reality. I don’t wish to offend you in any way. I… care about you. I don’t wish to confuse you. So, it’s best if… it doesn’t happen again. For our own sake.”

He’s right, you know. But it feels bitter. Because just as you begin to taste a sweet thing in your mouth, just as you feel yourself healing through a person, it all just vaporises. But there’s no way of knowing if that was all just a trick of the mind anyway.

Or maybe Seokjin’s withdrawal is because of Namjoon. There’s too much confusion, muddle of emotions and incomprehensible feelings. And the more you try to wrap your head around his words that you overheard, the more you find yourself falling into a vortex of unknown.

It’s best not to start down an uncertain path, than realising too late that you’re falling off a cliff’s edge.

You had hope in Seokjin, that you could be close, because he holds that normalcy that you crave amidst this chaos. Could you still be friends? From the way you’re avoiding each other’s eye, you’re not sure.

“I understand.” You stare at a fleck of blood on your hand.

.

You’re staring at your pristine, spotless hands, folded around each other atop your lap. Sitting in the middle of the mattress’ end.

Waiting. Trembling.

It’s Wednesday.

The very day you’ve dreaded the most since learning about the vampire who you’ll be sired to today. The vampire who will enjoy inflicting pain onto you. The vampire who hasn’t a single drop of empathy left in him.

Yoongi.

You’re not unaccustomed to men with power complexes who like to seek validation from harming those weaker than he is. So you’re not sure why you’re scared right now. You should be immune to such fears at this point, but you guess it’s the little human instinct left in you that’s invoking it.

Your life hadn’t always been a saga of continuous abuse; you were a normal teenager once, with a loving family, many friends, a regular content life. But one stroke of bad luck, one tragedy, and your cloudless blue sky was ripped apart. It was a stormy Friday night, you suppose that was your first foreboding from the gods. You had begrudgingly agreed to stay in because your parents were adamant that you shouldn’t go to that Minho’s party again after they heard that he dealt weed to everyone. Still, you had snuck out with the help of your then boyfriend without a single ounce of guilt and scurried off together to Minho’s. Your parents didn’t usually check up on you, so when you had received a furious phone call from your father a little past midnight, you were shocked. Oh fuck, you remember thinking, accompanied by that distinctly horrid heart-sinking feeling.

There wasn’t much you could say to persuade them not to come pick you up right that instant, even as you begged them with tears of humiliation as your peers looked at you in pity, you knew their mind was set. And though it wasn’t very justified at all, you had felt a surge of anger towards them. Resentment.

You had slammed the car door particularly hard when you entered the vehicle, your boyfriend’s worried expression in the corner of your eye as you couldn’t bare looking at him. “Y/N. You lied to us.” You stayed silent. “We asked one thing from you, and that was to stay away from Minho, and you couldn’t do that.” “Minho is my friend!” “Minho is a bad influence!” “I don’t even smoke weed! Have you ever seen me high? No. Do I smell like weed right now? No. Why do you want to control me so badly?” “We weren’t banning you from all parties, it was just this one party. And you couldn’t do that for us.” The disappointment in their calm voices riled you up even more. “And why not? Why can’t I go to this one party if I wanted to? Everyone went to this party tonight, everyone. Did any of their parents stop them? No. Because none of them are as controlling as you!” “Because none of them know about the weed!” “Oh next thing I know, you’ll be saying that my boyfriend is a bad influence too and that I can’t date him anymore.” “You know what, that’s true.” “Oh, For God’s sake! you guys are so annoying. Why do you have to be like this?”

Every time you think back to that argument you had in the car, your nails dig into your fists. If only you had just shut up. If only you had just accepted that you were in the wrong. It was just one party, one stupid fucking party, that means so little in the grand scheme of your life.

“Y/N, mind the way you’re speaking to your parents.”

It had started pouring down heavily on the drive back home. You couldn’t even look out the window because everything was a rain-blurred mosaic. The windshield wipers were wiping vigorously, that unbearably annoying sound now forever etched in your mind in this memory.

“I can speak however I want to.” You watched the digital clock on the screen of the car switch to 01:01. “You guys are the worst parents in the world. I wish I wasn’t your daughter. I wish-”

In movies, car crashes happen in slow motion; the audience sees the shock register in the driver’s face, then watch the whole vehicle flip in 0.5x speed. In real life, all you feel is a violent collision, a loud ringing, a flash of light, all in a split second. Then everything is black.

01:01.

You had still been staring at the time. It was the last thing you saw before your world was torn into shreds.

You had barely made it, by the miracle, or perhaps more accurately punishment of God. You were unconscious for 72 hours after the crash; you parents were unconscious forever. They gave it a day before they broke the news to you.

You had cried until you fainted again and woke up another 20 hours later.

It took months for your injuries to heal, during which you had all day and night to replay that last scene in the car over and over again in your head. Those words you said to them before they died.

Your elderly grandmother who was living with you and your 2-month old sister at the time took the burden of the family. She hadn’t scolded you, blamed you, nor resented you. She just came to the hospital every day with warm porridge and soup and your sister carried on her crooked back, smiled at you and told you to keep fighting.

You didn’t have many relatives; your father was estranged from his family, while your mother only had your grandmother and your uncle. Your uncle was a kind, supportive figure once. But you could tell he didn’t see you the same way after the accident everyone knew you’d caused. You didn’t blame him, you hated yourself too. Still, he moved in to help your elderly grandmother; babies are a lot to handle after all, especially for those who can’t even walk up the stairs without wincing. Your uncle became the breadwinner of the family, working hard every day to pay for your medical bills. You had admired him once, had been so tremendously grateful.

But then your grandmother died.

Heart attack due to stress, fatigue and exhaustion. It was the day before you were set to be released from the hospital.

Everything fell apart. It was like a switch was flipped because all of a sudden there was hatred in your uncle’s eyes every time you saw him look at you, something that burned so deep that it didn’t feel human. It was a demonic sort of evil that emitted from his gaze. Alcohol was his remedy for his sorrows, you were his relief.

The first time he hit you felt like you deserved it. The second time, maybe fair enough. But by the fiftieth time, it felt like it had evolved into something of a habit. It became a spiral of abuse, he became less and less human, more and more a senseless drunk monster. There was a basement where you were locked in as he insisted it was the only way to keep you from causing another tragedy in his life; you weren’t permitted to leave the house, you couldn’t and it wasn’t to do with a lack of trying. Sometimes you were fed and watered, if he was in a good mood. Sometimes your face was burned on the stove if you tried to dispute.

And for a while, you’d found some sort of excuse, justification for him. You killed your parents, his sister. You killed his mother. They had all died in consequence of one bad, selfish decision you’d made. But as the abuse worsened, it became more apparent that he enjoyed watching you bleed, he enjoyed painting your skin with bruises and burns and cuts. In a sick twisted perversion. None of it should be excused or justified.

Your sister grew up in a house of violence, watching your torment in her big round eyes, not uttering a peep. On her second birthday, you had given her a stuffed bear that you found in the basement. She smiled so widely and hugged it so tight to her chest. And you remembered why you were staying alive.

Escape was never an option - your leg, broken from the accident, was never allowed to heal properly before it became your uncle’s favourite batting post. Suicide - you’d thought about for a very very long time, every morning, every night, every waking breath. But if you were to kill yourself, you would have had to kill your sister too. And you couldn’t, you just couldn’t. One evening, while she was asleep, you had held a pillow over her head, centimeters away from suffocating her. But then your uncontrollable sobs woke her up, and she asked in her small innocent voice, “What are you doing? Why are you crying? Did he hurt you again?”

You couldn’t do it.

And so you endured years of being a prisoner of a mad man. Waiting for your deaths. Physical pain became tolerable when you learnt to shut off your mind, transport your consciousness to elsewhere. If you didn’t think about how he was kicking your head, you wouldn’t notice your skull cracking open.

It was only when your uncle realised your attachment to your sister that he found a way to hurt you. That, you couldn’t be immune to.

Growing footsteps at the door rouse you from your deep thought. You feel a dampness in your cheek and you hurry to wipe it away. The footsteps are slow, light, almost a drag.

He’s coming.

Deep breaths. Just remember: state of inertia. Pain is an illusion, a choice. You don’t have to feel it if you don’t want to.

The door opens softly. Inhale. He pads in, black hair a ruffled mess. Exhale. His eyes land on you, sat tensely on the bed of his Feed room, awaiting him. Inhale. He walks closer, each step absolutely soundless. Exhale.

When he arrives in front of you, you scan his face: paper-white skin, droopy eyes heavy from sleep- But wait. His eyes are already shifted; they don’t contain a grain of white.

Just a pitch dark ocean.

His touch is ice when he tilts your head to the side as he slumps onto the bed beside you. Without a single word, he yanks your neck to him and bites into you.

To you credit, you don’t cry out. Eyes clamped shut, you try to focus your attention elsewhere. Don’t mind his rough fingers around your throat. Don’t mind the excruciating pain that feels like a saw digging into your neck. Don’t mind the gush of blood surging out, droplets flying from the pressure. It doesn’t hurt, it doesn’t hurt, it doesn’t hurt.

Pain is fake. Pain is an illusion. Pain is a neurological response. Pain is fear. Pain is a choice.

Think about something else.

You recall the conversation you had with Seokjin early this morning before you went to sleep, after he had tried to resume a normal dynamic between you, and brush what had happened under the rug. He had told you about the origin of the seven vampires.

Yes, think of that.

.

“It was over two millennia ago, when the Roman empire began to dominate the word’s seven seas and cruel dictators lead our people. We were seven brothers, sons of a rich influential man, fortunately born into a wealthy family that was favoured by our ruler. We were never particularly close to begin with as siblings, each of us absorbed into our lives. Namjoon was a fine public speaker, a clear born-leader, an intellectual, favoured by our father who had high hopes for him. I was a literature student, and despite being the eldest, politics was very evidently not my set path; I had always been more of an advisor. Yoongi had always been an odd, quiet one, but an extremely talented musician. My father didn’t particularly approve of the arts, yet we had so much fortune that he didn’t need all his sons to work. Hoseok was wild, popular amongst the people, held the best most-renowned dinner parties with endless entertainment such as dancers, drinking games and one time even an elephant he’d bought from Africa. Jimin was a hopeless romantic, a lover not a fighter, chasing lady after lady, promising that he was foolish last time, but this time he knows that she is the one. Taehyung loved art, an extraordinary painter and sculptor, even helped us design our new house once. Though he tended to spend too much time with men and women at inns and left a trail of broken hearts after him. Our youngest, Jungkook, was an Olympic athlete; anyone who competed with him accepted their defeat. He was the long-reigning champion, the pride of our family.

“Life was incredible for us seven, perhaps too incredible. Because soon, we realised that we didn’t want to stop living. Namjoon in particular was so magnetised by the idea of immortality, it became his mission, his obsession. This only worsened after the death of our father, as it made us realise that death is inevitable, even for the greatest. But to Namjoon, it was incredibly unfair. Why must the greatest die? The greatest deserve to live and rule for an eternity. That only made sense.

“There were rumours from ear to ear that the Olympian Gods worshipped by all were living among us, hiding. Pluto, or more commonly known as Hades, was said to hold the key to immortality. He was the God of Death after all, if you managed to find him and prove your excellence and worthiness, he shall grant you eternal life, youth and health. Of course, we were all entranced by such possibility. Though, whereas we saw it as folklore, Namjoon saw it as a goal.

“It was four years of seeking, four years of endless obsession, four years of dead ends. But he alas found something - a rumoured family of witches, descendants of Pluto according to the people from their village. They were outcasts for their strange ways and the weird happenings around them. It was said to best leave them alone, lest you wish for malfortune upon your kin. Namjoon paid the warnings no heed, had our slaves cease them from their home and brought to ours.

“At this point, Namjoon’s sanity was toppling. This family was tortured for answers, whipped like slaves for answers and cooperation. And when they continued to refuse, Namjoon had the husband slain, and threatened to kill the two children as well. The female witch who remained finally gave in and agreed to perform a spell of immortality for us.

“Witch magic is a complex matter, even for us now. We discovered that a witch’s promise is irrevocable, magic irreversible, so Namjoon was careful with his demands. He asked for immortality, eternal health, youth and beauty, which had been our original wishes, but he grew greedy and also asked for superhuman abilities such as speed, strength, stealth, healing, heightened senses and much more.

“To our surprise, the witch complied and promised to grant us these things. She concocted a spell which put us into a hibernation of seven days, and sure enough, when we awoke, we were different. We could run at lightning speed, lift boulders, jump the heights of arenas. We could fight lions and bears, and we would win. And so the witch was released with her children, never to be seen again.

“However, as the days passed, more and more began to shift. The taste of food grew bland in our mouth, light from sun grew increasingly blinding and sensitive to our skin, and the canines of our teeth felt like they were remoulding… Then came the unquenchable thirst. For blood.

“One night, Yoongi and Hoseok had gotten in a fight at an inn with some travellers. At the scent of fresh blood, they turned from angry men to black-eyed demons in a split second, ripping into the throats of every single person with a pulse. They had killed nearly a hundred people that night, in the span of an hour. Namjoon masked the incident as a bear attack. But then the same ill fate fell upon us all - a sudden loss of control, then an unstoppable feeding until our hunger is satisfied. It became too much to cover up. And soon, for some reason, the sun began to burn our skin.

“It became apparent that, though the witch did grant our wishes without fail, she had also bestowed a curse upon us. For the rest of our immortal lives, we would never be able to step foot in the sun again, and will be plagued with a monstrous thirst for blood. That was our punishment for our greed and cruelty.”

.

Yoongi finally releases your neck, carelessly ripping his fangs through your flesh and tendons. You fall lifelessly onto your back, head faint and spinning frantically.

You made it through. You hadn’t felt a thing. You managed to block it out.

But now, a searing agony overtakes your senses, so concentrated on your neck that you think you’re going to lose consciousness. Your vision is dark and blotchy as you stare at the ceiling, unmoving.

Is he going to heal you? Or is he going to watch you suffer first?

You lay there, trying to muster some understanding for the vampire who had just tore through your neck and drained what feels like half your body fluids. He hadn’t asked to be a vampire, he is a product of his brother’s greed, which he has to live with eternally.

But that doesn’t give him any reason to be this cold, this heartless.

Blood is pouring out of your wound incessantly, like a perpetual waterfall onto the bedding. You think you’re going to die. But it’s not the first time you’ve thought you’re going to die only to be disappointed, so you don’t have high hopes this time.

And sure enough, as your eyes begin to fall and breathing shallow, a wet warmth is pressed onto your lips. You refuse to open your mouth and be brought back to life, but calloused fingers force your jaw open and the potion flows into you once more.

You hate how good it tastes, how your body knows that this is what heals you. But something tastes different about Yoongi’s blood - there’s a zingy bitter aftertaste, like what petrol smells like. You want to spit it out.

Finally, gasping, you sit up. Yoongi carelessly wipes his already healing wrist on the covers, and you wonder if his reasoning behind getting white bed sheets for his Feed room is for the purpose of staining it red with blood, a display of his wreckage.

You glare at him, watch him pick at his nails. “Fuck you, you wanted me to suffer.”

He meets your eye, and you feel a spear of eyes pierce into your soul. “And what about it?” His voice is low, a hum, a purr, indicative that he’d just woken up.

Unbelievable. He’s fucking sick in the head.

“Not even a hello? A self introduction? You could have at least warned me.” You rub at your right neck where he had terrorised, the ghost of the brain-melting agony haunting you, and you don’t think it will ever stop haunting you.

“Do you talk to your breakfast before you eat it?” He grunts.

Truly, you’re at a loss for words. Gawking at him, you’re incensed to see the indifference in his pupils that have returned to normal now. He doesn’t back down from your gaze. For many, silence is an awkward discomfort, a moment where your brains are scrambling for the next topic of conversation. With Yoongi, silence is powerful; the silence speaks volumes, it tells you more about him than when he is speaking.

“I’m not a fucking waffle. I’m a living, breathing human; I have feelings, I-”

“I don’t care.”

His eyes are still locked onto yours as he climbs further up the bed. It takes every fibre in you not to shrink back against the headboard. You can’t show your fear, you can’t let him know the power he has over you.

“You think you have a hold on me, that I’ll give you the reaction you want,” he’s hovering over you now, your frame trapped between his arms, “but I know men like you. You-”

“There are no men like me.” Yoongi rumbles, his shadow towering over you but you refuse to lay on your back, refuse to cower.

“You act so cruel because you think the world owes you. You act like you don’t give a fuck about anyone except yourself. You abuse the power you have to hurt other people because it validates you. But it’s men like you who have the weakest minds, who are the most afraid and lonely.”

The growl that rips from his throat silences you. You wonder if you’re pushing too far. But what have you got to lose anyway? Might as well gamble with your life. “Shut the fuck up, you know nothing about me.” He clutches your throat in one swift motion.

“I know that you’re just a scared little boy inside who is trapped in this immortal body with no escape from his bloodlust.” You choke out despite his constricting grip.

“Shut up!” Yoongi lifts his other hand at you, but halts before he swings.

You don’t even flinch. Because you know you’ve won. If the game he plays is abuse and violence, you’ve definitely won, you’ve been practicing for it for years. Staring deep into his eyes, you know he knows too. So his arm slowly droops down, and he lets your neck go with an unnecessary shove. You splutter a cough.

He gets off you and hops off the bed, making his way to the window where he flings open the curtains and stares through the window into the dark night. Though he is facing away from you, you can tell that his mind has transported to some place distant, some place in the past, you wager.

He was going to hit you. He was going to hit you.

But he also didn’t. He stopped himself. Why? May there be a shard of hope left for his redemption? Maybe he does have a seed of humanity buried deep somewhere, awaiting its saviour droplets of dew to liberate it from centuries of misery, so it can sprout into a fresh green sap.

But why are you hoping? Why are you giving him the benefit of the doubt? He has no respect for you, or anyone; he views you as beneath him, not even worthy to speak to. He’s worse than Namjoon. Your pain fascinates him. He’s unsaveable.

Just try. He needs you. A voice sounds in your head, so clear that you look around for its source. Save him from himself. It’s your duty.

Duty? You frown. He can rot for all you care.

“What happened to my uncle?” Yoongi’s trance is stirred by your blunt question, though he doesn’t turn to you.

“Dead, Jungkook killed him.” He says it so casually, as if it was nothing more than a fleck of dust, as if he’s pretending not to know the impact it would have on you. Your chest caves in.

Dead.

Why is he dead while you are kept alive here, as a prisoner, as a toy? Why was he allowed to be set free from his crimes just like that while you are being endlessly punished by the one sole mistake in your past?

Drip. Drip drip.

The tears flow out soundlessly. You watch them splatter onto your shirt into dark splotches.

Yoongi notices and peers over at you, frowning. “Why are you crying? Don’t you hate him?”

“I… I fucking despised him. I wanted to be the one to kill him, but only after I do to him everything he did to me. It was my right, my right, and you guys took that from me.” It’s getting harder and harder to breathe as your pulse rises. You’re on the brink of hysteria, you feel it. You’re going to crack open and finally detonate.

If there was one thing you wanted, it was revenge for your suffering at the hands of your uncle. And you couldn’t even get that. What do you have to look forward to anymore?

A scoff leaves Yoongi, almost humoured, but dark. “You wanted to kill him?” He meanders back towards the bed. “Little girl, let me tell you that we did you a favour by killing him for you. Killing is an irremediable curse. It would have robbed your innocence, tainted your purity and haunted your dreams for the rest of your life. Revenge on your enemy is poison for your soul. Be glad you have never and will never kill.”

You suck in your breath, and hold it there. The significance of his words sink into you like a heavy vessel, pushing through the screams of madness wreaking havoc in your brain right now, and planting itself into your heart.

Killing is a curse.

Of course, of all beings, Yoongi would know best.

You sniff and look up, to be greeted by the soft cotton of his sleeve roughly wiping your eyes. “Stop crying, you look ugly.”

“Wh-”

“Plus,” he jabs his sleeve at your drying cheeks, “angel blood runs in your veins. You’re supernaturally inclined to virtue and righteousness. You wouldn’t have been able to commit such sin.”

Is that true? Your angel blood forbids you to sin? Thinking back, you had always been a good chaste child, obedient, caring, sweet and innocent. It was only towards the very end of your parents’ lives where you became more and more corrupted. And if you’re not wrong, it was only that very last month where rebellion arose from you and your relationship with them deteriorated out of the blue.

Where was your angel’s virtue that night they died?

01:01.

“God, you’re going to be a fucking pain.” Yoongi rumbles and the scene dissolves. “You’re lucky the seven of us are sharing you, or I would be making your life more of a nightmare than it was before.”

You ignore his comment; you’re learning that the less of a reaction you give him to his attacks, the more it will bother him. “How come I’m not sired to you yet?” For Namjoon and Seokjin, the bond had formed on the second time they fed on you, while it hadn’t happened with Yoongi yet.

“I don’t fucking know. Sireship is a tempermental thing, I guess. It has always taken me longer. If you’re so prone to be sired to me, I guess I’ll just accelerate the process.”

“N-” You protest as you register what he means but it’s too late. Yoongi has once again clambered over you, disregarding your discomfort as he situates his knees on either side of your lap and bites into your neck.

This time, you can’t suppress the surprised squeal of pain. And fuck there should be a new word to describe the hot white inferno at the laceration of your flesh because agony is a pin prick in comparison. You try to shove him off; it’s been too soon since his last feeding, your skin still feels incredibly raw. But instead, your efforts only cause his fangs to tear through you even more, and you scream at the rupture.

His rough hands hold you in place, pressing down onto your throat until you’re struggling for breath. You pray for the sire bond to come, to alleviate you from the pain even if it will leash you to this demon and cloud your judgement about him. You didn’t think you would ever rather be magically submitted to Yoongi than have to endure his vicious methods every time, but God. The pain is toppling your mind; you’d choose anything and everything so not to feel it right this moment.

But the bond doesn’t come. The universe enjoys watching you suffer, the heavens stand by idly watching.

Fuck, you really think you’re going to die this time. You really just wish you would already.

Yoongi’s body sits on top of you as he pulls you up, closer into him, one of his arms slithering behind your back. Adrenaline filled, your hand flies towards his head in attempt to slap him, though it would’ve been futile anyway. But his own hand releases your throat and catches it in the air, speed frightening, as he slams your wrist against the headboard.

The pounding in your head is growing, the familiar blurring vision as your eyes are fixed on one point in the ceiling, blank. You stop struggling.

He can’t hurt you if you don’t let him. So don’t let him.

Distract yourself. Think about something else. Someone else.

Seokjin.

Imagine it’s him feeding on you right now, rather than this monster. It doesn’t hurt when it’s Seokjin; it doesn’t hurt now. Let him drink as much as he wants because he will most likely starve himself as much as he can postpone the next time he feeds.

Seokjin just wanted to be human. He never hopped aboard on Namjoon’s quest for immortality, he was never greedy and sought power. He just wished for a normal life, with his studies and his beloved brothers.

It’s okay for Seokjin to feed on you. It’s okay. It’s okay. It’s okay.

No pain. No pain. No pain.

You picture his soft curved features, round button nose, smooth cheeks, plump tender lips. His lips. You two shouldn’t have kissed, but it means something that you did.

Ow. Yoongi pulled away only to bury into another spot nearby again, this time closer to your shoulder, his fangs scraping your joint.

Seokjin’s lips. Think about how safe you felt with him, how understood, how respected. Your sire bond had not only allowed you to feel each other’s emotions, it had also been in the form of a bridge. You felt like equals.

You heart clenches at the memory of his words. “I don’t wish to offend you in any way. I care about you. I don’t wish to confuse you. So, it’s best if it doesn’t happen again. For our own sake.”

Why must you feel this way for him now? Why must you confuse the sense of security he provides with affection? Why do you want more?

God, you want more. You want so much more. You want to feel alive from the rush of kissing someone. You miss the bliss of falling in love.

Why must this world be so cruel? Why must it rob you of all things that keep you sound and grounded? You have nothing left - truly nothing left. You’re just lifeless vacancy.

Your thoughts are going in loops, a downwards spiral. Yoongi devours his meal that is you, delighting in the whimpers you unknowingly let out every now and again. Your back has slid down against the headboard; he is now completely on top of you, your wrist pinned onto the pillow, his face buried in your neck, his body laid between your legs.

Yoongi noticing your consciousness waning again as you chant something over and over again under your breath like a broken doll, so he releases your neck for a moment. Your lips are paper white, eyes glazed, blood surging out of your right neck area like a riptide. It’s a lovely thick crimson, Yoongi’s favourite shade. And he’ll admit that it’s possibly the best he’s ever tasted.

He bites into his own wrist and feeds it to you. The six of them would be dreadfully unhappy with you if he manages to kill you on his first day. This time you don’t resist his blood; it trickles down your throat as you continue to mouth those inaudible words to yourself. Maybe he’s fucked you up for good already. Psh. The thought arouses him.

You choke on his blood as he knew you would because you hadn’t known to swallow, coughing out of your daze. You try to say something, but it comes out as a splutter of his plasma.

“What are you muttering?” Yoongi eyes down at you with a quirked brow, smearing red all around your mouth until it’s dripping off your chin, mirroring him. What a pretty sight.

“M-more.” Your voice is hoarse, as if you’d been screaming. But you hadn’t been.

“What?” He frowns, thumb freezing mid-stroke across your lips.

You think you’ve lost your mind. No, you’ve definitely lost your mind. There’s a hollowness within you that stretches beyond physicality, an outcome of torment after torment, tragedies that keep digging this hole of depression inside you. And you’ve never given up trying to climb out of this crater, you just kept trying and trying.

Until now.

“Give me more.” The lack of emotion in your voice sounds foreign yet familiar. “Make me feel more, fucking please. Because I honestly feel nothing, I don’t even feel the pain anymore. I’m so fucking numb and empty and I just want to feel something again.”

Yoongi blinks at you. Of all things, he hadn’t expected this. He knew you would be an interesting one, given the hell they had found you in. He thought the angel blood would have compelled some shred of purity and naivety in you still, even after your unfortunate past. He had been excited to strip you of your hope and sanity. But it seems like that has already been done.

“What the fuck do you want me to do then? Rip your arm off?”

“I don’t care. Just make me feel more, more than this bleak fucking void.”

He himself is all too familiar with this feeling - of being beaten down so much by the world that nothing even fazes him anymore, nothing even hurts. Unsure of what to do at first, he leans back down, hovering over you. He can’t read your eyes, or perhaps there’s nothing for him to read. You’re just blank.

Should he rip you open? Maybe you’ll feel that. But he knows you mean something deeper.

You watch Yoongi hesitate over you, sniffing at the drying blood on your skin. You do feel something right now: anticipation. What’s he going to do to you this time? Or is he even going to follow your request? Why should he care that you’re just a husk of a person now after all? You’re just his food.

But then his eyes flicker up at yours again, and you hadn’t realised that there are different shades of black until now. There are bright blacks that strike at you, soft blacks that soothe the soul, then there is true black where the darkness is so strong and absolute that it captivates you. Yoongi’s eyes are true black.

“Be careful what you ask for…” The danger in his low voice sends a creature crawling down your back. “You want to feel something? I’ll make you feel something.”

“Just-”

You don’t have time to react when he cuts you off by pressing his lips onto yours. Mind empty. Chest clenches.

Anyone would suspect he was a heartthrob if they felt his lips without any prior knowledge of the kind of person he is. They’re soft, inexplicably soft. You don’t understand how a monster like him has such soft lips… Another thing you don’t understand is why he is kissing you. Why the fuck is he kissing you?

You place your hand against his shoulder and push weakly. Not even a push. Your muscles are numb from the shock. He pays you no attention.

But then, soft as they are, his mouth soon begins to move roughly to claim yours, sucking on your bottom lip as you can’t help but shut your eyes and allow yourself to drown in this feeling. Because, God, you are feeling something, feeling more. You feel the rush in your blood, that exhilarating surge of adrenaline. And you hate that of all things, this is what makes you feel - kissing the man who delighted in hurting you. It’s a joke how damaged you are.

Kissing Seokjin had felt safe, secure, like curling up in bed after a long day. Kissing Yoongi feels dangerous, fatal, like injecting something deadly into your veins just to experience that high, not knowing if this will be the time you’ll overdose or not. It’s precarious. It’s the not-knowing that brings the thrill.

Yoongi bites down on your lip, not at all delicately; you wince as you taste your own blood. It’s twisted but when his tongue flicks out to lap at your cut, something in your core throbs. His hand comes around your throat, digging his fingers into you. Your breath hitches and he takes the opportunity to kiss you deeper. Your own hands stay lingering on his shoulders, not daring to touch him more because that would feel too affectionate.

And this is anything but affectionate. It’s raw, carnal. Tongue laced with hatred, but need for relief.

With his body positioned between your legs, he doesn’t hesitate to announce his arousal as he grinds into your core. Even as you think about how much you despise this man, your traitorous cunt leaks at the feeling of his hardness rubbing against you.

“I can smell how responsive you are.” He growls into your mouth, hand running down your front to slide into your pants. You feel the hairs on your neck rise as his cold fingers meet your pubic bone. “It must pain you so much, how much you hate me, but how wet I make you.” Something in you sets on fire when he finds your clit, pulsing under his thumb.

Fuck, you’re definitely feeling more. More than you bargained for.

“It’s because I’m thinking about your brother.” You spit back.

He slaps you- down there. The wet clap resonates embarrassingly loud. Cool air licks up your thighs to your dripping cunt when he rips off your bottoms, literally rips, and tosses the fabric carelessly onto the floor. “I’ll fuck you until you’re crying my name, you slut. I’ll fuck you until you’re begging me to stop because you can’t feel your legs anymore.”

Your foreheads are pressed together, as you stare at each other ferociously, warm breaths infusing, blood oozing from your lip. His threat sends another thrumming through your veins, which settles itself in your clit. You know he means every word he says. You know you should shove him off and yell for him to stop because that’s the sane thing to do. Instead, you say:

“Fuck me then, you piece of shit.”

In a brute vigor, he flips you onto your stomach. You hear the ring of the smack before you feel his palm collide on the tender cheek of your ass. The tingling sting imprinted on your skin is laced with a sick pleasure. Of all people, you should be the last to enjoy someone hitting you. Yet here you are, as a groan slips out you mouth.

“Do you fucking feel something now?” He spanks you again, this time on the other cheek. “You want to feel something so fucking badly.” Spank, this time harder than last. “Then I’ll make you feel.” Another spank. You bite down onto the pillow that your face is buried in.

You hear him tug down his own cotton joggers and your heart squeezes in anticipation. And when you feel him fit his stiffened velvet length between your ass cheeks, your heart plunges all the way down to your cunt.

Fuck. Your entire body is practically trembling for him, and you fucking hate it. “I hate you.”

“Good.” Yoongi grumbles into your ear as he grinds himself into your rear, gripping onto your hips so hard that it will surely bruise. “I hate you, too.”

“You get hard from watching someone bleed, you’re a sick fuck.” Even as you say that, you’re tilting your head back so the sensitive shell of your ear brushes his lips. The touch drills a twisting pressure in your pussy.

“And you get wet from kissing someone who made you bleed, you dirty fucking slut.” Cock still burrowed between your cheeks, you feel his tip dribble a trail of warm precum. Purring, he nips at your lobe, piercing through your skin as if it were paper. You yelp.

Abruptly, he sits up again and spanks you once more. In the absence of his cock humping into your rear, your backside feels barren. But you soon realise what’s coming next. “Get on your hands and knees.” He commands. When you fail to move quick enough, he wrenches your hip up to the height of his twitching member, liquid still streaming out his slit profusely as he lines his head to your damp entrance.

You’re all but whining for him to put the damn thing in already when he takes your hair and wrap it around his fist like a rein, yanking your head back. Still, he toys with your apparent impatience, slapping and running his bulging tip through your wet folds. Your exhale comes out as a quivering pant.

Just as your string of irritated curses at him are on the brink of tumbling out, he sinks his entire length into you without warning.

“Fuck!” You cry out. It’s been so long since the last time that your walls feel as though a train has run through them, stretching so thin to encompass his size.

And there it is - the vulgar, mind-twisting, irreplaceable feeling of being fucked.

Sparing you no time to adjust, Yoongi slams into you again, and again, in a stable strong pace, pulling your hair back harder until your back is bent upwards sorely. The ache in your cunt is trying to claw its way into you and fester in your flesh. Your knuckles whiten as you close your grip around the pillow cover, creasing the fabric in your fists. Grunting, he tears off your shirt from your back, freeing your breasts to the cool air.

His thrusts are merciless, the slapping of his hips to your rear echoing in the air. Fuck, he feels massive, cock punching into your weeping walls while you clench around him from the pain and the pleasure - two indistinguishable sensations. He tugs on your hair so hard that you have to yield and lift off your hands so you’re balanced on your knees, his greedy hand taking this chance to fondle with your breasts, pinching your nipple and twisting them roughly between his fingers.

Then his hand snakes around your neck once again, squeezing the air out of your lungs. Wheezing, you grab onto his thigh behind yours in retaliation and dig your fingers so hard that you feel his skin crack.

“You’re fucking asking for it.” He snarls. You twist to look at him just in time to see him bare his fangs, then digs into your neck. The sensation of his cock pounding into you at the same instance as your blood being drained into his mouth sends a shock through you. He seems to tense at the impact too.

Wait, no, it’s not a shock.

You feel every single cell in your body quake, dissociate. When you shut your eyes, your soul is sucked into a hurricane of darkness, whirling you deeper and deeper into the black hole. Closer and closer to Yoongi. Even when you try to open your eyes, all you see is black. Endless black. True black. In a state of matter and antimatter at the same time, it feels as though you’ve been transported to a dimension between Earth and Hell, human but not quite, substantial but not quite, real but not quite. You’re a mere essence, a whisper of a soul, yet you can feel the ground beneath your feet. There are chains around your ankles and wrists; you can’t see anything aside from the darkness but the shackles are still ever present, holding you down.

Something trickles down your face - a tear. You touch it, but it feels too thick. You taste it, and it tastes of Yoongi’s blood. Bittersweet. You tug on the chains but they don’t budge, so you follow them, padding through the darkness as you pass metal link after link through your hands. Until you reach a mass.

Not a mass, a person, hunched over. You can just vaguely make out his silhouette that reflects a particularly sad darkness.

His shoulders are shaking.

Dazed, you bend down. Put your arm around him. Nuzzle his neck. And whisper ‘it’s okay’.

You stay there, chained to one another, tears of blood still streaming from your sightless eyes. Huddled together in the darkness.

With a gasp, you return to your body, mind distorted by the magic. And though you’re no longer in that place, wherever that is, you still feel the phantom shackles secured around you. Yoongi is still drinking you in large gulps, but his breathing is noticeably different.

He felt that too, the bond.

His fangs feel different to your flesh, no longer a sharp weapon to break your skin. They feel like an anchor, holding him onto you, letting him enter your soul. You shudder at the intimacy it imbeds.

Despite the trance he appears to be in, his pounding has not once faltered, but more even, as if the bond has driven him on. If he was an animal before, he is a beast now. The weight of his body forces you down, face pinned onto the pillow under him while his hands assail your breasts.

This new sensation is so raw, so undiluted, relentlessly filling you with a fervorous want for Yoongi. Your cunt is furiously clenching around him, the pressure begging to be released from its cage.

“Fuck-” He groans as he finally stops drinking. “This stupid fucking bond feels- Fuck.”

Each thrust he slams into you, you feel another unbreakable chain forming, binding you to him. And each time you close your eyes, you’re back to the darkness where you’re holding the crying boy. Something is clawing your heart, scratching it, tearing it, ripping its chambers open. You realise tears, actual tears this time, are rolling off your temple. You can’t tell if it’s because of the penetration of sadness from that boy made of darkness, or the penetration of Yoongi’s unceasingly brutal cock.

Then finally - ignition at every nerve ending in your core, rupturing through your entirety as if you are a mere vessel. You think you’re screaming but you can’t hear over the roaring of your pulse. The pillow you’re pressed onto suffocating you. Your walls squeeze as the pleasure wrenches you completely.

Yoongi watch you come undone beneath him, pace fastening to chase after his own climax. You’re panting, crying, bleeding from your neck down to your spine, yet features twisted in such pleasure. The juxtaposition. His member is throbbing inside you, veins bulging out on the sides. Hell, he is going to burst. And the moment he feels it coming, he pulls out and watches himself shoot onto your back, splattering your red hand-printed ass with his milky ejaculation.

“Fuck…” He moans, stroking out his high as he feasts on how you are still convulsing under him. Your trickling sweat mixes with your tears.

You don’t think you can move at all, even as Yoongi gets off you. His fingers play with his cum on your ass, smearing it along with your blood to paint himself all over you. You suspect it’s a mark of possession, a mark of victory. Because you definitely feel defeated.

You feel alive, but dead. You feel ashamed.

His tongue trails up your back, tasting himself along with your scarlet liquid. Angel blood has always been a favourite of his, because he loved how crazy it made him, how feral. But now, after the sireship, its taste is… untaintedly holy, like ambrosia, the food of the Gods. Unmatched by anything he has ever drank. He doesn’t think he can go back to drinking any other moral’s blood after this. You’ve ruined him for good.

And the bond… Yoongi stops licking. There are foreign emotions whirling within him right now, and one of them, he thinks is fear. Fear of the strength of this bond. Fear of the intimacy it threatens between you.

He had felt you - your arm around him, your gentle voice tickling his neck - during that complete blackness where he had fallen back to a deep dark past. It was a vulnerability that he had never experienced before. He was powerless against your intrusion.

So Yoongi pushes himself off you and clears his throat. “You dead yet?”

No response, no movement.

He rolls his eyes and commences to heal you. Mortals are annoyingly fickle creatures, you drink too much of their blood or fuck them too hard and they pass out, he thinks.

This time, it takes you a while to regain your consciousness, during which Yoongi dresses himself, but doesn’t bother cleaning you up. You sit up, naked and shamefully exposed. When you meet his obsidian pupils, you don’t know how to interpret the confusion in them.

“What the fuck?” You ask as if you hadn’t willingly took part, even though you both know you clearly had. There is a raw soreness blaring between your thighs, and you’re embarrassed to find yourself glancing over at his crotch.

“You asked me to make you feel something. Why are you acting surprised?” His lids are half closed, bored, as he surveys the puddles of red on the bed. Your eyes follow his, trying to process how the sheets had been spotlessly white not three hours ago, yet now they only possess one corner that isn’t stained in crimson. It looks as though cattle had been slaughtered here as a sacrifice to the divinity. It’s all your blood.

And when you lock eyes with him again, you feel the weight of the chains hanging from your limbs. Bound forever.

“You feel alive now, don’t you? Dead inside still, but at least your heart was racing when I was fucking you.” He taunts, slowly rolling off the bed in an indifference that boils your blood.

You hate how true his words are. That was the very feeling you wanted, the thrill that you were seeking to break you out of that inertia. You hate how it was with him, of all people. It could have been anyone under this roof, yet you picked this monster. And you hate how, even now, you don’t think you regret it, not even with the disgust and resentment raking at your chest for this vampire.

“You should get used to it. Sex is a faultless coping mechanism for those of us who are too hollow to feel anything else.” Yoongi continues, as he heads towards the door. “Wash yourself up and stay here until I come back when I’m hungry again.”

A response still trying to formulate in your brain, all you can do is stare at his back in silence. Quietly fuming.

Yoongi pauses before twisting the doorknob. “Oh, and don’t think I did that for you. I couldn’t wait to fuck you as soon as I tasted your blood.”

It was all you could do to restrain yourself from leaping across the room and hammering his face. Not that you would’ve been able to anyway. Motherfucker is so insecure that he couldn’t risk you thinking that he would ever not act out of self interest, so he masks it with spiteful words to try to hurt you.

“You tried so fucking hard to break me, but I was already broken.”

His head turns, shadows casting over his profile. His lips purse into a smirk that holds no amusement at all. “Join the fucking club, you’re nothing special.”

“I fucking hate you.” You spit back at him, the venom imbued in your words is more than you thought you were capable of and it surprises you.

He gazes at you over his shoulder, unfazed. Cold and unfeeling. And somehow the words he reply inflict an ache in your heart that shouldn’t be there because, all of a sudden, you see a flash of the small broken boy before you.

“I fucking hate me too.”

Then he slams the door behind him.

❦

@taexxxiiaa @serendipity-secrets @killcomet @askingtheimportantthingshere@blackpanther4550 @comingjimin @unatempesta-dipensieri @dapppphhhhh  @unatempesta-dipensieri @beach-bitch-bitch-beach @queerloser17 @linyi-lovbts @somewhereinthestarss @xxqueenwxtchxx @whitefeatheredwyvern @embrace-themagic @brokencrownqueen @i-dont-even-know-fck @bangtandimples @kalkeegan @beetaeass @confessionsofascientist @chimycthulhu @hisunshiine @shooklier @livetay84​ @runlikeabuffalo​ @nanna022 @berryjam17​ @thelouhvre​ @bluemooncnblue​ @enigmaticlove-03​ @lanu-la​ @bangtanfancamp​

❦

23/11/2019

© Copyright 2019

[darksiders-scenarios]

Welcome back love, I would love you see your take on yandere horsemen (which honestly sounds like the most terrifying thing ever).

Thank you <3 I tried my best, it was indeed a challenge to write therefore I don’t think they’ve come out as terrifying as should be expected xD Forgive the broken english, as always! 

Trigger warning. 

-

Death

His obsession became cemented after his sacrifice. His consciousness broke, shred by shred along with the last vestiges of his sanity crumbling to meld with the churning ragefire of the Well of Souls. Amidst the sea of chaos, souls flaring around and pouring inside him, only yours shone the brightest from afar, like a sacred star. He felt your emotional loss, your pain, your despair, your love for him, unrestrained and pure - like the sweetest wine, like the most refreshing breeze, like the- the- he... he couldn't explain the sheer intensity of his euphoria at that moment. He chased it, seeking it, grasping it by the fingertips until the very end. In his last moments of mortality, he knew then what he had been missing his entire life. And he would not make that same mistake upon his rebirth.

You are revered as the saviour of humanity, a symbol of hope. Monuments are erected in your honour. You are the centre of attention. Attention. Attention. Attention.  

Of course, this “misunderstanding” is not your fault. However, you are human, therefore you are not without flaws. You can be stolen from him. Harsh tremors rack Death’s body. You can love another. He forces back the bile that rises in this throat.

He pines for your flesh, for your attention. You always catch him staring at you with something akin to rapture.

Death casts himself as the saviour - reminding you that it is through him that your people are restored. Your survivor's guilt drives you to submit to his directives, which in turn fuels his sense of supremacy.

He makes flattering statements in exaggerated terms, an emotional bribe to win your favours, or he makes subtle veiled hostile jokes at your insecurities to solidify his power over you.

He seals away your memories of your relationships with your loved ones so that you will devote all your attention to him and him alone.

Dust stalks your every move without your notice, monitoring your actions and relaying back to his master; who you've been seen in the company of, who makes you smile, who makes you sad, who looks at you in that way.

Nothing gets past Death’s attention.

His fantasies twist and evolve, and every time they leave him breathless with hope. He dreams of a race cowed into obedience, or a world wiped clean of said race until you are the only one that remains, for him.

For now, he settles on wiping clean of anyone that poses a threat to their sacred relationship. Torturing his victims in ways that transcend human concept; every torture more horrific than its predecessor, never giving his victims an explanation when they wake up horrified, chained in a dungeon.

They know exactly what they are being punished for.

After he’s had his way with them, Death would let his essence skim against the naked vulnerability of their souls, a pseudo-gentle brush, as though a long lost friend reaching to them, ensuring the dimmest flicker of hope is present, before clawing it apart into nothingness. Their agonies are sublime.

Finally, Death impales their naked, dismembered bodies on poles around the city, as though a grotesque art exhibition, but more importantly, as a warning.

Everything gets past your attention.

War

Shackled for a century, isolated from his siblings, powerless when his name was being slandered across creation and helpless when his honour was being brutally tarnished... But you have always stood by his side, unwavering in your loyalty and adamantly professing his innocence at every wake and turn. War found his sanctuary in you, his home and solace. His obsession rose to the fore and he clings to you as his emotional crutch, snarling at anyone who dares show a minute interest in you. You will not be stolen from him. He will not be abandoned anymore, betrayed anymore. You are his saviour, and he will protect you for as long as he lives. 

Something stirs within him whenever you look at him, his entire core bristling with excitement; from your smiles, from your touches, from… you.

He stares at you for an unbearably long time when you are sleeping or showering, soaking in the sight of you in undisguised pleasure.

Soon he isolates you from your family and is extremely controlling of your social circle. Whenever he sees you in the company of another, War glares at you in warning, aiming a silent threat in your direction.

He has delusions of your infidelity and he is often questioning and directly accusing you of the act. He becomes highly aggressive and hostile when you challenge him on the validity of his narratives.

Until you become so worn out by the constant attacks and coercion and you attempt to retaliate, to make him see the error of his ways.  

This leads War to tripling his attacks in the hopes that intimidation will beat you into submission. Can’t you see that he is trying to protect you? Can’t you see the Creator cares nothing for you, for being the reason for your plight? Can’t you see that you need him? Can’t you see how much he loves you?

War is trembling with rage and he focuses his wrath onto his victims, throwing withering glares at their backs.

War gives into the carnal urge and soon enough the air is saturated in burning flesh, blood and fear. 

He feels a surge of adrenaline rush and his palpitating heartbeats as his victims sob in desperation beneath his oppressive bulk, having beaten to the point of worthlessness.  

He flays the skins of their faces once he's done with them, adding them to the collection of leathery mementos on his shoulder guards, inwardly smirking as he recalls Strife's quip. 

Then he gifts you with the brutalised corpses, to torture at your own leisure as a show of care and affection.

He loves you.

So much.

Can’t you see?

Strife

You... listened. Never once cowering in fear or cringing in disgust. You listened and listened, and listened, never once interrupting him as he poured his heart out through wavering voice and hitched breaths. When he finished, he looked at you. You smiled softly, lovingly. And just like that, the burden that had been crushing Strife all these millennia lifted a great deal in the time it took to blink. He immediately choked on a sob, the irresistible urge to break and cry in front of you. You listened to his confession and you never judged him. A confession that even War will never know, despite Strife's “promise”. He was never a religious being, although, in that moment, Strife swore that he's found his saint in you.  

He dwells on your words every moment of his breathing existence, his mind conjuring up elaborate eccentric fantasies about you. You are flawless.

He never stops yearning for your attention, his heart whining for your heady proximity, his mind drowning in delicious ecstasy. He will do everything to keep you. His love. His life.

His.

Excessive hoarding of your "leftovers": the sand in your shoes, your shredded, discarded clothes, the broken tooth that got knocked out during a fight, clumps of your hair, clipped nails, that piece of charred flesh from that time- everything preserved in his miniature portable shrine.  

His lips murmuring prayers of gratitude.

He utilises love bombing and makes extravagant displays of affection.

Strife has a deep-seated fear of rejection and ruminates over any perceived slights and is highly sensitive to criticism. If he is challenged, Strife threatens abandonment or… more extremely, suicide.

Nothing pisses him off more than you hanging out with your friends when your attention should be devoted to him. Why can't you understand how selfish you’re being?

He jokingly refers to himself as your stalker to them.

And goes as far as to manipulate your potential interests, drugging and kidnapping them. Brutality and savagery flow in the Nephilim veins, yet Strife prefers the more tactical method. You would prefer that.

It merely takes his practiced flirtatious smiles to get his victims head over heels for him. Humans are stupidly predictable. He'd let things escalate from there until he is pinning them down naked and wanton and utterly vulnerable. He feels nothing but revulsion in its purest form at the sensation of skin against skin. Moments later, he would remove his blood-slicked hand from their throat, staring into their eyes as they stare unblinkingly back at his.  

He hates humans because humans have no idea how lucky they are.

He sinks into a deep depression when you withdraw from him, tired of his abuse, and he engages in frequent bouts of self-flagellation.

His mind keeps dwelling on you. On your words. Your smile. Your-

Strife cries out in sheer grief and gratitude, screaming himself hoarse and fatigued, a primal cry of desperation, a plea for your mercy.

Fury

Her attachment to you deepened profoundly after the loss of her beloved Rampage. The onslaught of emotions overwhelmed her, consumed by her desire for revenge until she was barely clinging to sanity by a hair's breadth. She remembers the uncontrollable shiver that ran through her when you brushed loose locks from her wet cheeks with your gentle fingers, the withdrawal making her knees almost give away. Your unique ability to see past the obvious, and patiently supporting her through her grief. You became her light. And she will ensure that you will never be extinguished.  

She watches you with barely suppressed adoration and longing. Almost all her waking moments are spent fantasising about you.

She is excessively focused on you and everything that you're doing: who you're talking to, how your day is going, what you need, your reactions to her. 

A sliver of your skin is enough to make her head spin and she adopts voyeuristic tendencies; you are unsuspecting when she is spying on you in the shower or when you are undressing. When she is caught, she disguises it as merely accidental.

She jerks into wakefulness, shaking controllably from ecstasy.

She is insanely jealous of potential romantic suitors or competition for you, even if it is imaginary. She is hellbent on getting rid of them out of your life. 

The belief that mortals are equally lustful of you stems from the poisonous roots of envy.

A single teardrop is enough for a whole city to burn under Fury’s wrath.

She strategically isolates you from your family, limiting your interactions with your friends and the wider community through weaponising drama by spreading false rumors. 

She constantly deploys demagoguery tactics to establish an authoritarian position in your relationship.  

Once you tried to escape and Fury reacted in a blind panic; the next thing she knew, you were slumped halfway off the chair, unconscious. She watched you for a very long time, unable to contain the hot desire coiling in her stomach. You were so beautiful.

When you came to, you had a collar grafted directly around your neck – a blatant symbol of Fury's ownership of you.  

You gave in. Besides, who could you turn to?  

[webcricket]

Winter’s Eye

Pairing: Apocalypseverse CastielXReader Word Count: 1170 (Ch. I) Summary: Season 13 canon tells you how AU!Castiel’s story ends, this is how it begins. The deranged and damaged iteration of Castiel we met in the apocalypse universe - an obedient soldier to Michael’s cause barely in control of his vessel’s frayed and erratically firing nerves whose inherent kindness toward humankind appeared entirely obliterated - wasn’t always an unfeeling angelic weapon of interrogation. Once, he sympathized with the plight of humans; one, he loved. A/N: Multi-chapter origin and love story. No happy ending here, folks; just a bittersweet illustration of an angel’s devotion and the sacrificial ends he pursues to protect the object of his affection.

Series Masterlist

I. Stillness, an eerie shroud of silence, and new-fallen snow blanket the surrounding forest in a solid sea of white as far as the hindrance of heavily moisture-laden flakes - floating so slowly downward to rest upon the scorched earth as to seem to swath a sparkling curtain across the grayly apocalypse- lit sky - allow perception to penetrate. The purity of this storm subdues the smolder of destruction resulting from another - that of the end of humanity. In the all out fratricide between Lucifer and Michael, then the further lust of the latter victorious archangel for power in the absence of God’s guidance or intervention, what wasn’t destroyed in felling the devil for the final time, survived only to burn: A divinely wrought and prophesied Hell on Earth. 

The silhouette of a soldier, squarely plodding an unseen path through the white-wash wilderness with black-gloved hands shoved deep in the pockets of a dark woolen overcoat, pierces the blizzard’s veil; ice crystals mantle the thick hood of lashes shielding eyes that shine in bright blue defiance of the colorless landscape.

Castiel cares little for the bitter wind blasting the handsomely hewn countenance he wears. Howl mournfully lamenting the fate of the world as it careens through the leafless canopy of trees to hurl up frigid walls in every direction of his stiffly-gaited step, the incorporeally frozen blockades of breeze bite at his vessel’s stubble and frost coated cheeks; the relentless buffeting tints the exposed tanned expanse of skin with a pale wash of pink. Like the beige military uniform stretching broad shoulders, the body is borrowed - a prison for the celestial being entrenched within fighting his own battle.

The angel’s focus lies inward; he ruminates over the reasons for his exile - banished with wings clipped as punishment to walk these woods for openly sympathizing with humans, for defying Michael’s orders to murder them en masse, and for inciting rebellion amongst his brethren by daring to question the righteousness of his brother’s actions toward their Father’s favored children when they were supposed to be their protectors.

Castiel - too much heart, crack in his chassis, loyal to the last to his Creator’s purpose - led his garrison, and others who would join him in the early chaos, against Michael’s uprising army; the defeat against such a foe who held the high ground of Heaven’s gate as its first son was as swift as it was absolute; but Castiel hoped the stand itself would plant a seed - would nurture the idea in his kin that they have a choice, that they can wield free will and direct fate to right an immense wrong just as readily as a blade. Shepherds do not slaughter sheep.

Angels, however, have a fatalistic tendency to be drawn like moths to flame, blinded by demonstrations of raw power; power, which on Michael’s side reigned supreme over a stolid soldier’s mere words championing them to keep their faith.

Michael considered death - the eternal Empty sleep promised to Heaven’s kind - too peaceful a punishment for the sort of disloyalty exhibited by the likes of Castiel. Wiping out the entirety of Castiel’s garrison one by one with a snap of his fingers, forcing the angel to watch each of his brothers and sisters expire in a smote of swirling dust, and knowing he was the direct cause of their demise, Michael left the broken being alive to serve as an example to others harboring disloyal intent, and more so to let the angel who claimed to feel dwell painfully in personal doubt and guilt over the nature of his defeat.

Castiel might not notice the coolness of the air, yet he nonetheless feels numbed to the celestial core of his being.

You ceased to pay any concern to the cold a very few minutes ago, too, albeit for a different reason. Warmth - nay, intense tingling heat - sparked in your fingertips and gradually spread to your frozen limbs compelling you after a time to drop the damp kindling which you were trying unsuccessfully to coax into a fire by sheer will and friction. 

Roving angels seeing signs of surviving human life be damned, an impromptu swim in a not as frozen as it looked river and losing all your supplies as you made your way to a supposed encampment of refugees at the forest’s edge had forced your hand.

Ceding consciousness over to the pervasive soothing seep of warmth, mind too lulled by the temptation of sleep to question the fact it’s physically impossible to get warm in the midst of a blizzard when your clothes are soaked and wicking what remains of your body heat and life away, you sink sideways onto a bed of snow.

It’s there, lying beneath a bare branched oak on the bank of the river, palm upright inches from a pile of branches indicating you endeavored to start a fire, a final flutter of breath and a stubborn beat or two of the heart away from forfeiting your life to the storm, Castiel finds your figure slumped, snow-covered, and at the precipice of perpetual quietude.

The unexpected sight, the first sign of anything living besides himself - a situation that bears a likeness better akin to existing, rather than living - he has seen in months abruptly surfaces him from his darker thoughts of self- loathing.

A test, he suspects; squinting homeward, snowflakes spatter and melt upon the furrow of his upturned brow. Strings of protective instinct thread through his heart, tie into knots, pull taut on the organ, and tighten his chest until it threatens to burst. Even if this is a test, he knows he doesn’t belong there anymore; and he knows he doesn’t want to belong there if being an angel means destruction.

His gaze drops to you; he has nothing left to lose. You, you do.

Moving to crouch beside you, he peers closely into your pallid features. A subtle smile twitches your mouth as some pleasant memory ferries you toward oblivion; another second passes as he stares and relaxation floods your features. He removes the glove hugging his right hand and reaches out. Grasping the top of your shoulder, he rolls you onto your back; your water- logged clothing crackles - an icy sheet beneath his gentle grip. Shifting his touch to your forehead, he closes his eyes and sacrifices enough of his limited reserves of grace to keep your soul from shuffling off its mortal coil.

There’s shelter nearby, a place he goes when the monotony of wandering through these woods wears on him. He lifts you without effort; cradling you carefully, he sets off for the cabin. A sense of purpose and haste lengthen his stride.

For the moment, his sole thought lingers in the realm of awe for the tenacity of humans toward survival. Even in bleakness, in the face of no certain future, no possible stability, alone, and with nothing except the clothes on your back, you tried to create a light by which to survive. Hope lives.

Next Chapter: II

[etlunainmorte]

✒ P.S. I Love You ✒

***

(Y/N) and Victor's grandchild closed and locked the door after the gentlemen left. She, then, turned to look at the old wooden box which V left on the table for her. She sat on the sofa and opened the thing, revealing its contents. And when she saw the amount of photographs that were in it, the emotions flooded her chest once more. As she took the photograph that showed her grandparents' wedding charade, she simply let her tears flow freely.

Despite those tears clouding her sight, she didn't wipe them away like what she did before. Instead, she held the photograph close to her chest, imagining how happy her grandparents must be during those trouble - free times.

She turned to the side table, carefully placing the precious photograph next to the small framed picture of her one and only grand daughter who was in Paris. She, then, sighed, letting her eyes roam from her grandparents to her grandchild.

Finally lingering on her grandparents' image, she whispered, "Please keep those people safe."

"What do we do now?" Roman asked V as they made their way back towards the mansion.

"We must find the container where their souls are hidden," V answered, his voice and his sight as resolute as ever. " ... then, we'll set them free."

"What about Avery?"

"We'll prevent Lancaster from sacrificing her."

"And that monster?"

V stopped and looked down at Griffon, who was waiting for him to go back home, the metal cane, which he abandoned, still on his waiting beak. The poet didn't hesitate and took it from his familiar, who flew and landed on his shoulder.

Then, he faced the door of the mansion one more time.

"We'll send him to where he belong," He answered. " ... to Hell."

***

XV

***

Both V and Roman were fully expecting something to attack them the moment they step foot inside the now dark and desolate place. However, all seemed normal.

Strangely normal, given the dire situation they were in.

"Aren't there any monsters here that would attack us?" Roman questioned, making both the poet and the familiar look at him with raised eyebrows.

"You seemed,... rather eager." V answered him as he threw his cane and caught it with his other hand.

"I - i'm not! It's just,... the silence is too suspicious. You know what I'm saying?"

The man was right. It was too quiet. "We should not underestimate our enemy." V uttered in a low voice as he took a few cautious steps forward towards the grand staircase, still half - expecting Roselle, or that still unknown creature that tried to kill Nico, to come out of the shadows and make its move. "This is Christopher Lancaster we're talking about, after all."

"Alright." Roman said as he pulled out his red handkerchief from his pocket and wore it around his head like a headband. He inhaled through his nostrils and shook his shoulders, making Griffon roll his eyes. "I'm ready!"

V only gave Avery's fiancé a sideways glance and a grin as he made his way to the second floor. At least, someone's excited to take on that Demon,...

Never letting their guard down, the Summoner, the familiar, and the human made their way towards the second floor. However, no creature of any kind made itself known, the entire floor was void of the heavy feeling that once taunted V to do suicide, but most importantly,...

... he was not being pulled into another timeline.

What,... is happening here? V thought as he led the way straight towards the accursed third room, still expecting for anything to happen or to attack them. He turned the brass door knob and pushed the door open, bracing himself for what was to come,...

"AVERY!" Roman howled as he sped past V and Griffon and made his way straight towards the center of the room where his beloved fiancée was, unconscious and tied to a chair.

"You, imbecile!" Griffon whispered, mocking at Roman's callous actions. "That evil doctor might - !"

V held out a hand before the demonic familiar could even blurt out any more insult, and made his way to where the couple was.

"Don't worry, sweetheart, I'll get you out of here." Roman said as he tried to untie Avery from the chair. However, as V came along to help, he noticed the wounds on both of her arms, the blood that dripped from them forming something on the ground beneath their feet. And when the gentlemen gazed down at it, they drew back in fear,...

... for the blood that was flowing from Avery's wounds was slowly forming a huge crimson pentacle on the floor - a seven - pointed star that matched the illustration from the booklet of Demons that the old woman showed them.

The ritual,... was nearing its completion.

"There was a man,... from another plane of existence,"

V, Roman, and Griffon all looked at the vicinity of the desk a few feet from where they were standing and saw, in their utter fright, a strange gentleman sitting behind it, his long and bony fingers that partially covered the lower part of his pallid face intertwined, his thick, dark brows furrowed in deep contemplation.

And at the mere sight of the strange one alone, V felt all of his power leave his body at the same time his heart became heavy with utter dread, unexplainable grief, and sheer hopelessness.

It was the man, himself.

"... who once dreamed of achieving immortality and eternal glory beyond human perception." The man, whose pair of red, sinister eyes seemingly made V's blood freeze, went on. "Abducting numerous little girls and molding them into his,... idea,... of earthly perfection. This man, and a number of followers, sacrificed these innocent children, one by one, until Pandemonium, the Demon he worshipped, finally chose that one perfect vessel, a fitting equivalent exchange for the wish that was to be fulfilled. However, he made a huge and irrevocable mistake." The man uncovered his face, finally letting the men see his familiar and intimidating visage, and stood from his chair, making his way closer towards them. "The vessel's sister, an imperfect being crippled with earthly flaws, who he failed to kill, and who was, then, chosen by the Sisters Of Fate for her will to save a loved one, retaliated, setting into motion a chain of events that ultimately," The man stopped a few inches away from them, his overwhelming presence stealing their will to live and survive. " ... led to Pandemonium's downfall,... and the man's,... demise.

"But, I' am far from that foolish man." The man simply told them as he gave each of them a look that conveyed a form of overwhelming power that resided within him. "I do not wish to achieve perfection, nor do I make it out of false dreams. Bedlam has opened my eyes to the harsh reality of this world. To the ugliness of the world's truth. I vow to share this,... great blessing,... to everyone who would kneel to me."

"KNEEL, MY ASS! YOU, EVIL, INSANE GODDAMN WITCH DOCTOR!" Roman howled, blindly charging towards the man with every intent to tackle him on the ground and give him a piece of his mind before V could even stop him.

"You listen when someone older than you is speaking!" The doctor rebutted as he simply made a flicking gesture with his right hand, summoning a form of unseen power that flung poor Roman to the other end of the room, making him instantly unconscious, the impact of his landing scattering and breaking some of the old and dusty furniture that lay on the ground. The doctor, then, turned to V and gave him a challenging look. "And you, oh, foolish poet? I believe you wish to challenge me, as well."

V visibly flinched at the insurmountable force before him, yet, he still tried to face the enemy by calling upon his familiars to attack the doctor simultaneously. With utter fear etched into their very bone and core, the familiars, Griffon and Shadow, went all out with their attacks, sending lightning bolt after lightning bolt and spear after morphed spear of attacks.

And, as expected, the powerful attacks from the familiars, which were supposedly enough to bring down an entire horde of higher Demons, didn't do anything to the doctor, who only stood still and took everything without so much as a blink of an eye. The familiars took one more shot, this time, by combining their powers as Griffon sent Shadow his most powerful lightning attack, and the feline receiving the power and morphing into a set of massive spears, skewering the doctor in every part of his body and frying him alive at the same time.

For a second, they thought that they succeeded but, as soon as Shadow morphed back into her feline form looking beaten and Griffon settled down on the ground, actually looking like a worn - out wind - up toy relying on batteries to move, the doctor slowly stood up from the ground where he was beaten, his wounds healing and the tears on his clothes closing up like nothing even happened.

"Oh, you've got to be fucking kidding me!" Griffon howled annoyingly as the doctor made his way towards him, grabbing the poor bird by his wings and tearing him apart like paper, spilling his blood and guts on the floor and making him enter his stalemate state.

"Hmm, just like on that other plane." The doctor uttered to himself. And before V could even lift a finger to call Shadow back, the doctor kicked the poor feline in her mid section, successfully dismantling her, turning her back into ash and making her enter stalemate like Griffon. "That one, not so much."

With eyes wide with disbelief, teeth gritted in anger, and thoughts wild and disarrayed with panic, V hastily raised his left arm, his fingers ready for the snap that would summon his trump card.

However, the doctor proved to be much faster as he seemingly phased from his position next to the stalemated familiars to his side, steadily holding V's left arm and threatening to even break it. The doctor held up a finger, swaying it from side to side as he playfully shook his head, his sadistic smile making V feel weaker than ever before.

V, despite his growing hopelessness, made up his mind, not wanting to lose to this evil doctor. He struggled and snapped his fingers, waiting for his most powerful ally to bring down the house and finish the doctor for him. 

To hell with this mansion! This evil must be stopped,... at all cost!

He waited and waited but, nothing happened.

And this only made the doctor smile even wider, the side of his lips almost reaching his ears.

V,... lost to Christopher Lancaster.

The doctor let go of his arm, letting him collapse and cower with fear on the ground. Then, after all this, the enemy simply stepped away and made his way towards Avery, who was still tied to the chair, bleeding and unconscious.

"Now, you see how benevolent I' am." Lancaster told V as he checked Avery's pulse and checked on his pocket watch like he was still a normal doctor. "I gave you the chance to play along. Allowed the both of us to settle the score. But, you have only wasted my time." The doctor hid his pocket watch and gave V a sideways glance. "I suggest you leave now. Before I change my mind."

"Ouch!" Roman winced in pain as he finally gained consciousness a few minutes later, rubbing his temples and looking around him. At the center of the room, he found Lancaster checking on Avery's pulse, and on one corner, he saw V kneeling in front of two floating, glowing orbs that weakly pulsated with dull red and blue lights. "V?" He limped his way towards his companion, only to see the utter shock in the poet's eyes.

Like he completely lost all hope and his will to keep on living.

"What happened?" Roman asked the poet, his sight darting from him to the strange orbs floating above the ground.

"We lost." The poet uttered monotonously.

"W - what?! How did we - ?"

"Lancaster,... is far too strong than what we could've imagined."

Roman's eyes widened with utter disbelief. He collapsed on the ground and placed both of his hands on V's shoulders. "You're kidding, right? Y - you're V! And you're the strongest man I've ever met! And the bravest one! You can't just lose to that evil doctor!"

The poet looked at him, his eyes suspiciously cloudy like he was in a trance, and gave him a wry smile. "This is a mistake. I should not have accepted this job in the first place. I should have ran away from the start. I should not have faced Christopher Lancaster."

And this only made Roman lose his temper. "AND WHAT ABOUT AVERY, HUH?! SHE NEEDS US!"

"She's,... lost to us."

"WHAT ABOUT NICO?! DON'T TELL ME HER SACRIFICE LED TO NOTHING!"

"As I've said, this is a mistake,... right from the very start."

"AND WHAT ABOUT (Y/N), HUH?" Roman screamed angrily at V as he shook his shoulders hard enough, hoping for the man to come to his sense. "SHE NEEDS YOU! YOU HAVE TO SET HER SOUL FREE! DO YOU WANT HER TO BE DAMNED TO HELL?! V, TALK TO ME!"

"(Y/N),... means nothing to me,..."

"FUCK YOU!" Roman swore as he punched V on the cheek. The poet's face jerked sideways with the sheer force of the mad and disappointed fiancé.

Meanwhile, V felt like his soul was floating into nothingness. He couldn't see nor hear anything. And yet, this strange voice, this achingly familiar voice, kept calling to him. He tried to follow the sound despite his blindness. He reached out, his hands wanting to grasp this familiar something,...

"I'm here, Victor." The voice told him. "Follow my voice."

"(Y/N),... ?" V called as he opened his eyes,...

... and saw the ceiling of the familiar office. Feeling numbness all over his body, he carefully sat up and gazed at the room. He was sure it was the same room, however, somehow, he felt at ease. His chest no longer felt heavy, and his whole body felt really light. A sense of calm radiated all over the place, and even the sun shone brightly and cheerfully outside.

He carefully sat up, surveying the atmosphere around him, and finally stood, his eyes darting from one furniture to the next.

Then, he heard it once more: the voice of an angel.

V opened the door and made his way towards the source of the sound, his ears wanting to feast on the lovely sound and his soul longing to bask in it. He went down the staircase, walked past the Grecian statues, and made his way directly towards the Library where he knew she was. He took a deep breath and opened the door, the light of the room blinding him momentarily and the sweet scent that was wafting from it overwhelming his senses.

And when his eyes finally adjusted to the brightness of the room, he saw her there, sitting on a stool in front of the piano, singing an achingly familiar tune he has unfortunately forgotten as she flawlessly played the simple notes. His eyes burning at the sight and his chest bursting with gladness, he slowly made his way towards her, his steps as light as they could possibly be in fear that she would vanish at the slightest disturbance.

And when he was finally so close next to her, she stopped playing and gazed up at him, a smile on her young and gentle face.

It was, indeed, (Y/N). The girl he knew from his visions. The girl who has, undoubtedly, captured his, and Victor's, heart.

The girl,...

... right before all the tragedies and nightmares in the house occurred.

"You're not supposed to be here." She told him, a hint of disappointment in her lovely (E/C) eyes.

"I,..." V began, suddenly, and for the first time ever, at a loss for his own words. "I lost,... to him."

(Y/N) furrowed her eyebrows, the amused smile still not leaving her beautiful and healthy visage. "That wasn't supposed to happen."

"I,... forgive me." V apologized, feeling defeated and dejected.

To this, the girl smiled tenderly and slightly moved, making a space on the stool for him and gesturing at it with her dainty right hand. "Come, sit with me." The poet did so, and the moment he was mere inches from her, his arms actually brushing against the soft fabric of her (F/C) dress, she smiled and positioned her fingers over the keys. Those adorable fingers glided on the keys once more, and a few notes in, V was taken prisoner. He closed his eyes, feeling the music overtake his mind, his heart, and his whole being.

He really wished he could stay here forever.

Forever,... with her,...

It seemed like forever, though, her playing the piano and him listening to it wholeheartedly. And when her music gradually came to a slow halt, V finally opened his eyes and let them fall on her immaculate figure.

"Heaven." V whispered softly, making her turn and look straight into his eyes. "Is this,... heaven? If so, then I would not want to go back."

(Y/N) smiled as she reached out a hand, lying it gently onto V's face. The poet grasped her hand, her warmth calming his senses and putting his chaotic soul at ease. "You have no idea how long I have waited for this. For us to be this close, to feel your touch again, to hear your voice so close to my ear." She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, her brows furrowing as tears drenched those long eyelashes of hers. "You have no idea,... how much I love you. I love you so much. Even after death, my heart still beats for you and you alone.

"But, you don't belong here, V." She opened her eyes, her smile turning into a frown that tore V's heart in two. "You belong with your friends, your family, with people who loves you."

V cupped her cheeks and rested his forehead against hers, their breaths mingling and their eyes looking deeply into each other. "I don't want to lose you, ever again."

(Y/N) closed her eyes, the smile returning to her face once more. "You never lost me. I stayed with you, and I always will. Until the end of time. But, we are both lost in this labyrinth." She took his hands and brought them down, her eyes conveying something that triggered a dormant emotion deep within V's chest. "As much as I wanted to let you stay here, I simply can't. You have to fulfill your mission. You have to set us free and save the woman from being sacrificed to the Devil. You must defeat Christopher Lancaster."

"But, I can't! I'm,... powerless against him! I - "

"You can defeat him, V." She told him, her resoluteness starting a fire inside his chest. "You have to believe that you can. He is but a mere fragment of the past animated by the Demon Bedlam to carry on an insidious mission on this world. He is but a mere puppet. And a puppet like him,... could never lay a finger on the one who believes in hope."

The moment (Y/N) mentioned the Demon's name, V felt a tremor beneath his feet, the room suddenly felt heavy, and the sun outside seemed to abruptly set.

This plane,... was starting to collapse.

Despite that fact, the girl still gazed lovingly  at his eyes and held his hands, giving him all the encouragement he needed for the mission that was wiped out of his mind from the moment he admitted his lost to the evil doctor.

And now that he could finally remember everything, of Avery giving him the mission in the first place, of Roman, who supported him and stood his ground despite his own weakness, of (Y/N) and Victor's grandchild bidding them a successful return, of his familiars supporting him along the way, of Nico, who accepted him as a friend despite his flaws and their differences and did her best to help him,...

... of the woman who wrote those messages,...

... of this one girl he wanted to save,...

"The time is running out. You must leave. Now."

V stood up and took a few steps away from her. And before he could finally turn away, he felt a hand on his arm, turning him around, and,...

He closed his eyes, letting her soft lips glide against his. And for the very first and last time, V wrapped his arms around her waist, bringing her closer to him and reciprocating her gesture of undying affection by showering her with the utmost passion he didn't know he possessed.

He wanted,... so very badly,... to go on kissing her like this, to show her how much she meant to him, to give her everything that life has stolen from her. To love her right then and there. But, he knew he couldn't. Her time on this world was over, her story about to end. His, on the other hand, was only beginning. And she knew this, as well. And when their lips finally parted, he felt her slid her hand on his pocket, putting something in it. She, then, broke away from his embrace and stepped away, letting her fingers glide on the smooth surface of her beloved piano one last time as the world before them started collapsing, shattering like glass, its shards and pieces falling apart one by one.

She smiled and waved her hand. "I'll see you soon, V."

"What - ?" He began but he was interrupted when he felt a hand grab him by the wrist. He turned around and saw (Y/N)'s loyal maidservant looking up at him.

"Young master, I'll help you get out of here!" She told him, dragging him along and leading the way out of the shattering plane. "This is the very last thing I will do for you. Believe in my lady's words, and you will be able to defeat him. Do everything you can to set us free. And do not lose hope! Do not lose hope! Do not - "

" - LOSE HOPE!" He heard Roman's voice as he finally opened his eyes, seeing the fiancé’s flustered and angry face. "DO NOT,... LOSE HOPE!"

V let those words sink in as he slowly got up, giving Lancaster an angry look as the doctor watched them like they were animals.

"I will not." The poet muttered, grabbing the metal cane from the floor and facing his enemy one more time. "You are just a mere puppet. A mere instrument for the Devil's machinations. And you will never,... succeed,... not today, not tomorrow,... NOT WHILE I LIVE!"

"Such fancy words for a useless man such as yourself!" Lancaster mocked, showing his sardonic smile once more.

"I'm not useless." V uttered, taking even more resolute steps towards Lancaster, his hands clutching the cane, ready to swing it at any given time. "She believes in me. I will set her free,... and send you to hell!" The poet gritted his teeth as he let out a swift hook that successfully connected with Lancaster's face, sending the shocked doctor flying towards the other end of the room.

V's eyes widened with disbelief, then looked at the bony fist that sent the doctor reeling on the ground. He, a weak Devil Hunter whose strength could never compare to the likes of both Dante and Nero, actually brought an insanely powerful maniac down to his knees!

"YES! BEAT HIM TO A BLOODY PULP, V!" Roman howled and cheered behind him as the familiars finally broke free of their stalemate state. And as Roman, Griffon, and Shadow witnessed the awesome fight that V was giving the bewildered doctor, they could not help but feel hopeful and alive once more.

But, their celebration was short lived as the doctor kicked V in the legs, making the poet fall on the ground.

"COME ON, V! YOU CAN DO IT!"

V struggled to get on his feet but, the doctor just wouldn't let him. Tackling him and bringing his face to the floor, the doctor snatched V's cane and held it up above his head. "YOU, ANNOYING INSECT! HOW DARE YOU?! I SHOULD NOT HAVE LET YOU LIVE! I SHOULD - !"

"Yeah, yeah, whatever!"

All the occupants of the room, the combatants included, looked at the door to see Nico, swatted in bandages in many parts of her body, sucking at her cigar and blowing smoke like nobody's business. She looked down at V and Lancaster and showed a very mischievous smirk.

"Aww, have y'all forgotten 'bout me?" She taunted. "Whatever." She took out her radio and held it up, her finger close to the red emergency button. "May I present to ya,... NERO'S SHOWER CONCERT,... VOLUME TWO!"

And with just one push of the accursed button, the whole house was filled with the young Devil Hunter's obnoxious voice. Nico,... actually connected all the speakers on the ground floor, letting her play Nero's awful singing at full and unadulterated blast!

"Ah - ah - ah, ah! Ah - ah - ah, ah! We come from the land of the ice and snow, from the midnight sun, where the hot springs flow. The hammer of the gods will drive our ships to new lands to fight the horde, and sing and cry. Valhalla, I am coming! On we sweep with threshing oar! Our only goal will be the western shore!"

"What is that God awful voice?!" Avery, who finally woke up due to the eardrum - shattering sound, complained.

"Sweetheart!" Roman exclaimed in happiness as he went to her.

"WHAT FORM OF POWER IS THIS?!" Lancaster howled and writhed in pain as he covered his ears and fell off V, giving the poet ample time to get his cane back. And during this moment of complete vulnerability, V was able to feel a strange power coming from the doctor's chest. The poet went down and started ransacking his vest, and right there, he found Lancaster's pocket watch. V could feel some form of massive energy from it. "GIVE IT TO ME! GIVE IT,... BACK!"

This is it! "Keep this safe!" V turned towards Roman and threw the antique to him. The man caught this at the same time he felt something cold grab his ankle. He looked down and was horrified to see the doctor starting to actually rot. He was finally losing his power!

(Y/N) was right all along! A puppet like Lancaster,... has no power against the one who believes in hope! Bedlam,... has no power over me!

"You,... can't defeat me!" Lancaster moaned as he twitched and trembled. "Bedlam,... chose me!"

"You're wrong." V answered as he kicked the doctor, the mere contact making Lancaster howl in agony. "No one chose you!" V stepped on the evil doctor's shoulder, the contact actually burning Lancaster's clothes and searing the flesh beneath it. The poet could feel tremendous power burning his insides, and it has given him absolute control over the evil energy that enslaved the mansion for a very long time. It gave him more than enough strength to defeat Lancaster.

And he knew full well,...

... that this tremendous power,...

... came from (Y/N).

He raised the cane, pointing it to the doctor's chest.

"NO! PLEASE! I BEG YOU! DO NOT KILL ME! PLEASE!"

"The road of excess leads to the palace of wisdom. You never know what is enough until you know what is more than enough."

"NO! NO! HAVE MERCY ON ME!"

"I will not cease from mental fight, nor shall my sword sleep in my hand, 'till we have built Jerusalem, in England’s green and pleasant land."

And after one last look at the eye of the man who made many people suffer, he brought down his cane,...

***

✒ @la-vita , @micaelagua , @v-vic , @birdgirl69 , @beyond-the-mirror , and @cantcopewithlosingv . ✒

***

"So, this is it, huh?" Roman asked an hour later as he looked at the golden pocket watch in his hands.

"I believe it is the item that we seek, yes." V answered as he allowed Griffon to perch on his shoulder and watched Shadow trot proudly next to him.

"What are you two talking about?" Avery asked as she let Nico assist her as they walked.

"I think I have an idea." Nico smiled at the gentlemen, especially at V, who successfully defeated the evil in the mansion.

V smiled and nodded at Roman. "I will let you do the honors. Open it."

Roman raised an eyebrow and shrugged his shoulders. Still, with both hands, he carefully opened the pocket watch and,...

"Oh, my God!" Avery whispered as she pointed at something in front them. All of them looked and saw the blonde maid smiling and waving at them. "Who,... is that?"

"That is Roselle Velez." V answered as he watched the servant wave at something behind them. They turned and saw the little boy named Phineas running past them and meeting Roselle halfway. The woman took the boy's hand and with one final wave, the two finally disintegrated right before their very own eyes.

"That's Daniella!" Nico practically shrieked as she pointed at another specter from one corner of the hall. "She tried to save me that night but, yeah. Bitchy evil doctor happened."

V turned to the other end of the hall and saw Maria, the loyal housekeeper, emerging from the kitchen. And right before his very eyes, she glowed and morphed into her original form - of the loyal maidservant who served (Y/N) and never left her side.

It seemed that Maria's mission,... was finally fulfilled. And she has faithfully kept her promise,... of waiting for V to arrive after more than a hundred years and helping him defeat the evil Christopher Lancaster.

And with smiles on their faces, Daniella and Maria met, finally going hand in hand to that promised place that Roselle and the boy just went to.

After a while, after seemingly a long period of silence, V felt something strange come out of his body. And as it walked away from the him, Roman, Nico, Avery, Griffon, and even Shadow stared in disbelief. It was none other than the English poet, Victor Blake, himself. His body seemed to glow with a powerful force that casted the shadows of the mansion away. V watched in awe as the man made his way towards something he could not quite see, and when Victor stopped walking, they saw a group of orbs materializing out of thin air. These little orbs of light danced, and when they finally merged into one, they slowly morphed into the one person V wanted to see.

It was (Y/N) (L/N), herself. And she looked perfect. Simply perfect.

When the lovers finally met, their hearts twitched in pain as they saw the lady weep and run towards her lover's open arms. And when Victor embraced her, his tears of joy falling freely from his eyes for finally seeing the love of his life after many, many years, they can't help but shed some tears of their own.

And V? He did not cry. In fact, he was happy. He was happy that they finally got their happy ending. And before they went away, the lovers looked at V and smiled at him.

Thank you! (Y/N) mouthed her gratitude as she pointed at V's pocket.

And then, as V felt for the thing in his pocket, the thing she put a few hours earlier, the lovers finally vanished into the night,... into sweet delight.

***

✒✒✒

***

[achtung-attitude]

CHAPTER 20: Feel Good Inc - Part 2

From the deep gash punctured into Trish’s sternum by SATURN BARZ, steam rises as her flesh turns to garishly-red liquid. The fat beneath her white skin sizzles and pops. This is the only sound. Her mouth hangs open wide, but she does not scream. It smells like bacon.

“What the hell did you do?” Moya murmurs. Kilo glances at her, then back at Trish. He is dumbstruck, eyes unblinking in silent horror. Tarantula steps away from the scene, staring and smirking. 

Finally, Trish makes a sound. “Ss… ssss…!!” she stammers, almost hissing, then she sharply inhales. All of the air siphons out of the hole in her chest. Her eyes glaze over, going into shock. She is going to die.

“SsSPICE GIRL!!” she shouts, her vision focussing. SPICE GIRL emerges at her command and drives a punch right into her wound. Frantically, the Stand unleashes a barrage of fists into Trish’s body, crying out a desperate “WANNABEEEE!!!” The flurry of attacks throws Trish towards where Moya stands. Her body changes in mid-air. She begins to morph, twisting, elongating. Her very bones turn into silly putty. Moya braces herself and tries to catch her, but Trish immediately slips out of them, falling on to the ground to form a vaguely human shaped puddle.

“Jesus, what…?” Moya says, marveling at the sight before her, “What did you do? Why would your own Stand attack you?”

Through sheer willpower, Trish forces the muscles of her face to reform enough to reply. “S-ss-SATURN BARZ… forces matter to ch-change it’s form… th-that last attack was meant to make s-solid into liquid…! I-It was m-melting me, but… S-SPICE GIRL’s ability can make things semi-solid to b-begin with… it was a gamble, but I w-was able to cancel it out… l-like an open circuit, i-in an electrical current, blocked with r-rubber… B-but, if I change back, th-then the circuit will c-close again… SATURN BARZ will reactivate, and then…”

“You’re crazy…!” Moya exclaims, “How do you even think of something like this?” 

A high whistling sound is heard. Tarantula stands with his hands on his hips, looking at Trish’s new form. “Not gonna lie, that was actually pretty cool.” He turns his head towards the sounds of heavy, panicked breathing, coming from Kilo. 

Kilo does his best to keep his eyes on his enemy, but he steals quick, frantic glances. At Trish’s distorted form. At Shizuka and Jerome, wide-eyed and scared. Sweat runs down his face. Hi hands tremor. He is far less sure than he was before. 

“You look tense,” Tarantula says. “You need to sit down?”

“Shut. Up.” he replies, hissing through clenched teeth. 

“... I don’t think I like that look you’re giving me. You ain’t gonna blame me for that just now, are you, pendejo? You’re the one that threw the punch.”

“I SAID SHUT UP!!!”

“Make me.” His teeth gleam in a smile like an animal’s snarl. When Kilo doesn’t move, he continues. “So, are you getting déja vu too, right now? Or is it just me? Isn’t this basically what happened last time? You get carried away with yourself, get involved with shit that you shouldn’t, and now someone else is paying for it.”

“Y-you…!”

“I’m not blaming you.” Tarantula’s smile fades, and he looks at Kilo straight on. “It’s your nature. It’s my nature. Who is to blame when a storm wipes a town off the map? Who is to blame when a predator brings down its prey? This is who you really are. That’s why your friend died that night. And it’s why your friends are dying today.”

Now, Kilo is the one who can not breathe. He looks as though he is on the verge of tears.

“You can’t help yourself. This was always gonna happen. Why deny it now? Embrace it. You bring ruin to those around you.” He smiles gently. “Just like me.”

The moment he says this, ACHTUNG BABY flickers into existence right in front of him. It delivers a swift punch to his jaw before disappearing again, sending Tarantula back a step. He rubs his cheek. “Ow,” he says. The attack dealt no real damage. The back-step was made only in surprise. “That almost hurt…”

“Don’t talk…” comes the shaky voice. 

“Shizuka…” Kilo mutters. 

Shizuka pulls herself into a sitting position on the floor, having rolled herself off of the comfortable couch. She raises a shivering hand and points it at Tarantula. She glares with pallid features. It is plain to see she is barely keeping herself conscious. 

“Don’t talk… as if you know him…! You don’t know anything about him! Kilo is… NOTHING like you…! Who do you think you are…? Kilo… is kind! I won’t let you come in here, and talk nonsense like that…! Ugh--”

She is cut off by a fluorescent green foot to the face. She blinks out of consciousness and collapses to her side with blood running from her nose. 

“Shizu-!!” groans Jerome, clutching his belly. 

“We were having a serious conversation, you vapid little valley-girl. Nobody asked you.” Tarantula scowls, then turns back to Kilo. “I think it’s time…” “You… you motherfucker…!” Kilo grind his teeth.

“Shh,” he says, raising a finger to his lips, “too slooooooowwwwwwwwwwwwwww--”

Second become hours as his sense become poisoned by FEEL GOOD INC. Once again, he watches his enemy saunter towards him, his Stand’s scythe hand raised over its head. The Stand moves its normal hand to its mouth and lets out another cloud of noxious fumes. 

Kilo blocked the attack before, but then he was driven by revenge and rage. The scythe descends on him, and he remembers Venice Beach and WITCH MOUNTAIN. The darkness that filled his head and blocked out all thoughts aside from his guilt. He decides, in the moment FEEL GOOD INC.s’ blade cut into him, that Venice Beach was nothing compared to his guilt now; having failed his friends once again.

Moya jumps to her feet away from puddle-Trish and sprints to aid him, but FEEL GOOD INC. throws the ball of fumes in her face. She too falls victim to the Stand’s power. Tarantula’s lips move, and she realizes he is speaking slowly enough for her to understand. “Aanyythhhiiingg tooo ssayyy??”

She winces. Then, looking past him, Moya notices something that Tarantula hasn’t, and closes her eyes. “...Bienaventurados los que procuran la paz.”

He grins. “Amen.” He slashes Moya diagonally across her chest and she falls. Blood splatters on her face and his smile transforms into one of rapturous delight. Trish watches with impotent fury, and Tarantula laughs. His laughter is sharp, sudden, and high-pitched. Then, it stops as quickly as it started and he becomes serious and serene. 

Bowing his head, he clasps his hands together. “O Blessed Mother, O Patron saint of outlaws, Santa Muerte. Guide these souls to their final rest. May they be exalted in thy glory and baptized in thy infinite mercy. In nomine Patris, et Fili, Spiritus Sancti…” 

He remains silent for a moment, head down, hands together. Then, he sniffs, and rubs his bald head. “Main threats neutralized. Now, the stragglers… What the fuck?” He says, turning around to discover that Jerome and Shizuka have disappeared. “... That… human pig. The one Kilo healed. He must have taken the girl and bounced. Ughh, what in the pain in the ass. I suppose they don’t technically pose a threat anymore… but you can’t be too careful,” he concludes, spotting a trail of blood that leads back inside the house.

                                                          ---

Though the wound in his gut has been scabbed over, it is far from healed, and little drops of blood drip down Jerome's hoodie onto the floor. He hobbles forward, with Shizuka slung over his back. He’s not strong by any means, and he also has a recent stab wound, so his progress down the corridor is slow. Shizuka breathes through her mouth, blood streaming from her abused nose.

“I’m telling you, you need to get out of here!” she protests, struggling against him. “That man, he’s… he’s too strong, I don’t think I can beat him!”

“And I’m tellin’ you not to talk!” Jerome protests back. “You prolly got a thing, what ya call it? A concussion, you know, that thing you get when you hit yo head. Just hold still damn it!”

“You’re not thinking of fighting him, are you?... There’s no way!”

“Damn sure, there’s a way. Why not? Mothafucka came to my house, started talkin’ shit and cut up my guests. We’re way past picking a fight now. And I ain’t about to leave you to him.”

“C-King, I’m saying you can’t possibly beat him! You don’t have a Stand, you can’t even see what he’s doing! You don’t stand a chance against him!”

They turn a corner and they reach his front door. Jerome puts Shizuka down and takes a moment to catch his breath. “... I ever tell you what C-King means?”

“What?” Shizuka asks, confused.

Jerome gets up, and reveals a hidden panel in the wall next to the front door. There is a number pad inside, and he continues as he carefully types in a code. “Jerome Adetokunbo. That’s Yoruba. West African name. My great-great-great granddad was a slave, stolen from his land, but he never forgot it. When the slaves was freed, most folks kept the names they was given. White names. But my GG kept his. He never forgot who he was, and he made sure his family never forgot who they was.”

He types in the final digit, and a hidden door opens in the wall. “Adetokunbo. I am ‘the crown from beyond the sea.’ The C-King. And no tattoo-covered, pontificating asshole is gonna come into my castle, and fuck with my guests!”

Shizuka stares, unsure of what to say. Eventually, “... But what can you do?”

Jerome smiles.  “I’m gonna sic my knights on him, that’s what…” He reaches into his front pocket and produces his golden grills, proudly placing them over his teeth.

[allofthisnonsenseplease]

Untitled ficlet

literally just some pretty AU nonsense i put together using concepts from three fics i’d written in my previous fandom.

Will-o'-the-wisps light the hidden ways of the forest shrouding the mountain, silvering the thick mists twined about the ancient trees in the predawn gloom. Leafy branches and bushes rustle like excited whispering or tittering laughter. The sounds travel down the faintly illuminated path, although in the stillness of the morning, there is no breeze to stir the leaves. Small pebbles roll down the uneven trail, springing up over roots and mossy rocks to continue cartwheeling along. Stray sods dart after them, furtive and quick between pauses. A hedgehog scurries past, pausing only to retrieve its fallen cap before hurrying on with the rest. Impish faces peek from behind leaves, leer out of the knotted bark of trees. Birds swoop from the canopy at the behest of their diminutive riders. Foxes bear riders in spidersilk finery, glittering with dewdrop gems. Nut brown creatures with wizened faces cavort with beings slender as wheat stalks. Horns call out like the hooting of owls and a million tiny bells ring like cricket song, as more and more of the forest's denizens emerge, crawling out of shadow, rising from the moss and leaf litter to join the jubilant procession.

Today is the wedding of the Mountain King and his consort.

The King descends from the snowy heights of his domain, shedding his icy cloak as he approaches the treeline, aspect shifting along with the land surrounding him. Gaunt and severe as the icy stone of the peaks, his skin warms and softens as the rocky ground beneath his feet gradually changes to soil. The streaks of granite silvering his hair darken to a rich brown as he enters the treeline. The smoky scales of mica fall away from his cheekbones. His quartz-tipped claws soften into nails as human as the man he once was, uncounted years ago. Moss sprouts in the darkness beneath the fall of his hair, covering his shoulders like a velvet mantle studded with mushrooms gleaming like pearls. Ivy sprouts from his hips, preserving modesty as it twines 'round him and leaves tendrils to hang against his thighs. His ankles and feet are splotched with lichen, and fans of it circle his wrists like lace cuffs. The skin of his arms is rough as the bark of the oldest tree in the heart of the forest. Long curls of tree moss tangle in his hair as leaves and mountain laurel ornament the thick waves of it. Only his eyes are unchanged as he travels through the land that shapes him, remaining the warm brown of river stones beneath clear water.

His passage is marked by more than the fae dwelling in the forest. Animals of all sorts are drawn to the celebratory procession. Bird and bear, wolf and boar, squirrel and deer, snake and badger and all other residents of the woods gather along the trail to bid him fortune and joy in his union. Although he has no need to traverse physical distances to arrive anywhere on his mountain, he has no desire to deny the opportunity for celebration. The honor guard of animals and fae that announce his coming and pace him through the trees are exuberant in their laughter and merrymaking, and he smiles to be at the center of it.

Not a one of them remembers that he was human before inheriting guardianship of the mountain. Until recently, the intervening centuries had nearly wiped it even from his own memory. It is the newcomer who reminded him, the newcomer who sped his glacial heartbeat and fired the blood in his veins, knocked loose the faded memory of what he once was, and the name he bore that still holds the power to bind him.

He is no longer called Gabriel Reyes, but that identity still sits at the heart of him, and the power of names means so much more to what he has become. His pulse, for so long timed to the heartbeat of the earth, quickens as he follows the trail in the thin light of the coming dawn. That name will make a suitable betrothal gift.

His intended was more recently human, a soul drowned in the river that borders Gabriel's domain to the east. He has the potential to become a guardian spirit of the waters and the banks, but it isn't the power he may grow into that holds Gabriel's attention. Claimed decades ago by the river, Jack still seems so human; a creature of bottomless inquisitiveness, flashes of temper, and a warm, steadfast soul so far removed from the mischievous, flighty natures of the fae. Jack reminds Gabriel of his connection to his name, of his roots. Although Jack's heart no longer beats, he retains the rhythm of it in his memories of humanity. In losing his heart to Jack, Gabriel's has come to match that long-forgotten pace.

The sun is cresting the horizon as Gabriel makes his way to the edge of the forest. He pauses in the shadows of the trees and looks out across a meadow of whispering grasses and nodding flowers washed in the light of a new day. The river cuts through the middle of this lush valley, and that is where Jack awaits him. He is bound to the waters that claimed his life, and if Gabriel envies him the freedom to travel from the mountain spring at its source all the way to the sea, he also would never think of giving up the vast, rambling territory of his mountainside for the narrow confines of the waterway.

As he steps out into the sun, his retinue falls away, preferring the shadows and hidden places among the trees to the open, sun-flooded valley. The ceremony will be held after sundown to allow them to join in the celebration, but Gabriel isn't about to wait that long to see Jack again. The moss slips from his shoulders as easily as the lacy shadows of the canopy, and the bark crumbles from his arms to reveal skin taken on an olive tint. The leaves and moss in his hair grow into long plaits of sweet grass. Cosmos and feathery seed heads replace the mountain laurel. Morning glories sprout from the ivy girded about his waist, and starry leaves are replaced by the smooth-edged spades and corkscrew vines. He appears far younger in this place at the edge of his domain, younger by far than he was when he inherited his title and the lands that would forever contain him. He crosses unhurried through waist-high grasses, feeling the passing tickle of fat bumblebees. Sylphs tug playfully at his hair, hanging seeds and starry bluets in elf knots.

Ahead, the river is a ribbon of silver cutting through the green. There is no sign of Jack until Gabriel reaches the bank. Then, as calm and serene as the flowing waters, Jack rises from the shallow depths.

He is crowned in flashing blue, a circlet of flowers crafted from thinnest crystal. White anemones of pearlescent glass with citrine jewels glittering like stars at their centers are framed by sprigs of forget-me-nots in purest blue. Crystalline morning glories the blue and white of cloud-streaked summer skies blossom from the clusters of smaller flowers, while stems of delicate bluebells arc gracefully from the arrangement, chiming sweetly with the tiniest movement. The flowers catch the early sunlight and act as prisms, sending rainbows dancing over Jack's hair and skin, and dappling him with cheerful blues.

He holds another circlet in his hands, this one flashing ruby fire as light spears through the impossibly thin petals of glass poppies and the fragile stamens and petals of lycoris. Bursts of pentas like tiny stars surround azaleas in spotted carmine and scarlet, while smoky onyx hellebore blossoms peek from the blaze of light and color like banked coals.

Gabriel returns his warm smile and steps forward to the very edge of the water as Jack comes to meet him. The river marks him in its own way, leaving his skin dusted with the silvery tan sand that gathers along its banks. His cheekbones and jaw, shoulders, wrists, and ankles are pebbled with smooth river stones. Water runs down his body in an endless torrent, a sheer tunic that shines blindingly with reflected light, and hides nothing when touched by shadow.

The moment Jack is close enough, Gabriel's hands settle at his waist. He ducks his head to allow Jack to crown him with the flashing circlet. Up close, the flowers are even more breathtaking, every petal as thin as the natural blossom they were crafted to imitate. Their ethereal beauty makes striking contrast to Jack's rough-cut features and the two long scars prominent on his face.

“A wedding gift from the Court in the south,” he says simply, fingers lingering over the flowers that now adorn Gabriel. His grin is impish, aware of the incongruity, and his touch wanders lower until he is cupping Gabriel's face. His eyes gleam more beautifully than the faerie-made circlet, and he presses forward eagerly to receive a kiss.

Gabriel keeps the kiss chaste. He trails his lips over Jack's cheek, slipping his arms around his broad back and feeling the cool trickle of water over his skin as he holds him close. Lips brushing against Jack's ear, he murmurs how he wishes he could lay him down in the soft loam beneath the trees to make love to him in the very heart of the place that shapes him. Jack shivers in his embrace, and Gabriel smiles to feel his body react.

It is a pleasant fantasy, but Jack will never leave the banks of his stream, and Gabriel cannot set foot in the shallows. They will only ever have the cool, damp sand beneath them, a pillow of sweet-smelling grass, the open sky above. Jack will never take his hand along rocky trails, never shelter with him in hidden caves, or press him against the bole of a tree. Gabriel will never swim the currents with Jack at his side or explore submerged grottoes. They have only the border where their domains meet, and they must hope that it will be enough.

For now, as Jack tangles his fingers in Gabriel's hair and steps out of the river, as they sink to their knees together, hands exploring in growing haste as the kiss deepens, as the crystal chimes of their wedding circlets mingle with quickening breaths as if to cheer on the rising need...for now, it is enough.

Gabriel kisses down Jack's neck, nipping at the skin so that his mark blossoms red over Jack's throat and chest.

“I want to hear you call my name,” he murmurs.

Jack, understanding what is about to come, gasps. He gave his own name decades ago, long before he knew the importance of it or understood the power it granted.

“Gabriel.” He murmurs his name over the still place where Jack's heart no longer beats. Taking one of Jack's hands in his, Gabriel kisses his knuckles, and presses his palm over the incongruously human beating of his own heart. “My name is Gabriel Reyes.”

[sinevotum-a-blog]

death or sleep! (up to you, my lovely! 💙)

dribble drabble | accepting!

sleep ;;

     [ ‘ under the cut because i got hella carried away like - this is lit 2.2+ k words. then again, anything for the snazzin sons ❤ ’ ]

It’s been a long day.

When he steps through thedoorway, there’s an age-old ache resonating marrow-deep in his bones – wearyand tired, thrumming something fierce. He can barely stay on his feet, slippersshuffling against the ground in a familiar noise that reminds him he’s home.All too quickly he’s shucking them off, hands moving to remove a stained andworn lab coat, only the briefest of thoughts telling him he wasn’t supposed tobring that home. Who knows what kind of shit he could track in from work.

Whatever. He’s too tired to care,shrugging helplessly as it’s tossed onto the coat rack.

Next comes a thick and well-lovedjacket, red stained and stitched together time and time again by so manydifferent hands and paws – it’s his only real possession in this world, par thedog tags that glisten around his neck. Then again, even those aren’t his. He’snot even his own person – not anymore.

Mind, body, heart, and soul – hebelongs to others. Choose for it to be this way.

( besides, it’s better this way. )

After the jacket is carefullydraped upon the coat rack he’s slowly shuffling forward only to pause, checkingwith a weary gaze to see that yes, indeed, he did lock the front door behindhim. Then he’s continuing his path towards the stairs, hazed eye-lights takingin the muted light of his living room. The TV’s on but there’s nothing showing– nothing but the weary glow of a blackened screen outlining the couch and the othervarious furniture that greets him this late night.

His bones clack against wood withevery step, tarsals pressing down and up with each movement, scraping againstthe floor. He knows it “isn’t good for the wood” and that he’s bound to wakehis brother up at this rate – but he really doesn’t care. The only thing on hismind is the fact there’s a bed calling his name, and he’s eager to respond byfalling into what would be – hopefully – a deep, undisturbed slumber.

Stars, he feels like he couldsleep for years. Hell, wishes it too.

Eventually he’s at the base ofthe stairs – it feels like centuries, especiallywith just how tired he is – a singleboney hand grasping the rail as he ascends. The steps creak with every one ofhis movements, alarm bells to his arrival. He hasn’t slept here in weeks, atleast not since he’d moved out. But tonight’s different – he’s been workingnonstop lately on project after project, and it’s only now that he’s been ableto go somewhere else to sleep that isn’t his desk chair or some corner of thelab. Part of him wonders if his brother’s cleared out his room since he left –the thought alone leaving a sore pang in his chest.

He would’ve gone home to Sans –but he’s too tired, too exhausted to really trust himself to not pass out onthe way there.

Once he reaches the top flight,he’s continuing his death march down the hall, towards his own door. It stilllooks the same – a single post-it note on its frame, worn and taped on time andtime again, reading a simple “keep out” in the young, ambitious scientist’shandwriting he once had. He stands before the door for a few minutes, leaningforward enough that his skull rests against the cool wood.

Quietly, his eye-sockets flickerclosed and he allows himself to just be.

The sound of creaking floorboardsfills the air, the hum of static dancing against the surface of a screendownstairs joining the symphony. He can hear the way his own bones groan,joints clicking every so often in the muted light around him. The air feelsstagnant, tastes stagnant, everybreath from his pseudo-lungs cutting him raw. Soul a lead weight in his chest,he can almost hear just how muchtrouble he’s going to be in for not taking care of himself. Again.

( can you really blame him? )

With a sigh, he’s finally puttinga hand on the doorknob and it gives way without much prodding at all. The backof his mind is all too happy to worry why it’s not locked – but the rest of himmore than relieved to see his room’s the same as he left it. Nothing out ofplace par the things he’d willingly took out himself, the walls bare and floorclean for once. In the corner, his bed – his old bed, a happy sight for his protesting bones.

It’s with a huff he kicks thedoor behind him shut, and nearly an instant later he’s flopping down on themattress, feet having carried him quicker than ever before. What can he say?He’s always been a bit of a lazybones– so much so that his body’s near trained to sleep on sight of any good spot.

His bed smells like mustard anddust, and he’s relaxing at the familiarity – even if it feels like something’smissing.

The springs beneath him coilharshly into his bones, digging into him without any reprieve par the blanketwadded beneath his sternum and pelvis. He doesn’t mind, though. If anything, itfeels softer than the down feathers of a humming bird monster – more of hisjoints pop in relief, his eye-sockets shuttering closed before he can even helpit.

He can’t –

He can’t sleep.

A deep groan slips past histeeth, his entire body shifting to lay on his side, wrenching the blanket fromunderneath him to cover his prone form. He just wants to sleep. Now really isn’t the best time for his insomnia to be actingup.

Once again, he’s taking a deepbreath of the familiar smell of chalk and spice, trying to drift off.

He can’t.

He can’t sleep, and he knows why– he knows why, and by the stars, he’s not sure why his smile itches to hitchhigher, nor if he should be irritated or not. He’s been spoiled rotten, and heknows it’s going to be the death of him with how heavily his soul sings at whathe’s considering. He’s not sure he’ll make it, but hell – one way or another,he’ll finally pass out, and that’s all he needs right now.

What he wants is a different story.

Nearly an half hour later andhe’s stumbling like a drunk, bare feet clicking against the bottom of the doorframe.

He’s home; Sans’ home, his home. It had taken far too long forhis weary body to muster the magic to teleport to his not-so-trusty machine,and far more brain power than he’d care to admit to remember the nearritualistic steps to find himself in the alternate timeline. He’d almost passedout completely on the trip, had it not been for the jarring whiplash thatusually accompanied a journey through the void.

And now here he is – jacketthrown to where it hangs off his clavicles, having walked through Snowdinbarefoot, dazed, more than half asleep. He doesn’t even bother with the samerites as before, bones once more lightly scraping on the floorboards.. The TVis on here too, only the muted sound is not static but of a very familiar robotdancing to something not even worth the energy it would take to turn his skullto look.

The couch tempts him like a songstress– it’s lumps and bumps all too luring in the early morning hours to a skeletonwho wants sleep more than anything else in this world. Only he has an ace uphis sleeve, walking past with only a moments pause to consider the temptationit is. There’s a side of the bed with his name on it upstairs, and that’s morethan enough to keep him going even on days – nights – like these.

The house is old, ancient; creakingwith every step up the stairs with the bones of his feet clicking and scrapingmutedly as he ascends. Tipped phalanges grip the banister for purchase, worngrooves of nicked bone against nicked wood, both aged by time and carelesscare. His entire body feels like lead, every step a hassle and so very slow tothe point he knows the symphony that is his arrival must sound like deathapproaching.

( some days, some places – but nothere. )

Already he can feel the soothingpulse of cooling, soft magic that awaits him – the gentle babbling of kindness,warmth, strength, integrity – allurging him up those last few steps and down the hall. His hand finds thedoorknob before he can think about it, and it creeks open softly, no louderthan a whisper. All these noises, these screams of his arrival, are merewhispers of his anxiety compared to the soothing hum of a familiar soul andit’s quiet, quiet snores.

For a moment he stands in thedoorway, body framed by the gentle light spilling from the kitchen and TV, hazedeye-lights softening at the sight of his mate – of Sans himself, the smallerskeleton sprawled out and dead asleep to the world. Sine can’t help but stare,enraptured, nearly falling to his knees in relief, exhaustion, and the sheer amountof adoration that fills his soul and even goes as far to overflow outwards intoa soft dusting of a cherry upon his zygomatic arches.

Gently does he shut the doorbehind him, so very softly that it barely whines before clicking shut.

The room is as much of a disasteras you would expect from two sans’ living together, the floor covered withclothes; somehow, surprisingly, for two Sans’ they make do. It smells likepeppermint and cinnamon, a smell he would always associate with home, with hisfirst good days, with the brimming affection he had for the smaller skeleton.Faded eye-lights dilating even wider to adjust to the darkness, it takes him aminute but slowly does he finally lurch forward on his feet.

Sans takes up a predominantamount of the bed alone, sprawled and half covered by tangled sheets. Sine canalready see the drool at the edges of the other’s mouth, and slowly findshimself approaching his mate’s side of the bed. From the bedside table he drawsa few tissues from a box placed there for convenience ( he sweats a lot, okay?) before mutedly leaning onto the bed enough so that he sits on one leg, theother hanging off the side.

Attentively does he wipe offSans’ skull, just enough to get the drool off, hooking the soft fabric againstthe smooth bone. He doesn’t pull away, either – his other hand retrieves thetissues before throwing them off the side of the bed, never stopping hisadorning graze. Slowly does he trace Sans’ jaw, right below his permanent smileand above his vertebra. That nick on his chin, slowly does he brush past itbefore pulling away completely.

Downward he bends, before his eternallyfanged grin presses ever so gently against Sans’ skull. He’s cool where Sine isnot – all soft, round edges, but still that same integrity and kindness heknows so well. Slowly does he pull away even as Sans murmurs somethingunintelligible, turning his head away. He watches, enamored as always, beforefinally sliding off the bed.

He’s stumbling around to his side,feet tripping over stray clothes and random debris – all too quickly does heallow himself to collapse once he finally finds his way there. The mattress issoft, kind, nothing like the old mess of a bed he has back at his old home. Bonesprotest slightly before his joints pop and creak, settling as he hides a silentgroan in appreciation.

For a few moments he just liesthere – eye-sockets falling as heavy as the sunset, allowing himself to sinkdown. He’s still dressed in his clothes beyond his bare, warming feet, and it’sall too easy to let himself drift off as he lies there, knowing he’s missed thisfar too much.

It smells like cinnamon andpeppermint, tastes like they’re overdue for a laundry day.

It sounds like the company of theone he treasures most, looks like the back of his tired, tired eye-lids.

It feels like home.

Eventually does he prop himselfon his elbows before expertly disentangling Sans from the vice of the sheets, agentle, guiding touch as he moves to settle them over both their forms. Thesmaller skeleton shifts and groans, but is pliant, and Sine catches the edge ofa sleep-ridden smile on his skull. Returning it with his own slit of a grin despitethe fact it isn’t – won’t ever be – seen, he shifts closer until he’s flush tohis mate’s back, arms wrapping gently around his sides.

The other skeleton is immediatelyresponding by leaning back into the touch, a soft huff and muted hum buzzingbehind his teeth. Sine shifts slightly before pressing another click of histeeth on the back of Sans’ skull. The other is so cool compared to the warmthhe constantly exudes and he basks in it, holding him so tight and close thattheir legs become entwined in an effort to be closer.

He’s so tired – his skull rests directlyagainst Sans’ nape, eye-sockets slowly closing in time with the gentle rhythmthat begins to guide his non-existent lungs. He’s so damn spoiled, and yet he feels safe, happy, warm – here. Here where he belongs, where Sans owns every damnpiece of him just as easily as he gives himself away.

Sine’s drifting off, gripslackening, ducking his head even more firmly against him.

“ * i love you. ”