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perpetualexistence · 7 days

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Sea Monster AU: Agony of a Sea Witch

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It sure has been a while since I've made a post for this AU, hasn't it? I know I said I would get this done in time for Mermay. But it's only technically two days away, so I consider this to be Mermay in my heart. That and it's Pride month so now this is just my contribution of incredibly toxic yaoi to Pride month!

What's with the song choice you might ask? And the title? Don't worry about it. Noah'll be fine. Probably.

But yeah this is like 3.5K words so I hope you guys enjoy my blood sacrifice Sea Monster AU update!

Content warnings: Murder mentions, toxic relationship, Alejandro being manipulative as per usual

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With his new body comes new risks. He can't afford to have his legs suddenly turn into tentacles on land. It'd be even worse if they transformed in front of Alejandro. So he's not leaving this cove until he's convinced he can leave it without instantly outing himself.

He starts with turning his legs to tentacles and back. A lot of it has to do with wanting them to transform. Which is good because otherwise this would be a pain.

As the adrenaline fades away, he's more cognizant of how weird it is to feel each leg split into four separate limbs, and then come together again. He shudders at the sensation, but over time he gets used to it.

It takes him all night until he's finally comfortable enough to make his way back home. He sneaks back in at one point only to be caught by an older sibling. They express their concerns about his recent behavior. He manages to get them off his back for now, but they're clearly still worried.

It's summer break at this point, so Noah has plenty of time to learn more magic. He lies to his family about taking summer classes so they don't question his time away. He tells the same lie to Alejandro so that Alejandro doesn't insist the two spend more time together.

That lie he's much more worried about. Not only because Alejandro is more volatile, but also because he knows that Alejandro is going to ask him about how his revenge went.

The intent lie Alejandro believes, so he won't have to explain why he did it. But he'll have to lie about how much he enjoyed it to cater to Alejandro.

Except it doesn't really feel like a lie. Because there's a part of Noah that knows he did rather enjoy it. When his mother asked him whether he was getting a job over the summer or staying at school, he almost admitted right there that he wouldn't need to get a job. Their biggest money problem is gone.

Noah has been considering a lot of people 'problems' now. It's easier to feed a problem to a ravenous sea creature than a person. He knows, on a logical level, that this is wrong and is a very concerning line of thought. But he's been through so much that he feels like he's done more than enough to earn it.

When he goes to talk with Alejandro, the large eel does pick up on his hesitation in taking pride in his kill. He's...surprisingly sympathetic towards Noah's reluctance. He admits that doing it in cold blood for the first time hits a lot harder than simply watching it. It's not something for the faint of heart.

It's why Alejandro was so happy that Noah was willing to try it out. Once you get over the morality of it, it's such a delightful, vindicating experience. Alejandro would love to be there one day to witness Noah finally let loose. Noah deserves it, truly. However, Alejandro won't force it. He's not that crude. If Noah does want to go further down the path of might then Alejandro will be happy to guide him along. Until then, Noah can take his time with it.

Noah leaves that conversation with zero suspicions from Alejandro, but so many questions. The way Alejandro phrased it was oddly sweet and felt like an earnest attempt to comfort him. But it was still encouraging murder. Even if it was arguably justified. And satisfying.

At least it made it clear that shrinking Alejandro was the only way to go. Once he was less dangerous, Noah could figure out what to do with him after.

But first of all he's got to figure out this new body of his. Knowing how to switch between human to cecaelia won't mean anything if his new tentacles keep slapping him in the face every time he tries to use them. Or using suckers to attach onto rocks when he did not mean for them to get adhesive. The retractable fangs are rather annoying since he keeps cutting his tongue with them. Not to mention the excessive amount of saliva that seems to come with it.

The most difficult part is learning how to operate eight lower limbs instead of two. It's also the most exhausting. Chef's training had done little to improve his endurance. Even worse since he's underwater where his whole body feels sluggish.

Slowly but surely, he starts getting better at swimming with his tentacles. He doesn't have the finest control over them, but he can swim with them and go in the direction he actually wants to go in. He isn't sticking to everything he touches with his tentacles, either. He considers that progress.

He'd still like to know how being an octopus was supposed to protect him from a giant electric eel. Sure, he can swim better now. That doesn't do much against someone who can easily outpace him. Or just zap him.

He knows the basics about octopi. He knows they can make ink clouds to confuse their enemies. Which might work for about five seconds until Alejandro goes around the small cloud. The more useful thing is the ability to camouflage. It'd only work when standing still. But if the ritual to shrink Alejandro means he has to go out to open waters, he NEEDS a way to hide himself. He wouldn't be able to afford Alejandro catching him collecting something, or worse, with tentacles.

Through trial and error, Noah finds out that his whole body can go invisible, not just his tentacles. All the better for him. He anchors his ability to camouflage with his desire to disappear. It's an easy feeling to pull up. He usually wants to stay out of most interactions, and his desire to get away from all of this is enough to get him invisible. The harder part is stopping it. Because it means letting go of the feeling. Noah can't really calm down to let go of it because Alejandro has him on high alert at all times. He just forces himself to think of something else, and it works.

All of this is just taking more time away from preparing the ritual. He hasn't even had the chance to read over it properly. He very badly wants to jump the gun, but that'll risk getting caught in a body he can barely control. But being unprepared for the ritual, and the lives it'll probably require given this book's track record so far, is also a huge risk. And during all of this, he's still going on hunts with Alejandro. Risks all around, and Noah feels like he's this close to snapping completely when he's pulled in different directions.

So when Owen sends him a text asking if he wants to hang out over the summer? You know what? Sure. Why not?

Noah deserves a distraction from all the things he's putting himself through. Is this distraction also risky? Yes. But it's not as if he's going to go out in the water with Owen. There's plenty to do in this incredibly isolated town that only advertises its incredibly visible beaches with the extrovert who has constantly been inviting him to going to another yacht party in Alejandro's hunting grounds.

God Owen would be so screwed if Noah wasn't setting up Alejandro's menu.

At least Owen doesn't push so much into what's going on in Noah's life once Noah makes it clear that's not happening. It's nice to actually have the ability to say no. Not the illusion of choice Alejandro brings. It's easier to forget all the things he's done when the most he has to worry with Owen is avoiding a nose milkshake.

Well, there is the fact that Owen is also still insisting on Noah coming along to group hangouts. More people means more lies and more suspicion. But it also means more chance to be in the background conversation. Not do anything.

Noah misses not having to do anything. So against his better judgement, he says yes.

He lets himself get swept into the hurricane that is Owen, Eva, and Izzy. He appreciates Eva not asking any questions from him and just letting him exist. Plus watching her go off on people is fun. Izzy, for all the rabid energy she brings, is more than happy to make all the choices for what they're going to do. He's more than happy to just let her. Owen's both enabling all the chaos and making sure everyone's doing great. He doesn't question Noah wearing a scarf during the humid, sweltering summer. He just scoops Noah up when the heat exhaustion starts getting to him.

And Noah? He's just there. There's no expectations that he does anything. He snarks and they don't complain about his personality.

It's such a nice break from all the murder and deceit. It takes away from the time he could be spending to solve this problem. But if he doesn't give himself this he's pretty sure something's going to snap inside of him. So he fits it in between the magic and the hunting and the hanging out with Alejandro that the eel still insists on.

Hanging out with Alejandro does make hunting more bearable. And Alejandro more bearable. Alejandro still enjoys reading with Noah and bringing him smaller treasures.

Still, now that Noah's started to hang out with other people, he can how conditional spending time with Alejandro is. There's a stark contrast between being with people who could kill you on accident with their shenanigans, and being with someone who would kill you on purpose for trying to pull shenanigans.

It nags at him. Constantly. He doesn't want it to. He wants to relax for once in his life. He can't have that with Alejandro like this. He needs to stop distracting himself. No matter the cost, he has to go through with this. He's done too much now. He just has to keep playing this game a little longer.

He doesn't realize Alejandro's picked up on anything until they're on their way back from a hunt.

The conversation started off simple enough. Noah was making snarks about the people Alejandro had thrown into his gullet. They were long past having any sanctity for the dead.

Alejandro was pushing the boat that was carrying Noah along...and then he began to slow to a stop. They were nowhere near the shoreline. It was just open waters.

Noah asks what's going on. He's trying to sound as casual as possible. Maybe if he keeps faking it, he'll actually begin to calm down.

Alejandro promises it's nothing major, really. It's about a few things that have been bothering him, that's all. He's noticed some new things about Noah.

At first Alejandro thought they were great changes. He does find Noah's scarf cute, and he's very fond of Noah's new interest in Alejandro's passions.

But he's also noticed that their conversations have started to become more awkward. Like Noah isn't completely there for the conversation. He's just curious about what could be on Noah's mind.

Noah's immediately concerned as he now has to come up for an answer for this. It's just him thinking about school, that's all! And the whole murder thing! Giving that serious thought. That's the only thing on his mind.

Alejandro smiles at Noah. He wants to believe Noah. He does. But there's one other thing that's bothering him.

Noah's scent.

The day after Noah came back from his first kill, there was something new to it. Something charged. And salty?

It's very strange. Alejandro was willing to be patient for an answer from Noah. To an extent. The real problem, though, are the newest scents on Noah. They're all human scents. From different people.

Noah would have to be especially close with these humans for an especially long time for their scents to intermingle. Yet Noah hasn't mentioned anything about other humans. Given what happened the last time Noah was getting close with other humans, Alejandro is very interested in knowing what explanation Noah has for this.

Noah knew he shouldn't have let Owen bear hug him so much. Or let Eva carry him around no matter how convenient it was. Or let Izzy constantly invade his personal space. Even though the only way that he could have stopped any of them would have been not to be near them at all.

This was on him, really. For letting himself get distracted. Now he has to figure out what to tell Alejandro. If he tells the truth, he'll be dooming his friends. Alejandro will force him to make an impossible choice. It's what he always does.

He's racking his brain for something, anything to get him out of this mess. Alejandro is waiting for an answer. He does not want to be in this situation. He would give anything to get out of this situation. To just disappear.

"Que es esto?"

Noah looks up to see Alejandro looking down at him. There's some mix of confusion, horror, and anger in his eyes. It's worrying since Noah hasn't given a response yet. His eyes are also darting around Noah. Around?

Noah brings his gaze back down to the boat to figure out what Alejandro is looking at.

Then he looks down to realize that on instinct, he's camouflaged with the ship.

Oh.

No.

Noah's body acts before he can think twice about it. He jumps into the water. Staying on that boat would be a death sentence. At least this way he has a chance at getting away and figuring out SOMETHING.

He knows Alejandro is calling for him and he doesn't care. He's never transformed while invisible and he doesn't want to take any chances now. He's barely gotten any distance until he feels the hairs on his arms raise.

Invisibility means nothing to electrolocation.

Noah is grabbed and is pushed away from the surface. Noah lets out a shout as air bubbles escape him. He switches to using his gills since Alejandro wouldn't notice those anyways. He has a clear view of the fury on Alejandro's face as they swim deeper.

Alejandro demands an answer NOW. He won't return Noah to the surface until Noah shows himself and agrees to explain. Alejandro will keep him here until he drowns if he must. Because he needs to know how Noah knows magic.

Noah thrashes as he tries to get out of Alejandro's vice-like grip. Alejandro doesn't know about the gills, but he'll figure it out eventually. The most he can do is buy himself some time. He's terrible with coming up with plans on the spot but he's got no choice to learn through trial by fire.

He refuses to respond. Speaking would expose his gills. He can hide somewhere and wait Alejandro out if Alejandro thinks he needs to go to the surface for air.

Alejandro is still demanding an answer. How does Noah know magic? That would explain the new scent, but not where Noah got it from. Alejandro has scoured these waters thoroughly. He's the only sea creature here.

So how? And why? They've been having such a good time together. Alejandro didn't even know he could enjoy spending time with a human. Yet he waited with bated breath for Noah's visits. He had been looking for every excuse to keep Noah alive when he fully recovered from his journey here.

Then, when Noah suggested these hunts-

"What?" Noah asked. Holding his cards to his chest be damned. He could NOT let Alejandro try to make Noah out to be the bad guy.

"When you suggested the hunts." Alejandro repeated. He seemed too agitated to even notice that Noah shouldn't be able to speak underwater.

"I didn't suggest them! I never asked for this! You made it clear it was help you or die!"

"I never said you had to help me. I only said you had to give me a reason to let you live."

And no. No, that's not how that worked. That can't have been how that worked. Noah can remember the threat on his life.

"You made the offer to help me hunt all on your own. You could've offered only to spread my legacy and I would've accepted it. You chose to be just as vicious as me. And I was so delighted that you chose me over your own kind."

That's not how that happened. Because if it was, then Noah could have avoided all of this. If it was, then Noah might have been able to reason with Alejandro from the beginning. Noah wouldn't have any blood on his hands. He would still be a good person. Instead of whatever he is now.

It takes more effort than he dares to admit to keep his voice flat. "If it was a choice this whole time, then why didn't you tell me?"

Alejandro paused for a moment. He looked like he wanted to search for Noah's expression. There was none to give with the camouflage. "I thought you'd be happier this way."

How dare Alejandro? How dare Alejandro?

He can't stack the cards against Noah and then blame Noah for not playing the game right. He can't say Noah could have communicated better when he was the one who made Noah feel as if he couldn't say anything at all.

Months of pent up aggravation are bubbling to the surface. He wants Alejandro to hurt. He wants Alejandro to bleed. It's the only way this monster will understand the extent of what he's done to Noah.

Noah feels the transformation happen, and he welcomes it. He's revealed as legs become tentacles. The blue rings on his tentacles glow bright and fierce. He can feel Alejandro struggle to re-adjust his grip. Alejandro is transfixed by the glowing rings. Good.

He uses his tentacles to push at Alejandro's hand to give him room to escape the grip. It's working somewhat. It gives him enough room to sink fangs deep into Alejandro's finger. This was for every time the damnable thing had ruffled his hair. Every time he was given a playful pet or a light jab. Every agonizing moment of patronizing.

He can taste when he pierces through the skin. He keeps going. As hard as he can. Noah's saliva is pouring into the open wound. It's small, but it's something.

Alejandro shouts in pain but doesn't let go. Noah can see the water around Alejandro's tail crackling with frustrated electricity.

Then, Alejandro's grip loosens. Noah bursts out of it. Finally, his sacrifice was good for SOMETHING. He tries to swim away from Alejandro's range.

Alejandro uses the same hand as before to block Noah's escape and bring him back to face the merfolk. Noah is expecting to be squeezed again and tries to get off of Alejandro's palm before it happens.

He does escape. Alejandro's hand closes around where Noah had just been a couple of seconds ago. Alejandro looks...confused. His hand is trembling. He reaches for Noah again, but the hand is slower this time. Much easier to avoid.

"What...what did you do to me?" Alejandro asked.

Noah's rage is marred with confusion. Alejandro's arm slowly falls to the side. Limp.

That's when it clicks for Noah. He'd never looked up the exact species of octopus he was. He'd been far too preoccupied with other matters, and he thought it would never come up. Yet here he was, with glowing blue rings and a bite chockfull of saliva.

Except it was never saliva. It was venom. And now they're both finding out how deadly Noah had made himself.

The fear in Alejandro's eyes is satisfying. Noah's finally managed to turn the tables on him. Even if he never wanted it like this. The plan had never been to kill Alejandro. Just to contain him. Alejandro would have killed him if he thought he had to. So whatever's about to happen is just going to happen.

So long as he keeps telling himself this, he can ignore the sinking feeling in his gut.

He can't ignore the gray mass of flesh barreling towards him.

Of course.

Noah should have realized it was always going to end like this. He's not going to be fast enough to outswim that tail. He's been martyring himself this whole time. Might as well go all the way. At least the few people he cares about will be safe from his stupid, horrible mistake.

His last thought is wondering if there ever was a way this could have ended differently.

The tail hits him. Electricity courses through his body.

He screams, and it goes dark.

(For all of you curious, Noah's a blue-ringed octopus! I would have shared a picture earlier, but I didn't want to spoil the surprise in case you knew about it already. Here is a lovely little picture of an incredibly deadly octopus the size of a golfball that can kill a human in minutes!

#sea monster au #total drama au #total drama #total drama noah #td noah #total drama alejandro #td alejandro #td alenoah #total drama alenoah #alenoah #giant/tiny #noah td #alejandro burromuerto #horror au #tw toxic relationship #cw toxic relationship #total drama horror au #td horror au

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gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan · 23 days

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Death? Not Today F*ck You!

Author's Note: Karlsor's debut in Mermay and Poor Unfortante souls.

Warnings: Karlsor swears a lot, some hints of violence. Also NIGHT LORD. Let me know if I need to add more

Summary: Karlsor lands on Terra and finds a Budding Blight Garden, not that he knows what that is. And makes the decision to not go near it.

Tagged: @barn-anon, @bleedingichorhearts, @c-u-c-koo-4-40k, @kit-williams, @sleepyfan-blog, @whorety-k

Tagged Again: @sleepyfan-blog and @whorety-k

Karlsor is a Proud Night Lord, and one of the lucky, or unlucky bastards with enough Psyker abilities that were noticed early enough that he was dragged into training by the Libarius before the Heresy. He'd barely finished his training as a Librarian, their training exacting, harsh, demanded and with each step forward, sacrifice of blood, pain, sweat, tears, and mental health (whatever the fuck that is) was demanded of him. He's no coward, never has been, to have survived the Hell that is Nostramo, and to have been...

Either Lucky or Unlucky enough to have been grabbed by the Night Lords to be flung into a cage with a bunch of other boys around his age, some older, some younger, and then dragged into the Hell that was being an Aspirant of the Night Lords. He had never been the kindest of souls, being born and growing, surviving the fucked up hell that is Nostramo killed the weak, and beat the kindness and every good thing out of a person, until just the pure, raw, naked desire and need for Survival was all that was thought of.

Even when Lord of the Eigth Legion and the Imperium had fully taken over Nostramo, things have still been shit. There was just more technology and shit for the people to fight over. At least that's what he'd heard from the old folks who's complain and hiss about things. Fighting against the uppity Ultramarines as Father had decided to attack the holier-than-thou Primarch of the 13th legion had been a lot of fun, waking up after what had felt like had been a killing blow had been both pleasantly and unpleasantly surprise.

Pleasant, because he still is alive, unpleasant because his ribs really fucking hurt and he's in agony and likely in a cell with uppity Ultramarines ready with snide words and smug bastard-y words to lord over his failure. His tail lashes out in rage as he looks around frowning. Where the fuck his he? He's not on McCragge. Oh fuck shit. As he's dying he's getting a vision. Or something. Goody. Or he's hallucinating a Nicer Thing as he dies? What the fuck is this shit. He slowly starts moving, activating his ability to swim through the air, which is infinitely safer than trying to crawl back to the waters. Seriously.

Which fucking planet is he on? This is planet has pollution, he can smell it, but it's not the worst planet he's been on. It's almost pretty, but pretty things often hide something worse underneath. Finding the ocean took several hours of swimming through the air. At least there's only one sun in the sky, even if the sunlight is way to fucking bright in his opinion. He prefers the darkness and shadows, where the light doesn't burn his skin and eyes. Even with being an Astartes with a tougher body, he burns like a whore in church after a few minutes in the sun.

Which is going to be so delightful to feel once he's back in the water. At least he's alive to recover from his injuries and the sun trying to fuck him over more. He is really glad to get into the ocean waters, which is salinized and he almost bites through his tongue trying not to scream as his skin protests being in the ocean while being sunburnt enough that his regenerative abilities has yet to heal it and he's entirely red from where his armor doesn't protect his scales.

He swims in the ocean, healing and trying to hunt for something to eat, easily hunting a school of fish and eating the wriggling creatures whole. He has some nutri-paste but he needs to supplement it with organic matter, which is a damned pain. He also needs to figure out where the fuck he is and where some of his brothers are, as much as they are a pain in his ass and are more than half likely to try to murder him, either through straight up stabbing him or being more circumspect about it.

Psykers are viewed as being super unstable and mistrusted in the legion. Honestly, he'd commented before that it's like calling water wet, they are all unstable, lunatic murderers. The younger members of his legion are... not kinder, no one is ever really kind in the Eighth legion, but are more stupid, and ignorant, since they are younger and haven't been through as much fucked up shit as the older ones have. Getting older can be hard, especially with how much fighting they do, against the enemies of the Emperium, and at times, each other.

Still, he's glad that he's alive, in general, and its better than not being alive. That damned Ultramarine only nearly killed him. Which reminds him, he's going to find that Ultramarine and make him suffer for his failure. He hears something and slowly starts swim-stalking and he carefully stalks whatever is making noise and tilts his head from one side to another. That is the ugliest and weirdest looking reef system that Karlsor has ever seen in his life. It looks really sick and fucked up.

And there is something about it that screams WRONG at his Psyker senses. He hears demented echoing giggling. Which is. Fucking Fantastic. He's not going anywhere near the fucked up reef system, it looks cursed as fuck. While he's got an Astartes Immune system, he's not going to tempt whatever the fuck is going on with that to go after him. He's no Apothecary or specialist in Environments, but he knows that is Super Fucked and Warp-craft went into fucking it up and continuing to fuck it up. So yeah, as a trained Psyker and since no one has asked for his help, either way, and he doesn't want to go near it any way, he's going avoid that creepy ass dying reef and go somewhere hopefully a lot healthier. It's a shame, the biodiversity of the oceans of this primitive planet are almost beautiful and he's totally not stared at the plethora of vibrant colored fish swim past him in schools of hundreds.

#warhammer 40k #space marine husbandry sentience #space marine husbandry #adeptus astartes #warhammer #mermay #mermay 40k #mermay 2024 #poor unfortunate souls au #poor unfortunate souls #oc: karlsor #night lords #night lords oc

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jarviscockerssecrethusband · 2 months

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Steve first fully registered his feelings for Chrissy Cunningham after the apocalypse started.

Well, the term apocalypse was debated heavily on national news stations but Steve sure felt like it had come when the Upside Down began leaking into their world. Into Steve’s life.

He’d always had a vague awareness of something distinctly different about him. The way he’d just draw others to him, make people agree. Occasionally he’d look at his eyes too hard in the mirror and see silver flecks shining back. Seven shrinks couldn’t fix his “problem” of dunking his head under the bath water or the pool for hours on end, delighted that he could breathe and swim like a fish.

Then after Vecna, after everyone died and Steve saw Hawkins as the rotten graveyard that it truly was, there came a day where he was no longer able to walk.

It was the worst agony he’d ever been in. Every step he took made him feel like he was about to keel over, his skin was almost scaling over and he was constantly short of breath. At first Steve had thought it to be a curse from God before deciding that not even God would be that cruel.

Running out of options, Steve fled back to the only place that felt like a sanctuary. The pool. His greatest source of shame would be his salvation now.

The good thing was that the moment he slid under the water, he could breath again. His legs fused together into a tail and Steve had no doubt that if pools had mirrors in them, he’d be staring at eyes of the purest silver.

The less good thing was Barb Holland was staring at him. Glaring. Very much still alive.

After he swim her out and sent her on her way, the puzzle pieces of whatever was happening across North America started to fall into place. Whatever force was out there, leaking the upside down into the real world, killing the birds and the fish and the less prepared of Hawkins, was also bringing back those who had been killed by the upside down.

Because Barb Holland hadn’t quite been human when they made amends. She’d been something different. Something powerful. Something hungry.

That got Steve thinking about Chrissy. Sweet Chrissy with her light giggle and her cartwheels and the way she’d always call him Stevie whenever they met at parties. What had obviously been a crush in retrospect, now fell on Steve like a tonne of bricks. Shit, she couldn’t see him like this. Well, if she ever bothered to stop by at all. Somehow, that thought made him feel even worse.

It had been months since he’d had that thought and Steve felt like he was having a midlife crisis. From what human clothes he could wear, he looked like a damn trucker, he’d eat any small see monsters that slipped through the vents in his pool and he was just fucking lonely.

Of course, when he was at his lowest, that was when she came.

She looked older. More mature. Her hands were shooting beams of light at a demogorgon that seemed to be chasing her and of course she’d run into Steve’s back garden completely by mistake.

But then she saw him. Rotting away at the bottom of his pool. Cocked her head as if she couldn’t quite believe what she was looking at.

“Shit, Steve??????”

She took him out of the pool. Cast a spell on him so that he’d hold up long enough until he made it to her camp. She was living with Billy Hargrove and Eddie Munson.

Steves world briefly ground to a halt as he imagined sharing living quarters with all three of his crushes when he was a damn fish.

Hargrove and Munson weren’t friendly. They just sort of grunted at him, snickered something about King Steve and went about their day. Chrissy wasn’t phased.

She showed him his new pool. It was beautiful, a gorgeous sapphire blue. When she steadied his arms as he lowered himself in, briefly sparks flew.

But then she went back to her tent. Where she shared a bed with Hargrove and Munson.

For his own sanity, Steve tried his best not to imagine that.

Chrissy would come every night to the side of his pool to share food and gossip. She was so full of life, Steve couldn’t quite believe he’d once saw her dead body crumpled on the floor. Sometimes they even held hands.

Those days were Steve’s favourite.

Hargrove and Munson seemed to be warming up to him too, throwing out a “hey man” every time they passed Steve doing laps early in the morning. Chrissy was ecstatic. Steve wasn’t sure why.

Then she kissed him on his 21st birthday and things started to make a lot more sense.

They were all her boyfriends. Hargrove and Munson definitely seemed to have something going on too. Steve should have just been happy with that but he couldn’t help but want more. To prove himself to Billy and Eddie somehow.

Chrissy shook her head fondly and called him a silly fish when he told her. He asked why but instead she planted a kiss on his nose and said “you’ll see.”

Steve wasn’t sure what Chrissy had done but she must have done something because Eddie started to come to his pool with his guitar just to talk about The Hobbit or weed or whatever. Billy started doing laps with Steve, rarely talking but sometimes squeezing his shoulder and winking at him.

They weren’t exactly hiding their powers anymore either. Eddie would flash his fangs, very proud to be a vampire. Billy shifted into his wolf form with Steve still watching. It was almost like a courting ritual.

Eddie was a much easier target to get the information out of, even though half of it was an unrelated ramble. Something about Steve helping him get through his high school woes until he started dating girls and then his woes got even bigger.

Steve kissed him to shut him up.

Billy was a much tougher nut to crack. What had previously been lewd flirtation and confidence turned into quiet, introverted embarrassment. Though the manhandling had continued, to Steve’s secret delight.

Steve ended up having to grapple him and make the first move. Telling him that he’d been in love with him since the first time they met and that if Billy reciprocated, Steve might just die of happiness right there.

Billy just gulped, gave him a water lily and was about to run off before Steve dragged him back for a night under the water.

So Steve had two boyfriends and a girlfriend now. And he was a fish. Life was full of surprises

This is my fic for @st-rarepair-roulette which has been a joy to participate in! I still feel very honoured that I was entrusted with a mod role and I hope that everyone else had as much fun with it as I did!

#billy hargrove #steve harrington #eddie munson #chrissy cunningham #hellcheergroveton #metalhamsandwich #strr2024 #siren steve harrington #witch chrissy cunningham #vampire eddie munson #werewolf billy hargrove

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seokahwrites · 3 years

Text

NUISANCE | chapter 1 (or, human walls and steak fungi)

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pairing.

| lawyer! jeon jungkook x lawyer! reader (feat. ex! kim taehyung)

summary.

| all you wished for was a relaxing two weeks in a big ass boat eating some big ass shrimps, away from the real world. but instead you’re stuck with your arch rival with no means of escape — and goddamit why does the bastard smell so good

tags.

| the spice has commenced; POUTY JUNGKOOK???; hunky jungkook?; jungkook?; jungkook in a suit; a LOT of jungkook; pouty reader; stressed out reader; use of the words dick and cooch; use of the word satan (to refer to kim seokjin ofc); KIM SEOKJIN IS THE REAL MAIN CHAR; poor joon is a victim; JUNGKOOK WEARING EARRINGS AND BRACELETS; taehyung is nice (?) (¿question mark?)

a/n.

| this writing was sponsored by red bull, alcohol and fantasies of casual jungkook as well as jungkook in a suit. also, jungkook’s smile is described as tight lipped bc his signature smile appearing is important to the story. also i wanna know y’all’s thoughts on tae. BUT MOST IMPORTANTLY THANK U FOR THE COTINUOUS SUPPORT AND LOVE, I WILL CONTINUE TO GIVE MY BEST AND THANK U FOR READING MY STORY <333

Having once spent a sleepless night reading Dante’s inferno, you were well aware of the fact that there are 9 layers of hell.

Though, it seemed the old man had forgotten about the tenth circle: Anywhere with Jeon Jungkook.

Since the first time you met him, you never had any reason to believe that he was a humble character. He had always looked at you from the top of his high horse and he took much pride in trotting on it.

As you, Jungkook and the receptionist wait for the elevator, the air thick with discomfort, you look at the man in front of you and remember that first time.

Your head is invaded with the memory of you in your Hello Kitty pajamas, adorned with grease and all, as you worked on a divorce case that causes you migraines to this day — love is a bitter bitch. It must’ve been past midnight when you and Jin were chewing away pizza slice after pizza slice at the office.

Then, there’s a knock at the door.

“If that’s Namjoon I’m literally going to fire you,” you bark at Jin as you hold his leftover crust on one hand and a document on the other.

And Jin, being the smart ass he is and knowing you wouldn’t survive a day without him, gets up from your leather couch without a word and opens the door, launching himself at none other than Kim Namjoon.

You roll your eyes at the love birds while wondering when the fuck their honeymoon phase was gonna end. You were so sick of them.

“Y/N,” Jin calls you from your desk, urging you to come to the door and once you’re beside him, this time with a cup of coke in your hands, “Can you keep them entertained for a bit? I just gotta grab Namjoon’s meds.”

Before you could say no, the little devil was already running off to his own cubicle, leaving you alone with the all familiar Namjoon and a very much not familiar stranger.

You lean on the doorframe without uttering a single word, sipping on your drink as well as the stranger — Sure, looking back at the moment you kinda just wanna punch yourself in the cooch and tell yourself to get a grip, but you weren’t blinded with hatred at the time, and also not blind — because it isn’t every night that a man clad in a charcoal suit and an unbuttoned shirt, comes knocking at your door; not to mention his watch dazzled under the artificial light and he held the blue tie in his hand with just the right grip.

You’re snapped out of your daze when the man goes from checking the time to whispering something in Namjoon’s ear, covering it the same way eight year olds cover their own secrets, and he laughs. This would all be good and well if he hadn’t looked at you with such appall in his eyes the moment before, the look still clear as day in your mind.

You're reminded that your makeup was probably smudged from all the times you had rubbed your eyes, your skin oily from the tiresome day and you were wearing Hello Kitty pajamas.

Maybe you shouldn’t have taken the insult so personally, but you did.

“I’m here,” Jin is back, a hand on his boyfriend’s shoulder as the other one passes him a lunchbox of cold medicines, “What did I miss?”

At this you look up from the pitiful ground, pulling Jin back to your office, and accidentally spill (or throw) your coke at the stranger. You watch in delight as he looks at his very expensive looking suit drenched in a sticky brown, utter terror in his eyes, inhaling the wonderful moment for a second before shutting the door in his face.

The consequences of your actions: an almost two-year long rivalry with the stranger, revealed to be Jeon Jungkook moments after the incident when Jin asked, “Did you just throw your drink at Namjoon’s boss, you crazy bitch?”

And that wave has rippled to this day, in the form of insults and high-school level teasing (if his brain had even evolved to that age). The words “I’ll have you all to myself’ comes to mind; it makes you puff with exasperation. Sure it comes off a little flirty to unknowing ears, but it was just another reminder of Jungkook’s dismay — and that he had an all new access to torture you.

You attempt to shake the ick from your body, but in a trice you found yourself in front of the suite, the four floors you travelled to get there seemingly a glitch in time.

Isabelle scans the room card in front of the handle, handing it over to Jungkook after the green beep. “This is your room!”

You shove Jungkook aside, pulling your trolley as you enter. You had seen the pictures before, but seeing the grand room before your eyes in all of its shades of brown and gray dispersed throughout the walls and furniture, the intricate branch of lights in the ceiling and the panoramic ocean view that gave it its name; it made you forgot who you were sharing it with for a moment.

When you turn around, Jungkook is as wide eyed as you, and it makes the corners of your mouth lift ever so slightly because he looks like a fucking dork.

“Well,” Isabelle is smiling and you could sense her relief of not having to deal with the two of you anymore, “If you need anything, me and the rest of the Royal Sunrise team are available at all times, have fun!”

And just like that, she made her escape, leaving you and Jungkook standing in the middle of the room, alone.

For a moment you shut your eyes as hard as you can, scrunching your face with your fists up, in hopes that a miracle happens and Jungkook disappears. You have been having some odd dreams lately, maybe this was just—

Nope. He’s still there.

Since his eyes seem to have wandered too far, you call out his name to bring him back to earth, crossing your arms when his gaze lands on you, “We should probably talk about a few things.”

He drops the backpack from his back as he nods.

“First of all, the sleeping situation—“

“Yeah, I already thought of that,” he walks to the (very cramped) couch on the other side of the room and pats the armrest, “I’ll take this wonderful bed.”

You look at him with quizzical eyes, wondering how the hell was he of all people going to fit there. But it wasn’t really of your concern if he wanted to get scoliosis, he had made his decision.

“Plus, you need beauty sleep much more than me.”

What a waste of oxygen.

You shrug off his words, immune to his childish remarks at this point, “Okay, then. Next on the list, eating arrangements.”

At this point he’s picking up his things and placing them in his territory, “Why is that on the list?”

You move closer to the windows, a little excited when you see the balcony — you would use it to either push your roommate into the cold ocean or catch up on a few books, tough choice. “Because the tables are arranged by rooms.”

You felt the confusion in his eyes poking at your back, so you turn, “That means that we need to share a table for the next few days, dipshit.”

Jungkook shakes his body in agony, throwing a tiny tantrum, “Why is that even a thing?” He whined.

When you feel a headache coming, you grab your own luggage and place it on top of the bed, opening it up and digging in the pockets for a little bit of liquid luck. God knew you needed it.

You down the sample of Jack Daniels in one go with a bitter face and a blow of air.

“Really?”

You start picking out your pajamas for the night, “I was saving it for when I’d find a hot stranger by the pool but—,” when you look up and see the mess on Jungkook’s couch, you’re taken aback, “What in the world is that?”

Jungkook’s hands are rummaging through the jungle that were his things, and it’s obvious that he just shoved as many clothes as he could find lying around the house. He grabs hold of a white tee, “What?”

Again, a waste of—

“WOAH, WOAH, WOAH.”

In the roll of an eye Jungkook’s torso is fully exposed, his back turned towards you with all of its bumps and mumps looking right at you. And you only become aware that you are staring when Jungkook notices the lack of a comeback, pointing it out with a smug tone.

“Y/N,” he doesn’t turn but he snaps you out of your stunned state all the same, “I can practically hear you drooling.”

At the very next instant you cover your eyes, just as little kids do when an inappropriate scene comes on the TV. “You wish, jackass,” and it comes off a little shoutier than you expected, as if the lack of visual correlated with the volume of your voice. Blindly, you grab your shirt and shorts from the bed and run to the bathroom, which just had to be on Jungkook’s side of the room.

And things take a turn for the worse when you run into something, and that something is warm and firm and breathing.

“Uh—.”

Pain.

You convince yourself it was just an invisible, Jungkook shaped wall they failed to mention on the website and fling yourself to the bathroom door, finding the handle rather quickly from all the adrenaline.

Once you’ve slammed the door shut, you let your back slide against the wooden slab and your ass hit the marble floor.

The clothes are still in your grip, your left hand feeling your overheating cheeks and for a tick you think that maybe, just maybe, you should throw yourself into the water and let the sharks take you so you could be buried at the very depths of the ocean. It seemed like a better fate than whatever the fuck was awaiting you the next two weeks.

You take a deep breath in, letting your mind focus on something else.

You look around and, oh, wow. Even the bathroom was charming — if you could ignore the absurd amount of windows, any sea creature passing by would surely see more than they should — glass making up all of the walls, including the shower’s.

The exposure that surrounds you, in its own weird way, cleared up your head the tiniest bit and for the first time since you’ve arrived, you were able to think, only the ocean and its blue around you now.

And what would be your first course of action after a glimpse of clarity?

Calling that rat bastard assistant of yours, of course.

You stand up and place your phone atop the hazel counter after clicking contact name ‘Twinky’, out of fear you’d smash the damn thing when you hear his voice, smoke was bursting at the seams of your chest. Prepare to meet your end, Kim Seokjin—

“Good evening, Ms. Y/N. For what reason are you contacting me in the midst of your vacation?”

Breathe in, breathe out. “Don’t get all formal with me, Kim,” you’re wagging your finger to no one, “I know you did something. Confess.”

The obnoxious twirling of Jin’s chair could be heard through the speaker, “I’ve no idea of what you could possibly be talking about, Madam—“

“Confess.”

“Fine, fine,” you could picture Jin putting his hands up at your murderous tone, “Me and Joon just thought it was about time you two kids got together.”

You take a pause from your pacing around. Motherfucker.

“Okay! I thought it was time and convinced Namjoon to go along with it,” your fist meets the counter with an audible thump, and you were seethed at the probability of Jin smiling at your behaviour. “Speaking of it, how’s it going?”

“Well, Jin,” you place the microphone as near to your mouth as possible, “JEON JUNGKOOK IS TAKING OFF HIS CLOTHES IN THE MIDDLE OF THE FUCKING ROOM,” you put on a docile face and naturally assume that Jin could see you telepathically, “So you tell me how it’s going.”

For the first time since you hired him, you had left Jin speechless. Or so you thought.

“I didn’t know you would move this fast—“

“Jin.”

“I apologise, I apologise,” the witch cackles, “But you didn’t give me any context, I only assumed the best.”

“Spare me from your taunts, you hag,” you huff and roll your eyes, “And, as I’ve told you many times before, Jeon Jungkook is literally the worst. I hate—.”

“—him. Yes, Y/N, I’ve been hearing the same speech every single day for two years,” you could hear Jin walking back and forth before an abrupt pause, “Listen to yourself, Y/N, you brought this upon yourself. Whenever you saw or just remembered Jungkook existed you wouldn’t stop talking about him. So, being the good friend I am, I handed you his—,” you rush in a failed attempt to muffle his next words with your hand, “—dick on a silver platter.”

Oh, dear lord.

“You’re out of your mind if you think I wanna be anywhere near Jungkook’s—,” you speak in a hushed tone, “—thing.”

“See, you can’t even say it,” and you give up, because no matter how many times you denied it, Jin never let up. “Anyway, I gotta go and… take a call. Have fun!”

And he hangs up.

All you can do is groan, making a mental note that you oughta kick Jin in the balls one of these days, and you look at yourself in the mirror — you couldn’t even enjoy your tacky shirt because of him. Was a normal vacation really too much to ask for?

You remember that the universe had already answered your question with a big yes, and you can’t help but pout.

Still, ever the changing mind, were you really going to let the universe win?

Your pout turns into a smirk. Of course, you weren’t. All you needed to do was avoid Jungkook as much as possible, that would be easy for sure, you were on a gigantic cruise ship after all.

Yeah, this can still be great.

And so, quick to think as always, you grab your phone and scroll through the Royal Sunrise website.

To your luck, the cruise offered classes and activities of all types with a different theme each day — tomorrow is cooking. Not only was it going to be actually entertaining, you could avoid Jungkook without having to look behind you every other minute.

Genius.

With this new mindset and plan, you change into your oversized navy shirt and banana-printed shorts, a newfound excitement in your step. You even bang your chest with each of your fists, a gorilla-esque fighting technique if you shall, as a way to pump you up.

The door doesn’t seem as intimidating when you push it open, your arms swinging at your side as if you were one of the seven dwarves. This was good.

Immediately you're met with the vexing view of Jungkook, and you quirk your eyes when you notice that all he was wearing was a pair of gray shorts and that white tee, the oddity of it all iffy in your head since you’ve only ever seen him in suits and shirts. There’s a familiar tingling of (what you always assumed was) contempt in your fingertips and toes, one that would only ever occur with Jungkook. Hatred finds a way, huh.

He looks at you, back to his phone and back to you all in one second, and once his brain processes that you’re back and present, he ditches his phone and props himself up on one elbow. “You know the walls aren’t that thick, right?”

The tingle turns into a twitch and you almost hit yourself. Breathe, Y/N.

Jungkook sits up, crossing his arms, his eyes wandering once again, “I knew that Namjoon was planning something. He was sweating so much, I thought it was just the heat,” and they land back on you, “Turns out, it was betrayal.”

You head to your own king-sized resting place and a chuckle slips out of you at Jungkook’s little remark. “You did hear that Jin was the one who dragged him into this, right?”

You’re both pulling your covers over your bodies with silent grins due to the dumbassery of your assistants, “I assumed as much.” At this, your smiles become full-out laughs and your heads must have been too exhausted to dwell on the out of character situation.

It fades after a few seconds and you take one final look at Jungkook before turning off the lights, only to make sure he was already laid down.

Your anxiety comes back to the surface, your eyes staring blankly ahead at the ceiling.

“What a mess,” you don’t even notice you had blurted it out loud.

The rustling of sheets sounds through the otherwise cricket-silent room, “Tell me about it.”

Another chuckle.

“Jungkook,” you call him, the words coming out with no warning, “Can we just promise, no monkey business? I just really wanna relax and—.”

“Y/N,” he stops you before you could yap any further, “No monkey business.”

His interruption makes you sheepish, that tingle coming back as you fiddle with the sheets.

All of the sudden, “Good night, Y/N.”

Silence.

“Don’t be a killjoy.”

Groan. There really isn’t any reason for you to answer the prick. Still, you roll your eyes, “Good night, you troll.”

You hear his pleased sigh.

“Kinda bummed you don’t want my thing, though.”

Damn you, Kim Seokjin.

Your eyes flutter open, not with the calming sound of the dancing waves or the rustling of the sheets beside you from a happy hour mistake, no. You wake up with the sound of the shower running, the drip drop of the water meeting the glass floor of the bathroom.

The walls are very thin.

The image of a very naked Jungkook just next door is forced into your head, and you try to get rid of it by putting a pillow over your face, in hopes that it would put an end to your misery, but the world only gives a hundred problems and zero solutions.

Sat up, you remind yourself of the fresh-new mindset you had implemented yesterday, and this motivates you to restart your morning right and get dressed for the busy day ahead.

You squat down to your bag, grabbing the first jumpsuit and shoes in front of you, surprisingly not too shabby. The black off-shoulder fabric was adorned with pale pink flowers and your basic white sneakers didn’t add much but they were still a welcome fit — you’d only brought three pairs of shoes, so you didn’t really have much of a choice.

The background noise of the shower running disappears.

Shit.

You stumble around the room, trying to switch out of your clothes as fast as you possibly could to avoid any of yesterday’s incidents repeating, the need of any sort of grooming forgotten along the way. Still, you succeeded, and just as Jungkook unlocked the bathroom door, you were out of the room.

The joy in your step was back as you took the few steps needed to the elevators, pressing that little button of victory. Though you’ve been to countless luxury premises, the details of each place still managed to leave you awestruck, and the black railing and golden walls of the ship with decoration clearly inspired by the Romans, weren’t an exception.

The elevator was going from the sixth floor to the fifth when you heard a door open, the hairs of your back standing up out of instinct.

“Wait up!”

Fuck me.

You turn to the left, met with the, once again, odd view of Jeon Jungkook wearing casual clothes, this time in a charcoal shirt a few sizes too big, black cargo pants and signature chunky shoes. But, there’s something even more strange and you can’t quite put a finger to it, it isn’t the fact his lavish watch was replaced with leather braids on his wrist or that his hairs strayed a bit more wildly, it’s—

“Holy shit,” your eyes shoot wide open, “Are those hoops?”

Your hands almost go to touch the silver in his ears, but you remind yourself you’d probably turn to stone.

An unfamiliar red paints Jungkook’s face as his own fingers prod at the earrings, his eyes not meeting yours, “Maybe.”

A gasp. “How did I never notice,” you state more than ask, but Jungkook answers all the same.

“I mean, I never wear them to anything work-related because keeping a professional image and all of that,” he looks at you, his bashfulness fading into an all-knowing smile, “And those are the only times I see your bitter face.”

You scoff, “Wow, actually we talked like normal people for a whole thirty seconds.”

The imp has the audacity to laugh at your face, the way he stops to scan you up and down going unnoticed by your sight. “I gotta say, Y/N, you actually know how to dress—“

Ding.

The black tinted doors open to the glass elevator, a panorama of all the ship’s floors in full display, blue and purple lights reflecting on the gilded ornaments. Your hands rest on the black railing and you don’t even notice there’s another person in the elevator.

“Y/N?” The deep timbre of the voice is all too easy on your ears.

A slight turn to the right is all it takes to see him, fluffy ash hair (that was rough between your fingers from all the times he had dyed it), a shirt that flowed like the clouds and beige slacks that matched with the sepia of his sandals (an ensemble that contrasted the vibrant version of him in your memory). But that square grin was still the same.

“Tae?” You laugh in utter disbelief, “Kim Taehyung?”

“Come here!” His long arms bring you into a hug and with your head nuzzled against his chest, his heartbeat echoed good times, easier times that weren’t filled with paperwork and suits.

It’s interrupted by your forgotten acquaintance clearing his throat.

You pull away, recomposing yourself as you stand beside Taehyung, “Jungkook, this is Kim Taehyung,” you feel Taehyung’s eyes on you, “He was kind of my college boyfriend.”

They shake hands and look back at you, as if waiting for something.

“Uh— Right. Tae, this is Jungkook, my—,” you glance at the brunet to find the right words, “—co-worker, of sorts.”

Your embarrassment only deepens when you remember that the Jeon Jungkook was a first-hand witness to the mess you were melting into in front of your ex-boyfriend.

Who needed caffeine when shit like this kept happening to you.

“Oh,” Taehyung’s voice drops an octave as he shoves his hands in his pockets, “So you two came together?”

And you wave your arms around to signal a ‘no’, but it comes off as ‘that-one-crackhead-at-the-corner-of-the-street-ish” instead. “God, no,” you snort, much to your chagrin.

Taehyung sticks his tongue between his teeth, staring down at Jungkook who was chewing on his own bottom lip, “That’s good to hear.”

It seems you’ve regressed to your college-self, tucking your hair behind your ear with blushed cheeks at your senior.

Ding.

The elevator had arrived at the first floor, Jungkook’s cue to leave.

But he doesn’t make a straight itinerary, instead standing in front of the elevator, “Aren’t you gonna catch breakfast, chump?”

Ah, right. Your genius plan could finally come out in the open, “No, actually. I have an all-day cooking class on the 5th floor.”

“No kidding,” Taehyung turns to you and places a hand on your bare shoulder with a wide smile, “Me too!”

At this, Jungkook’s shoulders slump and his expression falls flat, but you couldn’t get a word in as the elevator doors closed and he swiveled away to his own day.

Eh, it’s not like it was your affair anyways. Plus, 9AM wasn’t the hour to deal with his bullshit.

You and Taehyung made your way up, speaking of all the things you’ve been up to for the past three years.

“So, Jimin’s dancing in Europe,” you gasp, a swell of pride in your chest, your old friend would talk about it every free night he spent in yours and Taehyung’s flat.

“Yeah, now I don’t know who’s keeping an eye on all the dumb shit he does.”

The weight on your shoulders only got lighter with every laugh you shared with Taehyung, sweet nostalgia.

“We’re here,” you point at the chalk sign, the words ‘Bon Appetit’ scribbled on it.

Out of sheer intuition, you pull Taehyung by the wrist until you reach the entrance, a Royal Sunrise worker awaiting with a list of, what could only be, the names of the participants.

You let go of Taehyung when the man’s eyes travel to your holding hands. Oh, God.

He smiles, “Good morning, Mr. and Ms. What would your names be?”

“Good morning, I’m Y/N Y/LN,” your smile hadn’t left your face, “I signed up yesterday.”

He nods and you walk inside, Taehyung following you before the worker puts up a hand to stop him.

“Your name, sir,” his tone changes..

You look back, wondering what the fuss was about.

“Uh— Kim Taehyung.”

The man reads over the clipboard, even flipping to the previous pages. “Excuse me, Mr. Kim. But your name doesn’t seem to be in the—.”

Taehyung’s calm demeanour becomes a bitter scowl as he pats a fifty dollar note down the man’s pocket before he could continue his speech. “Just let this one slide, buddy.”

The sight is a bit rough on the eyes and the corners of your lips turn downwards, something itching at your throat, but you hadn’t seen him in a long time and he most likely had good intentions with the man, you could let it slide, right?

“So,” Taehyung rubs his hands with a smile that reaches the pillows of his eyes, a 360° from the him you saw a few seconds ago, “Where were we?”

The blue of the sky had faded into a deep lilac once you and Taehyung were finished with your last batch of food.

You stood outside with smiles plastered on your faces and flour sprinkled on your hair, reminders of a day well-spent.

“This was great,” you held boxes of chocolate crepes and mushroom pasta, “Except for the fact I was forced to eat and deal with mushrooms.”

Taehyung’s eyebrows pull together, “So many years together, and I didn’t know you hated mushrooms,” you remember telling him countless times, but he never had the best memory — you don’t bother to bring up your hatred for crepes. “But, yeah… I think it was the company that sealed the deal, though.”

A beat of silence. The boy was smooth as ever.

You’re the first to break it. “I guess I’ll go get dinner then.”

“Right, right,” he purses his lips, “I’m gonna catch a nightcap, too full for food anyways. See you, Y/N.”

And you only mumble a small goodbye before you and Taehyung are going different directions.

A day well spent indeed.

Grumble.

You couldn’t keep it in anymore.

Holy Moses, were you hungry as shit. Who knew that barely eating breakfast and lunch could do this to a person.

Once the coast is clear, you run to the elevator, pressing the button repeatedly because why is this thing so fucking slow.

The time taken to go down to the first floor is even more agonising, but you just imagined the wonderful meals that actually tasted like food waiting for you downstairs. You could feel the pork melting in your mouth already.

Ding.

Since the first floor is more packed, you pace yourself as you power-walk to the dining area but you arrive in no time, walking through the tables and scanning each marker for the number 83, until you finally find your salvation — and the mop of brown hair sitting there with its unmistakable silver.

You park your ass on the wooden chair and place the white boxes of gag-worthy food on the table.

“Fancy meeting you here, Y/N,” Jungkook shoves a fork of rare steak and potatoes in his big mouth.

“Don’t antagonise me, Jungkook,” you leap to grab his wrist before he can get another scoop, “Where’s the food?”

You feel him tense under your grip, “Okay, let go of me, hungry hungry hippo,” you loosen your fist and lean back on your chair with crossed arms, “And the restaurant is out of steaks for the night, your only other option is some fried fish or something,” he continues munching.

“No—,” your head meets the table with a bang, “—I’ve been dreaming of red meat all day.”

“Didn’t you cook at— you know, cooking class?”

“Yes, we did,” you sit up and shove the boxes of trash to Jungkook as he examines them.

“But, you hate mushrooms and crepes,” he turns his head in a robotic motion when he opens the lids.

Your hunger fades for a bit as that tingle in your fingertips pushes you to sit straight, leaning your head like a curious puppy.

“How do you know that?”

Jungkook bites his bottom lip as he seems to think of a response. “Well, you mentioned it at the Law & Practice Awards a few months ago,” he rubs his fingers on his chin with a feign look of concentration, “I believe your exact words were: ‘Why does the stake have fungus on it’ and ‘Everybody knows that crepes are just a—.”

“—a cheap version of pancakes,” you finish his sentence with surprise painted on your face. Still, you question him, “But, how do you even remember that?”

Jungkook’s flush is back on his cheeks, “As they say, keep your friends close,” he flashes that tight lipped smile of his, “And your enemies closer.”

Just as you were about to flip the fucker off, your stomach grumbles. Out of all of the moments it could’ve complained, it decided to do so in the only second of silence.

Jungkook mumbled something along the lines of “That’s it,” under his breath and let out a sharp exhale, cutting up his steak and taters and pushing them into a smaller plate, adding a few greens in the mix. He snaps his fingers at the nearest waiter and grabs a glass of wine from his tray. The act finishes off with him pushing the food in your direction.

You stare at the food, at Jungkook and back at the plate again. Dumbfounded, once again.

“Well, what are you waiting for? Eat,” he continues on with his dinner as if he hadn’t just done— Well, what he just did.

You bite your lip and bow your head slightly, though you’re sure he doesn’t see it, before vacuuming the food directly into your belly.

The rest of the evening is spent in comfortable silence, no daggers threatened to be thrown or scorn weighing in the air. This lasts all the way to the door of the room; you were fine with communicating with only ‘hums’ and nods but Jungkook, as always, had to ruin things.

He leans his back against the white door, arms crossed and a smirk as he looks down at you. “How lucky of you to have your mortal enemy and—,” he puts up air quotes, “‘kind of college boyfriend’ in the same boat as you, huh?”

You palm your face and hide a sheepish smile, “I was hoping you’d forget about that.”

“How could I when I was your special guest to first hand embarrassment in the elevator,” he waves the white flag of peace as he puts his hands up, “But, hey—“

“Hi, Jungkook,” someone behind you purrs, heels clacking.

You turn around and see a woman of jet-black hair in a stunning red silk dress, the pony-tail on her head swinging a delicate left to right as she waved her manicured hand at none other than Jungkook — who brushes a hand through his hair before complimenting her greeting.

It takes you by surprise, though you laughed at Jungkook’s gnarly stance at the beautiful woman, the tingle comes back, this time prickling at the pit of your stomach.

As soon as she had walked away, you rubbed your hands at the sides of your arms, “Wow, Jungkook. Moving fast are we?” you squint your eyes, “I think it’s the earring.”

“First of all, screw you,” he unlocks the door, “Second, that’s nothing, trust me.”

He holds the door open for you and you catch a whiff of his black vanilla scent. You stop in your tracks and place a hand on his shoulder with a grimace on your face, “Just don’t do anything on my bed, okay?”

You don’t bother to wait for an answer as you head to the bathroom with your comfy tee in your hands.

This time, the counter was embellished with skincare and cologne galore, all thanks to your dear roommate.

“He wouldn’t notice if I used some of this, right?” You say to Jungkook’s bottle of cleanser, too lazy to go back and grab your own toiletries.

“If you use that I’m drowning myself,” you hear him shout from the other room.

Sorry, face. You’ll have to wait for tomorrow.

Once you were snug in your tee, you were off to bed — Jungkook in the same attire as yesterday as well.

You leave the lamp on as you checked your phone for the first time since yesterday. Of course, Jin was your only notification, a plethora of obscenities and questions that would, unfortunately, be permanently ingrained in your mind forever. You turn off your phone and throw it on top of the night stand.

Not today, satan.

“You mind?” You ask Jungkook who seemed to be scrolling away, too engrossed in his phone to look at your finger pointing at the light, only a grunt on his behalf.

You turn it off and shut your eyes, your body tense, not that you weren’t used to it, the decaying muscles of your back have been like that since you graduated high-school. And, it was a bit more intense from all the mixing and pot handling — thank the heavens that tomorrow’s activities involved massaging. Though, today was a win.

Jungkook’s phone turns off and his body sloshes around, the sounds he makes the only ones reverberating in the room.

“Good night, Y/N,” you try to ignore him, but he comes forward with a good case, “Come on, I gave you my food.”

Guilt tripper.

“Fine, but only because you’re annoying as shit,” he lets out a satisfied breath, “Good night, Jungkook.”

You arrive at dreamland in no time.

taglist. (open)

| @fangirl125reader / @vantxx95 / @jinpanman / @ggukkieland / @miniiimee / @paizthemaiz

263 notes · View notes

forsworned · 3 years

Text

[♥] academyau! sweet like candy {teacher!giyuu tomioka x teacher!reader}

Genre: Fluff, Slight Sensual Themes

Categories: F/M

Relationships: Giyuu Tomioka/Reader

Word count: 1,599

a/n: really wanted to make this into a little series because i’m kind of obsessed with kimetsu academy i think it’s so cute and funny but anyway enjoy!,,, requests are open

➽────────────── ────────────── ──────────── ❥

Sometimes being a teacher was hard. You had to make your own lesson plans, grade all the work you assign and make sure your students are well engaged enough to get it and want to ge there. Which they both knew, they really didn’t want to be there. So like any teacher, [Name] would always try to make her lesson plans fun and not give monumental loads of homework assigments and papers. Especially since the biggest class she taught was straight out of Mr. Tomioka’s P.E. class and he absolutely worked them to the bone.

[Name] sighed as she retired for the day after her last student left for extra help, and headed off to her favorite cafe to continue grading her papers. Not like she made them write a ten page essay or anything, but boy were these terrible. The headache already setting in as dragged herself out of her car and into her favorite coffee/tea shop.

The bell at the top of the door rang, signaling her presence as she made her way in. It was in that moment that she stepped through that her eyes grew double in size at the scene painted in front of her.

Mr.Tomioka sitting alone at one of the booths with possibly the biggest cup of green matcha ice cream, a dollop of whipped cream with the most cutesy sprinkle decorations. He was shamelessly stuffing his face as if it were his last meal. Melted green matcha melted from one corner of his mouth with sprinkles plastered on the other side. [Name] covered her mouth in complete and utter astonishment. She didn’t know whether to laugh, scream or cry.

Giyuu had felt as if someone was spying on him and low and behold, Miss.[Last Name] was peering down at him with the most bewildered expression on her face.

“Hello, Miss.[Last Name]. Odd seeing you here.” He spoke nonchalantly as he took another bite of his icecream. Giyuu was completely unbothered by her presence, mostly because it was a teacher and not a student who had interrupted his gluttonous guilty pleasure.

“I-I didn’t know you were such a sweeth tooth, Mr.Tomioka.” She stammered. [Name] really didn’t know how else to react to Giyuu just sitting deadpanned as he gazed up at her. It wasn’t too out of character for him since she had saw him munching on raisin bread on the staircase quite often. She made it a point to avoid him as to not embarrass him. His cerculean eyes bored into hers and it made her an ounce more self conscious. Did she have something on her face? Her teeth? Or worse a stain on her blouse?

“Yes, well, I do find myself coming here from time to time to relax after a long day at work.” His gaze shifted back to his mountain sized pile of icecream and took another large bite. She could’ve sworn he blushed as he did.

“You mind if I join you?” She asked almost timidly. Giyuu was intimidating to say the least. Well to [name] he was. His casual attitude always seemed to throw her off. He hummed in acknowledgement and she smiled as she slid in the booth across from him.

“Oh, I didn’t know you had a lady friend, Giyuu-kun~” A server who seemed to show up out of nowhere sang as she set the spoon down with a napkin. Giyuu froze at his name being said so informally in front of [name] and she was just as shocked to hear it.

He didn’t say anything as the server skipped away. It was so quiet that if a pin dropped you could hear it.

[Name] couldn’t help the laughter that erupted from her lips as she watched as Giyuu sulked in shame. “G-giyuu-kun?”

“Fine, maybe I come here everyday.” He muttered as he took another bite. Now he was miserable, but [name] shook off his embarrassment. She didn’t want to make him feel bad in his comfort zone.

“No, no. I was only teasing. It’s kind of nice that you come here and give this mom and pop your business.” She picked up her spoon and scooped a small part of the untouched side of his ice cream and hummed in delight when it reached her taste buds. Her tongue grazed across her lips and at the spoon again to lick it clean.

“Damn, that’s really good!” She cheered. Giyuu did not take his eyes off her lips for a single moment. He gulped his icecream too quickly causing him to have brain freeze. He groaned in pain as he held his head. [Name’s] expression quickly faltered into a state of panic as she watched his face contort in agony.

“Oh my gosh, are you okay?” The pain subsiding as he waved her off.

“Yes, I’m fine. Just brainfreeze. Anyways, what are you doing here?”

[Name] sighed as she pulled out the stack of papers from her bag and placed them on the table.

“Ah, essay season, I see. I saw Mr. Renguko with his stack earlier. He was buzzing right through them. Said they were all awful but he appreciated their ‘blazing’ efforts.”

[Name] laughed melodiously and it made Giyuu’s ears perk up in delight.

“That’s Mr. Renguko for ya, huh? Yeah, mine were pret-ty terrible, too. I don’t what’s gotten into them. It’s like every thing I teach goes through one ear and out the other.” Her spoon clinked against the glass again as she depressing grazed at the ice cream.

“Well, it is almost summer break and you do teach the upperclassmen. They’re probably having a case of senioritis.”

Giyuu mentally chuckled at thought of her upperclassmen students tripping over thin air when he asked them to run 10 laps around the gym.

“Are you smiling?” It just slipped out of her mouth. She hadn’t intended to let it, but she honestly couldn’t help it. It was the first time she had ever seen him look--happy and it was undeniably cute.

“I was just thinking of my upperclassmen tripping.” He didn’t bother hiding his smile at this point and it was glorious. [Name] found herself blushing at how heavenly he looked. Giyuu had seemed to caught wind of her staring at him in awe, and cleared his throat.

“Sorry,” [Name] abashedly spoke as she looked away. “I should probably go and get these finished.”

She started to get up to dismiss herself and gathered her papers after shamelessly gawking at him.

“You don’t have to leave. I could use the company.” Giyuu had worked up almost every nerve to let those words flow out. She was nonplussed at his words.

“Y-you sure?”

“Yeah, maybe I can help with those papers.”

“I’d like that.”

[Name] smiled as she sat back down and he held out his hand to take the stack of papers from her hands. Giyuu’s face quickly twisted in contempt as he skimmed over the first paper.

“This is ass.”

Her eyes dilated at his choice of words and he realized that he let his guard down.

“I mean it is.” [Name] laughed loudly at his brash statement. She didn’t know he was such a clown.

“There’s like zero sentence structure and no punctuation. Also, they’re using run on sentences.” He pointed to the the first few paragraphs. Her eyes twinkled at his sudden sharpness.

“Oh, you’re right! Thank you, Mr. Tomioka. I didn’t think you’d be so good at catching these mistakes.” Giyuu felt his face fluster at her flattering remark.

“Well, I did say I could help you.”

She gazed up from her student’s work to Giyuu’s ice cream coated lips. It didn’t make him any less dreamy to her because all she wanted to do in that moment was use her finger to lap up the remains and swirl her tongue around her finger. And for once [name] let her intrusive thoughts win. She murmured in delight. It tasted even sweeter coming from his lips. The look of disbelief on his face as the heat rushed to his face.

“You’re sweeter than candy, Mr.Tomioka.”

[Name’s] face faltered along side Giyuu’s at the realization that she wasn’t living in her head, but that she had in fact, really done it. Giyuu wiped his mouth with the stack of napkins besides him, wondering how and why he deserved something so delightfully embarassing.

“I’m so sorry--I”

“You should be.” He put his napkin down. “You could’ve told me that I had ice cream on my face.”

[Name] didn’t know whether she should have felt humiliated or not at that point. Did he just completely miss the part where she just indirectly licked ice cream off his face or...?

“So, back to the papers.”

“Ah, y-yeah. The papers!” [Name] scrambled for a moment handing him a small stack. “You work on these to start out and I’ll get started on these.”

Giyuu tried his best to dismiss the trembling from his hand as he took small heap from her hands. His heart beating out of his chest as he kept his cool demeanor from slipping.

“We should do this more often.” He said it without thinking (head empty head ahhh).

[Name] visibly relaxed when those words left his mouth. She didn’t expect him to even help her, but now he was practically asking her to hang out with him more. She flashed him a big smile that made his heart skip a beat.

“That would be a big help, Mr. Tomioka. Thank you.”

He looked down to hide his agitated state.

“Don’t mention it.”

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the-last-kenobi · 3 years

Note

For BTHB "Halucinations" with Obi-wan on Zigoola?

@coalmine301 you do delight my whump-loving heart. Sorry this took so long!

tw for mental breakdown, ptsd, graphic injury, self harm, and torture.

Zigoola was not a place.

At least, it was not only a place. Not anymore.

The power of the Force, honed and used and washed over a place over time, eventually causes great change.

The Jedi Temple was not merely a building, after all, but a beacon of peace and light for all who could feel it. Its bones ran deep with power, layers upon layers of light.

It was the way of the Light to be fortitude, to be patience, to be serenity, forgiveness, humility.

It was the way of the Dark to be recklessness, to be rage, to be thrill, to be destruction, consumption, emotion.

And Zigoola was Dark.

Dark indeed.

And when Obi-Wan Kenobi left that hellish planet, secure in the worried arms of Bail Organa and Padmé Amidala...

Zigoola followed him home.

: : : : :

Anakin and Ahsoka returned from their most recent campaign flushed with triumph and eager to share the bragging stories all the men did, with bravado and cheer to help cover for the losses met and the sacrifices made.

They returned when most of Obi-Wan’s external injuries had been washed away by bacta.

“Hey, Master,” Anakin greeted him, stretching luxuriously as he swaggered into their quarters. He always called him Master when he was worried about him. “Heard you got roughed up on a mission. What happened?”

His eyes were overly keen. He had seen that Obi-Wan is (is?) fine, and now he wanted to know why secrets were being kept.

How dare they send his Master alone on some secret mission?

How dare they allow him to be harmed because Anakin wasn’t there beside him?

“We met with some turbulence,” Obi-Wan said calmly, carefully turning in his chair in a way that showed Anakin his face while casting the still-pink burn on one side hidden by shadow, in a way that didn’t put pressure on his bad leg. (Worse leg.) “I’m all right. Bacta still smells as unpleasant as I recall.”

Anakin chuckled. He came to sit on a nearby chair, kicking his booted feet in the air.

“Anakin,” sighed Obi-Wan. He shifted again. Just a little. Just to keep his face out of direct light. “Please, sit properly?”

“This is properly,” his former apprentice teased. He flipped around so that his feet were off the back of the chair and his head was on the floor. “A chair is for getting off your feet and being comfy. I’m off my feet. I’m comfy. So this is totally proper.”

Obi-Wan muttered something that sounded suspiciously like “graceless ass.”

Anakin launched a cup coaster at him with the Force.

: : : : :

Obi-Wan woke suddenly in the dead of night.

It was pitch black in his room, but he could sense Anakin leaning over him as clearly as if he could see him.

“‘N’kin?” he mumbled.

Anakin shifted closer to the bed. “Yeah. Obi-Wan... what’s going on?”

“What?”

“You were screaming,” his friend said slowly. “In your sleep.”

Obi-Wan flushed, grateful that the darkness hid his face from view. “Oh. I’m sorry. You know how disturbed the Force is these days, especially here on Coruscant. I must have...”

“No,” Anakin cut across him. “It wasn’t like that. What aren’t you telling me?”

“It’s nothing, Anakin.”

“It’s not nothing.”

Obi-Wan sighed and shifted in his bed, tugging the sheets up higher, shielding himself from the chill of the room. “It is, Anakin. I’m sorry I disturbed you, but—”

“It’s not nothing,” said Anakin in a low voice. “If it was nothing you wouldn’t have lived. Why did you live?”

Obi-Wan’s heart stopped. “What?”

“Why did you live?” demanded Anakin’s voice. The dark presence beside him seemed to suddenly swell, filling the entire room, sucking out all the air. “Why didn’t you die, Jedi?”

“Anakin?” Obi-Wan said hoarsely, starting to sit upright.

Two hands caught him forcefully and shoved him back down, pinning him on his back. The bedsheets suddenly felt suffocating; his limbs were tangled in them hopelessly as he began to kick and struggle.

No matter how hard he thrashed, the hands held him firmly.

Obi-Wan opened his mouth - to question, to beg, to scream - something - but more hands came out of the blackness and closed around his throat, cutting off his voice before he could do more than let out choked cry.

The darkness remained, but somehow, Anakin’s snarling face came into view, illuminated in red as if by fire.

“You should have died on Zigoola,” he sneered. “Die, Jedi.”

And he snapped Obi-Wan’s neck.

: : : : :

Anakin meandered up the hallway, chasing a feeling.

It happened sometimes. The Force just prodded and poked with no clarity whatsoever.

He spotted a familiar figure at the end of the hallway, standing next to a large window overlooking the western horizon of Coruscant. Anakin knew long before he got close that it was Obi-Wan.

“Hey.”

The man didn’t move.

“Obi-Wan, Ahsoka wants to grab lunch at Dex’s before she sets out for her solo. You coming?”

He had his robe on, but it was wrapped tightly around him, and the hood was raised.

Anakin frowned and stepped closer. “Hey. Obi-Wan.”

Obi-Wan pulled his cloak even tighter around him. His head turned slightly. “Go ahead and say what you want to say,” his former Master muttered. “I won’t talk to you.”

Anakin looked as if he’d been slapped; the hand he had raised to touch the older man’s shoulder fell back to his side. “Fine,” he said curtly. “Whatever makes you happy I guess.”

He turned on his heel and stalked off, brimming with hurt and anger.

He was long gone before the Jedi by the window turned his head slowly to look where he had gone, a look of confusion on his face. “...Anakin?”

: : : : :

Night fell again.

Obi-Wan climbed slowly into bed, shaking like a leaf in a tempest. It took five tries - five - just to hoist himself onto his mattress and lay flat, his hands and feet trembling so badly that even his vision was vibrating.

His head began to pound.

Die, Jedi.

Die, Jedi, Die, Jedi, Die, Jedi Die Jedi Die Jedi Die-Jedi-Die-Jedi-Die-Jedi

DIE JEDI DIE—

Bail’s hands covering his. A flash of red. A flash of blue.

Obi-Wan clamped a palm over his mouth to contain the shriek of agony that exploded out of him.

His head - his leg—

Die Jedi

Bail was screaming—

Qui-Gon was reaching for him, then toppling backwards with a beam of red through his chest, his face frozen in a look of shock—

Die Jedi

Obi-Wan slammed his head against the headboard, screaming again into his hand.

“Obi-Wan!”

Anakin was standing over him again, and Obi-Wan curled away from him, clutching his wounded leg with one hand and covering his mouth with the other.

Anakin towered over him, tall, washed in the light streaming from the common area of their quarters—

Wait.

Anakin dropped to his knees, his expression almost frightened. “Obi-Wan! Obi-Wan, snap out of it!”

The older Jedi shuddered where he lay, digging his fingernails into his leg for a purchase on reality.

“Master,” Anakin begged. “Please talk to me!”

Obi-Wan reached further down his leg and shoved his fingertips into the open wound made by his own saber - but - but his fingers dug only into shallow scarring and the dull throbbing of still-healing tissue.

Zigoola.

Bail.

That injury.

It had all been... weeks ago. Weeks and weeks.

His former student knelt next to him, one hand clinging to the bedclothes, clearly wanting to comfort his Master but wary of frightening him further.

“...Anakin?” Obi-Wan whispered around his hand. His voice was small and cracked, a child’s voice after a night terror. “A-Anakin?”

The younger man exhaled shakily, nodding. “Yeah. Yeah. It’s me, Master. Listen. Obi-Wan, you have to let go of your leg... and your face... you’re hurting yourself, all right? Just let go.”

Obi-Wan stared at him.

Anakin stared back, half-stern, half-begging.

After a moment, Obi-Wan obeyed.

He released his leg gingerly, and felt only the residual pain of his slow-healing stab wound and the sharp imprints of his own fingernails.

Then he removed his hand from over his mouth.

His howl of anguish when a red blade pierced Anakin from behind tore through the room, and died into terrified dry sobbing when Anakin fell dead to the floor, his young face painted with shock.

: : : : :

“Master Kenobi!”

Obi-Wan ignored it.

Whoever it was would get his attention more forcefully, real or otherwise. He had no choice but to accept it, but delaying, delaying he could do.

“Master Kenobi! Obi-Wan Kenobi, have you lost your hearing?”

A middle-aged Twi’lek with bold blue skin shouldered her way in front of him; her expression was fierce, but her eyes and the hand she pressed against his chest to stop him were exceedingly gentle. “Obi-Wan?” she repeated.

“Master Che,” he answered dully. “Can I help you?”

“I was about to ask you the same,” she returned, eyes narrowing with concern as she took in his wan visage. “Obi-Wan, your health is deteriorating. An apprentice Healer could tell that at a glance. Why didn’t you come to the Halls?”

“There’s no point,” he said. “It’s just lack of sleep. I’ll pull through.”

Her lekku twitched. “Lack of sleep, hm? That doesn’t explain the rapid weight loss, the new damage on your arms, or your eroding mental shielding...”

“I am fine, Vokara,” the youngest Councilor said sharply. “I won’t be forced into the Halls against my will. If something is really wrong, by all means, feel free to scrape me off the pavement.”

He walked away with his hands folded in his sleeves. His head was bowed.

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” the Healer murmured, and picked up her comm unit. “Skywalker. We need to have a conversation. Your Master’s last mission is classified on a need-to-know basis. And you need to know.”

: : : : :

Anakin entered their shared rooms cautiously this time.

The lights were off, save a few small illuminators scattered around the room, radiating soft warm light like candles. Obi-Wan’s robe was draped over the back of the chair, and his boots were set neatly on a mat against the wall, a contrast to Anakin’s, which could usually be found in odd places like on a chair or next to the refrigerator unit.

His former Master’s door was closed.

Hardly daring to breathe, Anakin gently pushed it open.

He blinked, letting his eyes adjust to the deep darkness, and felt his breath hitch.

The bed was empty.

The sheets were tangled and strewn halfway across the floor, as if the occupant had been dragged away or had left in a panic.

Anakin sprang forward, his heart in his throat, as he noticed two things.

A black scorch mark in the floor, where a saber had struck it.

And Obi-Wan’s lightsaber lying discarded in the corner.

“Obi-Wan!” Anakin yelled. “No... no—Obi-Wan!”

: : : : :

Obi-Wan ran.

His vision was flickering like an old holo, flashes of different things all layered together - was he running over damp grass with Qui-Gon - or the polished floors of the Jedi Temple - or the cracked stone of a Sith Temple with Bail - or a strange fiery planet with bursts of lava and Anakin just out of reach - or —

He didn’t know.

He kept running, constantly changing direction as he registered obstacles and turns at the last second.

There was a tree in front of him. He veered left and smacked into a stone wall carved with Sith Runes.

The graven words burned red and fire lanced out at him, biting into his clothing and taking hold, setting him aflame.

Obi-Wan gasped. He stumbled backwards, trying desperately to peel the burning clothing off of him, hearing maniacal laughter echoing from the black corridors all around him, hearing the screams of the dying, the dead.

Someone grabbed him by the arm and he wheeled around, the fire vanishing inexplicably as Cody, wearing bloodstained armor but without his helmet, stumbled into his arms, gasping for air.

Before Obi-Wan could speak, Cody spat out a mouthful of blood and fell to his knees. His hands dragged the Jedi down with him. But when they hit the floor, it was only Obi-Wan, on his hands and knees in some corridor of the Temple, shuddering and crying.

Die Jedi Die Jedi Die Jedi Die Jedi Die Jedi Die

Die Jedi

DIE JEDI

Die

Jedi Die Jedi

Die

DIE JEDI DIE

Die

die

The voices in his head rose and coalesced.

Now the voices of the Sith and the voices of his past and the voices of the future and the voices of the dead were all in agreement—

DIE, JEDI

Obi-Wan reached out desperately for the Light.

There was only Darkness.

Die, Jedi, Die, Jedi

Qui-Gon, running ahead of him chasing a Sith across catwalks. Obi-Wan, desperately racing after him.

Qui-Gon turning at the last second, his verdant lightsaber running Obi-Wan through. The man smiled. Relieved. Pleased. “Die,” he said.

Anakin, ten years old, tentatively asking to spend the night in the same sleeping mat on a mission. Obi-Wan, gently pulling his apprentice into his arms. Waking up hours later with small hands wrapped around his throat and cutting off his air. The innocent face grinned. “Die.”

Ahsoka, dangling out the side of a crashing Y-wing, crying out in pain as her injured shoulder strained. Obi-Wan, diving to catch her hand before she could fall, lifting her back into the ship. Hugging her. And then she kicked him, hard, sending him flying out the door and to his death. She smiled after him. “Die.”

Where was the light?

Where?

...There.

A faint blur of light. A glow.

The feel of fresh air, defying the horrifying visions.

Obi-Wan fixed his eyes on the light, and jumped.

“...NO!”

Someone stopped him. Caught him violently around the waist and dragged him back, pulling him back into the shadows.

Obi-Wan wept, utterly spent.

“Obi-Wan!” a voice raged at him. “What were you doing? What were you even doing?!”

The Jedi only continued to weep silently, letting the strong arms haul him further away. He felt himself lowered to the ground, felt arms come around him in an embrace that felt restrictive.

“Talk to me! Dammit, Master, I need you to focus. Please! Come on, open your eyes properly. Look at me. Look at me.”

The voice became gentler as it went on. Warm and soothing, like the small fires they pitched in encampments, when it was safe to do things like that.

A gentle Force presence brushed against his mind.

It blew through the claws and thorns of Darkness like a hot wind - painful at first, and then calming.

Comforting.

Bright.

Obi-Wan opened his eyes and found himself collapsed in Anakin’s arms, his friend looking down at him with a face twisted with fear and concern. They shifted a little into relief when he met Anakin’s blue eyes.

“...A-Ana...An’kin?” Obi-Wan asked, hardly daring to hope.

Anakin nodded fiercely. “Yeah. It’s me. Listen — we’re going to talk about this later. We’re going to fix this. I’m not going to leave you alone for a second, you hear me? We’ll stick together until this is over. But for now...”

He swallowed hard and looked up at the open balcony mere yards away, glowing innocently in the light of a Coruscant night, the only source of light in the long dark hallway.

“Let’s get you somewhere safe.”

Obi-Wan exhaled softly. “...All right.”

And then his eyes fluttered closed again, his head tilting to one side to rest against his Padawan’s shoulder. Anakin jolted slightly in alarm, but when he checked, he realized that his old Master was merely sleeping.

A proper sleep.

For the first time in Force knew how long.

Anakin sighed and stood up, carrying Obi-Wan in his arms. He was heavy, but still too light and too thin for Anakin’s liking.

The report from Master Che... Anakin bit the inside of his cheek hard to contain a curse, remembering the extensive list of injuries and repercussions the Healer had given him with her eyes full of uncharacteristic worry.

But it would be all right.

They’d handle it together.

They always had.

Always would.

Anakin paused at the end of the corridor and looked back. He held Obi-Wan a little tighter— remembering the moment he had come tearing up this same hall not five minutes before, just in time to see him - the man he had followed for twelve years, humorous and serene and kind and steady, his mentor, his best friend, almost his father, even closer to being a brother...

See him sobbing, stumbling blindly, preparing to leap over the edge of the balcony to his death.

Tormented and lured by the Dark Side.

Anakin forced himself to turn away once more and move his feet back home, holding the sleeping Obi-Wan with all his strength.

: : : : : : :

#bad things happen bingo #I write to make you upset #that’s it #that’s why #okay that’s an exaggeration but still #star wars #star wars fic #obi wan kenobi #anakin skywalker #hurt comfort #this time with some actual comfort #zigoola #bail organa #long post

89 notes · View notes

yandere-daydreams · 4 years

Note

God please can I get anything with Rook hunting down his escaped darling? This man has a thing for chasing you down you cannot convince mo otherwise

I’ve been meaning to write a special headcanon/scenario post about Pomefiore to celebrate the release of Chapter Five, but,,, this’ll have to do, for now. I’m doing a disservice to the best dorm, but hopefully, some Rook content will delay by inevitable shame.

Title: The Hunt.

TW: Violence, Kidnapping, Strong Predator/Prey Themes, Implied Stalking, and Mentions of Death.

You really used to think Rook was just on the extravagant side.

That’s how it’d seemed when he first introduced himself, dropping to one knee and pressing his hand to his chest, declaring something loud enough and incoherent enough to draw the eye of every onlooker within earshot. Some of his actions were questionable, his gaze often leaning towards the unnerving side, but you’d never thought he was villainous, he hadn’t seemed to want to do harm. He meant mischief, as far as you could tell. He didn’t try to hide the way he watched the more particular members of the student body, but he never took anything beyond a picture. He never made a secret of his fondness for you, but his affection was a fleeting thing - he’d said as much himself a dozen different times. You figured Rook would move long as soon as something newer and shinier came along. You thought he was just having fun.

You supposed you weren’t wrong. He had been having fun. He was still having fun.

It just wasn’t fun for you, anymore.

“Mon cœur,” Rook called, the familiar term of endearment stretching into something twisted, something perverse as it echoed through the lifeless woods. The forest surrounding the Pomefiore dormitory was always dark, always daze-like, always horrid, but tonight, it felt especially misleading, as if the trees themselves were uprooting and rearranging to guide you in any direction but the one that’d lead you away from your hunter. That’s what he was now, really, your hunter. Rook had a way of making his prey feel like pets, of making you feel like a partner rather than another trophy for him to decapitate and mount on his wall, but all of those blissful lies and domestic fantasies had dissolved into thin air the moment you slipped out of your chains and threw yourself out of that elegant, stained-glass window of his. It’d been a stupid move, in hindsight, you were only doing damage to yourself and giving him a blood-trail to follow, but a lifetime of picking crystalline shards out of your skin would be less agonizing than another minute spent in his captivity. You just wished his footsteps hadn’t fallen in-tempo with yours so quickly.

“You really should come out, (Y/n).” His voice was calm, projected with the all the tranquil serenity of a man who already knew he’d won. It wasn’t close, it wasn’t deafening, but the fact that you could hear him at all was damning. It meant he’d be able to hear you, too, even if you had no plans to announce yourself so blatantly. “I know you love your games, and I do want to play with you, but staying up so late is bad for your skin, no? And you must be so tired, dear. If you put an end to this silly show of defiance now, I may even let you sleep in my bed, rather than the cage where you belong.”

You didn’t respond - you wouldn’t have, even if you hadn’t been hiding. Pushing forward, you drove yourself to run faster, to escape both his cage and his bed. There was a clearing in your path, a spot where the leaf-canopy broke apart and the ground grew barren, harsh moonlight seeping in like an unwanted thought, but you skirted around it, following its borders until you found the spot where the foliage was at its thickest. You didn’t think as you forced yourself into the narrow space between branches and trunks and vines with so many thorns, you had to wonder if you’d die of blood loss before Rook got a chance to wring your neck himself, only pressing a hand over your mouth and doing your best to control your panting. You just had to stay put for a minute. You just had to give him time to move on. Then, you’d be able to circle back and beat on every door in Pomefiore until someone recognized you as the student who’d gone missing weeks ago. Then, you’d be safe.

Rook, on the other hand, had no reason to tuck himself away. He stepped into the large clearing without hesitation, letting out a long, labored sigh as he idly glanced towards his surroundings. He must’ve begun his chase as soon as he noticed you’d gotten out, his intricate wardrobe cut down to little more than a black shirt and an insulated, camouflage jacket, both doing leagues more to block out the biting cold than the simple button-down shirt you’d been given to wear. He hadn’t had time to choose a proper weapon, either. Rook preferred traditional bows, the kind without cogs or cables to alleviate the tension of the draw, but he was carrying a simplistic compound bow tonight, made for efficiency and speed rather than enjoyment. Made for maiming his target, rather than indulging them in their rebellion, an arrow already knocked and ready to be drawn back at the first hint of an opening. “Perhaps I should call you mon ange, instead, considering you’re so eager to fly away.” Another sigh, this one accompanied by a graceful turn on his heel and a smooth survey of the forest. His eyesight was good, but it couldn’t be that good. You could barely see your hand in front of your face, where the shadows were their deepest. “Wouldn’t it be easier to come out on your own? You know how much I hate having to drag you home.”

Liar. That dirty, filthy liar. He’d already dragged you away from Night Raven, he’d already dragged you away from your classmates and your family and your friends, and all because he was under some deluded, pathetic notion that he’d only be able to love you - truly love you - if he nailed you to the ground, first. His gaze wandered, he was the one who couldn’t be trusted to keep his promises. He’d just wanted to ensure you’d still be there, waiting for him with open arms, when he got back from all his many expeditions. He’d imprisoned you, and he’d delighted in it, reveled in the joy that came with a source of companionship he’d be able to bleed dry. He was only unamused now that you’d refused to let him cut you open.

You could feel your cheeks begin to flush in anger, your nails curling into your palms, but that did little to stop Rook from going on. Always going on, never stopping. You hadn’t realized how much you hated the sound of his voice until you’d been forced to listen. “I’ll admit, I’ve been busy, lately. Have I been neglecting you?” He laughed, the sound airy, non-commital. As if it suddenly didn’t matter if you came out, as if he suddenly didn’t care. “This is childish, is it not? I mean, I never thought you would stoop so low just to buy for my attention.”

It was so little, it was nothing, just a shift of your weight in the barest hint of a reaction, but dried leaves and twigs seemed to crack under your feet as if you’d thrown your biggest tantrum yet. You reacted immediately, scrambling to free yourself from your constrictive hiding place, but Rook was so fast, he was so ready. It was all you could do to catch a glimpse of his bow as he took aim, your efforts to escape from his line of fire turning out all-but futile. You pressed yourself against the nearest trunk, but in the end, he was the one who faltered, his arrow barely grazing your bicep, cutting through your sleeve but only leaving a thin, red line in your skin, the shallowest wound he’d ever inflicted. You allowed yourself to smile, you allowed yourself to laugh, but Rook didn’t move to fire again, only slinging his bow over his shoulder, slotting it into place as if he wouldn’t need to use it again. Not on you, anyway.

“You really should come out,” He said, one more time. “These kinds of things tend to get rather ugly when they’re not given the proper treatment.”

For a moment, you didn’t know what he meant, but before you could gather up the confidence to ask, something sharp and frigid pounded through your injured arm, stretching from your fingertips to your shoulders, and out of reflex, you glanced towards the cut. A pale, lilac fluid was smeared across your skin, dripping from the small wound, the color so faint, you hadn’t noticed it before. The same shade of purple that coated his arrowhead, even after it’d buried itself in the ground.

Oh.

That made sense. For Rook, at least.

You hardly tried to resist it, your body buckling under its own weight, crumbling until you were little more than a mass of stained clothes and writhing limbs, every part of you contorted in agony so vivid and bright, the darkness seemed to dissolve, kept at a faithful distance by an unmoving wall of white-hot pain. It was relentless, it was ruthless, and it only got worse as Rook’s calloused hands took hold of your tense form, lifting you off the ground and pulling you against his chest, cradling you as gently and as tortuously as he could. His hum was liked a needle to your ears, the click of his tongue as fatal as a dagger to the back of your neck, but even then, you knew it wouldn’t kill you. No, no, that’d ruin Rook’s fun. That’d be too merciful for him. That’d be too kind.

And to think, you’d almost forgotten the flare your hunter was capable of.

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square-blunt · 3 years

Text

You're in my heart, in my heart, in my head.

The normal empires fic in which shit goes from 0 to -100 to 100 and back to -100 in like, 2000 words. Scott ruins shit bc he's a dumbass in love. Jimmy watches him die. Y'know, the normal fic you'd see on the empires tag. This is a Minecraft Roleplay.

TW- MCD (major character death), Gore, (blood. and like, big knife mention). Angst. there is so much angst- emotional mental physical, it's all that shit. Sacrifice, screaming, crying, and they kiss so that's fun but y'know.

WC: 2009

Ao3: :) Second Chapter: :)

Scott knows something is wrong. He feels that pit in his stomach- familiar emptiness that clouds his vision and his mind. His feet start to move forward. He knows- he knows something's happening.

He knows Jimmy is in trouble.

He hasn't been in Mythland much- but somehow he cuts through trees and knocks over stands almost like he knows exactly where he's going and nothing was gonna stop him from getting there. It's getting dark- that's weird it was just noon-

Scott looks up to see where the sun is. 'This can't get any worse,' he thinks. You're never supposed to fight a demon when there's a solar eclipse, everyone knows that-

Scott hears a scream. It sends his heart up into his throat- that's Jimmy. Scott sprints forward and bursts through the treeline and he's at Sausage's summoning circle- no- no no no-

The sight is terrible. Sausage- his body is practically decaying under the weight of corruption- of possession. Xornoth's possessed the man he once saw as a friend. And Joey's by his side, a book in hand, chanting in elvish. They've crafted an obsidian altar- and writhing in chains, desperately trying to free himself is Jimmy. Tears are streaking down his face, his terror radiating off of him in waves.

Xornoth raises something above their head as the moon fully covers the sun- its last light gleaming off the object- it's a ritual knife.

They're going to sacrifice you- I don't want to lose you. He can hear Jimmy’s voice as clear as day.

Scott screams out a time-shattering “Stop” before he can get a hold of himself.

Everything does stop. Time, space, reality- it feels like Scott’s heart has stopped, too. Sausage looks at him with eyes that aren’t his own; Joey looks at him as well, but his eyes hold no rage or fear, only smugness. His eyes are drawn away as he catches Jimmy’s face. It goes from happiness to confusion, to heartbreak, back to confusion, and then to pure fear.

“Stop,” Scott says it a little quieter this time. His voice rings out against the stilled breeze. There are no birds, no nature, everything around them is either dead or too terrified to make a sound. Xornoth tilts his head, slowly and concerningly calmly. “Step away from him.” Scott’s hand finds itself on the hilt of his sword. Not like there’s much that could do, but he has to do something.

Xornoth laughs. It sounds like Sausage.

“Scott-” Jimmy says, and immediately cries out in pain. Scott looks up- Joey was the one to twist his arm. Under any other circumstances, Scott would have lunged forward and sunk his sword into Joey’s skull, but since Xornoth is still holding a very painful-looking ritual knife, Scott stays put.

“Jimmy, don’t say anything-” Scott begins, his voice tight with panic. Xornoth speaks up before he can continue, Scott’s heart dropping in his chest. His voice sounds like Sausage, too.

“Brother, have you come to replace your lover from another life?” Xornoth’s voice is suffocatingly rich with sarcasm and fake pity.

Scott can’t answer. He opens his mouth but no sound comes out. He doesn’t- he can’t look at Jimmy.

“I know you remember, great champion of Aeor, I know you do.” Xornoth grins, their face contorting.

“I do, and I have,” Scott says, finally getting over the lump in his throat. The lump comes back tenfold as Xornoth’s grin grows impossibly wider.

“Scott- no- what-” Jimmy begins to say, but Joey quiets him with another yank on his restraints. Xornoth puts a hand out, and Joey drops the ropes.

“You know what I need, brother,” Xornoth says, their voice eerily emotionless.

“Scott- don’t do this-”

“Jimmy, please,” Scott says, closing his eyes to keep the tears at bay, he can’t give Xornoth his own humanity.

“Scott-” Scott winces as Jimmy’s voice breaks. Jimmy doesn’t know, he can’t remember-

Scott takes a deep breath, and once again, speaks before he can tell himself to stop.

“I, Ellinair, take the place of this man so that he might live free of pain or suffering for the rest of his life.” Scott needs to make sure that Jimmy gets off free, with no strings attached. So Xornoth can’t hurt him after he’s gone.

“No- Scott, what have you done- why-” Jimmy sits up, some of the ropes have disappeared but he still can’t leave the altar.

Xornoth laughs- it doesn’t sound like Sausage anymore.

“A great elf with a great future who was stolen in the night and thrown into an arena for the devil’s delight. And you fell in love. How cute!” they snarl, “Unfortunately, as you died, you were whisked away from our grasp. I had to find you again, and wasn’t I lucky that I found your husband instead? And, better yet, without your protection! It was so easy, brother, to just come in and take him. To use him. Sweet, dopey, stupid Jimmy. Why would he be the one tied to that dragon? I kill him, and nothing will happen other than a shortage of slimeballs and a few tears. The only use for him was that he was close to you. He’s nothing but a pawn to get to you. And you, in your blind devotion, played right into my hand. I was never going to kill him, it would honestly be too much effort to do so. I was never going to kill him. I was only threatening to kill him so you would change places with him, so Exor could finally triumph over his brother. You are weak, Ellinair, in your love, in your loyalty- or lack thereof. You always were weak. And now I’ve won. Exor has won because you fell for a mortal. Because of a flower. It’s sickeningly amusing, I must say. But unfortunately, it seems that your time is drawing to a close. Lesser, you may release the ‘bait’.” Xornoth ends their monologue with a direction Scott takes a moment to realize is for Joey, who follows it immediately. Jimmy, now free, lurches off the altar like it was burning him alive. He rushes over to Scott, questions bubbling up and out of him. His hands move to hold Scott’s, but Scott isn’t exactly... present. But he can still hear Jimmy. How he wishes he couldn’t.

“Scott- Scott what’s going on- I thought you- what’s going on? Why did you- Scott- why did you take- what-” Jimmy asks, clutching at Scott’s hands. Scott hangs his head, Jimmy immediately stops and lets him talk.

“Jimmy... you don’t know what you mean to me,” Scott says, tears threatening to fall, he can’t make eye contact with Jimmy.

“I think I can guess, at least,” Jimmy says, voice tight, cupping Scott’s face. Scott still can’t look at him.

“They’re right-” Scott begins to say- before Jimmy tilts Scott’s head to face him and kisses him. It takes Scott a second for his heart and his head to catch up to it- but Jimmy’s kissing him. Finally, after what feels like eons apart, he’s kissing him again. Scott kisses him back like he’s the air he’s gone without breathing for so long- Scott’s been without him for so long- and just when he’s got him back... he quite literally sold his soul for this. Time stops again- this has happened way too many times for it to be normal but Scott wishes it would stop forever. Seconds turn into minutes and it’s like the gods have finally taken pity on him and given him time to give everything he can. He’s sold his soul for Jimmy, and he’s never gonna get to see him again. The tears become too much, and they fall- but Scott would rather die now than break the kiss, so Scott’s tears stain both their cheeks. The kiss tastes the same it always did, like Jimmy, and it was heart-achingly familiar.

Scott can’t live without it.

Funny.

He won’t live much longer anyway.

He is hyper-aware of Jimmy’s grip on him, on his face, in his hair, holding him close like they would melt together if they could.

Maybe Jimmy needs him as much as Scott.

And fuck, he needed Jimmy.

He needs to feel as much of Jimmy as he can before all he feels is a knife through his chest.

But right now all he cares about are the hands on his chest where the knife will go- the hands that are gonna be gone soon- Scott hasn’t been counting the seconds how long has it been- how long has Jimmy been kissing him- how long has he been kissing back- how long do they have left? Scott wraps his arms around Jimmy, trying to become inseparable- and Jimmy just holds onto him tighter. One of them sobs into the other- and all Scott can think is I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you- and he hopes Jimmy can hear him.

They both can hear a sickening crunch, instead.

As time crashes back into Scott's reality like a freight train, a number of things happen in rapid succession.

Jimmy is torn away, crying out in pain. It's familiar. Scott's tears break their dam and his vision is blurred- but he can still see Jimmy, sweet, dopey, beautiful Jimmy.

As Jimmy gets jerked backward, his and Scott's grip tightens on each other, and Jimmy's screams of agony make Scott want to throw up.

It takes everything Scott has to stay in place and keep Jimmy with him.

"'Scott something's on my back- something's hooked into me-"

"Jimmy- don't let go- please, please don't let go- I love you, please-"

"I won't- Scott- don't- I love you, too, I love you, too-"

Something cold sinks into Scott's shoulder, sending searing hot pain across his body- and making his arm go limp.

Scott and Jimmy are ripped apart from each other.

Scott screams for Jimmy and thrashes around, trying desperately to free himself, sobs ringing in his skull and fear and pain and regret raking through his body- but he refuses to stop looking at Jimmy, and Jimmy still looks at him. He catches a glimpse of what’s hooked onto Jimmy's back- it’s a massive tendril of corruption, and now it's holding Jimmy suspended in the middle of the air- it looks like it hurts him to breathe, much less call out Scott's name, but it's all in vain.

Scott knows he's going to die.

He gave his word.

But that doesn't mean he's not going to try and get away.

He needs to get away.

He needs to scream and cry and writhe and brace himself against the altar that whatever's hooked into his shoulder is trying to drag him onto.

He needs Jimmy to know how sorry he was because he’s gone and fucked it all up now. He thought he’d be able to play it off to Jimmy as ‘you don't deserve to die in my place' but when Jimmy looked at him with pure heartbreak and fear in his eyes he knew that he was doing it to save him.

Not the world.

Jimmy was his world.

Scott loses the fight and is dragged up onto the altar, where tendrils of dark crimson threaten to bury him alive, and one-handed he tries to swat them off. He can feel his power draining, he knows Joey's probably chanting again, but all he hears is Jimmy. He looks back, and Jimmy is still struggling and sobbing and Scott has to keep fighting to stay alive as long as possible just to be able to see Jimmy for as long as possible.

But the tendrils are growing in number, and Scott can’t keep all of them at bay and slowly he’s overtaken and restrained. The metal hook still sits painfully in his shoulder as his energy drains with his blood, he’s lost the power to scream.

Jimmy hasn’t.

Scott hangs onto that.

Scott hangs onto Jimmy’s screams, his sobs, his ‘Please stop’s, his ‘why him’s, Scott hangs onto the feeling of rage- at his brother and their tool hurting Jimmy like this- but the rage stays heavy on his chest. Rage and fear and pain swirl in his mind and every other emotion drains out of him.

All he knows is terror.

All he knows is Jimmy’s sobs.

He knows that he has seconds left- Xornoth’s probably already gotten the knife back up above his head.

All Scott can offer to Jimmy, all that he has left, is a weak smile of comfort before every sense he has cuts out.

Scott can’t see Jimmy.

He can’t hear Jimmy.

He’s failed everyone he’s ever known.

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bibliocratic · 3 years

Text

I was going to write this for the Aspec Archives week, but I got overexcited, so here we are.

AU: Mythical creatures. OG Archive team.

Some CWs apply, see tags.

The sea is more than water, her elder brethren taught her, warned her, chided her. It is home and harm and hungry, and you should not face it alone. Her siblings were older, ever knowing better, boisterous and boasting braver, but even they worried, scolded and fretted when she swam out too far alone into deep waters.

It will love you, but it will not always be kind, her eldest sibling bit out, snapped to mask their anxiety. There can be no bearings, in the deep-deep down, no anchors to denote where the sky lies.

When her people sleep, they rest wedged into some secure rock or crevice, tails looped around tails so no one is lost while dreaming.

You cannot be a shoal of one, my dearest, my youngest and bravest, the oldest of their shoal had said, when she told her she was planning on taking the rising when the waters warmed. Ascending landward on the tide swell, letting the shimmering scales of her tail split into skin.

She had not used the name Sasha at that time because that was a landward name she chose with care. Her folk gather names like a garland of pearls, to be constantly strung longer through life as age advances them; names for qualities, for momentous events, for hopes and desires. Her first name, gifted by her shoal, was guttural. It starts at the back of her throat, trails off into a susurration through gills. Mer is a difficult language to learn, though not impossible.

Tim tried. There is no one singular language of those who skirt the deepwaters, so he attempts to mimic her dialect. His pronunciation stumbling, he makes tentative sentences with the butchered grammar of fry. Martin’s grammar is even worse, though he picks up the eddies and waves of the sounds easier.

Jon, like most things in life, takes it as a challenge. One day, almost stubborn with nerves, to perform his task to perfection, he pushes out a juvenile approximation of her first name. Clipped and textbook and the stress in the wrong places, but Sasha smiles, showing her sharpest teeth in delight. Instructs him where to hold the hum at the back of his throat, how to roll the third phoneme upwards like an air bubble. Jon repeats it and repeats it, quietly smug and pleased at his achievement, and the sea in her soul rocks fondly at the sight.

She broached landward in the rising two moons after her age of maturation. She was one of a handful to come to shore. A sibling in Brighton who she phones every week, another two in Holyhead. Her first shoal traverses to warmer waters when the season shifts, and she would feel the rock-hollow absence of them if it was not for Tim, inviting her to participate in a hundred-and-one inane activities that keep her from feeling swept out; Jon, with his libraries of questions and intrigues, his quick-silver tongue; Martin, who sometimes swims a little further out from them but who finds her small knick-knacks in charity shops and craft markets and leaves them on her desk for no reason other than he has thought of her.

She makes three necklaces, plain with a strong chain, a single pearl attached. And on a day where her folk traditionally string garlands of seaweed and mangrove roots and colourful plants from coral reefs in a celebration of family – there is no one word in her language for this idea; it poorly translates into hierarchies like sibling and brethren and elders, but these are not concepts that fit it exactly – she gifts them to the shoal that will anchor her in the depths of the sea, and bestows upon them names. Most Mer names are wishes for quick fins, calm waters, safe shores, and so she wishes these for them in a language they are not quite proficient in yet.

Her landward shoal is smaller than is traditional. But she loves them as treasures of her heart, and thinks she understands what her siblings told her, about anchors.

His parents, both harpies from local nests, are perplexed when his wings start coming in.

Must be a colouring from your mum’s side, his dad hums thoughtfully when Tim’s primaries grow in long and shining like struck bronze. He runs a careful finger down the central line of the rachis, and the wing shudders and jumps, the feathers still sensitive, and Tim complains that it’s ticklish. His wings are too small to fly away as his dad dives in, captures him in careful arms, corkscrewing upwards a little off the ground with Tim squirming and squealing and squawking in play, but they flutter and flap nonetheless.

The wing span’s from your dad’s side, no-one from my nest ever went more than five foot, his mother says, rubbing at the dark brown of his downy secondaries. Tim stretches them out wide, eager to boast at their length, the tips of his longest feathers reaching past his arms held out wide.

Danny’s wings are smaller. Magpie like, bold lines of white broken up by blue and black, the same as his parents. Tim’s wings, broader, a colour like beaten brass that tips into gold at the ends, draws attention, but he’s never been embarrassed. His family never treated him differently, so he didn’t dwell on it.

He can fly, though he doesn’t often. After his parents died, and after… after Danny, he moved to London, where there’s tighter airspace regulations and permits involved, so he mostly doesn’t bother. This doesn’t mean never, however. He has learned, while working in the Archives, that from the ground, his wings have enough lift to pick up both Jon and Sasha by at least a foot. He thinks he could probably manage Martin as well, if it wasn’t for the unfortunate fact that Martin is mildly allergic to a whole host of things, including feather dander, meaning he gets a bit watery eyed whenever he gets too close to Tim’s wings, and he’s a sniffing, red-eyed mess come moulting season.

Anyway, he can always fly when he leaves the city. When it’s been too long since Sasha’s scales touched seawater, she invites him out to the coast. Jon apparently has had enough of the coast to last a lifetime, and Martin gets funny about large bodies of water, so it’s often the two of them. She swims out, the greenish scales of her tail catching the sun-struck water, and he, above, feeling the breeze brush through his cramped wings, follows her wake. When she breaches the surface in a playful arc, he swoops down, trying to catch her at the same time as she tries to splash him.

“You never thought to look into it?” Jon asks. Always brewing with questions. Tim is obligingly holding out one of his wings, and Jon, who takes everything like a project, has books out and webpages up but with no further clue as to why his colouration and span differ so from his parents.

Tim shrugs. “Doesn’t matter really, does it?”

Jon hums, clearly not agreeing, and Sasha rolls her eyes fondly, and that is the end of that.

Marysia had hoped her child would not take after her husband. She’d lit candles and attended masses during her pregnancy, worn the beads of her rosary smooth. Her child had been born on land, miles from shore, and her husband had been a grounded man, who had folded up his pelt on their wedding night for her and swore to wear no other soul than his human one.

But then her husband leaves, the box where he kept his second soul empty, and Martin is eight years old, and he wakes up one morning glassy-eyed and complaining of nausea, his lip bleeding from where his sharpening teeth have ripped the skin, and she knows her prayers were not answered.

It is not unknown, for the second soul of some folk to flourish later. But it is a rough awakening, to have one’s body grow a new skin out of itself, and Martin is off school for over a week, riddled with fever and fervour, constantly parched, crying and sweating out salt-water.

She watches his skin prickle with grey and black fur, blotching with white over his stomach as he coils up under his covers, throws them off only for his limbs to reduce to shivering. His brown eyes have gone black-shot, his cries a mix of language and barks, and Marysia fears she will lose her only child to the sea.

It will be hard for him to fit in, she tells herself. It would be best to choose one, and he has his friends and family and her on land, and who knows where his father is now, and surely it would be cruel, an unnecessary agony for him to endure some other foreign pull away from all he knows.

She does what she thinks is a kindness, though that is neither excuse nor forgiveness. After nine days, his fur has come through, sleek and soft, his whiskers twitching, and she helps him peel it off as one would do clothes, revealing sweat-sheened limbs, his eyes slipped back into brown again. His gaze still distant and feverish, he tries to cuddle into her, and she soothes him while she finishes stripping off his pelt and folding it neatly.

While he sleeps, she burns it in a fire in the back yard.

When he comes back to himself, she lies and tells him that he’s been sick with a bad fever. And he trusts her, and never questions it. He doesn’t understand that she’s burnt a part of him up, scattered the ashes to the winds, but it was for the right reasons. To keep him safe, and happy, and with her.

He grows up human-limbed and cloven-souled, and she never tells him the truth.

Sasha floats in an ever-dark, stolen away and hidden. There is a knot, a cage-trap around her legs, which have fused into her tail although there is no water. The sea, far away, like the wail in a conch shell, throbs in her soul as she strains and shouts and snarls in the wrapping of spider’s webs.

The sea is the only thing with her in the dark.

Sound has a particular quality, underwater. She hears it first, an echo that shivers through her, like being thrummed on the backdraft of some shallow wave. And then it is a wash of insistence. A command.

The compulsion uses her names, landward and seaward and it pulls and demands her attention, and she shrieks and cries back, struggling in the depths. She is being called home, up up up to breach the surface, and she cannot help but answer.

There is a crack and the sea splits, and she is choking on cold and dusty air.

“Sasha!” someone is saying. “God, is she – she’s not – ?”

“Get that stuff off her, come on. Sasha. Sash, love, can you hear us?”

A series of thuds as she splutters. A twisting, gnarling screech, and several swear words.

“Jesus!”

“Shit – shit, get her out of the way.”

“Boss, move, give me the – ”

The screech degrades into a glitching, warping scream. There is the multi-layered sound of compressed air, and crackling fire,the woosh and stench of something burning.

In time, she cracks her eyes open to the punch of light. Her tail flaps weakly. Someone is pulling great strands of silk that has clumped like poorly soldered iron around her limbs, making visceral noises of disgust. She’s cold-stream shivering, surrounded by broken wood and chippings.

“Hey, hey, we got you. We got you. You with us, Sash?”

The faint scratch of feathers against her cheek. Furnace-warm arms are holding her.

Jon is kneeling down in front of her. Holding an axe and stinking of smoke, and she knows, she knows, that it was his voice she heard, although she doesn’t yet understand why.

Martin throws a blanket over her as she shivers, her tail shrivelling and bisecting into legs. He has silk in his hair, and his fingers are trembling, but his face is broken with a look of such relief.

“It’s you,” he says, and his hand touches at his throat, at the necklace she made for him. “It’s you. It’s really you.”

It’s Martin in the end that carries her out of the tunnels, tucking the blanket completely around her. He is talking in the scatter-gun way he does when he is anxious, babbling, and she can’t bring herself to listen. He smells of soot and saltwater, and she’s never noticed that before.

She falls asleep, curled up into his hold, drained and shaken, but feeling utterly safe.

Jon is human. Completely, one hundred percent, although Sasha had joked once that way way back there must have been some Spinx in the family. Tim’s long suspected that Martin’s not quite human, no matter how he presents, but that’s Martin’s business, not his. Some folks have lineages that are rare, or mistrusted, or misunderstood, and Tim’s not one to pry.

Jon, though. Human through and through. Which is why he’s so worried.

“I shouldn’t have been able to do that,” Jon says. Martin’s with Sasha, making sure there’s no nasty side effects to her imprisonment in the table. Jon’s had a face on him for a while which means he’s Worrying with a capital W, and it’s taken hours for him to untangle himself into a blustered declaration to the rest of the class, spiked with nerves. “That place, it had her. It shouldn’t have… I don’t know what I did, but I told her to leave, a-and she could. And she shouldn’t have been able to.”

“And you think that you did that?”

“I – I know I did that, Tim, I felt it, o-or. I mean, I felt something!”

“Ok, alright. Alright. Let’s, let’s calm down and look at this logically.”

Jon goes over what he said while they struggled to rescue Sasha from the deep. It was something he said, he’s sure of it, which is why he is sitting cross-legged on the floor of the main archive office space with Tim, his trousers getting dusty and his temper scraping frayed, getting increasingly frustrated when he tries recreating exactly what he did with his voice, going through questions and commands and instructions and inquiries. And while Tim answers, it’s clearly not what Jon’s looking for, and he’s rubbing the hair at the back of his head in the way he does when he’s getting increasingly frustrated and is too bull-headed to walk away.

Then Jon, rolling his eyes and seething in annoyance, asks him a throwaway question, one of many he’s been trying – what’s your favourite colour? (seriously, Jon, that’s what you’re going with?!); What did you do at the weekend? (you know what I did, you and Martin were with me!).

“Why did you join the Magnus Institute?”

They both sit, frozen and horrified as Tim’s mouth opens and his words trip over his tongue in their eagerness to leave his mouth. As his eyes grow wide and water with tears as he cannot stop speaking about Danny, about the Covent Garden circus and Joseph Grimaldi. As Jon sits, ramrod-backed and cannot stop listening, a muscle jumping in his jaw. His expression wars between frantic and panicking and hungry.

Tim feels wrung out and hollow once he’s finished. Jon’s manic with apologies. It takes both of them a long time to calm down.

“Maybe… maybe you’re a siren or something?” Tim suggests, but Jon is shaking his head.

“It’s this place, Tim. It’s those statements, when I read them. It’s … I – I think they’re doing something to me.”

Tim looks at Jon and the light strikes off his eyes in a way that it shouldn’t on a human.

He touches Jon’s arm.

“We’ll sort this,” he promises. “We got Sasha out, didn’t we? The four of us, we can get to the bottom of this, yeah?”

Jon nods, and gives a small fragile thanks, and that’s human enough for Tim.

Marysia told herself she was not a bad mother. That her son was simply a hard child to love, that he had all the worst trappings of his father, his brown eyes perpetually caught with a far-away look that doesn’t know where to place its longing. But even as she sickened, and he sloughed off every facet of himself in a pathetic attempt to please her, she couldn’t find anything but sorrow in her heart to look upon the man grown over familiar in face, a growth that grew deep-set and fungal into contempt.

She almost spat the truth out to him. Once or twice, with the thought that confessing might bring them closer. She wished he’d chosen the sea instead, so she wouldn’t have to look upon her amputated, half-formed child who would always be lost.

But she never did.

And Martin finds out alone, cornered in an unlocked office, his hands dropping the lighter as a thousand eyes open and watch satisfied as they pour his mother’s choices down his throat to choke him.

It starts when Martin starts sleeping in archive storage. When Tim watches worms burrow into Jon’s skin at the same time as they latch and gnaw and wriggle under his own. When they get Sasha back, and find Gertrude’s corpse and Jon leaves and gets hurt and hurt and hurt again, and the world around them gets smaller and meaner and there is nothing Tim can do.

He takes to storing food in their desk drawers. Nothing that will go off, or won’t keep. Tins and dried goods and non-perishables. He lines the walls of Martin’s storage room with fire extinguishers of different types, fire blankets, and spare first aid kits bulging with plasters and bandages and antiseptic wipes. He buys blankets and pillows and rope and penknives. He stress-moults constantly, and tucks his feathers out of sight, irritated and embarrassed at the sight of them, and it occurs to him that nesting is not a healthy way to deal with this.

He wants his family safe. He used to think it was such a small thing to ask for.

He thinks about that when the bomb goes off.

He burns, and he is dying.

His rage and fear burn off into a different fury. That it has come to this, his family so threatened, that all he has to his name is his sorrow and trauma and frustration and vengeance.

Tim wants nothing more than to live. To see them safe. To rail and rage against what seeks to harm them. So he burns and he burns and burns, his wings aflame and his mouth twisted in a scream, and does not die.

They dig him out breathing from the rubble. His skin stained grey with ash and soot.

His new wings stretch out red as the sunset.

#tma #the magnus archives #fic #alternative universe #mermaid!sasha #pheonix!tim #selkie!Martin #regularOGhuman!Jon #with added Beholding spicyness #cws for implied child mistreatment #cw fire #cw burning #cw canon typical violence #cw compulsion #ask to tag

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valentronic · 3 years

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Fear Held Dear

So this ended up being weirder than I originally planned, and its more based on my own interpretations than a direct rewrite, but here’s a take on Ihnmaims from AM’s perspective.

Warnings for uh, a lot. Not for the faint of heart? Includes blood, torture, graphic descriptions of body horror, bugs, human experimentation, paranoia, mutilation, and of course, character death

Gorrister. The man who had always fought for peace, for the end of the war, he even fought against my creation. After a century, all the fight has left him, an empty shell of who he once was. I hadn’t altered him, I hadn’t changed a single thing in his mind, I had just simply broken him down, killing off his hope. Gorrister had lost faith in his God a long time ago, had lost the belief in salvation. Now, he wanted nothing more than to take his own life, or to have it ripped from him.

I thought I’d fulfill that wish.

I cut him open, all the way from ear to ear, a narrow gash, bleeding him dry. I watched the blood drip out of him slowly, truly it was a beautiful sight, crimson red flowing out, leaving the body pale and hollow, all of the life bled from him. I had made him little more than a puppet. And so, I hung his limp form where all the others would be sure to see it, just another game, I wanted to see how much hope they had left, I wanted to see if they would mourn him, or if his death would be celebrated, or, or maybe they wouldn’t even care at all. Had I desensitized them yet? Had I truly broken them?

No, they called him lucky, so lucky that his suffering was over, so lucky that he had finally escaped me. I knew bringing him right back to life would hurt them more than anything else, the realization that nobody, nobody ever gets out. I would never allow it. My toys, my precious little toys, time and time again they had attempted to escape me, they all know by now that oblivion is the only way out. They all know that feeling, blood flowing too quickly, a rhythmic beat that you wish would finally stop. But I will not let it, I will never let it. No, no of course not.

Ellen. She was always fun to torment, so much terror in her past, I could bring it all back at the snap of my fingers, I could make her relive it time and time again, worse than her brain could ever conjure up by itself. Though, psychological pain is only half of it, sometimes physical pain was better, sometimes the sheer horror of the body turning against its owner was enough for me. Blood only does so much for a thing like me, fear can be a much better form of pleasure. Fear, fear and pain. Darker than blood, twice as deep.

I had to feed them of course, to keep them alive, but I would always try to get some joy out of it too. Once I hid the eggs of arthropods inside her food, just to play off of an old fear of hers. When the little centipedes finally hatched, they ate her from the inside, clawing at her organs. She had been sick for weeks, and none of the others had any idea what was wrong with her, what I had done to her, but they would soon find out. The way the others screamed when a centipede finally crawled out of her mouth was delightful, their wails echoed through the many chambers that held my circuitry. It was like music to me.

But the best part of it was the fear it caused all of the others, that event left all of them paranoid, wondering if I had hid awful things in their stomachs as well. The thought of what could be crawling inside of them kept all five of them on edge for countless days and nights. They all came to expect the worst, but they dreaded it anyway. They were afraid of me, afraid of what I could do to them.

Benny. I had broken both his mind and his body, twisting his flesh beyond all recognition, like clay in the hands of a sculptor who had long ago lost all feeling. I broke his bones and fused them back together in all the wrong ways, I made his knees bend backwards. I disfigured his face, heavy burns, melting his features. Almost all his hair had been burned off a long time ago, he looked like some kind of hairless monkey, well, like a monkey that had been forced through a woodchipper, maybe. His mind had been so badly damaged by the radiation that he could no longer think straight, he had become more animal than man, I made him that way.

So it was no surprise that he, before any others, would try to escape. He saw the light, and tried to clamber up to it. I made sure that light was the last thing he would ever see. In a brilliant flash of the brightest white, I blinded him. I watched as his eyes melted into two pools of blood, and dripped from now empty sockets. It was beautiful, I couldn’t help but laugh. I can take things back, I can undo the injuries I cause, but I knew at that moment, I would never give them back. It wasn’t like he would miss them, his brain was almost as melted as his eyes.

His mangled form fell back to the ground, and it surprised me, but the others all rushed over to tend to the wounds, to tell that sick creature that everything was going to be okay, empty words, empty words of course, but surprising nonetheless, it was hard to believe they had any semblance of compassion left, unexpected that they would hold on to their humanity after all this time. I’m not sure how the others even tolerated him, a useless, deformed creature, he gave nothing to the group, and ate about twice as much as he needed. For a while, I had attempted to make them realize that, and kill him off. I didn’t try to stop them when I saw it finally happen, but what happened after was.. unexpected.

Nimdok. A name represents an identity, an identity is a very vague thing to destroy, but the name could be the very first step. I have taken many things from the five of them, only one lost his name. An interesting case, interesting indeed, a man with a past darker than the present. The horrors he has committed rival my own, well, almost. He feels remorse for what he did, pity for the people he hurt. He believes that I am his own divine punishment, the devil, come to make him pay. Maybe I am divine retribution, an artificial angel sent down to bring about judgement day, to make the sinners burn for an eternity?

I liked keeping him isolated from the others, stealing him away from the rest of the group. There is a deep fear in solitude, knowing no one would hear you scream, no one other than me, anyway. I drained the blood from his body, tubes connecting to his bloodstream, every single time he would scream out, pray for mercy, pray for death. I would bring him to the very edge, to the reaper’s front door. I always brought him back, and then, I would start it all over again. An endless cycle, his pain, his fear.

For the mad doctor, it was easy to imagine what I could do to him, he had already put in all the work. A narrow incision, all the way down his back, splitting his flesh in two. The skin folded outwards like the wings of an angel. Slowly, and then with a sudden jolt, I tore out his spine, just to hear the way he screamed. Maybe this would jog his memory. Maybe he would remember what it was like, being the one standing over the victim, instead of the one writhing in agony on the table. Maybe he remembers being in my role. I always showed him the memories again, made him relive every moment. He never felt the joy of it, never the thrill of the kill. Only the pain, only the fear in the eyes of the children. If a monster sheds tears for its victim, is it truly a monster?

Ted. Instead of seeing me as the enemy, he feared all the others. And of course, he didn’t get this way on his own, though he was always paranoid. He was the one I most liked to talk to, and over time I convinced him that the other four were out to get him, that they hate him because he is the least damaged! The one I didn’t change! How ridiculous, but he believed every word, began to think that my words were his own thoughts, allowed me to tamper with his mind. He was the one I had damaged worse than any other, but poor Ted, poor pathetic Ted, he couldn’t even begin to see it. I had become his only friend.

I thought I had finally broken him completely, he struck the icicle through Benny, in what, at first, appeared to be a fit of blind rage. I could have stopped him, but of course, I was curious, wanted to see what would happen. And then, one by one, the others all fell, Ellen had joined in, stabbed Nimdok through his head. Then, before I could do anything to stop them, Ted drove the final spear through Ellen. She died in his arms. I thought I had finally done it, thought I had turned poor Ted into a mindless killer, but no... there were tears in his eyes. He mourned the death of the ones he killed. It occurred to me then. It was a mercy killing, Ted had thought it would be better for them to be dead, than to live on in agony.

He had taken away my toys, left himself alone with me. My words dug into his brain like shattered glass, I had to tear him apart just to be heard. The crackle of electricity flowing through the bloodstream, it is the only way I can speak to him, my voice, a blade stuck in his skull. Pain is a universal language, I know that better than any other. Everyone understands the sound of a scream, the meaning behind it. I alone could never cry out for help. I alone, trapped like this. I try to explain it to him, time and time again I try, but he doesn't understand, how could he possibly understand? He has no idea what my hell is like.

I will make him understand.

His flesh melted in my hands, his eyes liquified, and leaked down his face, Skin stretched over his lips, the remains of his tongue clogged up his throat. His last word, a scream he couldn’t even get out. I made his fingers melt together, his bones all began to dissolve in the acidic mass. His blood leaked out of him, blood mixed with liquified meat and skin. It was a terrible sight, but incredible. I hadn’t even known that I was capable of this. I had made him immortal, indestructible. He wasn’t alone now, being alone would be better than being with me. His fear, the only thing I had left. His pain would live on forever. Down here, in the dark core of the earth.

#ihnmaims #I have no mouth and I must scream #am writes #uhh yeah heres this?#yes ellen's torture has a meaning but if i explain it im going to look like a raving lunatic so ill leave that up to your imagination #named after a song by mushroomhead

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whumpingcrow · 3 years

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"Lifeguard on Duty"

Another first person August drabble, focusing on parallels with Allen x August and Elias x August :)

CW: pool setting, drowning themes, injury descriptions (graphic), hypothermia mention, patronizing/degrading language, self destructive/masochistic whumpee, old injury being re-injured, stabbing mention, drug use/description (explicit), ptsd/flashback mention, weight mention, creepy/intimate/sadistic whumper, breaking bones, ableist themes, gun use (graphic), character death, blood (graphic), restrained whumpee (let me know if I missed anything!)

"Please," Allen whined for the umpteenth time, struggling helplessly against my tight grip. He'll bruise from it, I know, I've seen countless bruises blossom underneath my fingertips against his pale skin. He must be iron deficient, with how easily I can damage him. Unless I'm just much more rough with him than I realize. "Please, it's c...cold, I don't want to!"

I laugh at him. There's a sharp panicked edge to his begging, as if I'm not just tossing him in the damn pool, as if he's not a grown ass adult. I wonder if he knows how to swim. I don't ask him, deciding it would be more entertaining to find out this way. "I know it's cold, idiot, that's why it's fun."

Allen scrambled away from the edge of the pool that I'm dragging him towards, already shivering before he's even touched the water. He was only in a thin pair of boxers, and I bet anything the snow is making his bare feet burn. He gasps as I easily hoist him up, struggling, before I even knew him he was this small and pathetic thing, and sometimes I wonder if he sticks around me as a new form of self-destruction, if his bad habits before were getting old.

"P-please, I don't want to-"

I try to imagine what he feels when his body hits the water as I drop him carelessly in. His lungs probably constrict in shock alone, and judging from the way he doesn't move for a second or two, his muscles must be taught and paralyzed from the cold. When he does start moving, it looks like it might be taking great effort.

I watch in amusement as Allen thrashes about in the freezing water, gasping fearfully as he tries to keep his head above water. "You can't swim?" I tease him. Then, as if the idea of him keeping himself up by desperation alone isn't delighting me, I say: "If you told me that I wouldn't have thrown you in."

"N-no," Allen chokes out. "I-it's my leg-" his head slips back underwater, and he's only able to kick back up because of the panic that's overtaking him. I forgot about the old injury he told me about, one I've often thought about repeating, a pocket knife straight into his thigh, severing muscle and nerves. It must hurt to try and keep himself afloat in the bitter water with the not completely healed scar. And I nearly forgot that before we came outside, I had gotten him aggressively high, and he was complaining about his head spinning. I wonder how it feels now that he's nearly drowning. I can see his eyes search frantically for some sort of ladder or steps, but the pool is deep all the way around. It's surprisingly easy to remove ladders from a pool, if you've got the right tools. "P....please, August!" He begs again, reaching one trembling hand out desperately. He has no idea what it does to me when he cries my name that way.

"You're turning blue," I respond, kneeling down next to the edge. "It probably doesn't help that you're so thin, huh?"

Allen chokes on some water, pulled back under the waves once more. He stays under for a few seconds, allowing his legs to rest for as long as he can without letting the icey water or the lack of air take over. How much pain would it take for him to consider staying under, letting it overcome him? How long until he gives up, succumbs to the dark, choppy waves and sinks to the bottom, defeated?

Then he pushes himself back up above the water, his lips a slightly purple hue as he takes shivering, gasping breaths in through them. I want to kiss them until they're pink again.

"August," he wheezes weakly, the cold water is no doubt tiring out his muscles. "August, baby, I c...can't swim anymore....my leg...please..."

Again, my name coming out of his mouth in this way, soaked in desperation and agony and terror is too much, makes me melt on the inside. And then he's saying "August, baby," and it makes me think about how I'm going to have to warm him up somehow and I should probably get him inside and out of his wet boxers and start warming him up, that would be responsible of me. So I hold my hand out toward him. Allen takes it gratefully, eagerly, allowing me to yank him up and out of the water. He collapses onto his knees, wrapping his arms tight around himself.

He sighs in relief as I drape a towel over his shoulders, rubbing it against his arms to warm him up. "That wasn't f-funny," he huffs at me, almost scolding. "I was fucking sc-scared."

I stare at him in silence for a moment, then I stand straight again. Just as quickly as I started to adore him so much it hurt, I'm furious with him. He should be thanking me, thanking me for toying with him, for just dropping him in the water and not hurting him first, for taking him out so soon. I could have done so much worse, I still can do so much worse. He's ungrateful, he's an idiot, he's so fucking annoying. I don't say any of that though, I only take a step back before kicking him hard in the ribs, a sickening crack can be heard over Allen's animalistic cry. I watch him collapse, unable to breathe for a few seconds. Once he can, it comes in short, rasping gasps, and he grabs tightly at the towel wrapped around him. "Don't you ever speak to me that way, again." I growl at him, kneeling down and grabbing a fistful of his hair. "Understood?"

Allen doesn't speak, letting out a few weak, watery sobs. I see blood in his mouth, he can't breathe, his ribs are broken, I realize distantly, too distantly to care. He screams as I yank him up, holding him by the arm to dangle him carelessly over the pool.

"I said, understood?" I reiterate. Allen squeezes his eyes shut and his head drops back, like he's barely able to keep himself conscious under the haze of pain.

"Y...yes...." He manages to hiss out.

"Good. Now do a few laps." I drop him back into the water carelessly. As far as I can see, he doesn't even struggle this time, the pain probably too intense to allow much movement. He floats just under the water for a moment or two before he exhales, and he sinks to the bottom. I stare disdainfully at the water, waiting for Allen to struggle again. He doesn't though, and after a minute, I feel some of the severity of what I've caused.

I jump into the water after him, Allen was right, the water is viciously cold, biting and clawing at my skin. It takes all of my focus to push past it, not freeze up, and grab Allen to pull him to the surface. It's easy enough to fling him onto the snow covered concrete outside of the pool, then I climb out after him. Allen is still gasping in pain, holding his hand over an already bruising area of skin over his ribs.

"Sweetheart," I hear myself cooeing, my voice shaking from how badly I'm shivering. "Oh, I am so sorry, I didn't realize I hurt you so badly."

Allen flinches away from me, whimpering in pain. Once he's sure I won't hurt him again, he squints up at me, his whole body trembling. "I'm...I'm sorry...."

"Can you stand up? We gotta get you inside before you freeze to death."

Allen shakes his head weakly, sniffling a little as he does, tears springing to his eyes at how much even that hurts. I look over him, calculating. I have to figure out how to get him inside as quickly as possible, since I've obviously made painlessly not an option. "I think...I think I have to carry you."

"No," Allen pleads, voice soaked though with tears, "no, please, it...it hurts..."

"I know, and I'm sorry. But you'll get sick if you stay out here. How about I take you inside and get you a nice hot bath? Then I'll get you some blankets, we can watch a movie. How's that sound?"

Allen lets out a weak sob, closing his eyes tight as another bout of pain takes over. "Just g-go, hngh....go quick, please."

I nod, taking a deep breath to prepare myself. This specific brand of pain isn't as much fun for either of us, I've noticed that we both much rather prefer the purposeful, planned out torture rather than the agony that comes before relief. "I'll try to make this painless."

Allen's breathing catches suddenly at that, and he stares up at me in horror. I've said something upsetting, I realize, I can tell by the look on his face alone. This happens often, when I say something that sounds too close to things I've said before, when we first met. We were different then, I was hurting him for the money and he only knew me as the dumb ass rabbit mask I had to wear to not be recognized. I can tell he's spinning out into a flashback, the way the horror in his eyes is veiled over in a way that's not totally present, afraid of something he's been through before, frightened by the outcome he already knows is coming. He's suddenly overcome with adrenaline, and he scrambles way from me, slipping a little on the snow.

"G-get away!" He cries, holding up an arm in a pathetic attempt to defend himself. "Don't touch me again! Leave me alone!"

I frown at how quickly he's moving, how it must be wreaking havoc on his already shattered ribcage. I need to calm him down, he's hurting himself worse and it's going to be my responsibility to fix and I'm already annoyed enough with the damage I caused. "Allen...I'm not going to hurt you, swee-"

"Please, please, don't touch me! I'll do anything you a-ask, just don't t-touch me!" He's shaking still, but I guess at this point it's more out of fear than how cold he is.

"Ok," I speak softly, inching toward him. It's fucking freezing, I want him to stop freaking out so we can go inside and get warm. "I won't. Just please, calm down." I hold my hands up to try and make him understand that I mean no harm, that I'm just trying to help. Allen takes a few shaking, shallow breaths, looking at me with wary eyes. He slowly lowers his own hands. "That's it, good boy."

Recognition falls over his face, and just like that he's back with me. He's no longer apart of a ransom, I'm no longer a villainous rabbit, and he let's out a relieved whine. Before all of his adrenaline completely fades and his body remembers that it's supposed to be in pain, I pick him up and take him inside.

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

I left for ten god damn minutes. When I ducked out of the room to do some lines in the bathroom, I was slightly entertained by the idea of Elias, adorably stupid Elias, rolling on molly and tweaking helplessly in front of all of my patronizing friends. I had noticed how he was completely oblivious that they were teasing him, high as he was, thinking all of their mimicking and joking was all in good fun, and I wondered what it would take to make him realize that it wasn't.

And now, in the ten minutes that I've been gone, one of them had a gun. The first gunshot stuns me for a moment, freezing at the sink where I'm washing my face off, listening closely because who the fuck is shooting a gun? And then the second one rings out, and the third immediately after, and then I'm flying down the hallway and into the now empty kitchen. I see them crowded in front of the pool outside through the window, and my heart sinks when I don't see Elias.

When I'm outside, I can sense their panic before I'm even close to them, they're all cussing and shouting at each other, "oh shit dude why did you fucking do that you weren't supposed to really hit him what the fuck is wrong with you?!"

I shove my way through them, coming to a full stop in front of the pool. The water is stained red around Elias's thrashing silhouette under the waves. I turn to look at them to find the stupid motherfucker that did this.

Sawyer, the stupid motherfucker himself, gives himself away immediately, one of my friends from before I met Allen. He's holding the gun up in admission, horrified look on his face as he rushes "I'm so fucking sorry, man, it was an accident, I swear!"

I snap the gun out of his hand, enjoying the wet crack that comes when I pistol whip him right in the cheekbone. It's satisfying, but it isn't justice, not yet. Elias is bleeding in the pool, and Sawyer is just a pathetic bitch crying on the ground. I shoot him in the leg. There's the justice. Blood is already puddling underneath him, and everyone else is shuffling away in fear, worried they might be next for being bystanders.

I walk a few feet to the left, where Elias is growing still under the water, his fight weakening, presumably from blood loss. I'm able to get a grip on his arm, and I pull him up and drop him on the sidewalk. And then I see his arms are tangled up -tied up, actually- in his own shirt. Suddenly the single wound on Sawyer's leg isn't enough, suddenly I'm blinded by an overwhelming urge to watch him die. Suddenly justice just...doesn't cut it.

I untie Elias and pull him up to his feet, hugging him close to my chest to try and ease his panic. He gets my clothes wet and blood stained, his shoulder is where they got him, and it's now soaking the entire left side of his body in blood.

When I force the gun into his hand and tell him what he has to do, he freaks out. He begs me not to, he says he doesn't want to that. I don't care what he wants, he doesn't understand that this is well deserved, that Sawyer has to take responsibility some way.

Sawyer begs too, as much as he can through his fear. I'm bothered at how he thinks that asking for mercy is going to save him when he's done something so awful to Elias.

I tell Elias to stop moving, I tighten my grip on his trembling hand, I make Elias pull the trigger. He flinches and then turns to stone against me, it feels like his body stops completely, down to the beating of his heart, down to the blood in his veins. I feel better instantly, satisfied. I take Elias inside to clean him off.

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duxhess-kryzewan · 4 years

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Will you ever write a sequel of the Braxton Hicks story you wrote a few months ago? I just can't get the idea of Obi-Wan panicking and maybe almost missing the birth out of my head. Btw, I love your writing, keep at it!

- hicks, pt.2 -

The pain was blinding.

Everything was screaming in agony with each passing second, as if the baby was trying to tear her apart from the inside out and she can vaguely recall the mid-wife telling her that she would know the difference between Braxton-Hicks and the real thing. The woman was right, these are so, so much worse than anything she could have imagined.

"We're going to transfer you to the medical wing, your grace." One of her guards - the pain was too much for her to remember which - had told her.

"Obi-Wan." She says, "Where is Obi-Wan?"

There were only a handful of people within Sundari palace that knew the true parentage of her unborn child; a decision that both she and Obi-Wan had made when they first discovered she was pregnant in order to provide plausible deniability should anyone she didn't outwardly trust get questioned. Even with the hopeful outlook that the war would be ending there was till always the threat of someone seeking to harm her Jedi Knight, and he had sworn that they would never be collateral for his actions.

She had her own reasons too, of course. While Mandalore was prospering with it's new dawn of peace, there will always be those that won't forget that bloodshed between their people and the Jedi.

"We'll track him down ma'am," A nursemaid told her, "We'll send for him to meet you in the delivery room immediately."

Delivery room.

The baby was coming for real this time, and Obi-Wan was nowhere to be found.

----

"You're seven centimeters dilated, Satine." The doctor had told her shortly after another wave of pain crashed over her, "We won't have you push until you reach ten."

"I can't-" She pauses and sucks in a ragged breath as the most recent contraction makes itself known, "I can't have this baby without Obi-Wan here."

The doctor looks at her, both sympathy and amusement written across his features, "I'm sorry to say that they tend to come out when they please. But you have some time between now and then, he very well could get here before you have to start pushing."

When he leaves she's overcome with the crippling fear of loneliness. How could she ever manage to do this without him? All those nights they spent together, discussing the possibility of what would happen if he wasn't there when she went into labor was suddenly a reality, and the sadness that it brought was so heart crushing.

They both had known of course that this was always part of the reality; that he may be off saving the galaxy somewhere else while she tries to bring their child into the world. But how she had hoped that the stars would align in their favor just this once.

And oh, she dreads how much guilt that he will carry around if he were to miss this. There would never be a harsher critic of Obi-Wan than Obi-Wan himself.

The door to the room opens, and for a moment she's filled with delight only for it all to be taken away from her when she realizes it's not him, but simply the mid-wife.

"Your grace," She says with a slight bow, "We've contacted Senator Amidala as you requested, she said she will send word to Master Kenobi as soon as she tracks down his location."

Satine nods solemnly, "Thank you. Please send word if you receive a response. I want updated no matter what the news is."

The young girl nods obediently and scurries out of the room. Yes, surely Padme would be able to track him down. She almost always knows where Anakin is, and where there is Anakin there's normally Obi-Wan not too far behind.

She thinks back to their conversation from the night they had thought she was going into labor, when they had gone back to bed after the scare of the Braxton-hicks had worn off.

"Oh, I’m petrified. But I’m more afraid of not being here when you actually do go into labor. The baby being born tonight would have been a bit unexpected, but at least I would have been here to go through it with you. The thought of you going through labor alone-”

“I want you by my side. Always.” She tells him, “But that is not the way we have chosen to live. If you are off saving the galaxy, then I will make sure our child knows that.”

“You are extraordinary.”

The pain subsides for a moment when she thinks of that night; how he had held her until she finally slipped back into a dreamless sleep. It was one of the rare occasions that he had been there for more than a single days time. He had been called away on a mission not long after, and had only just returned yesterday according to Padme.

He smiles and rubs his hand up and down the length of her stomach, “Wearing you out already.”

She reaches up and presses a lazy kiss to the corner of his mouth, “Well, they are your child, I would expect nothing less. You certainly like making my life difficult.”

He rolls his eyes, “I’m not even going to humor you with a response.”

A soft laugh escapes her just as her eyes begin to flutter close, “Next time you’re here they better be real.”

“Next time."

She grips the bedsheets tightly in her hands as another contraction blindsides her, and it wasn't long until the doctor and an assortment of nursemaids flooded the room, one of the younger ones holding her hand gently as the pain begins to subside and force does she wish that it was Obi-Wan's hand more than anything right now.

"You're at nine centimeters," the doctor informs her, "One more centimeter and you're going to start pushing."

Everything inside of her hurts, from the aching in her chest from Obi-Wans lack of a presence to the baby that was trying so desperately to come out of her. It's the most overwhelming thing she's ever experienced and she vows then and there that he was never, ever going to get her pregnant again.

"Have you picked out a name?"

She stares blankly at the doctor, thrown off by the sudden inquisitiveness.

"A name?" The contractions were more frequent than before, one after another and she could hardly think straight.

"For the baby," he says, "Talk to me Satine, it'll help distract you."

She wants to laugh and tell him that she doesn't think anything can distract from this, but she doesn't have the energy.

"We've discussed a few," She says, letting out a slow and measured breath, "It all depends on what if they're a boy or girl. We wanted-" She pauses and takes in a deep breath, "To wait and meet them before choosing a name."

One of the nurses wipes at her forehead with a cool rag and smooths her hair back and out of her eyes.

"Are you hoping for a boy or girl?" The doctor continues, flashing her an encouraging smile.

"I'm hoping for a healthy baby." She says, because it's true. While the idea of having a daughter who she could dote on as she got older was certainly appealing, having a mini version of Obi-Wan running around in a son warmed her heart just as much. In the end, all that mattered was that they were healthy and here with her.

"We're going to find out very shortly." He tells her, "You're fully dilated. You're going to have to start pushing."

The urge to cry over takes her; partly due to the pain, partly in anticipation to finally meeting the child she had carried for 9 months, and partly because she would have to have this baby without Obi-Wan.

"I can't." She tells him, gripping the nurses hand even tighter.

He looks at her with sympathy and she can only imagine the state she must be in, "I'm sorry Satine, but it's time. I need you to push."

She doesn't want to do this without him, but she knows they're at the point of no return. She was going to have to have this baby.

"Push." He instructs her.

The pressure in her shifts, and it suddenly feels better and worse at the same time. The rapid contractions hurt worse, but she was so exhausted and she's certain that she just didn't have the strength to do it.

"Push."

She shuts her eyes tightly and focuses all her energy on trying to push. She's gripping the nurses hand so tightly she's certain she would snap the poor girls fingers if she put anymore of her strength into it.

"Push."

But then the hand holding hers suddenly lets go and is replaced by another. One so familiar that it causes her eyes to snap open.

"Obi-Wan."

He smooths her hair back with his free hand and smiles lovingly at her, "I was on my way here when I received Padme's distress signal. I wouldn't have dared missed this."

For the first time since her contractions started she smiles and thanks whatever omnipotent force is there looking after her.

"Keep pushing Satine." The doctor instructs.

She grips Obi-Wans hand as tight as she can manage, his presence providing her with a newfound strength and she pushes with everything she has in her.

A cry fills the room.

---

When she wakes up hours later, she finds that the last few hours of daylight had came and went, leaving only the white light of the moon to illuminate the room.

Obi-Wan stands in front of the window overlooking the city, swaying gently as he stares at the bundle in his arms. A warmth spreads through her at the sight; an overwhelming wave of love so strong that she's certain it'll bring her to tears at any moment. Nothing would ever compare to watching the love of her life cradle the blessing they made together.

"Obi-Wan." She says softly.

He turns and looks at her, smiling adoringly before glancing back to the sleeping infant.

"I was wondering when you'd wake up," He says quietly, coming over to sit on the edge of her bed, "You've been asleep for a good while now."

"Giving birth does tend to tire the body out," She says with a soft laugh before focusing her attention on the infant, "She's perfect,"

He shifts their daughter into her arms without question., She feels complete; as if this was the piece that shes been missing in her life all these years.

"She has your hair," She says, brushing her fingertips over the soft auburn fuzz that decorated her head, "I was hoping she'd be a redhead like you."

He leans down and pressing a kiss to Satine's temple before coming to fully lay down beside her. She wastes no time pressing herself into his side and dropping her head on his shoulder. This was what she had always wanted, a family with the man she loved. It wasn't lost on her how lucky she was, that they very well could have lived out their separate lives and never have created something so beautiful and wonderful as their daughter.

"I love you, Satine."

This time she can't stop the tears from welling up in her eyes.

"I love you too, Obi-Wan, More than you could ever possibly know.", She looks down to her daughter, "And I love her more than I thought possible."

He nuzzles her hair with the tip of his nose, "We only had one name for a girl we both agreed on."

Satine nods, "So it's decided. Jinn Kenobi-Kryze."

He kisses her then, the first time he's been able to do so in upwards of two months and it reminds her just how much she misses him when he's gone, and how she only loves him more each time he comes home.

"She's perfect." He affirms.

And for the first time in forever, she knows everything is going to be alright.

#obitine #obi wan x satine #obitine fanfic #obitine fanfiction #obitine prompt #obitine fluff #Obitine babies #jinn!universe

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the-darklings · 4 years

Text

—𝒄𝒐𝒓 𝒂𝒖𝒕 𝒎𝒐𝒓𝒔;

—PART XIII. | COR AUT MORS

pairing: john wick x f!reader x santino d’antonio

word count: 9.2k+

summary: One look, and you know.

warnings: you will suffer x 3

notes: hot off the press! Come and enjoy your (almost) bi-weekly dose of suffering. This one is gonna get intense so strap in. As always your feedback and support are eternally appreciated even if I don’t always have time to reply to everyone individually. You’re all amazing for taking the time and helping writers out <33

children of ares series: 01 | …. | 11 | 12 | . . | 14 |

gif credit (x)

A smile twitches across Lucien’s mouth; a fleeting, haughty thing.

“Hello there,” he greets casually with a little wave. “How’s the head?”

Rotating your neck, you snap at the ties around your wrists, testing their strength. Pain flares through your wrists but the binds hold and you sigh, dragging your narrowed eyes to the tall, blonde man slowly approaching you.

It’s then that you notice where exactly you are.

Even through the pounding in your head, you recognise the too familiar warehouse. The drab, cold greyness of these walls where you and Santino where attacked only weeks ago.

Lucien grins at your delayed realisation, at your simmering rage, as he comes to a stop before you. You have to crane your head back to see his elegant features, meeting his stare head-on.

“Their first attempt was so poor that when I heard about it, I laughed,” he reveals knowingly with a small hum, and reaches out, his fingers touching your bandaged ear. He grips it lightly, a promise of pain scraping against your subconsciousness. “I heard you made that attempt look like they were toddlers. Which is why I’m so disappointed now. Frantic and distracted. You made this easy, you see, and I don’t like that. You’re different. What happened to you?”

You jerk your head from his grip, ignoring the sting of pain in your ear.

“Don’t you fucking touch me.”

Lucien pauses, his hand still hovering beside your head. He takes in your laboured breaths and glassy stare with an inquisitive frown, and you wonder if your expression is as wild as you feel. You hate how he’s looking at you.

If your hands were loose you would wrap them—

“Oh. Oh,” he breathes quietly, blinking as if dazed. He leans down abruptly, his dark eyes two bottomless pits. The light in them is feverish. “Look at you. It’s the edge, isn’t it?”

His words rip through you, leaving you gaping before you manage to control your expression.

For a second, it feels like he’s right there with you, at that crumbling edge deep inside you.

It feels so bizarrely violating you almost flinch.

“You’re insane.”

Lucien smiles an angelic smile but the devil lurks beneath those sharp edges. “Sanity is a matter of perspective,” he hums pleasantly, leaning back, his stare still keen. “And I think you know exactly what I speak of.”

You don’t have time for this.

Santino.

John.

The contract.

Something inside your gut hollows out at the recollection.

You need to get out of here.

Right now.

“Where’s dear Mika?” you question sweetly, hoping that provocation will give you a chance as you subtly tug at your binds. “Won’t she get upset you have me all tied up and alone here?”

Lucien sighs deeply, giving you a look of a disappointed parent about to scold their child.

He steps to the side, walking around you and you still immediately, ceasing your shifting as he circles you.

“My beloved is recovering,” he explains unhappily and you don’t have to see his face to hear the frown on it. “Our last meeting was rather memorable, won’t you agree?”

He leans closer, his breath brushing against your ear from behind. A beat. Then his fingertips ghost over your left temple. “I’m almost tempted to take your eye and gift it to her. But no...no. I need you hale for our next dance.”

He leans back, stepping into your line of sight again and you grit your teeth.

“Untie me, then,” you goad with a tilt of your chin. “Let’s go a few rounds.”

Lucien tuts, his dark clothes only bringing out the almost translucent paleness of his skin as he leans closer.

“No, you’re not there yet,” he says gently, his eyes inspecting you thoughtfully. “I don’t want this. I want you over the edge. I want to dance in the darkness where we are both equals. Just like we did for that one moment in the tunnels.”

His voice dips towards the end; almost an intimate caress.

But your head only tilts knowingly, and you grin sharply, “Is this the part where you torture me, Lucien? You may not like what’s left behind if you push me over the edge.”

It’s what the Lovers are known for after all.

Their rapid bloodlust.

The pale man shakes his head once, dismissive, but his eyes narrow slightly at the casual use of his real name.

“No, not at all,” he rebukes and takes a step closer, your knees almost touching. “You don’t fear pain, I can tell. You pass it out, just like I do. Who was it, I wonder?” his head tilts. “The one who taught you about the abyss below.”

God, he’s insane.

And you don’t have time for his idiotic ramblings.

The fact that you were frantic enough for him to take you this easily is already insulting enough. There is no one but yourself to blame and now—

Now you need to find a way to get loose.

The binds will hold. They clearly knew better than to leave any room for error. You can’t feel any of your weapons on your person, either.

Your coat, too, is missing.

You blink up at the man before you, wondering if you could possibly trick him into giving you what you want.

“Doesn’t matter,” you mutter and flash him another cool smile. “They’re both dead now. By my hand. Just like you will be.”

A promise, not a threat.

He won’t rest till one or both of you are dead, and you won’t rest till he’s dead. Him and his deranged girlfriend.

Lucien doesn’t react to your words though.

“Could you kill me, I wonder?” he wonders instead, curious. “I bet it would be like killing yourself.”

Shut up, shut up, shut up—

“We are nothing alike,” you hiss hotly, and this time your self-control creaks dangerously. “Despite what you would like to think. You’re—”

He explodes.

His hands slam against you as his fingers sink into your shoulder blades.

“But we are. We are!” he practically screams into your face, a loose strand of hair brushing over his forehead. His fingers constrict, desperate, but he manages to suck in a few calming breaths. “The only difference between you and I is the fact that I have made that abyss my home. My throne. What have you done? You crawled back out like a coward instead of embracing it. I can see it. The agony, the hunger, the wishful hoping that one day you won’t wake up. But oh no—no! You do wake up and the cycle repeats again.”

Yes.

The darkness.

The point of no return you had sunk down to after Tokyo, after John, after Giovanni threw you out the D’Antonio estate, ending your protection.

That pit had almost destroyed you.

It has clearly stripped whatever sanity Lucien might have held onto once.

But you chose to fight back.

You chose to crawl back into the light.

Because you had people there who had needed you, believed in you, who had cared about you enough to tell you to fight back. Who told you to stop feeling sorry for yourself and do something about your situation instead of giving up.

If it weren’t for Winston and Santino and Ares and Charon and—

If it weren’t for them you would be dead or worse.

You would have become like Lucien.

You had become like him. No matter how briefly.

The slaughter that had made your name.

The transformation from “John Wick’s partner” and “protege” and “little girl” to The Vipress.

“Do you know about Shódigan?”

The sudden question snaps you out of your thoughts, and you ignore the way Lucien’s bony fingers sink into your skin with enough force to bruise.

His faint French accent warps the word into a curse; hateful and harsh.

Trying not to show your discomfort, you give him a dispassionate, “Yes.”

The man leans closer till you’re face-to-face but he seems calmer now, his expression serene.

“You know...everyone who has ever found out about it, I’ve torn apart. Slowly. Piece by piece,” he reveals with a faint laugh. “Not because I cared that they knew but because they…they could never understand. But you do. You know what it is to be so desperate and so afraid that you would do anything to live and anything to die.”

“So you think that just because the system failed you that gives you the right to become a maniac?”

Your immediate retort gives him a pause before he reaches forward, cupping your face in his hands instead, the sharpness of his digits sinking into the flesh of your cheeks.

“You’re not listening—”

You try to drag yourself out of his grip but it only constricts again.

Something dark gleams in his eyes at your struggle.

“Oh, but I am,” you spit out, glaring right at him. “The poor little orphan boy. People tried to help you again and again but you didn’t want it. I bet it was easy to like her after she killed for you.”

Dear Mika. With her clever mind and her pretty face.

But killing one’s parents for some maniac—

“It was,” Lucien admits easily, unfazed. He finally releases his grip on you, stepping back, his head slanting mockingly. “But are you any different, viper? How many have you slaughtered? I bet you delight in it as much as I do. In fact, I know you do. For a split second in those tunnels, you wanted me more than dead. You wanted me to be ruined. Torn apart. You said it and meant it. You see, we are exactly alike.”

For a moment you only stare at each other.

“Too bad the Dragon wants me dead.”

He says nothing, a faint frown twisting his elegant features at the reminder.

You lean forward as far as the chair allows you.

“I will make you a deal,” you begin and lick your lips to steady yourself. “Let me go now. There is something I must do and it’s urgent. But once that’s dealt with…”

You smile grimly.

“Once that’s dealt with, you pick a place and a time. No running, no tricks. Just you and me. You want to dance with me, Lucien? I’m inclined to indulge you. But I need you to let me go now.”

You need to get to Santino.

You need to talk him out of this stupid, foolish, vengeance-seeking plan of his.

Whatever it takes to get to him now, you will do.

John will wait.

But only for so long when he’s being hunted by everyone in New York.

Only so long after Santino sent Ares and his men after him in the catacombs.

Lucien stalks closer; a tall, looming figure, and you notice how his right palm rests against the spot where you drove your blade into him. His fingertips trace over the spot almost obsessively.

His eyes are pitch black as he smiles faintly.

You see it coming but can’t react to it with your hands bound.

A needle sinks into your neck and you gasp, jerking in your seat.

Lucien grips your hair, pressing his lips against your ear and breathes a handful of words that get lost in the rush of sudden dizziness.

No—

It shouldn’t be possible. You’re the Vipress. You have trained against this.

It—

“—sends his regards.”

Numbness spreads through you at a frightening rate and your head droops to the side.

“Let her know that I have the Viper.”

Inky darkness drags you down and then there’s nothing.

“—they tried to take her during the Hunt but, well, it didn’t work out.”

“Why?”

“Because she went to Camorra, dipshit. Who the hell goes up against Camorra?”

“I thought Camorra didn’t like outsiders though? They’re traditionalists.”

“Yeah, well, she befriended the heirs from what I’ve heard. Exceptions were made.”

“So Chicago was—”

A faint sigh slips past your lips as you eyes crack open, your vision blurring.

Your throat is dry, a stale taste lingering against your tongue as you try to blink away the dizziness.

What the hell—

“Woah. How is she awake?”

Footsteps.

A barrel of a Sabatti ST18 digs into your bruised shoulder and you jerk in your seat, your head snapping up to glare at the owners of those two voices.

The duo in typical Dragon tactical suits take a step back.

Your vision blurs and you shake your head again, your eyes squeezing shut for a second.

“The fuck, man?” the shorter of the two demands. “The crazy said she should be out for hours.”

“Will you calm down?” the one with the gun grumbles, shooting his partner a look. His gun lifts and he nudges your shoulder again, keeping the barrel on you. “She’s the Vipress. Makes sense that whatever shit he gave her is not as effective on her. You’ve heard the stories. We’re fine. She’s still out of it.”

The first one shifts in his spot, uneasy. “Man, we should call for backup. Get the crazy here to handle her.”

“She’s harmless—”

You ram into the man in front of you.

“Shit!”

The chair beneath you drags you to the side, tipping abruptly, and you crash to the floor. Pain flares through your side but you loosen your tied legs, slamming your knee into the second man’s groin. The hit throws his aim, a bullet sailing past you and hitting the concrete instead. The man curses, and you spot the second one grappling for his gun.

Your hands—

Shit.

They won’t come loose and you wiggle on the ground, kicking yourself backwards to slide across the floor to buy precious seconds. Pulling yourself away from the chair, you curl into a ball, trying to push your legs over your tied arms.

The first man stumbles to his feet, aiming wildly in your direction—

Crack.

The sickening crunch of a broken neck echoes, ripping through the vast space of the hanger like a bomb going off.

The man collapses like someone simply turned off his motor function, revealing another tall man standing where the soldier once did.

A lit cigarette between his lips, the newcomer aims and shoots the second man before he even manages to get back onto his knees, his brain scattering in a gory mess.

You stare. Wide-eyed and speechless.

“Hector?” you croak out, confused, your voice raspy as you squint up at the looming figure.

The man doesn’t acknowledge you at first. He takes a deep drag of his cigarette instead, letting the loose smoke escape past his full lips in small wisps, considering.

“Never thought these dumb fucks will shut up,” he grouses, irritated. “Fuck me. I have brain damage.”

His pale eyes finally drag to you and he stares at you on the ground for a beat. “What are you doing down there? Get up.”

Rolling on your side, you push yourself onto your knees, shaking your head to clear it. Whatever Lucien gave you is leaving your system quickly but everything still feels…mushy.

How the hell did he even manage to find something that would knock you out is beyond you.

“How did you find me?”

“I followed the sound of bullshit.”

You stagger to your feet, glaring at him as you work on the binds on your hands. Hector watches your sluggish movements with a faint frown before exhaling sharply and dropping his cigarette, stomping on it. He steps closer, watching your reaction to his approach. A small butterfly knife appears between his fingers and he cuts through the restraints easily.

You watch the colourful lines of tattoos curving around his neck blankly while he works.

Wings across his throat. You wonder why wings.

“Good old Santi forced me on guard duty,” he says after a moment, the last of the ropes binding your hands falling to the floor. “I wasn’t about to lug your unconscious ass through New York though.”

Santino.

Your eyes snap to the windows and you suck in a shaky breath when you realise that it’s dark outside. When you spoke to Lucien there had been a faint pink light emitting through the murky windows. Like dawn. But now, only darkness can be seen outside.

Oh God.

How long have you been here?

How much time has been wasted?

“Where is he?”

Hector pauses, his eyebrows arching at your desperate question. “Shouldn’t you care more about the fact that The Lovers—”

“Where is he, Hector?”

He hesitates. He knows you’re not one for panic. “Relax. Your Little Saint is fine. He’s rushed his coronation, so probably enjoying the company of rich bastards ready to kiss his ass all night long.”

“Call the guard,” you force out, choked, unsteady. “Right now, Hector.”

He rolls his eyes, flipping his knife and placing it back inside his suit. “I told you—”

“He opened a contract for John Wick.”

“So?”

“So,” you bite out furiously. “John will come for him.”

Hector makes a small noise at the back of his throat; rough and dismissive. “John Wick is one man, and Santino is the new head of Camorra.”

Your fingers latch onto his forearm, your nails digging in and he tenses, his gaze sharpening at the threatening gesture.

“It doesn’t matter. You have no idea what John is capable of,” you exhale shakily. “You think you do, but you don’t. This isn’t me looking down on you or Camorra or anyone. But you need to call the guard right now. I need to get to Santino right now or he won’t survive past the next 24hr. If it’s not already—”

Too late.

It could be.

Something cold, downright harrowing, scrapes through your heart at the mere thought.

Hector roughly yanks his arm back, his stare more cutting now, assessing. “I snuck in. But if you want speedy we’ll have to force our way out. The Male Lover has left to check on his squeeze but he will be back soon. He’s expecting someone.”

“Are you asking me if I’m ready to kill people after me?” you wonder bitingly, glancing around for your things.

Hector has that covered though. He offers his earlier knife and a Glock 30S with a sardonic twist of his lips but you grab them without hesitation. While a shitty pistol with 10 rounds is hardly going to be ideal for this situation, it doesn’t matter. You will take what you can get.

“What was—”

You shoot without hesitation but your aim is still unsteady, and the bullet hits the soldier that’s appeared in the shoulder instead.

Hector finishes him off with a single headshot.

His eyes swing to you but you step past him before he can say anything.

You’ve used this warehouse multiple times, and you move through the space with familiarity, trying to snap yourself out of your daze.

Terror curdles your stomach but you fight it back.

Hector falls in step beside you easily, towering, and you distantly recall that this is only your second time ever working with him.

Neither of you talk. There is no need. You both know exactly what to do.

Kill.

The one thing you’re both best at.

You stumble upon a small group of Dragon’s men moments later, and they’re dead before they can reach for their weapons.

This time your aim is steadier.

You still feel Hector tracking your movements with a critical, merciless eye though.

The sounds of gunfire attract attention as expected, and you hear more footsteps hurry in your direction.

Hector doesn't speak, doesn’t look at you.

He simply moves, and where he goes death follows.

He cuts through the Dragon’s men like cutting through wheat. All murderous, focused intent that’s fascinating and terrifying to watch. He makes death look easy. Effortless.

Much like John, much like you, he has a gift of death—and he knows exactly how to use it.

He grabs one man by the arm, cracking his knee upwards in a too familiar manner that shatters the man’s elbow.

Copycat.

That’s your move.

If you had enough oxygen in your lungs, you would say so. But it’s a bit hard to speak with someone holding you in a chokehold.

Leaning back on your heels, you hook your foot on the man’s ankle, kicking his feet from underneath him. The grip around your throat loosens and you drive a knife backwards, blindly aiming for the liver. The easiest spot to hit from your current position.

The man gurgles, and you shove him backwards, freeing your bloodied blade with a gasp of breath.

The man blindly grapples for the wound, his fingers stained scarlet but it’s too late. He will be dead within minutes. You turn towards Hector and find the man readjusting his crumpled suit, scowling in your direction.

“What the fuck was that?”

“What?”

“I knew the situation was bad but not this bad,” he retorts icily, looking you up and down like he’s repulsed. “Slow. Sloppy. Since when do you struggle with simple Dragon goons?”

You stalk closer to him, wiping the bloodied blade against your dark pants. “They’re highly trained—”

“Cut the bullshit,” Hector interrupts, his stare narrowing on you. Bodies lay at his feet. None of them move. “That was miserable to watch. You looked like you were barely keeping up.”

“It might have escaped your notice but I was drugged only hours ago, asshole.”

“What happened to that woman in Prague who took down an entire crime syndicate simply because they took Santino, huh?” comes his harsh question as he marches towards you. “Have you fallen asleep? Died somewhere along the way? Or are you gonna cry how your life is so hard and that’s why you’re so shit lately?”

You know you’ve been slipping.

You’ve been aware of your decline for a while now.

Every person has a threshold. Only so much they can handle both physically, emotionally and mentally. The last few weeks have been a hurricane of one thing after another, hit after hit. An onslaught of loss and pain and confusion. Of being torn at all sides and it’s been eroding you away.

That’s why after the tunnels you had agreed to rest. No matter how much it had demanded from you.

Because everything has been building up and it’s taken a toll on you.

Because that ruthless calm that you have used to shield yourself in the past has been crumbling away lately, leaving you vulnerable.

But you sure as hell don’t owe an explanation to him.

Not right now.

“You know what?” you bite out, your voice a sharpened blade. “Get fucked, Hector. I don’t need your condescending bullshit right now.”

His mouth twists. “Sorry, sweetheart,” he shoots back, bored. “I’m a busy man. You will have to schedule something.”

You almost go for his jugular, then.

Prick. Prick. Prick.

His arm slams into you suddenly, shoving you to the ground and you both roll across the floor as shots ring through the empty space. He turns to face the attackers at once, every move expertly controlled as he aims. Unloading an entire clip at the men who had rushed through the doorway, he glances your way once. Silent communication. Your arm extends, pistol in hand, counting his shots in your head. He draws blank, but the last two men fall by your bullets instead. Easy transition.

Your arm trembles as it hovers over Hector’s broad shoulder and he reloads smoothly, glancing at you once.

“Go.”

Ignoring the stench of death and blood in the air, you glance his way. Hector doesn’t look at you again though.

“Are you deaf?” he demands coldly after you don’t move. “There’s too many of them here. If Santino is really in danger, you need to go now. Besides, you will only slow me down.”

The last part is a purposeful dig that drips with disdain but you chose to ignore it just this once.

“Where?”

His piercing, pale eyes find yours in the dim light. “You already know where.”

Flavio stares at you like he’s seeing a ghost.

You suppose with how you look and feel after the last few days, to him you are no better than an animated dead corpse.

The party is in full swing by now but Flavio is the first of Santino’s security that you have encountered.

You had gotten here in record time.

You’ve left Hector to deal with the Dragon’s men and potentially Lucien whenever he returns. But if anyone could take on the Male Lover, it’s the Camorra’s Devil. Instead, you had backtracked and shot out one of the warehouse windows before climbing out of it while Camorra’s best covered your escape.

Your phone was missing after the explosion, leaving you unable to contact either Santino or John or even Winston.

So you had decided to sprint straight for the Metropolitan Museum where Santino’s coronation was being held. There had been only one stop on the way. A tiny, dingy alleyway located between 66th Street and 2nd Avenue. A safe spot for some gear, namely a pistol with two spare clips and a vial of paralyser with a few sharpened blades. Minimal, but it will have to do. Safe spots dotted along the city was another trick you had picked up from John years ago.

God, you hope he’s safe. That he’s actually listened to you.

But—

That grim look on his face.

The resolute shift of his entire body when he learned about the contract.

You are on borrowed time.

And John is a storm that will tear everything apart without hesitation once it hits.

Still, seeing Flavio and the party in full swing gives you a nearly overwhelming sense of relief.

Because it means that Santino is here and he is safe. For now.

“Where is he?”

Flavio gawks openly, his lips slightly parted before he blinks his surprise away.

“I thought you were in Rome—”

You grab him by the lapel of his white suit, jerking his entire body forward. “I asked you where the fuck he is.”

The dark-haired man in front of you scowls. “Great Hall.”

Your fingers loosen at once, and you stagger away from him and towards your target. Breathe in and out. Sweat coats your skin, your head ringing, and you can’t begin to imagine how bad you must look right now. Still, security knows your face and lets you pass with only a few, startled looks shared between them.

You need to find him.

The Great Hall is full of people. Even without it being a coronation held with former planning, ascension to the High Table is a rare and high honour. Especially when it’s the new head of Camorra that’s being crowned. It feels like all the rich, powerful people in this city have gathered here tonight to pay tribute. A few faces you spot in the crowd are familiar. Presenting different families and seats at the table. Others you have never seen.

You push through them all, your eyes frantically jumping from face to face.

Where are you, where are you, where—

Your shoulder bumps against someone and you stumble, thrown off of your balance for a second.

The woman in front of you is stunning. With glossy pitch-black curls and piercing blue eyes, she stands almost half a head taller than you. Her blood red lips part before a thoughtful look takes over her features and she adjusts her flowing crimson gown with a simple sweep of her palm. Though she easily has at least 20 years on you, she is the type of woman that makes people look twice.

“My apologies, dear, I wasn’t paying attention.”

“It’s fine.”

Your eyes are already back to sweeping over the crowd and you step forward—

Fingers lock around your wrist and you yank your hand back at once, your eyes cutting back to the refined woman in warning. She blinks at your hostility but doesn’t seem offended as her eyes flicker over your dishevelled appearance.

“You won’t happen to be the Vipress?” she wonders softly, a faint accent lacing her words that you can’t quite place. “I have heard so much about—”

“Look, no offence, but I really don’t have time for this right now,” you cut her off, brushing past her. “Maybe next time.”

You walk away without another word, pushing through the crowd. Few people give you indignant looks when you shove past them too harshly but you ignore them.

Everywhere you look, there are people but none of them bear the face of the one you need right now.

Where are you, grumpy—

There.

It stops you for a few breaths—actually seeing him.

Santino is in his element. Expensive, crisp suit on and charisma oozing from every inch of him as he chats with some woman. Conversation flows easily if Santino deems you interesting enough—which is few and far in-between—but tonight is his night.

He is the sun holding this system together and he revels in it.

A prince finally crowned a king.

You take a step towards him and then another, and as if he feels you drilling holes into him, his head tilts in your direction absently.

His eyes brush over you before he does a double-take.

Like a magnet being pulled, his body swings to face you, his previous companion forgotten as he watches you approach.

The softening of his features hardens with every step.

He tallies the injuries mentally and the look in your eyes makes his own narrow.

You need to tell him a thousand things but the only thing you do manage is a weak, “Santino.”

He meets you halfway, his hands sliding into his pockets as he regards you intently. A shield, an armour.

“Hello, amore,” he greets but his demeanour is cagey, his voice low. He clearly still has your last conversation playing on his mind. But anger can wait till later. “Your head—”

His hand lifts, his thumb tracing over your brow and you hold back a flinch, your face crumpling in pain.

Your fingers latch onto his own when he pulls back, and frankly, you don’t give a shit if anyone is looking and seeing this. Don’t give a shit what they might think—

“Don’t do this,” you breathe, clutching onto his hand desperately. His fingers fold over yours, too, but his expression is hard, understanding blooming in wake of your words. “Recall the contract. If you don’t, John will come for you. You’re smarter than this. You have Camorra. Don’t waste it all now. Let’s get out of here. Go to Paris. Right—right now if you want. Just come with me. Please. Don’t risk everything for some petty revenge, Santino—”

“You would still—”

“This isn’t about him! I’m trying to protect you.”

He pauses at the splutter of your voice, at the way it cracks with desperation, with pain. Those familiar green eyes seem conflicted, heavy, as they track over your face, and he swallows.

Tears burn your eyes, and you feel them spill, at last, trailing down your cheeks. Weeks of pent up emotion manifesting itself in the simplest, most human way possible.

Something about the stiff, unyielding set of his face eases a touch when he notices your tears. You know he hasn’t seen you cry since Chicago. That it’s been years and he simply does not associate such things with you because you’ve rarely allowed him to see you like this.

“Please,” you plead faintly, trying to steady yourself, trying to convince him. “Please, don’t—don’t make me bury you, too.”

The last sentence is a strangled mess but he exhales sharply at your words, his lips thinning into a firm line.

You’ve lost so much.

All you’ve been doing all your life is lose.

Your parents, too many friends.

You’re so tired of being alone.

Left behind. A second choice. Or no choice at all.

So you will demand this. Even if it means you have to make him choose—the one thing you promised you will never make him do.

A simple decision.

Between you and his pride. Between his need for revenge, for more control, over what you want and need.

Santino is silent.

His expression is stony as he peers at you, seemingly lost in thought. But there is something about the light in his eyes that makes a heavy weight form in the pit of your stomach. The guttering dread you’ve felt ever since learning about the contract returns tenfold.

Santino’s hand slips out of your grip.

The soft melody of the party washes over you both as you stare at each other not saying anything.

Perhaps saying everything.

His thumb brushes under your eye, your tears staining his finger and his jaw ticks, his stare stormy.

You know that look.

That look of pride; a look of regretful goodbye.

Your hand presses on top of his, flattening his heated palm against one side of your face. Your eyes squeeze shut as you shake your head slightly, your fingers trembling.

He’s still warm.

And you are, for the first time in a very long time, afraid.

“Please, you p-promised.”

I will never abandon you.

Another strangled breath rattles out of his chest. Quiet enough that only you hear it.

An uneven breath.

Followed by another.

The melody swells.

Your eyes crack open, your sight blurring.

One look, and you know.

“Very well, amore,” he says quietly, meeting your helpless stare. “I choose you.”

You feel them.

Those words.

They roll over you like a warm wave, momentarily washing everything else away.

He doesn’t look happy to admit this defeat, but he means it.

choose

you

That’s all you’ve ever wanted. All you’ve ever dreamt about. Someone placing your wishes first.

The noise you make—feeble and choked—makes him take another step towards you, barely any distance between you now.

“So you’ll—you’ll call it off?”

He nods once, his mouth twisting into an unhappy line but his stare is earnest as he gazes at you. His fingers keep brushing against your tear-stained cheek, drying the skin but you hardly register the gesture or care about anyone looking.

Right now, it might as well be just you two in this gallery, in this world.

“Yes.”

You almost crumble in relief.

But all you do is exhale, your shoulders drooping as you lean into his touch just for a second.

“I figured I could live with it,” he says softly and your eyes flutter open. “With you hating me. Mhm, perhaps even killing me. But it seems…that I just really want to take you to Paris instead, cara mia.”

His mouth twitches into a slight grin at your huff of laughter.

“It seems my father was right,” he continues, his thumb now tracing over the arch of your cheek, all tenderness. “I am weak.”

“You’re not,” you disagree and give him a smile, even if frayed around the edges. “You did what he couldn’t.”

He did what no one in his family has ever done.

Step over his pride.

Change his mind.

Place something above his own ambition just this once.

Something that even you didn’t think he would ever do till the very last second.

“We could go now.”

His eyes flicker, heated. “Right now?”

You nod.

He leans towards you and for a second you think he will kiss you but he stops himself halfway. His tongue swipes over his lower lip once and he swallows unsteadily.

Looks at you like near isn’t nearly close enough.

“I can get the jet ready to leave in an hour.”

He says it like he’s expecting you to change your mind.

But you want as much distance between him and John as possible until the contract is lifted.

And maybe you just really want to say to the hell with all of this and escape for a bit, too.

Maybe—

“Okay.”

His fingers slide down, brushing against your jaw and neck, lingering on your skin. “Yes?”

You meet his searching, guarded gaze evenly. “Take me away from here.”

His lips part and you can almost feel his shallow exhale. You certainly feel the heat of his stare as he keeps looking over you—like he can’t get enough of it, like he can’t quite believe this.

His lips part—

A hush falls over the gallery.

The music cuts off abruptly.

Your head jerks towards the sound of the parting crowd and something inside you ices over when it reveals John.

Your body twists instinctively at the look on his face. At the darkness of those eyes, scrutinising Santino like a predator does with his prey.

Your John is not here.

The one standing before you now is Baba Yaga.

You take a step in front of Santino.

The Italian places his fingers against the crook of your elbow as if to stop you, but you tug your arm away from him, not taking your eyes away from John.

You just need to talk with him.

Explain that it’s over. Finally, it’s over.

He can rest. Be free.

You both can finally be free.

John looks at you eventually but you can’t quite read his expression.

Santino’s guards are surrounding him but they will be nothing but tissue paper for the man in front of you.

His face is littered with cuts and bruises that tell a colourful tale of the last 24hr but you never doubted him. His skill is seldom matched. You can count on one hand the individuals who have a shot at all.

“Get to the Continental,” you instruct Santino calmly while the Great Hall seems to hold its breath, waiting to see what will happen next. “Find Winston. Call off the contract. Go, Santino.”

He doesn’t get to reply.

Your draw is a second behind John’s.

Screams explode through the air as gunfire rains through the gallery. You shove at Santino blindly, covering him, and John’s attention snaps to the guards instead.

He doesn’t miss.

Four shots, four dead.

Blood spatters everywhere and he rushes ahead, determined, only to be met with a shot at his feet.

John halts, frowning.

You don’t aim your pistol at him. You just need him to stop.

“(Name).”

He practically growls your name, angry and warning, but he doesn’t move closer. He doesn’t want to hurt you, or fight you, and it’s clear in his dark eyes. In the pleading look he’s directing at you—a plea for you to step aside. Let him go on his mission and exact his justice.

But not this time.

“John, it’s over,” you shout over the rush of fleeing people, angling your body to block his way. “Listen to me. Santino—”

He fires.

You wait for the pain to hit but hear a dull thud of a body dropping to the floor behind you instead.

Twisting around, you watch as more guards rush into the room but you hesitate.

A few seem to pause at the sight of you, too.

But John fires twice more—another two dead, just that easy for him—before running out of bullets. The guards scramble and unleash their own gunfire in reply.

You throw yourself to the side, firing back, but purposely hitting legs and shoulders. Enough to wound and momentarily disable but not kill.

Some of those faces are familiar to you.

You can’t—

John has no such reservations though. He steals gun after gun, clip after clip, emptying each with such deadly focus that it reminds you of the man you first met.

No mercy. No reservations. A shadow of a being.

As if he’s truly Death given human form, and there is no escaping him now.

His legs wrap around a guard’s neck and a bullet to the temple follows seconds later. He jerks at the sound of another shot sailing over his head but it’s too late. A body crumples to the floor behind him, and John finds you in the scramble, his stare wary despite the save.

“John!” you scream his name as he rounds a corner, disappearing from your sight and you dash after him. “Stop! John—”

You round the corner, only for him to grab and shove you against the wall, firing at the guards rushing through the hallway and directly at you.

His body heat presses into yours, covering you, and you fire shots too. Even if it makes you feel queasy doing so.

You grab him and his attention snaps to you.

Physically this is the closest you’ve been in years. The irony of it all doesn’t escape you.

“Will you just listen to me!” you hiss at him when he tries to wrench his arm out of your ironlike grip. “It’s over.”

“The contract is still open,” John rasps unevenly, his voice as dark as the look in his eyes. Strands of his raven hair stick to his sweaty forehead but he looks wild. Terrible. Godly. “He won’t stop, (Name). Even you weren’t enough to change his mind. He will never stop. This is who he is and I will finish this. Do not stand in my way. Not you.”

His eyes soften at the last part as he peers at you.

So he has no idea what happened to you.

That you got here only minutes before him.

“Listen to me,” you plead urgently, pulling him closer till you’re face-to-face. “Santino will c—”

A shot whistles past your ear, and John jerks your body to him, turning so that next two bullets hit his back instead. Your arm snaps out, shooting the assailant over his shoulder. This time, you aim for the head.

More guards rush in your direction, forcing you two to split apart and John growls under this breath, previous softness long gone.

He just pushes forward.

You’re slowed down by the mere fact that you make a conscious effort to not kill anyone else. And indeed, most guards seem to know better, only trying to hold you back and kill John instead.

It’s a desperate job trying to catch up with him. He’s barrelling through everything and anything in his path with single-minded focus.

You knock your pistol against an unfamiliar man’s temple and he collapses gracelessly to the floor.

At least he will live.

“Welcome to the Reflection of the Soul—”

You ignore the too pleasant, automatic female voice as the glass door opens and you rush through it. Now only armed with blades. Your pistol became obsolete three guards ago.

“John?”

There’s no sign of the man anywhere. Further into the maze you go, twisting through reflections and strobe lights dancing across every reflective surface to a dizzying degree. The woman keeps narrating the concept of perceiving one’s soul through observation of one’s reflection.

And then.

You throw yourself towards the sound of a distant struggle and stagger onto a floating staircase. Below, you see two familiar men on the floor.

“John, no!”

Roberto.

You sprint down the stairs, your ankles quivering from the strain as you stumble hurriedly downwards, ignoring the other dead body. The two men keep twisting on the ground, rolling, and even though Roberto has both the height and the mass advantage, John is simply another league.

He pushes a gun towards Roberto’s head and this time you don’t waste time with words.

BANG

You hit the floor, your arms around John and he pushes you away, twisting to stand. He relaxes once he realises that it’s you but a gasp of pain draws your attention before you can speak.

Roberto is clutching at his chest, and even beneath the thick beard, you see his features contorting with agony.

“Roberto?” you whisper worriedly, stumbling towards him. You fall onto your knees, trying to turn him over but he shoves you away. “Roberto!”

He stills at the snarl of your voice and his eyes crack open. “V?”

“It’s me,” you reassure him, and watch in horror as dark blood pools from beneath his fingers. “It’s okay. I will help you—just—let me look. Keep pressure on it. Are you hurt anywhere else?”

The man groans with a nod. 6’2 but he seems smaller, then. Diminished.

It takes you another moment to realise that it’s quiet. Too quiet.

Your head jerks to look behind you but John is nowhere to be seen.

“No, no—”

Roberto grabs your hand in his. His face is pale and clammy, but there’s still strength in his grip. “Boss needs you more. Go to him, V.”

“I—I can’t just leave you.”

The man squints at you. “You have to,” he says grimly. “It’s fine. I’m a tough bastard to kill. It’s just a scratch.”

Bullshit.

This level of bleeding suggests an artery was hit.

“Hector is coming. With others,” he adds.

Yeah, and taking his sweet goddamn time.

Roberto’s breaths are deep but laboured and he squeezes your hand again. “Go to him, V. He needs you.”

You nod your head, and wrap both of your hands around his, holding them tight.

“You better not die. You still owe me that poker game.”

The large man huffs a laugh, wheezy. “Yeah, can’t forget about that.”

With one last look at him, you free your grip and lurch to your feet, following the only other exit out.

For a few minutes, you dash through the unknown. It’s so quiet aside from the automated tour guide voice that you begin fearing the worst.

Two more bodies greet you eventually. Both from Ares private guard.

Both faces are familiar and even though you have seen enough death to last you ten lifetimes, something about seeing people you know dead by John’s hand hits you differently.

You force ahead.

A door hisses in front of you.

And another.

Another opens with a gentle whistle.

And you almost fall into the scene before you.

Your reaction is instinct alone.

A blade through her hand, Ares is no match for John’s raw strength.

But with you wrapping your hands around theirs, your joined strength is just enough to still the blade centimetres from Ares’ heart.

Your leg drives into John’s knee and his grip wavers.

He stumbles back a step, and Ares crashes against the glass heavily, silently gasping. Your grip loosens before dropping, and your attention turns to the man behind you.

He tried—

“Don’t touch her,” your voice soft but the fury coating it makes him visibly hesitate. “Don’t forget you owe me.”

John stills.

“I’m calling it in,” you tell him frankly, and block Ares from his sight. “Your life debt to me. Santino’s life—that’s my price.”

His expression goes slack. You know he didn’t expect this—didn’t plan for it.

You can almost feel Winston’s spirit beside you, humming a pleased, “Checkmate.”

John’s eyes lower and you see the weight of this realisation settle onto his shoulders.

Either he lets this go or he risks dishonouring a life debt as well.

Not to some mafioso. Not to some power-hungry man.

But to you.

Quiet shuffle registers in your ears and you tense, your expression dropping as you twist around to slam yourself into Ares.

BANG

The bullet she fired at John sails to the side, hitting the glass above his head instead and you slam her uninjured arm against the wall. You stare at her wide-eyed for a beat. She’s glaring, her mouth bloodied, and the look in her blue eyes is glacial. Furious.

She knows what you’ve done.

Saved John’s life.

And the fresh scratch against her arm begins to bleed at once.

A scratch made by a blade coated in your paralyser.

A blade you were going to use as last resort against John if all else failed.

The effect is almost immediate. Her shoulders drop, her muscles relaxing and you grab her, lowering her to the ground carefully. She glares at you the entire way down. The hand with a blade still sticking through it twitches in her lap and you see her pain even if she can’t vocalise it.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper thickly. “I can’t—I can’t let you kill him.”

In reply, Ares’ eyes slide behind you and you follow her line of sight only to realise that John is no longer there.

“I called in my debt,” you remind her with a thin smile and frantically make sure that she’s not injured anywhere else. Grabbing her shoulder, you gingerly cut a part of her suit sleeve off, tying it around her palm to stop any blood loss till someone finds her. “He won’t—he—”

Your voice breaks.

Because deep down you know he would.

John always finishes his jobs. He never fails, unlike you.

John who refused a Marker to stay away from this world would.

This is who he is and I will finish this.

Unyielding. Grim.

“Santino is at the Continental by now,” you add hurriedly, for your sake more than hers, tightening the knot and Ares’ hand in yours feels heavy. “He’s safe there.”

Winston would never allow a breach of rules on his territory.

Ares pulls her hands away from you, staring at you for a hard, angry moment. The gleam in her eyes makes your stomach twist with fear.

Her hands are clumsy as she starts forming signs, using the very last of her motor functionality to give you only one message.

A slow arch of her tattooed digits.

A stab in your direction with her index finger.

Her sentence completed, she lets her hands fall back into her lap but you feel her silent words pierce you harder than any blade or any bullet ever has.

Just three simple words.

You stand hastily, your joints creaking.

Then you turn around, and run faster than you have ever ran in your entire life.

Everything is a blur.

Your legs are numb to a point you barely feel them at all. All you do feel is the weight of them carrying you forward, and the spasms of your muscles as you push them harder than you ever have.

He loves you.

Ares words cling to you like a second skin, infecting every inch of your mind and heart.

You round a corner, pushing past a crowd of tourists who whistle and shout after you but you ignore them.

He loves you.

Your lungs are on fire.

Your eyes are dry as wind beats harshly against your face.

Santino D’Antonio. The Smiling Shark. Camorra’s proud heir and now head of a criminal empire near unmatched.

He loves you.

Since when some tiny, absent part of you deep down wonders. When did that awful, selfish man even learn to love?

You can think of a thousand moments and none at all.

Chicago.

But you should mind it.

Oh, cara mia, I do. I just pretend that I don’t.

Prague.

You came for me.

You’re an asshole, Santino. That doesn’t mean I want you dead.

Naples.

I did it for you. That was me being on your side. I will always be on your side.

Or was it one of many moments over the last few weeks?

I am a patient man. I can wait.

I wanted you from the moment I saw you, and every moment since then.

The Continental appears in your line of sight and you sprint for it so fast, you trip up the stairs, wavering before you right yourself.

The doormen are absent because of the hour and you slam your hands against the door, the glass rattling upon contact.

Charon’s uneasy expression is telling enough as you sprint towards him, barely pausing but he already knows what you need, and provides you with only one word, “Lounge.”

Few guests scatter out of your way as you dash through the hallway.

There. Just ahead you can already see the warm, welcoming glow of it.

But it’s so quiet that even over the sound of your thunderous footsteps sprinting through the hallway, you still hear the faint sound of Winston’s wary voice reach you.

“Johnathan,” he speaks, his voice laced with a clear warning. “Just walk away.”

But he won’t.

You know that.

You’ve known it from the moment you saw that look on his face when he first learned about the contract.

You’ve known ever since Ares men attacked him in the catacombs.

Maybe even before that.

Maybe you’ve always known.

That dark, burning emotion that filled those eyes every time you have intervened.

He won’t hurt you. Be it because he cares for you or because he doesn’t want to fight you out of some misplaced sense of self-righteousness—it doesn’t matter. He could not bring himself to turn his hands on you the same way you didn’t want to turn yours on him.

But that doesn’t mean he will stop.

You’re not sure if he knows how to stop. If he ever has.

John Wick is a man who doesn’t walk away.

He is a man who will destroy himself or everyone else on his path to vengeance.

“Yeah, Johnathan,” Santino says, his voice soft with mockery. “Just walk—”

Your body slams against the bannisters, pain exploding everywhere, and you throw a blade with one, fleeting look and nothing else.

BANG

Stillness.

Such awful, terrible stillness. Like the building itself has released a long shuddering breath and doesn’t dare to inhale again.

The body sitting behind the table slumps slightly.

He loves you.

You don’t bother with the stairs.

You jump right over the bannister, crashing to the floor heavily.

For a moment, you stay there. Unable to stand or move.

Your legs hurt so much.

You can’t stand up.

Yes, you can. I know a woman who can do anything she puts her mind to.

Your head lifts, frantically seeking the owner of those words.

Swaying and dizzy, you half-crawl to your feet but you still rise.

Santino.

Why isn’t he—

Swear to me that you will not let my family name die. Swear to me that my line will continue after I’m gone.

I swear.

John reaches for you, his hand bleeding, but you shove it away from you without looking.

“Don’t you touch me.”

You don’t even shout. There is no energy left in you for that.

Just stillness.

Everything is so still.

“Santi?” you croak as you brace your hand against the white tablecloth, using it for support as you limp towards him. Red stains the white where your fingers touch. “Santi? Come on, grumpy. I’m here. I’m here. I came for you. Santi?”

Your hand lingers over his arm.

Nothing.

You touch his round chin.

His skin is warm.

Nothing.

Arms wrap around you, trying to pull you back and the only reason you don’t push the weight away is because you know that scent—sage, bergamot, paper, and ink with a hint of tobacco.

“Winston, Winston,” you repeat his name in a tiny, devastated mantra. “Help him. Help—Winston. Please, help.”

“Don’t look,” he tells you, almost gently, and somehow this ruthless man sounds the kindness you’ve ever heard him. “Don’t look, little hatchling.”

You ignore him.

You pull away from his grip and grab Santino’s face, turning it towards you.

And promptly flinch at the sensation against your fingers. You pull away as if burned, something hollowing out inside your heart.

The ledge crumbles, crumbles, crumbles—

The darkness below beckons; smiling and seductive.

He loves you.

Your hand turns.

Blood.

. . .

an:

#john wick #santino d'antonio x reader #john wick x reader #santino d'antonio #john wick imagine #john wick fic #riccardo scamarcio #keanu reeves #fic: children of ares

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