#bells howls au | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

amuromi · 4 months

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★ ₊ ⊹ ⋆˙ ┈ 𝐑𝐘𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐍 𝐒𝐔𝐊𝐔𝐍𝐀 X ᶠ!ᴿᴱᴬᴰᴱᴿ

✦ ⋆˙ 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓 ┈ 9.9k

✦ ⋆˙ 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐒 ┈ NSFW! heian era!au, concubine!reader, true form!Sukuna, unprotected sex, established relationship (married), canon typical violence, era typical misogyny/gender roles, unhealthy obsession, mentions of death, mentions of cannibalism and blood, (Sukuna is a lunatic), Sukuna is referred to exclusively as “Lord Sukuna”

✦ ⋆˙ 𝐀!𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄 ┈ I got a bit carried away with this one. My love of psychological horror was clawing to be free but I think I kept it pretty contained…

✦ ⋆˙ 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐈𝐈

✮ 𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐎𝐑𝐒 & 𝐀𝐆𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐒𝐒 𝐃𝐎 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓!! ✮

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐒 𝐓𝐎 𝐊𝐍𝐎𝐖 ✦ ⋆˙ engawa ┈ a hallway-like path surrounding the house ⋆ shoji ┈ a sliding door/divider ⋆ koto ┈ a Japanese zither/stringed instrument

The winter storm has leached everything into bleak shades of black and white, like ink on parchment. The trees are thick black strokes against the deep gray clouds, dusted with a thick layer of snow as flurries fall like stars through the courtyard. In the moonlight each snowflake shines like pearls, soft and lustrous as they dance on the wind. From the edge of the engawa it almost looks like staring into the great gaping mouth of a beast that’s swallowed the world, spears of ice hanging like jagged teeth from the edge of the roof, the wind shuddering through the estate in howling gusts. The cold night is scented with dreams of spring, sweet smelling coal burning in braziers, wafting gray wisps of floral-scented smoke into the wind.

It’s quiet aside from the sharp whistling of the wind and the hissing of snow melting over hot coals, then, somewhere within the estate, a bell tolls for the Hour of the Rooster. Nightfall, despite the veil of darkness already laid out by the storm clouds. Suddenly there’s the sound of footsteps soft as summer rain, pattering through the estate and the shoji begin to blossom with the warmth of firelight as candles are lit throughout the sprawling house. More snow gathers in soft sheets over the courtyard before there’s a gentle knock to announce a soft-footed servant coming to renew the braziers and light the lanterns. The scent of lavender is renewed as the coals are sifted and replaced and the engawa is streaked with blushing shades of gold as the pink-tinged paper lanterns are lit in turn.

Of all the rooms in the vast estate, yours is the most adorned. Which is to say, it looks as though your room is used for more than sleeping. There’s a modest desk with inks and paper, a small table for combs and perfumes, and a trunk for miscellaneous things beside the chest of drawers filled with kimono. When she’s lit the last lantern, you ask the girl to send for your personal maid. A dowry servant, though not originally one of yours. Life in this estate is fleeting in that way.

An unbalanced teacup had been the undoing of the girl your father sent to accompany you in your marriage. Stained silk and scalded skin, later soaked with splatters of blood. But the tatami were changed and the kimono and girl were replaced. Your new maid is a bit older–a few years your senior–originally belonging to a woman that came before you. Certainly not First Mistress because she would loathe to see you even look upon anything of hers. No, she served a less honored concubine that wasn’t worthy of the title “wife,” even if it’s a hollow honor in itself. Still, your maid had belonged to the unknown mistress before she perished. It all happened before you were brought to the estate, but the haggard weight of the loss still sits heavy on her shoulders. Her face always looks like a crumpled piece of paper that someone tried to smooth flat, creased with hidden worries. She arrives quickly, kneeling to await her orders.

“I’m happy,” you tell her. “A new Mistress is joining the family tonight, isn’t that right? Happy news.” The maid hums something to the tune of affirmation, long since grown used to your unflinchingly jovial disposition. She once asked if you wear a smiling mask throughout the day and take it off once you sleep. It’s a silly question, of course, but you like to imagine that you smile even in your sleep. There is nothing to be sad about. Living a life such as this is no different than a deer grazing in a meadow. There is nothing beyond the grass. Nothing farther than the horizon or higher than the tallest tree. What is there to be sad about when the world has been folded into something small enough to hold in your hands, a piece of origami meant to be appreciated and not pondered. There’s happiness in the simplicity that this life provides, though you seem to be the only one to realize it.

The other two Mistresses of the house say that you should be locked up in a rice chest and left out to die. That it’s cruel to let you live in such a state of delusion. How little they know, yet it’s still too much. At times, it seems that they are far deeper in their minds than you’ve ever been. Caught up in worries and tribulations that haven’t plagued you in a long time, since you let go of your humanity. What use is pretending to be human when you’re treated like a pet. Treasured and pampered but still inferior to the master of the house. Because your husband has no true use for human brides. In keeping the three of you, he has honored each of your families with the knowledge that their blood has produced something too intriguing to kill off just yet. Perhaps if he desires an offspring to assume his legacy he’ll have a true use for one of you.

Other brides have been offered and had their families culled like squashing bugs. It made you feel some air of superiority, knowing that you were chosen from a dozen women to be honored as a new wife to the King of Curses. It only took a few months for you to realize your place in all this and the last thread of your humanity snapped like a frayed koto string. Thinking of yourself as a person is useless when the person that holds your life within his hands sees you as no more than a doll to be toyed with as he sees fit.

“I’m happy.” You always mean it when you say it. Happiness is all you have left when faced with the truth of how finite your existence is. There is no world beyond the walls of this estate. No people beyond its residence and staff. No purpose outside of serving your husband with unwavering loyalty. In that regard you are the most precious of his wives. The others, their devotion wavers. You’ve seen it in the way they still hesitate to follow simple instructions, still tremble and shrink in Lord Sukuna’s presence even as you bloom like a flower in the light of the sun. He is your sun. There is no life without him. Which is why you are happy to simply exist in this small world that he’s made for you.

His power has greatly uncomplicated your existence, turned it to something purposeful, something that will end when you’re no longer of use. And Lord Sukuna will always tell you when you serve no further purpose to him. How many underlings has he executed because they were no longer of use? You imagine they must’ve felt great pride in the moments before their demise at the hands of their King. Pride in knowing that they did what they were made to do. As a child you had scoffed at the idea that your only purpose was to be wed and serve your husband as a proper wife should, but that was when the husband of your future was set to be someone unremarkable. Lord Sukuna is greater than any man that’s ever lived. Perhaps even ascended beyond the concept of a man to become the strongest sorcerer to ever live. As the daughter of a highly regarded family known for birthing remarkable sorcerers, you take pride in your small but purposeful place in all this. The culling of clans, the clashing of factions trying to unseat your husband. History will remember you because you will play your part until the very end. An end you’ll greet with a smile if it should come by your husband’s hand.

“Will the Fourth Mistress be here soon?” A new deer to join the herd, a new flower planted in the garden.

“By the Hour of the Bird, the last message said.” Your maid agrees. Soon, a new Mistress will be here. It’s been so long since another woman has joined hands with Lord Sukuna. The last being yourself nearly two years ago. First Mistress had been collected three years ago, and Second Mistress came along only a short few months behind her. Lord Sukuna had waited half a year after that to marry a third wife, and you must’ve served him well because there’s been no need for another until now. It makes you wonder if death is close at hand. A raven had come earlier in the day, before the snow began to fall, announcing that Lord Sukuna would be returning from his excursion by nightfall. Perhaps he wanted to arrive home in time to greet his new bride.

Fourth Mistress. Unlucky number Four, terrible number Four. Blowing into her marriage with a snow storm. It’s all terribly inauspicious, but Lord Sukuna has reason for everything he does. Nothing is without purpose. Even death has cause when dealt by his hand. Even if it comes tonight you will go towards it fully satisfied. The snowfall looks beautiful, and the cold isn’t so terrible with the legion of braziers burning around you and the thick furs draped over your shoulders. It’s a wonderful night to die if it should come to that.

“Shall we go welcome her?”

“First Mistress insisted that you need not be present for Fourth Mistress’ arrival, your highness.” First Mistress, Jurina, whose hatred towards you cannot be quelled by any manner of platitudes.

When you first arrived, you’re sure it was mere jealousy that compelled her to act out against you. A multitude of wives is not uncommon among high ranking men, but rarely is it expected that they should all live together. Most wives are left in their parents’ homes to be visited whenever their husband deems it fit. To walk the hall of your home and come across the woman your husband sees when he is not with you must be jarring to the first woman he married. Jurina seemed adamant about dispelling you from the family upon your first arrival. Now, her animosity isn’t borne of jealousy, but discomfort.

Your happiness makes her nervous. She’s said it herself. Snapping and raging at you for your unflinching smile even as she and Second Mistress have slowly begun to lose themselves in the monotony of this life. Sitting and waiting, then serving when Lord Sukuna comes home. To them, your complacency, your happiness, is something eerie and othered. Akin to the curses your families seek to eradicate. Unnatural. Inhuman. Though it hardly matters what they think of you. They are not your reason for being, and Lord Sukuna seems to find your smile charming.

Despite the chill, you find yourself reaching for a fan. A gift from Uraume. They’re strangely doting towards you in a way that they aren’t to Lord Sukuna’s other wives, bringing you gifts when they accompany Lord Sukuna on long trips away from the estate. A set of calligraphy brushes, a jade bracelet, a new kimono. You’ve amassed quite a collection of possessions by Uraume’s spoiling, though the fans are your favorite. All made a beautifully lacquered wood, some painted with gilded designs, the folded paper painted by the hands of careful artists. Crashing waves and blossoming trees decorate each of your fans and you take great pride in keeping them all in pristine condition because you’d hate to perform a dance with a damaged fan.

Of all of the things filling your room, your koto is the most precious. It had belonged to your mother and she offered it with teary eyes as your wedding gift, absolutely bereft that she had to marry her daughter off to a monster to appease the head of your father’s clan. But such was your purpose in being born into a highly acclaimed sorcerer clan. Take your blood and lend your body to another clan so that you might make more powerful jujutsu users. Your father had complained of the waste in sending you off to quell the King of Curses, insisting that sending you to Lord Sukuna would be a waste of a bride. Curses have no use for brides nor, truly, does their King. Still, Lord Sukuna keeps all of you alive and well in his home. To what end? It’s hardly your concern.

“Bring my koto,” you hum. “I want to dance.”

The maid goes about carrying the large stringed instrument to the edge of the room where the opened shoji separates the warmth of your room from the chill of the engawa. It is a happy coincidence that your maid had been taught to play the koto some years ago when she was still an eligible maiden. But her father grew ill and when he passed her mother sent her off to find work to support herself because she couldn’t afford a dowry to marry her off properly. So she sits and serves, waiting for you to name your song of choice with her fingers poised over the strings. The song you choose is one of comfort, the first your mother ever taught you when you were learning to dance and play. There’s a practiced grace to your movements, smooth as a flowing river as you dance with your fan. The song is short but it is always your favorite to perform.

A rare beauty in the north, she’s the finest woman on earth. A glance from her, the city falls. A second glance leaves the nation in ruins. There exists no city or nation that has been more cherished than a beauty like this.

Flecks of snow melt against the bare nape of your neck, so cold it feels like burning, but you want to keep dancing. The weather has no bearing on your mood. Rain or shine you are happy to sing and dance, amusing yourself as you wait to be of use to your lord husband. Perhaps he has already returned home along with his new bride but without the order to accompany him you will stay in your room, performing to your heart’s content. Your maid begins to pluck out the notes of your next song request, fingers stuttering over the strings as if she’s forgotten how to play the melody. That’s alright, you will dance even without proper music, swinging your fan with practiced poise as your voice contests with the howling of the storm. It’s a song of longing and melancholy. Fitting for a woman separated from her husband.

Are you going away? Leaving me alone? How could I live if you’ve gone away? Are you going away? Leaving me alone? I want to keep you unhappy with me. I fear you may never return. Sadly, I will let you go–

“Stop whining, I’m here.” A voice interrupts your singing, a smooth timbre that rumbles like a roll of thunder. So please, come back soon after you leave. In a heartbeat you’re on the floor, kneeling before your husband. Lord Sukuna is soiled from his travels. Kimono stained and torn, the scent of blood lingering heavily around him, along with the buzzing aura of excess cursed energy leaking into the cold air around him.

“Welcome home, Lord Sukuna.” He purrs at how you prostrate yourself at his feet, always so satisfied with your absolute submission. He once told you your lack of fear was something intriguing, your unwavering adoration far more interesting than submission borne of fear. It’s something he’s found in so few of his followers and you imagine it’s why he shows such preference for Uraume’s company. Of all of your husband’s subordinates, they are by far the most devout. Perhaps even more than you because they know what Lord Sukuna is trying to achieve with all the calamity he causes. Your lord husband has never made you privy to that knowledge, and as a good wife you remember it is not your place to ask. If you are meant to know something, he’ll tell you.

“Get out.” His voice is thick with something akin to revulsion, though you don’t bother to raise your head. Lord Sukuna hasn’t spoken to you so gruffly since you first proved your devotion to him. Behind you there’s the sound of frantic movements as your maid assumedly makes herself scarce in the presence of her master. When she’s gone Lord Sukuna gives you permission to lift your head. In the low light, you can hardly see his face. It’s hard to tell Lord Sukuna’s mood even in bright lighting. He hardly changes from his stoic expression unless there’s blood being spilled, then a smile–more like a deranged baring of his fanged teeth–finds its way onto his face.

“Come bathe with me.” He doesn’t wait for you to react, already halfway down the engawa by the time you gather yourself enough to stand. Lord Sukuna traverses the estate with practiced ease, as if this was his childhood home and not all place of residence usurped from some affluent family. Though the perks of Lord Sukuna’s minions commandeering such a luxurious home for their leader and his family are the accommodations afforded to only the highest nobility. Because only families with more money than time to spend it can afford to build their home large enough to encompass a hot spring along with all the other necessary land. The air is humid around the bathhouse, curtained with steam as clouds of warm air seep out of the secluded space.

Lord Sukuna stands expectantly at the edge of the rocks surrounding the steaming pool, waiting for you to fulfill your wifely duties. With great haste you begin to undress him. His kimono is ruined beyond repair, delicate white silk tattered and stained with browning patches of blood. Still, you take great care in folding each article as it’s removed from his body. There’s no added layers despite the inclement weather, no added underclothes beneath the outer layer of clothing. Your hands reach skin sooner than you expected, flinching away from the warmth of his muscles as if his skin were an open flame. Despite your status as his wife and your consequently intimate knowledge of his body, you still err on the side of caution when it comes to touching Lord Sukuna. He had only asked you to undress him, not to run your fingers over the corded muscles of his arms. Luckily, your husband seems unconcerned with the wayward touch. Instead of snapping at you he rolls his shoulders as if the layers of clothes had been restricting his movements. In all likelihood, they probably have.

Lord Sukuna is something that is no longer human. A higher being ascended beyond the physicality of a normal man, as if his body could no longer handle the brunt of his power and needed to evolve to fit the newly emerging shape of his soul. Once, before you first laid eyes upon him, Lord Sukuna had the appearance of a mere man. An unremarkable face and body. But now he has become something beyond the shape of a human. “A two faced demon with four arms,” as the members of your clan had called him when talks of appeasing the great King of Curses began whispering through the halls of your maiden home. Of course his rumored differences held no bearing on whether or not the clan would be willing to sacrifice a bride to satisfy the Disgraced One. His four eyes and black markings make no difference to your devotion. He is still the husband you’ve dedicated your life to.

Tentatively, you try to strike up a conversation as Lord Sukuna settles himself in the warm pool. “Has Fourth Mistress arrived yet?”

“Yes, she arrived before I did. I expected you to be with the others, fawning over her. Why weren’t you?” His tone is calculated as if he is trying to decide if there is cause for punishment. Your next words are chosen carefully.

“First Mistress did not think–it was requested that I not attend to Fourth Mistress’ arrival.”

“Are you not my wife?” Lord Sukuna asks, annoyance thick in his tone. Of course you are. In this life you are nothing if not his wife. “I expect that you’ll act your part. The lady of the house is meant to greet guests upon their arrival. I don’t care what Jurina says. You’re of noble birth. You know the rules on how to conduct yourself. Act like it.”

“Forgive me for speaking out of turn, my lord, but I am not the lady of the house. That is First Mistress Jurina’s title.” To go against your husband’s word is wrong, reason enough for him to lash out at you, but it is the truth that Jurina is always reminding you of. She is First Mistress, the matron of the estate. It is you that is a lowly concubine in comparison to her status as a legal wife. Lord Sukuna bristles at your insolence and you duck your head to receive your reproach. He’s a short distance away, submerged to his waist in the warm water, but Lord Sukuna can move like a striking snake. It would only take half a beat of your heart for him to reach you and tear it from your chest if he so desires it.

Tonight’s admonishment is far less violent. Coming in the form of a disparaging growl before he snaps at you to undress. You do so with the same care that you disrobed your husband. As his wife, you are an extension of him, and you dare not mistreat his items in his presence. Once your clothes are folded you approach Lord Sukuna with hesitant steps. You’ve discovered that drowning and burning are the worst means of death and the boiling water of the hot spring is a combination of both. Still, if tonight will be wasted on death, at least it will come in Lord Sukuna’s arms. He reaches to help you into the water, drawing you close while his second pair of arms stay splayed on the rocks behind him. He moves you as he pleases like a doll being perched on a shelf, positioning you to straddle his thigh.

“Look at me, woman.” His tone doesn’t sound angry, but that has never been a successful way to guess at Lord Sukuna’s intentions. He can execute someone with a smile. You hope he’ll offer you that same cruel grin when he pushes hot beneath the bubbling water.

“I do not care what order I married any of you in. It should be clear by now that you are the woman of this house. First or third, it doesn’t matter. Jurina’s words hold no weight over you. Do I make myself clear?” There’s a franticness to the way you nod your head, chirping out a pinched “yes, Lord Sukuna!” as he holds your chin to keep your eyes on his.

“You’re the only wife that matters to me, stupid woman. The rest,” he scoffs, “I wouldn’t spit down their throats even if their lungs were on fire. Even the new one. Jurina is nothing and no one. I will kill her right now if it will please you.”

And that had been the original crux of Jurina’s jealousy. The priority with which Lord Sukuna always seemed to treat you. There were always rumors about the estate that you are the favored wife, the one that truly matters, but it is hard to believe rumors when Lord Sukuna hardly does anything to validate them. Though his constant quelling of his temper in your presence should be evidence enough. It’s a rare thing for your husband to lash out at you, but you always assumed it was simply because you were careful with your actions. Never giving him any reason to turn his ire against you. It’s plain to see now that the reason for your persisted well treatment is simple. You are his favorite wife.

Possessive as he is, Lord Sukuna has favorites in everything. Cursed weapons that he favors over all others, and servants that he calls on more often than the rest. To know you hold weight among his most precious possessions is dizzying. Of course, to Lord Sukuna, a favorite thing is a useful thing. It’s easy to imagine that you’re the most useful of his four wives. Neither of your seniors have remarkable cursed techniques despite hailing from quite notable families in the hierarchy of the jujutsu world. And any technique they do possess is woefully untrained as is expected of women in the world of sorcery. Women of jujutsu-laden clans are meant to be vessels from which the next generation of male sorcerers are born, not taught to be sorcerers in their own right.

It was only by a terrible coincidence that you were able to train your own technique. A jealous cousin and a well. A harsh push to your back after she whispered about how she should be the one to marry first despite her inferior talents as a homemaker. She got her wish, the husband she so covetously desired. Last you heard she’d been returned to your family’s estate after being set aside for a more fitting woman.

When she pushed you, falling felt like flying and dying felt like burning as your lungs filled with water. In the end you’d spent nearly a week at the bottom of that seldom used well, floundering for your life as your cursed technique kept you in a constant loop of dying and reviving, bursting back to life stronger than when you died. Chrysalis is what your family had taken to calling your ability when you were finally fished out with a bucket of water. Death was something impermanent to you, though the manner of which you passed holds bearing on how long you’ll be stuck in your “cocooned” state. You imagine being killed by means of jujutsu would kill you properly, forever, but no one has been bold enough to try. Certainly not now that you are a treasured wife of the King of Curses. Though you’re sure Lord Sukuna will kill you eventually, when your purpose has been served. For now, it seems your purpose is to provide him with the comforts a wife can offer her husband.

“Kiss me.” He commands, hand on your jaw already pulling you towards him. There’s never been anything delicate about Lord Sukuna as far as you could tell. He’s always had an air of harshness to him, something wild and untamed that bleeds into his every movement. You’ve decided it must be because he lives the same as you, unimpeded by the world around him. The King of Curses bows to nothing and no one, so why should he govern himself by the laws and morals of humanity. Kindness, restraint, it doesn’t seem to exist to your lord husband. The same way fear no longer exists to you. So when Lord Sukuna’s hand–large enough to hold your head in his palm–pulls you towards his fanged mouth, you feel nothing but unadulterated lust. It’s unbecoming of a woman to find herself so lost in her bodily whims but you’re no longer just a woman. You’re Lord Sukuna’s woman, and within the walls of his home, shame no longer exists. You melt against him as his sharp teeth find the softness of your lips. Blood spills between your open mouths, dripping down your bodies before dripping into the water with a soft tinge of pink.

“Sweet,” he hums.

It’s no secret that Lord Sukuna is prone to fits of bloodlust so blinding he’ll tear his teeth into anything soft he can find, no matter the origin of the flesh. Animal or human it’s all the same when he’s tearing his claws through a warm body. He’s mentioned sampling your body once. How he’s thought about tearing off bits and pieces of you to taste. Of course, he told you that he would only maim you in such a way as punishment for misbehavior–it hardly matters when death would only find you mended and made anew–though it hasn’t stopped him from sinking his teeth into you when he’s wrapped up in another kind of lust.

Usually imperceptible if you aren’t looking for it, the only sign of Lord Sukuna’s arousal stands proudly between your legs, so large they breach the surface of the water as he holds you steady in his lap. His upper arms are still splayed out on the stone behind him as he reclines as if he is seated on a throne. He’s shown you what a throne fit for the King of Curses would look like, but only once. In his domain. An infinite wasteland bathed in blood with a single shrine standing at its heart. A corrupted chinjusha of flesh and bone. All gaping maws and cracked skulls. A shrine dedicated to the only higher power Lord Sukuna will ever respect; himself. The strange mouth splitting a seam between his muscles always reminds you of his Malevolent Shrine, of the four grotesque mouths that stand where the four doors of a shrine would be. Its tongue is strangely textured, like that of a cat’s as it lolls out of his stomach to lap at your skin. Sometimes you find yourself wondering if Lord Sukuna has control over the appendage or if it acts of its own volition each time the grainy feeling drags over your body, but it isn’t your place to ask. Who has control or not, it doesn’t matter. Lord Sukuna is your husband and you relish even the smallest touch whether it’s intentional or not.

“Are you going to please your husband?” He asks. The answer is always simple. Yes. It is your sole purpose now that he’s taken you as his wife and torn your world into the smallest pieces until only this single scrap remains. It’s becoming so precious no matter how small and defaced it becomes. Sometimes you wonder what would happen if you stepped out of line. Tried to leave the estate, tried to defy Lord Sukuna. In truth, you’ll never know. Your husband is your world and your world is your husband. Of course you will do everything within your power to please him. He seems satisfied with just the look in your eyes as you stare up at him, waiting for his next command. If it would please him you’d slash yourself open, spill your innards into his lap and watch him feast on your flesh. His true wish is far more gentle, something a more humble husband would ask of his bride.

“Touch me.” His clawed hand is already guiding yours to his stiffness, wrapping your fingers over the length of him. It’s so strange that curses can bleed, but Lord Sukuna isn’t exactly a curse nor is he a human. He’s something more but his heart beats just the same. You feel it in your palm as his cock twitches in your grip, thick veins thrumming under his skin. Perhaps it’s the water or more likely it’s something innate to your husband because he always feels hot to the touch, his skin is nearly scalding as you wrap your hands around his twin cocks, fingers spread too wide to touch around his girth. Lord Sukuna looks pleased as he leans back, eyes watching you as if to catch a flaw in your presentation. A rogue frown or unintended scowl that would prove your supposed dedication false.

Even after so long he’s waiting for you to break, to truly realize what you’re doing and be disgusted enough to shrink away. The only thing you feel at this moment is heady arousal. It pools like molten lava deep in your stomach, seeping between your legs and into the water. There’s been no permission given so you remain still, but your hips ache to shift against the strength of Lord Sukuna’s chiseled thigh, to relieve a bit of the tension his lingering gaze has caused. But his hand hasn’t strayed from your hip, in fact his grip has tightened with each stroke of your hands. There’s a stinging bite as his claws dig through your skin, burying deep enough to draw blood despite the composure still set in stone on his face. He is still a man in some regard. Still a husband enjoying the touch of his wife. The thought blooms sweetly in your chest, lifting a soft smile to your lips. Lord Sukuna notices in an instant, four eyes still trained on your face. He snatches your chin up, straining your neck with how quickly he guides your eyes towards his.

“What are you smiling about, brat?” Another attempt to catch you in a lie, to find some falsehood in your contentment. Even your lord husband finds himself questioning if your happiness is true. You thumb over the head of one of his cocks, bringing the taste to your lips. And because he is watching you so intensely you make a coquettish show of dragging your tongue over the pad of your finger, gasping when Lord Sukuna’s fingers bury deeper into your delicate skin. There will be cuts and bruises when he’s done with you. There always are. Then your maid–or, on some occasions, Uraume–will come to tend to your body marked by your husband’s touch. You like the way your body burns when he’s through with you, memories of his touch simmering in your mind. He scoffs when you wrap your lips around your thumb. With a cruel smile he hooks his own thumb into your mouth, talon scraping against your tongue as he pulls your jaw until your mouth is as wide as you can bear with only the slightest twinge of pain.

Drool pools in your mouth, dripping out of the corners as they sting with the strain of Lord Sukuna’s strength. He sneers, looking pleased with the mess you’re making as he leans down to lick it up before spitting it back into your open mouth. You nearly choke and rush to swallow with a rattling cough. It tastes like blood, likely your own though you wonder if your husband sank his teeth into something before coming to you. The blood on his clothes looked dry, though you can never be certain with Lord Sukuna. You banish the thought, thrilled with the way he no longer seems to be dividing his focus.

Before he had looked uninterested, as if his mind was elsewhere even as he looked at you servicing him so happily. Now he’s leaned in close enough for you to see his eyelashes, a rare treat with his immense stature. He’s nearly all you can see, all you can feel and you revel in it as your world shrinks to this tiny pinprick. There’s nothing outside this bathhouse. Only the infinite nothingness that surrounds a domain. The world could come apart outside these four walls and you wouldn’t care as long as Lord Sukuna keeps you in his arms. As if he knows your thoughts, the very deepest desires of your heart, Lord Sukuna drags you up his leg by the hand still embedded in the fat of your hips and the feeling sings through your body as your clit catches against the firmness of his thigh. Your hands tighten around his cocks still pulsing in your hands, though his only reaction is the slightest twitch of his lip.

“Am I doing a good job, Lord Sukuna?” You ask around his thumb, truly desperate for approval. If you were any more pitiful he might’ve pet your hair like a loyal hound. Instead he laughs, something short and sardonic as his teeth nip at your cheek. Warmth blooms then drips down the curve of your face and you know he’s broken skin once more.

“Enough with the stupid questions. If you want my praise you know how to earn it. Show me how badly you want it and I might reward your efforts.” You slip from his lap, mourning the loss of his leg pressing between yours as you kneel in the water. It’s up to your neck as your knees meet the bottom of the pool, steam billowing like a veil in front of your eyes as you center yourself at the apex of Lord Sukuna’s thighs. He’s spread out above you like a proud effigy, a statue meant to be worshiped. You feel a transcendent kind of devotion kneeling at the feet of your lord husband. The taste of him lands heavy on your tongue as your lips tease at the head of his dick, swallowing him in slow increments. Despite the harsh preparation of your mouth, you still wish to savor every moment spent servicing your husband.

His face is clouded in shadows again as he leans back, head tilted towards the ceiling. The lanterns flicker playful shadows across his body, highlighting and shrouding pieces of him as you bow to take him into your mouth in earnest. Your jaw still aches from the way he nearly unhinged it, but it works in your favor as your lips wrap around his length.

There’s nothing dignified about the way you’re swallowing his dick, little focus being allotted to your own comfort as you take him as deeply as his size will allow. His body is strange, of course, but it’s all you’ve ever known of a man. Aside from Lord Sukuna you’ve never seen any man bared beyond his chest, although you know innately that humans aren’t meant to have the endowments he does. His second cock presses against your cheek, dribbling over your skin as you hollow your cheeks until Lord Sukuna’s thighs twitch. Muscles seizing tighter as the head of his cock meets the tightness of your throat. Breathing is far from your mind, a need secondary to pleasing your husband. It’s a messy endeavor and you loathe to think of how terrible you must look. It’s always been a point of pride to preen yourself to perfection because husbands like their women to look beautiful when they arrive home, or at least Lord Sukuna seems to prefer it. Though he never seems bothered by what is surely a horrid display as split slicks down your chin and tears dot along your lash line as you gag around his dick.

Lord Sukuna flicks your forehead after a while, likely drawing another scratch between your brows. It’s a fraction of his power. It’s likely he could take your head apart as easily as squashing a peach under his heel yet he hardly puts effort behind the reproach. Only enough to draw your attention as he drags you, coughing and drooling, off of his cock. They’re both gathered into one fist so he can drag the taste of his leaking precum over your parted lips.

“You know better.” Lord Sukuna does not take things in half measures. His intentions are clear. If you’re going to pleasure him, do it right and do it well. Your jaw pops open again, wide enough to take his twin cocks into your mouth. He stretched and strained your mouth but there’s only so much that can be done with the sheer size of him. And while he does well to shield his thoughts at the best of times, you imagine he must be gleaning a fair bit of pleasure from your messy sucking as his hand remains in your hair. His claws scratch against your scalp, gentle enough to keep your skin intact as he keeps your mouth wrapped around him. A burning type of exertion settles painfully in your jaw but you’ll endure. Lord Sukuna never likes to keep you like this for long. With both of his weeping cocks tangled between your lips you can hardly take more than the head of each. In the end, his preference will always be the wet heat brewing between your legs. Another bout of pain sings through your scalp as Lord Sukuna pulls your mouth away from him, leaving threads of spit dripping between your bodies. His thumb brushes over your bottom lip, pressing against the grooves where his teeth bit into your skin until they begin to bleed anew.

He manipulates your body as if you’re merely a puppet dancing on strings. A flex of his arm and you’re lifting off your knees, hips stretched wide to accommodate the width of his body between them. His spit-laden cocks are pressed between your bodies, grinding into the soft expanse of your stomach as he pulls your bleeding mouth to his. He suckles at your torn skin, humming at the taste of your blood seeping onto his tongue. His hands find your hips, pressing into the marks he’s already left there as he hikes you higher against his body. The tongue lolling out of his stomach finds its way between your thighs, lapping at the mess that’s left after the water washed away the first wave of your arousal. It’s nearly too much with how textured the wide appendage is but you welcome any type of relief you can find as Lord Sukuna pulls your head to the side quick enough to send a stinging twinge up the column of your neck. The pain is only intensified as he noses against the soft curve where your neck meets your shoulder, as if he’s looking for something.

His tongue sweeps over your skin before his fanged teeth make a home in it. There’s a rippling groan that thunders in his chest as a true taste of your blood spills into his mouth. Before long, your head is spinning from blood loss. Lord Sukuna must feel the change in your pulse as it turns slippery, harder to catch beneath your skin. He pulls away with a satisfied groan as his hands press your hips deeper into the expanse of his lower tongue.

“Enjoying yourself, brat?” Lord Sukuna sneers, and because you have no sense of shame you find yourself nodding earnestly. He’s hardly touched you and what touches he’s shared have been steeped in equal parts pain and pleasure, yet you’ve enjoyed it all the same. It’s awkward and teasing because there’s no tact to the way his lower tongue moves between your legs. It’s like striking a flint without starting a fire, dull sparks of teasing pleasure that leave you wanting more. You’d rather have his face between your legs and a more dexterous tongue teasing you to the edge, but it would be presumptuous to make any kind of demands of your husband especially when he’s a man like Lord Sukuna.

In most regards, your pleasure is incidental. Secondary to his own. So when his teeth snap over his claws, biting the sharp points into flattened nubs, you feel your excitement growing. He’s learned from experience that his rough treatment of your body should not extend to certain places. After only a few times he pressed his clawed fingers inside you, Lord Sukuna learned that it would better serve him if his nails were dulled before he went poking them inside you. And they’ll be grown back to full length by night’s end. He can manipulate the shape of his body as easily as fire melting snow. His hand smooths over the side of your body, sliding against your ribs and hips as he makes his way between your legs. His fingers plunge inside with little warning, forcing you open with a swiftness you could almost call desperation. If something so undignified could ever be said about the King of Curses.

Lord Sukuna is a behemoth, dwarfing you in every regard, and his hands are no different. His fingers reach deep inside you, stroking over the place that has your back bowing as he makes space for himself inside you. He hums at how easily you take his fingers, sounding somewhere between amused and approving. It flutters through your chest and settles atop the arousal already building inside you.

“Give your body to me, woman. Open yourself to your king.” You try to say something as he slips another finger inside you but it comes out as little more than a breathy whine. This is already too much and yet it can’t compare to how full you’ll feel when he gets his cocks inside you. His fingers are a luxury offered in preparation for his true reward and you take it happily. He smirks at the way your thighs strain as you try to grind against his touch. The heel of his hand is pressed tight against your clit and you buck your hips against the feeling. Lord Sukuna’s skin is thick, nothing like the softness of your own and it feels just the right amount of rough against your clit. One of Lord Sukuna’s hands finds your hair again, yanking hard until you’re looking up at him with tears shimmering in your vision.

“There’s my spoiled brat. This is how you act. This is how the wife of a king is meant to be. Take what you want, woman, take everything I give you.” A dark laugh booms through the room as you whine and paw at Lord Sukuna’s chest. He adds another to the litany of scratches decorating your skin as his teeth nip at your neck, distracting you from the sting of another finger finding its way inside you.

“You were made for this,” he reminds you. “Made to be mine. My bride. You can take it.” He sounds almost patronizing, voice softening to a teasing lilt as his thumb presses against your clit. Like with everything, Lord Sukuna is harsh, forcing you to the edge quicker than expected. Each curl of his fingers yanks at the string tightening inside you, pulling you closer and closer to the edge as he moves his hands with inhuman speed inside you. Everything is hard and fast and your thighs start to tremble in his hold, body shivering as Lord Sukuna all but wrings the orgasm out of your body. You clench hard around his fingers, pussy dripping down your thighs as you try to steady yourself with your hands on Lord Sukuna’s shoulders. He allows it, revels in it as he pulls you into another bloody kiss. But even as you tremble in his arms, Lord Sukuna doesn’t stop. His thumb is still circling your twitching bud even as you try to whine out a plea for mercy. It only brings a fanged smile to his lips.

“Take it,” he grunts, “I know you can.” It really feels like you can’t. The tension brought on by your orgasm hasn’t dispersed and you feel like a knot being pulled ever tighter, back curling until your face is buried against his chest. He smells like the bath. Like sweet oils and wildflowers as your nose is buried against his scalding skin. With your forehead pressed against his chest your eyes have nowhere to look but down. Down at the way his cocks are straining to be touched, flushed and leaking just out of reach. You look up to distract yourself with the black markings etched into Lord Sukuna’s chest. Your kisses are sloppy, wet and open-mouthed as your tongue peeks out to trace the shape of each tattoo. It’s not until your teeth begin to nip at his chest that Lord Sukuna scruffs you once more.

“Trying to leave a mark on me, brat?” As if you could. Your teeth are likely no different than trying to pierce his skin with a blade of grass. “What a greedy little bride I have. So eager to defer to another wife’s authority when you’re this possessive of your husband. Isn’t that right, woman?” You try to shake your head. Of course, you aren’t possessive of him, you know your place. You are the Third Mistress. Perhaps you are his favorite but there is a hierarchy that must be upheld in the household. To so brazenly try to claim full authority over your lord husband would be lunacy. There is no higher authority than the King of Curses himself. You’re simply a pebble lingering in the shadow of the highest mountain.

“Yes you are,” he grins. You whine as he pulls his hand from between your legs. “Look at the mess you’ve made trying to mark me up like a bitch in heat.” There’s no sense of embarrassment welling at his degrading words. What sense is there in hiding how well your husband pleasures you? And Lord Sukuna seems proud as his tongue licks up the mess you’ve made on his hand before pressing a kiss to your parted lips. You taste yourself on his tongue. Your blood and your pleasure.

“You’re going to take me so well, aren’t you?” It’s hardly a question. Simply an ordered phrased as if you could deny yourself the feeling of being split open on Lord Sukuna’s cocks. He starts with one, always. Dragging the leaking head through the mess he’s made of your cunt, tapping against your clit until he finally presses inside. His body is a marvel and you’re blessed to be so acquainted with it as the length not pressing inside you grinds against your clit as he makes you take him as deep as your body will allow. Lord Sukuna has been known to be rash and unpredictable, a being of pure chaos when the mood strikes him, but when he’s with you like this everything he does is deliberate.

He’s rough but not destructively so. Yes, you’re bleeding as he bounces you in his lap, drawing a litany of breathless sounds from your lips, but he’s always intentional when drawing blood. You’ve been trained well in these years of marriage to take him. To weather any storm Lord Sukuna throws at you. His hands are bruising on your hips as he drags you up and down his length, hands that could shatter your bones with the slightest bit of effort and yet he only uses enough strength to hold you close. You’re not deluded enough to think that Lord Sukuna loves you, certainly not in the way a lover should, but he cares enough to treat you with a level of gentility.

“Thank you,” you babble it like a prayer, over and over. Worshiping at your husband’s altar for even the briefest thought given to your safety, your pleasure. It can never be said that Lord Sukuna is a neglecting lover, at least not with you. He’s everywhere all at once. Hands on your hips and at your breasts, pinching at the aching peaks of your nipples. His face is buried against your throat, teeth surely raising welts as his tongue laps at the taste of blood and sweat dampening your skin. You cling to him in turn, nails digging into the thick muscles of his arms with no hope of ever drawing blood. Still, he grunts out a laugh as you drag your dull nails across his skin, leaving nothing but the whisper of claw marks behind. An arm slips out from under your grasp, unbalancing you, but Lord Sukuna is quick to steady your boneless body as he reaches between you to take hold of his second cock. It’s thick and straining, leaking against your skin as he presses it in beside the first. The stretch is harsh, a stinging pinch between your legs soothed only in part by his thumb drawing shapes against your clit. He hushes you when your whining gets too loud, hands clamping tight to your hips to keep you from squirming away from taking all of him.

“Be a good wife and accept your reward.” Lord Sukuna hisses as he presses deep inside you. The weight of him settles like molten heat inside you, his hand pressing over the shape of himself through your stomach. “Hush, you can take it.” He hisses, biting at your cheek as tears well in your eyes once more. It doesn’t hurt, but it’s a strange feeling to be so full all at once.

“My pretty wife.” He’s only this sweet when he has you close to breaking, teetering on the edge of insanity from the way he’s taking his pleasure from your body. “Look at me, woman. Keep your eyes on your king.” It’s hard to look anywhere else. He isn’t sweating, this is hardly more than a leisurely stroll for him, but the humidity has left his skin beaded with moisture. It makes him shimmer in the torchlight like the divine being that he is, wasting his time on a creature as lowly as you. It’s your blessing that he’s so enraptured with you at the moment. Your eyes slip shut, tears streaming down your cheeks as every corner of your body feels lit aflame, the heat only made worse as Lord Sukuna’s hand finds your jaw.

“I said, eyes. On. Me.” He growls. With a bit of resistance, your eyes flutter open, white light swimming at the edge of your vision as Lord Sukuna drags you to the precipice of insanity. He’s close. Far less careful and coherent as he drags you up and down his lengths with startling strength. He’s pressing against every sweet spot inside you, igniting a thousand flames at once that threaten to swallow you whole. There’s a pitchy mantra of “wait, wait, wait” playing on your tongue but it only seems to further entice your husband.

“You gonna sing for me, woman? Go on, let me hear something pretty when you come for your king.” He’s taunting you, laughing at how shrill your voice sounds. It nearly does sound like you’re singing as you wail his name, back bowing as he rips another orgasm from your spent body. It’s as quick as a lightning strike and nearly as blinding, eyes clouding white for a moment as you fight to keep your eyelids from fluttering. From taking your eyes off Lord Sukuna for even a moment. You feel yourself clawing at him, clinging and grasping to keep yourself grounded as pleasure shatters through your body. Vaguely you can hear Lord Sukuna laughing, something tinged dark with amusement as he works you through your orgasm. He has no patience to wait for you to regain your breath, to see the light of coherence return to your eyes. Instead, his hands grip tighter to your waist, nails biting into your skin as he works you faster over his cocks. His voice dips low, a rasping gravel as he grunts, squeezing every bit of his own pleasure from your body. It’s barely a change, just the slightest shift, but you’ve done this so many times that you can almost sense when he gets close.

Lord Sukuna gathers your loosening muscles back into some semblance of an embrace, holding you tight to his chest as he pushes your hips low enough for your bodies to meet in earnest. The feeling is a wet slide of skin against skin, the mess of your joined pleasure slicking up your bodies. It nearly feels like choking as he holds you still, the shape of him pressing every so slightly against the softness of your stomach. He’s more gentle now, but only by a hair’s breadth, as he thumbs over the shape of his body making a home for itself inside yours. There’s always a hint of softness at the edges of moments like this. A bit of the darkness bleeds from Lord Sukuna’s eyes as he guides your hips to grind against him, thumbing where he sees himself beneath your skin. Lord Sukuna has always been smart, his intelligence far exceeding that of your woefully undereducated mind.

There’s never been a time where you were certain of his thoughts, but in moments like these you think there’s a hint of curiosity sparkling in his eyes. Something desirous of the unknown and intangible. He moves in shallow thrusts, thumb dancing lazily over your puffy clit for only a moment more before he’s spilling inside you with a satisfied groan. But, still, he keeps you there. As if forcing your body to take to everything he’s given you. If it were up to you, your womb would quicken to give him a child; proof of your devotion. But even the fantasy sounds impossible. Lord Sukuna has shed his humanity and with it, you assume, his ability to continue his legacy by way of heirs. Though he hardly needs them.

Lord Sukuna is a shining beacon of the height of jujutsu, proof of what greatness can be achieved when you’re willing to go beyond the standards set out by society. He’s immortal, indomitable. Children would only be another jewel in his crown, more pawns to serve his greater will. And it’s unlikely such children of greatness will ever come to pass. In all your years of marriage, there’s never been a single moment where you thought for even a moment that Lord Sukuna’s seed took. And it likely never will. It’s wasted as he lifts you off of his softening length, everything he gave you dripping out into the spring water. The light flickers and for a moment it almost looks like there’s a spark of disappointment in his eye, then the torches shift again and the shadows are gone.

“You did well, woman.” He hums, running his hands over the length of your body. The heat of his palms and the babbling water works to soothe the aches and pains of being so thoroughly used by your behemoth of a husband. “Who do you love, wife?” He asks after the breath finally returns to your lungs. Of course it’s him. There is no one else. No man could compare, like a pebble being compared to a shining jewel.

“Good girl.” He says when you’ve finished your babbling. Like a true king, Lord Sukuna loves to hear his own praises and you’re more than happy to sing them. Sometimes it’s startling how perfectly the two of you exist together. He’s the sun and you’re a flower turning your face to gaze upon him always. Which of his other wives could ever share in a fraction of your devotion? No one will ever love Lord Sukuna as you do, save for maybe Uraume. Perhaps they don’t love him, but there is a fine line between love and admiration. The loyal servant comes bustling into the bathhouse after Lord Sukuna has had his fill of soft caresses and breathless praises.

The fact that both of you are bare makes no difference to Uraume. They lift you from Lord Sukuna’s arms with startling strength, hands frigid against your skin as they guide you to sit and go about drying your body and combing your hair. It’s always strange to be tended to by someone other than your personal maid, more so when it’s by the hands of Lord Sukuna’s most trusted servant, but it seems Uraume sees you as an extension of Lord Sukuna as much as you do. They dry and dress you, sending you back to your room so that they may speak privately with your husband. Some time later when the bells of the estate are tolling for the Hour of the Dog, the strumming of your koto is interrupted further by screaming. Something bloodcurdling terrified as it rings through the house, echoing into the snow speckled night. Vaguely you think of how the screaming sounds like First Mistress Jurina.

#sukuna ★#sukuna x reader smut #sukuna smut #sukuna x reader #jjk smut #★ mine!

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historiaxvanserra · 2 months

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Every Exquisite Thing | A Regency AU

Summary: The first of the season brings with it so many things; new friends, new enemies, a masquerade ball, and a rakish young gentleman with eyes like burnished gold.

Pairing: Eris Vanserra x Archeron!Reader (Regency AU)

Word Count: 3.1k

This is the first part of a series that had been consuming my thoughs day and night for about two weeks. We don't meet Eris yet but we get glimpses and I like what I see 👀 I just wanted to give a feel for the regency vibe and see if we're feeling it or not! Next chapter well get Eris in all his regency glory and I promise you, he's worth the wait.

The townhouse that your family occupies on the main street of the Ton is unusually quiet this morning, you think. The first of the season typically brings with it an air of frivolity; the ladies in their Spring colors, gentlemen riding horse-drawn carriages through the cobblestone streets and the hum of the city beyond. A myriad of color -- lilacs and honeysuckle, dappled with the greenery that climbs along the facades of the townhouses -- a colorful oasis from the bleak gray and green of a Winter spent in the country.

However, today, the main square, where Pryhtian’s most ancient and noble families convalesce during the fairer months, is blanketed in an oppressive palette of indigo and gray as the last of the Winter’s storms ravages the world beyond Crescent House.

The sound of the howling wind as it rages like a great tempest through the streets rouses you from your perch on the chaise near the dying hearth.

The street below the parlor is veiled in the shadowed hues of the storm and not a soul in town has dared brave the wrath of the elements since the dourpour began. Hail patters dismally against the window panes of your families townhouse and an ice-kissed wind crawls its way along the exposed planes of your shoulders and collarbones and in the distance you hear the distinctive draw of a carriage along the main square, near Forest House. As you near the window you observe the hail as it falls like pearls from the darkening sky onto wet, cobbled streets.

From the oppressive darkness a carriage emerges; a considerable vehicle of polished wood, lacquered with dark emerald paint, the trim and doors are framed with delicate golden embellishments and the doors and rear bear a family crest, obscured by the gloom of the afternoon. The cart itself is drawn by four bay stallions with long, dark manes, sodden with the downpour. From the cabin steps a shadowy figure of a man, once obscured by the oppressive darkness, now illuminated by the lamplight; he’s all dressed in black, save for the white collar of a linen shirt and his long hair, curls away from his face in tousled, auburn waves. He burns most ardent against the bleak afternoon, even in the din of the oil lamps, he looks like something out of one of Feyre’s paintings. Or perhaps the formidable and brooding romantic lead of the romance novels Nesta so adores. Either way he cuts an intimidating figure in the dark streets of the main square. Tall and broad-shouldered, and rather rakish as he stalks up the steps of the townhouse opposite yours.

From your perch overlooking the street you see him turn outward; admiring the graceful planes of his face, the aquiline nose and high-cheekbones falling to the slender cut of his waist and hips and the broad spread of his shoulders and sculpted arms.

It occurs to you then that you have been all too obvious in your voyeurism.

You are watching him.

And he is watching you in return.

The very thought elicits something in you; something dark and sentimental and terribly anxious. It is a cruel, coiling thing, in the pit of your stomach. Some ill-fated omen. A harbinger of your own downfall. The ghost at the feast, or a raven in the night that spells your undoing. Whatever it is, there is a deep sense of foreboding in you at the prospect of what this dark figure might herald in with him.

The tolling of the city bells brings with it a flurry of movement on the street and your eyes meet his strange amber gaze across the way and he scowls. A deep furrow of a brow; the firm set of his jaw, the flex of a pale hand, before retreating into the house.

“Come away from the window girl,” Your mother chastises in her usual cutting tone as she eyes you from her place in front of the hearth. Her gloved hand inspects the fine silk fabric of the dresses the modiste had sent to her. She holds the fabric between those fine-boned fingers and drapes each swatch over the pale skin of her slender arm with a rehearsed ease as she takes the time to scrutinize every hand-sewn seam and embroidered adornment.

“Yes mama.” You say absentmindedly, casting one last longing glance towards the dark facade of the townhouse across the street, where the orange flicker of candlelight illuminates the window..

Your mother is an austere woman with a cutting sort of beauty rather unlike your own. Her eyes are cold and grey and her features, angular; feline in a way that is almost unnerving to look at. Though even in her age, she bares fine, high cheekbones, unblemished skin, and her long golden hair falls over the delicate slope of her shoulder in coiffed ringlets. She had been quite a remarkable beauty in her youth, it had been said. Now all that remains of her lost youth is an oil painting hung above the hearth-- the paint, yellowed and cracked with age-- and the legacy of her ancient and most-noble lineage.

Her piercing gaze falls onto you again as you take a turn about the room, perching on the cushioned bench in front of the pianoforte. You run a hand over the untuned keys and in your wake dust mites filter through the stagnant air.

That piano had once been the beating heart of this room; a symphony of high arching notes that rang through the halls of this house.

It has not been touched since Nesta left.

“You look drawn, my dear,” She says simply, her eyes cruel and unyielding as she looks over you and the fine silk draped over her arm, “green does so very little for your complexion.”

She considers you for a moment longer before turning to the modiste with a quirked brow. The seamstress at least, has the good grace to look apologetically between you and your youngest sister before nodding in agreement to your mother. She murmurs that a deeper shade of green would suit you better, though your mother ignores her entirely.

“Perhaps an emerald tone would suit better” she muses to no one in particular.

“It would make you look more…tempting” The modiste decides with a sly smile to you when your mother looses a shrill gasp. Your mother hums her disapproval once more from her spot in the armchair before turning her attention towards Feyre on the modiste’s podium as the slender woman takes her measurements for the last alterations to her gown.

“You look beautiful Fey,” You say lightly, pulling at your own faded sage gown as you regard your youngest sister, “the silver looks exquisite on you.” Feyre smiles brightly at you from her place on the podium and pulls a few strands of her long, golden hair to frame her face. She looks as though she is wreathed in starlight in the silver gown; the high bust lays perfectly over her chest and the cuffed sleeves are trimmed with silver thread and sheer lace and accentuate the slope of her strong shoulders, the skirts fall in a swathe of silk and chiffon and the pearls and opal sewn into the skirts catch like moonglow in the blue light. She smooths the skirts with a flair of her gloved hand and admires the matching slippers that peek out from the long hem.

“Hmm,” Your mother murmurs lowly, bringing a slender hand to her painted mouth as she assesses the garment carefully, “Yes - the silver favors you, my darling.” Your mother purses her lips once more and nods decisively at the modiste who offers a courteous bow in response.

“I have hopes that the Lady of Autumn might name you her ‘incomparable’, afterall.” Your mother’s voice is frightfully wistful as she casts a look up to her portrait hung above the dying fire. Beside it, on the mantle Nesta’s painted face stares back impassively at you and you feel anxiety twisting within you again. Feyre laughs. A small, disbelieving thing as she thanks the modiste and exits the parlor in favor of her sketchbook.

“She did so love Nesta when she was first presented,” You mother recalls, her eyes glassy as she sips at her cold tea with a grimace, “and your sister does so remind me of her.”

You smile fondly at the thought of your eldest sister; painfully absent for the last few years but missed dearly. Nesta had always bore the brunt of your mother’s cruelty -- until she could bare it no more -- and then you took her place.

“Yes mama, she will do very well at court.” You say genuinely, though your mother can’t bring herself to acknowledge you. You bite down the bitter taste of jealousy when her eyes linger on the portrait of Nesta hung along the mantel. The way her brows dip in a moment of fleeting grief for her favorite daughter.

When she looks at you again you get the sense that looking at you now -- in the pallid light of the storm -- is like looking in a mirror.

It is a mother’s curse you think.

A daughter’s burden.

Breathing deeply as the modiste pins the hem of the dress you find yourself thinking of the happy recollections of your childhood; you think perhaps your mother is reminiscing on those times too.

She had been the only daughter of an Earl somewhere on the continent once. Beautiful and graceful. Green and foolhardy. Named the incomparable of her own social season; she had dreams of an idyllic life in the countryside, summers shaded in the laughter of her many sons, and measured in the unyielding smiles of a good husband.

Of course, as was the way of things, her girlhood ideations had been nought but that-- dreams. Dashed and divided like stardust in a vast twilight abyss.

A series of scandals and bad investments led her to Pryhtian as the sole heir to an old name. A lamb to the slaughter by her own mother, to be the docile wife of some dull Lord, almost two decades her senior

In time, she did the same to her own daughters.

Time is a cruel mistress; and the woman she is now is one tarnished by the years. Imposing and cynical; demanding in a way that it was impossible to please her. In your youth you recall her endless cruelty towards you all, though none more than Nesta.

Her prodigy.

Her pride and joy.

It was that ceaseless need for perfection that drove Nesta away in the end.

So with the wave of her hand she gestures to you to take to the podium.

An ill-fated replacement for the daughter she lost.

Her perpetual disappointment.

The modiste is a young woman, who hails from the continent with beautiful dark hair that fell in coiled ringlets over her shoulders, she speaks to you in a low, velvet tenor and has a thick accent that distinguishes her to the natives of this land. She is favored by many of the young ladies of the Ton for her exquisite garments; each made with richly adorned and embroidered fabrics imported from her homeland. You watch impassively as she records your measurements and swatches a few scraps of fabric against your skin. The woman quickly discards the silver that Feyre had worn and opts instead for gold and offers your mother a few other options for your dresses this season; sapphire and cerulean, emerald and ruby, topaz and onyx.

Then selects a beautiful emerald gown, trimmed with jade and adorned with matching beads and crystals that shine with the glittering darkness of some forgotten forest when the light of the storm outside refacts in their many surfaces. The modiste admires the garment as she holds it up to you; her keen eyes finding yours and smiling brightly and nodding deliberately.

“This is the one,” She says, her accent so thick with delight that it is difficult to fully understand the words, “perhaps the Lady of Autumn might name you her favorite in your sisters place” She offers it jovially, almost in jest but your mother’s face twists nonetheless.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Your mother laughs cruelly as she regards you in the beautiful garment. You think perhaps that in you she sees all the things she hates about herself. Your mother takes a moment to scrutinize you; her eyes reap over every curve and divot of the skirts as they fall against you, every minute details to find fault where she can.

It is a mothers’s curse, not to know a daughter’s pain.

You imagine it is also a mercy too when she looks at you like you are her own reflection.

Her perpetual disappointment.

After another silent moment she nods her head to the modiste and rises to her feet. The tea cup rattles and rings viscously through icy air as she sets it down and wanders towards the doors.

“Oh Feyre darling, you look exquisite!” Your mothers voice is shrill and dripping with pride that elicits a strange sort of jealousy and you swallow down its bitter taste. In the foyer your sister glides down the marble staircase dressed in all her finery.

Feyre has the type of beauty reminiscent of a falling star; all pale skin, that looks like porcelain, dappled with the iridescent stardust that falls from the sky around her birthday each year. Her dress is one of flowing indigo and complemented by intricate silver embroidery along the cuffs and bust, the long line of her neck is adorned with pearls and diamonds that refract in the light of the chandelier; dashed and divided like a million stars in the night sky.

She smiles brightly and her laugh echoes like birdsong around the hall as your mother takes her hand. And almost like an afterthought, your mother regards you with thinly veiled horror at the garment that clings to you like a plate of armor.

A deep merlot gown, inlaid with rubies and pearls; that cast a bloody halo as you step into the light of the chandelier. The skirts bleed into a train made of gossamer thin spidersilk that has a metallic quality to it that makes you feel as though you are some ancient Goddess of love and war.

Aphrodite perhaps, as deadly as she is beautiful.

Your hands, though they tremble, bare many gold rings, each polished to the heavens so that she sees her face distorted in their many unblemished surfaces. There is a part of you that hopes craves your mothers love more than you long to insight her ire.

But that part of you died the day Nesta went away.

“How do you suppose you’re going to tempt a man into marrying you dressed like that,” She chastices, pulling at the skirts of your wine red dress, “you look like a common whore.”

“At least a whore is paid to abide the insipid company of boring men.” you counter under your breath as your mother strides out into the street. You catch Feyre’s eye and she smiles at you like a feral cat.

The rest of the carriage ride is spent in solemn silence as the facade of The town hall draws ever closer. You mother’s idle gossip about one Lord of the other hardly seems the rouse you from though as you watch the world beyond this cart pass you by.

The storm had broken sometime around midday and the tempest gave way to sunlight; soft ochre and gold as it filtered through the open windows of your father’s library, where you had spent the afternoon. Nestled into the worn armchair favored by your father and a quiet comfort when he is away. There, in the confines of your father’s study, you allow yourself to dream; of debauched gentlemen and tortured artists. Stories painted with the vivid imaginings of Gothic heroines and vast and sweeping landscapes. Of temptation and sacrifice.

It is a hobby inherited from your sister and one much discouraged by your mother.

But as afternoon bled into night you were called away from the pages of manuscripts written in some foreign tongue. For, the Lady of Autumn’s masquerade ball marks the true commencement of the social season each year. It is a night of mystery and secrets; of dark romance and all things fanciful.

It is the one night a year that you allow yourself to be swept up in the excitement of the season and tonight every eligible Lord and Lady will don their finery for a night of high-arching orchestral music and sweeping dances that herald in the social season.

It is tonight of all nights where the Lady of Autumn will name the incomparable of the season; a young woman both fair and accomplished that will inspire awe and ire in equal measure. For her troubles she might hope to tempt an eligible gentleman into marriage by summer’s end. And as your mother gives Feyre one more adoring look you know that she is hoping that your sister will insight that awe tonight.

The carriage draws to a tumultuous halt outside the doors of the grand town hall and you hear the distant laughter of courtiers. The chatter of the ladies distracts you momentarily and you catch their idle chatter; something about the new Duke and his wicked beauty. A beauty as cruel as he is, they say. Their chatter dies when they meet your eyes and they devolve into mean-spirited whispers about the poor Archeron girls and their absent sister.

“Quickly girls, we mustn't be late.” Your mother instructs and steps from the carriage turning expectantly as you disembark from the vehicle with all the grace you can manage. Your stomach twists in knots and the anxiety is so consuming that it addles your mind. So much so that any intelligent thought you might have had seems to abandon you.

The gardens of the town hallare saturated in the light of the last shadowed sunbeams as they are obliterated by the rapidly falling night; veins of indigo and amethyst that streak across the black. The air is heady and thick with the smell of wildflowers and wine and every now and again you catch the scent of half-burned oak and bergamot’s on the evening breeze.

The first of the season is in full swing and the courtiers look like a jewel toned fire in their finery; swathes of ruby and topaz, dappled with emerald and carnelian. You had felt the shift in the air when the sun had begun to set in the sky; that anticipation so palpable you could taste it. It tastes like wood and wildflowers, undercut with something darker.

You abandon yourself to the thought of it; what he might taste like.

Hedonism; earthy and dangerous as you swallow it back.

In an hour or two, when the stars materialize like a million quarts against the velvet abyss, the Ladies will retreat into the mazes, in twos or threes and their Lords, like hungry wolves will begin the hunt.

A hunt that will last the season

#acotar #acotar x reader #acotar fanfiction #eris vanserra #eris x reader #eris x you #eris vanserra x reader #eris vanserra x you #eris acotar #eris vandaddy

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euphoricfilter · 1 year

Note

"Here we go, the 3am zoomies..." Yoongi. Hybrid, fluff. -🖤

strawberry ice cream:

pairing: carpenter! yoongi x bunny hybrid! reader

genre: fluff || non-idol au || hybrid au ||

summary: yoongi’s solution to your 3am outbursts always ended in sweet kisses that tasted of sweet coffee and strawberry ice cream.

word count: 1.2k

tags/ warnings: fluff, yoongi being the softy he is <3 reader is a howl’s moving castle enthusiast

notes: prompt from this drabble game!!

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

Yoongi knew exactly what he was getting himself into when Namjoon had asked if you could come and stay with him. a new permanent home for you, and a new friend for Yoongi.

because as much as he’d hate to admit it, Yoongi had spent months researching bunny hybrids before he’d even been offered to house you. where he’d been cocooned in blankets of an evening, absorbed into his own little bubble of the internet where he’d be able to learn anything and everything about the life of a bunny hybrid; and what he as a human could do to provide the proper care for your kind.

it wasn’t that he didn’t trust Namjoon to properly take care of you. he knew you’d have a cozy little life with the author, house much bigger than his little apartment where you’d have your own back garden to hop around in, and an owner more than happy to indulge in your strict diet and strange little habits.

it’s just, Yoongi had been enamoured by you minutes after your first introduction and he hadn’t been able to shake the feeling off since. fingers always itching to tease over the base of your ears, fur the prettiest shade of snow white and the cutest little squeak you’d let out when surprised. you were bashful, never too loud though he’d caught onto your little bursts of pent-up energy which would shine through—ever so pretty and ever so perfect, Yoongi couldn’t help the saccharine fondness that slithered its way into his heart.

Namjoon loved you, he truly did, just as much as you loved him back— but with his rise in fame and touring the country for book tours for weeks on end with no sign of this new life fizzling out, he couldn’t be around as much as you needed him to be. and so, the solution; Yoongi.

a solution you hadn’t been upset with, because Yoongi had a habit of spoiling you more than Namjoon did.

the carpenter didn't mind an extra pair of hands around the workshop, endeared when you’d take a catnap on the worn-down couch at the back of room, where your little bunny ears would twitch with every clatter of his tools hitting the work surface or the gentle ding of the bell above the door.

he’d spend most evenings carving out little bunnies that you’d paint of a morning before you helped sweep the floors after lunch— rewarded with a tub of fluffy strawberry ice cream and a coffee-mingled kiss before Yoongi got back to work for the afternoon. both humming along to whatever plays on the radio until the sun sets and you’re wriggling around, always hungry just as the shop is ready to close up for the night.

you’d read on the windowsill, slices of orange sunlight warming your cheeks, often distracted as you simply people watch; giving Yoongi a running commentary on everyone that passes the shop, or how maybe you should one day get a dog together.

“i already have a cute bunny, why would i need a dog?” you hadn’t been able to see his smile with his back turned to you, but you could hear it in his voice.

he’d muffled a laugh, drowned out by the slick noise of chipping wood when he’d seen the strawberry-ice cream pink hue dusting your cheeks.

it had always been a little ironic how much you loved anything that bounced. a little habit Namjoon had left out when making sure Yoongi knew every little detail about you. a habit that took months for him to figure out.

he’d been out grocery shopping, and you’d been so invested in Howl’s Moving Castle, flopped over the couch, he’d simply left you to finish the movie while he’d run some errands. not expecting you to be jumping on the couch when he’d gotten home.

you’d been embarrassed, fumbling to apologize, but Yoongi hadn’t cared all that much— not when you looked the happiest, you’d been since moving in with him.

and it had been cute until the first couch broke, springs snapping under the weight of your constant bouncing.

you’d cried, and Yoongi had held you until you’d hiccupped in his arms with a watery apology that he silenced with a kiss to your forehead, and enough reassurance that he wasn’t mad, his own panic sizzling mellow when you stopped falling head-first into a panic attack.

after the second couch had folded, you’d moved to the bed, wary that Yoongi’s patience could surely only run so thin when this is the second time you’d ruined a piece of furniture.

“what’s this?” Yoongi had patted over the mattress one evening, divot a little more noticeable when he pulls the duvet away. it felt like déjà vu, pearly tears glazing your cheeks with stuttered out apologies and gentle kisses to placate your worries; because Yoongi could never find it in himself to get mad at you, not when he knows you hadn’t done it on purpose.

he’d bought you a mini trampoline for the living room, an easy solution to this problem. the perfect solution even, with you hopping in the living room and his furniture fully intact, really Yoongi felt like he’d outdone himself this time round.

it was a noise complaint from the downstairs neighbours that had the trampoline shucked onto the balcony, your feet thumping a little harder against the floor on the days it was too cold to go out there and bounce. truly a problem on nights like these when you just couldn’t seem to settle down. bouncing from one room to another, almost burning your arm while he’s been cooking.

“here we go, the 3am zoomies” Yoongi grunts, no venom behind his words at all, if anything he couldn’t help the smile that tugged at the corners of his lips, “hey! no bouncing on the couch” he wags a finger at you in warning.

you hop off the couch, “but yoongi” you whine, your ears flopping over your forehead, and Yoongi sighs.

“i know, doll. how about we go out?”

“where?” you bounce on your toes, hands falling on Yoongi’s shoulders when you almost trip over the edge of the rug; his hands falling onto your hips to hold you steady.

“what do you think about ice cream?”

“strawberry?”

and Yoongi laughs when he catches sight of your tail twitching from over your shoulder, cottony fur erratic with excitement.

“if that’s what you want, bun” he smooths your ears down the back of your head, tickling the base with the tips of his fingers; and you shiver in his hold, practically vibrating in his arms.

“let’s go” you tug on his sleeve.

“you need to put your shoes on first, my love” he reminds you, letting you tie your laces in the car, his own excitement hard to contain when you looked this happy.

nights like these were Yoongi’s favourite, knees knocking with one another as you sit on stools by the window of the convenience store, one of your hands tucked in his pocket to keep warm, fingers laced.

Yoongi’s kisses always tasted sugary sweet from the coffee, your tongue peeking out for a taste, a little more addicting than the bitter stuff he drank at home.

and Yoongi would chase after your lips, kissing you back because it tasted like strawberry ice cream and forever promises of a future where the two of you could stay like this forever.

the sweetness of your lips sating his sweet tooth, and cementing his ever-growing love in your heart, knowing you’d found a home in his.

🍓thank you for reading <3 feedback is always encouraged!!

#bts fanfic #bts fic #bts suga #bts fluff #bts x reader #yoongi imagine #yoongi x reader #yoongi fic #yoongi x y/n #bts smut #bts non idol au #bts imagines #bts au fanfic #bts au #hybrid bts #bts hybrid x reader #bts hybrid fanfic

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redtsundere-writes · 1 month

Text

Jinx | Sukuna Ryomen

mma fighter!sukuna ryomen x femalecoach!reader

Part 8. Fight For Me.

Beginning. ← Previous | Next →

Spynosis: Sukuna is a world champion with anger issues. It's believed by many that he is untrainable. Yeah, you can't train him, but you can dominate him. Contents: Fighting. Sukuna being Sukuna. Female reader being dom. Jinx AU (the BL, not the character from lol) Warnings: Cursed words. Unethical violence. Sexual harassment. I only read it once, lmao Word count: 2927 words. A/N: Another Saturday, another chapter. I picked up studying Japanese again, so far so good. Any advice is welcome :) Hope you guys like today's chapter. :) Btw I made a PLAYLIST

That was the most uncomfortable morning of my life. I can’t get the idea that I fell asleep in Sukuna's bed like it was nothing out of my head. All I could do was to get dressed quickly to get back to my house before the morning training started. Luckily, I didn't see Sukuna on my way out, maybe he slept in the guest room… or so I thought. His penthouse was huge, there must have been an extra room for sure. Upon arriving at the gym, Sukuna just scolded me for being late as if nothing happened last night, so I acted accordingly.

Cheers and praises flooded the arena as soon as Sukuna's anthem began booming over the speakers. Even though it was the last fight of the night, this was just starting. The sound mitigated with every step we took upon the intimidating octagon where Naoya was waiting for us after making his grand entrance. I was so nervous I felt like I was going to throw up at any moment, but I had to stay strong. This was not the time to act like a coward.

The referee checked Sukuna's gloves and body for sandbags or anything out of place. During the inspection, Sukuna gave me a serious glare. He looked so calm for someone who was about to be locked in a cage to fight another beast his size. I had interrupted Naoya's lucky ritual and helped him perform his luck ritual successfully. He was sure he was going to win, but he couldn't let his guard down.

Sukuna stepped onto the big stage and jogged around the perimeter so that everyone could admire his greatness. Naoya instead of watching him to analyze his opponent, was focused on me. His eyes were looking at me through the black fence, conveying a message I did not want to decipher. Sukuna had to beat him if I didn't want him to escape from the cage and lock me in his clutches. I gulped hard as soon as the referee approached them to give them the basic rules. It was time. I closed my eyes to pray to all the deities of the constellations, crossed my fingers and prayed that Sukuna's sign was lucky today.

The bell rang and the first round began. People shouted in anticipation as the lion engaged the cheetah in a dangerous dance for dominance. As we had planned, Sukuna was taking his time with him. He was waiting for our common enemy to feel comfortable enough to approach him. Naoya took the bait as he slammed in on him with a pair of jabs, he was going right at his jaw to end the fight. “He looks different,” I thought as I watched him attack Sukuna without hesitation. He was desperate to win as fast as possible, even if that meant throwing away all his energy in the first round.

Everything was being decided by boxing in the first two rounds, so far, we were going according to plan. Sukuna was like a fish in water, dodging every punch he landed and landing a couple of jabs that connected perfectly with his body, while Naoya struggled to take him down. There was a minute left in the third round when Naoya knocked Sukuna down with a spinning kick. The cheetah turned into a dangerous boa that attached itself to his body mercilessly. Its legs wrapped around his waist to put him in a neck lock. Sukuna tried to pull away from the cheetah's grip with hopeless punches and kicks, but Naoya wasn't about to let it go so easily.

“Hold on, Sukuna!” I yelled in desperation amidst the howls of the fans.

I looked at the clock hoping that the seconds would pass quickly, but it felt like an eternity. Sukuna was pushing away with difficulty the arm that chained his neck to keep from fainting. My eyes were on the verge of tears, the champion could not lose, not today.

The bell rang, and the fighters walked away. I sighed in relief and rushed up to the octagon with Gojo and Yuuji to assist him in the break. Gojo put ice on his shoulder and Yuuji gave him water.

“Change of plans. We must go to the floor,” I said.

“What?” Sukuna asked me, taking off his mouth guard.

“Naoya is desperate. He wants to win at any cost, it seems that this time he doesn't want to leave it to the judges. This is your chance to use his attacks against him,” I explained, but Sukuna didn't seem to be convinced.

“I agree. He is fighting differently from before. Use your legs, they are longer than his,” Gojo intervened. With that, Sukuna nodded before the next round was announced by a beautiful ring girl.

Naoya's eyes were on me as he prepared for the next round. I returned her gaze in kind, I wasn't going to let him bully me just because. The bell announced the fourth round and my eyes returned to Sukuna. After a back and forth of punches and low kicks, Naoya went straight at him. Naoya knocked him down, pushing him by the shoulders. Sukuna fell backwards with a loud thud. This time, time wasn't going to stop him. I had seen this attack before.

“Push him with your legs!” I yelled so he could hear me as I ran around the perimeter of the octagon to get a better angle on the attack.

Sukuna understood what I meant. With the inertia of Naoya's attack, Sukuna pushed him by the abdomen. I thought he would push him away, instead, he grabbed him by the arms and lifted him up to have him at his mercy for a couple of seconds in the air. I could see Naoya's eyes as he realized he had screwed up. Sukuna threw him to turn him like a helicopter propeller to put his leg between his arms and whip him against the floor. He caged him between his legs and kept pulling him by his limb to keep Naoya in a headlock.

“Sukuna…” I mumbled in shock.

Naoya was hitting him by the legs while trying to free his trapped arm. The referee was asking Naoya to get out of it quickly, or he was going to call the fight over. Time paused again as the scene unfolded before me. A king demonstrating his power to a rebellious knight. I no longer heard the people, nor my team, nor my thoughts. It was just my eyes taking in the facts, tasting those uncertain moments.

Naoya was completely trapped, so the referee announced the end of the fight. I caught my breath and came back to my senses at the decision. Sukuna broke away from Naoya and slowly stood up to regain his posture. He looked at me through the fence and gave me a slight smirk. “Mothafucker did it,” I thought before a tear of happiness slipped down my cheek. We had won, I was free and the champion proved himself the best once again.

I met up with the team to go up to the octagon to celebrate the victory. I moved through the crowd to give him a sweaty bear hug. I wanted to congratulate him, and thank him for giving his best as always, but I was so happy the words wouldn't come out of my mouth. I could only cry of joy on his shoulder.

“Stop crying like a bitch,” he whispered between chiding teeth as he wiped my face with the towel around his neck.

“Can’t I be happy?!” I scolded him between sniffles.

“You're humiliating me. I can't have a crybaby of a trainer,” he complained.

“I'm not...!”

My eyes popped open as soon as Sukuna connected his lips with mine in a sweet kiss in front of everyone. My cheeks turned the color of his hair and my heart started beating like crazy from shock. It was not a passionate kiss as he usually kisses me in the secrecy of his ritual, it was a tender touch in the middle of an octagon full of fighters and cameras watching us. Our lips didn't last more than 5 seconds connected, but it felt like it lasted an eternity.

The sharp sound of something metallic woke me up from the moment. Naoya had hit Sukuna in the head with his metal water bottle before anyone could stop him. The arena gasped in shock at the unsportsmanlike attitude. Team Zenin pulled him back before he could land another misplaced blow. Yuuji, Gojo and Nanami lashed out at him and his coach for not being able to control their athlete.

“How dare you kiss what's mine?! Let’s get back together, y/n!” Naoya screamed in a tantrum as he tried to break free from the grip of his teammates.

“Are you okay?” I asked Sukuna worriedly as I put some ice on his bump.

“Yes, I feel better now,” he said with a proud smile as he watched Naoya in emotional agony.

“Naoya Zenin will appear before the official UFC committee for lack of discipline and unsportsmanlike attitude tomorrow afternoon for his actions after tonight's fight, but there are already rumors that he will be suspended for more than 5 years from all events,” The commentator announced.

Team Black howled with joy at the news. My heart had finally calmed down after drinking a nice beer and chatting for a while with Yuuji and Megumi at the same bar we came last time. My mind was finally resting at peace after Sukuna beat up Naoya and explained to Nanami that the kiss had only been to get Naoya off her nerves. “Relax, that kiss didn't mean anything, it was just part of the strategy,” I thought as I remembered how intense that unexpected contact felt.

“Aren't you supposed to be with the Zenins? Aren't they family?” I asked Megumi curiously to distract my mind from the strong palpitations of my passionate heart.

“More or less. My father was kicked out of the dojo as soon as he challenged my uncle Naobito and beat him. The family could not bear such a breach of family honor,” Megumi explained, not caring at all about the incident. “I never thought that Sukuna could lift Naoya with his body, it was really incredible. Did you teach him that move?” He asked me before taking a sip of her beer.

I looked briefly at Sukuna who was chatting pleasantly with Nanami on the other side of the table. Quickly, he noticed that I was watching him. I turned around in time so that he wouldn't think I had been watching him for a long time and that we had only connected casual glances. “Why am I thinking like a lovesick teenager?”, I scolded myself.

“I didn't know he could do that either,” I agreed, to which Megumi looked at me strangely.

After a stressful day and a couple of drinks to counteract the body ailment. I said goodbye to everyone and set out to head home under the midnight stars. I smiled to myself as I replayed in my mind how Sukuna had cornered Naoya against the canvas. The sound of his bare back impacting hard played in my mind on loop. It had been a lousy day, but an incredible night I would never forget.

“Where are you going?” someone asked behind me. I could recognize Sukuna's voice anywhere in the world.

“Home, to rest,” I answered as I faced him fully. Why had he followed me? Whatever the reason, we were alone on the sidewalk, it was the right time to tell him how I felt. “You did amazing tonight, thank you very much.”

“I just did my job, I didn't do it for you,” he said with that serious tone I knew so well by now, he purposely made it sound like he was annoyed.

“I know you didn't do it for me, but I still want you to know that I owe you one,” I joked.

He didn't hesitate to approach me, I thought he would give me a hug or another kiss, so I just froze in place. Instead, he just handed me a silver key with a Team Black keychain on it. I inspected it carefully as I twirled it between my fingers.

“You are going to live with me, starting tonight,” he announced as if it was nothing.

“What?! Why?!” I was really confused.

“Naoya will probably be suspended from the UFC tomorrow and have to pay a stupidly expensive fine. Guess who he's going to blame for that,” I explained.

“You?” I really didn't want to blame myself right now.

“Do you really think he'd try to come near me after I beat him up on the ring? And I was fighting under the rules,” Sukuna smiled proud of himself for his performance in the fight.

“Naoya promised me that...".

“Naoya promised you that he would love you forever and not hurt you and look where you are. Just because you're innocent doesn't mean you're stupid,” Sukuna interrupted me and then turned his back to me. “You better be home by the time I get back,” he demanded before going back to the bar.

“Hey! Sukuna! What about my stuff?!” I shouted for him to stop, but he ignored me and walked into the bar without saying anything else.

I stood still on the sidewalk while my fingers caressed the keychain. How could someone be so nice and scary at the same time? It was obvious that Sukuna wanted me to be safe, but the way he did it felt like he was doing me a favor instead of actually wanting to help me. “He wants to protect me,” I thought as I realized what he was doing. My heart skipped a beat even though he was no longer in my presence and my cheeks dyed pink just thinking about him.

“Sukuna sure is a strange man…” I thought out loud as I went on my way to the penthouse.

Even though I had entered his home before, I couldn't help but be surprised as I walked down the huge carpeted hallway. I arrived in the immense living room that shared the professional kitchen, the 12-person wooden dining room and the contemporary living room surrounded by huge windows that allowed me to see the entire city glowing in the dark night. What it's like to have all the money in the world.

“I think I'll sleep in the guest room,” I said aloud to test the echo of my new home. “First I must find the guest room,” I planned as I looked at the maze I would be living in.

I avoided the entrance doors because I knew that one of them was Sukuna's room, so I had to go up to the second floor. When I got to the top, I could see through the large windows the indoor pool on the first floor, the bar with karaoke and the small zen garden that divided the rooms. “What songs will he like to sing,” I wondered curiously as I continued my search for my room. A little smile escaped my lips as I imagined Sukuna singing Single Ladies by Beyoncé.

I had finally found the guest room. It had a king-size bed with beige sheets, a small couch to watch TV, its own bathroom and a large empty closet. I dropped my backpack on the small white couch and headed for bed. Before I could throw myself out of exhaustion, I noticed a Victoria's Secret bag at the foot of the bed. My eyes widened as I realized the real reason Sukuna wanted me to come to his house.

“That fucker is planning to fuck me tonight!” I exclaimed, offended.

I couldn't believe it, I was really stupid for thinking that Sukuna wanted to protect me. I had escaped from the Zenin just to face a Ryomen. I am so naive for thinking he was different, but he was just another disgusting man who can't see women as equals. I really wanted him to be different. He only fucked me twice, and he already assumes he can do it whenever he wants. I wasn't going to let him.

I took the things out of the bag to throw it in the trash, but stopped when I saw that it wasn't lingerie, it was a full set of satin pajamas. White pajamas with pink stripes in my size. I covered my face with it from embarrassment. I had misjudged Sukuna, he sure bought me pajamas after I fell asleep naked in his bed the night before. I took off my clothes to put on the soft and comfortable pajamas, they fit me like a glove. I smiled like a fool when I saw myself in the mirror.

“How cute…" I thought out loud before throwing myself on the bed comfortably.

Oh.

Quickly, I realized what I had said and stood still, staring at the white glitter ceiling. Did I just say Sukuna was cute? No, he couldn't be. He is a rude, selfish, impatient, serious, self-confident, independent, disciplined, strong, handsome, rich man... I couldn't fall in love with him. I was his trainer, his co-worker. I couldn't like him because he has an amazing body, takes care of me even if he doesn't want to admit it, and kisses me like no one else ever has, right? Right?!

Oh.

I was in trouble.

Masterlist.

Order your own fanfic! (Starting price: $5 USD)

Tag list: @maskedpacific @thepurpleempath @mazzd4 @charlie-xo @s0uldarling @sunako-0120 @berranurates

(Let me know if you want to be added to the tag list!)

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cuckoo-on-a-string · 9 months

Text

Promises Five: The Hunt

Dark!Morpheus x (female)reader, fantasy/medieval AU, 18+

Master List

Dream of the Endless had been promised a bride.

A/N: I'll offer song recs to folks who are interested in asks! Still dealing with some mental health issues, but pushing through. HOLY SHIT THE NEXT CHAPTER. 0,0 Liking is sweet, commenting is divine. Talk to the lonely hermit, people. Her dog is tired of her shit.

The hounds sang after the hinds, and their masters followed them under the trees.

In the distance, the high castle sat like a toy house from which all the dolls had escaped, spreading their games and pageantry through the forest with bells and horns to warn away the deer and fox. Huntsmen released other deer, fox, and fowl from prearranged cages out of sight of the king and his swarm of courtiers, so the dolls could play pretend at feats of skill.

The bard kept to the back, holding a tight rein on her grey mare – who didn’t understand why she couldn’t stop and graze if the bard insisted on moving so slowly – in the company of the ladies Alder. Eilwyn, who’d visited the bard’s chamber two nights past, glimmered and glowed, illuminated like a piece of art in the dappled sunlight and the eyes of a few dozen would-be suitors. Officially, no one could pay court until the Endless had his pick. Unofficially, Eilwyn had received six declarations of love, five bad poems about her eyes, one good poem about her hair, and an uninspired puzzle box containing a gaudy necklace without a single gem of value.

Eilwyn loved it all, of course.

But as the younger woman amused herself snaring hearts for her collection, the bard conversed with the Dowager Alder, Eilwyn’s grandmother.

“The city lights are unbearable,” the elder Alder insisted. “My eyes are bad enough as it is, but when every street and tavern glows like the moon, I can hardly make out the planets with my telescope, let alone the fainter stars. With the travel time, I’ll lose whole weeks of work, and gods know if I’ll be alive to note my calculations this time next year.”

Manly shouts and howling dogs suggested something ahead had died, or was about to. The bard wondered how many of these fools in their fine furs would discover the material cost of bloodsport when they couldn’t scrub the stains from their velvets in the morning.

“You say that every year.”

The Elder Alder, on her aged palfrey, squinted at the green canopy shielding her beloved sky and tutted.

“And one year I’ll be right, like I always am in the end.”

The woman was an astronomer, a mathematical magician, and the idea of death hadn’t scared her since the bard first met her as a young maid. The wheel of the heavens moved before her, and it would move after, and that was well enough if she could just understand the damn thing before she shuffled off this mortal coil. She’d written books, and papers, and more books, and the bard wondered if Death would really hold off until the universe held no more mysteries. It wouldn’t be the first time.

“Of course, Lady Alder.”

Arthritis had long-since gnarled the lady’s hands, and they twisted over the saddle pommel and a hank of her horse’s main like knobby cypress knees, straining with the roll and sway of her palfrey’s gait.

“How far is the damned camp?”

Another lady – one of the fools hoping to wed her daughter to the Endless riding very far ahead near the king – seized the reins of her precious child’s horse and passed the odd trio. She did not look to the side. She did not look at anything. She lifted her nose far too high. And she nearly trotted over her own servants in passing.

The bard waved, and the daughter gawked with wide eyes as she was spirited away from poor influences and dangerous words. Really, any damage was already done, and fleeing the scene of battle only showed weakness. What kind of lesson would the girl really learn besides the fact that her mother enjoyed making a spectacle of her piety? Parents really had the strangest ideas about children.

“Grandmother!” Eilwyn exclaimed, clearly delighted.

The bard, equally delighted, couldn’t help herself. “Such language from so fair a lady. Shocking.”

The Dowager shifted in her saddle, face puckered in discomfort. “Hush, the both of you.”

Oh, if only she could. She laughed to imagine how much pain and trouble might’ve been saved. And how many adventures missed. They never would’ve been friends at all if the bard kept her own counsel.

“You expect a bard to hold her tongue?”

“The sun will freeze first.” The Dowager made a point of staring down her granddaughter, though, and her granddaughter made a point of smiling very prettily in reply. A lord several lengths ahead called for Lady Eilwyn’s attention, and she brokered an armistice by riding out of her grandmother’s line of sight entirely, leaving the two old companions to fight their own wars.

“My old bones are not made for riding.”

A jolt of pity seared the bard’s belly like the pain after eating a rotten fish. She’d rather purge it and be done, but the prickling discomfort would only grow with age. There was no course but to swallow it down and imagine it hurt much less than it would in time.

“Why didn’t you take the coach then? It could’ve brought you in comfort.”

Swollen knuckles flexing, the lady scoffed. “With the rest of the invalids? Don’t insult me.”

“But it’s so much fun, old friend.”

“Old,” Lady Alder muttered. “Yes. I am that.”

The bard shifted in her own saddle, wondering if she could stomach any of the inevitable banquet awaiting them.

“That wasn’t the word I’d hoped you’d echo.”

An eye sharper than any hawk’s pinned her from the side, and she felt like a child caught sulking. “If you need reassurance as to that, then you are not half so clever as you make yourself out to be.”

She seized on the opportunity for levity and smiled with all her teeth. “You’ve known me for a fool many years, have you not?”

“Aye, but a clever one.” The lady considered. “Most days.”

“Such praise you give me.”

“You fished for it so often the lake is empty.”

“Unfair but not untrue.”

The lady hummed her affirmation, welcoming in a moment of calm as they road in the wake of the hunt’s chaos.

Ahead, those most eager to prove themselves brought down smaller prey on their way to the day’s camp. Once all had a chance to refresh themselves with wine as their horses grazed, most would sally out again in the name of dead beasts. Dusk would bring them back, and they’d spend the night drinking, feasting, and debauching one another just outside the safe ring of torchlight, pretending to be very daring and wild for fucking someone in a bush. A bit more hunting in the morning for those who could still sit straight in the saddle, and then all would return bloody and victorious to the castle.

The bard struggled to understand those who found the prospect of a royal hunt… thrilling. None worried to go home hungry, and the creatures they met in the wood came hobbled, with teeth filed and tusks blunted.

Rushing down a winding stair risked greater peril.

Bored by the day’s excitement, she let her thoughts spin out in wider and wider passes, circling the crux of the drama.

What did the King of Dreams dream of?

Revenge, she suspected. Vengeance on the king that may boil over on the land he ruled, and she must guide her favorites out of the flood’s path. Those practical answers satisfied the part of her that always craved a direction, a purpose, the next challenge to conquer, but the Dream King’s retribution sat like a wax seal over a longer letter. She would very much like to read that letter, even if it was dangerous, and unwise, and entirely reckless.

The Prince of Stories must have depths unfathomable, millennia upon eon of secrets and experiences carved into his bones. She wanted to dismiss her curiosity as nothing but interest in a vision of her future. Would she be like him in another thousand years? No. She’d still be human, and he was Endless. All the lifetimes of the Earth couldn’t teach her to understand one such as him.

But that didn’t mean she had no desire to try.

From farther up the line, a runner came jogging, peering up at the faces of the mounted company. He looked from one to another, seeking the right address to receive his message. The bard paused, recognizing the Everard house colors on servant’s tabard. Her horse stamped, whickering around the bit as her rider leaned out of the saddle to catch the young man’s eye. He saw her and darted to her side quick as an arrow.

“Is all well?” the bard asked.

“My lady Alis Everard and my lord Tomas Everard request you ride with them.”

The bard looked to Lady Alder. She hardly needed her friend’s permission, and none of the Alders were the sort to cherish grudges over perceived slights. But the bard didn’t want to leave her to ride alone, either. She needed good conversation and someone who cared enough to notice if she swayed on her horse.

“Oh, go tend to your nervous foal.” Lady Alder waved her off. “My own proud filly will see you pass and return to keep me amused. We favor different arts, but she has a sharp enough eye to see trouble riding by.”

“Thank you.” The bard pulled out of the column of riders, careful to avoid the servant at her side. “I’ll see you at the camp.”

Whatever Lady Alder replied was lost to the wind. Finally given her head, the bard’s mare leapt into a canter, her hooves thumping a second heartbeat that rattled up and through her rider. Old loam and the sharp green scent of freshly broken twigs gathered around her like a cloak as she moved just left of the path, removed from the rock and dust of the road.

The bard knew what colors to look for, and she let all definition blur as she moved past lords, ladies, knights, and their scores of attendants. They all looked so strange and out of place in the tunnel of green woods, dressed to stand out in a part of the world where blending in more often preserved life.

Near the front of the cavalcade, she found the Everards. Alis stared with wide eyes as the bard pulled even with her, mare prancing and snorting in frustration as her run came to an end. Her dramatic entrance pulled other eyes, and the king – only a few riders ahead – glanced back with frustrated disgust. Perhaps she should apologize that she wasn’t a stag. For all of the ruckus she’d heard from afar, she saw precious few carcasses dangling from the hunters’ belts.

“Thank you for coming in such haste,” Lord Everard said. Stifled amusement plucked at his lips, trying to lift them into a broad, laughing gale. It would be bad manners to laugh too loudly too near the king over a jest to which he wasn’t party, but Everard clearly struggled.

She answered with the grin he’d tried to school away. “Best way to travel. Now, what is the matter?”

Lord Everard gestured to his daughter, and she in turn tried to sink into the mud of the forest track. She hunched low, like she could melt into her boots. Her complexion had gone pale, despite the flush of embarrassment creeping up her neck, and her gloves creaked as her dainty hands squeezed into fists. The bard let the merriment fade, looking and listening beyond the girl’s silence.

Alis’s doe eyes flicked towards the shadow who rode beside her king, and the bard understood.

Dream of the Endless wore his customary black, with the blood-red ruby shining on his breast like a heart he’d ripped from his prey. His nightmare mount had teeth where it ought to have eyes, and it laughed with a man’s voice. He carried a raven on his shoulder rather than a hawk on his glove, and anyone who hadn’t met his sister may mistake him for an aspect of Death. Or something worse, perhaps.

Lord of Nightmares indeed.

“He frightens me,” Alis whispered, leaning close. “I’ve had nothing but bad dreams since I came to the castle.”

As she should. A glance at her father confirmed he thought the same. Just because he’d been forced to bring his child to this storm didn’t mean he didn’t fear the lightning. He had too much sense for this farce and too big a heart to let the girl suffer. If his wife were not busy running the estate, she’d be here to shelter and comfort their little girl, but in her absence, he must ask the bard to fill the role, and she gladly pulled Alis’s attention from bad dreams to simpler truths.

“And you’ve never had a nightmare before?” She didn’t chide. She reminded. Even in the security of her own bed in her own home, the girl had touched the darker shores of the Dreaming. Its king would not reach out to swallow her now, even though he prowled so near in the Waking. “Alis, believe me, you are safe.”

Alis pulled her spine straight, taking a deep, intentional breath that shuddered on the way in and trembled on the way out.

“Do you promise?”

“I promise that if I’m wrong, I’ll find a convenient sword to fall on, and you can say you told me so. Does that make you feel better?”

“A little.” Realizing what she’d said, Alis blanched and rushed to add, “But only because I know you’d come back!”

This time her father did laugh, and the bard reached to reassure her with an honest to gods giggle, when chaos erupted at the front. The king and his companions came to a dead stop, and without warning or order, those who rode behind struggled to halt in time. Rearing horses and shouts of alarm rolled down the line like a breaker, and in the wave of confusion that followed, the bard once again left the road to circle forward.

They’d reached the camp.

A glory of golden stitching over swaths of emerald, the vast tents might cover an entire town, and smoke rising with the smells of rosemary and stewed venison hinted at the delights within.

The display paled behind the entity waiting at the edge of the woods, however.

Golden eyes like licks of flame from the sun’s heart smiled over ruby lips. Welcoming and menacing and all-too pleased with themselves.

Power perfumed the air, like honeysuckle and ambergris, clashing with the winter-cold snap of Dream’s clear displeasure. The King of Dreams had lost the veneer of humanity, and he set himself against the intruder like the deepest hour of the night resisting the dawn.

Few creatures could stand up to the king’s guest. Even fewer commanded the presence of function beyond personification. The bard did not know who the stranger was, but she knew what they were.

Another fucking Endless.

Every inch screamed of passion, romance, obsession. Golden hair and loose-fit silks that flowed like water into a garment that was neither tunic nor gown inspired sensual curiosities. They rode a unicorn, a bay mount with cloven hooves, a lion’s tail, and a goat’s beard. The russet horn glinted with flecks of gold, like treasure winking through a smear of blood.

The King of Dreams sneered, lip curling as he shared a frigid greeting.

“Sibling.”

The Endless in their path laughed, bright as bells and smooth brandy. It sounded to the bard’s ears like trouble. “I hope you don’t mind if I join in your hunt. Big brother.”

#fic: promises #morpheus x reader #sandman x reader #dream of the endless x reader #morpheus x you #morpheus x oc #female reader #morpheus x original character #dark!morpheus #fantasy!au

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masterqwertster · 9 months

Note

2 and/or 47 with Ashton and maybe Orym?

Prompt You know, I haven't actually written anything in the Bells Howls AU, so I think I'll give that a go. 2 Running fingers through hair 47 Touching their elbow to get their attention

Ashton feels a wet nose touch their elbow as they drain yet another bottle of alcohol.

A glance down reveals a fuzzed out Orym making big sad eyes at him.

"What?" Ashton irritably asks.

Big green eyes flicker to the bottle in their hand, to them, to the bottles strewn before them, and back up to Ashton's own mismatched eyes.

"Fuck off," they growl, their own wolf apparent.

Orym maintains his silent, wide-eyed stare.

And it's not fucking fair how sad and pathetic the halfling can look when he's wolfed out. More like a fucking pet dog than a humanoid-level intelligent apex predator. And sure, the little fucker can still talk like that (all werewolves that aren't full-on feral can), but Orym's fucking weaponized his silences in combination with puppy-dog eyes.

Asthon grumbles as he sets the mostly empty bottle down and begrudgingly pokes it further away from himself.

"Happy now?"

"Ecstatic," Orym flatly replies. "Here."

A water bottle is held out in a fuzzy hand. Ashton takes it with a put-upon sigh, draining it all in one go.

Orym hands them another water bottle that they nurse at a much slower pace. Then he makes himself comfortable, curled up on the couch beside Ashton, head resting on their thigh.

After a while, a heavy hand settles on Orym's head, gently petting from the crown of his fuzzy head down the line of his neck to his shoulders. Fingers dig into his ruff, and the scratching feels nice enough that Orym leans into it to increase the pressure. Even his wolfen strength isn't enough to move the genasi's hand if they don't want to.

"...You know you're not beating the therapy dog allegations like this," Ashton rumbles.

"I don't mind that," Orym says with a yawn, wiggling to get even more comfortable. After all, Ashton is less tense and miserable than when Orym had first poked him, which had been the goal in the first place.

"Weirdo," Ashton murmurs affectionately, scritching behind Orym's ears.

"Mmm," Orym contentedly hums, eyes drooping closed.

It's nice when "dog" therapy is a two-way street.

#MQ&A #MQfic #touch prompt #MQ AU machine #bells howls au #ashton greymoore #orym of the air ashari

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esther-dot · 5 months

Text

Beauty and the Beast

Tokens of Life (give me) 9k WIP by @ihaveastorminme

Jon thought of his mother's family often. But he never heard a whisper from them. Not once. Until the day the northern wind howled through the ancestral halls of the dragon Queens, bringing with it snow and wolves’ cries at its tail. Five hundred different deities in that hall, and nobody whispered when she walked in, tall and forbidding, the skirts of her dress swirling about her like mist and snow glittering unmelted in her flame hair. She looked at him... and everything changed.

No Rose Without a Thorn 24k

Ten years ago, the Others were defeated, the Starks took back the North, the Targaryens reclaimed the Iron Throne, and the Old Gods transformed Sansa Stark into a dread and dangerous beast. Now, winter is coming, the beast remains, and the family would really like Sansa to be a full time human again.

The Beast, the Beauty, and the Bastard 3k

It is a reworking of Disney's Beauty and the Beast, but with a bit of a twist. Hope you enjoy!

Certain As the Sun 22k, incomplete

Sansa is bright, beautiful, and out of place in her little town. After her father is captured in a forgotten castle, she moves to take his place with the cursed prince.

Gifset by @dcbicki and Gifset by @yenstarkofrivia

Rapunzel

From Tower to Tower 10k incomplete

Locked away in a tower for eighteen years by a witch claiming to be her Mother, long-haired Sansa seeks freedom and a chance to regain her crown as Princess of the kingdom. But the tower is high as she has no means to get down, aside from her incredibly long hair, and no guarantee of safety in the outside world she has been warned about. One night, when the witch is out, and a thief who climbs the tower seeking refuge happens upon her, she stuns herself by taking a chance and asking him to help her escape. Assuring him that she will have all charges against him dropped when he returns her to her rightful parents, she embarks on a series of first discoveries with her new bandit friend Jon.

I'll not be climbin' up, I'll only be calling good morning 13k @violetcoloredglasses

Princess Sansa, the rightful queen, has been trapped in a tower by her usurping step-mother for nigh on three years now. Between the benevolent interference of a local woods-witch, the seemingly random appearance of a dashing young man on a horse, and a magical book that Sansa uses to turn a man into a crow, she may have found a way to change her stars.

flower shaped heart 25k, incomplete @missfaber

Alayne Stone has lived her whole life in her hidden tower, forbidden by Mother to leave. But she yearns for an adventure like the ones in the songs, so when a man named Jon Snow crashes into her tower and into her life, she seizes the chance. They travel to King's Landing where the floating lanterns shine each year on her nameday. The new world is exciting and frightening, but Jon Snow is there to guide her every step. He is not nearly as terrible as Mother said men are, though the rest of the world might be. Danger, betrayals, and lies form the steps of their journey as Alayne uncovers terrible secrets. corresponding moodboard

Let Down Your Red Hair .6k

A Jonsa Rapunzel story told in verse. With her father beheaded and her brother marching against the king, the last thing Sansa expects is for her hair to never stop growing. She is soon locked away in the tallest tower of the Red Keep, withdrawn from court as the War of the Five Kings rages on. Elsewhere, rumors of her magical hair have spread to the Wildlings, who see her fiery strands as their last hope against the coming winter.

Tangled edit by @kitten1618x, Tangled edit by @queen-sans-in-the-north, Tangled edit by @sardoniyx

Tangled gifset by @dcbicki

Sleeping Beauty

La Belle au bois dormant 4k

When The North celebrates the birth of Lady Sansa, all the realm is invited to celebrate with them. Each Lady of a Great House bestows a gift upon the little lady, including Cersei Lannister, whose presence at the celebration is both unexpected and unnerving.

Once upon a Dream 1k by @azulaahai

Sansa is under a curse - fallen into a magical sleep, she, according to the prophecy, can only be awoken by a kiss from a dragon. Arya rides south to ask for help from the dragon king Aegon, but the king’s grumpy half brother Jon might prove to be an obstacle.

Visions are Seldom All They Seem 14k

Sansa Stark is sure her life is a great song. She's a beautiful princess. She's been cursed. And the only way it will be broken is to sleep for a hundred years and be awoken by true love's kiss, given by a king's son. She's more then happy to prick her finger if it means getting her happily ever after with a handsome prince all the sooner. But a hundred years is a long time. To be fair to Sansa, Jon did not realize how long it would be either.

Sleeping Beauty Gifset

East of the Sun and West of the Moon

you are my sun, my moon (and all of my stars) 133k

When the white wolf came, the Lord of Winterfell had no choice but to give him his eldest daughter. Eddard Stark had grown up on legends of wolves, on the stories of bargains made by the First Men, on the knowledge of the price that he and his family might one day be forced to pay. His father had explained the reason their house had taken a wolf as its heraldry and “Winter is Coming” as its motto, a reminder of a promise to honor, a recognition of a debt owed that would need, one day, to be paid. Ned had breathed a sigh of relief when his sister’s twentieth winter arrived and the beast had not. And he had watched the dawn sky for the first signs of the snow that would mark that his daughter, too, might also be spared, might escape the fate that had been handed down by their ancestors. But no man could be so lucky. Sansa, too, had been born with the North in her blood, had been raised on the stories of white wolves, had lived her life with the knowledge that one might come for her.

this is the map of my heart, the landscape after cruelty 22k by @dialux

“I fell,” Sansa says softly. “I flew.” [When a strange, hooded man appears out of nowhere, demanding a woman in return for keeping the Others and dead out of Westeros, Sansa goes with him. It’s the best and worst decision of her life.]

PRE CANON - WESTERN - REGENCY - LITTLE WOMEN - HOLIDAY - SEASON 6

#jonsa #jonsa fic #fairytale au #there will be a part 2 #there are a lot of fairytale fics 😅#beauty and the beast au #rapunzel au #tangled au #sleeping beauty au #east of the sun and west of the moon au #dot fic list

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blackopals-world · 1 year

Note

Hi! I saw the latest post about the headcanons about yuumaid au! But can you please do the same headcanon but this time, fem s/o is a charwoman and she's extremely shy and timid. Please 🙏

I'm not sure what this request means and it didn't name characters I'm choosing whoever my wheel lands on. (Mostly because is late and I'm tired. A little note I dont use s/o when i write because i dont use first person. I don't do any self insert writing. If you see yourself as Yuu then I welcome you to do so because they can be whoever you desire.)

Timid Maid!FemYuu x Jamil Viper, and Jack Howl, Epel Felmier

(The wheel has spoken)

Jamil- Mousy

She wasn't a new worker. She was hired by the Al Asim family to ease his burden of taking care of Kalim. She comes a few times of week to do chores that were lagging.

Jamil was suspicious of her and banned her from cooking meals. She didn't fuss and nodded quickly before scurrying off.

Jamil was unsure Kalim even knew she existed because of how quiet she was and how rare spotting her was. When Jamil gave her orders she'd stare at her feet and nod.

When Jamil got close she'd tremble like a mouse. He found it so adorable the way she'd look at him with tearful eyes when she was scared. She even squeaked when he pulled her close after hunting for her around the palace.

She was to cute to not tease.

He'd find her in whatever corner she worked in and give her tasks that forced her out in the open. The mouse girl hated being watched or having Kalim see her and pull her into festivities. Jamil even played the good guy and pulled her away to do something that allowed her to be alone.

Yuu was definitely his favorite form of entertainment.

Jack Howl- Little Lamb

The prince of the Kingscholar family needed to be cared for. So she was hired to do so. But whyshould a lamb like her have to do this.

Leona was well, scary. Savanaclaw was scary too.

Loud, noisy, and nosy predators. She didn't like predators. They pull her tail and her fluff. They made fun of her all the time and are just really mean.

She hadn't known that she was being watched by a wolf. A very protective wolf.

Jack drove away any beast who tried to harass the lamb. Not because he liked her or anything. I just hated bullies.

He didn't mean to spy on her of course. It happened on accident. When he first layed eyes on her he was drawn to her fluffy wool and droopy ears. He just wanted to touch, he didn't mean to scare her. He Larned to keep his distance but he couldn't help pay attention when he heard the bell that hung at her neck jingle as she cleaned.

He worked up the courage to befriend her which was difficult because she was always watching everything around her with her doe like eyes. Lambs don't trust wolves and they don't make a habit of befriending them.

But trust can be won. The more a lamb strays from the crowd, the more likely they will get picked up by the wolf.

Epel Felmier- Sweet Magnolia

Grandma said she needed help around the house and farm so she brought a girl around. She was a daughter of a distant family friend who would come by to help.

She was a quiet little thing and barely strayed where you could see her. The only time you'd know she was around was from the clean space she'd left behind.

She could cook too but she never showed her face during dinner.

A few of Epel's cousins came by and said they saw her a few times at the river writing and she was as pretty as a peach. The cousins tried to talk to her and she just skittered away soon as they saw her.

They even mentioned going and ask'n her pa to let her court her for her hand, she was so pretty.

Epel had seen her a handful and would admit she was as rosy cheeked as a bush. But she was also as timid as a rabbit. No one but Grandma was able to get close. She was elusive and Epel was only able to catch up if he was on horseback.

He met her by that same river when he was leading his horse to water. They were separated only by different banks as his favorite mare Sugarcane waded into the water. For whatever reason the mare was really interested in whatever the maid girl had and she saddled up next to her to nip at what she was eating.

The maid was eating a sandwich out of her picnic basket as the nosy horse began trying to rifle though her lunch.

Epel had to charge across the river to grab the old nag before she caused too many problems.

The girl laughed as he scolded the horse and offered up her last slice of pie she had been saving to the boy before packing up and going on her way.

His cousins where right. That wallflower. Well she was pretty as a magnolia in May.

(magnolias actually do bloom in May and are my favorite flowers)

#twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland x reader #jamil viper #twisted wonderland jamil #jamil viper x reader #twst jamil #jack howl x reader #twst jack x reader #jack howl #epel felmier #epel twisted wonderland #epel x reader #twisted wonderland yuu #twst mc #twst yuu #maid!yuu

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4kurra · 1 year

Text

Drunk in love

Synopsis: The girlfriend you've had for a few months had only showed but a little emotion to you. At first, you thought she asked you out as a joke until a little video was sent to you by one of her friends.

Warnings: A little make out session

Genre: Fan-fiction, fluff, gxg, non idol AU

Pairings: Hirai!Momo x Fem!Reader

A lonely night with just you sitting on a chair, looking out at the beautiful city view from the balcony as the peaceful wind howled. Your 6 months girlfriend, Momo had already left to celebrate her birthday with her friends. Though, you didn't mind since the awkward tension between the two of you had already dissolved the moment she walked out the door.

Ding!

Your eyes furrowed in confusion at the sudden text message that showed on your screen. The person from your contact name read 'Momoring'. You opened up the text message that she had sent, hesitating afterwards since you'd now just realize it was a video.

"Could it be.." You didn't wanna jump on the overthinking wagon but situations like this usually occurred when someone was cheating but after putting all your trust in Momo, you thought it was best to click on it.

It showed a recording of Momo sitting on the couch with a pillow on her hand, whining and mumbling about something and the only clear thing you heard was your name.

"Momo, say it again more clearly!" Nayeon, probably the one recording since you could figure out the evil laugh that she had let out whenever she'd scheme something evil against all her friends.

Momo shifted against the couch, eyes still closed yet she looked like she had enough energy to pull a prank against someone. Truthfully speaking, you had never seen this side of her. She always seemed to wear a stone cold mask that hid a precious smile behind, her friends have always told her that she had a horrible case of being an introvert but oh how bad did she want to show you the love and affection you deserved.

“Y/N.. please don’t go..” Momo began, arms flailing around as if she was on a spaceship. “I still haven’t gave you a ring pop to prove that this marriage was true!”

Though you were laughing at this newly found cutness of her, you couldn’t help but realize the little tone of embarassment she was hiding—Despite being drunk. Guess she still has the bits of pride that she would stubbornly never let go of.

Her friend group began laughing as Momo cried onto the pillow, mumbling more words against it as if it was you she was hugging. Nayeon, who had held Momo’s phone poorly while recording, adjusted it to face her in order to dramatically whisper a ‘you better thank me later’. Though you did feel bad for the older girl, you had let your mischievous thoughts take control of you and replayed that video for far too many times.

After drinking a whole bottle of champagne, you were still surprisingly sober despite feeling a little woozy. The video Nayeon sent had stayed on your mind—rent-free and you weren't complaining. It had already passed an hour before Momo would come back like she would usually and the rain that had occurred 30 minutes ago was the only thing that worried you.

Yes, you were most definitely not ready to take care of a drunk Momo but an even more drunk and wetter Momo who could possibly have her chances of getting sick in the morning along with an headache felt like some sort of nightmare to you.

Ding dong

The door bell rang. You hurriedly ran to the door and made eye contact with your girlfriend who luckily had been carried by Jihyo, the only sober one in the party you assumed.

"Y/N! Thank god you're not asleep. I'm sorry about her being wet right now, I couldn't control her since I had been taking care of the others and when I found her, she was outside cursing the universe for her lack of physical touch and affection." Jihyo basically rapped.

You smiled, grabbing onto Momo who's mouth was now nuzzled against your neck. "It's fine, at least she wasn't hurt. Thanks for bringing her here Jihyo!"

Jihyo nodded with a smile, heading back to her own car. Probably a long night for her since she had to drop off the other girls to their own apartments. Though you didn't want to admit that you liked the idea of taking care of Momo, you had let out a giggle when she accidentally tickled you the moment she tried to adjust her head against your neck in order to find a comfortable position. You had been too close, too close to the point that you accidentally inhaled the foul smell that Momo gave after drinking too many beers.

Luck came around when you brought Momo at ease to the shared bed that you two never really shared since she got too flustered to the point that she would make excuses in order to sleep on the couch. As you were about to grab a warm towel to clean her after using a dry one in order to not get the bed wet, she grabbed your hand and pulled you onto the bed—using the rare opportunity to wrap her arms around you before nuzzling her nose against your neck.

"Momo let go, I need to grab a warm towel." You got ready to scold the older girl in order to clean her up and for making you wet.

You cursed to yourself for wrapping a towel around her in order to not get the bed wet but you should have known she was gonna pull something like this.

Momo sighed, feeling content at the feeling of finally getting to hold you. "Later."

You had finally realized that she had been faking the whole drunk thing the moment Jihyo gave her to you. After a whole 20 second of trying to escape her grasp and failing, you decided to stay still and enjoy the new feeling. That only lasted a few minutes when the exact foul smell came back, making you pinch your nose.

"Okay, yeah no. We will continue this if you decide to take a shower." You managed to softly kick Momo off the bed.

She pouted but nonetheless, still got up in order to shower. You stayed in the shared bed and closed your eyes, wanting to sleep after a long night of taking care of that big baby. You didn't hear anything, not even Momo getting out of the showering—you were absolutely too focused on the nice feeling of getting a rest along with the coldness that came from the air conditioner.

"Now you're hurting me, are you seriously trying to sleep without me? It is my birthday and we haven't done anything together.." Momo chuckled, drying her hair with a towel yet you didn't notice it due to the fact that your eyelids were shut closed.

You laughed, liking how it wasn't as awkward as it'd used to be when it was just the two of you. "Dunno, thought you'd sleep on the couch."

It was a bit quiet after you said that, you thought you had just hurt her feelings but what you didn't know was that Momo had already schemed an evil plan. She had jumped on the bed and made herself comfortable, you flew into the air for a bit before landing again—letting out a yelp.

Now that the two of you were laying down, you told Momo to get closer, eyes still closed. Despite finding the action cute, she got closer and you finally said what you had wanted to say the whole day.

"Tomorrow if you want.. we could go on a date to the zoo."

She smiled, liking the idea of finally getting the chance to spend time with you. Momo pulled you close to her and once again, wrapped her arms around you—almost as if it was a sign to let you know that she liked the idea of going on a date with you to the zoo.

"Doesn't that mean something else too?" Momo asked hopefully.

You opened your eyes and made eye contact with her. You raised your eyebrows, letting her know that you were confused and wanted her to continue.

She rolled her eyes jokingly and opened her mouth to finish what she had to say. "Birthday girl wants a kiss."

To say you were shock was an understatement, she definitely caught you by surprise and now you were turning red thanks to Momo.

Momo puckered her lips jokingly, making you roll your eyes but since you hadn't given her a proper birthday—you leaned in and kissed her in order to wipe the smug look she had on her face. This time, you had caught her by surprise and since you were the only one with your eyes closed, things changed when Momo leaned in too in order to gain more access to your lips.

It turned sweet for a bit until she bit your lips, making you open your mouth due to the little pain she gave and that was her opportunity to slide her tongue in. Surprisingly, it did get heated at that very moment—it went from a sweet birthday kiss to a make out session but none of you were complaining.

Later after few moments of hair tugging and saliva sharing, you pulled out first in order to gain oxygen and so did Momo who swore she could have lasted longer if you hadn't stopped the kiss. But again, she wasn't complaining.

"If I had known you were a little freak, I wouldn't have initiated that kiss!" Momo pouted but still managed to defend herself. "But you love me, plus I heard first kissed are a lot sweeter when tongue is involved."

You rolled your eyes at her dorky antics yet a smile was the only clear thing she could see in her point of view.

"No one says that but fine, whatever. Happy birthday, I can't believe this is the first time you've pulled like kind of stunt after being shy for months." You giggled at your own joke.

Momo smiled, running her hand thought your hair as if she was trying to caress it but failed miserably, making your hair a mess and you swore you saw a smirk form. "I guess it's the effect you have on me."

"Believe me, I would have initiated something like this if I knew that I would have managed to date a goddess like you." You were a bit flustered at her smooth flirting but acted like it didn't have a single effect on you.

"Also-" You flicked her on the forehead, now wanting to sleep after a long night of having to take care of a drunk and then a sober Momo.

"Sleep."

Momo did eventually listen and slept, arms wrapped around you with her nose nuzzled onto your neck—you guessed that this new habit of hers had occurred because she liked the vanilla scent you gave off. Without realizing, the two of you had fallen into a deep slumber with a smile on Momo’s face as she had finally did something romantic with her partner.

#momo x reader #Hirai momo x reader #twice momo x reader #momo x fem reader #twice x reader #twice x fem reader #momo #Hirai momo #gxg #Hirai momo x fem!reader #happy birthday momo #fanficton #girls who like girls #gg x reader

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greetingfromthedead · 23 days

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Shepherd Story 3 (God!Knives x GN!Reader)

Plot: In a world where fallen gods live among you, there is the god of winter and death who is also eternally bound to you with body and soul. A sense of routine has arrived as you fulfill your duties and wait for his return.

Series: Shepherd. Check out Story 1 and Story 2 (smut)!

Pairing: God!Knives x GN!Reader

Raiting: Teen and up

Tags: fantasy!AU, god!AU, no use of "y/n", established relationship, gods, feathery plant, fated love, romance, legends, nature magic, reunion, intimacy, possessive behavior, tenderness, some fluff, angst, death, reincarnation

Word count: 4.6k

Author's Note: We had a blizzard here after a day of sunshine and 17 degrees so it made me think of this story again. Wrote this mostly while listening to Rachmaninoff, I highly recommend their dramatic pieces to accompany this little story. This AU is inspired by @triplesilverstar's god!AU.

His sister's presence has retreated again, opening the gates for the northern winds to howl across the lands beyond the god's domain. Tesla had brought summer and filled the hearts of all with joy and love. All but the god of winter and death, for his heart beats for only one person and one person alone. He has waited patiently for another cycle of this world and to be released from the confines of his demon infested home and reunite with his beloved. He makes it out of his shadow realm, passing the first human settlements. He is followed by a dark cloud of despair and winter's chill. His steps freeze the earth beneath, and his presence seizes the sway of grass as the moisture in them turns to ice. The drinking water for the horses forms jagged crystals on its surface as the god passes by a farm. The animals are whining restlessly, his presence unsettling them. The forests are silent, the ancient trees muffled by a blanket of snow, as the heartless man continues on his path, leaving destruction in his wake.

It is so cold. His fingertips have gone beyond pain, and he can barely feel them anymore. His body wants to seize up, but he pushes on. He will never give up; he will never stop moving. The darkness radiates from his chest; it is so heavy and empty, the vacuum left in his center yearns to be filled with your love. It is the only thing that will save him. The only thing that gives him meaning. It is the only thing that gives him hope. The thought of your warm touch lingers in his mind. Oh, to see your smile again. It would make everything else fade away. The color of your eyes would relieve his pain and bring him back to life. In every iteration, you are gorgeous to him. No matter what body you inhabit, he will always be captivated by your beauty. But still, he can look past the external appearance and see the true splendor within you. The breathtaking and captivating presence of your soul has tied him to you for eternity. The strings of faith will never be severed, no matter how many curses are placed upon you. He will always remain by your side, unwavering in his devotion.

He moves south, with blizzards and frost as his faithful followers, spelling death for those unprepared. Nature has gone so very quiet as he walks through the meadows and fields. The air grows colder and darker with every step he takes, and the little lifeforms hold their steaming breath as he passes by in fear that they will be reaped by the god of death himself. But he is not here for them. As he slowly approaches the southern lands, where he knows he will find you, a melody strokes his ear, soothing the despair that has been building up inside him. He stops for a moment, the brilliant light of the moon reflecting on the glimmering snow. He recognizes the siren song, which draws him closer. Two hearts singing as one in the stillness of the night. It is very far, a quiet melody to daunt his soul. But he knows you can feel it too; your soul is drawn to him to close the distance between you.

The souls of the dead sound like little bells to you, beckoning you closer. Their crystal clear chimes ring out, guiding you towards them. Tonight, as you fulfill your duties, you hear one calling out from the village over the pasture. Being met by the souls of the dead is never pleasant; knowing they lived a life and had hopes and dreams beyond what they had achieved fills you with sadness. They were people who leave behind mourners and heartbreak. But to hear a ghost call from so close to home stings you more sharply than any other encounter. Your body is asleep in your little cottage as your spirit crosses the green, grassy field as a fox. Your presence doesn't disturb the grass or the cattle. You drift to the house where an old woman has lived for all your life. You know her well; you gave her your dried herbs when she got ill, and you played catch with her grandson when you were both little. She moves through her yard with a slow shuffle, checking that the door of her chicken coop is closed before going to count the goats in the barn. She looks concerned while she performs her nightly routine. You take your human form to use your voice.

"Mrs. Claire," you say calmly and quietly as you watch her. She looks up, her eyes filled with worry.

"It's you," the old woman blurts with a shaking voice. "I knew the rumors were true!"

She backs away, expecting to be met by the little gate separating her little yard from the rest of the world, but instead just passes through it.

"Oh!" she exclaims with a shrill voice, befitting an old crone. She looks at her surroundings and herself.

"Yes, Mrs. Claire, I am afraid you have passed on." You answer her unspoken question, and she looks at you without responding. You make no attempt to go closer to her as you look at her beautifully maintained garden and the memories it must hold.

"What are you doing here, you witch?" She nearly spits out the last word.

"I am here to send you to the other realm so you can be born again with the flowers of spring," you say almost absentmindedly before turning a sharper gaze onto her. "Or I could leave you to roam the grounds for a while longer as a ghost."

"I do not trust you! You practice witchcraft!" she exclaims, her voice trembling with fear. "You even lured the god of death here to advance your own power! We saw it! You let him bring destruction to our land!"

"What will it be, Mrs. Claire? Will you come with me, or do you need more time to say goodbye?" You reach out your hand to her, ignoring her accusations. "The outcome will be the same."

"I shall not go with a creature of darkness! You are trying to lure me into a trap! You shall not capture me!" She clutches the scarf around her neck and backs away from you.

"Very well. I shall come back later." You give her a little nod with your head as a slight smile dances on your lips before turning and walking away.

"Your wickedness shall be punished!" The old woman calls after you, but you don't dignify her with a response as you follow the chime of a different soul, much further away. The black wings of a raven carry you to a little town further in the north. You perch on top of the church tower and look over the streets to see some spirits wandering the empty sidewalks below. The snow has covered everything in a thick layer of cold, shimmering white. The coughing echoing from the windows tells you your beloved god has been here before you. He must be close; you have felt his call for weeks now, urging you to find him. You look over the souls—some of them going about their business like they haven't realized their mortal coil is over, and others sounding out their prayers to whatever god they have devoted themselves to. The wind howls through the narrow alleyways, carrying with it the whispers of lost souls seeking redemption. Your purpose settles heavily on your shoulders, and you take flight again. You soar between the high building walls, letting the gust rip through your wings and scatter dark feathers into the abyss below.

Some of the dead watch in awe as you pass, their eyes filled with hope and longing for the freedom you possess. They reach out to touch your feathers and grasp the key you have provided. With tears streaming down their faces, they whisper their gratitude and prayers for your safe journey. With a glimmer of stardust, they disappear to return to the circle of reincarnation. You move on, knowing that their souls will now be reborn with a newfound sense of hope and purpose.

You spend the night shepherding the souls of the reaped into the afterlife, knowing that they are in good hands and will be born again soon. You followed the pull of your being as a roe deer through the forest, feeling the ancient magic guiding you towards the man you love most in all of your lives. You walk alongside him, but only the dead can see you, so you just blend in as one of his many shadows. Spirits, both neutral and malicious, follow him everywhere he goes, but you are there only to steal a glimpse. He moves so silently, his eyes trained on the path ahead. His face doesn't let on any emotion; he looks cold and calm. Almost dutiful. You know you will see him soon, but as dawn creeps over the horizon, you hurry back home to your sleeping body as a white rabbit, running across the fields and pastures.

He arrives again with frosted flowers covering your windows and gracing the surface of the puddles outside. The leaves of a creeping vine by your house collect jagged crystals on their edges. The air is still and the world is blanketed in a serene silence, the quiet crackle of the fire in the hearth providing the only sound. A wide smile graces your lips as you look at the approach of the god from your open door. Your heart is so full of joy and anticipation that it feels like it might burst. You have your arm outstretched as he gets closer, and he wordlessly takes your fingers into his cold hand. The chill of his touch sends a shiver down your spine. His lips press against the back of your hand, his freezing breath tingling your flesh. He cherishes the warmth of your skin and the way your free hand cups his cheek and lifts his chin. It makes life creep into him again to soothe the pain of frost in his chest. Your gorgeous eyes look at him so tenderly, no words need to be spoken to understand the mutual longing for each other. From the thousands of meetings you have had in the past, all the meaningful words have already been spoken in a hundred different languages, but none have ever felt as powerful as the silent exchange between your eyes in this moment. He lifts his head to step closer, your soft breath exiting as a white cloud from your lips. He moves the hand he still softly holds to his chest, his fingers wrapping around it as he presses it to where his heart used to be. He closes his eyes and whispers, "I miss you more than words can express, sweet Shepherd."

He feels the shadow of his heart start to beat again; it fills him with warmth and chases out the cold longing that births the northern winds. His whole body is enveloped in a sense of love and warmth. The blue marks grace his skin and leave you in awe, like they always do. You straighten up and reach to kiss his jaw line. This makes him open his steely eyes again and turn them on you. You can see the love and adoration in his gaze. The god of winter and death is gorgeous, with or without the marks, and you are overjoyed to call him yours. You can't help but smile as he pulls you into a warm embrace, melting away the coldness that usually surrounds him.

His lips find yours, capturing them in a tender dance, speaking of his longing and spilling the devotion he holds for you. Your hearts sing as one, and your souls are entangled for a single night before he must leave your side. Words don't need to be spoken at this moment. His skin feels warm again, and his embrace could be mistaken for human, just like all those thousands of years ago. He holds you tight, knowing that this fleeting moment is all you have.

You guide your lover inside your formerly warm house, but his presence grows the shadows and brings a chill no fire can warm. Yet you feel no cold . You are consumed by the passion of his touch, lost in the intensity of his gaze, and you realize that you would endure any darkness for just another fleeting moment with him. You would follow him into the depths of despair, knowing that his love is worth any sacrifice.

You stop as you reach the shaft of light that streams through the window, the remnants of daylight creeping into the shadow infested room. You turn towards him, your fingertips grazing the palm of his hand, teasing the promise of being entangled with his digits. You slowly trail them up along the veins of his arms, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath your touch. Your fingers linger on the soft feathers growing from his collarbones, feeling the gentle rise and fall of his chest with each breath he takes. You pause as you caress his features, admiring the peaceful expression on his face. You touch his birthmark and nose, your thumb tracing the curve of his lips. He leans into your touch, a hand covering yours as it rests on his cheek. His lips part, and a hum of enjoyment escapes his throat.

You look at his eyes, and they are all you can think about; his face is etched into your soul like it's your mirror. He is there in your heart and mind, forever present in whatever body you are born in. As you speak his name, it is the softest word you know, it leaves a sweet taste on your tongue. It's a name you'll never forget, no matter how cursed you are. Life after life after life, you will speak it again and see these beautiful eyes gazing back at you.

His other hand goes to your lower back to pull you closer until you are pressed against his chest, feeling his heartbeat against your own. His lips kiss your eyes and trace along your nose before they meet yours. His love is a force of nature—unyielding and unwavering. It's a love that transcends time and space, binding your souls together in an eternal dance of passion and devotion.

He holds your face tenderly in his hands, his thumb trailing over the curve of your lips before he leans down to kiss you softly. His warm hands are so tender against your skin, and you melt into his touch. Your heart races as you hold on to him, wishing with all your heart that he didn't have to go. The moment feels fleeting, but you know that the memory of his touch will stay with you.

"This unearthly love is yours alone. It is merciless and suffocating. But for you, my sweetling, I would die a thousand times over." His lips brush over your cheek, leaving behind a trail of tingling warmth as he speaks.

He pulls away, revealing a smile on his lips that makes your heart ache with longing. The feelings in your chest swell, and you struggle to find the words to express the depth of your emotions. As he walks away, you are left standing there, feeling both grateful for the time you shared and devastated by his departure.

"Wait!" you call out and follow him along the path leading away from your house. You know the rays of sunshine creep over the roof of your house, starting to paint your frosted yard in a golden shimmer. You catch up to him, and he looks down gently as you grab his hand and squeeze it tightly.

"I love you. With everything I have. I love you. I always will. And this isn't fair. What they did to you… to us. It is cruel and unjust. And yet, here we are, standing together. I wish you could stay, but this is already proof that even though we fell, they lost." You look into his icy eyes and see the determination and resilience that will carry you both through the challenges until you see each other again. You caress his cheek and gently pull him closer to place another kiss on his lips. The warmth of his embrace envelops you, and you feel grateful for every moment spent with him.

"There they are! So it is true!" A murmur of different voices skips across the grass, and you look to see some men coming around the corner of your cottage. Your eyes glance over them to see that they carry weapons, mostly hand axes and spears, but a few have their swords drawn.

"So they are a witch! Conspiring with gods and demons!" An outroar ripples through the group of men, and you can assume there are more of them behind the corner.

"You have lured winter to our doors! You brought hunger and death to our land! Prepare to face the consequences of your treachery!" A different voice speaks up; it belongs to a man with crude leather armor and a sword.

You look wide eyed at the people you have known for your entire life. Among them are youngsters you used to play with, men who would greet you on the streets, and neighbors you have brought back from death's door. And now they all stand before you, ready to seek justice for the suffering brought to this land. The god shifts to stand in front of you, hiding you behind his mass of feathers reaching from his back. He doesn't speak a word as he glares at the mob, who has come with a thirst for blood.

This feels familiar. Glimpses of ancient times flash before your eyes. The way you prepared for battle against the gods of war. The way you wielded your gleaming sword with fierce determination and a heart full of rage. Your trusty extension is no longer with you; it has been replaced by a weak and mortal body not fit for fighting. You now stand among other mortals, stripped of your former strength and power.

You reach out your hand to touch your lover's back as a sign to stand down, but as your fingertips touch the feathers of his wings, you feel a surge of pain run through your body. You realize he has lingered by your side for too long; you are out of time. You pull back before he can rip at the threads holding your body and soul together.

"Go. Hide in the forest." His cold voice speaks without turning his head toward you. "I will take care of them."

You look around the broad back to see the mob move closer; it looks like every man from the nearby villages has gathered together to hunt you down. You back away from your lover to head to the dark wall of trees beyond your yard, hoping to find safety and escape the angry mob. It gets colder as you distance yourself from the god. The flimsy shawl doesn't offer you much protection against the biting wind that seems to be raising around you, picking up the light dusting of snow.

You hear more shouts and yells behind you, but the blood rushing in your head drowns out the rest. Where will you go now? Where can you run to and survive? The answers are not clear, but you know one thing for sure: You must keep moving. You need to get away from it all. As you can nearly duck into the shadows of the forest, you barely manage to pull away from the swing of an axe. You fall backwards into the crunching moss covering the forest floor. The frost underneath your fingers feels painful as it creeps beneath your nails. You see a few men coming towards you, including the one with the axe, and you scramble to your feet again.

The usually comforting forest is now filled with a sense of impending danger. It is filled with more than just shadows and your lover's demons. It reeks of hatred and blood lust. You run as fast as you can back towards your little yard and see your beloved look back at you with fear in his eyes. As the people close in on him, their weapons leave no marks on his skin. The god knows you are being cornered, and while he is immortal, you can be snatched away with ease. The candle of your life is flickering due to his presence alone as you run towards him. He needs to act fast. His fingers grab the neck of the man closest to him, and while usually the cold grasp of winter would be enough to snuff out a life like his, this time the puny mortal keeps fighting for his last breath in a desperate attempt to survive.

The god of winter and death realizes the warmth in his chest. It is you. Your presence has ignited spring within him as it should, his heart beating within his chest, robbing his shadowy powers. His presence alone isn't enough to protect you from these savages this time. Your love hinders him from laying waste to what threatens you.

He breaks the neck of the man he is holding and moves on with a speed unmatched by any human. The god tears through the immediate danger surrounding him before charging at the attackers on your heels. His wrath grows with every life he takes. He is determined to protect you at all costs. His feathers brush your cheek as he passes you, and you fall to your knees. You feel the fragile bond between yourself and this form fraying. He loves you to death. The god knows he is killing you. But he cannot stop, for your safety is his top priority. He has to secure you before he can leave your side. He must protect you from the hands of these fiends. He has failed you once before; he cannot allow it to happen again. He has to get away from you. Destiny and fate tease him with the dilemma of death as he rips through the mortal flesh of a man with a raised spear. His chest and feathers are covered in splatters of blood as he moves on to the next one. The symphony of violence plays in his ears, drowning out any thoughts of mercy or remorse. The only thing driving him forward is the primal instinct to keep you safe, no matter the cost.

The world is shut out as you hear a pair of footsteps approach. You raise your eyes to see a young man with his sword drawn. You want to run away; you need to scream or escape, but your strength has been torn from your weak body by the god of death. You kneel in front of him, your eyes begging for mercy, hoping that he will spare your life. In his gaze, you see fear and hatred. The curse you bear has been long forgotten by any mortal being. You cannot blame him for the dread he feels. The god of winter and death came for you; his presence introduces a bone-chilling cold that ruins crops and brings darkness to the southern land. The man before you demands your soul as payment for what he believes you have done to this world. You will find no mercy in his heart. He raises his sword and plunges it down into your chest.

Your hand grabs the blade as pain sears through your body. The man disappears from your sight, replaced by a display of beautiful feathers. You fall backwards, the tip of the weapon digging into the frozen ground below as blood paints the grass in vivid crimson. As your vision blurs, an arm wraps around your back, pulling you into a warm embrace. Your eyes look up towards the heavens, and a fleeting thought of cursing the other gods crosses your mind before the blue sky is replaced by eyes of the same color. Your hand, that's not bleeding around the blade, reaches up to gently touch his face.

The god grabs the hilt of the sword with his free hand as he watches the life quickly drain out of you. Is it the blade or the touch of his skin that does it? He does not know. Your being is unraveled as he leans closer, your vision fading to black. You wish to leave some words to him, but the breath escaping your lungs carries nothing but silence.

You are gone before his lips reach yours, so he hovers above them. He will not steal a last kiss from this body; you aren't there anymore. It is little more than a prison for the soul. He leans his forehead against yours, still clutching the sword and pressing you into his embrace. You are gone, leaving just a shell behind. You took his heart with him, and all the warmth you had filled him with seeps out of him with the tears he sheds, leaving only cold emptiness. The outstretched mess of wings that served to protect you start to grow blades of ice in-between the long feathers. Shadows gather around the god as hatred fills his mind. The down on his collarbones and neck grows into larger feathers, forming more wings as he lifts his enraged gaze up towards the few remaining people brave enough to face down the god of death. The people cower in fear, knowing that their fate now lies in the hands of a vengeful deity. His face turns monstrous, the eyes dark as the night, and feathers start to cover his face. He bares his elongating fangs at them. Shadows start to bubble up from between the wings, forming faces and clawed hands. The creatures of darkness escape the god and slither to the ground. They slink along the frosted ground, leaving a trail of ice in their wake. The sky darkens as the shadows grow longer until they reach the mortals. They freeze in terror as the creatures surround them, reaching out their hands to grab at them. Their souls are ripped from their meek bodies and consumed by the icy demons.

With a roar that shakes the earth, the god unleashes his full power, engulfing the land in darkness and merciless blizzards. The beastly deity bellows a deafening cry of grief that echoes through the meadows and forests. It skips over rivers and lakes. It shakes the mountains and leaves a sense of dread in the hearts of everyone across the lands. A chilling reminder of his immense power and wrath. The storm rages around him, spreading snow and demons in its wake. In the middle of the deathly horror is your latest body, frozen in time forevermore.

The beast stands up from the cold cradle he has created and chooses to move on, leaving destruction and chaos in his path. The grief robbing him of his human form, transforming him into a monster of pure rage and darkness. His empty chest bleeds with the longing of a heart that will never beat without you, consumed by the grasp of vengeance and hatred. Every step leaves frost and shadows behind; anything touched by the feathers gets ripped to shreds by the hidden blades of ice. He is searching again. Waiting for you to be reborn, to hear the siren song of your soul. It is so cold again.

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fandom-junk-drawer · 2 months

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The Witcher Headcanon (Modern Au) - Error 404 Brain Not Found: Bonus Scene - Part 14

Geralt and Jaskier shuffled through the back door, arms loaded with bags of sodas. They headed straight for the kitchen and began unpacking.

It was D&D night, so Yennefer might not have thought twice about the large quantity of drinks they were hauling in. But there were two little details that set warning bells off in her head.

1. Geralt had already gone out two days earlier and bought drinks and snacks for their weekly game night. 2. Every single soda in the bags was Sprite. Both Geralt and Jaskier favored colas, and Eskel was the only one of the Witchers that preferred Sprite. What where they doing with all that Sprite?

Something asinine this way comes. Yennefer thought to herself as she eyed the men suspiciously from the kitchen doorway. Jaskier was openly smiling at her, eyes glowing merrily. Geralt was avoiding looking at her all together.

Dumbf**kery was definitely afoot.

"You want to play with us?" Jaskier asked excitedly, "We're going to do The Sprite Challenge!"

"The what--?" Before Yennefer could finish asking her question, Jaskier opened a bottle of soda and downed the whole thing in one go, pausing only to breathe and give the carbonation burn time to fade. Then he stood there expectantly.

Mentally trying to regain her footing, Yennefer glanced at Geralt. The Witcher was watching Jaskier excitedly.

The seconds ticked by.

Feeling as if she was supposed to give some sort of commentary, Yennefer said, "Er, congratulations? You drank an entire bottle of Sprite all--!"

The rest of what Yennefer said was drowned out by the almighty belch that erupted from Jaskier. It was long, loud, and carried the faint scent of lemon-lime. Geralt and Jaskier laughing ecstatically, gave each other a celebratory high-five.

What the h*ll, a girl had to have fun sometimes. Yennefer gave up trying to be the mature one, and joined her two idiots, cheering them on and recording the proceedings.

"Your turn, big guy!" Jaskier announced. Geralt nodded, twisted the top off a Sprite, and chugged it. The liquid swirled in a little tornado as it disapeared down Geralt's throat. There was a moment of silence, before Geralt made a noise like a Skellige fog horn.

Guffaws erupted, and the process was repeated, with time in between for stomachs and bladders to empty. While they waited for the next round, Jaskier and Geralt took turns trying to belch their names and various obscenities.

Geralt and Jaskier: * chug Sprite*

Jaskier: *bear with a bellyache*

Geralt: *Semi truck engine braking*

Jaskier: *sound like someone ripping a***

Geralt: *goose honk*

Jaskier: *sound like a toilet unclogging*

Yennefer decided to give it a try herself. Jaskier and Geralt cheered her on as she downed her soda. Seconds later, she opened her mouth and out came a string of garbled noises that sounded like the syllables of the blackest magic spell ever spoken.

"Holy f**k!" Jaskier laughed, tears streaming down his cheeks.

"Did you just curse someone?" Geralt chortled.

"Was it just me, or did you see snakes come out of her boots and a black cloud swirl around her?"

"Oh, f**k you both!" Yennefer grumbled.

"I'd rather *garbled burp* a nekker!" Jaskier retorted.

"That's not much of an insult, considering you'd f**k anything with a hole in it!"

Jaskier: *affronted gasp*

"Scr*bber!"

"B*llend!"

"M*ngebag!"

"A*semonger!"

Geralt decided to intervene before the tit-for-tat escalated. The Witcher chugged a Sprite, tossed the bottle aside, and assumed the belching position. The distraction worked, and Yennefer and Jaskier forgot about their bantering and waited with bated breath.

Geralt grimaced, and then *dying humpback whale noises*

The three of them immediately lost their sh*t. They howled maniacally, holding their sides and leaning on whatever surface was close by.

Laughing on a belly full of carbonated liquid turned out to be risky business.

Geralt and Jaskier both laughed so hard they spewed.

One minute Yennefer was laughing at the ridiculous noise Geralt had made, and the next, her laughter turned to exclamations of surprised disgust. Puke fountained onto the floor as Geralt and Jaskier chucked whiteys. It rolled and splattered, and Yennefer was just doing her best to get the h*ll out of the way.

The vomiting petered out, turning to dry heaves before stopping. Yennefer helped them to the living room, settling them on the couches, then went back to the kitchen to clean up the mess.

She was not one to use magic for mundane things that she could do herself, but this time, she made an exception. She was not going to clean up this mess by hand. She spelled the kitchen clean with a wave of her hand, then returned to the living room and her two dumba**es.

She knew their stomachs were probably feeling a bit queasy, so she cheerfully offered them something to help.

"Here, have some Sprite, it will settle your stomachs!"

*Symphony of groans*

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kiraman · 3 months

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Killing Strangers PART III.

PART I & PART II.

JOHN WICK AU. death/grief/sex/gore/ extreme violence cw / Mizu x female oc

wordcount: 13,394 / soundtrack 1 & 2

disclaimer & a spoiler to put minds at ease about everything that is about to go down in this story, skip if you don't care to know, click here & for author notes if you want to know (you should. related to her romantic interest in the story)

“I who would love and be loved am hated loathed despised; I am the wound and the gun, the bullet and the slaughter; the monster and the bed; the blood in your mouth, the bitter, and the lonely, the body in your bed; i bring the Death and the Life, the ecstasy and the ruin. I am the victim and the guilty; the savage and the trapped. I am the bitter and the howling, the angry and the mouth that screams its rage between your legs. You ask me to look under your bed for the thing that haunts you, fills your throat with soundless cries; you fear it, you fear it; I do not want to but I do; for you I look; when I do, I find myself looking back at me, the hideous monster preying in the shadows. The atrocious loneliness of the monster.

Let my hands be filled with blood; give me the strength to kill them - or let me die and as I die I would find a better way for existing and ceasing to exist. I would find a better way to take and give and fill my empty body with fury; release me now from my soul-binding cage wherein I touch but never hold, find but never stay, join but never belong.”

Afterwards, it is all a blur, her blood pumping violently, a raging torrent that streams over her and pulls her down down down, drowns her in its dark depths; it's blood on her mouth and smoke in their lungs; it's the neon lights spluttering, the C of the Cabinet tearing off the signboard and crashing onto the street as the flames burst through the windows, glass shattering, and metal crumpling, all in less than a second, raining glass and splinters of wood, something metallic over their heads.

Afterwards, it's all a deep, violent silence that descends upon her, dark and inescapable, like a flood, filling every empty space inside of her with its fury; she can't see past the itch that rashes at her throat, the urgency, the flurry of smoke that swallows Geraldine, Geraldine, sank on her knees and screaming; she has never heard anyone scream like this, she thinks, and all her blood rushes to her throat, turns to ice, feeling the time, that small window of opportunity to crawl through and away from this and what is coming, ticking by; in the distance, a siren goes off, pulling her back to the reality of the moment, warning bells ringing. Somewhere near them, the sky explodes with fireworks and Mizu, suspended between the now and the end of the line that she can see in her mind, that perfect, frantic urgency that calls to her to fucking move, get away, do something, what must be done; through the shock that blurs her senses, she moves, grabs at Geraldine's shoulders, and drags her to the car, more senses than registers the sudden downpour that comes pouring over the city, fills the gutters and drains as Mizu drives furiously away; not looking back for those who come for them; those who will come; her mind goes blank, goes empty; she only sees what must be done; that clear, bright line that she follows through the blackness that swarms her vision, blood pounding, death on her hands and ashes in her mouth; she only sees the end of it— getting away and to safety.

Geraldine is numb in her hands when she swerves the car around and drives down to the port, parks the car on the docks and gets out, gets both of them out, tosses their phones into the ocean; she is a dark shadow blotting out the light around her as she gathers her in her arms, shakes her into the moment, her hands rough on her shoulders, but Geraldine does not react, she does not see her and Mizu spits out a fuck under her breath, forcibly drags her away, down to an underground garage. When she enters, the man behind the parking booth looks up at her and stiffens, his lower lip twitching, nods stiffly; she nods back, hurriedly making her way to her bike, does not stop to speak to anyone, not even Taigen who emerges from the office in the back, but she can feel their eyes on her; she does not give a fuck; they know who she is but here, no one would dare touch them; not now; not Smoke; Mizu pulls her jacket off and throws it over Geraldine's shoulders, then swiftly pulls on her helmet, puts one on Geraldine, too, with sharp, swift, measured movements, fastens the straps beneath her chin; presses a finger against the soft skin of her jaw, tipping her head towards her. A kind of signal-flare: I am here. I mean you no harm.

“Hey,” Mizu says. “Hey! You with me?”

“I’m here,” she breathes, and Mizu thinks she’s imagining the little hitch in her voice, like she realized halfway through she is. “Yeah, I’m here.”

Mizu straddles her motorbike, holding Geraldine in the front, her thighs over hers, not trusting her to hold on. Like a bullet through a stomach, she hits the highway.

Her sight clears enough to see how Geraldine keeps her hands curled in tight fists all the way down the stairs and through the hallway that leads to her flat (more of a bunker, buried underground, all still, lifeless air and shadows). She watches her try to loosen them once, standing at her back as Mizu punches in the password to enter—but they’re shaking badly and she immediately curls her fingers back in, burying her nails in her palms. Lifts her chin, sets her mouth. Her expression is smooth and cold as durasteel when she catches Mizu looking.

Mizu looks away, wordlessly pushes the door open and hits a switch. The long row of acrylic led light bars overhead sputters to life, dousing them in cold half-light.

It's dark inside her flat— dark and cold and metallic, walls empty, white, too white, the static light reflecting off of them casting strange shadows.

Geraldine does not look around her; Mizu watches her as she staggers her way to the bed in the corner and lays her body down slowly, blinking at the world around her through the unshed tears that blur her vision, at the only painting on the blank wall across the bed, the coils of a monstrous snake, swallowing its tail. She blinks strangely at it, and Mizu wonders what she might be thinking, then lets her eyes roll up to the ceiling, blindly, like a ragdoll.

Unsure what to do— what she's supposed to say, she stands stiffly in the middle of the room, watches her pull the blanket up to her chest rigidly, not looking back at her when Mizu says you good? and immediately regrets the question—because how could she be; but Mizu has never had to do this, has never had to think of death as anything other than a necessity; this loss of hers should somehow strike a nerve - raw, naked, pulsing in her chest - but she can't feel anything past the pounding of her blood at her temples; can't let herself feel it, that pain, that ache that gnaws you to the bone, strips you clean; she doesn't know what's wrong with her but something must be. Involuntarily, her fingers twitch into a fist at her side, and she watches her roll over in her bed, turning her back to her.

Geraldine doesn't answer her, anyway.

She falls into a fitful slumber- and Mizu stands there numbly and watches the way her shoulders remain stiff and tight, even in her sleep. Then, she tears herself away and staggers into the bathroom, groaning, feeling the blood soaking her side as she stiffly removes her shirt, feels another thread in her stitches tear. She lets the blood flow, stands numbly before the mirror, lifts her eyes to her reflection. A ripple of shock floods through her but she does not visibly react to whoever's looking back at her through the glass; she does not recognize her face in the mirror; her face, a death’s mask of horror, and faint blood, streaked across her skin; it looks unnervingly... at peace. As though something inside of it has been fed; had stopped, only for one moment, to scream and howl for what it's been taken from it. Her hands are twitching when she curls her fingers on the edge of the sink, holding on as she stares at her eyes into the mirror, feeling that thing that lives inside of her, that soft dead thing that's been sliced open and bled out, rotting, pulse and tremble; her blood is pounding, pounding, and she inhales hard through her nose, feels her shoulders stiffen. Feels her body fill up with something bitter that she swallows back violently, she won't let it flood her blood; she can't, she won't; it's done. Something's changed, shifted; like something's being kicked into life, some thread long tight-knotted and tangled unspooling, unfolding. Something's begun.

Violet's dead. That's all that matters. He's dead, by her hand. She lifts it in front of her, looks at all the blood, black and dried up, coating her fingers.

She blinks at her face in the mirror, the cold, stoic, emptiness of it, feels her blood flow, feels that dark, half-choked whisper in her ear, screaming, like static humming in her head; tearing herself away, she grabs a bottle of rubbing alcohol from the shelf, unscrewing the cap. She is furious; exhilarated, angry; she is bitter and triumphant and enraged; dead and full and empty and thrumming with life- he's dead; she shuts her eyes as her fingers touch her side, sees him, there, sat at his desk, his head jerking back, splashing the wall with his blood; she growls, tearing the gauze off of the wound in her side, and she thinks of Geraldine on her knees in her room sewing it closed, thinks of her in her bed, her father hanging from the signboard; she flinches, buries the thought, and dumps half the bottle onto the open wound, half of it over her face, the tiny cuts from the shards of glass shattering all over her, the split in her cheek, gritting her teeth, a hiss spilling through them.

Mechanically, she starts the shower and steps into the spray of cold water, does not wait for it to warm, washes the blood off, watching as it swirls, thick and scarlet around her feet, watching the water sluice it away into the drain with the last of whatever dark guilt claws at that soft, dead thing rotting inside her.

Abstractedly, Mizu grabs a medical kit from the shelf and pads back into the room, water spilling off her wet hair, unbound, sticking to the back of her neck, her bare shoulders.

She hisses when the needle tears through her skin, cursing through her teeth. She patches herself up sloppily, tosses the bloodied gauzes out and then heats up some water, watches it, numbly, detachedly come to a boil, sits with her tea on the couch, sets the cup on the table before her. She kills the lights and sits back as though laying in wait for something. There are tables and monitors blinking in the open space to her left, casting her in strange light. She sets her hands upon her thighs and for the first time that night, breathes.

The phone on the table lights up, rings once and she swiftly grabs it, answers the call; she does not speak; Ringo speaks first, says, "You are alive!" as though surprised, a strange, bright under-current of relief in his voice; Mizu grunts in agreement. Indeed. Alive.

Silence. A clock ticking. Geraldine stirs in her bed, under her sheets.

"and him?" a breathless question,

"what do you think?"

"I knew it! I knew that you would—"

"Goodbye, Ringo—" she cuts him off, and he protests, desperately scrabbles for her attention; she says, "I'll call you later... I'll have to..." and the way she says it must sound strange to him because he gasps, but whatever comes next, she does not hear, ending the call.

Hours go by; the tea in her cup goes cold; she dozes off, numbly on the couch; the back of her neck aches, stiff and rigid, slumped over the back of the sofa; the wound in her side is throbbing; she flits in and out of sleep for hours; does not know how long she lays there. She must have lost more blood than she thought she had; when she jerks herself upright, blinking through the darkness that engulfs the room, she feels her bones shatter under her own weight and groans, touches her hand to her wound in her side, cursing. The stitches have not torn, but it feels like white-hot knives are piercing every inch of her skin. Her mouth is dry. Instinctively, her eyes sweep over to the girl in her bed, her face now turned towards her, soft in the half-light pouring over from the low led lights flickering in the kitchen. Her throat tightens up at the sudden memory that rips through her; the flames and the fire; her father hanging in the air, dead and gone. Mother screaming her name; the bathtub slick with blood. Geraldine on her knees, her hands on her wound, her fingers crimson with her blood.

She gasps, a short of a shallow, sharp gulp for air.

She does not know how but somehow she falls back into sleep. When she awakes again, the hurt in her side has escalated from a dull throb to burning, glaring pain – faster than a lightning bolt. She groans, blindy reaching for her phone but it's out of reach and she does not want to move.

She stares at the wall, looks at the snake in that painting, coiling darkly, swallowing its own tail.

She feels eyes on her, her eyes, dark, carnelian, hungered, gleaming in the darkness, all that fire, snuffed out; when she darts her gaze askance, there is Geraldine laying awake in her bed, staring at her. Something shifts deep inside of her, something she does not have a name for, but she does not shatter under her gaze; she stares back, a silent, fevered apology for something she can't feel sorry for in her gaze (her eyes, too, gleam; like shards of glass; like the glint of a knife; cold, unforgivable) she wonders how long she's been awake for; if she's been watching her sleep, and the thought makes that something growl, makes her look away. Lets her watch her as Mizu falls back into sleep.

Mizu jerks herself awake with a groan, hissing as she moves, her side burning. There's a strip of light pouring in through the small window in the kitchen, it must be day again. How long have they been out for? With sudden realization, she looks for Geraldine and sees her bed empty.

Confused, she sits upright, looks around for signs of her, her own jacket, coated with dried blood on the floor before the bed, her purse on a chair; she sighs, through her nose, feeling her bones creak and ache as she moves, mutters a fuck, under her breath. She reaches for the shirt tossed to her side, clean, white, and shrugs it on, but doesn't button it up, leaves it open. She forces herself on her feet, and walks to the kitchen, sees Geraldine stood at the small window, her face blank. She spares a fleeting, cool glance toward her, then looks away wordlessly, and Mizu stands at the door stiffly, a little out of her waters, a little annoyed, a little confused, irritated, in pain, and to her shock, a lot troubled, worried, concerned—for her— stares at Geraldine's back, her dark hair, gathered up off her neck, the way the light spills over the nape of it, soft, delicate. (She was still wearing it long, in those days, a cascade of black curls around her small shoulders.) Her own hair, she realizes, a little too late, a little too disinterestedly, can't bring herself to give a fuck or think that she does, is still unbound.

You okay? Mizu hears herself ask, you need something? glass of water?

She thinks she sees the very corner of Geraldine's mouth twitch.

She does not answer for a while, then, as Mizu reaches for the bottle of Vicodin on the counter, swallows two pills dry, Geraldine comes back from wherever she has lost herself in, turns around, says I don't need anything, and looks at Mizu for a moment, stares through her, wordlessly, an ache behind her eyes that will not go, even when Mizu nods, fills a glass of water for her anyway. She looks so tired; fragile, like the slightest touch could shatter her into a million pieces. Her hair is so long, the thought, strange as it is, suddenly cuts through the static filling her mind; so dark against her skin; her lower lip is split, she must have bitten it open while she dragged her from the fire, screaming for her father.

She watches her drink the water, then feels her shoulder as she brushes past her and back to her bed.

Mizu stands at the sink numbly, thinks about last night; the fire; Violet.

Fowler.

Sudden, piercing fury rises to her throat; she must do something, there are people after her, after them both; there's a bounty over her head, the world on her back, dogging her every step; but she's so tired, she feels as though she's burning, still burning, her blood fire under her skin. She should call Ringo, should find Madame, track them down- should go after him; should find a way; should... should. Time's ticking away, but she is achingly tired; sick with it; she can't think clearly. Irritated, she refills the glass and gulps the water down, takes another pill, tosses the glass in the sink. It cracks.

She will; soon.

She sits down on the couch heavily and sighs, sinks her face into her hands. She will. Always does. For now, she sleeps.

This time, she does not sleep the day away.

She wakes up at her phone going off on the table and rubs at her eyes, blinks the fatigue away.

It's Ringo, and before she can answer it, her phone dies. She gets up and plugs it in, then calmly, methodically, as though already on autopilot, getting things done, reaches for her laptop.

She goes back to her couch and tries to work soundlessly, lets Geraldine sleep.

Sometimes she murmurs something under her sheets, and Mizu will look her way over the monitor; sometimes she will look a little too long, look at the slope of her neck, so very fragile, as she gasps for breath in her sleep- she must be dreaming, must be having a nightmare; she puts her glasses on, and gathers her hair up in a bun the way she usually wears it. The wound in her side is still throbbing, but she must know, must see what's going on out there while they hide away. She reaches for the phone and calls Ringo, who's sighing in relief again the moment he realizes she's okay, in that stunted, strangely too bright, too warm way he's got about him, cuts him off when he asks too many questions ( of course he knows; he knows she would have had something to do with the fire, with Skeffington's death- he does not know she's got his daughter, shattered to pieces but alive in her bed) says I need the Madame. Find Kaji.

He understands.

A little after 8 in the evening, she finds herself dozing off, slipping in and out of it, but she's waiting for him to call again, waiting for him to find her, so she forces herself to stay awake, gets up and feels the wound in her side throb violently, tearing a groan from the back of her throat. Annoyed, she sits back down and peels the gauze back to look at he wound, wheezing as the ache biting into her side flares up. It looks a bit too swollen, the thread biting into the torn skin. She's half-botched it, she thinks, annoyed, and reaches for the med kit again, splashes more antiseptic onto it, hissing at the sting.

She covers it again, and haphazardly tosses the empty bottle of disinfectant aside, sits back and buttons her shirt up.

She blinks, startled to see Geraldine come to stand at her side, wakeful and clear eyed, a frown lining her face. She must have been in the kitchen, getting water. She sets the glass down on the table.

She looks down at Mizu, asks, bluntly, "why were you making those noises?"

and Mizu says, shrugging her concerns off, "It's nothing. You awake?"

"No, I'm still sleeping." she shoots back in that familiar way she has that is both full of exasperation and something achingly tender at the same time, and, "sure sounded like something... come on. let me take a look. last I remember you were bleeding in the back of the car"

"well, Im not." Mizu reaches for her phone, but Geraldine does not give up, reaches for the medical kit thrown onto the floor at Mizu's feet, and comes to stand near her, looking down at her with something strange and burning in her eyes, like the flare of a match struck lit, flickering.

"Let me help."

"You wanna help, you go back to bed until you're better." Mizu says, and she flares up at it, as though she's being insane, unreasonable, as though she's been slapped across the face.

"I don't think I'm the one that needs to get better." she says, and there is nothing wrong with me; I am here; I'm here— I am me— awake, alive; I lost a father not my mind— goes unsaid, dies in her throat, and, indignant, annoyed by her callousness, her coldness, how she dismisses her like she can't bother to look her in the eye, the way she puts on that mask as though it's not been cracked beyond repair, reaches for Mizu, anyway, reaches for her shirt, wanting to see, make it right, make something right, but Mizu shoves her hand away, says, coldly, too coldly,

"You don't fucking know what you are doing." shrugs her off.

Geraldine blinks, taken aback by the sharpness of it, and all that light in those eyes gets snuffed out, again, but something else lights up inside her, something furious, with teeth; Mizu does not see it, but she can hear it when something else inside her shatters, when she pulls away, taking the air with her.

She walks off in a swirl of anger and regret, but before she can go Mizu wordlessly reaches for her hand, curls her fingers around her wrist and pulls her back. She does not say anything, but slowly looks up at her; Geraldine's eyes are cold, empty, the edge of a blade held to her throat; she's breathing faster now, her cheeks red with anger, and Mizu somehow manages to say, "I didn't mean that. " To the point. Her voice staccato, low. Her hand rough on her wrist.

Geraldine shrugs her off, tries to pull her hand away, but Mizu firmly holds her in place, clutches at her hand tighter, pulls her closer, her wrist swallowed up by her hand. " I didn't."

In the moment that follows their eyes lock and something shifts in the air.

The light pouring over Geraldine from the ceiling is low, flickers, on and off, on and off—the world around her seems sort of blurry, darker around the edges. But it’s enough to see when she steps towards her, and it’s enough to know where to put her hands, when Geraldine presses herself against her.

This would be an easier story to tell if she had been drunk. If they’d stumbled together in the frantic aftermath of the night, hungered for something, anything that could make them feel alive, untouched by all the death swarming their world, take that edge off. It would have been easy, too much fury in her blood, too much fire, and a beautiful girl she doesn’t deserve, flushed and wanting, looking at her, at her; one night of pretending she was worthy of her. Pretending she was worthy of touch and want and desire, of her soft, soft mouth on her throat, the kiss, the wild, savage delight of it. That she can want her; want, and take and not feel sick for it.

When she kisses her it’s violent, all teeth, sloppy in trying to forget too much in her mouth. Mizu lets her — and her mouth is very soft and warm and slack, startled— lets her push her back against the back of the couch, lets her crawl onto her lap, keeps her hands chastely at her waist; Geraldine's are shaking where they touch her, curling into her clothes, her hair, down the column of her neck as though scrabbling for purchase, something to anchor herself to.

( Mizu's never been anything but a comet, an object in constant motion, but if there’s anyone she wanted to drag through space with her— )

She is warm in her arms, grinding down into Mizu's thigh desperately, making those little breathless mewling sounds that fan her blood to fire, and that’s dangerous; the slick, perfect cant of her hips, the way she’s looking at her. Like Mizu's something that can be owned. That can be held. Used for more than a fuck or a quick job, like she can keep her there all to herself, between those thighs, with a quick hot press of her mouth, and god— maybe she can.

She does not know if it's the fever, the fatigue, that dark, senseless, aching emptiness that howls to be filled, but Mizu’s already delirious with her; she’s gone, her pulse shattered in her throat. She cradles the back of her head and kisses her right back, sinks into the slick heat of her mouth, her tongue joining the prowl of teeth and lips as she chases after her lips, licks her mouth open, and it's agony then, it's desperation, it's Geraldine's moans filling the air between them, and furious, frantic kisses, pulling her closer, growling at the feeling of her, slick and wet and hot, rubbing against the apex of her thigh. The sensation is overwhelming, sending what feels like shock waves through her body. She lets herself be greedy, her hands wandering down her shoulders and brushing the sides of her breasts through the silk of her dress. Her fingers curl around her waist, trying to pull her even closer, trapping her between her arms, pressed flush to her chest and holding her there, feeling the slick glide of her cunt against her thigh, filling her mouth with those frantic keening sobs of pleasure that tremble in Geraldine's throat.

And although it's Geraldine that's come to her with a hunger, it is Mizu who takes control of the helm of the beast. With her mouth pouring against her neck, she lets her teeth rake across the now-raised flesh of her throat and down, until she is coveting the hard line of her collarbone. Geraldine turns her head to the side as though she’s trying to find something to mask the noise that pours from her lips. It’s a trembling sigh, punctuated by a moan that’s more breathlessness than sound, a sobbing cry of pure, violent pleasure as Mizu sinks her teeth into the swell of her breasts, mouthing at the skin, a low breathless moan in her throat.

Her hips feel small and round in her hands, spanned by her fingers. She’s trembling, Mizu can feel it against every place they touch.

She kisses her, again, palms her stomach, feeling it swell and flatten with every furious breath. She’s so fucking warm; warm and wet, especially when her hand slips down, past the folds of her black dress that's ridden far past up her thighs, and into her panties, properly.

Geraldine jerks forward when she touches her, a howl caught in her throat. “god—,” she snaps, enough that Mizu feels the press of her teeth against the shell of her ear. “god please, please—" she is frantic, desperate, pouring her mouth all over Mizu now, kissing her everywhere, her lips, her nose, her throat, her neck as Mizu growls helplessly, the ache in her pussy unbearable as she sinks her fingers into that heat, feels her pulse around her finger, feels her tremble above her.

She's terrified by the smallness of her, how much of her throat fits in her palms, her wrists waiting to be swallowed up by her hands. She makes a little noise when Mizu digs her thumb into her clit, and Mizu almost misses it, that’s how loud her own pulse is in her ears, matched by her half-sobs and ragged breathing. Everything feels outsized; her and this girl, with her being cold and sharp like a knife and horrible, needing the press of her skin even if it’s wrong in her fever, and her so fragile, fine. A feral, wild creature handling china, except the china is breathing, and hot, and when she drops her head and sucks at her throat she makes the sweetest noise Mizu’s ever heard, something high and sharp and needing, without knowing how or why.

(I could fall in love with you, Mizu thinks, and is horrified by it, tucks it away quick in some place in her head she never ventures, where she keeps the tragedy and trauma, and this too, how much she wants this, craves its softness, its affection, but even the mere thought of someone caring, wanting this- with her - wanting her, makes her stomach turn.)

“I want you to fuck me,” she mumbles against Mizu's jaw, and the air leaves Mizu's lungs like she’s been shot.

It’s wrong, it’s all wrong, those words out of her kiss-bruised mouth, sounding so small, so fragile, like glass— delicate, powerless in her hands. Mizu's imagined this a hundred times, dreamed of it even in her cold, perpetual denial, but it had always been her, burning and laughing and sure. Not whatever this is, whoever she’s trying to be instead of scared and aching, with bruises at her throat and death on her hands.

“—No... Stop.” she gasps, gathers her hands in hers and pulls them away, very gently, firmly, trying for 'we cant, we mustn't , not now, like this— ' in fewer words.

She freezes, feels the slick press of Geraldine's mouth under her ear, her sweet breath tickling her skin. “yes...yes. I want you. ” she whispers in her ear, and Mizu slips in and out of that pulsing, hot heat of them together, how she wants wants wants this; rips her hand away and stiffens, says, desperate, because this is wrong; it's all wrong; Geraldine does not know her; she knows Smoke, she knows Ghost, the Onryo- she thinks she's him, something else.

"I don't think you know what you are saying."

“Mizu...” she gasps, "It's okay. I know... I know." she whispers, pulls back only an inch to look at her, meaningfully slipping her hand between Mizu's legs, pressing her palm against her. "I don't care. God — I want you." and Mizu gasps, then with a flood of understanding, blinks at her, all of her blood rushing, and she can feel again the violent thumping inside of her, the rushing, burning blood, Geraldine's mouth slick, hot on her throat, her hand trembling between her legs. She feels her mouth on her neck, feels her dark curls stream over her skin as she unbuttons her shirt, licking a fiery path down the swell of one breast, the sudden, violent savagery of her want, pulsing, throbbing.

She gasps, her blood thickened, her eyes blind, her ears filled with humming,

"No... this isn't right..." she protests between kisses, and her voice comes out breathless and shattered, a soft moan, her mouth slack and wanting- god, she wants her; she has to tear her mouth away, has to crawl her way out of that heat, the shuddering delight of it that she wants but can't have, won't have; they can't... she can't, must not, she shouldn't.

her hands shoot out and gather Geraldine's wrists in them, rips them off her burning skin, says, stop. you are out of it.

and when she won't pull away, it's like she can't even see her past whatever unhinged, ravenous, violent, aching need has sunk her in its darkness, Mizu has to push her back, make her look her in the eye, faint, scarlet lipstick stains slick on her neck, between her breasts, her jaw,

"your father fucking died and you wanna fuck? - what's wrong with you?"

and it's cold and cruel and careless, and yes- this is who she is; this is who I am, she thinks through the fever in her blood, see me; have me; bitter and resentful and detached, untouchable and heartless, smoke, smoke, smoke.

All of a sudden, death is fully present in the room with them, settling darkly between the two of them and can't be ignored any longer.

Geraldine does not flinch away from her, does not fall apart at her callousness, but her hands slip from her grip and she sits back in her lap, blinks at Mizu, startled, her eyes gleaming darkly, sharpened knives.

"he did not die. My father did not die. " she snaps. that is not the word for it, goes unsaid but hangs in the air between them- to die is to die in your bed, in your sleep, in a hospital bed, cleanly; to die takes just a little while and then it's out of sight- done, gone, ended. What happened to him had been something else; and Mizu thinks she can hear the accusation tremble in her voice, and her body goes rigid under her, stiff, violent with her fury, her breaths coming out heavy as she snaps back, "well he did", half anger and half whatever else is between them.

"this is not on me! I do not need this-" her eyes flit across Geraldine, and her voice is still breathless, but it's colder now, that low, dark growl, "I did not ask for your help, you gave it to me. I would have found him either way." matter of fact, sharp, clean-cut. ( I did not need you; I did not need this; there's no room for hesitation, guilt or weakness and I will not explain or regret this- you do not know what I have done to find him; what it means... What it means. )

Geraldine freezes, looks up, expressionless. Her eyes are pale. She stares at her blindly for far too long, long enough that Mizu wants to hide from it, that empty, pained expression; she would have taken fury over this a hundred times over, wishes she would explode at her, hit her, anything but whatever this is. This... this she does not know what to do with, but kill between her hands with a snap of her wrist. So she does. “I did not blame you, Mizu.” she drawls back horribly, evenly, trying to control the tremor in her voice. It’s not angry or cold, just wounded, shattered, something hard and bitter, pained.

Every action has consequences. But sometimes you have to make a choice. "I made a choice...not you. I made a choice and have to live with it, and I will. You don't have a monopoly on making bad calls."

Mizu stiffens, stares right through her, not knowing what she's supposed to say. Consequences.

She doesn't say it.

"Consequences." Geraldine more laughs that says the word, instead, and it's dark and wet and terrible, but she does not crack, does not shatter under the weight of it, although her eyes are dark and wet. When she moves to pull herself off Mizu, Mizu's hands fall to her waist, momentarily tighten, but she does not hold her, does not pull her back. When she stands, she takes all the warmth away with her, stripping her naked, leaving only that empty, hard cold shell of her, sat numbly on the couch.

Geraldine picks up the med kit off the floor again, says, let me look at it, and Mizu does not know what else to do so she does, she unbuttons her shirt and lets it spill down her shoulders, hisses when she feels her hands on her wound, scowls cooly, when Geraldine says you've messed it up, and nothing more, watches her calmly, too calmly use her lighter to heat up the gauze and clean the wound, peel off the stitches and sew it up again, slowly, tenderly, as though she somehow deserves this softness, the careful press of her fingers, wet with her blood. She dresses the wound wordlessly, and there is no meaness in her hands, no anger. It's only in her eyes, the coldness, and it feels like the sun is pulling away from her, drowning her in its shadow as it does. There. All new. Geraldine says curtly and gathers the used needle and gauzes and threads, tossing them out, does not even wash her hands before she sits on the edge of Mizu's bed and fishes a pack of cigs from her purse, lights one up. Mizu, grunts a thanks, as she does so, reaches for the Vicodin, something for her fever. She watches as plumes of white smoke swirl around Geraldine, watches her exhale, staring at the snake in the painting on the blank wall. It'll kill you, she reminds her, and that last one earns her a baldly unimpressed look and a yeah, okay... shut up.

Geraldine puts her cigarette out, anyway, says "I need something clean to wear. I wanna shower, and maybe something to eat. Won't be all up in your business for too long, I just-" and Mizu cuts her off sharply, says, "don't be stupid. I didn't say you gotta go." not now, like this.

She does not answer her, just gets up when Mizu does, and trails after her, does not say thanks when Mizu hands her over a pair of her jeans and a black top, takes them in her hands expressionlessly and walks away.

Mizu sits on her bed as she showers, and stares at the snake, too, its dark mouth swallowing itself.

When she gets out of the shower, wet and dripping water over the floorboards, Mizu stands up, too quickly, says, "I'll... leave you to it."

"You do that."

Later, they will argue over the bed; Mizu won't take it, insists that she sleeps in it, she is still in grief, lonely, in pain, she does not say that, not to her face, does not even think it, it's primal, needing to offer this... some sort of comfort.

In the end Geraldine wins (she will not back down, doesn't want scraps of sympathy, which makes Mizu roll her eyes, does not want sheets that smell like gunpowder, she'll be fine- fine...) she takes the couch, and Mizu the bed, and when she awakes in the middle of the night from a nightmare to her sobbing quietly in her sleep, under the sheets, does not say anything, spares her the pain of having to talk about it.

In the morning, before she disappears, Mizu leaves a glass of water near her for her to wake up to.

You come here thinking there is a way out of this world for you. There is not.

Primal, feral obsession sinks its teeth in every last part of her; Mizu can't think about anything but Fowler; his voice on the other end of the line, the cruel, bitter laughter in it, taunting, threatening her. It makes her anger swell and explode, throws her in this violent vortex of vengeful rage; she loses herself in it; shrugs her jacket on every morning and rides down to the Continental, laying in wait for Kaji, or any sign that could lead her to her or to Fowler's men and past them, to him.

She's got Ringo working his magic, but there's been no sign of her anywhere for days now; weeks, even, long before Violet's death.

She grows impatient and bitter, and when she comes back home empty handed, it's dark, way past midnight but she does not stop, does not know how, pops Vicodin dry and chugs black, bitter coffee all night, runs through databases, in spite of Ringo being hot on their digital trail; she must do something with her hands, must keep going, keep looking, find something or she'll lose it.

It's a dark, black blur, the world around her in the days that follow.

Geraldine does not speak to her much most days; she holds a dark brow aloft at her once, watching her toss one of the monitors off the desk in her rage, her frustration at her lack of any real lead that could show her that line, that bright, sharp point she must follow but can't, not if she can't see it.

Geraldine smokes, and she wears her jeans, and blinks at her blankly once when she catches her chugging coffee straight out of a bowl because she's broken most of her glasses and can't be bothered to replace them; asks her for a phone, to find her people, she says, and no more. Mizu wakes up to her screaming in her sleep most nights; leaves glasses of water on the table for her. She's half a ghost, plumes of smoke and that sharp, dark glint of her eyes, watching her when she shrugs on her leather jacket, tucks her gun into her jeans, says they're after you. you are being reckless going back out there so soon. you'll get caught and Mizu says I won't.

Their shoulders touch sometimes as they brush their teeth side by side in her bathroom, and Geraldine shoves her away with her elbow, complains, you're hogging the mirror, and Mizu says, annoyed, incredulous, you've got to watch yourself brush your teeth? and yes, I have to.

but it’s easy to stay here, some nights, with her, when her grief is not a gun held to their throat, and her presence not a threat, a constant reminder that she's let herself be weak, keeping her here, close, (she chose to help her: Geraldine did; she made this happen, her choices, her stubbornness, her self-indulgent delusions; it's not her responsibility to keep her safe, there is no room for distraction...but she does-she's here, and it's what it is; she's real, with her, like the way she takes way too much sugar in her tea, is real, or how she sets the edge of a curl on fire smoking a cigarette, over breakfast and Mizu snorts on her tea ) but it's easy, when she softens, smokes her cigarettes, lazing in the low light of her room and teasing Mizu scathingly, mercilessly for how serious she looks, bent over her laptop as though she'll find her enemies in there. I wouldn't like to earn your anger, she scoffs, pretends to shudder in fear. Geraldine sits, facing away, trying to track down her own contacts. Occasionally, she reaches for something on the desk; instinctively, because she always looks up when she can’t find it, shakes her head as though chasing away a thought.

Mizu wonders what used to sit on her desk in her room under the Cabinet. She wonders if she can ask, or if that’s impolite, reminding a girl her life is gone.

Really she just likes watching her, the graceful economy of her hands, the way she touches her mouth sometimes, checking on her lip. (Her little wound—she’d worried at her lower lip all through that night, bitten it as she watched her father burn, torn it open. She wonders if it would bleed if she smiled.) She’d tell her she’s beautiful, but she gets the sense that she’s heard it before, though maybe not quite the way she means it. She imagines someone like her gets called ‘beautiful’ like paintings or a shard of diamond, something sharp and hot and alluring, not ‘beautiful’ like women, like her, like the nape of her neck and her lip, bleeding.

She looks up from the laptop on her knee one night, and watches that nape, how she gathers her hair off it, pulls them up in a ponytail.

“Stop looking at me like that, Smoke,” she says then, like she can hear Mizu thinking it.

Mizu makes a sound, a huff, a snort, letting her head fall against the back of the couch.

“And how exactly am I looking at you?”

She doesn’t think she’s heard her laugh in such a long time, it startles the breath in her throat. She should do that more often.

“You’re funny, Mizu.”

“I am breathlessly hilarious. you haven’t answered my question.”

She scoffs. “I wasn’t raised in a covent. I know what that look means.”

“Enlighten me.”

“Oh, suck my dick.”

The laugh is startled out of Mizu, and she can’t help looking—she’s smiling too, or as good as, her eyes warm and on Mizu. Mizu swallows. “I’m impressed... that was almost a real curse.”

“Almost?” Geraldine protests.

“Yeah, almost. Now…” she makes a show of considering their options. “‘. Go fuck yourself.’ That would have been a real curse.”

She lifts her chin imperiously, and it’s dangerous, how much Mizu likes it when she does that, the way her eyes go hooded. “Okay. Go fuck yourself. ” she says, slowly and carefully.

There’s got to be at least a yard between them—her behind the desk, Mizu on the couch, maybe a yard and a half—and there’s something new and trembling in that space, warm in the air. Mizu's a little worried to mess with it or even look at it straight.

She does not have to worry too long; Geraldine forces herself to look away, but she can see her hand fumble a little when she reaches for her smokes.

"Seriously? Again?"

"Addiction is tricky." Geraldine drawls as she lights up a cig, takes long drags of it as though it might cure some disease growing inside of her. Her lips (soft and sweet with her lipstick) purse around the flute, and she inhales, closes her eyes for a moment. They are burning when they meet Mizu's again, and her mouth dips up. “I only smoke when I’m nervous.” she tells her, shrugging. “It’s a terrible habit.” Mizu says back, and Geraldine bites her lip, thoughtful to her, seductive to Mizu.

“you are a terrible habit.” she says it like it's something normal to say; the casual, soft drawl of her voice running through her like a knife.

Startled, Mizu blinks, does not react to it.

"Come here." Geraldine moves to sit on the edge of the bed, crosses one leg over the other, and as she does so, Mizu's eyes darken, follow her skirt as it rides up her thigh. "I'll show you," and Mizu stares back at her.

She can't deny her, and why not? it's late, fuck, she doesn't know how long she's been awake for, and she's been watching her play with her hair for too long. Suddenly, she wants her close. A beat, and then she gets up and sits next to her on the bed, says "show me what?"

"Magic tricks," Geraldine taunts, brushes Mizu's hair back from her eyes absently, that little curly strand.

"What bad habits do to you — Lean in, relax. God knows you need it." she adds then, sucks in the smoke and holds it, watches Mizu lean in close, her blue eyes dark, her nose brushing hers, a strange smirk on her lips as understanding sets in — she presses her mouth to hers and blows the smoke out slowly, and Mizu takes it, feels the heat of it drip in her lungs and sputters a little, coughs, which makes Geraldine laugh at her, a quiet, breathless sound; come on. it gets easier. she sucks in the smoke from her cig (mint and something strange, bitter, like overripe plums) touches her lips to Mizu's; they pass the smoke between each other’s open mouths, like this, and Mizu feels her blood turn to fire under her skin. Mizu holds her throat in her left hand chastely, sweet, mint smoke sprawling out of half-open lips. She's silk beneath her hands, Mizu thinks dizzily, her mouth tastes like sugar and liquorice, and she sucks the smoke from it hungrily, feels her tongue brush against her lower lip— she's the pulse in her throat, this girl, the hitch of her breath, that languid, that sinuous, that electric, that girl.

Enveloped in smoke, Geraldine draws back, slack-jawed and soft, her lips wet where she's licked them, curled in a coy smile, and Mizu, cold, stoic, unyielding Mizu who has been distant and cold and detached, chases after that mouth, that heat, cradles the back of her head in her hands and forces her back close to her, presses her forehead to hers, as though unsure of what she wants, traces the fleshly curve of her lower lip, like it's the sweetest thing she's ever touched, not like she's waiting for something else, like her hands beneath her shirt or her skirt or tangled up in her bra straps. She dips her fingers into her swollen mouth, inhales her sigh.

When she crawls on top of her and crowds her back against the mattress, Geraldine gasps, says her name in that breathless, rapt way she's got about her, asks what are you doing? Mizu does not answer, does not know how to make words for this. She straddles her hips and pins her down, licks her mouth open with hers, and her jaw is as sharp as cut glass, her eyes ocean depth, dark and ravenous; the cigarette burns a hole in her sheets, sizzles out; she swallows the soft, desperate moans that spill from Geraldine's mouth, feels her body shudder under the weight of her, grinding up against her, already half shattered with how much she wants this, wants her, and it's all heat then, sweet smoke and tongues and frantic, spit-slick kisses. Her thumb in her mouth, her nails on Mizu's back, that right there, that fire, that want, that starvation is what she wants. Mizu scrapes her teeth across her neck, feels the pulse point in her throat throb against her tongue as she licks her neck, buries her hands under her t-shirt (one of her own, loose around her shoulders and black.) She is breathless and unhinged, her body hot to the touch with every nerve firing off a spark of sensation, but still, she pulls back an inch with a dark smirk on her lips, asks, no bra? and Geraldine gasps at the sensation of her hands roaming over her chest under her shirt, says "mine are in the wash, and yours are tiny."

Tiny?

"Fucking brat." her eyes flash, and her hips jerk against Geraldine's, hard and slow, teeth snagging her own bottom lip as she struggles against the growing tension between her thighs. Everything is white-hot and pulsing, prickling her skin with a sheen, light sweat. Her fingers curl beneath the hem of Geraldine's shirt to peel it deftly up and off of her to let it fall to the side, and Geraldine is pulling her furiously back down to her, shifting until she can wrap her legs around her, kisses her mouth hot and slick and furious. While the ache between her legs is unbearable, and her skirt has ridden up far past her upper thighs, she doesn’t break the kiss when Mizu slips a finger into her panties, strokes her slow, taunting, toying with her. Her teeth, instead, become involved when she’s breathless, nipping at her lower lip in an act of hungry desperation. "fuck..." Mizu moans into the kiss, and Geraldine says yes, sucks at her throat, sending a shock of sensation through her skin that escalates to every vein and artery strung throughout her body. Mizu's lips part with a hiss, her tongue melding against Geraldine's in a teasing opposition. She holds her wrists above her head, pins her down, says I want you, clasps both hands in her palm as her other hand furiously delves into her panties again, slipping her middle finger inside her. She buries her face into the curve of her neck as she fucks her with only one of her fingers, feels her warm breath tickling her ear as Geraldine sucks sweet, deep kisses over the curve of it, quivering through a series of thrusts, each deeper, each tearing a little more at her drenched heat until her finger's as deep inside her as it could ever be, and Geraldine thinks she will surely die, she'll fucking die, biting into the muscled peak of Mizu's shoulder, trying not to scream; her body is crying out for completion, it is starvation, agony, and she tries to speak through her shallow gasps, to beg her for more, but it comes out a sobbing whimper, and she whispers her name in a slurring, wet drawl, her delicate hips rocking in time with her muffled moans as Mizu quickens her pace, and she would have given her more, she would have bitten and licked and fucked her every way she would have let her, but a furious pounding on the door stills every last muscle in her body to complete motionlessness, gasping in her open mouth as their foreheads press together. Geraldine breathlessly reaches for her, says, no, don't stop, pulls her back.

But Mizu's automatically reaching for the gun under her bed, cocking it, already on edge, blood pounding. Her movements are precise, perfect, controlled. She gestures for her to keep quiet as she lifts herself off the bed.

She does not get too far.

Ringo's voice comes through the door, saying, I found her and something very akin to shock rips right through Mizu, and her eyes must have hardened, her attention violently snagged away from the heat of the moment, because she's moving to the door and prying it open to let him in and Geraldine is left scrabbling at the bed for her shirt, tugging her skirt down over her thighs.

Ringo comes in like a typhoon, stands under the cold, harsh led lights, and is about to say something when his attention is caught by the girl in Mizu's bed, and his jaw slackens in confusion.

You are not alone! he sounds surprised, and Mizu has to shove him in the shoulder to get him to look at her again, snap her fingers in his face.

"You were saying you found her?"

Ringo blinks, and his eyes grow wide, startled by her stepping between him and the bed, demanding answers.

"uh... yeah. I did. Told you I would!"

A beat. Silence. Sheets rustling as Geraldine reaches for the cig on the floor and re-lights it.

"—and?" her patience is running thin, but then again so is time.

"She's home now... She's back home."

The Continental. A muscle in Mizu's cheek spasms.

"And where has she been?"

Ringo shrugs. His voice changes a little, drops.

"I don't think she ever left it."

Huh.

Mizu does not physically react to any of it, but already, she's gone, her mind racing; she's the only one that might be able to tell her where Fowler is; the only one that would.

She shrugs her leather jacket on, and pulls her loose hair up in its usual bun, and Geraldine, who's been watching them blankly, leaning against the wall, blows out the smoke, says,

"where are you going?"

"If she's heard what's happened, she'll be waiting for me."

Geraldine blinks, then, with a flash of understanding, "Kaji? The Madame?"

Mizu just looks at her, reaches into a drawer, finds a snub- nosed .38, and checks the chamber for bullets, metal clicking, slick, cold in her hand - tucks it in the back of her jeans.

"You know every-fucking-one out there wants you dead right? Must have something to do with ten million dollars hanging over your pretty little head or, I don't know! The fact you went all fucking gung go insane on Violet." Geraldine snaps, horrified at the idea of Mizu meeting with Kaji.

"Relax. It's the Continental. No one will do shit. I'm not going to my death."

"Let me come with you, then," Geraldine says and her voice is breathless, cold, frustrated, her hand shaking in anger as she snubs out her cig.

"No." Mizu rasps, tosses her keys to Ringo,

"Both of you stay here, out of my way and let me do what I have to." she pulls her boots on and tucks a knife in one of them.

"You know his daughter's dead, too, right? And his wife." Ringo's voice cuts through the air like a bullet, and Mizu's hand stills for a moment over the zipper of one boot, but she does not say anything.

Geraldine looks absolutely murderous, hands on her hips and head thrown back as she turns around, willing herself not to scream. fuck- is all she says, fuck fuck... and it's a panicked sound in her throat; because fuck- this is bigger than Mizu, bigger than her and Violet and whatever other storm she's got raging under her skin. They are viscerally, bitterly, and thoroughly fucked.

Ringo just stares between them, the metal of his prosthetic hands clinking as he taps a finger against a wrist, nervous, worried,

Mizu glares over at him and he stops.

"Doesn't matter. Her dad's dead. Her home's gone. I've got hundreds- "

"thousands," Geraldine bitterly cuts in,

"thousands of people on my back because someone's afraid I'm coming for them next, and it's not Fowler, and it's not Kaji or Violet or his fucking daughter."

"They say Fowler had Harkan cut Skeffington's throat open. They say the Adjudicator said he hired you to kill him and The Father." Ringo offers, unsure of what it means,

"The Father?" Mizu mutters, frowning

"I don't know, Mizu... But they said it like it meant something to them..." he says, and Geraldine steps in, says, "Harkan? That fucking pig?"

and "Mizu, I've got to talk to him. I've got to know."

"Know what? You betrayed their trust and they know you or your father did because you were the only ones outside his little clique who knew where to find him. The only reason you are not dead's because you were with me and not with your Father that night." Mizu drawls coolly, not sparing her the cold, hard facts of the reality they're facing.

This isn't a game, and she can't let anything go wrong because she let her guard down, let her walls be cracked open, enough for her to somehow slip through and under her skin...

Like a twig snapping, Geraldine goes still; her eyes hard, and her mouth thinned, pinched and white. Her nostrils flare when she breathes.

"So what." she demands,

and Mizu exhales through her nose, not angrily, touches her chin, gently, like it's something fragile— precious to her. It's only scraps of attention, Geraldine thinks, something to keep her from exploding; Mizu's already gone.

"so nothing. stay here. You're safe here." out of my way where I don't have to be dragged down to keep you safe. goes unuttered.

She does.

When Mizu steps outside, Ringo turns to her, blinking blankly, his mouth slack, a strange smile flitting over his face.

Geraldine measures him with a piercing stare, grits her death against the flood of anger that threatens to upend her, says. Okay.

Okay.

Mizu enters the room through a pair of velvet drapes, the overhead lighting haloing her head, gleaming and pooling over the leather of her jacket.

She's Smoke here, everybody knows him, and as she makes her way through the room between the tables, everyone turns to look at her, offers a handshake, or a simple sharp glance.

On the stage sprawling along one side of the room, the singer sways behind the microphone, singing an old jazz standard, her voice strong, tender, like the wind. Her eyes grow wide at the sight of Mizu, but she never wavers from her tune. In the corner, swathed in silks and velvet, a crimson kimono tied tightly around her slender waist, sits Kaji, the Madame, the manager of the Continental and knower of all; lean, well- dressed, glasses, tailored, precise- she sits with a worn, paperback copy of The Great Gatsby in one hand and a dry sherry in the other. Mizu does not wait for her to invite her to her table, sits down across from her, says, "Kaji."

She lowers the book, and glances across at her with a blank -yet warm- look, the corner of her mouth tucking into a faint half-smile.

"Ghost," she says it in japanese, she always does; then, "my, oh my- will wonders never cease!" and then, sharper, meaningfully, " I'm glad to see you with your head between your shoulders still. it's been a while. "

Mizu's mouth twitches. "That, it has."

a beat, then, she pours herself another drink, calls for another glass with no more than a flick of her wrist and before Mizu can blink, it's there on the table, the waiter walking away as she pours sweet dry sherry for Mizu too. I don't drink, Mizu says plainly, but she pays her no mind says, her voice a low whisper, "what have you done?"

"that's not what I am here for."

"I am not asking you why you are here and frankly, Mizu, I do not wish to know. You highly miscalculate the heights of my position or how much I am willing to risk in the name of my affection for you. "

In Japanese, her voice, is somehow darker, still, but soft, like a girl drowning; a woman held underwater, screaming. "Neither will I try to calculate it. I'm hardly far gone enough to try my hand at your arithmetic. You owe me." she reminds Kaji, calmly, coldly, and Madame stiffens, smiles, that smoky, sharp smile of hers, lips exceedingly narrow, thin, lupine. When she smiles, her teeth gleam like blades.

"You know where he is, I know you do. he's been here three times, crawling like a worm under my nose while I hunted down Violet—”

"lower your voice." Kaji warns, looking around, and Mizu goes on, does not falter, says "you know where he is and you will tell me where he goes when I can't see him."

Kaji sits back, exhales. Under the light sluicing over her, she looks like a statue, cut out of porcelain, immaculately pristine.

"I see... " she does not ask her why she wants him; she straightens the cloth on the table and smooths her dress. She brushes a nonexistent speck from her velvet sleeve. She straightens the ruby necklace on her throat, says, her tongue sharp around the vowels, "you have murder in your eyes," and Mizu sits back, stoic, unaffected, bright blue eyes glinting like shards of ice melting under the candlelight. “he deserves to die.” her voice thickens in her throat, a menacing growl.

Kaji smiles, but it is hollow. She readjusts the bottle on the table, brings her glass to her thin lips, swallows, elegantly, softly.

"Very well," she rises, silks rustling, "Keep your ears pricked and your eyes open, Ghost."

"Done," Mizu drawls back, tips her glass, still filled to the brim with sherry, towards the Madame in salutation before she joins her in her drinking.

"there are eyes on you...from here to the ends of the world, everyone knows what it means: getting their hands on the Ghost." Kaji warns, a meaningful toss of her dark, black eyes towards the bar, and Mizu pretends to smile, as though she's told her something worth a smile, her eyes unerringly stealing a glance at the half empty bar. He's got her back on her but Mizu instantly recognizes him. Vlad. The pig's driver; Harkan's right hand.

"Come, I'll walk with you to your car..." Kaji offers, and as she moves her slim hand, the silks of her kimono flutter, catch the light,

Mizu hesitates, but only for a second; and then, something's snapping inside her, like a vein torn, gushing; she can't walk away from here with him still breathing, and the thought tears through her like a knife, hungered for blood, blood, blood.

"My bike." Mizu corrects her, tosses her head back and slams back the drink, swallowed in a single gulp. "And I am not leaving yet."

Kaji watches her as she stands up and walks to the bar, sits at the very edge of it, not sparing the world around her a second glance.

Something inside of her, too, snaps, and when she walks up to the lobby of the hotel, Kaji whispers to her concierge to keep an eye on the ghost that haunts their bar. "Keep an eye on him;" what she does not say is keep him safe; from himself; from what he might do. He understands, anyway.

Mizu drinks in silence for a long, dark, brooding time, grunting when the bartender tries to make small talk; the silent, stoic mask of her face, almost unsettling. She slips a gold coin to her, leaning over the bar and whispering into her ear, her mouth tickling her cheek when she pulls away, and to the world around her it seems like Smoke's found a girl he likes enough to keep him company for an hour or two; not that she has asked her to keep refilling her glass with water and juice and not a drop of alcohol.

She can feel his eyes on her, Vlad's and his man's, whoever the fuck he is, like tiny teeth pinching her side, like wasps snapping at her fingers, begging to be crushed; after midnight, she drags herself to her feet and staggers to the bathroom. They lift their glasses in salutation to Smoke as she passes, grin, and it's grotesque, how their teeth shimmer, how their mouths slant, ugly-bright things, that make her sick. Mizu pretends to stagger sloppily towards them, loops her arms around their necks and hugs her close to her, laughing darkly. "Smoke," one of them chuckles, says, "it's been a while, prizrak. Good to see you showin' your face 'round here."

"Yeah." Mizu rasps, "you must have missed me something terrible, mm?" she asks, squeezes their necks tightly, more a threat than a hug. "Tell you what..." she slurs, and it comes out like a warning, a dark growl, the words tumbling from her mouth in a rush, "next round's on me." she staggers back a step or two, and without a warning, slams her fist so hard against their table, their drinks spill over, sloshing vodka all over both of them, glass shattering. She uncurls her first and places two gold coins on the table, neatly atop the shards of glass. "Enjoy." she says, and her voice is pulsing, cold, numb, like static humming. She doesn't look back as she walks away, but out of sight, she hastens her steps, tears the door of the bathroom open and pours into one of the stalls, unzips her jeans, and with a hiss of pure frustration, she removes the pistol from her back pocket and slips it between her legs, tucking it in her underwear. They'll never look for it there.

Exhaling through her nose, she ambles back to the bar and dons her jacket, pretends to struggle with the zipper, tosses a coin to the bartender. Goodnight, she slurs, leaning over to pinch her cheek. She pretends to forget her phone on the bar, takes three steps and comes back for it, laughing hotly, rum soaked and loose. She nods towards Vlad, then turns around and makes her way to the lobby and out into the cold night air.

Mizu, purposefully ducks into an alley, the opposite way from where she's supposed to be going, walks down towards the port.

It does not take long for them to come for her.

A car slows down near her, and Vlad rolls the window down, says, "Hey, Smoke. Come on, man. It's late. We'll give you a ride."

Mizu's step falters, and she blinks at them slowly, turns to leave, but hesitates.

"Don't bother, I'm good. I'm okay." she waves them away, but just like she's expected, the bait lures the prey, they insist.

"Come on! you bought us vodka, brat. we give you a ride. Only fair." Vlad howls in laughter, his accent made thicker and rougher with the drink.

"I'm walking." Mizu slurs, and quickens her step, hears one of them say, Pull over here.

They kill the engine and step out of the car, spit something in russian through their teeth and follow her.

"What you doing, walking? Come on, let us take you home. It's colder than my dick in cunt made of ice out here. Get in the car. "

Mizu keeps on walking, pretends she does not sense it when Vlad's hand shoots out, grabs her shoulder and spins her around, laughing, splashes of spittle in her face; she shoves him off, eyes darkening, and he lifts his hands up in the air, says, "Okay, easy; easy..." as they grab her shoulders, pat her down, looking for her gun. "We're gonna have you home in no time, blyat."

Check his boots, Vlad growls in Russian and Mizu pretends to sway in her feet, pretends to flare up in anger when they dig out her knife, sneer about him being unarmed.

"That's mine." she growls, and Vlad says she doesn't want him slicing a vein open now huh, brother? Come on.

She comes on.

She follows them to the car, lets them pour her into the back sit, arms stiff at her sides.

The drive is slow, there's traffic, and Mizu pretends to doze off; they hand her a beer, and she takes a sip, laughs at their jokes, the forced, hollow familiarity. Some russian song is playing on the radio and the beer is sweating in her hand, she can feel the wetness of it trickling down her wrist.

One of the russians asks her incredulously if he's got a woman stashed away somewhere; you smell like pussy, he grins, sniffing the air like a dog, Geraldine's perfume still clinging to her.

''probably in a freezer...'' Vladmir, comments, laughing.

Mizu does not answer. She does not smile. Apathetically she slowly pulls her leather jacket on, unzips her jeans.

He makes a left and shifts gears, turns the car toward the Red Circle; he must be at the club, then, Mizu thinks; they must operate right out of that shithole. The Red Circle. Right under her nose.

We getting him to Harkan? one of them mutters, confirming her suspicion, and the other says, in russian, where else?

The bounty? the first asks,

fuck the bounty. They park the car in a dark alley behind the Circle, and Mizu groans, her head rolling to the side. She hears the low beeping of a phone, static filling the car.

Help me get him out of the car.

From the half open window in the front, she can hear a car driving into the lot, rear wheels smoking as they struggle to grip the road.

She swallows; her new understanding tells her there are too many swiftly compressed decisions in this fight hanging in the air before her, for any clear channel ahead to show itself. She must move. So she does.

Hey, she slurs, and as she sways forward in her seat, the russian looks back at her snaps, what? just as she shoves her gun into Vlad's head and fires a shot right through his skull, splashing him with his blood, and he screams, eyes wide with horror, scrabbles for the door, but Mizu's rage incarnate, she's angry, blood pounding in a blind fury, and both hands going with every ounce of power she can muster; she's on him within seconds, grabs his hair and pulls back his head, shoving the mouth of her gun directly beneath his right eye, growls, "where's Harkan?"

"You'll never find him." he spits through his teeth in Russian. Mizu answers by slamming his head against the dashboard , breaking his nose, and he howls, blood streaming down his face, into his mouth. Unflinchingly, she lowers the gun and grabs at his arm, twisting so viciously that her throat vibrates with her howl; she's angry; she breaks his shoulder clean off the bone, breaking his arm with a dry snap and he's roaring in pain, choking back howls, but she keeps holding his arm painfully in place, growls, "where the fuck is he?"

Outside, she can hear boots on gravel, another car ripping through the lot, wheels skimming violently as it comes to a stop.

"you are out of time, Mr Ghost," he howls in russian, "tik-tok, tik-tok," wet, shallow gasps, and Mizu's trembling in rage, eyes unblinking; she grabs his head and slams it into Vlad's crushed skull, shattering his face into the torn bones that stick from his skull, over and over again, until her hands are crimson with blood and he slumps over, limp and heavy in the passenger seat. Grabbing her knife from his pocket, she swings the door open and shoves Vlad's dead body out of the car, blind with fury; she can only see that line again; that bright, straight line that leads from A to B, from here, to then. Perched behind the wheel, she shifts gears, and furiously slams her foot down onto the gas, hitting a long patch of gravel, shifting, spinning the wheel, and skidding -while remaining in full control- as the wheels skim over the earth.

The gunmen pouring out of the second car react to the sound of the engine's roar, the wheels smoking, the two nearest it's approach dropping to a knee, aiming, and firing. Bullets crash into the windshield -a round slashing into the headrest, clipping her ear- and Mizu slams her foot down harder, barreling down towards them; she is angry; furious; she feels another bullet slam into the car, half shattering the engine block before the front left tire blows. She loses control of the jeep, which fishtails wildly, but she regains it, growling, shifting, slamming into a sedan, crushing two gunmen before it cartwheels through their midst, killing three more before coming to a violent stop on its side.

Groaning, she fishes around for her gun and drags herself out of the car through the shattered window, feels the stitches in her side throb. Mizu growls; she is furious.

She is on her feet and on them within seconds, shooting anything that moves, spilling blood, furious, enraged, screaming; each target receives two well-placed bullets to ensure incapacitation. She never slows, never misses, and will not stop; she is furious. The men scatter in a panic, fleeing towards the club - a number of whom are shot in the back- while those choosing to shoot back are cut down in a blink. Once emptied, Mizu drops the clip of her pistol, kneels, sweeps a fallen gun , levels, fires, again and again, always moving;

and then she sees him, Harkan, skin blotched and jaw scraped raw, cut open, he must have been in one of the cars, his suit is scarlet with blood; and she can't see past him, the terribly grin of that mouth, teeth yellow, glinting; Geraldine on her knees, screaming (she's never heard anyone scream like this.) The distance between them grows smaller, the passengers of two of the sedans parked around him emerge with semi-automatic weapons but before either of them can fire, Mizu fires off four shots, killing them each with a pair of bullets before firing until empty, teeth snarling, she's blind with rage, screaming Harkan's name, wanting him to know, she's coming for him, killing two drivers, and one passenger, leaving one driver barrelling towards her, covered in his passenger's blood, eyes wide with horror as the car crashes into a wall and explodes into flames.

Screams fill the night, and she watches as more of his men pour out of the club, as he disappears into a car, and Mizu's cocking her gun and running after it, firing shot after shot into every part of it that she can reach, shattering its windows; but they drive away, and she's left trembling in silent rage, blood frothing at her mouth, her lip torn from a shard of glass. Gun empty, she tosses it aside, lunges for one of the rifles laying on the ground, snatches it up, points the hot end at the back of the car furiously driving away, and empties it into the backseat, blindly, unflinchingly.

Bullets easily punch through the doors and windows, riddling the dash. Blood spatters the seats but she can't tell who's dead, and she is hissing, panting, tossing the gun aside and running for the car at her left, the lot's swarming with Harkan's men now, and she is diving behind the wheel within the blink of an eye, unerring, unstoppable, turns the key, revs the engine, slams her foot down on the gas and crashes through the parking lot gate of the building, tires squealing as the jeep pulls a one-eighty, righting itself before leaping out onto the street, furiously gaining momentum, as a trio of heavily-modified skylines appear and take chase. Collected, focused, Mizu glances into the rearview mirror, takes the pistol in her left hand, shifts, and viciously spins the wheel turning to face the oncoming vehicles. She cocks the gun and shifts again, crushes the gas pedal underfoot, rear wheels smoking as they struggle to grip the road and she empties the gun into the cars ripping down the street towards her; one bullet, two, three, four shots through the windshield and a skull, a throat, tearing a chest open. She groans, exhales through her nose, shifts gear and as she swerves the car around with one hand, she fires a shot right through the skull of the last driver that comes crashing into the side of her car.

She revs the engine and violently shifts the car around, comes to a screeching halt before she hops out of it, runs down a dark alley on her left. She zips up her jacket and makes her way down to the other side of the street, shoves her way into a taxi, growls out an address.

When morning comes, no one's sure who's ripped through the Red Circle.

When morning comes The Pig's dead, his throat shattered, torn open by a bullet. His car washes up on the banks of the river; his driver dead.

Something tells the world that it was him, anyway.

When she comes back, her flat is dark and empty, the bed made. She calls out for Geraldine, but she does not answer.

In the bathroom, she finds her hair, fistfuls of her black curls in the trash, cuttings of it into a Ziploc, and a used up dye bottle and gloves, smatterings of red dye, ruby fire, carnelian, like a flame; the scissors on the sink.

In the kitchen, a bowl of ramen gone cold, the ones she silently watched her make right out of a package from 7/11 one sleepless night, and somehow burning those too. She had not laughed to her face, but afterwards Mizu had heard her snort to herself when she stepped out of the kitchen in cool, composed frustration at her failure.

Next to her bed, on the night table, a glass of water and a note sticking to it. It's got a lipstick stain on it, a parting kiss, rouge and pink and velvet like her.

It reads,

Consequences.

The snake on her wall is gone.

#IM IN TOO DEEP TO STOP NOW #blue eye samurai mizu #blue eye samurai #mizu #bes mizu #john wick tag.#killing strangers.#I AM DONE. im insane about this story UNFORTUNATELY but if i have to look at this in my drafts one more time i will scream and delete it #writing tag.

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