#perhaps tomorrow rot girls i love you

[dykedvonte]

Ghouls in mass probably crave a tenderness and kindness they can no longer feel or give out. They are repulsive just in the sense of what they are, dead people who didn't quit die, corpses allowed to walk and think past their atomic burial. They reek. They are falling apart. They have no skin to caress, no lips to purse in disgust or lay upon a partner or friend. They are not allotted the kindness of community we see in the settlements. They band together to share their pain, marked by what they once were and never asked who they could continue to be.

[redbullgirly]

Hellooo 👋, can you write enemies to lovers with fernando alonso maybe with some angst? 🤭

It's totally alright if you don't want to! Thankssss :))

EL DESTINO [FA14 oneshot]

Fernando Alonso x reader

Masterlist

Summary: Y/N works for Alpine, and even though Fernando Alonso isn't part of the team anymore, they can't forget their distaste for each other. The driver seems to think she's just an irresponsible party girl and Y/N doesn't like him because he's, well... annoying and mean and doesn't care about anybody but himself. Though could they be both wrong in their prejudices?

Word Count: 4.5k

Warnings: Not much, maybe they're kind of mean to each other and stupid at the start, but that's the point of enemies to lovers, right? XD

Author's Note: Hello Anon and thank you for the request! I didn't expect it to turn out so long, but hey XD. I hope you and everybody else will like it. Also I tried for a little bit of angst, but I'm not sure if I'm good at it... you can let me know :).

If anyone could read your thoughts at the moment, you’d probably end up locked behind bars and with the key from your cell thrown far away. Whoever's great idea was to allow the group of inexperienced interns to touch the important data and statistics deserved to rot seven feet underground. Chopped into small pieces. And doused in poison that eats their lifeless body until there's nothing left.

Okay, that's maybe a bit too violent, but still not far from the truth.

You rubbed your tired eyes, not caring about smudging the mascara anymore. There was basically no one left in the building, just a few mechanics desperately needing the cars to be in perfect condition tomorrow – or should we say today? And then there was you, who stupidly agreed to fix the disaster caused by too much excitement and not enough cautiousness. You knew the interns didn't do it on purpose, and blaming them wasn't going to help you, but still. It wasn't them who had to sit there long after their working hours ended, staring into a too bright computer screen.

When you finally managed to save all the damaged data, it was almost three in the morning, and before you made it back to the hotel, you weren't sure if it was even worth going to bed. Because of the emergency, you didn't have time to finish your usual duties. And even though it wouldn't be fair to want the analysis from you, that wasn't how the game was played in motorsport.

Legs almost giving out under you, you dragged yourself to the elevator. The poor lady sitting at the receptionist desk looked at you skeptically, but didn't say anything as you stepped in and pressed the button with the number of your floor on it. Generic music started playing, numbing your brain even more.

The metal door was about to close, but then a hand came between it. Before you blinked and processed what's happening, a man slipped into the elevator right next to you, pressing his own number.

You see, everything could have been fine. You could've just survived the thirty seconds of embarrassing silence, then mumble a polite goodbye and go to sleep in peace. But no. Fate apparently had other plans for you.

Because as the man turned to you and the bright light hit his face, you realized it wasn't just some stranger.

Suddenly, the silence shifted from the normal elevator weirdness to tension. You pressed your lips together, silently cursing the higher power that decided to mess with your life just today, when you looked like a zombie. With smudged mascara. Perfect.

For someone, maybe it would be a fulfilled dream to be in an elevator with Fernando Alonso. Two time World Champion, great driver, loved person. And a dickhead that almost ruined your whole career.

“You look like you had a wild night,” he murmured with a thick Spanish accent. You narrowed your brows, trying to control the anger bubbling inside of you. Was he trying to insult you? You wouldn't even be surprised.

“Perhaps I did, thank you very much.” Your voice lacked any signs of friendliness, clearly trying to provoke him. It was quite funny, really, how a minute ago you didn't have energy to think clearly, and now you were ready to argue with this man over anything. Almost like the magic of despising someone.

You noticed his jaw tensing and knew it wouldn't be good. But still, his words hurt: “Maybe if you focused more on doing your job instead of wild nights out, Alpine would do better.”

The sting in your chest was strong, but by some miracle the elevator finally stopped, and the robotic voice announced the twenty-sixth floor. Even life itself took pity on you, it seemed.

Without any other word, you turned away from Alonso and walked into the empty hallway, hearing a quiet scoff and then the door sliding closed again behind you, leaving you all alone in the darkness. How poetic.

Every door you passed looked exactly the same, and you just hoped you remembered your room number correctly.

You didn't even remember taking out the card and entering your temporary home for the weekend. You didn't remember taking your clothes off, removing the remaining makeup with a tissue because you were too tired for your usual skin care routine. You didn't remember responsibly setting up your alarm and then falling into the soft mattress.

All you could remember before the exhaustion took over were his words that cut deeper than he thought, and deeper than you'd like to admit.

-----

You couldn't believe it.

As you walked out of the debrief, you could basically feel everybody's frustration crawling up your spine, mixing with your own. The team, all the mechanics and engineers, pit crew members and marketing, hundreds of people worked so hard the whole week. And for what?

It was already bad when both cars didn't finish the last Grand Prix in Silverstone. But for it to happen again? That was downright embarrassing. Not only did it bring exactly zero points in the Constructors' Championship, but the drivers were angry, disappointed. You could see that in the team, the motivation level decreased quickly. And honestly, you couldn't blame them.

Last year, Alpine was the fourth-best car on the grid. Best of the rest, as they'd call it. But this season, everything was going terribly. You honestly weren't far from crying.

To lighten up the mood, some of your colleagues decided to enjoy a night out in Budapest before you'd have to fly to Belgium tomorrow, to prepare for yet another racing weekend. At first, you declined the offer, insisting you needed to catch up on some work, do analysis for the car and figure out exactly what happened to it. But then, one of the mechanics you were friendlier with saw your drooping shoulders, and pulled you into the club despite all your weak protests.

Soon enough, you let loose and after an hour, you were a few drinks in. Your head was spinning, a big smile planted on your lips and giggles coming out of your mouth uncontrollably. Not that you had low alcohol tolerance, but the last time you got properly drunk was some time ago. Perhaps you just forgot how it felt. The freedom, the sweet mist of oblivion clouding your mind.

Currently, you were sitting at the bar, sipping on a cocktail. You already enjoyed your time on the dance floor, which tired you more than expected. Thank God you went to the club right from the paddock, so instead of high heels that'd kill your feet, you had comfortable sneakers on.

As you waved at the young barman to give you another round of whatever he mixed for you before, you felt someone's eyes on your back. You didn't bother to turn around, thinking it was just another drunken man checking out half of the women in the club.

Then, someone stood behind you. “The drink's on me, hermosa,” the man said, voice smooth like honey. You froze. You knew that deep, thick Spanish accent too well. What the hell was Alonso doing here?

He clearly mistook your silence for an impressed one, or so you thought when he came to sit down next to you, his hand gently brushing your back. That was the moment you turned your head towards him, eyes wide, and his face dropped. So did yours.

You hoped for a split second you could pretend you were total strangers randomly meeting in a bar for just a little longer when he instantly frowned and his demeanor changed from charming gentleman to pain in the ass.

“Y/L/N,” he uttered it in a way that made you wonder if there was something wrong with your last name. “Guess I shouldn't be surprised to see you here.”

And here it was — the instant wave of anger and hurt he managed to bring up by just a few poking words.

“Says the right person.” You rolled your eyes, the flowing feeling the alcohol gave you before now gone. You felt like you were going to be sick. “I bet if it wasn't me you tried to hit on, you'd bring the poor woman to your hotel room tonight.”

“Careful, or you might sound jealous.”

“Oh, you wish, Alonso,” you laughed humorlessly. 

The bartender chose that moment to bring you the requested cocktail you already forgot about. You gave him the cash, though you had no intention of actually drinking it. As always, Alonso left a sour taste in your mouth.

“I see you're drinking the team problems away,” he pressed harder, knowing damn well it was a sensitive topic. You gritted your teeth, reminding yourself to be the better person.

Then you looked into his dark eyes, and your self-control was gone. For some reason, you couldn't stand the look he was giving you. It was full of something that was too similar to disappointment. You hated people being disappointed in you, even if you hated that very person.

Out of nowhere, the alcohol kicked in, and you remembered why you didn't drink in clubs too often — it made you emotional. So stupidly sensitive that you couldn't stop your eyes from tearing up. You shook your head, opened your mouth, wanting to tell him something. Anything that'd make him just as much hurt as you were.

Instead, you bit your trembling lip and abruptly stood up. You almost knocked over the bar stool, though at the moment, you didn't really care.

Was it cowardly to run away from him and his harsh words? Yes, you knew that. But you did it in the elevator, and so you could do it again.

In a rush, you got through other people enjoying their night out, oblivious to the lump forming in your throat.  You needed to get out, breathe in the fresh air and just forget about everything.

It was probably nearing midnight, and even though it was late July, you still shivered when you stepped outside the club. Just then you remembered you left your jacket back in the paddock. And you also realized the mechanic and his group of friends drove you here, and you had no idea where you were or how to get to your hotel room.

“Great. Just fucking perfect,” you mumbled to yourself, a few tears running down your cheeks. You wiped them away, willing yourself to calm down. Budapest couldn't be too different from other European cities, so you'd just walk to the nearest public transport station and then see what you could do from there. Yes, that was exactly what you're going to do, and it's going to be okay.

Having a plan calmed you down, at least a little. You walked in a direction you hoped would get you to the center and took your phone out. The battery was low, and you cursed yourself for not charging it during the day.

“Where are you going?” You winced and nearly dropped the phone when you heard the loud voice calling after you.

When you turned around, you already knew exactly who was standing before the club entrance.

“That's not any of your business,” you tried to sound tough, but it came out tired and weak. So instead, you lifted your head, trying to save the remaining bits of your dignity.

Alonso tilted his head, brown eyes studying you for a moment before he made a step towards you. “Don't tell me you don't have anyone to take you back to your hotel?” The undertone of his voice was strange, and if you didn't know better, you'd think it was worry seeping out.

“Oh, then I won't tell you,” you fired back, satisfied with your own answer as you turned around and left him standing there.

You made it around the block when a strong hand suddenly grasped your hand, and you screamed, prepared to fight whoever attacked you.

“¡Ay dios mío!” Alonso cursed and held his red cheek, where there was a clear hand print now.

You stared at each other in shock. You wanted to kill him for scaring you to death, but at the same time, you were relieved it was just him and not a creepy kidnapper.

“I'd say I'm sorry… but I'm not,” you managed to mumble. A weak attempt, you knew that. But it still seemed to wake him from his trance and make him scoff at you in annoyance.

However, he didn't let go of your hand.

“Let's go,” Alonso urged you back towards the direction you came from.

“I'm not going anywhere with you.”

“Y/N, if you think I would let a drunk girl wander around a city she doesn't know, alone, at night… then you clearly don't know me at all.”

It took a few seconds for his words to hit you, and all there was left for you to do was to look up at him with surprise written all over your face. That seemed to annoy him for some reason, but with alcohol still very much present in your system, you didn't have the capacity to think about it too much.

“Let's go,” he repeated, though this time you didn't protest when he started walking towards what turned out to be his car. You knew it very well, from the years you used to work together, for the same team. Silently, you wondered how the hell did he get it to Hungary, but you soon forgot about that.

Fernando unlocked the car and opened the passenger door for you. Your mom would probably tell you to be more cautious about getting into the car of a man you didn't like and were sure he didn't like you as well. But hey, it's still better than being lost in a foreign city, right?

So you sat down, and before you could reach for the seatbelt, he took it and strapped you himself, mumbling something about safety hazards with drunk people. You were so surprised by that unexpected action you didn't even have time to feel offended.

You closed your eyes, the comfortable seat making you sleepy. You heard him get in the car as well and join the night traffic. For a moment, silence reigned and for the first time in a long time, it didn't feel horrible and tense.

“Isn't it illegal to drive with alcohol?” you whispered, eyes still closed.

“I didn't drink anything in the club. Too busy with you.”

Just then, you realized you actually asked the question out loud.

“Sorry for ruining your celebration night. Probably didn't want to leave it with me,” you laughed quietly. When he approached you in the club, he thought you were a random pretty woman with whom he could share a drink and take her to his bed for a fun night.

“Whatever.” You could hear him shrug his shoulders. “Sorry for ruining your night. Though you don't have much to celebrate.”

That made you open your eyes and gaze at him. He was looking straight ahead, concentrating on the road ahead. The lights of the other cars occasionally landed on his face, and you wondered if he was always so handsome, or it were the cocktails speaking for you.

“Wow, even in an apology there's a hidden insult,” you snickered, though there was a small grin on your lips now. Yes, definitely the alcohol speaking for you, you told yourself.

This time, Fernando actually looked at you before he averted his sight back to the traffic. “I wasn't insulting you, Y/N. I was insulting the team.”

You raised your eyebrows, but didn't comment on it. It was pointless to argue over this, he had his opinion about Alpine and given the fact both your cars didn't finish two races in a row, you didn't have exactly the best arguments to convince him otherwise. After all, he was part of the team last year. And the year before.

For the rest of your ride, there wasn't much more said between the both of you. You were tired — not just because of the night out and drinking, but from the whole week, from the whole season.

Finally, he parked the car before a building you recognized. You didn't ask him how he knew which hotel your team booked, perhaps he remembered it was the same one as the year before. Honestly, you were just glad he helped you get out of the car and walked you inside.

Then, you found yourself in an elevator alone with Fernando, again. Though unlike a month ago, he gently held your hand for support this time.

You told him your room number and somehow, he got you all the way in front of the door. You thanked all the saints in the world when you dug the keys out of your purse. After three unsuccessful tries at unlocking the room, Fernando's patience apparently ran out. He took the keys out of your hand and silently opened the lock.

“Thanks,” you muttered, and let him lead you inside your own hotel room.

When the light switch turned on and illuminated all the papers lying around, he looked at you, flabbergasted.

“What's all this?”

You shrug your shoulders and look at him like he was stupid. Which he was, at least in your humble opinion. “Work. What else?”

“Yes, yes. But why is it… here?” He motions towards the desk, nightstands, and bed.

“Because I don't have time to do it all in the office.”

“You work overtime?”

Now you were starting to get irritated.

“Yes, I work overtime. Maybe if you weren't so insistent in thinking I'm a dumb party girl ever since I made one stupid mistake in your car's analysis a year ago, you'd see I'm actually trying my best.” You hated how hurt you sounded, pathetic in your own ears.

But honestly, who was he to judge you? You never actually stood up to him before, defended yourself against his mean words. You always sucked it up, let him complain about you to your boss, who almost fired you because of the driver's obvious distaste for you. And when he left the team at the end of last year, you never tried to contact him, talk to him. Fix your non-existent relationship.

Today, though, you had enough. Maybe it was the alcohol giving you courage, maybe it was his shocked face when he realized you actually did your job.

“Y/N, I-”

“Get out,” you said in a tone that didn't allow for any objections. Fernando seemed to understand, but the pained expression didn't leave his face when he slowly walked to the door. Like he didn't really want to leave, like he desperately wanted to tell you something.

You didn't care about him. He never cared about you before as well, did he?

And so, with one last, regretful look in his dark eyes, Fernando Alonso left your hotel room. When tears ran down your cheeks, you weren't sure why you were even crying.

-----

You were avoiding him after that. It wasn't the easiest thing to do, but you managed and after surviving the Belgian Grand Prix in Spa, you were excited about the summer break as never before. Almost a whole month without races, which meant you wouldn't have to meet anyone from the other teams, including Fernando.

Usually, the team worked tirelessly through the summer break — it was a great chance to have a proper look into the car's engine and come up with new ideas and improvements. God knew you needed that. Typically, you were amongst those loyal employees, basically living in the Alpine headquarters.

However, this year you really wanted a break. So you used your vacation days and stayed in your flat, finally sleeping like a normal person for once, eating home-cooked meals instead of team catering and enjoying the summer, though the weather could be better in England.

It was the start of August when you started finding flower deliveries on the threshold of your door. First, you thought it's a mistake, though what woman would refuse a beautiful bouquet of her favorite flowers. When it happened a whole week in a row, you thought about having a secret admirer or, in the worse case scenario, a stalker. Though, you still took the flowers inside every morning, cherishing them.

And then, one day, there was an envelope attached to the bouquet, and you had to curse yourself for being so, so stupid. Of course it's him, Fernando. Begging you to talk to him, to let him explain. One dinner, he said. One dinner, and then he'll let you go on about your life.

When he tried to write a poem in the middle of August, you finally gave in. You found his old phone number saved amongst many other contacts and sent him a simple “okay”.

The next morning, there was a time and address of the restaurant in the envelope.

You didn't let yourself get too excited about any of it. It's Fernando Alonso, the man who almost caused you to get fired from your dream job, the one that was so mean to you after making wrong assumptions about you and your way of life. Yes, he was trying now, but was that enough?

When the taxi dropped you off in front of the fancy restaurant, you took a deep breath. You had a simple dress on, light makeup, and a few accessories.

You walked into the empty restaurant. The waitress smiled at you when you told her the name of the reservation and led you to the only set table. You could see the deep brown eyes looking directly at you from afar.

Suddenly, nervousness settled in your stomach. If you didn't know better, you'd think this was a date — it certainly felt like one.

Without a word, he helped you sit down on a chair across from him and the waitress handed you the menu. It was without prices, but you were certain this place was lavish and expensive. Perhaps Fernando didn't want you to worry about it and let you order anything you wanted. And you tried not to be too impressed by that.

“You look very beautiful, hermosa,” he spoke after a minute of tense silence while you pretended to be interested in the menu. You didn't miss the fact he used the same nickname like that night in the club, when he thought you were someone else.

“Compliments won't make it easier for you.” Maybe you lied, because you liked him calling you beautiful.

“I know, but I couldn't help myself.”

The waitress came back with a bottle of wine that Fernando must've ordered before you arrived. You took a sip and it tasted like heaven. It almost made you forget about everything, almost.

“Please, can we talk?” You never heard his voice sound so… unsure.

“Aren't we talking right now?”

“Y/N.” The way he said your name was so soft, so delicate.

“Fernando.” You saw him flinch, and you realized it was probably the first time you called him by his first name. Suddenly, the whole situation felt more intimate.

He gulped, but there was determination written all over his face. Fernando Alonso wasn't the type of man to give up, you knew that. His amazing racing career was proof of that.

“Listen to me, please. I know that you have the right to never speak to me again after how I treated you. But I want to fix it, Y/N.”

Those brown eyes were going to be the death of you, burying themselves into your soul, your heart.

“I want to fix all of it, Y/N,” he repeated with all seriousness. “If you let me,” Fernando added.

And how could you say no to him? Deep down, you always admired him. Liked him, even. Before that fuck up with his car's analysis, you thought he might like you back. You always wanted his approval, and that was one of the reasons why his words and insults hurt so much.

Sometimes, people deserved second chances. Especially when they were looking at you like you hung the stars in the sky.

Slowly, you nodded. “I think I might let you, Fernando.” You smiled, liking how his name felt on your tongue. “But it's not going to be easy, I'm telling you that,” you warned him with a raised finger.

“I wouldn't dream of anything less,” he replied with a thick Spanish accent that was stronger when he felt emotions. Fernando returned your smile and clinked his glass with yours.

-----

Brazil was a good race. Both Alpine cars ended up in points and Fernando, your Fernando, got another podium. You clapped along with others during the podium ceremony, eyes just for him. A proud feeling settled in you, and as he accepted his trophy for well deserved third place, he looked down at the gathered crowd. Mostly people from Aston Martin, McLaren, and Red Bull.

And then there was you — in your Alpine t-shirt, clapping for the driver who scandalously left your team last year, without a care in the world. That was when he knew he loved you, and that he'll always will.

You knew you loved him too when, after all the celebrating around the circuit died down or moved to clubs and private parties, instead of going to his hotel room, he knocked on the door of yours. Checking on you.

“Hermosa, I hope you're not working.” He rolled his eyes as he stepped in, seeing you indeed staring into your notebook at some data he probably shouldn't see as a part of a rival team.

“But Nando, I need to finish these-”

He cut you off the best way he could — hugging you from behind, gently turning your head towards him and placing his lips on yours. You instantly melted into the kiss, giving up the fight before it could even start.

“I think you need to properly celebrate your boyfriend winning,” he smirked, biting your lip teasingly. You felt like a teenage girl when the butterflies took off in your stomach.

Fernando slowly walked you to the bed, never parting your lips, as if his life depended on kissing you. You sat on his lap, your hips grinding against his as you moaned into his mouth.

And he couldn't help himself. He wanted to take you out on a magical date and tell you there, but how could he keep it a secret when you were sitting on him, so beautiful that his heart clenched. Smart and pretty girl. His smart and pretty girl.

“Te amo,” he whispered into your sweet lips, and your breath caught.

You pulled back a little, looking at him, silently asking if you heard him correctly.

“Te amo, Y/N,” he repeated. You knew enough Spanish for your eyes to tear up. “I love you very much.”

There was a heartbeat of silence, probably the longest one in your whole life.

“I love you too. So much,” you whispered back. And then, for him: “Te amo, Fernando.”

Now it was his turn to tear up, hold your face in his hands and press your foreheads together.

Perhaps the fate and its plans for you weren't so horrible after all.

THE END

Author's Note: Wow, if you read it all to the end, thank you very much! I'll be glad for likes, comments, reblogs, follows and every other way of support. Let me know how you liked this story and if you'd maybe like another oneshot from this "universe" because I have to admit, this version of Fernando and Y/N kind of grew on me... Have a great day and see you at the next post! :)

[kneelingshadowsalome]

I’m feeling sad can konig cuddle me 😪

🩷🩷🩷

Light angst, comfort, tooth rotting fluff, yandere undertones

It’s not romantic to have a boyfriend in the military. It really is not.

Your man is always away, and the stimulating aspects of mutual pining dry off quickly. In the end, you’re both just lonely, and anxious, and jealous, and horny.

Usually, the first week goes by just fine. You’re quite glad that the big man is away and you have the house all to yourself. You stay up late now that König is not there to supervise you, and you can walk around in nothing but his tee and your underwear without a giant sneaking up to you from behind and smothering you in a crushing hug or picking you up and twirling you around like you’re a doll.

He always tells you (lovingly) that you demand so much attention, that you’re like a little pet he has to take good care of. You always pout at him for saying such things because König is the most co-dependent, touch-starved man you have ever met. (You don’t tell that to him, of course. And König would simply deny it even if you did.)

The second week is way harder.

You start to miss the smothering and the cooing and the cuddles and the sex. You start to miss the way he brings you your morning tea and then attacks you if you’re still in bed. You were always the morning person out of the two of you. König had already gone for a short run or done 50 pushups before you were even fully awake.

In the third week, you start to cuddle his blanket and pillow. You even cry into them because they smell of him but are far too soft and tiny to be any kind of compensation for his muscles and safety. You two can’t even text or talk – not to speak of having a cute but raunchy little video call – because he’s somewhere where there’s no connection, no internet, nothing.

Familiar fears creep up on you at the end of the third week. You know König is supposed to come home tomorrow but there’s still no sign of him having returned from the mission safely. Usually, he at least sends a text; normally, he would call and you two would talk on the phone for hours. He would ask so many questions about how you’ve been, what you’ve been up to, who you’ve seen, have you remembered to take care of yourself, eat healthy and drink enough water, silly things like that. It sometimes feels like an interrogation – as if you can’t even tie your own shoelaces when König is away. And you know he’s a little too possessive… but you can’t help but giggle sometimes, which in turn only makes him more serious. Once he even scolded you, saying "Zis is not funny" (with his terribly funny, sexy accent.)

He always, always has to make sure his girl is safe and that nothing bad has happened to his pet while he has been away. But now… there’s nothing. Only silence.

The key turns on your front door lock at 15.10 sharp the next day.

For the first time ever, you actually run to him. You don’t even have time to look him in the eyes; you simply collide against his chest, your arms go around him while relief washes over you like a warm, lovely wave.

"Hallo little one," he’s surprised at your advances – usually, it’s he who comes to you and lifts you from the ground with a hug. Now he freezes from the wall of your emotion that he’s met with before he’s even gotten his shoes off. Then his arms close around you, pressing you against the sweet, sturdy darkness of his chest.

"Liebling… Kleine Schatz. I missed you so much."

He sounds so relieved to see you too that you almost start to cry. If you’ve been an anxious mess for not having heard from him in three whole weeks, you can only imagine how lovelorn König has been. He’s stronger than you in many ways, but you know you’re the Achilles’ heel of this man. You’re an addiction, an obsession – perhaps it’s not healthy, but neither of you are strong enough to fight the connection you two have.

"I missed you too," you mumble in his chest, squeezing him even tighter, pressing yourself against him furiously until your heart starts to feel like melting ice cream on a sunny day.

You stay like that for a while, breathing together, relaxing into each other. Then he moves to slowly get his shoes off all the while still holding you, scoops you up in his arms, and you reach to place your hands around his neck in an instinct. He must see the sorrow in your eyes as he looks down at the pitiful, pathetic you, trying to hold on to him while he walks with you in his carry, marches through life with you in his arms like you weigh nothing. He looks at you with concern through the whole journey to where your bedroom is. You feel your bottom lip pout again as he lays you on the bed.

"Little angel… Is everything alright?" He asks when he settles there beside you and takes you back in his arms. Your leg drags up and over him – you’re built small compared to this giant, but his hips are so narrow that your thigh comes to rest on his frame like it has always belonged there.

"Yes," you whimper, cringing at how pathetic you sound. Everything is alright. Everything's perfect now that he’s here. You guess you’re a bit dependent, too...

He tells you he had to destroy his old phone because of some breach in security. That’s why he couldn’t call you. The mission was a mess, and everything that could go wrong, went wrong. He got back yesterday with fresh scrapes and bruises, only to get rid of his cell without being able to even call you first. It would’ve set you in danger too if he had made that call.

And it doesn’t matter now, not when he’s finally here. König doesn’t even grill you with questions, he just looks down at you with all the love in the world. His hand lifts to cup your cheek, a warm thumb brushes over your cheek as if to sweep away an imagined tear, and t’s obvious that he’s happy to be home – happy to be with you. From that loving look in his eyes, you could bet a million bucks that you’re his home, not this house or the objects inside it.

You cling to him as he strokes your hair, your neck and your back, gently and with care, like you’re his most prized possession. When you tell him you were afraid that something had happened to him, he takes a deep breath and releases it with a shaky exhale.

You know that it breaks his heart to know that there’s someone in this world who cares about if he lives or dies. That’s why you sometimes hold back your confessions of love and dedication; because you know it’s almost painful for him to hear them. König wants to smother you with love, but every time you return the gift, he looks like he’s about to crumble to dust.

He starts to rock you gently while whispering sweet little things in your ear. He tells you how he almost forgot to clean his gun because he was in such a hurry to get back to you. He tells you how he looked at your picture first thing in the morning and last thing at night before laying himself to sleep.

He also tells you about this little kitten that befriended him in the ruins because he gave the poor creature food and water, and how one night, it was finally brave enough to sleep inside his helmet. After that, it stuck to his side like he was the creature's new mom. He had to take special care that it didn't get hurt when he was getting some heat.

"It reminded me of you," he says softly.

"How so…?"

"It was tiny and cute and demanded a lot of attention."

You shove him lightly, even poke him in the chest. König just laughs, grabs your hand, and gives it a kiss.

You know why that cat chose him out of all the soldiers – it’s because he knows how to take care of poor little things. You tell it to him, and his eyes light up with joy.

"You don’t have to sleep in my helmet, little one. You have a special place right here," he says, squeezing you against his heart.

[sokkastyles]

Zutara Month Day 2: Diary/Journal

And since there is no end and no beginning / You will run, you will run, you will run

- Lost Girls, Tilly and the Wall

It had been a long day of combing through the palace vaults, one of which was filled to the brim with old scrolls and leather-bound books, all of them spoils of war taken by the Fire Nation. So much knowledge locked away, Katara thought. Of course one of the ways to destroy a people was to take away their knowledge, to deny them their history, but what surprised her was that it hadn't been destroyed. Rather, left to rot in the dust and the dark, which was almost worse.

"Some of these were used," Zuko said, his voice a quiet rasp, "to find out how best to conquer the other nations. I was here once, after my banishment had been decreed, grabbing what I could find about the Avatar and the Air Nomads to take with me." Katara saw him flinch at the memory. There were cobwebs in his hair, nesting in the loose topknot at the top of his head. He didn't wear the hairpiece today, and he looked like any other young man in loose dark-colored clothes with small red and gold embellishments. "But most of it's just been sitting here. It should go back to the people it belongs to."

What was salvageable would go back, Katara thought, but she didn't say that aloud. Zuko tried, he really did, but there was so much damage that couldn't be undone, so much destruction that had been caused by simple carelessness if not outright maliciousness. It made her sad, and angry, but still she persevered, eager to do what she could.

She had been unfurling what appeared to be a cracked and soiled earthbending scroll when she heard Zuko call her name, his tone rigid with urgency. "Katara. Look at this."

He was holding a thin bundle of yellowed pages held together by rotting animal hide, peering at the faded, looping script.

"What is it," she asked, but he simply looked up at her and said nothing. Wordlessly, and with an expression she couldn't read, he held the book out to her.

Katara took the old thing from his hand, holding it carefully for fear that she might damage it. She looked at the page that Zuko had held open, and began to read:

Well, this is the first entry in what I believe will be a long journey. Tomorrow, I will leave the Northern Water Tribe, with nothing but the clothes on my back, a few rations that will see me to the nearest Earth Kingdom port, and the necklace my betrothed made for me, to symbolize a union that will never be. I will never forget you, Pakku, but I cannot marry you. I hope that one day you will see that. My love for you is not enough to change who you are, I understand that now. I always have, but today I make my decision. Perhaps one day you will read these words, and know, too, of what I have done for love.

There was more, the words so faded and stained that they were difficult to make out, and Katara realized she could read no more for the tears that filled her eyes.

Gently, Zuko shoved aside a stack of scrolls and moved closer, placing an arm around her shoulders. Katara could not bite back the sob that escaped her, echoing in the empty vault. Her hand reached for him as he held her, fingers curling in the cloth of his shoulder as his own fingers gently combed the dust from her hair.

[wicked-secretsanta]

Merry Christmas @mudefrau!

The evening sun gilds the trees and hanging moss and reflection off the water into something precious, the chorus of the wetland-bugs rises like a welcome, and Nessarose is distraught, because Elphaba is leaving.

She must not show it, of course. She sits on the end of Elphaba’s bed, watching owl-faced as her elder sister packs up what little she owns.

“What do you think, Nessa, the red or the brown?” Elphaba is holding up a pair of traveling dresses, the only two she owns that are physically suitable for the rigors of the journey.

“The red clashes horribly, you know this.”

“You’re right, first impressions are so vital to the life of any girl newly blossomed into adulthood. Finding a way to stand out is of paramount importance,” she says as she folds up and packs away the brown dress, setting aside the red one to wear tomorrow.

Nessarose scoffs in nominal disgust, for the sake of appearances, but lacking any teeth. “A noteworthy first impression is important, yes, but not so important that it’s worth making the faithful think they need to perform an exorcism on you.”

“Assuming any remain.”

“Shiz is a Unionist university, correct?”

“It was, originally, but it’s become rather secular, even the pleasure faith has been rumored to grow amongst the student body.”

“Well, perhaps the faculty will be more sensible. Are they not renowned for their wisdom and experience? Is that not why they were chosen to shepherd young, impressionable minds towards a gracious adulthood?”

“One would hope.”

Elphaba had stopped, staring at nothing with a shadow in her eyes. Nessa tries to not wish for arms very often, her condition must after all be crucial to the Unnamed God’s plan for her, but she thinks it must not be blasphemous to wish she could put a comforting hand on her sister’s shoulder.

She settles for words. “Well, even if the contents have rotted, the structure might yet be sound, no?”

“It’s the library I’m most interested in, actually,” Elphaba says, avoiding the question, “Since Shiz was an old Unionist school, they’ve got one of the largest repositories of very old Unionist texts. I’m interested in comparing the origins of the religion to its modern state, and seeing if I can trace back how it got here.”

And there it is. Nessa knows Elphaba must be only posturing when she throws her supposed atheism into their father’s face; after all, who but the truly devout would put so much effort into understanding the growth of this religion, to learn which supposed “traditions” are in truth harmful later additions that must be scraped away?

Even if Elphaba claims to reject the faith, should she devote herself to it beyond university, why, she might be the greatest thing to happen to Unionism since the Saints of old. Truly living up to her name.

“That sounds wonderful. You’ll keep me up-to-date with your findings, won’t you?”

Elphaba’s expression softens into the warm face reserved exclusively for Nessa. “Of course,” she says, with a gentle yet toothy smile that displays her unusually sharp canines.

Her teeth, her skin, her aversion to water, her sandpaper personality, all of these things make others think Elphaba some demon of prophecy, a human-shaped incarnation of a draconic herald of the apocalypse.

But here is the truth: Elphaba is tame for Nessa. Elphaba is gentle for Nessa. Nessa is certain that the Unnamed God gave them to each other for a reason: the dragon that would have raged across field and city has instead become the guardian of a holy woman. Or something along those lines. Whether Elphaba truly has faith does not matter, because her love for Nessa is the most real thing in the world.

In the most locked-down, guarded space in her heart, she thinks Elphaba’s love is more real, even, than Father’s love for her.

And Elphaba is leaving.

“But do you have to go now? Couldn’t you wait a couple years and go with me, when the time comes?”

Elphaba sighs, deep and heavier than her lungs should allow. “Nessa, if I stay in this house much longer, I fear I will no longer be able to restrain myself, and might one day tear Father’s throat out.” She is outgrowing them, the house too small to stretch her wings.

“You won’t hurt him if I’m there.”

“But you can’t be with me every moment of the day,” I wish I could, “And besides, every day I spend here is another day I risk slipping on a wayward patch of lichen and falling into the water, and then there would be nothing to threaten Father at all.”

“We could go back to Colwen Grounds together.”

“Without Father? You know he loved Turtle Heart too much to abandon this cause.”

“Well, Nanny would be happy at least.”

“You are not wrong.” Her smile fades. “But Nessa, I have to go. I can’t— can’t stay still any longer.”

Nessa sighs. “Alright.” She worries, privately, about what Elphaba will become without her. “But we will write frequently, yes?”

“Of course.” And in that secluded spot in her heart, Nessa worries about what she will become without Elphaba.

Worries that Elphaba’s true gentleness and affection might no longer be reserved for her. That Elphaba might find someone who can give her something Nessarose couldn’t, and decide that this other person is more important.

That she might be a part of what Elphaba is outgrowing.

Not that she allows herself to articulate this thought into words, even in her own mind.

Elphaba stands up straight, then, and turns around to rummage through her things.

“Listen, Nessa— about Turtle Heart.”

“Yes,” she says shortly. That frayed knot at the beginning of her existence—something that should have been a shame on her father, perhaps, but which Father had instead turned into the fuel for his holy mission.

“When he first came to our parents, he made something for me.” She pulls out a glass disc, at first appearing to be a pale green, but displaying a subtle iridescence as it turns in the light. “I want you to have it. Something of him.”

Nessa frowns. “Would he have approved of me getting something like this?”

“Oh, Nessa, he would have adored you.” Elphaba places the disc in the satchel Nessa has strung around her shoulders.

Then, Nessa pitches forward into Elphaba’s embrace. They are both silent.

The moment is broken by Nanny barging into the room. “Do you two have any idea what time it is? Nessa must come to bed, now, it gets dark so late this time of year, we wouldn’t want to deprive her of her sleep, now would we?”

Nessa stands up to leave, then turns back with a questioning look.

“I’ll probably be gone by the time you wake up,” says Elphaba, “But I will write, of course.”

Of course.

“Farewell, then,” Nessa says, and leaves.

She ends up placing the disc on her nightstand, unsure of what else to do with it.Father has said that Turtle Heart taught him to make this sort of thing. So she doesn’t feel too bad a few days later when she bumps up against the desk and watches, helpless to reach out and catch it, as the disc falls and shatters against the floor.

[shittyrpmusing]

MITSKI : LUSH SENTENCE STARTERS

Feel free to change as needed!

"What am I to do with all this beauty?"

"I'm chemical, that's all."

"Come touch me, too."

"I'm in my prime."

"Capture me, or at least take my picture."

"If I am not yours, what am I?"

"What do I need?"

"There is a light that I can see, but only, it seems, when there's darkness in me."

"There is a light, I feel it in me."

"There is a dream, and it sleeps in me."

"Set me free."

"Honey, what'd you take?"

"I think my brain is rotting in places."

"I think my heart is ready to die."

"I think my body is falling in pieces.

"Honey, look at me."

"Tell me what you took."

"I think my fate is losing its patience."

"I think my life is losing momentum."

"I think my ways are wearing me down."

"If I gave up on being pretty, I wouldn't know how to be alive."

"I should move to a brand new city and teach myself how to die."

"You like control, well, I do too."

"You can come closer."

"I'll let you hurt me how you choose."

"How long can we play this way?"

"I'm tired of not loving you."

"My heart wants to hold you."

"I know the rules."

"I'll sell my heart to you."

"What's my price?"

"I'm all used up, pretty boy."

"See my hands, pretty boy, what do they tell you?"

"Would you please spare me tonight?"

"I'm tired of this searching."

"Would you let me let go?"

"I know my room is a mess."

"I tell myself I'll clean tomorrow."

"Do what you came here to do."

"I hope you leave right before the sun comes up."

"Let's shake the poet out of this beast."

"How could I have lost it?"

"A hopeless, a violence, I named it love."

"The light of the world is fading."

"Your body's lost all feeling."

"Don't fear them or their hunger."

"If you didn't want the beautiful so badly, perhaps you would've found it in your spirit singing softly."

"You were human, don't forget it."

"I'll live without you, though the struggle will be daily."

"Real men don't need other people."

"Real men don't flinch or bleed in public."

"Oh, I think I'm a real man."

"Well done girl, you're looking good."

"Real men keep cool in the face of a fire."

"Go down with the ship."

"Real men don't eat, 'cause they're above that, damn it."

"Give me your love for being so good."

"Praise me, make me feel lovely."

"Say you want me."

[chryzuree]

here today (gone tomorrow)

ALT TITLE: how many more mistakes like this?

AUTHOR’S NOTE: juno said, and i quote, “it’s good, queen”, so here’s hoping it’s actually good enough to post 🫶🏻

———

The Fate reunited with his Star centuries after he had driven her away. 

It was not by chance, this meeting of theirs. Nor was it by choice, though one would quickly assume it to be so once the first option was deemed out of the question. 

But the truth was that their convergence was out of necessity, and no matter how much they tried to brace themselves against it, the remnants of their tender, childlike insides ached with familiar unhealed pains. Never had they attempted to unknot the sparking tangle of nerves left by their childhood; instead, they’d built walls around their youth in tight, concentric circles, higher and higher, until nobody that hadn’t known them in the before could get through. 

It was deep in the night, in a familiar forest clearing aged with new growths, with naught but a few elderly Stars to observe over this pre-destined meeting. 

The Fate was not known for fidgeting. Rather, he boasted a keen self-control, hidden carefully under a veneer of careless smiles and cultivated wickedness. Any one of his past lovers would have been certain to attest to his rotted heart—if one were to dig up their graves.

And yet, as he awaited his Star, he stared into blackness with a pale, haunted countenance that looked unlike any expression seen upon him in hundreds of years. Where an apple normally rested in his hand—perhaps even tossed and spun carelessly, if he was bored enough—he instead worried over an old woven bracelet. On occasion, he lifted it to his mouth and, with furrowed brow, would shutter his eyes as though praying over a rosary. 

Then his eyes would open again and he would resume peering anxiously into the darkness. 

For hours, he remained alone, and he remained clueless of his gathering audience overhead. 

It was only when the brightest Star finally joined the onlookers that his Star—only half, in all honesty, but he’d crowned her in his mind out of his silent, personal worship of her—finally stepped into their clearing. 

The bracelet had been at his lips when he opened his eyes to see her standing there. 

With breath he did not need, he gasped into the weave of her bracelet. It soaked it into its old pattern, along with all the wishes and regrets he’d spoken into it after all those years. 

Though the moon lit not the sky, the Star-girl gleamed with her own light. Her hair glittered like the sun over snowfall, with secret iridescence. Her tentative smile shone white, her sharpened canines like a vampire’s bite. Her eyes looked like twin flames in the dark. 

She was lovelier than he remembered, and kinder still than he could’ve ever hoped. 

“Hello,” she said, almost bashfully. She swept a curl behind her ear. 

He said nothing, knowing himself incapable of it. He only stared. 

The curve of her smile twisted crookedly. The night was too dark, yet he knew intuitively—like he always did—that her freckled cheeks had flushed, just so. 

“It’s been a while,” she continued, clasping her hands in the folds of her skirt. 

She looked skyward as she spoke. 

That break of eye contact allowed his throat to loosen, and the Fate desperately replied, “I missed you.”

He could not see her expression, but for the hint of her lips. Always, always her lips. 

They still smiled, but in a less shy bend. Her white hair rippled in a gentle breeze. Her skirt did not follow suit. 

Then she lowered her gaze to him once more. 

“I missed you too,” she replied, subdued. With careful eyes, she studied the clearing, and quietly added, “Why are we here?”

He bit his lip. 

His heart thudded once, painfully, in his chest, spurred into motion by only the one that had made him with inexperienced, loving hands.

She noticed his silence with a drop of her lips. Her eyes studied him, brighter than before. He wished that she would not. His shame was on bold display, and she’d always been a quick study. 

She approached him, the hem of her skirt whispering over the forest floor when it should’ve caught on broken sticks and dead leaves. 

Rooted to the spot, he could do nothing but yearn for her and pray her away in equal, wretched measure. 

Soon, she stood in front of him, so close that, for a moment, he was sure that it must’ve been a dream. 

“You did not reach out to me of your own free will,” she said softly, and then she reached forward and cupped his cheek in her soft palm.

He stiffened at her touch. Too many years had passed; he’d since grown unaccustomed to the nettle sting of her skin meeting his. 

It took him a moment, but he allowed himself to melt into it. His eyes fluttered shut. 

“No,” he agreed. 

“No,” she repeated back at him. “I thought not. You’re much too proud for that. Not even these past centuries could have eroded that from you.”

He moved deeper into her hand. It was an unexpected balm, this knowing insight into him. How comforting, he thought, to have an entire being outside of himself know him so well, and still feel so compassionately. 

“Yes,” he said softly.

So bereft of his Star’s touch was the Fate that he wrapped his arms about her waist, only half aware of his actions. Her presence in his arms acted as a drug, irresistible, and he drew her closer to him, until her frame folded nicely against his. 

Gently, her thumb traced the curve of his cheek. To any other, the rings upon her fingers would’ve been abrasive—but to the Fate, the cold metal rasping over his cheekbone was a homecoming he’d craved for too many years to count. 

“You didn’t want this meeting to happen,” his Star murmured, “did you?”

To anyone else, he would’ve lied—and with an angelically cruel grin, complete with dimples more cutting than a dagger. 

But being near her had done away with any such pretenses. Without his express permission, all those protective walls around his boyish self crumbled to dust. 

“No,” he breathed into her skin. He pressed his eyes shut tighter, until colors sparked across the blackness. 

He wished this reunion could be only this: His Star in his arms again, and he in hers. A Fate reduced to a boy, with the touch of a Star reduced to a girl on his skin, and they could reminisce of a simpler time. 

Her hand slid to the nape of his neck, a trail of electricity ghosting behind her touch. She cradled him closer, and his breathing caught in his throat. 

“Because this is a trap,” she whispered hypnotically. 

He didn’t wish to answer. Yet—undiluted by her influence—he found himself compelled to confess his unwilling collusion in this plot. 

“Yes,” he choked out. “Yes.” He paused only to wet his lips. “You must run.”

He opened his eyes—now wet with tears much unlike the tears of blood he normally shed—to find his Star smiling at him still. 

His heart dipped low. 

“There’s no escaping for me now.” She played with his hair, calm in a way he could not fathom. 

His throat began to tighten once more. What she said was correct, to the core. But he dearly wished that was not so. 

“You can still run,” he insisted through numb lips, his voice fragile.

Her eyes were tender as she shook her head. 

“No.” Her other hand braced against his hip. She wove her fingers deeper into his hair. “I’d much rather spend these last few moments with you.”

Every part of his body ached for precisely that. He could hear his own blood—as if it had a voice, and as if in perfect unison with hers—somberly, sadly whisper, Especially since we’ve been apart for all this time. 

Another tear spilled from his eye. He tried to blink the others back. 

“I don’t want to see you captive,” he pleaded.

Yet he did not release his embrace around her. 

Humming, her eyes drifted shut. Her smile faded, just slightly. A tiny line furrowed her brow. 

“We don’t have much time, do we?” she mumbled. 

No, they did not. The Fate had done his part well already—how much time had passed now? When he tallied it all up…

Foreboding stabbed him straight through. 

“Princess—”

She opened her eyes again. 

The Fate found himself speechless. 

No matter how frequently he’d turned his memory of her over in his mind, he never could’ve kept all the details of her in his mind. He’d focused too much on the shape of her lips, or on the exact scattering of her freckles, or on the faint scar that marked across her face with a slight shimmer. But the exact shade of her eyes had always eluded him. 

And they were breathtaking, with her pale gold pupils and the matching gold ring etched around the rose hue of her irises. Silver eyelashes framed them, long and feathery. 

Tears glittered in them. 

“I will not be taken,” she whispered. “For this, know that I’m sorry. And know that we will meet again.”

Despite the centuries apart, she knew him innately. And despite the centuries spent in this lifetime, the other Star spectators knew precisely the moment to watch, as they had watched all the moments before.

The hand she’d set on his hip trailed to his leather belt, then to the small, unassuming sheath he kept there. The hilt of his dagger filled her hand with cold metal and raised jewels. 

She did not know the whole story of the Fate’s dagger. It had merely been a pretty thing he’d kept on his desk when she’d left. She didn’t know of the deaths on this dagger, nor his marriage, nor its following annulment. She didn’t know of the ruin that had buried itself into its metal. 

But she knew it would do the job. She was not like the Fate— she had never become an immortal, nor had fallen to mortality again. She had been as she always was—a young, pretty thing, and so deathly fragile.

And so, with the right angle, the dagger slid into her ribs with ease. And with great agony, it pierced her heart. 

The Star gasped out a painful breath on instinct, then grit her teeth. But she couldn’t stop the cough that rattled her body in the Fate’s arms. Blood seeped around her teeth. 

The world collapsed out from under the Fate’s feet. 

For the first time in hundreds of years, the blood in his ears roared. 

“No,” he said, his voice small. 

The Star’s knees grew weak. Only his arms kept her upright. 

She laughed wetly and winced. 

“No,” he repeated.

The dagger fell from her weakened fingers, her golden blood glinting along the blade. She sagged against the Fate.

“No.”

 The Fate sank to his knees, the Star cradled in his arms. As he did, the unnatural, sweet tang of her blood enveloped him. 

She coughed once again and cried out in pain. Blood trickled from her mouth. 

Tears spilled down his face, unchecked. 

“No,” he said again. “No, Chryseis, no.”

Her eyes grew glassy. 

“It… never stops hurting,” she choked out around the blood. Her brows pinched together. Her eyes shuttered. 

Her face paled more and more by the second, he realized with no small horror. 

“Don’t close your eyes,” the Fate begged, terrified, even though he knew she was dying anyway. A part of him pulsed with her, and grew weaker and weaker with each second. 

Her brows relaxed. A bloody grimace served as her smile. 

“Ever demanding… to the end.”

“Open them,” he demanded pointedly. 

Her hand reached clumsily, sightlessly for his face. Blood dripped from it, and it smeared across his face as she cupped it once more. The Fate could not have denied her touch, even if he’d wished for it. 

“I… can’t… I’m sorry.”

The Fate sobbed, furious, heartbroken. “What have you done?”

Her smile looked marginally more real. “Silly question.”

“Don’t joke.” He lowered his face to hears. Tears rained over her freckled cheeks. “We were supposed to have more time to talk. I wanted to know what your life had been like before. In between. After. Any of it.”

The Star’s grip loosened. Her fingertips chilled the Fate’s skin. 

She slipped further away. 

The Fate wished to scream at the injustice of it, of the trap, of what he’d done to her. 

“I wasn’t… alone,” she breathed through colorless lips. “Not then… and not now.” A thick, heavy tear of gold seeped through her silver eyelashes. “Know this… and don’t cry.”

“Please,” he sobbed. 

The Star tried to speak again, but coughed. Spittle colored with blood splashed over his shirtfront. 

He couldn’t bring himself to care. His shirt was already stained—the same stain that would forever mar his dagger. 

“Stay,” he whispered to the Star. 

But she did not answer him. 

—

The boy had been walking silently alongside the silver-haired woman, until she said those final words. 

“This is a horrible story,” the boy blurted. His small hand tightened on hers, even though he was more than a little scared of her. 

His storyteller paused. With a slight tilt of her head, she lowered her frightening, inhuman gaze to him. The silver of her eyes flashed almost white.

The boy wanted to jolt back, but he instead tensed his jaw in response, defiant. 

She laughed without a smile, and the storyteller replied, “But a true one. One that needed to be heard.”

The boy hesitated. His golden brow crumpled. 

“But why tell me?” he asked, puzzled. 

His storyteller smiled in the memory of amusement. Her poison-red lips looked gruesome. 

The boy understood now why she laughed without that curve of her lips.

She leaned her whole body down to him, her silver hair falling over his head like a show’s curtain. His heart leapt into his throat, beating much too quick.

So distracted was he by the silver flurry of her hair that he didn’t see her smile disappear. By the time his eyes had refocused, her lips were at the shell of his ear.

“So you don’t make the same mistake again,” she hissed in their tiny enclave hidden from the eyes of the other Stars. 

The boy froze. “What?”

She leaned back to peer at his pale face, his confused blue eyes. Here he was—a boy of only seven, with golden hair still messy from being awoken in the middle of the night and spirited away. 

The storyteller smiled her gruesome smile once more.

The boy blinked furiously. He tried to look away.

“Oh, no. How rarely I get to see you like this,” she cooed. She reached forward and set her sharp silver nails on the sensitive underside of the boy’s jaw, pushing his gaze up to meet hers. She felt his throat work as he swallowed anxiously. “You take much longer than the other two to become innocent again. I must enjoy it whenever I can. Don’t you agree, my little Prince of Hearts?”

The boy’s face became bloodless. “No, I’m not.” But not even he sounded convinced.

“Yes,” agreed the storyteller, her amusement growing more. “For now, you indeed are not. Now hush. We are almost there.”

Then the boy’s eyes grew heavy, though he could not say why.

And when he opened them again, it was on the stoop of a gambling den, and the silver-eyed, silver-haired storyteller was naught but a dream.

[cr1msonpeak]

i'd say we make a pretty good team, to katherine higham. @getslashed

she often thought about the endless possibilities if she'd been born a modern lady rather than georgian, and none should really be surprised that the list of things she'd do, how she'd dress, what her job would be, and so on and so forth, was indeed extensive. [she would learn to ride a motorcycle; would wear those jeans alison always had on; and work at a call centre because who doesn't love talking to people and asking them questions!] however, the day bianca zanotti entered their lives, or lack thereof, said answers and plans of another life were diminished completely. if kitty were asked today how she'd live as a twenty-first century woman, her answer was exceptionally simple: i want to be like miss bianca! what a joy it must be! but for the moment, stuck between the shadows of a deadly bite and the light coming next, she was happy enough to just be her friend; you could never have too many when the body was left to rot and the soul wandered aimlessly.

“oh, we do, don't we! a good team, the best team— the best team of best friends!” everything somehow seemed more exciting when she visited, particularly if a concert was planned on the grounds of button house; hence the reason the two girls were out in the far edge of the garden. kitty stood further back, closer to the manor in order to get a better view of the landscape, yelling across the lawns and directing beezy where to be placing her equipment. it was about perspective. [that, and fanny only allowed such ruckus on her property if things were displayed in a perfect sequence.] “it looks wonderful!” the amount of shows put on mattered not, for kitty's excitement resembled that of her first experience with bianca's music, and would continue its glowing anticipation, even if one hundred more were performed in the future. “is there anything else i'm able help you with?” options were somewhat limited when you couldn't literally assist, but the eagerness practically dripped off the ghost— if her heart still beat, it'd be madly whirling.

“or... oh! perhaps you can tell me what songs you are going to sing tomorrow night? i promise i will not tell anyone, if it's meant to be a surprise. i am very good at keeping secrets!” at least, she thought she was gifted in the area of secret keeping; the others may not agree so heavily with the assessment.

[vbug]

life update + where i've been and demotivation

august 11 2023

11:11 pm

i've been pretty quietly recently across all social media and i'm sure no one has particularly asked where veronica went on here lol (i speak to myself most of the time). however this isn't saddening to me, almost no one has noticed because i still interact the same amount, i believe, with my closer mutuals and my family. i didn't take a break purposely in order to find a meaningful answer to life or to combat depression, i just felt demotivated to write or go out, ive just sat here most of summer rotting in my bed and sleeping through the day. perhaps i had a bit of a depressive episode but im back now and i think that's what matters most.

i reached 4 months with my boyfriend august 9. we went through a lot last month but we made it out really well and i think we will have a better month going forward. we almost broke up and then the day we worked things out i had dinner with his family for the first time (this had been planned months in advance please don't think it was a rash decision). things went really well that night. his sister is so cute and fiery and is a ball of fun, his mom is beautiful and mature and the epitome of womanhood/adulthood. i appreciate their family dynamic. it all just makes sense. the next day i went back over and we all watched star v the forces of evil and then me and my boyfriend drove around a bit and fucked in the movie theater parking lot and then we went and watched insidious (which i considered horrendous plot wise but the gore aspect was pretty well done). i love my boyfriend and i'm excited for our future.

tonight i just feel so much joy and happiness and i feel like things have gotten so much better and im doing so much for myself by myself and with help from so many amazing people. housing, transportation, advice... so many people supplying me with great tools for a smooth transition into adulthood. im blessed and will continue to be.

i start school august 21, so i stocked up on school supplies today. i was finally able to purchase my big girl laptop!!! it comes in tomorrow and im practically jumping with pleasure. i got all these accessories i wanted as well, which is great, and i plan on giving my ipad to my cousin once i get some money to buy a new case and screen protector for it.

as for school supplies i think i will make a list on what i bought specifically in case anyone is interested, so i'll leave that haul for later. what i got, what i major in and what i think some essentials are. keep in mind this is my first year so i'm not very well versed in college life.

with all this said i couldn't be more excited for the future. i go on another family trip in september and then a birthday trip a weekend after. still deciding on what gift to give her. and i pray i will be able to set up my teas exam soon so i can take it in order to apply for the lpn program in january. i'll be studying for it as well. has to be before september 30th! thank you all and GOOD NIGHTTTT!!!

[guzmagang]

hellfire.

fucking guess what it's about. cross posted on AO3; another installment of my disjointed series about Volo/Reader-MC. takes place the night before the betrayal, so uh, spoilers.

cw: lots of religious vibes. literally volo praying. mild implied spice but nothing much. i can't tell you how much religious vibes because i was raised religious and i don't know the line.

“You have never listened before, but some god must hear me-“

Volo turns towards the ruins of broken statues, the only god who ever listened destroyed in marble.

“I have devoted my existence to You, yet Your child is the only one who responds- but the fire in my mind must be quelled by one of You- any one that listens.”

He turns again, pacing away from the statue- the two loved statues of the claimed children of Arceus-

“Why have I been cursed in such a way that is only of Your creation? You leave me behind- never acknowledging me in this hell of a world- and hex me.

You curse me with the image of her in my mind- leaving my skin crawling and burning- burning desire of what?”

He turns, returning to the disgraced broken marble-

“You have hexed me with this little witch- this little chosen one to look up to me with life in her eyes- with innocence that I never got, the innocence You ripped from me.

This stupid little thing from the sky- a thing with no desire or love for You is Your chosen one? A thing with nothing for You…

What kind of god are you- one to curse a human with the life I’ve lived, the life You’ve cursed me with-

I believed it to be a test, but any test is acknowledged with failure or acceptance, but Your silence tells me more-

You’ve cursed me with such a life filled with pain and devotion to you to give Your gaze to some girl?!”

Volo sits, acknowledging the gravel in his throat, a soft echo dancing around the rock of the mountain.

“Touch me again, Volo,” She smiles up at me, her hands running down my chest, her eyes full of love and gentleness-

“STOP!”

Volo stands, shaking the burning sensation off of his skin, glaring up at the distant destroyed temple on the mount.

“You ignore me, You hex me- what even is this? What have You cursed me with- Is this when You acknowledge me, with a curse?”

He turns, circling the rubble of the forgotten one.

“You give me these visions of her- no images of hope, no images of love, no images of You-

Or are these a curse from another- not from you, but another thing living in this Hell? Perhaps it doesn’t matter who or what gave these to me- but why do You let me suffer? Why do You let my skin crawl at the thought of her touch?”

Volo pauses.

“Tomorrow I will meet You; I will be the God who never looked me in the eye.

I’ll kill this witch- this little woman who curses me so- perhaps she did this. She cursed me with another's innocence as my innocence rots in the ground.”

He looks down at the foothills of the mountain-

“What is this- is this lust or wrath? What has she given me?”

Her touch is soft, burning a trail of love against my skin, her tender self on full display on me- heavenly light shrouding her under me-

“What is this burning under my skin? What else has been given to my tortured soul- another thing to pray to You to stop, another thing for You to ignore.

Her eyes burn my skin and mock my devotion- this little thing with so much life in her mind and soul.

Do I want her dead or do I want her?”

She looks up at me with some sort of mercy- maybe it’s admiration, maybe it’s thanks- but something so soft and sure- a look I’ve never seen directed at me.

“Is she an angel or devil? Has she come to stand in my way to hate me or to love me?

Am I to lose my goals and ambitions for this little piece of heavenly glow?

No-

I am purer than a little thing sent to stand in my way- I am higher than this pain You’ve caused me.”

“Volo, please,” She wraps her arms around me, hands running down my bare skin, pulling me into her arms, “Don’t leave just yet.”

“She will burn- She’ll scream under my grasp for what she has done- she’ll die at my hand and be mine to kill- She’ll be mine to scream-“

“Volo, please, give me more- more of you-“

Volo glares at the ground.

“What is wrong with me? What is this?

What is this stupid lust? What place does this have in my soul- now, as I am so close- what place is her place in my soul?

This stupid thing that fell from the sky? Is she more than Your chosen one?

Someone so strong and diligent without a reason- banished for something not her fault and yet she returns to them with a smile- an angel gracing us with nothing in return except for a life to live-“

Volo turns back to the statue, as if waiting for an answer.

“If I shall finish what I started tomorrow, what will I do with her?

Am I to kill a woman strong and merciful, or do I let her live in a prison that breaks her?-“

“Please, hold me Volo, I’m scared-“

“Do I let her live and take away the memories that harbor her?”

“I’m happy I got to ever meet you, Volo.”

“I keep her for myself. Mine and mine alone.

And if I am to fail…

I will live in her shadow of her undeserved blessing, I will let her live if she does not pursue me. If she follows me with rage…

I’ll burn her alive.

No, I won’t.”

Volo looks at the moon, the light ever so ethereal-

“I’ll let her live and I will rot- this will be my one sin, to let her win if I shall lose.”

[bluebirdhangingonawheepingtree]

Marco the Phoenix x Reader

I am still doing requests mainly for JJBA, MHA, AOT, JJK, One Piece, and Demon Slayer. With that please enjoy this story and have a lovely day.

I am still doing requests mainly for JJBA, MHA, AOT, JJK, One Piece, and Demon Slayer. With that please enjoy this story and have a lovely day.

I am still doing requests mainly for JJBA, MHA, AOT, JJK, One Piece, and Demon Slayer. With that please enjoy this story and have a lovely day.

I am still doing requests mainly for JJBA, MHA, AOT, JJK, One Piece, and Demon Slayer. With that please enjoy this story and have a lovely day.

There are two days of the year that seem to be longer than they should, maybe even getting longer with each passing year. To anyone else those two specific days seem to be nothing less than ordinary and perhaps they could be ordinary again to you. Perhaps for just once you could make it ordinary, let yourself breathe in fresh air instead of the stinging cold air you so vividly remember from those two days. Many people have done it, what makes you so different? Yet here you are, year, after year, after year, rotting away in your room letting your mind drown you in memories of your youth. The garden your father took such pride in taking care of. The soft humming sound leaving your mothers lips as she made you an afternoon snack. The nights when your island celebrated the stories of the past through music. How you would give anything to experience the music festival that your small island took such pride in. On those nights your parents let you stay up extra late, letting the music soothe you all  into tomorrow as you danced the night on your fathers nice shoes. No matter how much your mother scolded your father for letting you ruin his shoes he would always say,

‘My little girl won’t be my dancing partner forever, I would gladly ruin thousands of shoes then miss out on one last dance.’ 

The last music festival was on a cool summer night, soon the night would turn to dawn and then slowly morning. As the last song played out as the sun began to wake there stood you and your father, he held you close and rocked you both to the rhythm of the song you would never forget. If only you know that a winless war would break out seemingly overnight in the dead of winter.

Would you and your parents leave your small island when the music ended? 

Would those soldiers find an abandoned home? 

Would your father still sacrifice his life for you and your mom to run?

If so, would he still make it back to you this time?

If so, would your mother still fall into a state of depression?

Would it have been different if she didn’t see him drown in red?

Would she have abandoned you in the woods to take a swim in the dead of winter?

Would she have taken a swim regardless of the weather?

She did love to swim after all.

Would life be better if they had lived?

It could be better if they did?

Would it be better if it was y-

*Knock* *Knock* *Knock*

Soft knocks wake you from your trance. If not for the knocks you would've slipped deeper and deeper in your mind. Slowly sitting up from your bed the door opened and stood a man. In the beginning you fought tooth and nail to not let him in. Throw out the years you believe that it’s better to be alone than to have the chance of heartbreak. Yet he managed to slam open the door to your heart and help it beat again.  Even though he never had the honor of meeting your father, you know for a fact that your father would have been so grateful to discover that this man, Marco the Phoenix, has become your new and perminote dancing partner. 

With that warm grin stretching on his face, he walks to your shared bed, slowly he pulls over the covers and slips in. Adjusting yourself to find a comfortable position with the  source of warmth in your bed, you finally lay on your side and you bury your head in his chest. 

‘So how are you two doing this morning?’

Looking down on your non-existing bump, carefully place your hand over the skin that protects your baby. Your baby, children were never your strong suit. Even though you had loving parents you have no idea where to start when thinking back on them raising you. Losing them at the young age of seven made it no easier, your earlist memory was when you where like five maybe four. Barely two years of real memories of them, will that be enough?

'Where are you in that beautiful mind out yours?'

Pushing you away a little to get a full view of your face before leaning pressing your noses together. Softly he begins to speak.

'I have two good ears if you need a listener, also I happen to give the best advise. However if you just need to talk it out, no talking on my end, I am right here. '

'Do you think, I'll be a good mom?'

'Of co-'

Before he continued he looked in you eyes, not only seeing embassment and guilt in your eyes but also seeing a lot more words are still left unsaid.

'Am sorry, please continue.'

Closing your eyes you lean a little closer to your husband and held on to him a little tighter.

'I never had a parent figure in my life besides my parents. Even then I don't remember much of the good times before the war. God I don't know what am saying.'

Doubt washed over you, what are you saying anyways this is stup-

'It's not stupid, please continue talking about it.'

There are so many words in your yet none of them are making sense but you might as well try for your sake.

'I lost my parents before I could really learn from them. Even after I lost them I've been on my own up until I meet you.'

Tears starting to form in you eyes, as hard as you try to hold them back they keep flowing down.

'What if am not cut out for this, it's such a big reposibility not only making sure that this child is physically healthy but also happy with there life. Wha-what if I truely mess up their chances of having a happy life before it even stats?'

Without a word he kisses your forehead, then your check, all over your face you felt soft, warm, lips carefully placed on you face. Once finised rough warm hands cup your face. Looking you dead in the eye he smiled so softly at you.

'You are the most caring person I know. You being this worried shows how much you care for this child, and we just learned of their existance not even a week ago. '

Passing he moves down, carefully placing his head on your stomach.

'Luckly for us, there are two of us. When you are lost abot what to do I will be there right next to you to lend you a helping hand as you will do when I get lost too. Heaven forbids if God takes one of us or both of us away from our child but I know that our friends the people we know like family will gladly lend a helping hand.'

Visibally relazing you begin to play with his pineapple looking hair, tho it is surprising soft for looking so pointy.

'You really do know the best advise do you?'

'Of course I do I am known to be wise beyond belief. '

Laughing for the first time today you started to get sleepy. Before you know it your closing your eyes heading to a state of sleep.

Even though today was one of the two days of the year where you despise the most. The days that send you back to those cold winter nights you try so despertly to forget. You manage to find the good in these days. Even if its for a moment, with the help of the people you love. You just might be able to make the days even quicker.

[shangsclaws]

What's up! So apologies if this is a weird ask but can I get a platonic shang tsung x Young witch/sorceress reader who he takes in as an apprentice because he sees her potential? Sorry if this is an out of character ask but I'd like to see how you'd imagine it! Lots of love! 😊

lots of love to u too anon!! …but if u thought this was gonna be a fluffy father daughter thing…i’m v sorry but i wrote it MUCH differently 😭

warnings: none

“Careful,” the sorcerer cautioned, motioning his chin to the phylactery, “break that, and you’ll be here overnight.”

The young sorceress groaned, setting down the treasured container. “It was an accident. Technically, I wasn’t even the one who broke it.”

“Of course you weren’t,” Shang Tsung chuckled condescendingly.

The elder sorcerer paced around the dinner table, where, sat at the farthest end, his apprentice continued piecing the loose shards of a phylactery back together. Broken around midnight, the young sorcerer had woken Shang Tsung in a panic, horrified when they’d seen the souls siphon out of their broken container and shriek in pain.

“Why were you wandering in the weaponry so late? Did I not tell you to rest early for training tomorrow?” The sorcerer prodded, sounding much less disappointed than he did amused. “You are aware that the tournament is in less than a week, no?”

It was always about the tournament. That old sorcerer hadn’t shut up about it — the apprentice grumbled to herself — since the moment he’d laid eyes on her malnourished figure some months ago. While the food was delicious, her bed far softer than the hard stone of dark alleyways, the training was perhaps as brutal as fending for herself on the streets. And all she ever did in her waking hours, it seemed, was train.

“If you keep training me to unconsciousness,” the apprentice began in irritation, wiping off excess adhesive from the phylactery, “I’ll be dead before the tournament even begins.”

Shang Tsung chuckled in his throat, walking back from the far end of the table to see his repaired piece of expensive gear.

“And what makes you think I’m not prepared for that?” He grinned, and the apprentice couldn’t hear in his tone if he was serious or not.

“…because…uhm…you haven’t trained anyone else?” She muttered. Please let this be true.

There was silence, and then a hum of agreement.“Precisely.” The snake nodded, both at her statement and in approval of such great work she did fixing his phylactery. “If I’d found someone else to train, someone to replace you, I’d have done it by now, young one.”

Knowing him, the apprentice figured his words held the same weight as saying he would have let her rot to death. How she hated the indifference in his tone, how he grinned so patronizingly. Or, rather than hate, the poor girl was horrified, knowing all too well it was within his power to discard of her as he so pleased.

But, for being so young, there must have been a talent he would have hated to see go to waste. At least she hoped that was what had kept her alive all this time.

“I’ll meet you in the courtyard. We’ll begin sparring shortly,” said the sorcerer, picking up the phylactery and deftly tying it to his waist sash, “Shao Kahn will be here tomorrow to observe you.”

Crap.

“I’d hate to see him get upset,” the snake continued, sounding incredulous, “it’d be a shame to see all your hard work go to waste.”

With that he was gone, leaving little behind save for the empty pit in his apprentice’s stomach. Shang Tsung always did this.

But the young sorceress knew she was smart. Why else would that snake have decided to spend his precious time with her? Knowing all the tricks the sorcerer could pull, the spells he used to be as heinous as him, the old man had made a weapon out of her. Sooner or later — the young sorceress plotted, grinding her teeth as she watched her mentor disappear behind a large column — she’d have her way. And if that meant killing him, then so be it.

But she’d need to know as much as she could first.

“Wait for me!” The apprentice called from the study, and Shang Tsung paused in his paces to the courtyard to turn around.

“Why don’t you teach me something new today?” She asked.

[inkskinned]

my arch nemesis cynthia is, of course, at the bank, because we both were sent like clockwork to pick up the checks of our husbands. she is wearing a lovely long green gown, which i know was on behalf of me, because, as my husband will tell you, our house abhors green and glamour. already the tellers look at each other under their little hats, for they love our tirades, i’m sure, although not more than i hate them. 

“oh, is that your knitting?” my arch nemesis cynthia peers her eyes at my hands. “is it some kind of... sock?” everyone knows she and i used to be close before we were married and our husbands, smartly so, have introduced us to the idea of true vengeance.

“it is a scarf,” i say. i want to tell her that when the time comes and the world gets cold it will go over my mouth and i will breathe warm air and it will fill my lungs and i will be able to run around with my love even in the dark night. “it is not,” i say, “over surprising that you should be caught unawares of a scarf,” i say, “as i’m sure enjoying winter festivities are too beneath the handsome qualities your husband prefers.” pompous ass.

the tellers pass each other eyes for now it has started and they are delighted.

my arch nemesis cynthia thrusts out her hand. a white bottle. “rat poison,” she says. “i would expect the whole town knows about your little problem.” stage whisper. “such a shame, my dear.” then she rustles her long green skirts - which i know she wore on behalf of me - and she shimmies herself out of the room like royalty. oh, she floats everywhere she goes, beautiful black hair behind her. the bottle in my palm is cold. i will devise how to get her back starting first thing tomorrow.

the week, as always, is a long week, for there is much to make and do and knit and be. my husband comes home and i love him for who he is; for he never comes home without checking the state of the house up and down. he is the kind who loves his home so completely and sets each room like a stage for a great band to come playing. i am too ashamed to tell him why so many of the rats go missing, only make him a stew the next morning to celebrate. his favorite, although not mine, i’m afraid. plenty left over.

my arch nemesis today - of course - in a green the color of rotting. a bruise is uncarefully covered on her cheekbone, so striking against all of her dainty. her husband would say it was for her ungraceful nature, and i know mine would agree. i strike first, already delighted by my master plan, shoving over our best picnic basket tied with a bow. “i made you and yours a stew,” i say, “for beneath all that you carry” all that horrible wealth of your husband  “it seems you’re getting rather skinny.” i can’t resist one last comment. “i am worried you’re about to waste to nothing.”

She plucks it out of my hand. “yes, if it weren’t for you and your husband’s dwindling wealth,” her sarcasm is biting, “i’m sure i will be nothing in, oh, 5 weeks time.” she arches a brow. “so long from now.”

“i am counting the days,” i tell her. her lips purse. the tellers behind me make a choked titter. perhaps, by their estimation, i have won this round quite completely. i go home to my husband smiling. he asks where i have been and i tell him i’ve been at the bank, but he checks anyway because i like to get up to tricks and he doesn’t like to fall for it. it is a good game we play. at night, when he is asleep, i am so in love that i must convince myself to pull the covers over my nose and practice breathing. how silly to wake him up for a young girl’s feelings. 

the first week of five: she gives me a solid, ugly ring that requires three knuckles to hold. “i feel so badly for your status, and i must remember to practice charity,” she says. “it such a small thing, but do be careful amongst all that thin pine furnishing of your house, which dents so easily.” my husband appears at the bank’s front door. just checking. so lovely to be picked up by him. at night, in a rage, i try it - beneath the table bends easily. i scuff out the scratch with walnut before my husband can see. i pull the covers over my face in bed and breathe.

the second week: i wear her ugly ring and give her more stew, this time hearty with meat. her dress is a meadow. my heart each time it sees her collapses on itself. she hands me clothes for my husband, since his wealth continues to go missing, and the charity of her heart is so loving. i am so ashamed i bury them far by the old tree, where all my shames go hiding. again, the covers. it, by now, helps me sleep. i have gotten so good at it that i can simply shimmy my shoulders to be perfectly toasty and buried.

the third week: she asks how comes my knitting. i tell her it’s nearly complete. she asks how comes my husband, whom she must know has been ill recently, and who is doing quite badly. i go home to him, shaking. even sick he is a good housekeeper, who comes home examining for dust and dinge so i do not fall behind on my chores. who checks to be sure i spoke to only him and no one more, for fear a man might snatch me. tell me, who else has a man so involved, in this day and age?

the fourth week she is envy green. i shove a whole heaping of stew at her, for now her husband has gotten it. i say it will return him to spirits, she laughs, a sudden, beautiful sound, even in the quiet of a bank. everyone stares. maybe it is the stress that is making her quite improper. i feel the same way. so much is happening and it always seems she knows. she says she heard he has left me nothing in the will, which everyone already knows. she says she doubts either of us can dig upwards from the hole we’re both in. i look at the bruise on her nose. i tell her to mind her own husband, and be careful where she goes.

the fifth week: so final. her, garishly lime green. and i in black, to pick up a check that hardly seems the effort. it will be enough to cover my husband’s funeral. she smiles at me and hands me a silver bottle. she says quietly: now that i am destitute, there is one thing for it all, and everyone would understand quite completely. it would be quiet, and quick, and complete.

it is the night of the new moon, so dark no man can see in it. i receive notice her husband has died, and i am sorry to say i find a terrible joy in it. the air has changed cold. i have left a note asking to be buried in my scarf, the last thing i have made on this earth. i go through each perfect room, but there is nothing else to take with me, for the house has always been his and his alone, and now aches to be gone of him. i would not serve as a good tender for it. having spent so many nights watched carefully, the silly girlish freedom i’d gain would surely set the house ablaze.

i follow her instructions. quick, quiet, complete.

the horrible rustling is what does it. like a million green skirts. and then it is dark, and i am in my own coffin, eerie with pine. my head hurts but i must be quick and quiet. they have listened and buried me with my scarf. i shimmy my shoulders just-so and get it over my face. bring my arms up, ugly ring heavy, and begin to hit as hard as i can, over and over, the thin wood of my husband’s favorite furniture, the cretin. it would be pine, of course - he left me no money to be buried in any nicer recourse.

the wood splits so horribly, and then it is very hard to breathe, harder than under the covers, and i have to remind myself to be patient and continue to dig upwards, while my throat closes and my heart beats so loudly and the whole thing is so heavy it is a universe. the shifting of gravedirt is loud, and loud, and i feel i will be turned into a worm, and i fear everyone has forgotten about me, or i have gotten the timing wrong, or i will really die down here in the dirt and the cold

but then her hand, and my hand, and we are both digging towards each other, and she lifts me so easily from the ground like a plucked turnip and holds me against her, us both panting and muddied. we can only stay like this for so long, here in my pauper grave, and then we are both running to the old tree where we met, and unburying a second thing; my lovely box of shame, and men’s clothes, and all of my husband’s dwindling fortune i have slowly been squirrelling away.

my love and angel cynthia, who has black hair like a curtain and a mind so fast i sometimes am in frank awe at it, who is, even now and dirty and raw: even now the only sun in my life.

like this, i a man in an almost-dawn, and us cleaned by the river, and her smiling so widely, and only a faint bruise on her, and our pasts behind us in ugly garish colors. and her delicate hand and beautiful nose and when i finally get to kiss her it feels like green feels; my favorite color, all warm and nature and sunny grace and grass and lying awake so filled with love it makes you shake.

i hold her, and she holds me, and our future is a love like a dream unburied.

[kireii-writes]

Competition (two is better than one)

summary: with Gojo around, everything turns into a competition

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a/n: i just realised as a suguru stan i’ve yet to write anything for him hence this suguru(and geto) brain rot hngggggh.

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reblogs, likes & comments are really appreciated! （＾ν＾）

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warnings: nsfw, mentions of drug use (marijuana), tag team, oral (giving), gojo has a breeding kink, overstimulation

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“I bet I can make her feel much more better than you do.” Satoru turned towards you and Suguru, his blue eyes locking with your boyfriend’s.

“What are you talking about?” Suguru let out a tiny snicker as he stroked your hair while you straddled his lap, causing you to snuggle back into his chest. “Has smoking too much marijuana cause you to go dumb?”

“I’m serious.” Satoru says as he watched how your cheeks hollowed as you sucked on the blunt that Suguru had rolled for you, earning yourself a “good girl” from Suguru.

Scooting closer to the both of you, Satoru tossed his glasses somewhere and stroked your hair as Suguru said nothing but looked at you intently as if to observe your next move.

“I don’t think my baby wants you, Satoru. She knows that i’m better than you. What’s the point in trying to get in her pants?” His best friend chuckled, pushing his blunt between your lips.

“Why don’t we ask her then?”

As the two friends looked at you, you looked back at your boyfriend through hazy eyes that wondered what was going on.

“Satoru here thinks that he can make you feel better than me. Shall we prove him wrong, my beautiful y/n?” Your boyfriend smiled at you as he removed the blunt from your lips.

“She’s all yours, Satoru.”

~~~

A sound somewhere between a moan and whine escaped from you lips as Satoru teased your clit. You were currently lying on the bed, your head on Suguru’s lap as your boyfriend’s best friend teasing your already wet core.

Seeing that you were reacting just the way he wanted, Satoru slowly inserted one long, slender finger. Then two, then three. As you squirmed under his touch, the white hair male took it as a sign and moved his fingers within you, hooked on every little expression you make.

“Already so wet.” Satoru teased. “Does Suguru make you wet this fast?” He snickered as you let out sweet moans.

With his thumb teasing your clit, Satoru’s fingers that were buried within you started moving, as if trying to find something.

“Satoru...” Was all you could let out before your lips were captured by Suguru’s, loose strands of black hair falling around the both of you like a curtain.

You were so caught up with the passionate kiss that Suguru was rewarding you with that you hadn’t realise that Satoru was already pulling his sweatpants away, his cock quickly replacing his fingers.

“Let’s see who is better at fucking you now, hm?” Satoru smirked as he rubbed his cock on your slit, teasing you and causing you to moan into Suguru’s mouth.

“Good girl.” Suguru muttered in between kisses, one warm palm sneaking underneath your shirt to feel your soft chest, rubbing and teasing your nipples till the harden under the friction and arousal he was providing you with.

“Yeah, be a good girl and prove that I can fuck you better.” Satoru hummed. Teasing you further, you squirmed and tried to push yourself against him.

“Eager, aren’t you? Don’t worry, i’ll give you what you deserve.”

Groaning, Satoru’s big, cold hands found their way to the sides of your hips as he slowly pushed into you, eliciting a moan from you.

As soon as he was adjusted, Satoru began fucking you with no restraint, his hips thrusting into yours roughly and making the bed squeak.

By now, you were a moaning mess as Satoru reached over to tease your clit. Grabbing you by the ankles, he placed them on his strong shoulders, allowing him to thrust into you deeper.

“Aren’t you gonna shut her up?” Satoru panted as he continued pounding into you. Tears were streaming down your face as both men teased and fucked you into tomorrow, moaning at every thrust Satoru made while pleading for your boyfriend to stop teasing you.

“I’d love for her to scream and beg while I fuck her, but if that’s what you want, fine by me.” Suguru chuckled as he pulled away from your bruised lips, a string of saliva adding to the evidence of his abuse on your lips.

“Satoru thinks you’re too noisy, let’s fix that, shall we?” Suguru gave you a smile so sweet that if you weren’t in this predicament you would’ve completely melt and be fooled by that damn smile.

Gently placing your head on the bed, Suguru got up on his knees. Pulling his sweatpants down and revealing his cock dripping with precum, Suguru grabbed you by the cheeks. Without warning, he inserted his whole length into your warm, wet mouth.

“Be a good girl and suck like how I taught you.” Suguru commanded, one hand grabbing your wrists while the other held your head in position.

Moving however he liked, you were left a mess as Satoru and Suguru both fucked you simultaneously, each desperate to prove the other wrong.

As Satoru continued to bury himself deeper into you, saliva trickled from the sides of your mouth and mingled with the sweat and tears on your skin as Suguru grunted, sweat glistening on his skin, the loose bun he had tied his hair in coming undone with each thrust.

Sensing that he was close to release, Satoru snapped your attention back to him as he rubbed on your clit, fucking you even harder as his hands gripped your ankles tightly.

“Who’s a good girl?” Satoru panted, his thrusts getting sloppier and sloppier with each second passing.

Sensing a familiar knot forming in the pit of your stomach, you moaned around Suguru, warning Satoru that you were close.

“Fuck.” Suguru cursed as the vibration of your moan hit his cock. Eager to release at the same time his best friend does, Suguru buried himself into you with no regard, as if using as a nothing but a toy.

“Gonna cum.” Satoru warned, sweat dripping from his forehead onto your exposed skin.

You struggled and arched your back as Satoru sped up, chasing his release.

“Fuck, I’m gonna cum. You want me to cum in you, baby? I bet you’ll look so sexy with my kids inside you. Maybe then I’ll fuck you even more.” Satoru groaned.

“Do that and i’ll kill you.” Suguru warned as he panted, his eyes fixed on the dirty action of his cock sliding in and out of your cute little mouth.

“I dare you.” Satoru groaned.

Reaching to grab you by the hips, Satoru’s fingers dug deep into your sides as he stilled himself, his cum painting your walls white the same time you reached your peak. As you screamed through your hoarse throat, you were sure that there would be bruises on your hips by tomorrow.

Soon after, Suguru followed, releasing his load into your mouth and a string of curses fell from his lips, tears steaming down once again as you looked up at your boyfriend through blurry eyes.

“Not done yet.” Suguru panted as he grabbed you, causing you to be on all fours while facing his best friend as he positioned his cock with you wet cunt.

With a easy push, Suguru was inside you thanks to how wet Satoru made you. Without waiting for you to adjust to his size, strong hands gripped the sides of your hips once again, and the sound of skin slapping on skin filled the room again.

“You think this slut can take the both of us in the same hole?” Satoru wondered aloud as he fondled your bouncing tits, his cock hardening again as he watched your tight little hole get destroyed by your boyfriend.

“Perhaps. No harm in trying. Right, baby?” Suguru bit your earlobe.

“Fuck. How did you bag her? Did you threaten her to do what you say and be your sex slave?” Satoru teased lazily as one hand reached to his erect cock, giving himself a few pumps as the other continued its assult on your soft breasts, teasing and pinching the soft and supple flesh ever so occasionally.

“That’s fucking rude.” Was all your boyfriend could manage out as he was sucked into the image of you taking him so well just like he taught you.

“Be a good girl for Satoru, okay?” At this point, all you could manage out was pitiful moans and nods as you brace yourself for Satoru’s entrance. You felt a palm strike you on your ass, but you weren’t sure who it was. All you could do was focus on getting fucked by your boyfriend and his best friend.

You thought you were ready to take the two men in the same hole, but Satoru’s cock spreading you even further told you otherwise. Very soon, the two men were using you like a cocksleeve, both of them creating a rhythm.

“So fucking dirty.” Satoru chuckled. Pressing two fingers inside you, he scooped out any cum that was dripping down the now soaked bedsheets. What was originally a small get together turned into a cum-filled threesome, the smell of sex lingering in the air as the sheets beneath the three of you were wet with tears, sweat, and cum. Both men were now chasing their own orgasm, two pairs of hands grabbing your ass and playing with your bundle of nerves.

“Her mouth seems so lonely.” Satoru cooed, seeing how you were desperately begging for them to go faster, wanting to orgasm before you collapse. “Maybe we should’ve called Nanami over to join this party too. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind taking care of a slut like you.” Satoru panted as he gave your ass a stinging slap.

With the two men picking up their pace now, the oh so familiar grunts and pants of your lover and his friend served as the signal for their approaching orgasm. As Suguru and Satoru both came without warning, cum dripped from your abused hole down your legs. Snaking a hand over to your lower belly, Suguru pressed down on your womb, causing you to cum suddenly around the both of them. Almost immediately you collapsed onto the bed head first, your cum-filled ass high in the air for the two men to see.

“You look so fucking hot like this, my love.” Suguru smiled at you as he came down from his high, the three of you panting and heaving harshly.

“Really sexy.” Satoru murmured as he sucked on the insides of your thighs, pushing back any cum that trickled out.

~~~

“So, who fucked you better?” Satoru teased as you laid in between the both of them with your head on Suguru’s arm. Satoru propped himself up with an elbow, his lips planting tender kisses on your hand.

You were too spent to answer him, but Satoru wasn’t letting it go.

“Tell us, princess. Who made you feel better?”

“Sugu...” Was all you managed out as your eyelids fluttered under the weight of your sleepiness.

“Not me, huh?” Satoru pouted.

“Give it a rest already.” Suguru sighed in response, his fingers combing the tangles out of your hair as you snuggled against his chest. “I’m her boyfriend after all.”

“Then i think someone needs to be re-educated, don’t you agree?” Satoru snickered as he absentmindedly drew circles on your thigh.

One day, Satoru thought. He’ll make you his one day.

[needleanddead]

remember when i was like ‘i will probably use this blog to write some horrible reader-insert fanfiction too’? yeah. 

knife-edge, strade x reader, 3.2k

trigger warnings: not sfw, non-con, blood, violence, gore, references to torture/snuff films, honestly i figure you probably know what you’re getting into if you’re seeing this. reader uses no pronouns/neutral pronouns but is vaguely implied to be afab. 

cross-posted to ao3

You do not know how you still have it in you to scream, and cry, and beg.

Well.

That’s a lie, really; you have it in you to scream, and cry, and beg, because you know that the moment you stop – the moment you let yourself truly succumb to that pit of nothingness that lies heavy and waiting in your chest – he will lose interest in you completely, and you will meet the same fate as all of the rest of them do.

Despite the shock collar that lies heavy around your throat; the proof that he had seen some value in you beyond what you might feel like if he tore you into pieces and let you rot, you know that any peace you have here is temporary. He’ll get bored. He’ll lose control. He’ll--

Sometimes you wonder if those things might be better. The idea of death hovers at the edges of your vision like a spectre, waiting for you – and you are a coward and you run from it, whimpering and sensitive with tears rolling down your cheeks whenever he takes you back down the creaking basement stairs and wraps rope around already rubbed-raw wrists.

You don’t think you’d recognise the sight of your own wrists without the rope burn any more. It seems so long since you’ve been anything other than captive. You’re not sure you even know who you are unless you have a blade half-buried in your thigh or thick fingers digging and reopening wounds or pliers too close to vulnerable flesh.

You think he likes that, too – that you don’t seem to exist unless you’re hurting. Delights that he’s broken you without breaking the part of you that he really likes; the one with the trembling lip and the gasping and the tears beading in your eyes. You beg less now; you have learnt that he’s always able to turn a ‘please, please don’t, not that--’ into something that’s somehow worse. But when you’d first woken up all rope-burnt and disoriented with your arms wrapped around a pole in a basement that smelt like copper and oil, you had begged until your throat was sore.

What you had gotten for your troubles was your own hand wrapped around the knife handle as you sliced into too soft, too giving flesh and stared in horror at bubbling rivulets of blood with the dim thought in the back of your mind; I did this to myself.

It’s a dangerous knife-edge that you’re walking; don’t fight too much, but don’t give in too much. Don’t break, but don’t entirely yield. If he gets bored of you, or if you push him too far – then the collar around your neck will be carefully unlocked and you’ll regret everything. You’ll meet the fate that you so narrowly avoided, bleeding and broken and disoriented as your life slips away to the tune of Strade’s fingers wrapped too hard about your throat.

Or worse, you’ll meet the fate you’ve seen some of the ones who have broken too early become acquainted with; bandana wrapped around his mouth and camera painstakingly readjusted to perfectly centre a sobbing, terrified face. You have been far too close to the ones who end up that way; brought down to the basement and given a nail gun as you’re shoved onto your knees in front of a girl who might once have been pretty but is a little too matted with blood and bruises to be called the same any more.

“I thought they might like to see someone else hurt her this time, schatzi,” his smile had not dimmed a watt. When you had first met him, that smile had put you at ease; his eyes had reminded you of honey, and you’d been so flattered, so warmed, to have the attention of someone who oozed easy charm--

You know now his eyes are not the soft amber of honey but the sharp yellow-orange of a hawk; a predator. When he had smiled at you, he had not been thinking of the kindness of making someone feel comfortable – he had merely been imagining how prettily you would break. Which, as he had not failed to tell you after you’d sobbed out every plea you could and had jagged stitches and broken bones and blood crusted on your face to prove it, had been even more lovely than he had imagined.

The nail gun had been too heavy in your hand; the trigger sweaty, because Strade himself was over-excited and flushed dark pink under tanned skin and excitement beading at his brow. Your fingers had slipped all over it as he’d murmured;

“They want you to put a pretty pattern in her up her shins to her knees. Start at the . . . haa, start at the ankle--”

You’d felt something inside of you snap as if it was very far away as you stared at her legs; already cut up a little and stitched messily, as Strade is so wont to do to make sure his captives last longer. You hesitate too long, because suddenly thick, strong fingers are gripping your jaw and squeezing too hard as they turn your face towards the camera like a rabbit caught in headlights.

His fingers will bruise your face, you know – and he will see it tomorrow, and dig them harder, make the bruises deeper until you can barely open your jaw--

“Ah, they think you’re cute, mäuschen,” Strade says, an uncomfortable lilt in his voice that sets your teeth on edge. “They’d be happy to see you as the star instead – and I’m sure our other guest would much prefer it too.”

(The girl in the chair leans forward, babbling words that don’t make sense; bubbling drool slips from her lips, tinged pink, and you think that this one must have talked too much and Strade has done something to her tongue).

“Now,” his tone is endlessly patient. “You know I want to keep you, ja? You’re very sweet. I like you a lot - so be good and do what the audience want, and I won’t have to do something I don’t want to, will I?”

He is hard to read. Cheerful to angry in moments; snapping and bouncing from side to side with a laugh and a wild light in his eyes that you don’t understand. He does like you – insofar as you think Strade is capable of really feeling for other people – but you can’t wager your life on him bluffing. The girl looks at you with agonised eyes and you pull the trigger, the nose of the gun pressed against her ankle.

You hear her scream – wet, through a throat clogged with blood, the sound mixing with the disgusting crunch-squelch of the nail being driven into her skin too close to the bone – and it echoes far longer in your head than it actually lasts. You feel far away as you trail the gun further up her leg, pulling the trigger, your marks on her surprisingly straight considering how much the both of you are trembling – but you know you’re crying because you can hear Strade breathing a little heavy, see the bulge in his pants (level with your face) from the corner of your eye as you finish the first leg and move to the second.

It’s not the last time he makes you hurt someone on stream. Sometimes, he checks the stream whilst you’re there and whichever poor soul he’s got taped to a chair whimpers and squirms, whistling cheerily through his teeth as if the situation is perfectly normal. You see the comments as they scroll by; asking you to do horrible things, the ping of donations, the occasional plea to dig a screwdriver into your eye socket and make you scream or pull out your teeth with pliers or slash a heavy knife through your ribcage and fuck the wound he leaves there--

You think he lets you see them on purpose, as a reminder of what he could do to you. He always makes sure the stream sees your face perfectly clearly, too – and you never fail to think; ‘he is making me an accessory to his murders’.

(It is not just you; you find out that Ren is subjected to this same treatment, this same reminder that Strade’s moods are volatile and he loses self-control too quickly and there’s every chance that one day, he will go too far. You do not share your thoughts with Ren that even if, by some miracle, the two of you found yourself outside of Strade’s control, your face is probably plastered all over the darkest shadows of the deep web. You never talk about what might happen. You do not quite trust each other beyond sharing in patching up each other’s wounds, occasionally seeking one another out for company, trembling in the night. There is a kind of tension between you; fear that the other is the favourite. That Strade perhaps isn’t capable of keeping both of you long-term.

It makes Strade himself laugh when he sees that you’re on edge around each other and he leans forward to rest elbows on knees and tells you with a wicked glint in his eye that he just wants the both of you to get along. Perhaps you two need to share something very special, like what he shares with the both of you.

When he tells you to hurt one another, Ren has the advantage of animal nature. It’s clear to you where you stand in the pecking order of predators. You think, too, that Strade prefers you there. Master, fox, mouse.)

You never hear anything from the room designated as yours; it doesn’t escape notice that there is no other bedroom, aside from Ren’s domain and the one that Strade himself barely uses. Nowhere for someone else, if Strade were to take it into his head that another captive would be an interesting pet to keep--

It has been long enough that there are some things you have asked for, tremulous and whimpering, decorating surfaces and scattered about the room. There are also reminders of Strade, too; a hammer and nails on a chest of drawers, a knife in the bedside cabinet, too many things that could be used as weapons at the same time as being summarily excused as simply the detritus of a man doing home improvements.

You’d woken up that morning (you know it is morning because early fingers of dawn have penetrated even through the curtains you keep closed) to see Strade silhouetted in the doorway, smile on his face, shirt spattered with dark red and brown. You know that expression. You sit up, letting the covers fall, and he keeps smiling as he closes the door behind him and approaches you like a wolf approaches a frightened rabbit.

“Last night was disappointing,” he says, his tone light. You’d heard a thump in the middle of the night; assumed it to be Strade dragging a body down to the basement, and had resolutely buried your face into your pillow and pretended you heard nothing.

It’s easier to think of Strade’s other victims – the ones not so lucky as you or Ren – as faceless, foolish creatures. Food. Sustenance. Not people.

“I’m sorry,” you say, voice quiet, cracking. Strade reaches across and chucks your chin, too fondly, bright smile and bright eyes.

“It’s alright,” he tells you. He’s pleased with the apology. He likes it when you’re polite. “It just means that I’m feeling a little . . . ahh. Restless. You’ll help me with that, won’t you?”

“Of c-course I will.” The stutter; he likes that, you know. He shifts as he sits on the bed.

A chuckle.

“You’re always so well-behaved,” he tells you. “sehr süß.”

The knife-edge you walk; the tight-rope. Well-behaved, but not broken. Responsive, but not troublesome. You’ve gotten it down to a fine art.

He’s on top of you before you can respond, knees shoved between your legs, your hand shoved hard against the bedside table so it knocks uncomfortably against hard wood and you flinch at the shock of pain.

The brief pain, though, is nothing to the anxiety that crawls up your throat as you realise he grabbed the hammer and nails as he walked in.

He chuckles as he sees your eyes widen in fear, cooing softly to you;

“That expression. So hübsch. Stay still for me.”

Your wrist is shaking as Strade carefully places a nail right in the centre of your hand; testing the angle, the positioning. His breath is uneven and panting in excitement at what he’s going to do – and excitement, too, that he knows you won’t pull away. Because you know if you do, it will not merely be a nail through one hand, but perhaps through your other and your knees and your feet, perhaps a knife slicing through you like butter, perhaps the feel of chisels and needles and sharper and more painful objects (knife, pliers, screwdriver, chisel, bradawl, drill--).

He lifts the hammer. He watches intently. His eyes are lit with bright excitement, chest heaving, sweat-soaked and greasy. You taste copper and realise you’ve bitten through your lip.

You’ve grown used to the smell of copper and motor oil and meat. If it weren’t for the flood of blood across your tongue you doubt you’d have noticed.

Crack. The first blow. The pain is blinding.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Every single hit of the hammer sends a new shock of pain through you that echoes through the inside of your arm through to the bone marrow, shaking you. It’s not the most painful thing you’ve felt at Strade’s hands; but you are still partly asleep, still not quite aware, and you are simply looking at your hand with the crunch of fractured bones (twenty seven bones in the human hand; is that your capitate, that’s been splintered through?) and the sick wet noise of blood and muscle and you can’t think.

You stare, unblinking, at where your hand is nailed to the bedside table - the gore and blood that oozes from the wound as he uses the clawed end of the hammer to drag it out again. Strade’s smile is beatific, eyes wide and bright, sweat dampening his collar and his cheeks flushed and ruddy.

You’re unable to process anything for another long, agonising second; relief flooding you when finally, you respond. The whimper a delayed reaction, the tears that roll fat and hot down your own face taking a beat longer than usual.

You fear that you’ve broken for the moment you’re staring in horror; that he has finally, well and truly snapped you in half. Because if you’re broken, that means he’ll lose interest, and that means the basement and the fear of death finally catching up with you.

Occasionally the thought flits across your mind that death perhaps would be preferable; but you are a coward, and you have hurt people (even if it was on Strade’s command), and you do not want to know what awaits you on the other side of a non-beating heart and the light in a tunnel.

Strade chuckles, affectionately rubbing his nose against the line of your jaw, teeth digging just a little too hard into the flesh of your neck.

“You had me worried for a second, mäuschen,” he practically purrs. “I thought I’d heard the last of your squeaking.” Big fingers, tugging at your thighs, guiding you to wrap them around his hips. Despite the softness of his body, the proof that he enjoys lazing around and cheap beer and meat a little too much, there’s raw muscle beneath the chub. Even his hands on you are a reminder of how strong he is.

(Strong enough to drag dead bodies across floors, to lift them into kilns, to hold down unwilling, screaming captives and make them regret they ever laid eyes on him.)

“Unzip,” he tells you. One of your hands is free; unpierced, though scarred from being pressed against stove burned and soldering irons and heat guns, from grabbing the blade of a knife when he’s told you to fuck yourself with the handle, from sanders applied to formerly soft skin. You do not use that hand.

You force yourself to move the one dripping in your own blood, the ruined hand pierced straight through. The movement of your fingers burns, sending shock waves of pain all through you; but you tug at the zip of his pants nonetheless. You get blood all over his clothes but he just chuckles low and dangerous, as you reach into his underwear too and squeeze your eyes shut when you feel how hot and hard and heavy his cock is in your grip.

“Eyes on me,” he reminds you, soft, and you force yourself to open them. He drinks in the expression on your face like he’s a starved man and it’s his first meal.

There’s a bloody handprint on his shaft when your fingers and wrist finally give out and your hand falls onto the sheets and pillows beneath you, staining them too, and you think that Strade is going to drive more nails through your hand just to prove a point about not doing as he says.

But his cock presses hot and needy against your inner thigh, smearing blood and pre-come on your scarred skin, and he’s panting and practically drooling as he murmurs;

“You know you’re not going to break, schatz. You want to live too much.” He leans his face further down. He does not kiss you so much as take control of you; worry teeth into your bottom lip, transfer his own saliva into your mouth, conquer the cavern behind your lips and teeth (one of them is loose; from being hit and squeezed. He pushes his tongue just a little too hard against that one and your body contracts, a whimper transferred from your throat to his mouth, and he swallows it up like your protests are a fine steak). “Ah. That’s what I like about you.”

Are you going to break? The push of him pressing inside of you makes your toes curl, a soft noise that might be a moan escape; Strade laughs, again, the sound too hearty and friendly to come out of the monster that you know he is.

“You like it,” he presses, as his thumbs come to your hips and dig into wounds that have been stitched together; you hear the stitches pop, feel him re-open barely healed gashes. “You like being special to me. You like this.”

You don’t think you do.

You don’t think you like any of this; his body on top of yours, the pain, the mistrust, the fear that prickles hot and sharp and sour in your throat whenever you hear the door (the one you can’t go near) open. But you also know that saying that is the wrong answer. Hitting and screaming like a wildcat is the wrong answer. Saying nothing at all is the wrong answer.

So instead, you open your mouth, you shiver and shudder as his thumb presses deeper into the re-opened wound, and you manage to choke out a mouse-squeak of;

“Pl-please—”

It’s the right answer. His face does not soften; but his smile widens, his hips tilting until you’re so full you can barely move and you ache everywhere, and Strade simply smiles down at you as whatever passes for affection for him leaks into his tone and he coos;

“Don’t worry, mäuschen. I’ll give you exactly what you want. For as long as you need.”

[german translation dictionary;  schatzi - sweetheart/dear/darling/treasure mäuschen - little mouse sehr süß - very sweet/very cute so hübsch - so pretty idk how accurate these are i am just using google translate always]

[kodzumie-archived]

OMGOMGOMGOKOKOK SOOO CAN I ask for a gentle vampire komaeda who has a crush on a very apprehensive and easily scared fragile girl who’s kind of scared of him at first but then after seeing how kind and soft he is, eventually comes around to like him? Also, he protects her bc vampires are vv strong 🥺 THANK YOU ILY DUDE <3

❝SERENDIPITY❞

Synopsis; Against the unruly clutches of chance, could the blossoming of a bond between two fundamentally forbidden species piece itself together?

Featuring; Nagito Komaeda x Fem! Reader

Warning(s); Vampire Komaeda, blood, alternate universe (AU), injury description, slight gore, and themes of predator/prey.

Kodzumie’s Note; This was so fun to do! Thank you so much, dear, for the request! Aah, vampire Komaeda is forever welcome on this blog. Thank you for bringing this idea to life, I love you so much!! Muah, muah! <3

➤ NAGITO KOMAEDA

⤷ The inception of adoration is an enigma. A blossoming of a passion so seemingly fantastical, yet ever-so ontological. Love―in its most bare form―is unpredictable.

⤷ You’re meek; the glorious crumb of bread dropped in a fish pond. But life is much more unforgiving to those who are unfit for the calamities of the world. Reflecting upon existence in a metaphorical sense, that fish pond could only wishfully have been inhabited by mere Koi, but rather barbarous piranhas.

⤷ In this bitter life, the chains abide only by those who are fit for survival. A population divided into two―humans and vampires―you’ve been subjected to the former; necessitating hospitality and the protection of another.

⤷ If not by mere chance, you’d have met your doom inevitably. It’s alarming; your fate cradled by the clutches of chance itself. But, as cruel as life proves itself to be, you harbor no command over your own providence.

⤷ And chance, as it has instilled within you relentlessly, prefers to plays it’s promiscuous games unfairly. Which you are reminded of once more as you find yourself cornered. Yet again, you are the helpless prey.

⤷ Your heart pulsates; a beating that rings amongst your ears almost deafeningly. The sound nearly drowning out the malevolent growls of the vampires seeking victuals of whichever foolish, helpless victim to feed upon. If only the thumping of your heart could drown the tantalizing realization that you are the pathetic victim.

⤷ In the mere blink of an eye, eclipsed figures sprint towards you. Hauntingly, their footprints seemingly inaudible as though they were flying. But if only you’d known better. You were human; weak and delicate. Whatever fragmentations of survival chance had provided seemed void in that instance.

⤷ Even by the grace of your legs carrying you as fast as they could possibly go, the odds were tauntingly against you. Granted, you likely wouldn’t even have time to accept the bitter reality of your predicament; you weren’t going to make it out of this alive.

⤷ Your breathing is erratic; uneven and forced out in puffs of desperation. But there’s a will within you. Though the poignant truth encapsulates your hope in shackles, you continue to fight. For every breath you take, you push yourself to run faster, dodge the clawed hands reaching for your feeble body, and to do whatever it takes to survive. 

⤷ It’s a humane instinct; to fight for a continuous existence despite fate’s stamp of undeniable death. You were steadily approaching your due date, and predictably by the end of the night, you’d be nothing more than the feed of the pack of vampires.

⤷ After a sharp turn, jabbing your heel into the ground as you whirl your body to turn; the air resistance inducing your eyes to clamp shut. It was a turn too fast for your body to handle, stumbling forward sporadically, but it was enough to throw the famished vampires off of your tail, even momentarily.

⤷ Run, run, run! Dumbified by the desolate venom of oncoming death, you leap forward, narrowly avoiding what would’ve been a climatic fault; tripping over the thick roots of an unforgiving oak tree.

⤷ The night air in which you once believed was refreshing and serene now plagued with the tang of your own demise. It’s suffocating; feeling fear for your life and yet unable to provide some sort of protection for yourself. You were cowardly, and you were weak. Yet in this bitter life, the chains abide only by those who are fit for survival.

⤷ And life doesn’t make exceptions for anyone. You, just as much as anyone who finds their fate at the mercy of chance, were no exception to its cruel deduction as a pair of arms envelope your form.

⤷ At long last, the chase has concluded. Of all nights you’d spent tossing and turning in a pitiful attempt to subdue the remanence of a nightmare―a lucid illusion of your innermost fears―nothing of that caliber could begin to compare to the piquant dread settling within you. You’ve been caught.

⤷ But even as the sinking anxiety pricks at your delicate heart, the tendrils of terror stabbing into your mind, you thrash. Kicking and scream, you fight against the figure engulfing your form, pressing your back against their abnormally cold front.

⤷ You, yourself, weren’t quite aware of why you kept insisting on resistance. Perhaps it was the hope residing within you; the hope that there’s even the slimmest of probabilities that you’d find a way out. Or perhaps that, itself, was the naked core of the human will.

⤷ Sobs tear through your throat, ripping your vocal cords raw as you screamed for help. Your desperate pleas for somebody―anybody―to help you. But even if they managed to hear you, who would be dumb enough to put their own life at risk for the sake of yours?

⤷ Such is life; we live, and we die. Those who are unable to fend for themselves are sacrificed to the grip of gravel as their corpses rot amongst the cycles of parasitism; cells feed upon your body until you’re nothing more than a husk of what once human; what was once alive.

⤷ Yet, even as you thrash and cry, begging for some sort of escape to the Hell you’ve been forced to witness and endure, you find that as moments pass, the anticipated pain of claws tearing into your plush skin as teeth sink into the conjunction of your neck never come.

⤷ You should be wary, you should expect for life to expose its cruel, ugly face to you in its hideous nudity. But such is the fragile mind of someone as meek as you; truly, you were what the world deemed as unfit for existence. You believed what embodied the hope towards a unified tomorrow. And that, in itself, was fatal.

⤷ As you calmed your body, easing the subtle tremors, you crane your head to meet eyes with your captor. Ghostly green hues interlock with yours as you gulp. It’s a man, an alarmingly paled young man.

⤷ His skin powdered in thin layers of dirt as he reciprocates your fearful gaze with a gentle grin. Features ever-so delicate you almost assumed that the mere flick against the plush would result in scarring. He was gentle and, at that moment, you felt as though you could trust him.

⤷ But trust is fatal in this world. And as you meet eyes with him, you finally push away with a shove of your shoulder against his throat. He chokes momentarily as you stumble back, albeit tripping over your own feet and landing on your rear.

⤷ Could it be that he’d come to aid you? Could it be that for once in the hauntings of this unforgiving world, you were provided with a temporary protector?

⤷ No. You’d be a fool to believe such audacious hospitality from the likes of what had damned you to such a corrupt fate; caught amidst a forest of brambles and blood-thirsty monsters, seeking to drink upon your viscous fluids.

⤷ As you continue to meet eyes with the boy, you manage to stutter a question that rang much too loudly for your liking. Yet you needed to stay assertive. One crack in your visage and you life would be taken before you could even comprehend it yourself. Who are you?

⤷ Truthfully, you didn’t even know if he’d muster a genuine reply. For all you knew, he could leave you with a cold shoulder and put an end to your miserable life. But, much to your surprise, he manages to croak out a choked answer; “I’m Nagito Komaeda.”

⤷ Though as soon as his name escapes from his lips, he shrinks his gaze away as he bows to you. A gesture that startled you as you quickly realized who he was. Or rather, what he was.

⤷ As he voiced his name, baritone voice resonating against the hollow oak, his fangs barely showcased themselves from within the caverns of his mouth. You, really and truly, were in a predicament. And one that would seemingly result at the end of your life; an unfathomable death.

⤷ He lifts his head as you shriek, finding your figure to be rapidly crawling away from his in desperation. There was no way in Hell you were going to stick around if it meant being in the presence of the one who―you were certain of―would take it upon themselves to feed on you.

⤷ “H-Hey, where are you going?” He questions, beginning to pace after you. How belittling. His jog was quick enough to synchronize with your frantic crawls. You stood no chance. You were at his mercy.

⤷ Lifting your head once more, a frustrating cry escapes. “You’re one of them!” Your tone sharp despite your countenance openly conveying your vulnerability. Even to him, it was blatantly clear that you’d dubbed your fate as under the terrorizing control of his will.

⤷ “I don’t mean any harm to you.” He admits. His voice a mere whisper amongst the chirping of the nocturnal melody the crickets sang. Ghostly green orbs glossed with earnest intentions as he respectfully kneeled before you, holding his hand out towards you.

⤷ It’s strange. This―in every way imaginable―was abnormal. A taboo, even. His lips curled into a smile that genuinely expressed his yearning to assist you was wrong; it shattered every miserable rule this corrupted cycle of life instilled.

⤷ And yet you still place your hand within his, allowing him to help you up to your feet. He even went as far as to pat down the front of your garments, ridding you of the accumulated dirt from your attempted escape. It unnerved you. Why is he acting as though he truly wants to help you?

⤷ “You were running away from a pact of vampires, weren’t you?” He asks, stepping away from you. The space allowing you personal room to breath yet enough closeness to ensure you’re within arms-reach. With a shaky nod of your head, you agree to his inquiries.

⤷ Yet you’re still cautious. He’s a vampire, he’ll easily be able to overpower you and strip you of your life, leaving you with the travesty of what you fear would only be momentary trust.

⤷ “Why are you helping me?” It’s a direct question, and one you prayed he wouldn’t dodge. You had to know; you needed to know. But were you truly prepared for the truth? Were you prepared to hear what the embodiment of your fate had to say over your very own survival? A confirmation of your death?

⤷ You almost managed to interrupt him and admit you don’t want to know, but he beats you to it. Truthfully, it takes a moment to register. You almost don’t believe it, but the haunting vivid reality of his lips moving as each word escaped his lips leads you to believe that it’s real.

⤷ “I couldn’t sit back and allow someone so hope-filled to be mauled by the obscene, hideous hunger of despair. I want to help you. I want you to survive.”

⤷ With a dazed mind, you begin to question whether or not you’d managed to hit your head previously. Was this an illusion? It’s against the principles of this perpetually miserable world to allow unity between the two ruptures of the population; vampires and humans.

⤷ But it was real, real, real. The ontological sensation of his hand cradling yours as he helped you up, that was real. His arms encapsulating you as he put a halt to your sprints of flee, that was real. This entire situation was so hauntingly real. Yet how could he insist on something so unworldly?

⤷ Though you weren’t allowed to voice your perplexed distrust as he ever-so gently takes your hand within his once more. The soft, alarmingly cold skin of his hand figuratively melting against yours; in which your body regulated to remain at a forgivable body temperature.

⤷ He tugs your hand to signal for you to follow him, his eyes glistening with the reflection of the moon as he smiles. The curling of his lips oozing with a foreign sincerity you’d never have guessed to be found from someone like him; someone you’d predicted would be the death of you.

⤷ “Come on, I know a place where you can hide. They’re not going to find you there, I promise.” It’s a voiced assurance; a promise of your survival. Or, at the very least, for your protection.

⤷ But did you really have any option other than to rely on him? Rejecting his offer could insinuate a possible rage and result in his teeth sinking into your flesh. Yet abiding could, too, result in the findings of your hideout and fatally subject you to the mauling of multiple slobbering, fanged mouths.

⤷ You nod, deciding to agree. “O-Okay.” It was faint, but induced the softening of his gaze as a breathy chuckle escaped him.

⤷ “It’s not the best place around, but it’s the most scum like me could find. Sorry I can’t give you anything more adequate.” He apologized. It was a charming apology, yet unnecessary. Truly, you’d have never expected him to provide a location for you to seek shelter within.

⤷ “No, it’s fine...” You trail off, eyes narrowing on your intertwined hands. He was abnormally cold, yet you still seemed to feel strangely warm. A flurry of fondness smothering your chest as you suppressed an oncoming smile, finally tearing your gaze away from your joint hands.

⤷ “Thank you, Nagito.” Amidst the crescendo of nocturnal chirping and the gust of the nightly breeze, you voice a mere echo. Yet it still is audible and resonates within the pointed ears of your fanged potential ally.

⤷ He turns to you with a momentary visage of bewilderment. It seems that he, too, is susceptible to shock despite the loops of flummox he’s thrown you in for the night.

⤷ After a moment, his confusion melts into his fond smile that you’ve rapidly grown fond of. This meeting, by all odds, was due to the clutches of unapologetic chance. As he squeezes your hand within his, you’re reminded that this is inexplicably irredeemable.

⤷ Hand-in-hand, the two of you fragment the shackles of taboo; the perpetual division of your diverse species. It’s by chance that a vampire has taken it upon themself to assist a human. And it’s by chance that what life’s fundaments deem an impossible allegiance is the blossoming of your potential bond.

⤷ But there’s a chance―an undoubtable hope―that a unified future between the two unaligned. It’s a slim probability. But when has life―when has chance―ever proven itself to be fair?