#without it seeming preach-y

[im-in-andromeda]

okay the scene in s1 ep1 when there is the flashback to the hargreeves waiting to say goodnight to reginald but he doesn’t acknowledge them and allison says ‘he’s always busy’ only to move onto the modern day scene where there are random noises and movements coming from the study?!?!

obviously it’s played for laughs and i know this wasn’t the original intention but the idea of going from the flashback to that scene really makes the study seem haunted for a few seconds, until you realise it’s klaus. the man who is haunted (literally) and plagued by ghosts. storytelling at its peak

[spicy30]

Ich bin ein Jäger

Pairing(s): Remmick (Sinners) x Fem! Augustine Vampire! WOC! Reader

Crossover: TDV→Sinners (Reader has no prior knowledge of anything in the TDV universe. Just someone who is an Augustine Vampire.)

cw: graphic scenes (violence) Age gap (Idk who would be older), Stockholm syndrome???

Rating: 18+

Add-ons: AFAB reader, no use of Y/N, one-sided pinning?

(Not Proofread)

WC: 10.4K

It’s a small town. To be expected is all the eyes on him as he enters a church. A white man (Not that the ‘real’ white people agree that he is a white man, but that’s neither here nor there.) in church, the pressure felt like he’s not supposed to be here. But all people will be his people. So, for now, Remmick ignores it.. 

This is a church and all are welcomed, that is what is preached. Especially on this night. 

Christmas. 

Only time he gets to enter a church without burning alive. Only time he gets to hear the words that remind him of home. (Even if they’re not in that exact order.) 

Remmick is looking at the pastor. He knows this pastor. A good man, with a good wife and their precious little daughter who doesn’t seem to like this church very much. His eyes shift to you. Your leg is bouncing. It bounces through the entire sermon. Your eyes never left the cross. Not even as the church ended. (Though the longer Remmick looks at the cross, the stranger it looks. Its end is jagged and splintered.) 

A man approaches Remmick. Remmick gives a smile. The smile returned. After all he did save the man, and he was invited to this gathering. Then comes the pastor. Again Remmick smiles. He greets the pastor. A good frim shake, then a softer grip on his wife. Then comes you. Pretty little smile on your face.

Maybe you’re just being polite. It’s expected of you, after all. Expected of your people. Because if you dare to push back when someone steps on your neck—They’ll only press harder and eventually they’ll break it. (What does the death of a woman of color mean to the white man?) And just looking at your neck, well, it don’t look like it’ll take much to break. 

“Hi.” You extend your hand to him and he gladly takes it. You’re warm, like all people are.

“Hello.” He returns your greeting and almost as a reward, you give him your name. In thanks, he gives you his. It isn’t long before he’s ushered away from you and instead taken to others as they offer to share their food with him. Food that they have labored to get. Worked for days in the sun (What he wouldn’t give to feel the sun again and it not burn him as if he ain’t trying to alleviate the burden his people faced—the burden your people now face.) to get this meal on the table. 

He sits at a table between two men. Remmick knows he looks out of place, but what does it matter? 

Before anything Remmick smells the food.

Can’t have no garlic. 

He takes a bite. Don’t taste like anything. Not to him, but when he looks up as he’s chewing he sees you eating with a smile on your face enjoying the food.

Everyone is smiling. Laughing. Sharing stories and food like it’s enough to keep the world from collapsing. (But it’s not. But what he can deliver is enough.)

Remmick knows it’s not enough to simply have this. He knows it’s not. Just like he knows your daddy is struggling to pay the bills. Just like he knows your mother is struggling to keep her store afloat. Just like he knows the man next to him is struggling to meet his quota. Just like he knows the woman across from him is crying herself to sleep every night because her husband is out fucking whores and the man fucking the whores? Well, Remmick knows he does it because he can’t stand his own life.

It’s no way to live.

And you? Well he knows you too. He knows you hate going to church. He knows you hate humid heat. Knows you know about your family’s troubles — and he knows you’re going to try and fix them.

Though how? Remmick has yet to find out. Maybe you’ll pawn that ring of yours on your hand. Pretty little thing. Jewel catches every bit of light in the room. Looks expensive. Too expensive. Where’d you get a ring like that, anyway?

He doesn’t know. Not yet.

You’re talking to a man next to you, but your eyes keep finding him. That little game he likes to play sometimes. See who'll look the longest. Remmick always tends to win that game. And he does with you. Over and over again until the night starts to thin. It’ll be morning soon. He’ll have to head to his house soon. (Not home. Home is across the sea. Home is long gone.) A temporary place. 

A few people pass Remmick on the way out. Some nod. Some just look.

No one says his name.

And then he sees you again.

You’re standing by the window now, arms crossed, eyes still on that damn cross up front — even from here. Your ring taps the side of your elbow, soft and steady. Like a clock.

He stands.

Walks slow.

He doesn’t speak right away. Just stands beside you and looks out the same window.

“Did ya’ like it?” He heard you mumble beside him. He turned to you and you had a small soft smile on your face. 

“I did.” You smiled again looking up to the cross once more. The light caught your ring. 

“I’m glad. Everyone should have the chance to enjoy the lord on this day.” That confused Remmick. “No matter who we are. Don’t you think so?” You were now smiling at him again. The confusion sat with him. You didn’t like church.

“I do.” It was all he could say before you walked off.

“Well then, have a blessed night.” You left with your parents before he could say anything more.

…

The next time Remmick sees you, it’s through a window. You’re there, talking to the man from Christmas eve. The sunlight makes your skin shine. You shine almost as much as the ring on your finger. 

Then you motion to his house. Remmick’s ears perk.

“I heard the white boy is living over there.” You whispered to the man next to you. The man only scoffed.

“Reckon all them white folk gon start comin’ here?” Remmick kept his eyes on you. You simply looked away from his house and faced the sun letting it warm your skin, or so he can imagine. He hasn’t felt the sun in centuries. Not without it blistering him raw anyways.

“God’s plan I sus’pose.” Maybe Remmick didn’t know you. Least, not as well as he thought.

“The devil and the white man.” Remmick could only smile at the man’s words. “You afraid of the white man? The devil?”

You left Remmick’s sight, though he could hear you clear as day. “I don’t fear the devil.”

“You a God-fearin’ woman, then?” The man asked. As you both walked further and further, Remmick strained to hear your answer. Though in the end, he was left to speculate cause Remmick never heard your answer. He wonders what you’d do if you ever saw the devil. Many say they don’t fear the devil. Well…the devil's never come for them. But Remmick knows the devil. It came for him and his people, and now, they’re after yours. The devil that wears a pointy white hat preaching that all men are equal, but some are more equal than others.

Well since he never heard you answer, it'd be best if he went to find out himself. 

And so he does. It’s night when he walks. And you — you live deep on the southside, damn near the bayous. The kind of place where the roads narrow to dirt and gravel, and the streetlights don’t bother shining. The air is thick out here. Heavy with swamp heat and cicada buzz. Spanish moss hangs like old ghosts from the trees, and something unseen slinks through the reeds just off the road.

Strange for a pastor to be so far from his flock.

Remmick steps up the creaking porch steps. Peeling paint, warped boards. A porch swing sways slow, like someone just left it. He raises his fist and knocks. Once. Twice. Three times — a pattern made for stories that never end well.

(But not his story. For what he brings is salvation)

Again, his ears listen. He hears your voice from inside. Tired, but clear. “I got it, Daddy.” How trusting.

The door opens with a soft scrape of wood on wood.

You’re there, framed by the crooked doorway and warm house light spilling out behind you. A yellowed hallway. Faint smell of oil and iron and old Bible paper. And you — in a robe, hair tied, lips bare.

“Hello,” you say.

Remmick’s eyes go straight to your hand. That ring again. Big and bright, even under moonlight.

“What are you doing out here? This late at night?” Your tone is different. None of that sweet Sunday warmth. No church politeness. No false softness. You’re not smiling either.

Yes. Maybe Remmick didn’t know you.

“Thought I’d come by and say hi,” he answers. “Ain’t seen you since Christmas.”

“That so?” Your brow lifts — and there’s something sharp in your voice now. Like a blade kept just under the tongue.

“It is so.” He waits. Wonders when you’ll let him in. Night hums around you both — crickets and frogs singing their ancient hymns.

You open the door a little wider and lean against the frame, arms crossed under your chest. An invitation, maybe. “Couldn’t’ve come to see me during church?” you ask.

Remmick tilts his head, lets that wolf’s smile tug at the corner of his mouth. “You were so nice the first time,” he says. “Figured — why wait?”

You smile back. He can’t figure out if it’s nice or not. “This late? Had my daddy opened the door, you'd have been shot, boy.” 

“Guess I should count myself lucky then,” Remmick says, still smiling, “that it was you who opened the door.”

You tilt your head at that. The porch light flickers once, as if considering going out. A moth bats against the glass like it’s trying to warn someone. You don’t move from the doorway.

“Guess you should,” you say, voice smooth as molasses but with something else underneath. “But I think your luck’ll run out sooner or later.”

You step just an inch closer—not enough to close the gap, not enough to invite, but enough to make him wonder what you’d do if he tried to cross the threshold.

“Now best run along,” you say, your voice quieter. “’Fore my father finds out there’s a white boy on our porch.”

The word white hangs in the air between you, sticky and heavy. Out here, it don’t just mean skin—it means history. It means ghosts with badges and fire, it means burnt crosses and blood-soaked soil. Remmick knows what it means. He remembers.

He could linger. He could lean in and say something slick. But there’s something in your eyes that stops him. Not fear. Not even hate. Just knowing.

He takes a step back, slow. Tips an imaginary hat like he’s leaving a saloon. “Wouldn’t want to overstay my welcome.”

“You already did,” you reply, soft and if he’s not hallucinating, playfully. You shut the door before he can say another word.

Behind it, he hears the faint sound of your footsteps—bare feet on old floorboards. Then the click of a lock sliding into place.

Smart girl.

He stands there for a moment longer, staring at the door, then turns and walks back into the swamp-dark night. The heat wraps around him like a second skin. The moss above sways in the still air like something watching.

Remmick’s smile fades.

No, he didn’t know you. But now, he wants to.

And so he does.

The next time he sees you, he’s sitting under a magnolia tree, its wide, waxy leaves rustling just enough to remind the world that the air still moves. He’s fine-tuning his banjo, the old wood resting against his thigh like an old friend. It’s sunset—the sky bleeding gold and peach, the kind of light that makes everything look softer than it really is.

The sun isn’t touching him—not directly—but still, he feels the phantom burn along his skin. Like a memory that lives in the muscle. Like his body knows better than to trust the light.

He ain’t welcome here. Not really. Not by the living, and certainly not by the dead that linger in these woods, these fields, these old bones of a town.

And yet, here you come.

You’re walking slow, arms tucked behind your back like a schoolgirl with a secret. You don’t look right at him, but he knows better. You’re watching from the corner of your eye, just enough to let him know you see him—but not enough to let him see you.

He plucks at a string. Then another. Then another. A lazy little tune. Just testing the cords.

The sound hums low and warm, curling through the air like smoke from a porch cigar. Notes hang between you like fireflies blinking on for the night.

You still haven’t said a word. But you’re not walking away either. That’s something. He plays a little more.

“Can you sing?” Finally, you turn your head to him, but your body stays angled away—like even your shadow doesn't know what to make of him yet.

Remmick stands. His eyes flicker to the horizon where the sun is hanging by its last thread. The final golden gasp before night swallows it whole. Finally, those cruel rays are low enough he can risk a step. So he does.

Just a little one.

The moment his foot touches the edge of light, his skin hisses. A soft, mean sound like bacon grease popping in a cast iron pan. He flinches, but he walks. Toward you.

Can you hear it? Can you smell the faint scorch of flesh? He’s burning just walking to you.

“Just a little,” he says, and his voice is steady even if his body isn’t. “Can you?”

You turn your head away. “I never cared much for music,” you reply. “So no. I can’t sing.” It’s the kind of thing said to shut a conversation down. But you don’t leave. You don’t walk away.

Remmick catches that.

He nods, slow, and looks at the road behind you. The way the shadows are getting longer. The way the trees whisper louder as the night gets closer. “Let me walk you home,” he offers.

There’s nothing syrupy in his voice. No charm. No flirt. Just the plain weight of the offer.

He watched as your eyes trail his face. From his eyes down. You’re trying to hide it. After all, a girl like you with a man like him? Well, for others, it just wouldn’t do.

(Or maybe you were just looking at his skin. The skin that is currently healing from the burns you caused.)

“You get sunburned?” Your eyes are trained on his collar bones. “I don’t see you out in the sun much. Your kind ain’t meant for it.” 

He grins. The kind of grin that doesn’t show teeth. “You’re right. Sun don’t like my kind much. It’s dark now. I’ll take you home.” 

You shake your head, but the corner of your mouth lifts. “My daddy wouldn’t like it.”

“I reckon he wouldn’t.” You don’t say yes. But you start walking—and you don’t stop him when he falls into step beside you.

The night rises around you both, thick with crickets and the far-off hum of cicadas. And the burn of the sun is gone, Remmick doesn’t feel the burn.

Just the quiet.

And your footsteps, steady in the dark. Then he hears it. Faint screeching off in the distance—too sharp, too wet. The kind that clings to the bones. The vultures. Always nearby. Always waiting. He calls them his shadows, though they ain’t loyal. Just hungry. Well, it’s a bad night for them. He ain’t gonna kill you—least not yet.

(It’s too bad he never thought they were there for him. Though why would he ever think that?)

Not when he still ain’t gotten his answer.

The path ahead twists like a snake through the tall grass. Eerily silent, save for the screeching. No crickets. No wind. Even the trees seem to be holding their breath. He looks to his side—

You're gone.

Remmick stops cold. No one leaves him without him knowing. No one just slips away.

A hiss cracks the stillness from his right. He turns.

There’s a feeling, deep and primal, starting to claw at his insides.

Before thought can catch up, his left leg jolts back on instinct— Snap.

He looks down. A gator. Biggest one he’s ever seen. Thick-scaled, eyes yellow and slick like oil. The air reeks of rot and mud. It hisses again, low and mean.

Remmick backs up, slow, cautious. But the thing lurches forward, jaws snapping inches from his foot. Animals don’t attack him. They bark, they hiss, they flee—but they don’t dare come close.

Not ever.

Another snap. It lunges. Remmick stumbles, his boots losing grip on the moss-slick path. He goes down hard, the earth cold and wet against his back.

The gator charges.

Though just before Remmick could flash his teeth, there you were. Grabbed the gator by its tail. It hissed at you before turning around and running away. 

“You alright?” you ask, voice low. Where you came from, he didn’t know. How you got here without him hearing, he couldn’t say.

But your chest is rising fast, and your eyes are wide, shining in the dark. The moonlight catches on your ring again, that jewel blazing like a second eye. He nods slowly, still on the ground, mud soaking into his shirt. “Yeah. I’m alright.”

But what he doesn’t say is— He’s never seen anything like that before. Not from a person.

“I didn’t see it,” Remmick said quickly, getting to his feet. “Where’d you go?”

“Oh, I saw a flower just a few steps back,” you said casually looking down. “Guess you didn’t hear me stop.”

“I didn’t,” he admitted, scanning the path behind you.

“Look,” you said, lifting the bloom between two fingers. You held it up—a red hibiscus, full and blooming like it had something to prove.

“It is pretty,” Remmick said, glancing from the flower to you.

Your brows furrowed, and your eyes drifted to his hands. “Did you hurt yourself?” you asked, voice tinged with concern.

Remmick looked down. One hand had a gash in it, smeared with blood and dirt. “Guess I…” he started, then looked to his right—You weren’t there anymore.

“Did,” he muttered, blinking. Then he turned left—There you were. Smiling.

You’d just been on his right.

“Let me help you,” you said softly. Your eyes stayed lowered. In the dark, they looked almost black and he swears he hears your veins pumping blood faster than he’s ever heard. It almost sounds like porcelain cracking. 

“Did you always have that purse?” he asked, eyeing the little blue thing at your side.

“Yes,” you replied, almost laughing at him, the corners of your mouth twitching. “Here,” you said, stepping closer. You took his hand. You were warm. Still human-warm. But you smelled like fresh blood. Clean. Bright. Familiar in a way that made his fangs ache.

From your purse, you pulled cotton and gently dabbed at his wound. He’d have been healed by morning— But you’d never been this close before. And he’d never smelled anything like you.

Got him droolin’.

After you cleaned his wound, you moved with careful, deliberate ease—tucking the bloodied cotton back into your purse, the soft crunch of the material the only sound for a moment. Then came the bandages, pulled from some inner pocket like you’d done this before. You wrapped them around his hand, gentle but firm, your fingers warm against his skin.

Remmick licked the side of his mouth, wiping away what drool he could reach. “It’s a nice ring,” he said, voice low.

You pulled back slightly, your eyes flicking down. He watched you turn your hand, examining the jewel like you hadn’t noticed it before. “Yeah,” you said, tone light but layered, “an old friend was kind enough to give it to me.”

Your gaze met his, and for a split second, he could’ve sworn the whites of your eyes weren’t white at all—but tinged red, like veins swelling just beneath the surface.

“That, and she owed me a couple of favors,” you added with a smile, one that was more teeth than kindness.

Then your hand lifted—slow, soft, deliberate—and you wiped the edge of his mouth where he’d missed the drool. It was an intimate gesture. Too intimate.

Maybe if Remmick had been paying attention, he would’ve noticed the strange way your fingers lingered just a second too long. Maybe he would’ve caught the lack of sound you emmit. (Humans make all kinds of sounds.) Maybe he would’ve known that humans are supposed to be cold when they sweat, but you’re always warm, no matter how much your body sweats. (Though, has he ever seen you sweat?)  

But he wasn’t paying attention. He was watching your eyes, trying to remember what they looked like the first time he saw you. Now your pupils were dilated. Then they weren’t. Then they were again.

Over and over, your pupils changed sizes. A flickering pulse. Like they were breathing. Like something was watching him from inside you.

“Well,” you said, breaking the silence, “I’d offer to walk you home, but…” — you turned your gaze toward the glowing windows of your house — “I have a curfew. And technically, you just walked me.”

Remmick chuckled, licking his bottom lip again, eyes still trained on you. “I’d never ask a lady to walk me home.”

You stepped up onto your porch, your weight light against the old wood, but before opening the door, you turned back with that same strange smile. The kind that made his stomach feel like it was turning over slow in his gut.

“Well, goodnight, Remmick,” you said softly.

“Goodnight, m’lady,” he returned, tipping his head just slightly.

You paused, hand on the doorknob, then added, “Watch out for them gators on your way home. Good rule of thumb—watch for the vultures. If they’re around, chances are something aiming for you is too.”

Then the door closed, and Remmick was left alone on the porch. He knows the rules well. He’s the reason why the rule exists.

…

You’ve been walking around with someone new. Someone like you. Remmick doesn’t say anything. He just watches. 

You’re out every night. 

Fancy that. Preacher’s daughter out every night, and with someone you’re not supposed to be with. 

Remmick doesn’t know where this new feller is from, but he doesn’t have a beating heart. It’s only confirmed when the man is smiling at him through your window. Familiar red eyes and long fangs smiling at him. 

Remmick hasn’t gotten his answer from you yet. He don’t want you dead just yet. So up he goes on your porch steps giving three knocks, just like he did the first time. The man answers the door. He opens it halfway and leans on the frame, shaking his head slowly.

“If you know what’s best for you,” Remmick drawled, voice low and steady, “you’ll come outside.”

The man’s smile never touches his eyes. “No,” he murmured. “If I know what’s best for me, I’ll stay inside. Where you’re not allowed.”

Then, right before Remmick’s eyes, the red fades from the man’s irises, shifting—smooth and eerie—into a milky white. 

Like bone. Like rot.

The man’s name leaves your lips—soft, questioning—and soon enough, you’re standing at the door with one brow raised.

“Remmick?” you ask, glancing between him and the man beside you. The pale, unnatural glow of the other’s eyes fades, shifting back into something more human, though they still don’t quite belong to him. He looks at you, head slightly tilted, waiting.

“What are you doing here?” you ask again, voice quieter now, laced with something unreadable. Before Remmick can answer, the man steps beside you, all too eager, and starts to usher you back inside.

Remmick steps forward, his tone harder than usual. “I think you should let me in.” Normally, he’d take his time, work his way around the rules with a little charm—but that man behind you looks ready to take your head clean off your shoulders. Probably will, too.

“Look,” you say with a smile, one that doesn’t reach your eyes, “I know we’ve talked a few times, but that don’t mean we friends. You gon’ get me in trouble. Can’t be in this part of town, Remmick.”

As you speak, your smile fades, slowly, piece by piece. 

“Now you ain’t gotta—” the man beside you begins, voice low and agitated.

“Go inside,” you cut in, voice firm, but you never look at him. Remmick watches as the man lingers. From behind you, he catches the snarl stretching across the man’s face—fangs glinting in the dim porch light, a string of drool slipping from the corner of his mouth. The man holds Remmick’s gaze for a beat longer, flashing one last jagged smile.

Then he turns and slinks deeper into the house.

“Look, I know you don’t much like my kind—me being white and all—but I really do think you should—” Remmick started, his voice low, edged with urgency. He turned back to you, his smile gone. All that was left was a plain, pleading expression. A silent beg for you to let him in.

“What?” you snapped, cutting him off. Your brows drew together, your tone sharper now. “It’s not about you being—” You stopped yourself, jaw tightening. You exhaled through your nose. “Alright then. Fine.”

You glanced toward the tree line, then back at him. Your voice dropped, the edge still there, but now it was weighed with warning.

“You can’t be out here right now, Remmick. The Klan ain’t too far from us. These woods have eyes.” You crossed your arms tightly over your chest. “I was bein’ nice the first two times, but you really have to go.”

Remmick didn’t move.

Didn’t blink.

Didn’t breathe.

Not for a long second.

“I’m not here to cause trouble,” he said, voice low. “But that man in your house? He’s not right—”

“I didn’t ask.” Then, slowly, without slamming it or snapping it shut, you closed the door in his face. The sound was quiet. Final. Remmick stood there a moment longer, staring at the wood grain, then turned and disappeared into the dark.

The vultures started circling again.

Turning on his heel, Remmick bolted toward the man you’d been speaking to that night—the first time he'd seen you together. It didn’t take much to con his way close enough. One slip of the mind, one slack moment in the neck, and Remmick had him.

He drained him fast, too fast. He didn’t have time to savor it or let the man ease into death. He needed him turned, and he needed it now.

He only hoped he wasn’t too late.

(A head was already hanging by a thread of skin.)

The man awoke with a gasp like he’d broken through the surface of a black river. Blood spilled from his mouth. His hands clawed at the air, confused and feral.

Remmick grabbed him, yanking him close, their foreheads pressing together. His voice was strained, shaking from urgency and the weight of too much stolen blood.

“Get in the house,” he ordered, “and kill the man in there.”

He let go, and the newborn vampire stumbled forward, but caught himself, his instincts kicking in quick. Off he went.

Remmick wasn’t far behind, keeping to the trees. His ears sharpened for signs of life, breath, movement—anything.

He heard you.

You were breathing hard. Annoyed. He could hear it in your exhale—like a tired sigh through clenched teeth.

Then came the knock. The turned man stood on your porch, calling your name in a voice full of false pain, begging for help.

Remmick watched from the treeline.

And maybe it was just the way the shadows moved—but your eyes looked darker now. Your cheeks, hollowed out. Something strange clung to the corners of your mouth.

Just before he could focus, really focus, you turned away. You opened the door. And let him in.

Not a second later, there was fighting.

Remmick strained his ears.

He could hear you. Yelling. Screaming. Pleading with someone—“Stop!”

Then a cry of pain.

But it wasn’t yours. And it wasn’t the vampire you’d let into your house.

It was his. The newborn.

Then your scream followed. Sharp. Guttural. Like you were being torn apart from the inside.

The back door of your house slammed open. A head rolled out.

Remmick’s breath caught as he saw his freshly turned vampire stumble after it, a stake driven clean through his heart. Behind him, you stepped outside—blood smeared across your arms, your dress, even your neck. From the treeline, Remmick could see your hands trembling.

You looked... lost.

Your eyes darted over the yard like they were searching for something, someone. Then, behind you, the vampire moved—clawed fingers outstretched, crawling toward you with his last breath.

“Move!” Remmick shouted, bolting from the trees. You didn’t. You stood frozen as the vampire’s claws sank into you. He heard the rip. The unmistakable sound of flesh tearing.

Remmick caught your wrist and yanked you away, pulling you both deep into the bayou. The vampire would die soon enough. That stake would see to it.

Branches cracked beneath your feet. Your breath came fast and ragged. You kept glancing behind you like you couldn’t believe what had just happened.

Finally, when you both stopped, panting under the thick night air, Remmick turned to you. “Your back,” he said, reaching for your shoulder. “Let me see—”

“No, no. I’m okay,” you said quickly, turning to him, your hands gripping your sides.

“Is it deep?” he asked, stepping closer, trying to look at your back.

You resisted. Surprisingly strong. Remmick narrowed his eyes and used just enough of his strength to turn you gently toward him. His brows furrowed.

Your back was clean—save for deep red marks down your spine. No torn skin. No visible cuts.

“See?” You smiled at him. Too easily. “It’s not my blood.” You turned away again, smiling wider. “Thank you, Remmick.”

But he had heard it.

He had heard the claws tear into flesh.

He’d heard it enough times over the centuries to know the sound. And what he’d heard back there…

That had been your skin.

But there was nothing on you. Nothing wrong with you.

Slowly, Remmick inhaled the air.

The blood—it smelled wrong. Stale. Old. Like dried rust left out in the sun. That scent clung to every vampire eventually, no matter how young or ancient. But on you, it didn’t make sense.

Because he couldn’t smell you. Not a hint of fresh blood. Not a whiff of that sweet, distinct heat that always made his teeth ache, that made the hunger curl hot behind his ribs.

You just smelled like something dead.

Old, rotten blood.

Remmick took a step back without realizing it. His eyes flicked over your face, down your arms, your legs. No cuts. No bruises. But his ears still rang with the sound of tearing flesh.

“You’re sure you’re alright?” he asked, voice low.

“Thanks to you, yeah, I’m alright, but…Remmick.” You looked to him. Looked to him with your doe eyes as if you suddenly realized his presence here didn’t make sense. Looked to him as if realizing someone just staked your friends. Looked to him as if you just saw a man be decapitated. “Oh god.” 

Remmick simply stayed silent.

“What am I gonna do? Two men just died inside my house.” That’s where your mind went? Not the fangs? Not the blood? Not Remmick, who shouldn’t’ve been there in the first place?

S’alright. He’d take it.

“The police—oh god, the police.” 

Slowly, Remmick reached out, patting your shoulder, shushing you gently as you stayed still. “Ain’t gotta worry about that. You can stay with me.” 

You turned to him, one brow raised. “Two white policemen start lookin’ f’me. Two dead men in my house, my parents gone—and they find me in your house?”

Again, Remmick gave a soft shush. His hands moved to your shoulders, steady.

“Ya ain’t gotta worry ’bout all that. I’ll take care of it.” He rubbed your shoulder. Flakes of dried blood crumbled off your skin.

“Remmick.” You looked at him again. Firmer, maybe. Or maybe just tired.

“Said I’ll take care of it.” His hands slid from your shoulders to your cheeks. “Now you head on home. Pack some things. We’ll go.”

He stroked your cheek once, then looked toward your house.

You nodded slowly, still held in his hands.

Slowly, the two of you walked back until the soft glow of your porch lights cut through the dark. Just before you reached the yard, Remmick gently pulled you back, using his hand to block your view.

“Don’t look,” he murmured, voice low, shielding your eyes from the porch—where a head still lay and a body slumped, stake in heart.

Then again he was on the porch of your home. You opened the door and entered. Remmick stayed put. Just as you were half way in, he saw you turn around.

“What’s wrong?” You asked him. Under the porch light, Remmick could finally see just how soaked you were. Blood covered the entire front of your dress, dyed deep crimson. The fabric clung to your body, barely hanging on.

“Nothin’ just waiting for you to invite me in.” Instead of the grin he might’ve flashed at you any other time, Remmick checked himself. This wasn’t the place for a smirk. Not tonight. So he gave you the gentlest smile he could manage—something sweet, something safe.

“Ain’t you gentlemen, but my house is a mess. Think it’s best if you don’t see it.” Again you flashed him a smile before once more the door was shut on him. 

Remmick was gettin’ real tired of this door.

…

Your scent returned to you eventually—once all that blood had been washed away. That sweet, unmistakable scent.

You slept through the entire day, and just like he promised, Remmick made the problem disappear.

(Though strangely enough, by the time he got there, all the questions that should’ve been asked… never were.)

Justice don’t run right here.

Remmick looked over at you—there you were, stretched out on his bed. The heat hung heavy in the room. Your nightgown clung to you like a second skin, and the thin sheen of sweat on your body caught what little light filtered into the house, making you glow.

“They come yet?” you asked.

Remmick shook his head.

You stared up at the ceiling, eyes dull. (Bored) Then you fell back on the bed. Remmick watched as your chest rose up and down. Swore he could hear your blood pumping, swore he could hear the slow beat of your heart. 

“You want some water?” You hadn’t eaten anything. Hadn’t drinken anything either. 

He watched as you turned your head slowly to him. “I wanna go home.” 

“I’ll take ya tonight if you want.” Remmick offered, and slowly you nodded again before closing your eyes, sleeping once more and Remmick sat in his chair just looking at you. 

All this for an answer. All this just to see what you’d do if the devil came a knockin’ on your door. See if you would turn to god. Hell, all those crosses in your home. By the time Remmick went to investigate the bodies, the only thing left was a singed cross. 

He could just find out now. Maybe scare ya’ while you’re asleep. Slowly Remmick stands up. Your breathing is slow. He has to stop and listen. Breath so slow he almost thinks you're dead. But you’re not. A deep breath you take tells him you’re not. 

He’s salivating at the mouth. Remmick smells you. A deep and long inhale of you. Fresh, sweet, blood. 

There is a sound from you. Remmick looks down. Shit. You got him droolin’ all over ya. He wipes your cheek with the back of his hand. But your skin—it’s cold. Not just clammy. Cold like him. But you’re sweating, too. Humans sweat. Humans get cold. Remmick’s been dead too long, maybe he’s forgettin’.

Remmick stayed there, on his bed sitting down just inhaling your scent. It was nightfall. You’ve been absent for almost three whole days. Nobody’s come searchin’ for you. Not your mother, father, anyone. Today was Sunday. 

You missed church today. Still not a word.

Guess this wasn’t the town he thought it was.

You move again and a light hits his eye. He looks down and it’s your ring. You still have it on. The band of the ring is silver and the stone is blue with golden specks. It’s on your middle finger. His hand slides under yours. Your fingers twitch, just slightly. Remmick freezes. Waits. You don’t move again.

Was it fake? Slowly the ends of his pointer finger elongated into a sharp claw. He was about to scratch the stone before you arched your back in stretch. Quickly he reverted his finger to a human one. 

“What are you doing?” Your hand was still his and your brows were furrowed but the way you spoke was still laced with sleep.

Remmick looked at you with a smile. “Just lookin’”

“If you’re wonderin’ if it’s real.” You gently pulled your hand from his grasp looking at the ring. “It is. It’s lapis lazuli. Scratches easy. Lapis lazuli stones are considered the precious stones that ruled the sky and the seas or in other stories the stone combines the blue of the heavens and golden glitter of the sun. As such, it absorbs the sunlight.” You took off the ring and gave it to him. 

Remmick held it in his hand observing the fine metal work. “That ones enchanted though. The friend that gave it to me? She was a witch.” Remmick looked at you. So much for a devoted christian. “Lapis lazuli is a rock. Nothin’ real special, but it’s what she requested. So I went and found the stone, which was hard. I was working on a limited time schedule.”

Why do you speak like that? Speak as if you’re older than you are. Remmick doesn’t know how old you are—after a while, that age of humans becomes irrelevant. Anyone under the age of 100 is young to him. You speak as if you’d have more years than what is visible on your face.

“But eventually, I found a rock and brought it back to her. She did her spells. I’d recite it, but it’s Latin and it was such a long time ago, can’t remember any more.” You shrugged. “Anyways, the spell was done and now it protects me.”

Ain’t god-fearin’ because of this ring? Ain’t afraid of the devil because of this ring? It’s laughable, but Remmick won’t laugh. We’ll see how well your ring puts up against him. “Protects you against what?”

“Curses put on me.” You stood up and Remmick remained on the bed. “Well—a curse, really. Bestowed on my kind, after we were given a gift of sorts.”

“Your kind? The words felt sticky in his mouth. The way you said it—so easily. Like the ones who'd step on your neck. Such a pity.

You simply nodded. “I suffered a long time under that curse. I was limited for so many years. That gift took something away from me, and I missed it.” There you go again. Talking as if you’re older. But you’re not. He knows you're not. “So I went out, and found someone who could fix me. I met my friend, though I don’t think she really thought of me as a friend like I did her, but she’s dead now, so don’t it matter much and in the end I s'pose she got even.” 

“How d’you reckon?”

“Well she placed another curse on me.” You laughed sitting down in the chair he once sat at while he looked at you sleepin’. “It was worse than the first. She didn’t take anything away—just... enhanced what was already there.” You looked at him, and suddenly gooseflesh pricked up his spin. He knew that look. “It was hell. Year after year, I tried to break it. It just wouldn’t. Told me it was an eye for an eye. She helped me and I helped her.” You shook your head and Remmick was stuck on the bed listening to you.

“Old hag knew I’d live longer than her. I was young back then.” Still are. Still naive when you never ask him the questions you should be askin’. So why do you sound so old? Why do you sound as if you’ve lived lifetimes? As many as he had. “Gullible, if you will. I mean, why after all these years, I still gotta help a dead woman? Just ain’t fair.” 

Remmick said nothing and you kept looking at him. Where does he know your look from? He knows it. He really does, but god it’s been such a long time, Remmick starts to forget faces. “Eventually though, I accepted it. Learned to live with it. Enjoy it even. In the end, I’m glad she gave me another curse—though I think it’s a gift now—maybe I did break it. Maybe I just like livin’ like this now.”

You gave a deep pause.

 “It’s better.”

…

This damned door.

Remmick swears he could trace every chip in the paint with his eyes closed, just from how often he’s stood in front of it. The creak of its hinges, the uneven flake of old enamel—it’s all burned into him now. Yet here he is again, and here you come, opening it once more.

“Yes?” you ask, voice soft and languid. You’re backlit, the glow of your home curling around you in warm gold. Domestic light—safe, small, human. Remmick remains where the dark clings to him, just past the porch light’s reach.

“Came to say hi,” he says, flashing you that grin—the kind meant to be disarming.

“Hi,” you echo, a little smile curling at your lips as you lean against the doorframe. Casual. Inviting. That’s good.

“Hello,” he murmurs again, quieter this time, letting it linger in the air between you both.

“Is that all?” you ask, arching a brow. There’s a slight tease in your voice now, but your eyes flicker, cautious. Curious.

Remmick doesn’t answer. Instead, he steps closer, slow and sure, letting the threshold between you become the only thing left.

“What are you doing?” you ask, your voice dropping an octave—not quite nervous, but alert.

Then you take a step forward—just one—and it’s enough.

The scent hits him like a wave.

Fresh blood. Sweet, bright, and warm. How you manage to carry that scent with you, always just on the edge of being bitten, he doesn’t know. But it’s there, thick in his nostrils now. Remmick’s jaw tightens. His tongue presses to the back of his teeth.

“You’re salivatin’,” you say, cocking your head. It’s not accusatory. Just observant.

He wipes at the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand and gives you another grin—this one slower, hungrier.

“Just for you.” Slowly he feels his eyes glaze over, but all he’s looking at is your neck. His mouth is ajar just slightly and he can feel his venom drippin’ from the side of his mouth. Slowly but surely he leans in.

He can barely register your hand against his face again wiping away his venom. But just slightly, the move is enough to turn his head and his vision from your neck to your lips. Well, poison gettin’ in you one way or another. 

His hand moved too fast for it to be considered human, but he doesn’t think you noticed seeing as your warm hand is still cupping his face. His hand held a tight grip on the back of your neck as he pulled you to him, kissing you, hard. His teeth clash against yours.

You’ll have to forgive him. It’s been a while since he’s really kissed anyone. He can feel as you nails scratch lightly on his scalp as you grip his hair pulling him closer to you. You feel so warm. So warm even on such hot and humid nights.

He feels his venom accumulating on his tongue, so he forces himself into your mouth. Your sound of surprise sounds wondrous. You gladly welcome him into you. His grip softens on your neck and both of his hands start to explore your back. Lower and lower creep but just before they can reach for what his body aches for you push him away. 

The momentum of pushing him away sends you stumbling backward, feet dragging across the worn wood floor, until you’re safely behind the threshold—behind the invisible line that keeps him from you.

Remmick stands frozen on the other side, one foot still lifted, as if he could follow.

But he can’t.

He looks at you. Really looks. And there it is: his venom, glistening like spilled ink, trailing from the corner of your mouth. A small, damning shimmer.

Your hand flies up, trembling as you point at him. “No,” you whisper at first, then louder, firmer, shaking your head as if to shake him out of your blood.

“No,” you repeat, breath hitching, voice frayed. “I won’t do it. Do you even know what they’d do to you? To me?” You pause, chest heaving as though you’ve run a great distance. “No, Remmick. I won’t subject myself to that.” Remmick doesn’t flinch.

“Goodbye, Remmick,” you say. It lands cold. Then—just like before—you shut the door.

And again, he’s left outside, staring at the same damned wood. The lock clicks like a coffin shutting. Remmick doesn’t move. Just stands there, bathed in the hush of the porchlight and the slow creep of night. Crickets chirp. 

He got his answer, alright.

You aren’t a god-fearin’ woman and you are afraid of the devil

And maybe what stings the most is—he thought you were braver than that.

But that’s alright. He was scared of the devil once too. But now that he’s got his answer, it won’t matter no more. He can save you. Make sure you never fear the devil ever again. Make sure you can do something with your life and it won’t be meaningless. You can be equal, and no man will be more equal than others.

He wonders what happens now. You’ve got his venom in you.

You should be dead—or dying—but you’re not. Not yet. He’s never left someone like this before. Never walked away with his venom inside them without finishing the job. Usually, it’s through a bite. That’s the way it’s supposed to go.

Well… first time for everything.

Remmick wipes the corner of his mouth with the back of his sleeve, smearing spit and venom across his skin. It glistens under the faint glow of your porch light.

He turns, about to step into the night, when something makes him look back. There you are, framed by the window. Watching. The light catches your eyes—wide, cautious, and just a little bit puzzled. Like even you don’t know why you’re still standing.

Remmick frowns. He doesn’t know either.

He raises a hand, then thinks better of it. Instead, he dips his head in a small bow, mock-formal, like he’s stepping away from a stage instead of your life. Turning on his heel, he walks off into the dark, boots crunching soft against the gravel path.

Still, he can hear you. Your breath, small and quick, just behind the glass. You’re watching him walk away. He knows it.

And depending on how this goes…

It won’t be long before you walk away too—with him.

…

You hadn’t been home when he tried to visit. There was disappointment in that. Maybe you did die and you just never woke up. He should’ve just killed you. Didn’t even need to be brutal. Just a snapped neck and you would have woken up 15 minutes later. 

Such a shame. Off he goes then. Ain’t nothing here for him. That something he’s been looking for just isn’t here. 

Another week passes. Then—three knocks. Firm. Familiar. 

Remmick wakes with a start, the sun already high and hot. Midday. The time he hates most. With a crack of his neck, he drags himself to the front door, every step heavy. When he opens it, his widen in shock because there you are.

You’re radiant. 

Standing on his porch in your Sunday best, sunlight kissing your skin. And in your hands—a pie, steaming faintly under its cloth cover. You smell like warm fruit and something sweet beneath it. Something alive.

Remmick squints at you, blinking against the brightness. Best to ignore your absence. “Wasn’t it you who told me this—” he gestures between the two of you with a loose hand, a smirk curling his lip, “—was a bad idea?”

“Well yes!” you cut in quickly, chipper, too chipper. “But you see, my mother sent me over with this pie. Said you haven’t been to church for some time.”

Your mother? He hadn’t seen her in a while. Though she was dead. Your father too. He cocks a brow. “Aren’t you supposed to be in church?”

Your smile doesn’t falter. “I attended in the early mornin’.”

There’s a beat. Then, you shift your weight, pie still in hand. “Now, this hot… may I come in?” The words land like a stone in his gut. You still have that sweet smell of yours. Means you’re not like him. Not yet anyway. You walk in sunlight. Your skin doesn’t smoke. Your eyes still shine. Still, he doesn’t say it. Doesn’t invite you. Just opens the door wider.

And just as he suspected—you step inside without pause, without hesitation. Indeed you’re alive and kickin’. The light clings to you as you cross the threshold, but it fades, like it can’t hold onto you in here.

Remmick watches the sun blaze through the open door behind you, then gently pushes it closed. He turns to look at you as you set the pie down on his table. “How are ya’?”

“I’m good. Left for a week. Had to do some stuff.” You sat down at the table and again. Just like the last time you were in here, he expected to feel a prickle down his spine. But instead you just smile looking up at him with a slight tilt in your head. You look happy. Real happy. 

He steps further in, slow and careful, like he’s approaching something skittish. Dangerous.

You. You, sitting at his table like you’ve always belonged here. Like there hadn’t been venom between your teeth and rejection in your breath the last time he saw you.

“You look different,” he says, voice low. Testing.

“Do I?” you hum, resting your chin in your hand. “Maybe. I feel different, if only a little.”

Remmick studies you—really studies you. Your skin’s got color, warm and soft, kissed by sun and not a hint of pallor. Your eyes shine like they used to, but something hums beneath them now. Something older.

“You were gone for a week,” he says, circling the table, watching how your eyes follow him. “And then you show up on my porch in the daylight. Dressed for church. Smilin’ like you’ve been saved.”

You laugh, soft and musical, but there’s something sharp hidden in it. “Ain’t that what Sunday’s for?”

He doesn’t sit. He leans against the back of the chair across from you, arms crossed, still watching. Still waiting. “You said you feel different?”

“I’ve been thinking. Thinkin’ real hard.” You stand up just as Remmick is behind you. “But I still have doubts.” You smell stronger today and the heat radiates off of you today. Almost too human. Enticing nonetheless. His teeth hurt.

“Thinkin’ bout what?” He murmured as he bent down trying to smell you. Fresh blood. Your blood is young. 

“Well…what happened last time…” You trailed off. Remmick was right again. You’re not old. Can’t be. Not when your voice sounds so young. Sounds so impressionable. Sound so naive. 

Slowly, his hands settled on your shoulders, firm but gentle, like he wasn’t sure if he was holding you or holding himself back. He drew you close. Close enough that the scent of your skin curled into his lungs and stayed there. It made his gums ache—dull at first, then sharper, the way they always ached right before his teeth came out.

(Though he ignored the sound of vein pulsing. The sound as if they hadn’t been used in a while and were stretching to being used once more. The sound of porcelain cracking.) 

You didn’t stop him. Not at first. Maybe you knew what was coming.

Just before his lips could brush the edge of your throat—just before the hunger overtook the man—a knock sounded, sharp and sudden.

You flinched. The spell broke.

You tore yourself from him in one clean motion, never once looking back as your footsteps pounded against the floor and disappeared down the hall. Back to your mother. Back to the light. Back to safety.

Remmick stood there a moment longer, hand outstretched, the ghost of your warmth still clinging to his fingers.

It was fine. Nightfall would come soon. And tonight would be the final night.

The sun sank like a coin into the horizon, the sky stained in shades of fire and ash. Remmick stood by the window, watching shadows grow long and lean. The ache in his jaw had not gone away. If anything, it had deepened—moved lower, down into the bones. A hunger that knew your name.

He’d waited. He’d been kind. Patient, even.

But patience was running thin.

And you’d been marked now—by his venom, by your choice, by something neither of you fully understood.

No more knocks. No more interruptions.

Tonight he wouldn’t wait for you to come to him.

He was coming to you.

And so he did.

Just as before, Remmick stood at your doorstep, cloaked in the hush of twilight. The porch light cast long shadows across the wooden floorboards, and the scent of honeysuckle clung to the air. But this time, when the door creaked open, you stepped out to greet him.

Your figure cut through the soft light—barefoot, loose nightdress, a curl falling out of place near your temple. You looked like you hadn’t slept, but you were calm. Maybe resolved.

“Your parents?” Remmick asked, his voice quiet, cautious.

“Gone,” you replied, arms loosely crossed over your chest, but not in defense—more like you were holding something steady inside you.

He nodded once, stepping a little closer. “What is it that you want?” he asked, voice lower now, earnest. “I’ll make it happen.”

You tilted your head slightly, a skeptical smile ghosting your lips. “What can you do?”

“I can take you North,” he said, the words slow, deliberate, thick with promise. “North where we could be free. You wouldn’t have to worry about a thing.”

The porch light flickered once. The air between you buzzed with something unsaid.

“You’d do that f’me?” you asked, gaze flicking to his, voice smaller than before.

“’Course,” he breathed. “Do anythin’.”

“But what if they—”

“You ain’t gotta worry ’bout a thing,” he interrupted gently. “I’ll handle it.” His hand lifted, rough fingers brushing your cheek. His palm was calloused, but the way he held you was almost reverent.

“Remm—” your voice cracked around his name.

Softly, he shushed you. “Shhh,” he whispered, his thumb stroking just beneath your eye. Your skin wasn’t as warm tonight. That was alright. His hand lingered like he was grounding himself. “Just like I handled the last problem.”

There was a pause—one thick with knowing.

You looked at him. Really looked.

“Alright then…” you murmured, and a small smile touched your lips. You reached up, holding his hand in both of yours, delicate and sure. Then, turning slightly, your gaze flicked to the open door behind you. The threshold. The place where old lives ended and new ones might begin.

“Come on in, Remmick.”

And he did. 

Slowly, Remmick crossed the threshold of your home. Each step he took felt heavier with meaning, soaked in anticipation. A grin stretched across his face—feral and proud—as he watched you move through the soft amber light of the kitchen, your silhouette framed by fluttering gingham curtains and the muted hum of a quiet house.

His eyes wandered along the walls. Old walls, wilted dried herbs. Then his gaze landed on another cross. This one wasn’t ornamental. Its angles were too sharp. Too precise. The bottom point gleamed like it had drawn blood before.

“Remmick?” you called from the kitchen, voice lilting, casual. Like this was any other day.

He hummed low in his throat, not trusting his voice. Not with what was coming.

Let’s see what your little ring was good for.

His eyes darkened and glazed over, vision sharpening until the fibers of the wood under his boots became crystal-clear. His shoulders drew back with a crack, his body shifting. Bones lengthened in his fingers, joints grinding as claws pushed through skin with an eager, slow stretch. His ears twitched, catching the creak of a cooling kettle, the soft rustle of your clothing. But nothing else. No heartbeat. No breath. Still, so still.

Strange.

Then the ache came. That sweet, gnawing pull in his gums as his canines extended, tearing just slightly at his lip. The rest of his teeth followed suit—each one honed to a razor’s edge.

God, it felt good.

“When was the last time you ate?” you asked suddenly. Your back was still to him, your hands fussing with something at the counter—tea leaves maybe, or pie slices.

His eyes flicked to your ring. It didn’t glow. Didn’t burn. Didn’t stop a thing.

But then again… maybe it was never meant to.

“A while ago,” he said, voice a rasp, thick with desire. He took a step forward, almost salivating. “Haven’t eaten proper since… well. Since your friend.”

He didn’t need to say which one. The silence that followed named her for him.

“So you’re hungry?” you asked, still without turning. Your tone was measured, smooth like syrup.

“Starvin’,” he growled, claws flexing.

“That’s good.” You turned. Slowly.

He bared his teeth fully now, ready to savor the shock on your face. But what he saw made something shift in his gut.

Your eyes did widen at first—but only slightly. There was no scream. No flinch. Just the ghost of amusement curling at your lips. And then… you smiled.

Not in fear.

In recognition. And Remmick’s claws twitched again—but this time, not from joy.

He didn’t like that smile.

Not one bit.

Then came the sound.

That sick, wet stretch of muscle tearing and reforming. The kind that always reminded Remmick of leather being pulled too tight—followed by the sharp snap of bone shifting just beneath skin. He knew that sound. Had heard it in the woods. Beneath moonlight. In his house. Only now… he knew exactly where it was coming from.

From you.

He froze, eyes locked on your face as something moved beneath your skin—quick, serpentine. Dark veins crawled up from your jaw like ink bleeding into paper, slithering under your cheekbones and reaching the corners of your bloodshot eyes. The whites of them turned red, slowly—almost deliberately—as if savoring the change.

And then, your smile twisted. Became something other. A grin, cruel and radiant, blooming with two sharp fangs that caught the light.

The grin that had lived on his face just moments ago? It was gone. Slid off like water on polished stone.

Now it belonged to you.

Remmick stepped back instinctively, his claws flexing in the air between you. Confusion struck first—then horror, slow and creeping. His lips parted, but no sound came out.

He watched you. He watched it—the creature you’d become. No… the creature you’d always been.

(That’s where he knew your face from that day. He had worn it so many times, though now it just wasn’t on him)

“Me too,” you whispered.

Note: Eh. Not my best work, but I wanted it out there. Took me forever to write💔

To be added on Tag list: !(•̀ᴗ•́)و ̑̑/Gen Masterlist

[anystalker707]

nightmare

Pairing: Vinsmoke Sanji x [gender-neutral] Reader Summary: Sanji has from a nightmare, unintentionally shoving you away in the process Tags: drabble / comfort

Requested by @mere-mortifer

MASTERLIST

          The crew had always been very affectionate—cuddling and being together all the time—, so it was not surprising that you’d share beds, but it wasn’t that often that you’d be sharing a bed to sleep with Sanji rather than just to cuddle with him. Sanji’s chest moved against your back rhythmically with his even breathing, arm draped around your waist. The rest of the crew was scattered around the ship, sleeping in other quarters or wherever they found themselves comfortable.

Sanji’s breath hitched as he stirred in his sleep. His eyebrows furrowed, and he moved, inhaling sharply before suddenly pushing you enough to send you rolling off the bed. Thankfully, you didn’t hit anywhere, shuddering at being woken up so suddenly; the ground under your ass was the first thing you’d noticed. Some of the bedsheets came down with you when you tried instinctively to prevent yourself from falling, tangling on your limbs.

At first, you wondered if there was an invasion or something, but the silence you were met with made you even more confused.

“Fuck,” you whispered. Your heavy breathing was the only sound to fill the room as your heartbeat hammered in your ears, and you gasped when Sanji suddenly sat up with a broken scream that wasn’t actually loud.

Sanji sat there for a solid minute before his breath hitched, and he looked around the room until his eyes landed on you. It was hard to see his face in the darkness. “Uh, what… what are you doing there?’ He swallowed, trying to catch his breath as well, without much success. He furrowed his eyebrows, about to move to help you when you climbed back up on the bed, adjusting the pillows and sheets.

You furrowed your eyebrows and took a deep breath. “I guess you kicked me off the bed. Were you having a nightmare? Are you okay? Do you—”

Blood drained down Sanji’s body as he looked at you, eyes wide. He had kicked you? You? Out of all people? His heart sank, a bitter taste heavy on his tongue, as he observed you incredulously. A lump formed in his throat and made it hard to talk. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered, compelling you to stop talking at the same moment.

“Huh? It’s fine, you didn’t mean to.”

Sanji pressed his lips together, shaking his head. He felt like he wanted the ground to swallow him whole and make him disappear from existence. Hitting someone like you—who he loved and cherished so much—went against everything he ever preached and what he believed in. Worst of all, he knew his kicks weren’t weak. He swallowed, pressing his eyes shut.

“Sanji,” you tried. “Hey, it’s okay. You didn’t do it consciously.” The words didn’t sit right, like they were more of a bother than a help, but you didn’t feel like you could do anything else to help him. Sanji rarely showed his weaknesses, so dealing with him wasn’t quite an easy job.

“I’m so sorry, so sorry,” Sanji said, and you were afraid he said it just to make you stop talking. “Where did I hit you?”

You only observed him briefly, or at least tried to do so in the darkness. Clearing your throat, you rubbed your hip, an area near your back. “Here.”

A frown was evident on Sanji’s face as he gently touched the area with a trembling hand, gulping. He was such a mess. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered, voice strained. “Does it hurt? I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.” Sanji was shaking, his hands now on your shoulders and rubbing your collarbone lightly. “Really, I’m sorry.”

The pain wasn’t that bad, but you still gave him a moment, taking a deep breath to fully recover from the whole thing. “Sanji, trust me.”

His blue eye was barely visible in the darkness, but you could see it was full of tears. “I didn’t mean to.”

“I know,” you reassured with a light nod, even though it didn’t seem to do much. He looked down before his gaze met yours again. “Oh, Sanji,” you whispered, instinctively pressing your forehead to his. It felt right.

Whatever happened—whoever leaned in first—was unclear among the fog of feelings all over the place, though the only thing that mattered was how comforting it felt. Sanji’s lips pressed to yours in an intense kiss, the taste of the last cigarette he had before bed lingering on his lips before you were forced to pull away because of the lack of air. It didn’t stop you two from trying to keep kissing despite the heavy breathing, tugging each other closer.

The kisses weren’t sexual, but they held their own intimacy and heat to it, craving the comfort and relief they brought. Relief of finally being as close as you wanted to be, after pining over each other for so long. “I… I’ll make it up to you,” Sanji mumbled against your lips, guilt still heavy in his chest no matter what you told him. “I promise.”

.𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟.

[stargazedwinchester]

ִ ࣪𖤐◞ ꙳ ๋࣭ ⭑ `preach, dean winchester ༘♡

summary: you're deans worst enemy - and sam attempts to change that. word count: 1,261 pairing: dean winchester x reader ft. sam now playing;｡･:*♫♪ preach - emarosa based off of prompt #213 by @/promptsbytaurie I also see the reader as British in this, some sort of connection to Bela or Lady Toni. take it how you will lmao part 2

⛧°. ⋆༺☾𖤓༻⋆. °⛧

You’ve known of the Winchesters for as long as you can remember. Sam is level-headed, a little naive, but he’s all round a decent guy. Dean, however, he makes enemies more than he makes friends. His witty, sly comments never phase you, though. In fact, you find it quite charming.

Sam’s been working away on his own cases, with you. Dean knows he’s hiding something, but he won’t spill.

It’s late, and Sam arrives back from the hunt he embarked on with said hunter. He quietly makes his way down the stairs, shrugging his jacket off his shoulders and lugging it down the stairs. He places it on the back of a chair placed in front of the world table, before turning round to make his way down the corridor to the bedrooms. Sam stops in his tracks, a noticeable amount of noise coming from the lounge. Instead, he turns around to check it out.

Dean is sitting on the sofa, beer in hand, watching some dumb old show. Dean doesn’t even peek over his shoulder to know Sam is standing in the archway. “Hey Sammy,” He greets him, pursing his lips a little. “You’re back late.” He remarks, and Sam coughs awkwardly. “Yeah,” he runs a hand through his hair. “Got caught up.” He makes his way to the armchair. “You seem to be forgetting about your roots, Sam. Who you should be hunting with,” Dean comments, taking a deep breath before he carries on. “In fact, who is this mystery hunter? A new girl?”

It takes Sam a while to break the silence, and he looks up at Dean with guilt in his eyes. “It’s… Y/N.”

“Y/N?” Dean scoffs, his head snapping round to Sam. Glaring at him. Tension grows in the room. “What the hell are you doing with Y/N? Of all people?” Dean’s suddenly defensive, his brows angled in a way that shows he’s fuming.

“Dean-”

“Do you think this is a game? We do not associate with her. Ever. What the hell are you thinking?” He spits, and Sam throws his hands up in the air. “I think you should give her a chance, Dean. She’s not all bad.”

“Not all bad? Who is she, Skylar White?” Dean responds. Sam smirks at his witty comment, trying to contain his laughter. “Well, I’ve invited her round tomorrow. For research on another case.” Sam stands up. “Be nice.” He scolds Dean, and he just looks at him blankly as Sam exits the lounge.

The next day, you’re hunched over the dining table, yellowed pages and books without spines spread out all over. Sam is sitting across from you, Dean nowhere to be seen. “Dean not coming?” You keep your focus on the words in front of you. Sam shakes his head. “I don’t know. I-”

“Look what the cat dragged in.” Dean chirps, forcing the fakest smile you’ve ever seen. You purse your lips. “Y/N.” He greets, clenching his jaw. He’s holding a beer in his left hand, the other in his pocket. Dean glances over to Sam. “Sammy.” He says, taking a seat at the end of the table, between you both. You make quick rapid eye contact with Sam, before glancing back down at your work. The tension arises in the air, like a cloud of smoke. Thick and heavy. Sam goes through the case with Dean, catching him up since he’s wanting in on the investigation.

You catch glances off of Dean. He’s acting as if he’s taking a glimpse at your notes. The pen scribbles lightly over your notepad, taking in the information you will need for the upcoming hunt. He watches the way you write, the way the pen sits in your hand. The way your eyebrows crease together and your eyes squint as you’re jotting stuff down. He catches your eye again. Damnit.

It doesn’t take Sam long to figure it out. Dean fancies you. The real reason for him disliking you isn’t because you’re a ‘rival’; it clearly goes much deeper than that. Sam nudges him under the table, giving a ‘I thought you didn’t like her!’ glare. Sam clears his throat. “I’m gonna go get a drink, anyone want anything?” He offers, and you shake your head. “No, thanks. I’m good.” Sam smiles at Dean, and walks toward the kitchen, away from the library.

You’re sitting alone with Dean. The awkwardness occurs as soon as his brother leaves the room. You lay your eyes back down on the papers in front of you, your eyes scanning each word, essentially ignoring Deans glare. “So, Y/N,” He starts, pursing his lips together, leaning forward in your direction. “What is it about my brother that you like so much? Why are you here?”

“Explain?”

Dean sits back, subtly taken aback by your abruptness. Your eyes still don’t leave the text. “You’re here. Where we’re living. Why?” Dean’s rough tone matches his face. Stern. “I’m here because I’m researching for a hunt we’re taking on next week. I have no interest in your brother. Why are you asking me this?” Your eyes flitter up at Deans, his verdant eyes beckoning down at yours. He sighs.

“Listen, if you’re trying to take Sammy as your new hunting partner, you’ve got another thing coming. W-”

“Dean. Listen to me.” You begin. “I don’t know what you want me to say, but I do not want Sam. He the most sensible, quick-witted, sharpest guy I’ve ever met. He’s a pleasure to work with, and you should count your lucky stars you have a brother like him.” You sigh, closing the book that lays in front of you. “In other words, I’m not interested. You, however,” you tidy the paperwork and place them into a plastic wallet. “I’m quite keen on.” You shove the dining chair back, a loud squeal as you stand up, gently picking up your files and placing them under your arm. Dean’s clearly dumbfounded by your words, you pat him on the shoulder. “I don’t care what you think of me, but I’m not Bela.” You force a smile at Dean, and as you do, Sam walks back in with a glass of water.

You wave goodbye to Sam, who nods at you. He sits down quickly. “What the hell did you say to her?”

“Nothing! What the hell do you think you’re doing bringing her here?” Dean fires back, and Sam takes a swig of his drink. “Look, I swear I didn’t mean to befriend your worst enemy and then proceed to try and set you up. I honestly think you guys would be cute together!”

Dean stares at Sam like he’s said the most out of pocket shit ever.

“You’re joking, right? Tell me you’re joking.”

“Think about it, Dean. There’s some real heavy sexual tension between you both.” Sam takes another sip. “Just think about it.”

And he does. He thinks back to the countless times you’ve backed them up on hunts they endure, the times you’ve attempted to help patch Dean up, even though he’s grumpy and assures you he can do it himself. He knows in his heart he’s grateful for the assistance you’ve provided, but feels as if he will betray himself if he changes his mind on you. He’s kept this persona up for years, how can he change his mind from one half-friendly encounter?

Dean huffs. Looking down at the table, then up at Sam. “Fine. I’ll give her one chance, and one chance only.”

Something in Dean’s heart tells him he’s making the right decision.

[ddlydevotion]

OBSESSIVE! BABY BILLY X FEM READER

a/n: I’ve recently become so obsessed with Walton Goggins so I had to write something for one of his characters. I wrote this at 2 am so I apologize for any spelling errors.

- He is constantly showering you with compliments, even during the most random moments. “Well aren’t you pretty?”, “lemme get a good look a’cha, baby.” “you’re gonna give this old man a heart attack now, ain’t you just the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen?”

- Baby Billy doesn’t seem to be able to leave you alone, honestly. You’re going out with a couple of girlfriends? Well, he’ll just tag alone! He swears he’ll stay outta your way and hang back just to “keep an eye on his girl.” You deserve to go out and have all the fun your heart desires, and you deserve to do so with him right by your side :D!

- it’s not an issue of him not trusting you, it’s more of an internal conflict that happens with him. He overthinks the situation and begins to worry about something happening while you’re out without him.

- Baby Billy doesn’t know how to shut his damn mouth when it comes to you. He acts as if it’s his job to brag about you and boast about each and every little thing that you do. The Gemstone Family absolutely adores you, even if they may not outwardly vocalize it all the time. They find it a shame that you come as a package deal with Baby Billy.

“Now how in the hell did you manage to get Aunt y/n, here? You must be bribin’ her with some good coin or somethin’.”

- wearing coordinated outfits with him. I don’t know about anyone reading this, but as someone who grew up in the church & the south, it’s sorta tradition for couples in the church to match outfits in some way.

- if you were to not believe in God, stay with me now: I don’t think he’d necessarily care all that much. Not everyone in the Gemstone family believes in what the Bible preaches, so it wouldn’t be too much of an issue. However, he’d still have you attend church service, Sunday dinners, hold his hands during prayer. You honestly don’t have any choice in the matter.

- Baby Billy believes you deserve everything good that the world has to offer. This mentality of his has lead him to spend a pretty penny on things you’d deem as…unnecessarily expensive. He buys you the finest clothing that you could ever lay your delicate fingers on, and it’d take you a minute before realizing that the dress with the simplest of designs costed Baby Billy a couple hundred bucks.

- he never lets you scold him for long, though.

“you deserve it, baby. I know how much it costs but it don’t matter nothin’ to me if it’s you I’m spending my money on. Now go on ‘n give me a show, I know you’ll look real pretty wearin’ the dress I gotchu.”

- if you’ve watched the show then you know that Baby Billy has quite the traditional view on marriage. He’ll wave you away when he’s participating in a conversation with another man, telling you, “This is men’s business, baby, go on ‘n talk to Judy while I finish up here.” You can go ahead and kiss your job goodbye as soon as you get involved with Baby Billy. He knew well before he even put a ring on your finger that he wasn’t going anywhere. Even before the two of you got married he took it upon himself to take care of you in more ways than one. He wants you at home looking after everything, allowing him to tackle the bigger tasks of the day.

- He’d most likely take it as an insult if you were to share your desire to go back to work. “So, what? You don’t think I take good enough care of you so you gotta start ‘pulling your weight around the house’ ? No, we’re not doin’ any of that. You’ll learn to get used to someone carin’ for you the way that I do.”

- nearly every member of the Gemstone family carries a handgun with them, and Baby Billy isn’t any different. He’s using this ‘family tradition’ of theirs to his advantage when someone does something involving you that sets him off. Someone throws a backhanded comment your way? His fingers instantly start itching to reach into his coat pocket. Baby Billy isn’t that much of a jealous man. He doesn’t react negatively when you attract stares or get compliments from other men. He’s secure within himself and you deserve each and every compliment you receive! But, there’s a line that he has set for men that just can’t seem to get the hint that you’re taken. As soon as someone crosses that line, they’re suddenly being met with a gleaming piece of metal.

💌: I know this one was a bit short but I wanted to write something for him! Requests are always open.

[anonymousewrites]

Apple of My Eye Chapter Twenty-One

Harry Hook x Child of Snow White! Reader

Chapter Twenty-One: The Mob Song

Summary: As curses pop up, tensions between Isle and Auradon kids continue to rise.

            “We’re interviewing Francis,” said (Y/N), leading Harry down the dorm halls.

            “Not a fan,” said Harry.

            (Y/N) glanced at him. “Take after his father?”

            “Religious nutter,” confirmed Harry.

            (Y/N) sighed. “Hopefully he’ll make the interview easy by being honest, at least.”

            “He doesn’t hold back,” said Harry.

            (Y/N) knocked on the dorm door. It opened, and Francis Frollo stood before them. He looked between (Y/N) and Harry and scoffed.

            “If you are looking to speak to me, I will do it at this door. That—” He gestured at Harry “—depraved pirate shall not enter my room.”

            Harry smirked and leaned on the doorway. “As if you don’t want me in ya room.”

            Francis spluttered and grew red. (Y/N) hit Harry’s side. Angering—or embarrassing, as was more likely—Francis wouldn’t help their interview.

            “We just want to ask you a few questions,” said (Y/N).

            Francis rolled his eyes. “Very well. Proceed.”

            “What are your views of Auradon?” said (Y/N).

            “Auradon has lost sight of good and evil,” said Francis. “My father was wrongly decreed to be evil when all he was doing was ridding the world of evil, cleansing it.”

            “D’ya want to do that again? ‘Cleanse’ Auradon?” said Harry.

            “I will simply preach the truth,” said Francis, lifting his chin. “If you’re implying I would fall to your lengths of plotting, then no.”

            “You just want to preach,” repeated (Y/N).

            “Correct,” said Francis. He leaned towards (Y/N). “And if this is about the red-haired prince without a voice, it wasn’t me.”

            “Ya don’t like people ya think are ‘inhuman,’ ” said Harry, shrugging. “Half-mermaid covers that.”

            Francis sneered. “Yet I would never use magic. It is a filthy tool, witchcraft.”

            The words were spoken with vehement hate, even more than when he’d spoken ill of Auradon. Clearly, he couldn’t be the perpetrator unless he was a talented liar—he hated magic too much to use it in revenge.

            “Okay,” said (Y/N). “Thank you for answering our questions.” Harry and (Y/N) turned to leave.

            “My dear,” said Francis. “Might I suggest you leave behind the pirate? He will only cause corruption and bring sin.”

            Harry crossed his arms, and (Y/N) put on a smile.

            “My family already ate the forbidden fruit,” said (Y/N). “Little too late for me.”

            They walked away, and Harry smirked at Francis before following them.

            “Forbidden fruit, ey?” said Harry, grinning at (Y/N).

            “You dress in red, so you’re like an apple,” said (Y/N).

            “Ya sure you didn’t mean nothin’ else, Highness?” said Harry, putting an arm around their shoulders teasingly. He winked.

            (Y/N) chuckled. “You and I both know I don’t eat apples.”

            “But ya could try me,” said Harry.

            (Y/N)’s cheeks warmed at the forwardness, but they couldn’t help their laugh and smile.

            “How did it go?” said Evie. She stood with Doug, having just gotten back from their interview. “I know Francis can be…something.”

            “It went fine,” said (Y/N). “He definitely doesn’t like any of us, but he hates magic. There’s no way he’s cursing anyone. And he has already been known for avoiding Tourney practices because they ‘promote violence,’ so he didn’t have the opportunity to curse Adrian.”

            “Seems pretty solid,” said Doug.

            “What did ya find?” said Harry, hand still around (Y/N)’s shoulders.

            “Giselle probably isn’t our culprit,” said Evie.

            “Yeah,” agreed Doug. “She had the grudge against Auradon, but she’s been adjusting better than it’s seemed. Looks like she’s just having trouble with some people like Mal did when she first came over.”

            “But when she talks about what she likes her, she seems really honest,” said Evie. “I think getting out form under her mother’s wing was good for her.”

            “She could be acting,” said Harry. “Bein’ crafty, gettin’ us to let our guards down.”

            “True,” said Evie. “But at the same time as tourney practice, she was at a painting pop-up class hosted. And, she was embarrassed to admit it, but she and her mother don’t actually have magic without a conduit. It was the flower Mother Gothel always used to stay young, and then it was Rapunzel, and without either, their family doesn’t have the magic to produce curses.”

            “And with no artifacts, she can’t be the culprit since she has no opportunity,” finished Doug.

            “That’s two people off the list,” said (Y/N). “Mal and Ben are talking to Fairy Godmother since she ran tests on the spell work around Adrian, and Jane and Carlos were talking to Thea. Hopefully, we’ll be able to narrow it down again.”

            “Right,” said Evie.

            “You’re supposed to move when royalty comes through.”

            “Oh, please, in your dreams.”

            “Try to have some decorum now that you’re in Auradon, villain.”

            “What did you call me?”

            “What you are.”

            Evie, (Y/N), Doug, and Harry immediately stepped outside of the dorms. On the front lawn of Auradon Prep, Chad and a pirate were glaring at each other. VKs and Auradon kids milled around them, narrowing their eyes suspiciously at one another while Chad and the pirate had their shouting match.

            Fleur, Lizzie, and Herod were trying to push both groups back to diffuse the tension, but nothing was working as the mobs pressed forward.

            “Say it again,” challenged the pirate, stepping up towards Chad.

            Instantly, Chad swallowed, but his fellow Auradon kids stepped back out at the pirate.

            “Don’t talk to him that way,” said one royal.

            “The idiot started it!” shouted back a villain kid.

            “As if a hero would start a fight—”

            “Why you—”

            “Help!” said Fleur, eyes wide as she tried to push a tourney player back.

            “Stand down!” said Herod, powerful muscles flexing as he held back two VKs.

            More people were joining the argument. Doug grimaced, but the other three with him moved forward. Evie stepped between Chad and the pirate. Harry faced the pirate and pushed him back, keeping him and the other VKs from trying to shove. (Y/N) looked at Chad and the Auradon kids, hands on their hips.

            “What are you all doing?” said (Y/N).

            “They started—”

            “I don’t want to hear it,” said (Y/N), holding up a hand. “Everyone here was being unnecessarily rude, so you’re all at fault.”

            “Come on, those royals are lookin’ down on us,” said the pirate, pushing forward. “Hook, let us teach ‘em to stop!”

            Harry’s hand slid to his hook and picked it up. “And I’m tellin’ ya that we’re in charge ‘ere, so sit down.”

            “Arguing won’t solve anything,” said Evie.

            “Oh, come on, you can’t expect us to just get along,” said Chad. “They have no taste or manners or anything. They’re still—”

            The clock of Auradon hit twelve, and the chimes began. A shimmer appeared around Chad. Everyone backed up, and he looked down at himself on confusion. (Y/N)’s eyes widened as Chad’s clothes melted from ornate and royal to drab and shabby.

            Chad screamed. “What?! No! My clothes!”

            “Just like Cinderella,” said (Y/N), looking in alarm at Evie.

            “Another curse,” said Evie.

            “How? We were all watching,” said Herod.

            “There was chaos, anyone could’ve been watching,” said Fleur, frowning.

            “What do we do now?” said Lizzie, staying between the two groups. The Auradon kids were starting to nervously back away, and the VKs were laughing at Chad. Tensions were growing between the groups and reaching new heights.

            “I’ll take Chad to Fairy Godmother. Maybe she can get more clues from a fresh curse,” said Evie. Doug nodded and went over to a crying-like-a-baby Chad.

            “Lizzie, Herod, Fleur, tell Esme and Audrey to keep their eyes out for more fights,” said (Y/N).

            “Got it,” said Herod. Fleur and Lizzie nodded before running off to sweep the ground. Once the news got out that another Auradon kid was cursed, then the arguments would grow stronger.

            “We need to find who’s done this,” said (Y/N) quietly. “Right now it’s suppressing a voice and changing clothes, but if they’re aiming for a goal—”

            “The curses will grow more dangerous,” said Harry. And if they reached the level of being broken only True Love’s Kiss, that would be The End for some people’s stories.

l

            “What did Fairy Godmother say?” said Carlos, looking at Ben and Mal.

            “Still no clues to the culprit in the magic,” said Ben.

            “But, fortunately, the spell only effects Chad’s clothes,” said Mal. “He’s not being hurt.”

            “I told him to wear sweatpants and t-shirts until we solve it,” said Audrey. “Or change into his nice clothes after 12.” She sighed. “But he’s freaked out, and so are a lot of people. They’re wondering how they’re going to be cursed.”

            “What?” said Mal.

            “People are saying the stories are repeating, the Fairy Tales of their parents,” said Jay. “Chad’s clothes are changing; Adrian lost his voice. That’s like Cinderella and Ariel. Even Lonnie is nervous and glad that her tale doesn’t have magic that changes her.”

            “If that’s the pattern, then we need to warn people with dangerous stories,” said Ben firmly. “Audrey—”

            “I’ve already spelled myself to sleep,” said Audrey. “And I got myself checked by Fairy Godmother when the pattern started. According to her, a curse would have to be amplified to send me to sleep again.”

            “That’s good,” said (Y/N), nodding.

            “And Ben’s already been turned into a Beast,” said Mal.

            “So, assumin’ originality—and what villain doesn’t like that?—the targets will be other hero kids,” said Harry.

            “Who’s most in danger?” said Uma.

            “Paige, Pinocchio’s daughter, would be in danger of becoming a marionette,” said Jane. “She was freaking out about that earlier.”

            “Nazarin is at risk. Her parents were turned into. frogs It was linked to kissing royalty, though, so not full True Love curse,” said (Y/N). That would be bad.

            “I know she’s a suspect, but if she isn’t the culprit, Eris could be in trouble,” said Carlos.

            “Right,” said Evie. “She could lose her voice, too.”

            “Or become a full mermaid, unable to transform back,” said (Y/N). “That could be a True Love curse.”

            “Is it wrong to hope she’s the culprit, then?” said Uma.

            Jay snickered a little.

            “Let’s just catch the culprit before they do more,” said Ben while Jane wrote down some of the people at risk.

            “I’ll check in on people who are more scared of their parents’ stories,” said Jane. “I’ll get a full list of people who should be cautious.”

            “Thanks,” said Ben.

            “What about Highness?” said Harry.

            “Me?” said (Y/N).

            “Ya’re obviously at risk,” said Harry. “If someone spelled ya to eat an apple, you’d be sleepin’ with the fishes.” He paused and looked at (Y/N), all his love barely restrained. “And it’d be a True Love curse.”

            (Y/N) felt everyone’s eyes turn on them in worry. They squared their shoulders and smiled. “It would be. And that’s…scary.” They laughed nervously. “But I can’t go and hide somewhere. I need to help figure out who’s doing this, danger or not. Okay?”

            “…Fine, but I’m stickin’ with ya,” said Harry.

            “Good idea,” said Evie, smiling. “You can keep an eye out for them.”

            “And break the curse,” whispered Uma to Evie, and the pair smothered laughs.

            “Okay,” said (Y/N), smiling at Harry.

            Jane’s phone buzzed, and she groaned as she looked at the message. “We’ve got more arguments breaking out.”

            “Let’s go,” said Ben, standing. “Mal?”

            “I’m with you,” said Mal, smiling. “Time to be King and future-Queen.”

            “Get to the rest of the interviews,” said Ben. “We need to figure out who’s doing this before more people get hurt.”

            Before (Y/N) gets hurt, thought Harry, looking at them.

l

            “(Y/N), Harry, there you are,” said Fleur, sighing in relief. She had been assigned to keep an eye on the suspects after Chad was cursed, so she had been watching Eris. Understandably, she had been nervous—who wouldn’t be if the person they were keeping an eye on could be putting curses on people?

            “Sorry we’re late,” said (Y/N), smiling.

            “It’s fine,” said Fleur. “I’m just glad I’m not Esme. She was with Yvon, and he keeps yelling at her. No thanks. At least Eris just rolls her eyes and walks faster when she notices me.”

            “Carlos and Jane will have fun with that,” said Harry brightly.

            “Where is Eris?” said (Y/N).

            “Getting ready for swim practice,” said Fleur, gesturing inside.

            The pool was open for the swim team to arrive. Above, on a balcony-like design, seats were arranged to look down on the pool itself. People milled about above, watching their friends or partners. Some people even just liked the noise and business of sports-training and did their homework there.

            “Let’s go and talk to her before she starts,” said (Y/N) to Harry. “Thanks for your help, Fleur.”

            “No problem—” Fleur looked at her phone and sighed. “Lizzie’s found another scuffle. I’ll see you.”

            Harry and (Y/N) walked into the pool and watched the team come out of the changing room. Eris saw them and scowled. She stalked up towards them.

            “Seriously? One stalker becomes two?” she said.

            “We just want to talk, Eris,” said (Y/N). “To help Adrian.”

            That got Eris to soften slightly, but then her hands curled into fists. “I didn’t do this to him, if that’s what you’re implying. It was a villain.”

            “We’re looking at suspects from Auradon and the Isle,” said (Y/N).

            “I would never hurt my brother,” snapped Eris, and she seemed honest. She turned away from Harry and (Y/N) and faced the pool. “I can’t believe you’d ask that.”

            “It’d get suspicion off of ya back,” said Harry, crossing his arms. He wasn’t backing down at all.

            “Oh, yeah, and I’m an evil mastermind who would think of that,” said Eris, rolling her eyes.

            “Listen, just tell us where you were when Adrian and Chad were cursed, and then we’ll be fine,” said (Y/N). “I believe you wouldn’t hurt Adrian, Eris. Not for no reason like this.”

            “Listen, I think bringing all the VKs over at once was silly,” said Eris. “It’s dangerous to trust so many people at once. But I wouldn’t hurt my brother for that. If I was the culprit, I’d curse everyone I wanted but not Adrian.” With that statement, Eris dove into the water.

            “Didn’t get an alibi,” said Harry, rolling his eyes.

            “She’s tough,” said (Y/N). “But the question is if she’s telling the tru—”

            A piercing scream tore through the pool.

            All heads turned to the water. Eris broke the surface, eyes wide with panic. She splashed her arms, and a tail flicked out of the water.

            Another curse had been placed.

            “Guess she's not the culprit,” said Harry, tilting his head.

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[percywinchester27]

The new Mrs. Winchester (19)

Word count: 4.5K

Pairing: Sam X Reader AU

Chapter warnings: Implications of sexual abuse, mentions of torture, PTSD, angst, flesh trade, language, mention of violence; reader discretion is strongly advised.

Series Summary: After spending over two years in captivity, and enduring assault, torture, and degradation of every kind, Y/N is finally sold off to the highest bidder. But when the deal is masked as a hushed marriage to a wealthy and powerful man, Y/N knows it means a few more nights of brutal torment ending in certain death. After all, why else would a man like him, want someone like her, except to fulfill desires so depraved that they would require owning a person. However, the Winchester mansion has mysteries of its own, woven in lies, betrayal, and death. Smack in the middle of it, she finds both hope and a home, in the person she least expected to find it with. But when it comes down to it, will she be able to save the thing that matters the most?

A/N: A huge shoutout to all my wonderful readers! Your support and love keeps me going! <3

Beta: My darling, @deanssweetheart23

“You can’t kick 'em in the nuts and make a run for it?” The girl in the next cell asked.

“Not if you want to avoid getting beaten into a pulp,” you told her through a mouthful of bread and tomato. “There’s always a guard outside the door.”

“Kick 'em in the nuts, too.”

You snorted so hard, bits of tomato landed on the floor.

“So, let me get this straight,” she said. “There are fancy rooms upstairs with wardrobes full of fancy clothes that you have to wear and then they take you to other fancy places for men–”

“Sometimes it’s just the fancy rooms overhead. Men come here, too.”

“But they take you out, don’t they?” She argued. “Just go to a reception and tell the hostess, a waitress, anyone. I know you managed to run away once… so why not try again? If they let you out, it can’t be that hard!”

You swallowed the bite in your mouth and sighed. What did it matter if you told her the truth? Neither of you would make it out anyway. 

“They’ve kidnapped my half-brother and half-sister. Little kids, barely six… have them at gunpoint somewhere. I make one wrong move and they are dead.”

“Shit.”

You could picture her dumbstruck expression. After spending a week next to her, seeing her face while going in and out, you were starting to get a hang of her. You still didn’t know why you did it, take her turn every night. Eventually, they would drag her out, but for a week, the boss wasn’t in the building and no one seemed to push the inevitable and drag that girl’s stubborn ass out. 

And boy was she stubborn. She bit and clawed like a wild cat at the guards who tried to drag her. She got plenty beat up in the process, but everyone seemed to wait for the boss to get her in line when he came. 

“Don’t you worry,” she said. “My fiance is going to get us out.”

“Fiance?”

“Yeah. I bet he’s worried out of his mind right now. But there’s police. They’ll find us.”

“The police are in on this,” you said. “They get serviced for their quiet.”

She spat, then screamed in frustration.

Footsteps echoed off the walls, and blood froze in your veins. You recognised the hard tap and unforgiving rhythm of his steps. The boss.

“Go to your bed and pretend to sleep,” you hissed, discarding the sandwich in your hand and doing the same. 

“W-what?”

“Just do it.”

Covering yourself entirely with the blanket, you rolled into a ball, as if that would make you invisible, teleport you out of the horror story you were about witness. Since staring at the glass wall in his cabin for the first time, you had prayed for yourself. The pastor in the church your aunt dragged you to every Sunday preached that one should only pray for the world and not for oneself… because praying for oneself was selfish. If you prayed only for the world, that made you a good person, and God helped good people without having to ask for it.

You had never been particularly religious, but that one thing had stuck around. Subconsciously, all your life, you had never asked for yourself, not from God, the universe or even as a favour from people. If you wanted something, you had worked hard to earn it, and achieve it by sheer will and not divine intervention.

But that first night with the boss had made you pray for yourself over and over.

And you prayed now, in whispers that only remained in your breath, never making a sound. 

God, let him forget that I exist… Not tonight. Please please please.

The footsteps came to a halt, and the door next to yours opened.

You closed your eyes tighter. Oh, that poor girl. He had come for her at last.

“I hear you’ve been difficult.”

A spit.

“Michael,” he said in his cold, raspy voice. “Hand me my cane, now.”

“Yes, Boss,” said Michael, gleefully.

A slash in the air and a piercing scream sliced the air.

You shut your ears tightly as the scuffling began… but then it ended as suddenly as it had started when a loud, sickening crunch which sounded so close to the shared wall that you were certain it had happened against it.

A minute passed.

“Oh, what a terrible waste,” the boss sighed at last, almost delicately. “Remove it.”

The taps receded and then soon they carried her body by your cell, blood trailing behind her.

You sat up bolt in your bed, unable to keep the bile down as you emptied your stomach on the carpet next to the bed. Sam’s side of the carpet.

You plopped back on the bed, breathing heavily. 

“Just a dream,” you told yourself. “Just a dream.” Then, the reality came crashing down on you and you wanted to throw up all over again.

Abby’s quiet knock from the main door wrenched you out of bed and through the seating area. She didn’t have to see the vomit. Her face was pinched when you opened the door for her. She entered trepidly and placed the breakfast tray on the table. 

“Who’s in the house?” You asked

“Just us,” she said. “Mr Dean Winchester left last night itself.”

“And S-Sam? He’s out for his run?”

“Mr Winchester left for work.”

“It’s only 7.”

She gave you an apprehensive look, as if she wanted to say something but was scared of how you would perceive it.

“What is it, Abby?”

“Miss, he’s in a right state, that man. Before you came, he used to be so dry and detached… but this past month, since you first locked yourself in your room, he’s gone from pillar to post for you. Sleep, food, everything be damned. The only thing he has done is worry.” Her hand fluttered nervously to her side. “He stumbled down the steps this morning from exhaustion and still went for his run anyway. I think he needs to see a doctor.”

Abby didn’t know what had conspired last night.

“I don’t know the deal with his brother being back now,” she said, wrangling the corner of her apron. “But everyone knows they don’t get along. It can’t be good for him.”

Sam had looked exhausted last evening. The dark circles under his eyes, the once-fitted shirt that hung loose on his shoulders, and the ever-present frown on his forehead had become more and more etched now. 

“Abby, tell me when Sam is back, will you?”

You sent her away and cleaned up your mess in the bedroom. A hot shower further cleared your head. Taking stock of your time in the Winchester Mansion made you recount the number of times you had run out on Sam, locked yourself in the room, the number of secrets you had kept. So, he’d had his own secrets. You knew that. 

Then there was the fact that Sam had never explicitly said he hated his brother. In fact, he’d never spoken of him without pain mingled with love. His exact words- “We had a fight and I couldn’t see his face after that.” Couldn’t…. Not ‘Didn’t want.’ Nowhere had his words implied that Sam’s consent was considered.

The day appeared stormy, with an overcast sky. Maybe the light of the lantern would carry, perhaps it wouldn’t. You set it on the sill anyway.

Dean found you at the pier an hour later, when you had nearly given up hope. He stood at his usual spot but did not sit beside you and you noticed he was dressed differently; no jacket today, just a black T-shirt and jeans.

Slowly, you tilted your face upwards to meet his sharp green eyes. How often had you wondered what Dean Winchester would be like? Bitter? Angry? But Han wasn’t any of those things.

“Get up!” He ordered, without an ounce of remorse. You got to your feet.

“This way,” he pointed and began to walk towards the jungle without a preamble.

A frisson of annoyance ran through you. Where was his abashedness?

“Sam didn’t know,” he said briskly. “That you knew me. That we knew each other. That poor bastard had no damn clue.”

“You want me to believe you’ve been hiding out in these woods without Sam knowing?”

“Yes.” He came to an abrupt stop and you realised Dean was dead serious. “That kid’s as straight-jacketed as they come. Keeping up the charade nearly did a number on his head, and then you came into the picture. Sam’s nearly lost his goddamned mind over you.”

“He told you that?”

Dean sighed in exasperation. “Haven’t you been listening to a single word? I haven’t seen Sam in months, not since the fight. But he’s my only family left. I had to keep an eye on the kid.”

The trees were too damn thick for any sunlight to trickle down. Dean started walking again and you followed.

“What was the fight about, then?” You pressed, refusing to believe.

“You,” he said as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“Two years before I came into the picture? Yeah, right.”

Dean tilted his head, weighing his words. “About the idea of you, I guess.”

“Wow, that clears it all up, doesn’t it?” You laughed sarcastically.

He stayed quiet for so long that you actually paid attention to your surroundings, finding the trail vaguely familiar in the thick trees.

“We were to be married in eight weeks,” he said, voice deep and achingly sad. “She’d come to drop off pie for me. Sam says he insisted on dropping her back, but I knew my Jo. She was stubborn that one. If she wanted to drive herself, nothing Sam said would’ve changed her mind. Nothing. Ellen called three hours later asking for her. We searched all night long, all through the woods, all the way two towns over. Nothing. Sniffer dogs couldn’t catch a trail. The police found her car two days later in New Mexico… and her body two weeks later face down in the lake.”

You wanted to reach out, say something… anything, but words failed.

“She hadn’t drowned, Y/N. She’d already been dead when they threw her in there. Post-mortem said haemorrhage… blunt force trauma to the back of her head, ligature marks, bruises…” He closed his eyes unable to continue. 

You knew bits and parts of what followed– Dean’s self-destructive tendency and Sam’s unwavering support. The latter won.

“Sam still thinks he’s to blame. That he should have somehow foreseen it. I know Ellen doesn’t disagree with him or shy away from throwing it in his face.” A mirthless scoff.

“I think the bigger part of her anger is because of what Sam did to you… and me.” You said. “Or rather, what she thinks he did to you and me.”

Dean sighed. “I owe Sam a lot more than my life, a sorry and a thank you. This whole plan hinges on his resilience.”

“What plan?”

He ran a hand through his hair, but his pace slowed down. “The detective working this case, Jody Mills… she’s suspected a human trafficking ring here for years. Every few years someone goes missing or a body mysteriously appears. But this thing has its claws in so deep that we can’t trust the entire PD.”

A shiver ran down your spine.

He glanced at you briefly, and you saw the ever-present kindness there. “You’re smart. I’m sure you’ve figured out a bunch of this yourself.”

Nodding to yourself, you thought out loud. “Sam wasn’t keeping me around for sex, didn’t want to hang me as bait for kidnapping, so obviously he wants information about where I was but…” You vividly remembered the night when he’d held your bloody hand and then all but shushed your barrage when you had tried to spill it all in a haze. “He stopped me from telling him… He didn’t want to hear any of it.”

Dean chuckled. A sudden light sound in the pressing quiet. “And I just called you smart.”

“What?”

“For all your God-forsaken angst over loving Sam… Have you not considered him liking you back?” Dean narrowed his eyes as if he was judging your intelligence. “Obviously it’s hard for him to listen to what you’ve been through. Hell, I’ve choked back on what little you’ve told me. Why are you being so thick?”

Tears sprang in your eyes. 

He placed a gentle hand against your cheek. 

“Give yourself some credit, Y/N. As stupid as you’re being right now, how can you question your own judgement of Sam so easily? You took your time forming your opinion, didn’t you? So consider all proof objectively. He was on board with the plan from day one knowing it would wreck his reputation if I disappeared after transferring my inheritance to him, knowing he’d have to make himself a villain… all for Jo. The kid didn’t bat an eye before agreeing. What led to the fight was the very last step of the plan. After infiltrating the system, he’d have to be one of them and well…”

“Buy a girl,” you finished.

“Yes,” said Dean. The word hung heavy in the air. “Sam refused to do it at first, but it was the only way. It’s killed him since day one, Y/N. And yesterday when you said he’s no better than any of those men who hurt you…”

The tears now freely flowed down your cheek and right into Dean’s palm. He slowly directed your face into his chest, tightly wrapping his arms around you.

“Oh, what have I done?” You whispered into his jacket. 

Sam had banged hard on your door last night and you never gave him a chance to explain. Not a single word. If you truly loved him, how come the trust was broken this easily? And when you refused to speak, he’d respected your consent then, too.

“I’m sorry, Dean,” you said. “I should’ve trusted him, trusted you. After all, you never coaxed anything from me. I–”

A thousand memories ran through your mind: Sam’s fingers holding up your corset, touching his hand for the first time in the entrance hall before, his laugh after the false escape from dinner. Sam handing you a portfolio, Sam showing you around the old guesthouse, his fingers slipping on your wet shirt in the barn, laughing with him on the floor of your bedroom, his voice as he read out poetry… and his lips when they met yours.

“Sam took to playing chess in high school,” said Dean as you moved back. “I don’t think he ever got too good at it, but he used to come back rambling about all these moves, the King's Gambit, the Scandanavian, the Sicilian. He didn’t have anyone to play against, so I learned the basics to humour him and we played every night before bed.”

He’d started walking again and you kept pace this time.

“So there we are one night, recreating some classic game from half a century ago and I played a different piece and well, what do you know, my king ended up in a position from where he couldn’t move. Thought I’d lost because that was the only square my King was safe in. But then Sam said that’s not what it was. I couldn’t be forced to move my King to a checked square, but it wasn’t currently checked. A stalemate is what it was. That’s where we are at, Y/N.”

“A stalemate?”

“Yes. We know pieces of information, but not the ones that actually matter. It’s our move next, but every square is checked, Y/N. We need to know.”

The dim lights of the dungeon came back to you and oddly the crack of the skull. “The operation is not local, definitely crosses state lines. The building where they kept me is somewhere along New Mexico's border. It’s a huge glass building, seven stories high. I don’t know exactly where but from the se…” you gulped. “From the seventh floor, I could see a tall red tower with blinking lights. They blinked all the time… like passing seconds… but slower than s- seconds. The boss sits on the seventh floor.”

“The boss?”

“I-I don’t know his name. No one does. They only call him ‘the boss.”

“This is good, Y/N,” Dean said eagerly. “What does he look like? How does he find these girls? How does he keep them?”

“He… He looks like any other white man, in his 50’s, maybe early 60’s but his eyes, he has the coldest gray eyes and his laugh...” You stopped, collecting your thoughts. “You already know how he gets the girls. Men as scouts, pretending to be friends or lovers, finding vulnerable girls with little in the way of family. Me… Rosalie. About keeping them, there are two ways. One is standard, get them hooked to heroin. Once you have that, they’ll do anything to get the next fix. But those girls don’t make much money, yeah? They aren’t polished. I was the second kind, for the richer clientele that don’t like the smell of drugs and want the girls alive and kicking. For them, guess, it’s easier to blackmail by holding a loved one hostage. Rosalie only had a mother and I only had Jamie and Danny.”

You told him about how your siblings were held hostage somewhere, and how you stayed in line just to protect them.

“There’s very little we wouldn’t do to protect them, wouldn’t we?”

Dean nodded, then came to a halt and you noticed with some surprise that you were standing in front of the wishing well. 

His fingers grazed the parapet's tally marks, and you voiced a long-lost curiosity. “Why do you have one extra?”

“That dumbass brought you here, didn’t he?” Dean snorted. “So much for our secret place.” But he didn’t seem to hold any grudge over it. “Dad brought me here right before Sam was born. Told me this was a magic well, so I needed to make a wish about what I wanted… a sister or a brother.”

“What did you ask for?”

“You see the extra mark there, don’t you?” He winked. “After the fire, I used to run out a lot, trying to find the well again. Wish my dead parents back, you know? Finally found it when I was twelve and Sam was eight. ”

“Seems like you’ve kept pace since with the tallys.”

Dean winked as if there was a secret to it, but didn’t share it with you.

“Come on, make a wish then,” he said.

“One is already due. I don’t want to burden the well.” You sighed. “Look, Dean. I’ll help you with whatever you want. I can draw plans of the building, and the street layout I could see from the seventh floor. Tell you the number of guards, the shifts, even the names of some of the clients, but I need you to promise me that nothing will happen to my brother and sister.”

“I promise.” 

The walk back should have seemed like an interrogation, except Dean held your hand as you described more of the place, the people, the process… the boss.

“I told you already, I don’t know his name,” you burst out when he questioned a third time. 

Dean’s eyes narrowed. “Did he… Did he hurt you? This boss?”

You laughed. One short, shaky laugh. “He had a wall full of these instruments… silver, gleaming and so cold.” Then there was the glass wall.

“Oh, that son of a bitch.”

“I wonder why you think Jo was involved in this,” you said, more to change the subject that anything else. “I mean she didn’t exactly fit the pattern.” Full family, doting boyfriend, well-to-do. Blitz kidnapping didn’t seem likely. The boss had to have had something on her.

“No, she didn’t fit the pattern and for a long time, we didn’t suspect her to have been in this.”

“How come?”

Dean’s voice reduced to barely above a whisper. “No obvious signs of… sexual assault in the postmortem report.” And despite the tragedy of it, Dean almost sounded relieved. He pulled out an old wallet from his back pocket and gazed at a picture inside lovingly. “I don’t know, Y/N, it makes me feel like an asshole but knowing that maybe she might have escaped the worst of it… God, I think it kept me from throwing myself off a damn cliff.”

“Oh, Dean!” You closed the distance in-between to hug him. “I bet she–” you gasped. The wallet hung loosely in his grasp and you glimpsed the picture behind the plastic. 

You grabbed the wallet and held it up. “That… That’s Jo? Your Jo?”

He took you by your shoulders. “You knew her?”

“Oh my God!” All the hurt and anger and fear came crashing down on you as you collapsed to the green earth of the side lawn. Over the years she had gone from being the girl in the next cell, to the girl with brown eyes, to the girl in your nightmares and eventually… the only thing you were proud of.

“She’s… she used to be the girl in the next cell. I knew her.”

“Who did this to her?” Dean asked, voice so sharp, it didn’t even sound his.

“The Boss did,” you whispered. “I think it might have been an accident. I only heard the scuffle and then the crack of her skull. It was quick. She didn’t suffer much.”

There was a sharp intake of breath over you and you didn’t dare look up.

“Dean, you should know, the girls there… eventually choose to stay there. I know I did. Once you stop with the kicking and screaming, it gets a little easier. The bad days are lesser and most clients don’t treat you like complete trash. There’s food on your plate at night and poor orphan girls have a bed to sleep in when they comply… they…. we stop fighting. Because there is no relief to fight for, no home to go to and no one who could protect us. But your Jo, she never stopped. I bet she took a few teeth out of that one guard, too.”

“Did they… did anyone ever���?” He could not spit the entire sentence out and you saw the courage it took to finally confront that question.

You looked straight in his tear-stained tortured eyes. “No one hurt her that way. I… I took her turns for the week she was there. I still don’t know why I did it. I’m not a charitable person, and it was hell that week, but something about her faith in her fiance reminded me of, well, me… before I found out how I got there. I wanted to protect her faith just a little longer. So, no Dean, no one touched her that way. And you should also know, she died like she lived, fighting and believing in your love for her.”

Dean hugged you and broke down. “Thank you… Thank you for doing that for my Jo,” he blubbered. “You’re… You’re like an angel. Sam said that you know… yesterday he said that he thought you were some kind of an angel when he first saw you dressed in white. Wasn’t wrong.”

And you broke down with Dean. The night had descended upon you, as you both held each other in the darkness and just cried. 

Much later, locked in the dining room, you drew the floor plans of the building from your memory, a map of the road and the way to the bus stop that you could remember, the names of the guards, physical descriptions, names of the girls, anything and everything you could think of. The maids all gave you curious looks. Getting along with a brother-in-law would be normal for most families, but an estranged brother-in-law who you had never supposedly met? Knowing the history they knew, that had to look shady.

As it turned out, Dean had been alternating between living in the Guest house in Sam’s room and a cabin further north that not many people knew of in the estate. He knew ways to sneak in and out better than almost anyone. Hired security was never too big a problem for him. He was to set out first thing tomorrow morning to see how he could use your intel.

“You know my roommate Carmen,” you said at the door when he was about to leave. “She might have been the only one to care for me back then. I fought with her the night before. If you can do one thing for me, find her and tell her she was right and I am so very sorry.”

“Of course.” Dean stepped up and kissed your forehead. “And Y/N, I’m going to get that bastard. Not just for what he did to Jo, but also for what he did to you. You said you didn’t fight after a while because you didn’t have a home, a family. Now you do. Remember that.”

You watched Dean head out. He would be gone before you woke up tomorrow, but you felt lighter than you had in years, like the weight of the world had been lifted off your shoulders. Upstairs, you found Abby in her room.

She stood up the moment she saw you. “Miss, is everything alright?”

“Yes, Abby. I was wondering if you knew when Sam would be back?”

“He was home earlier this evening but didn’t stay long. I believe he left for Colorado.”

Hurt. “Did he say anything about when he would return?”

“No, Miss.”

“Did he ask about me?”

“No, Miss.”

“Did he say anything at all?”

The pitying shake of her head was enough for you to turn around and return to your room. What if you had hurt Sam beyond fixing this time? Abby had been correct, he looked fragile, not just physically, but something about the fragmented look in his eyes, as if one blow could shatter him. What if your hurtful words and vitriolic accusation finally pushed him to the edge? How much bullshit could one man take after all?

You had stepped into this house thinking you would be used, and it was the most horrid feeling in the world. What if Sam thought the same now? That you had used him… used his home, his wealth, and his empathy. Hell, you had used his body, too! 

No, you didn’t pray for yourself much. But in that moment you did- God, please give me one chance to apologise. Please.

*****************************

A/N 2: So turns out I was tagging all wrong :/ Ana is feeling sad about that. Hopefully, it will work this time.

Please do let me know what you think of this part. Reblogs and comments are what keep me going!

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[danikamariewrites]

can i request feysand x reader where they’re all pissed at each other. they’re all petty and pissed and won’t pass the butter or close the door and everyone else is like wtf are you doing

Grudges

Feysand x reader

A/n: everyone would be so tense lmao

Warnings: slight angst I think

The sound of cutlery against porcelain plates was especially loud this evening. You, Feyre, and Rhys sat as far away from each other as you could.

Everyone could feel the tense energy rolling off the three of you. Cassian looked around tentatively, meeting Mor and Azriel’s gazes. Then Elain’s, her usual soft brown eyes hardened and annoyed.

Nesta and Amren looked done with your bullshit. Both wearing twin scowls with the same brow raised.

Rhys looked around causing everyone to focus on their food again. “Can someone pass the salt?” He asked monotonously.

Azriel went to reach for it but you beat him. Picking up the glass shaker you hold eye contact with the High Lord. Feyre didn’t bother looking up, muttering to herself as she violently cut into her steak.

Continuing your state down with Rhys for the salt you start unscrewing the top of the shaker. Never once breaking eye contact. “Stop.” He says sternly.

You throw the top on the floor. The tiny metal piece making the loudest clanking against the wood floor. Turing it over you dump all the salt out onto your mashed potatoes.

Rhys slumped back into his seat. His jaw tightened as he gives you an angry look. “Sorry. We’re all out.” You say sweetly, tilting your head. Rhys goes back to his food as he too started muttering to himself.

Without warning you hurl the glass shaker at Rhys’s head. Missing on purpose of course. Rhys shot up staring daggers at you that you returned tenfold.

“HA HA,” Feyre screamed sarcastically.

Amren slammed her tiny hands against the table, pushing up with so much force the room shook. Anger and annoyance swirling in those dark eyes. “Everyone out,” she seethed, “except you three.”

Cassian dashed for Nesta, pulling her along quickly as Elain and Mor followed quickly behind with Azriel at their backs, shielding them from the start of a rough conversation.

Amren motions for the three of you to sit across from her. None of you look at each other. Crossing your arms and legs so no one touches anyone. Amren takes a deep breath, composing herself.

“This idiotic behavior has been going on all day. We are sick of it. You are getting over it now.” Feyre rolls her eyes. Amren hissed at her, slamming another hand down. “Listen girl!” You all sit up paying extra attention to her. Amren takes another deep breath composing herself.

“Varian has told me I should try listening more. In a calm way, to help mediate better instead of just commanding everyone. So let’s go down the line and work through this.” She looks to you first. “You seem to have the most anger,” Amren narrows her eyes at you. “What’s got you so worked up?”

Resting your elbows on the table you clear your throat. “Thank you for deciding to hear the truth first, Amren.” Your mates roll their eyes. Feyre makes something like a fake puking noise and Rhys just grunts leaning further back into the chair.

“This morning this one,” you emphasize by pointing at Rhys, “decided no one was going to have a good day. Usually we all get ready together but he just slammed the bathroom door in our faces, taking an hour in the bathroom.

“As much as he preaches communication and empathy he wasn’t doing that much. So Feyre and I ignored him but I could tell it was getting under her skin. I tried talking to her but then she pushed me away. I’m not sure why else they’re mad but that’s me.”

Amren looks between the High Lord and Lady. “Well, is that true?” They let out a synchronized sigh.

“Yes, but he hasn’t been talking,”

“Yes, they won’t give me space,”

The two speak over each other getting louder and louder, trying to outdo one another. You joined in yelling and begging with them to stop.

“Silence!” Amren commands. Stopping your chatter immediately you stare at the tiny fae terrified. “Work it out yourselves. If you’re going to bicker I won’t be part of this.”

She dramatically pushed her chair in stomping out of the dining room. Leaving you to look at each other longingly, hoping this fight wouldn’t leave you all feeling empty inside.

[xoxomoonlightxoxo]

The Girl That Disappeared | Suspect #2 JJK

⇠ 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐯. | 𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐱 | 𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭 ⇢  

✧ Synopsis: It was a gloomy Friday evening when you felt the mists of melancholy pulse through your veins, aching body floating above the deep water. Squeezing your eyes shut, your lips trembled with fear. You didn’t want to die, but you sure as hell didn’t want to live. Not in this town. Not with the people in it. So, why don’t you just disappear? Leave them to search for the remnants of who you had been before you realised that life is more painful than death. Park Jimin. Kim Taehyung. Jeon Jungkook. Best-friend, step-brother, and an ex-lover. Although their paths had never crossed before that gloomy Friday evening, their names, printed in bold, now remained on the top of the suspect list. Stories entangled in your mystery.

✧ w/c: 6.1k ✧ a/n: a lot is going on here but please let me know what you think, mwuah 💓 ✧ taglist: @kookieandjoonberries @whoa-jo @taevestr @smoljimjim @kookxin

@11thenightwemet11 @xumyboo @kingofbodyrolls @jksusawife

“Y/n-ah! I’m leaving, please turn on the security,” your mother’s voice echoed from the entrance as you heard the front door close. She was working on-call today, and while it seemed like you finally had an opportunity to spend some quality time together, the hospital rang her in for an emergency operation at the last minute. 

“Okay, love you,” you yelled from your room, picking up the laundry off the floor before heading downstairs. No one was home. Mr. Kim had a night shift and wouldn’t be back until later and only God knew where Taehyung was. 

Scrolling through your phone, you smiled at the photos Jimin sent you from his parent’s ranch house. It’s been a week since he left, and you couldn’t help but miss him. The two of you haven’t gone this long without seeing each other, so it felt weird not being able to call him over. 

“Y/n, it’s so nice here, you would’ve loved it,” he smiled through the phone, resting his head on the soft pillow. 

“I bet,” you whined. 

“Next time, you’re coming with me, okay? There’s this waterfall I’ve been dying to show you,” 

“Okay … I missed you Jimin-ah,” your voice broke, glossy eyes looking down at the teddy bear he got for your birthday. 

“Y/n-ie, you know I missed you more,” Jimin moved in closer, placing a kiss on his front camera as you glanced up.

“Now, get some sleep, I’ll talk to you tomorrow, mmhm,”

“Goodnight,” you whispered with a little wave. 

“Sleep tight, angel,” 

He never called after that. All your attempts went straight to voicemail. It was strange, Jimin always valued communication, and never was the type to let you wonder about his whereabouts. Kept you posted even with a little “k”, just to signify that he got the message. But, now, it felt like he was gone. Vanished into thin air, like nothing happened. And, it killed you knowing that you couldn’t do anything about it. 

The clock read 7 am on the dot, which meant that you still had about two hours till the first bell. It was the first day of your period and your cramps were horrendous, to say the least. They’re usually a pain in the ass but never this bad. Looking through the medicine cabinet you rummaged past the bandaids and the gummy vitamins before remembering that Taehyung took the last Ibuprofen for his headache last night. It was ironic how little painkillers you had in the house, knowing that your mom was a doctor. But, it’s because she always preached the importance of letting your body heal naturally. Science could only get you so far, I guess? 

Zipping up your windbreaker, you grabbed your wallet and keys before heading outside to the local grocery store until the sound of a slammed door left you frozen in your tracks. It came from upstairs. Looking up at the dark corridor you turned on the lights, following the breeze seeping through the cracks of your room. 

“Taehyung?” you called, hands hovering over the doorknob. No one answered. Why would they? You were the only one in the house, right? 

“Taehyung, if this is one your stupid jok-” you whispered again before facing the empty room. 

No sight of Taehyung, but your window was open, which explained the door. The only problem was that you didn’t remember opening it in the first place. Nonetheless, you would gladly accept this version of the incident over the possibility of some paranormal activity. One problem at a time, please. 

So, you shut your blinds and went back downstairs to turn off the security system before grabbing your bike from the garage. You didn't have a licence, and only got your learners about a month ago, so if no one was home you had to resort to another form of transportation. 

You didn’t mind biking though. Found it rather therapeutic. Loved the alone time it allowed for without the bombardment of life and its constant obstacles. Just you and your thoughts. And, although there was a bit of a fog, it was clear enough to see where you were going. So, you buckled your helmet and went off on your journey to secure some Ibuprofen. 

Exiting the gated community, you biked through the local primary school, passing by a parking lot of sleep-deprived parents rushing to work after dropping off their little ones. It was getting a bit chilly as the wind picked up, so you stopped to put on some mittens and a hat before glancing back at the rustling sound behind the corner. 

“Hello?” 

Again, no one answered. But, that didn’t stop the chills running down your spine, remembering the incident earlier at home. Looking down at your watch, you gasped at the 20 minutes that had already passed, yet, you were nowhere near the grocery store. So, it was time to focus. 

Biking down the empty road, your eyes were scattered across the painted scenery. The old brick houses and the tall trees. The rusted mailboxes and the garden gnomes. It all felt so nostalgic. So close to your heart, as if tethered by the strings of your past. But, the feeling was short-lived. Consumed by the eerie melancholy inching up your skin as you felt someone's presence behind you. 

This time, you weren’t wrong. Covered from head to toe, it looked like a man. Keeping a civil distance, he followed your turns. Left. Right. Straight. Right. Left. Straight. Coincidence or not, this wasn’t a common path that people took. Not many knew of the shortcut. So, you began to speed up, feeling the adrenaline kick in once he did the same. Now, it was a chase. 

Pushing through the burning pain in your calves you picked up the pace, feet firm on the pedals. He didn't pity your fatigue, only fueled it more by inching closer before the two of you were riding side-by-side. Keeping an eye on his uncanny demeanour, you flinched at the sound of a car horn blast through your trembling state as a white Honda glared past you, pointing at the stop sign. 

“I'm sorry,” you whispered under your breath. 

“You're fast,” the man scoffed, tilting his head with a sly grin. That's all you could see. 

“Who are you?” you yelled, voice trembling in panic. 

“I’ll give you a head start, mmhm?” he sneered, changing the gears on his bike. 

Feeling the tightness in your throat, you were gasping for air, dilated pupils scanning the surroundings for help. Unfortunately, as if praying on your downfall, the street was empty. Not a soul in sight. So, you pressed on the pedals, leaving the man in the dust as you prayed that the next turn led to people. 

Gas station. Bingo. 

Hoping off your bike you bolted towards the door. 

“Hey, hey, hey,” the cashier yelled out, furrowed gaze searching the panic on your face. You could feel the flush rise up your cheeks, but the absence of Mr. X occupied your mind. 

“I’m so sorry,” you mouthed, clearly out of breath before dialling Jimin’s phone number. It was like second nature. You didn’t even realise it until your call went straight to voicemail. 

“Oh, right,” a sigh escaped your lips, remembering that he was still MIA.

Looking through your contacts, there was only one more person you could call. But, the possibility of them actually agreeing to help you was as slim as your waist after all that exercise. Nonetheless, you took a deep breath and pressed the call button. 

“Taehyung?” 

“What do you want, y/n?” he scoffed. 

“Right. So, potentially … if you could … would you mind picking me up from the gas station near River Banks?” you whispered, careful with every word as you anticipated his response. 

“Potentially, screw you. What the fuck did you lose there?” 

“It’s kind of a long story but I do need to be at school in about half an hour,” 

“Can I even say no?”

“Last time I checked it was a free country but a dangerous one at that. So, if I'm kidnapped, my blood is on your hands,” 

“You and that victim mentally of yours go way back, huh?” 

“Please, Taehyung. I’ve never asked you for a favour before,” 

“Fine, give me 10 minutes,” he sighed, ending the call before you could even thank the guy. 

The car ride home was quiet. No radio. Windows rolled up. Silence. 

“So, you’re really not gonna tell me?” Taehyung asked with an arched brow, glancing at your stiff form as the light turned red. 

You’ve never been good at lying. Even if your mouth stayed shut, your face would’ve revealed it all. Essentially, there was no running away from the truth in your case. 

“Well … no one was home and I needed medicine so I decided to bike to the grocery store,” you began explaining, avoiding his eyes. 

“Mmhm,”

“And then …” you paused, hesitating the next part. What if Mr. Kim finds out? What if you were blowing this out of proportion? 

“Y/n. You’re making me angry. Just say it,” he scolded, pressing on the pedal. 

“Sorry. Um, so yeah … I was biking and then out of nowhere this man started following me. So, I tried losing him by taking different turns but … ended up getting lost,” 

“You were followed?” there was a slight change in Taehyung’s voice. Less sarcastic, more intrigued. 

“I guess?” 

“Well, did you see what he looked like?” 

“Not, really. He was covered from head to toe. Except …” you gasped, eyes shut as your brain scavenged through its short-term memory, recalling the moment at the stop sign. 

“Yes?” 

“The side of his mouth was … bruised like he got punched or something?” you leaned back into the seat, fidgeting with your rings while Taehyung merged onto the right lane. He was too focused on the road to hear what you said, but as you glanced at his face your eyes widened, spotting the same purple marks. 

“What?” he growled, furrowed gaze glaring back at your parted lips. 

“Nothing.” you chuckled awkwardly, reaching for the radio before his cold hand touched yours. 

“Look me dead in the eyes and tell me.” he sneered, interlocking his fingers with yours. You’ve known each other for almost a year, yet, your shoulders have never even grazed past each other. So, this was strange, to say the least. 

“Tell you what?” you said hushly, gulping down the nerves as he levelled his face to meet your scattering eyes. 

“That you’re scared,” 

“I’m not,” you scoffed, feeling the flush in your cheeks. 

“Good. Because why the fuck would it be me, you dumbass.” his voice got louder with each word, throwing your hand back before rolling down the windows. Finally. Some fresh air. 

Why would it be him, y/n? You weren’t his favourite but, this was too much. Taehyung was a straightforward person, if he hated you he would say it to your face. So, these mind games were really not his thing. But, then again, what’s up with the bruised lip? 

Fixing your uniform you walked into the brightly lit classroom. First period. Physics. No one was in their seats, let alone bothered by the fact that the teacher was almost 10 minutes late. Placing your books on the desk you looked over at the empty seat beside you. Jimin was still gone. No one has heard from him in weeks. 

Bing Bing

Rampaging through your backpack you searched for your phone. You didn’t have time to properly pack because Taehyung was counting down the minutes before he threatened to drive off, so you just threw everything in hoping to fix it during your free period. Scrolling through the notifications your eyes focused on the text message from an unknown number. 

“I missed you.” you mouthed under your breath.

“Sorry everyone, the meeting took a bit longer,” Mr. Choi chuckled softly, speed-walking into the room before ushering everyone to their seats. 

“I missed you?” you whispered again, eyebrows knitted with confusion. Was it Jimin? Did he change his number? 

“Nonetheless, I am pleased to introduce our new transfer student …” 

You couldn’t recognize the area code, so you tried looking it up on the internet but found nothing useful. Was this some kind of a scam? An innocent prank, maybe? 

“Jeon Jungkook” Mr. Choi’s voice suddenly echoed in your ears making you glance up at the dark-haired boy standing in front of the class. Interestingly, he was already looking at you. Hooded gaze focused on the way your demeanour changed completely. 

“Jungkook, feel free to take any empty seat,” 

Bowing to the man, he did exactly that. Slowly passing by the first three rows before stopping by the seat next to you. Nodding his head, he seemed pleased with the pick. 

“Oh, no sorry, Jungkook-ah, that seat belongs to another student,” Mr. Choi called out with a smile that quickly faded as he watched him sit regardless. 

“There’s plenty of options. I’m sure they’ll find another one,” Jungkook muttered with a sly grin, taking out his books before turning his attention to your widened eyes. 

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, y/n,” he rasped against your hair, gently tucking it behind your ear to fix the back of your collar. His dark orbs flickered down to your parted lips, sending shivers down your spine.

The first kiss you shared with Jungkook was between your eyes. The way his furrowed gaze softened upon seeing you walk down the wooden stairs of your childhood home, in the lavender dress he bought for your birthday. The way he nervously nibbled on his lip ring before caressing the back of your hand, fingers intertwined with yours. Everything about him was gentle when it came to you. The way his warm embrace moulded into yours, as you grew to share the same breath, the same heartbeat. One singularity in the form of two lovers. 

He filled the void your father left as you failed to please his expectations. The ones only a son could bear. The nights you spent crying in your room, wishing that your mother didn’t have to suffer the humiliation of raising a daughter, Jungkook was there. Like a knight in shining armour, he always saved you. Hoped to give you the future you deserve if you promised to share it with him. The two of you were inseparable. Attached by the hip. 

Until, one day, you weren’t. 

It’s been a week since Jungkook transferred schools. His seat still next to you. Inches away from the past that tethered your souls. You didn’t talk much. Mentally exhausted from the consequences. But, his eyes. They never lied. Sneaking glimpses across the room, watching your every move. He wanted you to give in, to tell him why you left. Help him understand how someone so close could betray his trust, his loyalty, his love. Jungkook didn’t hate you, wouldn’t let anyone get too close, but he was hurt. You could see it in his eyes. The same eyes that onces sparkled under the shimmering lights of the night sky when you shared your first kiss.

Dipping your feet into the pool you wanted to test the water before running through the new drill your coach crafted for the upcoming swim meet. To put it lightly, it was freezing. Goosebumps all over your skin, nipples cut through glass type of freezing. You would think a school with such a budget could afford a heated pool but beggars can’t be choosers. So, you tucked your hair under the swim camp and started on some stretches. 

“One … two … three …” you breathed out, counting the reps before glancing up at the flickering lights. School ended about an hour ago, so the place was pretty empty except for the janitors and a few teachers who stayed back to work on some grading. There was no practice today, but you had a spare key to the pool, so it was just you and the water. 

“Hello?” you called out, covering yourself with the towel. No response. 

“Sorry, this is a closed practice,” you shouted out again, hearing footsteps coming from the changing rooms. 

“Hel-” 

The lights went out. Goosebumps covered your skin, heart beat through the roof. Now what? 

“This isn't funny. Turn the lights back on!”

No one answered, but the footsteps inched closer. You could sense that they were near but it was too dark to make out a figure. Then, he chuckled. Subtle but devious chuckle. Like it was all premeditated. 

“Where is it?” a voice echoed, bouncing off the four walls. It was familiar. 

“Jungkook? Is that you?” you gasped, looking over your shoulder, hands trembling in fear.  

“Where is it, y/n?” his tone was firm. 

“Where's what?” 

“Don't act dumb, love,” he sneered, hands hovering over your waist making you flinch at the sudden feeling. The smell of his vanilla musk lingered in the air as you matched each other’s breathing, skin to skin. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you whispered, chest heaving up from the tension. 

“Where’s my baby?” he rasped against your ear pushing your frail body into the water as his hold around your waist tightened. Eyes squeezed shut, you began to kick him off of you. But he was stronger, assertive, more needy. Gasping for air you felt the water seep into your lungs, nails digging into his skin as a warning to bring you back to the surface.  

However, once you were up, he would have more questions. Questions you didn’t have the heart to answer. But, Jungkook deserved to know the truth, even if it hurt. Because, deep down, your father’s abuse wasn’t the only reason you left. 

You didn’t remember much of that night thanks to the five whiskey shots that pulsed through your veins. Intoxicated your system till you became numb. Unaware of the dangers around you and vulnerable to those with bad intentions. Until it was too late. 

“Stop … please …” you whimpered, flinching at the feeling of his tongue on your breast. Parted lips leaving a trail of wet kisses down your stomach, wrists red from his tight hold as your arms stayed pinned over your head. But your cries for help were as worthless as the consent he never got. 

Until the door slammed open and Jungkook’s irate gaze saw your lifeless body buried under the weight of another man. No amount of restraint could hold him back. He was flammed with rage. 

“Y/n!” Jungkook growled, pushing the guy onto the floor as blood covered his fist. And, as the four walls caved in, your world fell apart. 

But, you could barely open your eyes, let alone get up. Too ashamed to move anyways and the migraine only made it worse. Searching for your top your heart ached with pain once you saw Jungkook’s hollow orbs swelled with tears as he wiped the blood off his face. He looked defeated, almost as unconscious as the man on the floor. Stepping over the body with one hand on his side he whimpered, biting down the pain in his ribs before covering you with his jacket. 

“We have to go.” he muttered, picking you up bridal style. 

“Koo, we can’t just leave him,” you yelled out, worried gaze searching his pale face. 

“It’s nothing fatal, he’ll be fine,” Jungkook scoffed, feeling the tightness in his throat as he glanced down at your saddened eyes.

Tension consumed the air. It was suffocating. 

“Jungkook, please slow down.” you exclaimed, tightening your hold on the seatbelt. And, although his glare was focused on the road, he couldn’t hear you. Too occupied by the burning pit in his stomach. It didn’t take long until the dashboard flashed warning signals as his speed reached 200 km/h. You were virtually flying. Yet, there was no end to his high. 

Reaching for his cold hand you tried to snap him out of it before the car suddenly stopped. 

“Oh, shit!” Jungkook yelled out, protecting you from the impact, as your body swung forward. 

Eyes squeezed shut, your hands trembled in fear. He hit someone. You hit someone. Fidgeting with your seatbelt you desperately tried to get out and help the crouched man on the ground. He wasn’t bleeding but his skin looked burnt. 

“Y/n!” Jungkook jerked you back, tightening his hold on your arm as he pressed on the pedal. 

“What are you doing? We have to go back!” you yelled with a furrowed gaze. 

“Jungkook!” you threw a few hits at his chest, reaching for the steering wheel as the car swerved along the bumpy road. 

“Enough!”

You couldn’t recognize him. He never raised his voice at you. Barely ever argued. But, now, Jungkook felt so distant. So cold. 

“Fine.” you whispered, digging your nails into your palms. It felt like a nightmare that you couldn’t wake up from. Stuck in a maze of despair, robbed of peace and the possibility that it was all in your head. That none of it was real. 

But it was. And, it would only get worse. 

Unlocking his front door, Jungkook stepped aside, letting you go first, hesitant with his touch. Furrowed gaze fixated on the ground, his head hung low, heavy with thoughts. Tucking onto the ankle straps of your heels you hissed out of frustration, vision blurring in and out of focus. 

“I can do it myself.” you scoffed, as he bent down to help. You didn’t mean to sound rude but there’s only so much one can endure before the sun sets. It was exhausting. 

“I know you can but let me,” he muttered softly.

And, for a moment there was silence. No words were exchanged. No one knew what to say. Feared that something else would go wrong. But your eyes, they were screaming. 

“Koo?” you whispered, caressing his cheek as he inched closer, burying his face into the warmth of your palm. 

“Y/n, I’m so sorry,” Jungkook blurted, gripping your dress. 

You weren’t his first love but you were his first love. And, he promised to always keep you safe, fight for the beating of your heart until the air was stripped away from his lungs. But, he failed. 

“I’m sorry for letting you get hurt” his voice was quiet, shaky. Glossy eyes looking up at your trembling lips. 

“Baby, you saved me.” you exclaimed softly, pulling him into your embrace, feeling the tension in his body slowly dissipate. 

“Nothing happened, right?” he whispered into your skin. 

“Nothing,” you said hushly. 

“Promise?” 

“Promise.” 

To be honest, you didn’t remember what happened. Only the scars remained witness, your body painted like a canvas with purple hues of abuse. But, nothing happened, right? 

“How do you know about the baby?” you questioned with an arched brow, trying your best to stay afloat as Jungkook inched closer. 

“Oh, y/n, you always underestimated the power of a small town. News here spreads faster than wildfire.” he grinned, resting his hands on your waist before your back hit the concrete. 

That night, when you layed on his chest and listened to his heartbeat, the puzzle pieces began to come together. Something did happen. Something that didn’t belong to Jungkook. You were raped and on very thin ice with your father who was ready to kick you out of the house if you didn’t oblige his threats. The ones that entailed getting rid of the baby, and clearing up the family name. But, you couldn’t bear to lose someone so close, so innocent. 

So, you didn’t. You hid the pregnancy from everyone. Of course, your mom knew but you didn’t want to risk getting her into trouble with your father, whose behaviour worsened with each fight. Completely unhinged, he couldn’t be stopped.

But, when he slammed you against the kitchen cabinet while you stood in front of your mother’s trembling body you finally felt it. The striking pain in your abdomen that travelled up your pelvis and into your back. The pooling of blood that rolled down your leg, marking your clothes with the loss of your baby. And every day since then, you wondered. Wondered what life would feel like without the constant longing to be whole again. 

“And, hey, thanks for this,” Jungkook teased with a sly wink, parading the dove necklace Mr. Kim gifted you for your graduation. 

“Give it back Jungkook, this isn’t funny.” you snapped, reaching for his hand before his hold on your waist tightened, pulling you in. 

“You stole something from me, now it’s my turn,” he rasped against your ear, nibbling on the soft skin. Inches apart, his heavy gaze flickered down to your lips. 

“Hmm, I haven’t swam in a while but I think I can make the team, right captain?” Jungkook glanced up, searching your furrowed expression. 

Unfortunately, he did make the team. If you couldn’t tell already, he was a crowd favourite. Always managed to get what he wanted, even with minimal effort. Simply put, life just seemed to work out for Jungkook. 

So, when the team went on to win the Nationals your coach decided to splurge and take everyone out for the weekend. Nothing special. Just a trip to the next town over. He rented a bus, but if you had a ride you could just meet everyone there. Sadly, both your mom and Mr. Kim were busy with work and Taehyung closed the door on you when you asked, so that seemed like a hard pass.

“Damn, Mr. Lim couldn't wait till sunrise?” your friend teased as the two of you waited by the school entrance. It was just shy of 7 am, but the sky was grey and foggy. 

“That's what I'm saying. I couldn't even sleep yesterday,” you scoffed, feeling the puffiness around your eyes. Something about the little getaway fueled your nervous system to stay alert the whole night. Was it excitement? Fear?Anxiousness? Only time will tell. 

“It's fine, in about 5 minutes we should already be hitting the road. And, hey, I brought the book you asked for,” she exclaimed, digging through her bag. 

“Nice! Fair warning though, I will be taking my beauty slumber as soon as we get on or else I might just die,” the two of you chuckled before collecting your stuff noticing the bus turn into the school parking lot. 

Heading up the stairs you were welcomed by an older gentleman. 

“Hel-” his words were cut off by the shouting outside. 

“Y/n!” 

“Sorry, could you excuse me for a second?” you giggled awkwardly, turning back to see who was making all that noise.

“Y/n, get in. I'll drive.” Jungkook urged with no hesitation, patting the passenger seat. 

“That's not necessary,” you scoffed, arms crossed over your chest. 

“That wasn't a question.” a sly grin covered his face. 

Parking his Mercedes in front of the bus, you looked back at the old man who was busy checking in the other students to notice Jungkook’s stubborn act. Well, shit. 

“Fine.” you muttered, ushering him to open the trunk.

As promised, you fell asleep almost immediately, suppressing the daunting feeling inside your chest. Jungkook didn’t mind, and kept as quiet as possible, reclining your seat before covering you with his jacket. It was better that the two of you didn’t speak. This gave him the perfect opportunity to look at you without being threatened. 

The drive was supposedly only 4 hours, but the rain lengthened the process. 

“Hhmm?” you flinched from the sound of hail hitting the glass window. 

“Sleep well?” Jungkook whispered, glancing at your drowsy eyes. 

“Yeah,” you muttered, stretching your back. 

“Are you hungry? We will have to stop at a motel, it’s too dangerous to drive.” 

“Alright. Let me just text Yuri then,” you said, unzipping your bag. 

“No need, I already let Mr. Lim know,” he winked, pulling into the parking lot. 

Mother Nature was pissed and decided to take it out on all of us. So, it wasn’t long until the two of you were drenched from head to toe. 

“Quickly, let’s go!” Jungkook exclaimed, grabbing your hand before locking the car. 

The place wasn’t brand new, per se, but it served its purpose. As soon as you walked in, you were welcomed by what could only be described as a parade of taxidermy deer heads mounted onto the wall with a complimentary coffee station by the corner. 

“I'll be right with you!” a female voice echoed from the back room. 

Glancing at the water dripping down your face Jungkook chuckled, pulling you in to wipe the excess with his sleeve. 

“You okay?” he hummed, levelling his head until your eyes met. 

“Cold,” you muttered, nibbling on your lip before turning him back towards the front desk. 

“Right, so sorry for the wait. What can I do for you, dear?” an older woman exclaimed with a soft smile. 

“Oh, no worries at all! We’re just looking for a room for the night,” Jungkook explained, pulling out his wallet. 

“Of course! Are you two a couple by any chance?” she giggled, dimples popping out on both cheeks as your mouth dropped. 

“Oh, n-” you scoffed before his glare pierced through you. 

“Shhh, let her finish, love,” 

“Well, it’s just that Saturdays are usually our couple specials. You get a 30% discount!” she clapped, admiring what you assumed she thought to be the epitome of young love standing in front of her. 

“Lucky us, then,” Jungkook clapped as well, inching your stiff body closer to make it more believable.

“Go us!” you smiled awkwardly, patting his chest before whispering something in his ear. Don’t get too excited. 

Placing a gentle peck on your forehead he grabbed the bags, following the sweet lady towards your room. 

“Alrighty, here it is! If you need anything I’m just a call away.” 

“Thank you!” the two of you said in unison, unlocking the door. 

One bed. 

“So, how is it?” Jungkook asked, laying out his jacket on the cabinet to dry. 

“You’re sleeping on the floor.” a teasing chuckle escaped your parted lips. 

“The rain will stop soon. I doubt we’ll even need the bed,” he said, running his fingers through his hair. 

“What? We wasted all that money for nothing?”  

“Well, first of all, I paid. And, we got a discount, remember?” 

“I'm sorry. I'll pay you back,” your gaze lowered from the sudden guilt, fingers fidgeting with your rings. 

“Are you kidding? I would pay triple to spend more time with you,” his tone was genuine, pupils dilated at your timid state. 

“Jungkook,” you whispered. 

“If only you knew how much I missed it,” he tilted his head back on the wall, nibbling on his lip ring. 

“What?” 

“Hearing you say my name,”

“I thought we hated each other,” you muttered, folding your hands over your chest.

“You did. I just loved the thrill of it,” 

You would be lying if you said that you didn’t miss it too. In hindsight, your feelings were always suppressed but obvious to the naked eye. To his eyes. However, just because you miss something, doesn’t mean you have to go back. Sometimes, the door is better off closed. Hidden deep in your subconscious mind, buried under a pile of broken promises. 

“I’m going to shower.” you blurted in a hurry, walking past him to avoid the thoughts running through your head. 

The water was cold no matter which way the faucet turned, so you had to be quick unless catching hypothermia was on the list of things Mr. Lim wanted you to experience over this trip. If so, then you were ahead of the game. 

Wrapping yourself with a towel you washed off your makeup, combing your hair with a detangling brush before getting startled by the swinging of the door, hitting your side. 

“Hey! I wasn’t done.” 

“Sorry, it’s cold,” Jungkook whined, welcoming himself in. 

“Did you try putting on a shirt?” you scoffed, eyeing his naked chest before his furrowed gaze caught you red-handed. 

“It’s wet, smartass. And, I didn’t want to put new clothes on before showering.” 

“Well, go stand over there and face the wall,”

“Are you shy?” he teased, leaning on the counter. 

“Well, I’m not comfortable.” you hissed, tightening the fabric around your body. 

“I’ve seen you naked plenty of times, y/n,” Jungkook grinned, eyes squeezed shut as if reminiscing the good old days. 

“You don’t have to remind me. I'll be taking that sin to the grave,” 

But it was too late. Lips inches apart, your chest heaved up from the intensity of his heavy gaze, eyeing your form from top to bottom. Tilting your chin with his fingers, he leaned closer. 

“We can’t,” you blurted, hands hovering over his chest. 

“No?” he glanced at your scattering eyes, pressing your palm against his burning skin. 

“What about Soojin?” 

“What about her?” 

“Seems like you guys were hitting it off pretty well,” you hissed, looking past his glare. 

“Meh … not my type,” Jungkook scoffed, eyes flickering down your lips.

“Oh, really?” 

“Why? Was y/n jealous?” he said with a sly grin, tracing his fingers up your thigh. 

“Soojin, is not your type? Ha! Hard to believe when she was all over you a few days ago.” your tone was low, annoyed at the whole thing. You were jealous. Fine. Whatever. Moving right along. 

“Hmm, is that so? Then what does that say about us? If I leave a trail of kisses down your neck, does that mean you're my type?” he whispered in your ear, pulling your body onto the counter before finding himself between your legs. 

“I'm not your type,” you chuckled, ignoring the obvious tension. 

“I could've been a dad by now and you're questioning if you're my type? Really?” Jungkook teased, resting his forehead on yours.  

“Jungkook, the baby wasn’t yours.” you said firmly, palms holding his face to make sure he was paying attention. 

“But, it was yours. And, what’s yours is mine. Isn’t that right?” he winked, fingers intertwined with yours. Then it happened. The long-awaited kiss. And, although you knew this wasn’t the best of your decisions, you didn’t mind revisiting this door, at least for the time being.

Until that night. The night in the forest. When a locked door was the only thing separating you and Jungkook. 

“Call him. Let's see if he actually cares,” you could see the grin smear across the man’s masked face, as your blood-shot eyes swelled with tears. 

Hands tied behind your back, you watched him press the call button, turning the phone towards you before resting his knife right under your chin. 

“Jungkook!” you cried out with a shaky voice.

Ring Ring 

“Oh, shit, where’s my phone,” Jungkook exclaimed, patting his pockets before reaching for the glove compartment. 

“What the fuck?”

His eyes widened. It was you. Rather, snapshots of you. One’s that he had no recollection of taking. But, they looked strange. As if you also weren’t aware of them being captured. 

Call from 647-568-0349. Call from y/n-ie❤️ 

An automated voice broadcasted through the speaker system set up in his garage.

“Y/n?” Jungkook yelled out, bolting towards the locked door. 

“Jungkook … please …” you whimpered, feeling the tip of the knife poke into your skin as your chest heaved up.   

“What the fuck? Why won’t it open?” Jungkook growled, fidgeting with the knob before banging on the wooden door. But, no one was home. 

“Please … please … pick up.”

Running back into his car, he turned on the engine, scattering eyes looking back at the empty driveway until the garage door began closing on its own. 

And within seconds, he was trapped. No way in or out. But, the engine was still on, running inside the confined space. Gaseous fumes slowly intoxicating the air he was forced to breathe. 

“Fucking hell.” Jungkook coughed, covering his mouth with the sleeve of his hoodie. 

“Please …” you kept trying, hoping to hear his sweet voice on the other line. Completely naive to the carbon monoxide that was now spreading through his lungs. 

“Help!” he cried out, feeling the tightness in his throat. 

“Jungk-” you gasped, widened eyes glaring back at the masked man. 

“Tsk … what a shame.” he sneered, ending the call abruptly before piercing through the phone.

“Oh, angel, it’s okay. We can wait if you wish. Hopefully, his lungs don’t collapse,” he rasped against your hair, cold touch sending shivers down your back as you felt your heart sink.

[juelzsstuff]

Can u pls do armin, hange, mikasa and levi x a depressed reader

YES I CAN

i can try. okay i can attempt

AOT CHARACTERS X DEPRESSED READER ft. armin, hange, mikasa, levi.

TW WARNING: self harm (non descriptive, don't relapse on me babez) depression, not eating (im serious) lack of sleep, thoughts of self induced not alive. no smut or anything just fwiends. i want to say most of these are gathered from stories of my own experience. if you don't like it please do not read it.

(f!reader! implied in hanges) your days in the scout regiment were hard, grueling, hopelessly doomed. the initial adrenaline of joining has worn off, you've seen unspeakable things and as of late you can't seem to find the energy anymore.

Armin

everyday was the same. wake up, train, meals, missions, failure, embarrassment, loneliness, sleep, repeat. today is no different you got dressed, went to the mess hall and sat beside a group of people without any words to speak and ate some kind of food you couldn't really taste. you got up and headed to the training grounds, the air outside as fresh as the old stale air of the barracks, the sun beaming down on you and your comrades the same way it does every other day, screaming at you with its light. you don't bother looking around anymore to count how many soldiers their were compared to the mission the day before. today though you stand to a blonde boy due to the missing comrades you once stood next to, you're sure you've seen him before with his two friends but his name left your mind, you didn't bother to look at him. you didn't want to know his face just to soon one day not see it ever again. you listened to the commander preach about the mission that day beyond the wall, his voice loud and somehow far away. you got the basic idea and headed out to the stables in the crowd of scouts.

you stay in formation listening to the gallop of horses surrounding you, listening to the ring of green flares burst into the air. red smoke fills the sky one after another. a titan. you heard it before you saw it. sprinting in from the left, since when was that blonde haired boy next to you? you wondered before veering off to the right per instructions. the vile creature still sprinting, leaping, toward you, you look back and thought shoots through your mind. go straight do not turn. a dark malicious vision of your end flashes with it. you slowed your horse without thinking and starting turning to your original path. the titan starting to change course and catch up with you, feared stung through your body, your mind fighting with instinct to turn back but it's too weak. day after day of feeling so heavy and hopeless takes a toll, memories flash in your mind of sitting alone, giving up on talking to others because the words never came out right. you hear something in the distance, a change in the pattern of galloping and signals being fired off and it snaps you head to look at it. it's the blonde boy and he's looking at you..... is he saying something? no he's screaming something. your ears and senses shoot you back to reality and you hear him scream, "y/n come back what are doing?!". he knows your name? when did you ever tell him that? before you can think you're heading back to the formation and the familiar ring of metal zipping around you attaches to the titan and two scouts take it down. silent small tears stream down your face and you pull your hood over your head not daring to look at the boy who's glancing at you.

the mission is over and you're walking back to the mess hall alone to eat whatever it is you're fed and something grabs your arm, you turn quickly to be met with a concerned face. it's the blonde boy, his eyebrows are knit together and his eyes are filled with worry. you look up at him, "hm?" "what the hell was that?" he says low and almost a whisper. "i panicked that's all", your voice sounded strange, in fact, when was the last time you even heard it? "don't lie, i see you everyday. i know that look" his grip on your arm tightening "why do you want to do that? why don't you talk to anyone or even look at anyone". you stare at him in shock, how did he notice? what do i say? his eyes meeting yours and suddenly yours are now burning and starting to water. shit. "i just.... i don't want to do this anymore, not this..... or anything else" the silent tears pour down your face and his eyes widen and he lets go of your arm. "im sorry" he mumbles and he pauses with a deep breath "i understand". he understands? dead fills your arms. you look up at him to say something but you can't. "i-" before you can finish your words he steps towards you and pulls you into a hug. you don't fight it but you don't hug back and yet he doesn't let go. it's not a hug of anything ill intended but one of understanding and care, the weight on your arms lift ever so slightly and the pit in your stomach lessens. here you are with a complete stranger hugging you in the middle of a empty hallway and yet he's saying he sees you and he understands. you don't bother doubting him, and suddenly the thought of not being alone this whole time washes through you. you've always watched and listened as scouts will comfort and spill their thoughts to each other like this but now it's happening for you. you lift your arms and lightly put them on his, a sad attempt for a hug but you're trying. it only lasted for a moment before he lets go and steps back. you look down sniffling before he speaks, "would you want to um... sit with me and my friends at dinner?". is he really asking me this? you wonder why he'd want to invite you of all people but you nod yes anyway. during dinner he introduces his two friends and himself, catching that you probably never knew who he was. you listen and say hello before going back to your food, taking bites that tasted slightly different, better even. you listens to them laugh and even breath out one yourself. today was different. today was better.

Hange

you roll out of bed with memories of yesterdays mission fresh on your mind. recalling the tragedy and suffering. you slept like shit. that's the only way to explain it, maybe an hour at most but the world does not stop turning for lack of sleep. you scrambled around on the floor for your white button down, brown pants, and beige jacket. you slapped them on and snatched the report from off of your desk. the headache never stopped, your eyes closed whenever they could be, not finding enough reason to look around when you didn't have to. you roam down the familiar halls, dragging your feet and listening to the noise. it took 32 steps and a right turn to get to hanges office, you braced yourself before knocking. god why did everything hurt even something as simple as knocking was such a annoyance. you knocked anyway and the thick wood of the door sent the feeling through your hand. you shake it out and put on a acceptable face. "come in", you walk in to see hange sitting at her desk. it was was a mess per usual, a microscope neatly in the middle with papers scattered everywhere else. "hello hange, i've got more papers for you" your voice rasp from lack of sleep. hange was the same age as you, infact her village wasn't far from yours growing up but you joined the scouts about five years later than her. "ah thankyou y/n! i'm drowning over here...hey do you think you could miss a few reports? i won't tell erwin" she says with such enthusiasm you're not even sure if she's joking. you laugh anyway "maybe ill just start summing them up to a couple words then, i bet erwin would love that". "she chimes back with something but you're too out of breath to think about it, why is everything so hard. even breathing is exhausting at this point. you sigh trying to get more air, the muscles around your lungs are constantly constricted. "is something bothering you y/n"? you blink at her "oh no not at all just taking a deep breath, my lungs are giving out on me" you force a chuckle because it's probably the truth but she doesn't need to know that. she speaks up "hm you aren't sick are you?" "no i think i must just be tired" you look at her and she's staring back with suspicion. "i get pretty tired too you know, i like to burry my head in my research for the truth on titans, it's a nice distraction" she smiles. "how's that going by the way?" you ask contemplating if she's talking about being more than "just tired". "to be honest i don't think i will ever come up with anything but that's not the point of it. having something to do is good for the soul!" she softens her voice, "when im feeling...tired i find going out for walks are nice too, plus a bottle of wine never hurt anyone" she shrugs with a laugh. you laugh with her even through it hurts from the muscles that will never not be sore, you don't have any drinking buddies or yk buddies at all for that matter and drinking alone in your room is a little too close to admitting defeat. you keep yourself together, "well if you ever need a drinking partner i would be happy to chat and get shit faced with you" you smile as she responds with a promise to take you up on that. they weren't many women in the scouts around your age other than hange and a few others that you never seemed to click with. you head out the door and give a wave before continuing on with you day.

night finally rolls around and you get to do your favorite thing. sleep. it's never great and honestly it sucks. nightmares and thoughts of the day always flood your precious time alone but for at least an hour, if you're lucky there is peace even if you aren't conscious for it. you peel off your clothes and change into another set. a white dress.....thing. it covered what it needed to and it was atrocious to look at but it did the job and you had a pair of beige shorts that were fuzzy on the outside from some animal. they were your favorite. finally you lay down in your bed and close your eyes, just as they close you hear a thunk at the door, a loud one at that followed by a quick "ow". you sit up, your back aching and your feet feeling like nothing but bones as you stand and walk over to the door. why? by the walls who wants something from me? you open the door to see hange?! she's wearing some clothes similar to yours, a white shirt and long beige pants and she's holding.....is that wine? uh oh. "hey y/n! why is your door locked? are you afraid of the dark?" she teased and you gave a giggle back. "yes absolutely and crazy ladies with bottles of wine on the middle of the night . what are you doing here?". she smiles and grabs your arm and drags you down the halls. this is not the usual slow 32 steps you take everyday to either destination and it hurts like 10 less steps more than usual. we are walking way too fast. i did NOT mentally prepare for this.

she brings the two of you outside to a camp fire out in the grounds and makes you plop down on a log adjacent to her on her log. you gasp trying to catch your breath inconspicuously, your entire body screaming to go back to bed . "did we have to run here? sweet ymir, hange how did you get all this wine?!" she lets out a short manic laugh and tells the story of how she made moblit steal it for her while she started the fire. "i told you id take you up on the offer" you remember your conversation from earlier. she's never done anything like this? embarrassment crawls up on you as you recall the two of you talking about being tired. you'll never admit what it truly is, the unshakable tired, the sore muscles, the closed eyes anytime possible, never talking unless spoken to. life was incredibly dull. so tiring. aimless. no partner. no friends. no joy. why do i even keep go..... you shut out the thought as soon as it comes. refuse to believe it. hange pops open the first bottle, you look around for a glass but before you can question it she shoves it towards you and pops open her own."moblit was very against this always nagging at me" she imitates his voice "'oh it's not good for you, hange wait what if you get caught' all that nonsense" you chuckle "i can the poor man losing it already" she laughs and you two continue taking gulps of wine with fuzzy heads. as the night goes on the two of you talk titans, missions, the people you miss, the people you don't, steamy scout experiences from old times in the barracks had the two of you howling laughing and cringing from horrible experiences now. you gossiped and talked about the thing you wouldn't except and she talking about the same, you took turns dancing and sang horrible tunes from bards for one another. eventually the sun came up and the two of you were passed out on the same log where moblit assembled captain levi to help carry the two of you back to your room. when morning came they day felt calm but was instantly interrupted by memories of last night and a new type of headache. a improvement nonetheless. you ending up holding back hanges hair as she spewed her guts in your bathroom before taking turns. a horrible display but a new best friend and better days followed.

Mikasa

the two of you were top of the class. essentially acquaintances nothing more, you sat together at lunch and throughout training as per command. everyone was paired together with a main "buddy" when not on missions. you two were paired together because everyone else had chosen, you overheard eren be angry with mikasa for whatever reason and he chose armin out of spite so you went up to her both with last resorts. you left her alone when you could, you didn't know eren or armin and all the other people you at least knew the name of had groups. alone essentially. it was hard and isolating, the highlight of your day was whenever someone was forced to speak to you. your family was turned into titans along with connie's parents, you two were from the same village but never spoke never bonded over it. connie seemed to recover okay, everytime you saw him he was laughing and chatting with sasha and jean, maybe because his mom had a chance still. your family did not, they weren't the nicest people to begin with but you had a little sister, she was only six at the time. it's hard to get over something like that, staying up at night thinking of what she must look like. is she tall? a low class meter? does she even move? where was she? is she scared? you parents could rot in hell, you always took care of her, little marie, the cutest thing ever. now all you could do was think of her, the pain in your heart was immense ever since the day you found out. the urge to eat wasn't there anymore, the grass was no longer green, killing titans made you sick especially the smaller ones. you didn't sleep much, you didn't eat much, you didn't talk much and there's wasn't much to make you smile.

tonight you went to dinner just like every other night, you thanked the people who cooked it, scanned the room for mikasa and sat next to her. you were missing a tray, for the third night in a row. no one ever noticed and you ate when you had the stomach for it. you listened to armin and eren argue about the walls and the ocean of fire or whatever it was they talked about. they talked about other scouts and how to improve while stuffing their face, you watched them today was bread and some suspicious meat. not enticing enough, you thought of marie and how maybe you could've spoke with her too like they did. eren and armin walked off with their tray and mikasa went with them. you sat alone and sighed from the weight on your chest and the thoughts in your mind. is she okay? does she remember me? i miss her and her cute curly tendrils of black hair and little yellow dress, how she would pick weeds and call them flowers. she didn't deserv- a tray slapped down in front of you and mikasa came back with hers. your head snapped to look at her, she looked angry and perfectly calm all at the same time. "eat" she said flatly. you blinked "oh im really not that hungry" you tried to convince her but prepared for her to spit back. "eat it or im going to make you. i'm not going anywhere till you do and i don't think either of us want to be embarrassed" she was deadly serious. "i'm really not hungry mikasa" she glared her eyes and picked up a spoon and threw it in front of you, "you haven't eaten in three days y/n. you getting too skinny, you won't be able to fight ti-...... you won't be able to train if you're any more of a stick than you already are. you will end up sick". you noticed her shift in words, did she know? i wasn't any skinnier than her was i? she seemed to read your thoughts, "if you get any skinnier than you won't be able to pick up a sword and you'll look like floch" she pointed to the gangly boy who's build was almost scary......wait was she saying i'll look like a boy. you picked up the spoon and held it. she stared before looking away and started eating herself not looking back. you blocked out the thoughts that haunted your brain about your sister, though your heart weighed so heavily you had tears in your eyes and your hand shook but you shoveled some gloop into your mouth. it tasted like nothing before it turned into something great, you didn't realize how hungry you actually were. the mystery food was warm and savory, you didn't stop until the plate was clear. in 10 minutes your body strengthened and you burped and tried to cover it up, embarrassed. mikasa let out a chuckle and looked around before burping quietly herself. no way she just did that. you held back a laugh trying to keep food in your mouth. she spoke, "i'm sorry i was rude but i thought you were gonna die if you didn't eat something soon enough". you sat there and swallowed your food and whispered, "thankyou".

the dining area had cleared out and she asked the question she was dying to know. "so you were from connie's village?". the gloop was coming back up and you covered your mouth. her eyes widened and she apologized quickly and shoved more food into her mouth. you swallowed back you bile and spoke, "i had a sister, i took care of her all the time. she had hair like yours but hers curled on the ends but your eyes are similar too" you managed a smile. she really did resemble mikasa and that was nice. "i didn't have any siblings just eren and armin, brothers i guess but no sisters". she blushed for a unknown reason to you,"i um i don't know if this is weird but sometimes i think we are friends like that, like sisters". a warmth spreads through you for the first time in months. she really feels that way? about me? "that makes me happy" you whisper out while you wipe tears. "stop making me cry mikasa" you give her a nudge and she smiles. "i don't know what it's like having a sister of course" she said again, she must be nervous about what she said. you spoke up, "they force each other to do things they don't want to because it's good for them, they fight and braid each others hair too tightly, pick weeds and pretend their flowers". you smiled and leaned on her. "you fit the role pretty well if you ask me". she smiles and asks if you can try to braid her hair because she never learned how. you agreed. later that night you told mikasa about your little sister and your old life, you ranted about not talking to anyone and how boring it was, you told her you were grateful and she said she was too. by then end she had two perfect braids and you had one scrambled attempt of one.

Levi

the years of being a scout had taken its toll, you were surrounded by people who you called your friends and lived your life as well as anyone else. in public anyway. when you were alone the mask would fall and the all consuming darkness would take over. you were numb to the things you once spilled tears over, the whole had gone gray but you pushed on through the misery. over the years bad habits had developed, teeth went unclean, baths were longer than allowed, you were always too early to events, stressing over insignificant things. the worst habit of all you hid like a addict, no one knew and that was okay with you. it wasn't meant to be seen, it was purely just for you and you alone. though sometimes you'd wished deep down that just maybe there was someone else who would know what's going on, a silent cry for help but that was illogical. regardless of that it was how you coped and you had accepted that, a way to get out of bed in the morning, to accept the fall of your comrades, to stop yourself from losing your shit before a event.

night had fallen after a long mission with the recon team. dinner in the mess hall was filled with small jokes and picking around at food and gossiping around per usual, nothing strange, you filled out your report for the captain and turned it in earlier, all that was left now was to go to bed. the thought was tiring enough, the feeling of longing to stay and chat with everyone lingered hard on your heart but the world doesn't stop turning for things like that in fact it even spins faster it seemed. everyone had trickled off into the dorms and you decided you should go too. walking down the familiar hallways to your cadet core dorm. maybe tonight everyone will stay up talking, that was your favorite. to hear others laugh and to know their outlook on life had not turned sour. on your way there someone stopped you, grabbing your arm. your faced twisted into something sour and your arm went limp trying to stop that pain. "hey what the-" you turn and see the captain, he's staring with a certain flat look on his face. he let go immediately and spoke "i need to talk to you about your report, you're missing key points". your eyes widen, why is he looking at you like that and what could you have missed. you feel your shirt start to stick to your arm where he grabbed. shit. you salute with the wrong arm to put it behind your back, "yes captain" you begin to follow him through the halls. uh oh. uh ohhhhh. once you reach his personal office, you sit in the chair by his desk and he sits across from you. "so you are missing the armory report, i've noticed it on a few other reports you've done". he slides you a paper and points at it,"it should be written in here other than that the reports are perfect". you smile and thank him for notifying you but this whole thing was just embarrassing. "am i free to go now?". "no not yet" he said sternly and so you sat waiting before he spoke again, "you are injured. you need to go to the infirmary immediately". you eyes widen you've been caught? but how did he know just from that? you speak up, "oh it's really nothing i already had it looked at, my odm gear got too hot and the wire stung me a bit. it happens" you smile through your lie. he does not buy it one bit and the two of you stare as you keep your arm pressed to your side. he sighs and speaks again,"let me look at it then if you won't go yourself". panic struck through you, you've never gone against a word he had said you were a soldier after all. filling orders was your only ask. your heart was racing trying to think of something, anything at all. "it- it's really okay sir, i should really go". that alone would have you running laps till the sun came up but he stared at you angrily. he dug through a drawer in his desk and pulled out some gauze and water in a canteen. " i won't question how it's there but that story is bs, don't lie to me again because i already know. let me do it or do it yourself but im not going anywhere till it's done". you fight back tears, mortified. why was he doing this? you reached for the supplies with shaky hands and said you'll do it yourself. he watched you take it and closed his eyes while he spoke, "i won't look". you were incredibly grateful, and let out a shaky "thankyou". you cleaned and bandaged yourself and took deep breathes to calm your nerves. the embarrassment was immense. his eyes still close as he spoke, "don't be embarrassed, it's not that uncommon. i just couldn't bare to see it anymore y/n. you're very bright and the thought of you doing.....that, made me sick". you've known the captain for years but he only spoke a few times and occasionally he'd ruffle your hair or reprehend you for sneaking into the kitchen or being too reckless. the two of you had a unspoken bond, he cared deeply like a family member would. "i'm sorry captain". you looked up at him to see sorrow in his eyes and you started crying, hard. the tears wouldn't stop and you barley noticed when he walked over and put a hand on your shoulder. "it's so hard" you said in between tears. "i know y/n, i know".

he knelt down to look at you and inspect your first aid skills. "you can't do this anymore, okay?". you sniffled and looked up at him, "okay i won't, i promise". he stood back up and smoothed your hair, "good....if you ever need someone to talk to don't be afraid to ask me. i understand more than you know". that only nearly shattered your heart again but you didn't want to disappoint him so from then on you kept your promise and confided in him about trivial things you usually kept locked away and about the harder things. some days he would talk to, sharing stories and trying his best at a joke. on nights when you couldn't sleep he'd let you pass out in his chair while he worked on the other side of the desk, before helping you to your dorm for the night.

[lovelyladyabsinthewrites]

From the Ashes Pt.53

Pairing(s): Pairing(s): Rhaegar Targaryen x Lannister!Reader, one-sided!Jaime Lannister x Lannister!Reader, Jaime Lannister x Cersei Lannister

Warnings: slow burn fic, changing povs, Asshai POV

Words: 2098

Part 1 Part 2  Part 3  Part 4  Part 5  Part 6  Part 7  Part 8  Part 9  Part 10  Part 11  Part 12   Part 13  Part 14  Part 15  Part 16  Part 17  Part 18  Part 19  Part 20 Part 21 

Part 22 Part 23  Part 24  Part 25  Part 26 Part 27  Part 28  Part 29  Part 30  Part 31  Part 32  Part 33  Part 34  Part 35  Part 36  Part 37  Part 38  Part 39  Part 40 Part 41 Part 42 Part 43 Part 44

Part 45 Part 46 Part 47 Part 48 Part 49 Part 50 Part 51 Part 52

Author's Note: *sobs* I finally finished it 😭 took me months to come up with this much but at least I did the darn thing!

As a little girl, Rhiannon didn't scare easily. She could handle the haunting stories told at night by the priestesses in training or walking around unfamiliar streets to preach the light of R'hllor. Even when living on the streets with Thalina, Rhiannon wasn't afraid. She was scrappy and already possessed a feral facade about her, enough to intimidate any would-be attackers.

When they arrived to the temple, that seemed to change. Rhiannon grew fearful of the dark halls of the temple. How chants would ominously carry down with shifting shadows birthed by the fire of the wall sconces. She found no comfort in it as some of the others did. They taunted and terrified her.

Worst of all, Rhiannon couldn't exactly explain why she was fearful of the dark now that she resided in the temple. Thalina would do her best to soothe her sister and tell her that the shadows were allies. But she could only brave the dark with the aid of her older sister.

Now, as the darkin master, Lady Nazneen, leads the two red priestesses through the endless dark of the Manor of Shades, Rhiannon remembers her fear of the dark as it creeps up on her.

They walked through endless corridors and dilapidated staircases that felt like they would crumble under her foot at any minute. Shadows swirl all around, poking their heads out to see the followers of R'hllor disturbing their halls.

She felt unwelcomed. Her heart beats loudly beneath her breast as she tries to focus on Melisandre's back as they climb up a tower. The only light was from narrow, slitted windows looking at the decimated land around the manor.

Coming upon a door with odd carvings glistening against torch light, the darkin master, Nazneen pulls from her sleeves a key. "Inniros was smart in plucking a hair from (y/n)." She explains while leaning against the door and opening it. "None of us can rival Master Ameer's power. He is of the Winged Men, after all. But with any personal effects from (y/n), we can see the general area the Morghons have taken her."

Melisandre's sharp red eyes scan the large chambers. In the center of the room was a ground-floor fire pit that was already ablaze with an odd pink flame. Above it was situated a large crystal ball that reflected the fire's dancing tendrils. How it was suspended in midair, Rhiannon couldn't even begin to fathom.

Everything was cast in a rosy glow.

Gliding to the fire pit, Nazneen lifts up the delicate strand of blonde hair that Inniros managed to get.

She tosses it into the flames. They spark, and the fire stretches up to the crystal. Rhiannon stumbles backward, the heat of it hitting her face. She'd witnessed the birth of the first dragon in centuries and been saved by the holy fire of her champion, but Rhiannon had never experienced this type of magic before.

As if reading her mind, Lady Nazneen's eyes sparkle. "We have Azor Ahai reborn to thank for this. All of us have experienced heightened power since Latilth was hatched. Otherwise, I would not have been able to execute this without help from Master Ameer."

The swirls of light cast upon her chamber walls started shaping into something more discernable.

Mountains with jagged sharp cliffs made of black rocks.

Towers sculpted from the mountainsides.

Nazneen takes it in, before closing her emerald green eyes in thought. "The history of the Morghons is an ancient one. One of the first beings to walk Asshai. They were even said to have a hand in the birth of the first Bloodless Man. The only ones more ancient then them are the Winged Men. The Mountains of the Mourn keep safe the City of Carcosa, the City of the Winged Men, and the City of the Morghons."

"That is where (y/n) is." Rhiannon whispers.

"Yes." The female shadow master nods her head. "That is where she is. That is where we'll go when she summons us."

Under her breath, Melisandre breathes a prayer in Valyrian.

"But how will she know how to summon you?" counters Rhiannon. "She's barely learned to summon the flames of R'hllor."

That makes Nazneen lightheartedly chuckle as she strolls over to Rhiannon and pats her head. "Have you lost faith in her already?"

Puffing her cheeks with hot air, the young girl steps away from the towering woman. "Of course not! She's proven herself to be our true champion. I will never lose faith in her."

She could tell that behind Nazneen's mask was a patient smile. "Then have no fear. She has shown us miracles that we've long forgotten about. I know she'll reach down deep within her and find us."

"At least we know where they're taking her." Melisandre sounds lighter in having the knowledge. She can't tear her gaze from the images displayed. Growing up in Asshai, Melisandre witnessed sorcery like this fairly often, yet it had been decades since she'd last seen it. The magic she saw was never at this grade. Hatching Latilth truly did intensify the magic of the world.

Melisandre catches Nazneen staring at her and removes the look of awe from her features. "I suppose we'll have to put aside our differences for nuha kosh, yes?"

"Indeed. Do you think you and your kind can behave in our manor? The last time we allowed one of you to come into our dominion, they tried to subjugate us to R'hllor." Her attention is one of scrutiny as she looks down at Melisandre. Rhiannon wonders for a moment who would win in a fight if it came down to it: the high priestess or the darkin master?

Taking an exaggerated breath, Melisandre reluctantly nods her head. Index finger and thumb anxiously go to the blood red jewel that hangs off a silver chain around her neck. A prayer for strength echoed in her mind.

"I don't want you going far from me. Do you understand? Not while we're here. For this one time you must absolutely obey what I say. We're in a land that you truly have no idea about."

Once they returned to the castle's main halls, Melisandre roughly pulled Rhiannon aside.

Ever ready with a protest, Melisandre cuts her off, "Why can't you be like your sister? Thalina was obedient and understood what duty was. You have always been difficult and defiant. Well, your sister isn't here to spoil you anymore."

Something vile stains Rhiannon's tongue as she wrenches her arm out of the red woman's grip. She wants to do more than scream. She wants to hit the high priestess. Bash her head in and make her face as red as her hair.

She couldn't find herself to argue, though. Deep inside, Rhiannon knew Melisandre's words to be true.

Her will was strong, and being defiant came so easily to her. Constantly questioning the priests and their boring scriptures, preferring to hang around Sirvart and the rest of the Fiery Hand.

Worst of all was her lack of talent at being a red priestess. Rhiannon found no joy in it. No heart.

She believed in you.

The girl whom her elder sister saw in flames so long ago.

So Rhiannon takes a step back and a slow breath in. "I'll be careful. Nyke kivio (I promise)."

Melisandre was a talented priestess. She'd be needed to recover you from the Morghons. Rhiannon didn't have to like the woman.

Looking over her wounds, Inniros stands up with a grunt. "Ao sagon iā kostōba mēre (You're a tough one)." His callused hand pats Latilth's scales soothingly. She trembles under his touch, her gaze still stuck in the direction where you'd been taken.

Inniros traces her eyeline, smiling sadly. "She'll be okay."

Latilth woefully chuffs in a reply that has Inniros chuckling. Footsteps have both snapping their necks toward the sound.

Jalsolin holds up his hands to reveal a ceramic jar. "Sorry! Didn't mean to startle. I just wanted to bring this ointment for the dragon."

"Latilth."

"Sorry. I brought this ointment for Latilth." Jalsolin shyly corrects himself. "I think it will help. She looks fairly beat up."

While Inniros relaxes, Latilth is not as quick. Smart, amber eyes track Jalsolin without blinking.

He offers the dragon a tentative grin, "Se Ulian ēza aōha parklon (And Ulian has your dinner)."

Huffing, Latilth goes back to staring at the sky.

Gratefully taking the ointment from Jalsolin's hand, Inniros turns to Latilth and gently begins applying a thin layer atop her wounds. He grimaces when the spikes on her back bristle at the sting. Many of her wounds were deep.

"I find it strange that someone with no blood ties to the Targaryens has taken flight for the first time in a hundred years. She's just Targaryen by marriage." Jalsolin muses while watching his darkin brother at work.

"Everything about her is strange. I don't question it."

Laughing, Jalsolin chooses a charred stump to sit on. "I won't argue that." He pauses before carefully choosing his words, "You've changed. Last I saw you, you were the king of pessimism."

Yes, he'd seen nothing but the worst in the world back then. Suffering under the cruelest of hands, being put through training that no child should be put through. The theft of his eye by his master, a man who should have been looking out for him instead of beating him black and blue. Inniros was fast to slit anyone's throat whom he deemed a waste of space. Take anyone's gold and forgo his honor.

Then you came into his life. The little creature that proved tricky to kill. Your blade slashing into his shadows and setting everything in him ablaze. You brought him to life. Gave him a soul.

"Did she do that?" Jalsolin nudges Inniros against his ribs.

He's on Inniros' blind side, making the scarlet-haired darkin turn to his fellow redhead. Jalsolin stops breathing at the expression on Inniros' face. It's one he's never seen before. Inniros always had an impassive expression, but this was different. It was calm, serene, almost. Neither had to say anything.

The two had known each other for years, having been brought into the Manor of Shades at almost the same time, Inniros and Jalsolin endured the same rigorous training under different masters. And it was Jalsolin who first started to question the facial similarities between Inniros and Master Batur. He'd whispered the speculation to Loviisa one time.

"Keep that thought to yourself. It has nothing to do with us." Was how Loviisa replied, almost appearing sickened at the thought that Inniros and Batur could possibly be related.

Jalsolin witnessed the different phases of Inniros as they grew. This one standing before him though had to be his favorite. There was light on Inniros' sullen face. He looked healthy for the first time in his life.

"What are you ladies talking about?" Came Loviisa's teasing ring. She was out of her dress and in sparring leathers.

Inniros arches a brow. "Where are you going?"

"I'm going to scout the Mountains of Mourn. Feel it out." She simply explains, rebraiding her long, blue hair. "We should get a feel of the area and not go in head first."

"Master Batur told us to stay here. That (y/n) would call on us." Inniros stares at her.

"Yes, I heard what Master Batur said. Be honest with yourself. You won't be able to sit idly by until the time comes. Not when she's out there. We need to do our end. Azor Ahai reborn needs her darkin close by. We're too far from her here."

Rueing the scorn he'd receive from the masters, Jalsolin grimaces and anxiously rubs his neck. "Come on, Loviisa. You heard Batur when Ulian suggested the same thing. We need to sit still."

Ruminating, finally, Inniros speaks up. "None of us has been to the Mountains of Mourn before. We're older than Ulian, but we have no idea what's truly out there. Master Ameer-"

Loviisa, realizing that Inniros was taking the bait, counters, "Who knows how long it will take Syzhal to find him. It could be days or weeks, even months. How long do you want (y/n) to be their captive?"

"You guys aren't serious-"

"Master Batur will have our heads when he finds out we've disobeyed him." There's a small ghost of a smile curling at Inniros' lips.

She shrugs her shoulders. "He's threatened more than our heads before."

"We're really gonna do this. . ." Jalsolin sighs, already defeated.

Loviisa grabs his arm. "Yes, we are."

Taglist:

@boywivlove

@esposadomd

@domoron

@yentroucnagol

@enchantingcupcakecollectionfan

@bregarc

[itz-mfkn-de]

..Temporary Fix..

Chapter three- I’ll wait for you.

!!please read previous chapters if not already done here!!

——

You couldn’t stop thinking about that day with Theodore in the locker room. You knew you shouldn’t have done it, and your regret was eating away at your conscience. The following day after it had all went down, Theodore hadn’t spared you a single glance, not anymore than he usually would have that is. Your heart clenched everytime you saw him in the hallways and he walked past you without a word spoken between the two of you.

You figured this is what he did with them all; after he gets what he wants he’ll just throw them away. You had successfully become another check in his book, after preaching to yourself for so long you wouldn’t be. You wouldn’t lie and say it didn’t hurt, you had always been fond of the flirtatious boy, but so had every other girl at Hogwarts. You never stuck out to him.

However, you wouldn’t let yourself sob over a boy who had no care for you. You had things to get done.

You and Caris were working on a project in the hufflepuff common room, the two of you sharing laughs and small talk. Suddenly you heard familiar voices bellowing through the large entryway.

Caris turned her head around momentarily, mouth agape at the sight.

“The Slytherin boys are here, with a few of our own.” She said just above a whisper.

You snapped your head, not believing her for a second. She was right. Draco, Theodore, and Blaise were with two other Hufflepuff guys, the group seemed to be having friendly banter. An unusual sight.

They all took a seat on a couch and began talking, Theodore lighting a cigarette.

“Jeremy will kill me if I allow him to do that in here, I have to say something.” Caris mumbled while getting up to go address the rowdy group of boys.

“What—Caris, sit your ass down.” You tried to reach for her but she was already out of your range, walking gracefully towards what you were sure was your end.

You quickly got up trying to stop her, but it was to no avail.

“Hey. I’m sorry to inform you, Nott, but we don’t smoke in here.” She told him monotonously.

You stood slightly behind her, not making eye contact with any of the boys in-front of you.

“Oh, I wasn’t aware. (Y/n), were you aware of this rule?” He suddenly addressed you, looking up at you through his dark lashes.

You held back every negative feeling you had for him in that moment and decided to not respond, instead looking at Ryan, one of the Hufflepuff boys that had so generously brought Slytherins into the common room.

“Ryan, may I speak to you? Privately, of course.” You asked, a sweet tone smothering your words. His eyes opened in shock.

“Yeah, sure.” He nodded his head. You turned around, beginning to head towards a private place. Of course, not before you saw Theodore’s dark expression. His brows furrowed together as he blew a bit a smoke out of his nostrils. Caris continued to lecture him while you walked away with Ryan.

You came to a stop where you turned around to face him.

“What the fuck Ryan, when have you guys ever been even remotely friends with..them?” You snarled out.

“Calm down, I’m not quite sure either. They just all of the sudden became….cool with us? I don’t know. They stopped being assholes so it’s whatever.” He told you, picking at something on his hand.

“It is not whatever. I cannot stand them enough at it is, I don’t need them in our common room!” You nearly whined out. You and Ryan had been friends since second year, but of course as you two grew older you hung out less. You still considered him close to you though.

“I don’t get why it’s such a big deal, one of them fuck you over or something?” He let out a hallow laugh.

“What? No! I just… they are dicks.” Your heart dropped as he called you out. You were glad he didn’t know, it gave you reassurance that Theodore wasn’t opening his mouth to anyone who could breathe.

“Right…I’m sure they won’t be around for long. I need to go back over there before they think we are snogging eachother.” He laughed once more, nonchalantly walking back to where everyone resided.

You stayed in the empty corridor and decided it would better if you didn’t return to the room. You began to walk towards the dorms when a heavy set a footsteps made you turn your head.

You couldn’t catch a fucking break.

Theodore nott, in all of his glory, was angrily walking towards you.

You let out a sarcastic laugh, not wanting to face him you kept walking as well. He grabbed you wrist, whipping your body around to look at him.

“The fuck was that?” He growled out, his usual care free demeanor no where near.

“Oh so now I’m worth your time? Fuck off.” You hated being mean to people, but you couldn’t hide your resentment for the boy in front of you.

He pushed you against a wall, your bodies touching. You were sure he could feel you heart beating out of your chest.

“I try and talk to you and you ignore me, and then you ask a guy if you can go somewhere alone?” His voice was deep, his accent growing thicker the more he spoke.

“You two make out or something? Did you suck his dick too?” He asked through his gritted teeth.

You felt embarrassment flood your features, he had no right to speak to you after how he acted. You felt tears prick at your eyes.

“Excuse me? I was asking him a question.” You said while shoving him off you while wiping one of your Flushed cheeks.

“I don’t know who you think I am, but you don’t get to throw me away like one of your little toys. I’m not gonna be one of your bitches.” It took all of your will to not start sobbing in front of him.

“When I did that with you, it was because I had thought…for some dumb fucking reason I thought you genuinely wanted me. I know now that was really stupid. I should’ve known better and that was my bad, but you don’t get to blow up on me like this after how you’ve been acting the way you have.” You managed to muster up the courage to speak out at him, your voice only cracking once.

He stayed silent most of the time; his angry expression was no longer on his face.

“Amore, I haven’t been acting any way—“ his sweet voice mumbled out.

“Don’t try and act like you care now, and yes you have. You ignored me. Not even a hello when you saw me.” You barked at him. You knew there was no need for such aggression but you had so many feelings in your heart that you couldn’t bury down.

“I thought that’s what you would’ve wanted— I didn’t think you’d want anything attached to it.” He reached his hand out to caress your face, in which you swatted him away.

“You didn’t think to ask? You assumed that’s what I wanted.” You felt the tears slowly dripping down your cheeks again.

“I’m not that kind of girl Theodore and I’m sorry that you didn’t realize it, but I refuse to be someone’s secret fuck buddy.” You turned around, ready to walk away. Theodore let out a grunt and grabbed you once more.

“Quit fucking walking away from me.” He said, this time not releasing your arm from his grasp.

“I wasn’t asking you to be my secret fuck buddy, I would never be little you to such bull shit. You’re more than that, and I’m sorry that I made you feel that way.” He let out, seemingly looking for the right words to say as he went on.

“You don’t need to make me feel better, I know about all of the girls you mess with. You fuck with them and then all of the sudden drop them leaving them heart broken, I know how you do things, Theodore.” You felt like the more you spoke to him, the less angry you were and you absolutely hated how he could break your walls down so easily.

“You don’t know shit. Not anymore. It’s different, and I’m sorry I can’t find the best words to explain it to you right now, but I promise you I would never do that to you.” His eyes never broke your own, their stormy gray color mesmerized you.

“I want to believe you so bad, but I don’t know if I can find it in myself to do so.” Your voice was quiet and held no effective dominance. You wanted to make him scared, you wanted to scream and shout, but you could never. Not at him.

“That’s fine, I’ll wait. I’ll wait for as long as you need me too.” He immediately retorted with, slightly nodding his head.

“Don’t do that.” You couldn’t let him find his way right back into your heart.

“I don’t need any of those girls, I need you. I’m sorry I didn’t specify that sooner.” He apologized again.

“Theodore—“

“I should’ve asked you to the Yule ball the second I had the chance that day in our fourth year but I always thought you were too sweet for me, I never deserved someone so loving.” He cut you off, not allowing you to argue.

“meriti qualcuno migliore di me, ma non vivrò mai abbastanza per vedere il giorno in cui un altro uomo ti toccherà.” (You deserve someone better, but I would never live to see the day another man touched you.)

At that point he was talking to himself, you didn’t understand much Italian, but you knew what he said revolved around another man and you. Judging by his facial expression, he didn’t like the idea of such.

“Do you give this speech to every girl you piss off?” Usually you would laugh at your own joke, but this time your heavy heart prevented you from doing so.

“Just the ones that look like you, bella ragazza.” He responded as quickly as you had finished the sentence, his eyes holding a genuine look you hadn’t ever noticed before.

You didn’t respond, instead you looked down at the ground.

Just as Theodore was about to continue speaking, an angry Draco came around the corner.

“Oi, I’m not sure what weird shit yall are doing back here, but we have to go Theodore. I don’t know if you want me to announce the reason in front of little Mrs Hufflepuff over here.” No matter the circumstances Draco never failed to say something snarky to you.

“Right, I’ll be there soon mate.” Theodore dismissed him. His voice void of all previous emotions.

He gave you one last look,

“Take as long as you need to think about was I said. I’ll wait for you, Amore.” He finished. Turning around and heading towards Draco’s voice. Leaving you with a whole new list of shit to sort out.

You gave it a minute before you ran out to find caris. The second you spotted her, you nearly sprinted to her side.

“Gods! What?!” Caris yelped out.

“I don’t know what too do— Theodore and me did some stuff and I knew I shouldn’t have but I did it anyways and then he ignored me and then I got mad at him and now he’s claiming he wants me and idontknowwhatthehelltodo—“ caris cut off your rambling with a hand over your mouth.

“First of all, you’re stupid. Second of all, why the hell would you believe anything he says? He literally gets called Italian playboy. As if that isn’t enough evidence.” She scoffed.

“Okay well, I’m not sure how to explain it to you. But he said he’d wait for me to think about giving him a shot, but I don’t know.” You slid down into the couch and covered your face with your hands.

“Do whatever feels right, but I’m going to be honest with you. He’s not a good person, but if you honestly want to let him in like that, go ahead.” She closed her eyes and sighed, putting a hand on your leg.

“Right. Whatever feels right.”

[blissfulip]

—Legion

On AO3

 

Priest!Viktor x F!demon!reader

Rating: Explicit

Tags: Priest Kink, Blasphemy, Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Self-Flagellation, Demon Sex, Demon Summoning, Demon/Human Relationships, demon reader, AU - Canon Divergence, Post medieval era, Dubious Science, Church Sex, Roman Catholicism, Catholic Guilt, Improper Use of Catholic Rituals, Shameless Smut, Masturbation, No use of Y/N, third person.

Cw: mentions of child abuse, masturbation. (separately, not related to one another)

Words: 2.4k

[A/N: we are so back yall, i think... (let me know if you want to be tagged or removed in future fic updates!)]

Tags: @ihopeinevergetsoberr @chemical-killjoy @jinxed-jk @bobobomao @queen-of-elves @thedustybunny @syren201 @thayfass @thehistoriangirl @hypocritic-trash-baby @zaunitearchives

Previous Next

V. (NSFW)

Preach, pray, consume, forgive, kneel, repent, repeat.

Viktor’s  worn fingers traced the grooves of the heavy missal as the morning light filtered through stained glass, casting lazy hues upon the cold stone floor. The scent of incense, mingling with the earthy aroma of old wood and dust, rose in spirals as thoughts meandered like the smoke. He recited every prayer, absent from the materiality needed but without a misstep. Not a single one of the faithful that had congregated on that Sunday morning noticed something was amiss, which in retrospect made it seem like he had been doing this for a while, unbeknownst to him.

Their eyes, some pious, others wearied by life's burdens, stared back in expectation, and in their collective gaze, he intoned the familiar prayers, his voice a low murmur resonating through the vaulted space. No part of his body registered the passage of time; only the ashen-colored light that now bathed the right-most side of the altar accused the hours he had lost to the liturgy. A soft voice calling out to him gently nudged him out of his stupor. 

“Father” The altar boy whispered with an outstretched hand that held the washed communion plates. 

“Thank you, Tobias.” Viktor said as he reached out to grab the plates, “I’m sorry, I’ve been a bit distracted as of late.” 

The boy nodded animatedly and skipped his way down to the altar again. Tobias was a lad of scarcely ten summers. Like many others—including Viktor himself—he had been ‘donated’ to the church. To everyone else, this was seen as a foolproof way to skip purgatory, a show of mercy from his parents that proved their love for him and their devotion to god. To Viktor—who was there on the day he arrived and was charged with paying his parents an appropriate amount for him—it was a desperate plea to guarantee his five other siblings did not starve to death.

Viktor looked down again, and the boy was still walking around, clad in a robe slightly too large for him, its hem brushing the floor. His small hands worked with care, putting out the candles with a long, brass taper. Viktor watched as the boy handled the sacred objects with a reverence that belied his tender age, so full of potential and untainted by cynicism. When he was done with his duties, he walked back over to where Viktor sat and stood there in silence, waiting for more orders. 

“What do you wish to be when you grow up?” Viktor asked casually.

He spoke quickly, like he had rehearsed it. “A priest, like you.”

Viktor let out a small, good-humored chuckle in response and raised an incredulous eyebrow. Tobias looked on both sides like he was afraid someone would be there to hear him before speaking again. 

“A stonemason, like my father.”

“Do you miss him?”

His glossy eyes didn’t escape Viktor’s, but he didn’t wish to pry for answers any further, afraid the boy’s feelings would end up triggering memories of his own. And even though Tobias quickly left after Viktor nodded in understanding, the memories he was trying to repress came flooding down. 

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

The day his parents took him away was etched in Viktor’s memory with painful vagueness. Cold hands pried him from his mother’s skirt, her eyes wet and empty, filled with a sorrow too deep for words. He barely remembered her face, and now and then, when he tried to latch onto her ghost, she escaped him like smoke. His father’s voice, gruff and resigned as he muttered it was ‘for the best’, was the only thing he managed to recall clearly. He was never able to tell if he felt sad; although his tone seemed tired, it always had, this time seeming nothing more than a feeble attempt at justification. 

The heavy monastery door closed behind him with a finality that echoed through his young heart, and despite the fact that they lived nearby, he never saw them again. Stone walls towered over him, pressing in, their cold embrace devoid of the warmth and comfort he had known. Father Isidore's face, nothing more than a priest back then, loomed hard and unyielding, offering no solace.

Lonely nights were spent in a narrow cot. This was, for all intents and purposes, a better sleeping arrangement than what he previously had, but he longed for home, for the familiar sounds of his mother’s cooking and his father’s laughter as he woke up before sunrise, which had been replaced by an oppressive silence and whispered prayers. Days blurred into weeks, and the unfamiliar routine and stern discipline pressed down on his spirit as curiosity, once a joyful pursuit, became a dangerous trait to have.

He remembered the sting of Father Isidore’s cane against his skin, the punishment for asking questions deemed too freethinking. The pain on his back that burned with each strike, shame and pain mingling as his stern gaze bore into him, and the sickly feeling in his stomach when he smiled at him with the slimy insincerity of someone who believes he’s doing you a favor.

Back then, he bit his lip to stifle his cries, the taste of blood trickling down his throat that for so long he associated with fear, and now it had mutated into a morbid parade of all the wrong sentiments: pleasure, anger, and defiance. If only little Viktor the altar boy knew that the joy of discovery that was crushed under the weight of dogma and the vibrant world of his imagination that was stifled by the constant threat of retribution were once again enkindled, and by the spine-chilling yet exciting presence of a demonic creature nonetheless, he would not believe it. 

The university days provided a brief respite from the oppressive confines of the monastery. The city, alive with possibilities, offered a tantalizing glimpse of freedom. The rush of independence was exhilarating, a stark contrast to the rigid discipline he had known. Yet, even as the world beyond the monastery beckoned, he found himself bound by an inexplicable sense of duty. The decision to return was made—a choice that haunted him. The familiar chains of the clergy tightened around him, the opportunity for escape slipping away.

And although each passing year brought a deeper sense of regret and the burden of faith grew heavier, the ache of what could have been was, at this very moment, no longer a constant. His path led him to where he stood now, an experience so formidably unique that it felt tailor-made for him. Did he deserve such a test from god? It depended on how you saw it. If this was a punishment, then it was fit for all the sin that blackened his soul, and he would endure it in silent penitence. But if this was a reward for being a pious servant and having endured the temptation of unbridled knowledge before, a bigger and more difficult challenge for Viktor to prove his worth, then he did not feel deserving of it. 

Either way, no matter how he sliced it, he was failing. Whether this test had been put before him to teach him restraint or not, it was doing quite the opposite. She had given him a new set of eyes, and now he found a fresh and bitter perspective for every aspect of his practice that he had accepted and embraced before.

Confession was no longer a way for him to provide the people in his community with relief and forgiveness; it was a dirty show of egos for people who are disgustingly contaminated by greed and gluttony to flaunt their superiority in the eyes of a corrupt institution. Their opulent vestments were nothing more than a vainglorious boast of wealth, unfit for a group of men who made a vow of poverty to mirror the temperance of their god. The altar boys were only an unfortunate bunch of children stripped of their choices due to their inescapable place in society, a society where the poor, the vulnerable, and the young were exploited with the promise of salvation if they paid tithe and served their godly emissaries. 

And then there was the liturgy. Granted, he was never too entranced by any of the rites he had to perform; they had always felt like a distant repetition of nonsensical words that he felt no real connection to, as he always felt closer to god in silent and private prayer, but now, with his unintentional new perspective, it was the aspect that felt the most different to him. 

For decades, he had been taught to be passive, to repress, and to contain. To escape anything that was even remotely tempting and to be satisfied and held in contempt by the only nude body he’d ever be allowed to see, the one nailed to a cross. Why is it then that the art scattered around the church puts such an intent focus on the immaculate figures of naked men? Why is it that he is thought to rub, to whisper, and to consume in that context but is forced to repress such acts once he steps down the altar?

Viktor took a deep breath. His long fingers twirled the beads of his rosary absentmindedly as he pondered, and before realizing what he was doing, he brought it up to his nose, taking in the faint smell of roses that still lingered from when it was made. While he did that, images ran through his mind—of himself kissing the crucifix during Holy Week, the defined torsos carefully painted in the sacred images of saints, the almost ecstatic feeling brought by communion. Flashes that appeared in quick succession fused with the intense pleasure of flagellation and the still vibrant recollection of what She had made him feel. 

___________________________________________________________________

He knew those thoughts would lead to these, and not only did he purposefully not repress them, but he was hoping as much. There was that distinct tension, that heightened awareness of his body, that sense of electricity that seemed to hum just beneath his skin. Something that was no longer new to him and also no longer unwelcome. 

He stood from the chair he had spent the afternoon rotting away in deep thought on and lethargically walked back to his quarters. Once there and with the door tightly shut behind him, he fell on his back against the stubborn mattress, not waiting even a moment before pulling up the fabric of his cassock to reveal the tight clasp of his trousers. 

His fingers trembled as they moved to untie the sash with deliberate slowness, the anticipation heightening his senses. He hesitated for a moment, as if seeking some final absolution, before he grasped his swelling desire. An almost cynical laugh escaped his lips as he began to stroke himself, the motion tentative at first, then more assured as he slowly understood the intensity of his own touch. The sensation was electric, his body responding with a fervor that he had only experienced deep in prayer. 

His free hand, with his rosary entangled between his fingers, gripped the edge of the cot, knuckles white with tension as the wooden frame creaked under the strain and the beads etched small marks into his skin. As the feeling of that distracted him from the pressing heat gathering with each pump, another unusual feeling took him out of the moment. 

The same bone-chilling breeze he had felt for the past few days, every time she came around. There was no fear inside of him this time and no guilt either, so when her figure became clear and visible, he didn’t flinch, freeze, or even stop what he was doing. A silent acknowledgement was given in the form of a lingering look, before the pleasure building to an almost unbearable intensity urged him to start moving his hand once again. 

She looked at him with pleased eyes, contemptuous but not gloating. She recognized that her role had been simply one of a catalyst for something that had been inside of Viktor all along. Did she want to participate? Of course, but there would be a time for that; this was his victory to enjoy. 

He continued stroking with a rhythm characteristic of someone who was slowly trying to connect with his own body, not rushed by guilt or fear. In the midst of one of the pauses he took to prevent himself from coming to his release too early, he took notice of her again, still standing opposite him near the door. 

“Will you be in hell to welcome me when I die?”

“Hell is now, this, and here.”

“So there is no realm of eternal punishment?” Viktor chuckled bitterly. 

“If there was, it wouldn’t be for people like you.” 

“Eh, I don’t believe that.”

“Can you confidently say...” She started as she walked over and kneeled near the edge of the bed where Viktor sat, gently placing one of her cold hands over the one that gripped his cock. “...that something that feels like this is undoubtedly immoral?”

She slowly guided him up and down once again, increasing the pressure of his grip with her own as Viktor looked into her obscured eyes, mouth agape. 

“Perhaps, though I’m prepared to pay the price.” He said, almost in a whisper. 

They both continued moving, aided by her firm touch over his hand, and the pressure building became almost unbearable. In those final moments, his thoughts became a blur, a cacophony of want, desire, and need, with part of him wanting to touch her and another part wanting to completely lean back and let her finish him off. Instead, his body tensed right where he was, every muscle tightening as he reached his climax with a shuddering release that left him gasping for breath.

The crucifix dangled on his neck as he started to lean over. 

[lvrhughes]

Marry Me | Q. Hughes

pairing: Quinn Hughes x f!reader

summary: Quinn's always been in love with you, but you're getting married.

warnings: angst, marriage?, drinking

word count: 0.6k

italics are flashbacks:)

not my gif!

You’ve been invited to Y/n Y/l/n and…

The name blurred in his eyes, irrelevant. He knew the day would come but he wasn’t ready, knocking the wind out of him as he read it. 

They’d been friends for forever, they were always seen together, it was always Quinn and Y/n. Ellen always knew they’d end up together, yet Quinn never quite got the nerve to ask. 

So they never were, letting her slip through his fingers. Falling in love with someone else while he followed her. 

“Quinn,” Her voice was breathy, sounding of excitement and fear. “You made it.” she grinned, reaching her arms out to tug around his shoulders.

Dragging him down in the process, his arms slipping around her waist, just like it used to be. It was a feeling of peace over Quinn for the moment, before she pulled away back to greeting other guests. 

She had it planned out since they were five. She’d have her granddad preaching the service, she’d have magnolias all over, never too many people. Always thinking to save her dad money, keep everything small, just her and her man. Ellen used to swear how it’d be her and quinn on the isle one day and how he wished that were true now. 

He wore his black suit, standing in the back corner. Tucked away in one of his pockets, his only flask he was given as a joke once. He never planned on using it but it seemed needed today, the strongest whiskey he had filled the flask. 

The music starting, everyone turning to see the groom enter, his tux the perfect shade of bue. Just like she’d always dreamed of.

“Quinn! Come, we’re playing wedding!” 

“What if I don’t want to play?” he teased, holding his ground as the young girl tugged on his wrist. 

“Please? Quinn, you make the best groom!” He never stood a chance, agreeing to her every ask, following her out there to be her pretend groom. 

“Would you ever marry me?” He asked, standing at the fake altar with her. 

“No! I’ve gotta marry my prince charming and you're not him!” The child grinned, imagining her perfect prince waiting for her like the movies. She wouldn’t see how it hurt Quinn, she wouldn’t see that he’d never move on. 

She looked like a princess in person, her dress was exactly the same as the one she dreamed of as a girl, her hair tied just as she wanted. The tears filled Quinn’s eyes quickly, taking a shot of whiskey to cover it up. 

“Love?” He asked, looking at the girl staring out the window. They were sixteen, he’d just gotten his license. What better than a road trip?

“Hmm?” She hummed back, turning to look at him. 

“What's on your mind?”  He asked, pulling into the parking spot of the motel for the night, leaning onto the console when he parked the car.

“I don’t know, just thinkin’”

He knew he shouldn’t, the leaning in was subconscious. Almost kissing her. He freaked out, pulling away the minute he realized what he was doing, shaking his head and the thought away. 

“Let’s get in, huh?” He asked, trying to move on. 

Even from the back row he could see the tears glistening on her father’s cheeks, the tears slipping down her grooms too. 

He was there early, he could go find her. He could get it off of his chest, tell her he still loved her, how he’s always been in love with her. But he won’t.

“Tell her! You know she loved you!” His brother's pleas fall to deaf ears, Quinn mumbling out a reply. 

“I’m not gonna mess it up.” 

He could feel the tears get closer and closer to falling with every step she took, taking more shots of whiskey, try to make it through without crying. 

Yeah she wanna get married, yeah she’s gonna get married, but she ain’t gonna marry me.

[the-chosen-fanfiction]

Little James | Surrounded | Platonic

Whereas you are often the one to aid your friend Little James in intense crowds, the tables are turned this time around.

Requested by Aria

If there is something in this world that you would never quite tire of, it is listening to Jesus and His sermons, regardless of whether you have heard certain teachings before. Even if He teaches the crowds the same things He has been telling His students about, you manage to pick up something new every time you listen to a lesson He has taught you before, layers upon layers being revealed within His sermons.

You stand with your close friend, Little James, at the side of the crowd. At least, that is where you had started. Due to Jesus’ popularity, the masses have only grown ever since He has started preaching, and because of it, there are people all around you now. Not that you mind the business; the more people hear about the Messiah and what He tells the world, the better.

As you drink in every word from Jesus’ lips, you smile a little as you discover a new perspective on the story of the foolish man who built his house on the sand. Turning to James, you whisper your new findings. “Do you reckon it was also because of impatience that he decided to not build a firm foundation? It takes time to build a close relationship with God, and it requires much effort to have solid ground beneath the house that is your soul.” 

James hums in acknowledgement of your findings and gives you a small smile. “That’s another interesting way to look at it, (Y/n). I think that it is indeed impatience, alongside pride that people don’t need thatfoundation. That the foolish man thinks that he can figure it out on his own, that he knows how a house remains solid and unwavering with as little help from God as possible, until the storms of life begin to beat against it.” 

You nod in contemplation, appreciating the idea that he proposes. “I see, that is also a good point. Hm, listening to Jesus is always interesting, no matter how often I’ve heard this sermon before.” James agrees to that. The two of you stand there for a while longer, him leaning on his walking stick, until the teaching concludes and brings Jesus to say His goodbyes for now to the crowd. A muttering of disappointment that it is over goes through the people and Jesus promises to be back again some time, but it doesn’t mean that they will let Him go that easily.

Simon the former Zealot and Big James keep a decent perimeter around Jesus, urging the people of the village to go home, but they don’t take no for an answer just yet. “Our Master is tired and in need of some food and rest,” is not enough of a reason to leave the Teacher alone for just an hour or so, Zee finds out the hard way. The townsfolk start to move as one being across the streets in pursuit of the Rabbi Who they want to know more about, forgetting the fact that He too is a Man of flesh and blood, having taught for three hours non-stop without as much as a waterskin on the side. You can only imagine how dry His throat must feel.

Forced to walk with the masses that surround you, you blindly find Little James’ wrist; the one that does not hold the walking stick so that he can still use it to balance himself. “Careful,” you warn him, as if he’d forget that he’s got trouble walking, “As long as we calmly follow the current of the crowd, they will eventually come to a halt and we can make our way out of it properly then. Let me try to—” 

You are cut off when you are roughly pushed aside and only barely regain your balance. A bit offended, you glare at the man who had been impatiently brushing past you as if you were made out of air, but it seems that he didn’t even realise his mistake, already on his way closer to Jesus. Someone else bumps into Little James and you catch him just in time, the two of you staring at one another for a moment. “Okay, maybe we should do this differently,” you tell him over the chaos of the crowd. “Let me try to get us out of here right now. Follow my lead, alright?” 

You do not await a verbal answer and begin pulling James with you, holding him close to your best ability as the chaos unfolds only further with each step. People are calling Jesus’ Name over the business and barely give one another space or any consideration for that matter, causing for an ambiance that only grows tenser the further away Jesus is getting; you have lost sight of Him a few minutes ago, where He had been led away by a few of the stronger Disciples fending off the citizens.

Every so often, you look over your shoulder to check if James is doing alright. Apart from the slight paleness of his face at how overwhelming the sheer amount of people around you is, he seems to be quite in balance. Alright, you think to yourself, you only need to inch closer to the edge of the crowd to escape this possible stampede and then stand tightly against the wall until most of it has passed. You are definitely headed in the right direction as the houses on the side grow closer with each step, and you push your way past a group of young men trying to force their way ahead—

—Another shove, which is not something you are not used to by now, makes you stagger to the side. Right as you are about to place your foot down firmly, there is a lack of ground beneath you, and a wave of nausea hits you square in the chest as you land trapped inside a hole in the road. It throws you off balance for you had not expected such a sudden and unprompted change in surface, so when a woman unintentionally bumps into you, you fall to the ground. 

For a second, everything around you is dark, and you are just beginning to wonder whether you’ve passed out or perhaps even died that you realise that it is the amount of feet and tunics clouding your field of view as everyone rushes around you; at least attempt to— You earn a heel inside your ribs and someone kicks dust into your face upon passing. 

Coughing, you sit up. “Careful, someone has fallen down!” A voice calls out, and when you rub your eyes to get the sand out of it, the initial burning of it dying down, you find out that Little James is covering you with his own form, his hands stretched out to the people headed to barge past you. “Let me help her up! Give us some space!” 

A wave of gratitude hits you as he helps you up, people now walking in a decent radius so that you can at least get back to your feet. Taking a hold of his outstretched hand, you let him pull you up. However, as soon as you put pressure on the foot that you had stepped into the hole with, you flinch in sudden, shunting pain. The joint burns as do the tendons. You instantly know that it is not broken, but oh, does it hurt.

James immediately senses your discomfort and looks down at your ankle, which you are not putting any weight on right now, your face contorted in pain. Without a second thought, he hands you his walking stick. “Here,” he tells you, “You need it more than I do,” and before you can even protest it by saying that he is in need of it himself, James grabs your arm to pull you along. 

You stumble over the road, the pain too great to ignore, as cold sweat breaks out on your face even more than there already was on your brow, and each step makes you groan in discomfort. It has been a while since you’ve sprained your ankle, or anything for that matter, so you had nearly forgotten how much something seemingly so innocent can bring so much pain. Huffing and grunting, you make your way to the side of the crowd, following James dutifully, knowing that there is little else you can do to escape this chaos. 

At last, you feel like you can breathe again the second he pulls you out of the flow of people, both of you out of breath. James is shaking on his feet, resting his hands on his knees as he gathers himself, his cheeks flushed with warmth. Wordlessly, you hand the stick back to him, but he shakes his head, refusing to take it from you. “No,” he says, “You are more in need of it. Come, let us find a quiet spot to sit.” 

Breathlessly, the two of you search for a place away from the masses, and when you find one at last, you limp towards the small bench and plop down onto it, never minding the way it creaks underneath the sudden weight. Little James waits for you to get a bit more comfortable before taking a seat as well, also feeling quite taken aback by how fast things just happened. 

Flinching in pain, you stick out your leg from underneath your tunic and you gulp when you see the way it is already swelling steadily inside your sandal. When you move to take it off, James stops you in your tracks by putting a hand on your shoulder. “No, keep it on, you wouldn’t be able to get it back over your foot otherwise.” 

He reaches into his bag and takes out a waterskin that is nearly empty. “Do you have a piece of cloth on you, or a rag?” he wonders, causing you to grab your own bag in slight puzzlement and rummage through it. When you find a clean rag that you keep on you in case you need to wipe your hands, you hand it over to him. Watching how he drenches the textile with the little amount of water left, another feeling of gratefulness floods you. Even though your friend has his own ailments to deal with, he is making sure that you are okay first, even though the stampede also did a number on him.

“You don’t have to—” 

“—I’m already doing it,” he quips, smiling at you as he nods towards your foot. “May I?” 

Nodding, you hold out your leg so that he can carefully wrap the cloth around your aching ankle, the coolness of the water bringing instant relief. Neither of you care about the fact that he is a man touching a woman who is not his wife in a slightly intimate way. Of course, there are way more intimate ways to have physical contact, but in the traditional sense, showing your ankles is quite the thing already. However, you find that in the face of an emergency like this, you can make an exception. Sighing deeply, you lean with your back against the wall behind you and close your eyes. “That’s better. Thank you, James.” 

He gives you a kind smile. “Don’t worry about it. You always take such good care of me, making sure that I’m comfortable no matter where we are, looking around for places where I can sit down after long days on the road. It is only fair that I give you that same treatment, no?” 

You chuckle at the truth he’s stating and shrug. “Well, that is what friends do.”

“But it is not something that they do naturally. Not everyone is constantly so considerate, which is fine, since their world does of course not revolve around me. But with you, it just comes so effortlessly, and you’ve never asked for a single thing in return.” 

The two of you maintain a moment of meaningful eye-contact. “I’m just trying my best.” You murmur.

“I know, and I appreciate that so much. I don’t say it often enough, but you are one of my dearest friends whom I hold in high regard. It means a lot to me, more than you know. This…” he gestures at your wrapped-up ankle, “Is the least I can do.” 

You smile softly at your friend, whom you had known for so long, way before the two of you started following Jesus. Even though everything about your life is different now, your friendship has not changed, only grown stronger if anything. 

You’re lucky to have such a special friendship in these trying times. 

“Thank you,” you say, attempting to roll your ankle from side to side and flinching, “Ouch, that hurts.” There is a slight waver in your voice and James gives you a worried look.

“You keep using my walking stick, alright? At least until we get back to camp, so that we can get it bandaged.” 

“Or Jesus could help.” 

James chuckles at your valid point.

“Ah yes, that works as well.” 

The streets have quieted down a little now that it has become obvious that the Messiah has retreated to a private setting and will not make another public appearance for the rest of the day, causing you and James to gather enough courage to hit the road and head back to camp. 

“Oh, how the tables have turned,” James light-heartedly jests as he helps you to your feet, and he offers you his arm to support you.

“Enjoy it while it lasts,” you joke back, the pair of you chuckling at your own misery. 

With only few people passing you by on the way back to the campsite, you walk slowly but surely, fighting the physical pain that both of you are going through. 

However, these aches are way easier to handle whenever you’re surrounded by close friends no matter how hard it gets, you think to yourself, grateful to have a friend like James.

[clanwarrior-tumbly]

Shamura meeting a spider s.o who isn't really apart of the cult and lives the life of a traveler but visits from time to time and members consider her to be a 'big sister' and people love to come to her for advice...

like she'll be pulling pieces of debris, leaves, twigs, pieces of mushroom, etc. from the lambs wool (which she had lectured him about a few minutes prior like "Lamb, you got this in your wool AGAIN?? I will not allow you to continue to talk to people when you basically have a FOREST in your wool, sit down and let me help you.") and Shamura is there and I feel like they have real deep conversations, maybe s.o telling him their story after a while, how they think that they might be from the Silk Cradle but aren't sure because they were taken when they were young and raised in the mountains ... just a little thing i thought abt haha

"I-I can assure you, [y/n]..I don't need-"

"Oh no, you absolutely do need this." You tutted as you made Lamb sit down on a tree stump, picking bits of mushrooms and leaves out of their wool.

They winced as you harshly tugged on a twig that was especially embedded in it, casting it aside once it was plucked free. "I need to do my morning sermon," they grumbled. "Can this wait until-?"

"There's still a few more hours till noon. I will not have you walk up to that podium with your wool being a literal Anurian forest! How do you keep letting it get this bad anyways?"

"I-"

"Actually..don't answer that."

"But...!!! Ugh, fine." With a pout, the Lamb sat with their cheeks puffed out, remembering that they couldn't order you around...as you weren't one of their followers. So you didn't have to abide by any of their rules.

You were a nomadic spider who traveled all across the Old Faith. Your heart desired adventure, but every once in a while it would lead you back to these temple grounds, and you'd witness Lamb's cult growing steadily with each visit.

When they weren't around, their followers would flock to you, having grown accustomed to your frequent appearances. You carried a lot of knowledge during your travels, so you'd share stories of your recent journeys and offer advice to those who asked for it.

Whether it's about something personal or just how to navigate through a domain safely, you had plenty of answers for most of them. Some followers even looked up to you as a sister, which made you happy.

The most important part of your visit, however, was ensuring Lamb looked their best before they went to preach in the temple. You always caught them after they return from crusades, finding them covered in earthly debris without a care in the world.

If this new "god" of the lands wanted to be taken more seriously...they had to look presentable to their followers.

But even so, they were quite the fussy one; stubborn like a child: Bleating constantly, kicking their hooves, and sometimes even demonically hissing if you suggest they removed their crown for a moment.

They only acted that way because Narinder saw you preening their wool once and mocked his former vessel until your glare shooed him away.

Fortunately, Lamb chose not to argue with you any further, making your job easier to finish.

It took a few more minutes, but their wool finally looked a lot better, so you sent them on their way to preach the Red Crown's gospel after bidding them farewell.

Whatever debris you plucked out of them went into a bag of silk you've crafted for yourself. Surely you can do something with the twigs, leaves, mushroom stems, and pumpkin seeds they carried back to the cult grounds--you couldn't let any of that go to waste.

"Greetings, traveler. Back so soon?"

The familiar voice made you perk up, looking to see Shamura standing there with a book in their hands. It seemed to be one from Silk Cradle, detailing trap layouts and designs.

You smiled. "Hello, Lord Shamura. And yes. I like to come and go as I please."

".....forgive me, but your name slips past me.."

"It's [y/n]."

"..ah yes, yes...Sister [Y/n]. Welcome back." They bowed their head politely. "I do have a question, if you have the time."

"Of course." You nodded, before frowning as you noticed the somewhat troubled look on their face. "What ails you?"

"...hm?" They blinked. "Do I look sick?"

"Oh, no. I mean..your expression. I've seen it on other followers, and it's usually because something's weighing heavily on their mind-"

"Why call me "lord" if you have not served under me?" Shamura abruptly interrupted, confused as their gaze went to the open book in their hands. "I have seen many spiders in Silk Cradle...but none quite like yourself. If only I could remember..were you a servant? A warrior? A merchant...?"

The more they struggled to recall, the more ichor began leaking through their bandages. And you could see it was physically paining them, too.

It made you wonder how they ever survived losing the Purple Crown, but then again it probably took a miracle from the Lamb to give them a fighting chance--a second chance.

Even so, you felt bad for Shamura. Their memory gaps kept widening despite their desperation to remember things and continue reading.

"Oh dear..allow me to hold that for you." You gently took the book away from them before the liquid could splatter all over the cover, closing it up. "I didn't grow up in Silk Cradle, but I'm sure I was born there. I only remember being taken up to the mountains..perhaps my family became deserters who disliked the violence."

"Hm...under my ruling, deserters would have been swiftly found and jailed."

"I see-"

"No, no..that's not it...they...would have been swiftly found, tried in my court, and publicly executed." They corrected themselves, huffing. "My apologies."

"...oh. Then I guess I'm glad we weren't ever found out." You awkwardly chuckled, having much preferred what they said before. "It seems your memory has been improving since the last time we met."

"Yes, indeed...indeed it is.." Shamura nodded, before you both heard the tolls of the temple bell, signaling that it was time for the sermon. "The Lamb calls..they are speaking now." They looked to you. "Shall we go together, [y/n]?"

"Sure." With a smile, you linked arms with them. "But as a fair warning, I tend to hang around the back and just listen."

"As do I, my friend...as do I." A tiny smile formed between their fangs. "I hope Lamb's wool isn't covered in earthly vermin anymore."

"It's clean as a whistle." You reassured, smiling back at them, before you two headed towards the temple.

Perhaps you'll stay here in the cult for the rest of the day. Just to spend a little more time with Shamura.

You enjoyed the company of a fellow arachnid.