#it's kind of like despair is filling my lungs choking me and i feel like i have no other choice than to die. you know how it is | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

rrxnjun · 9 months

Text

where do broken hearts go? [lmk]

you know what they say about past lovers that can remain just as friends - either they're still in love with each other, or they never were in the first place.

pairing: mark lee x fem! reader

genre: exes to lovers. angst, fluff.

wc: 12k (11.926)

warnings: mention of sex, weed and alcohol, heartbreak, swearing, park jihoon of treasure is one sassy bitch and also accidentally somehow the main character of this fanfic plz dont @ me, inconsistent writing style bc i took 3 months and 3 depressive episodes to finish this fic

playlist: where do broken hearts go - one direction / too good to say goodbye - bruno mars / everytime - ariana grande / closer - waterparks / tornado warnings - sabrina carpenter / survive the night - the boyz

a/n: hey do some of you still remember me..... AHAHA tell a friend to tell a friend rrxnjun is BACK! this fic isn't the ideal vision i had in my mind but we are working on not being so hard on ourselves with our writing so! here we are. i still kind of like it :,)

When you walk up to your best friend’s apartment one day with a tub of ice cream under your arm and the biggest pout on your face, Park Jihoon makes a complete list of things you should do to get over your failed relationship with Mark Lee. And while you think your dear friend has some psychopathic tendencies sometimes, you’d say the list is actually pretty reasonable of him.

There’s something about the five simple steps that makes you wonder if it’s really as easy as Jihoon makes it sound. And while you doubt it– because the pinging pain in your heart makes it seem like the heartbreak is truly going to kill you in a few minutes if you don’t do something about it– you give it a try, because come on… you’d do anything to not feel like this ever again.

Step one – cry it out.

“He was a cunt anyway,” Jihoon mutters as he steps into the living room with two spoons in his hands, throwing one of them to you– while almost managing to hit you in the middle of your forehead in the process, adding a concussion to the mix of problems you have going on right now– and you find yourself furrowing your brows at his hateful comment.

“Why’d you say that?”

“Well, as your best friend, I’m supposed to be on your side, no?” he says as he takes a seat on the sofa next to you, watching as you wrap one of the thick blankets you got for the male around your figure– you bought it mainly for yourself, because his apartment is cold as a freezer and you knew he wouldn’t buy one for you to use in the first place– and shrugs. “Besides, he broke your heart, and any male who does that is a cunt in my eyes.”

“I broke up with him,” you mourn, “so I broke my own heart,” you snicker, despair fully filling you up from the inside– fitting everywhere into your lungs and choking you up from how bad you truly feel. Now, this isn’t your first breakup– you’ve had your fair share of boyfriends in high school (in your baddie era, as Jihoon called it), but Choi Yeonjun from Maths class and Jung Woonyoung, the guy you dated for a total of 2 months over the summer break before he moved away, weren’t exactly boys you found yourself falling in love with. Sure, you liked them, you kissed them and went on dates with them– hell, you even hooked up with Yeonjun once before you realized the relationship truly wasn’t for you– but no one managed to cave into your heart just as much as Mark Lee, your first college boyfriend did.

“But you sure had a reason for it, come on!” Jihoon huffs, taking the tub of ice cream from your hands and opening it for you, since you’ve gotten quite weak from the lack of sleep and nutritions ever since the break up, hands clammy and not cooperating. “You don’t just break up with someone to break your own heart. He did that, that’s why you said goodbye to him,” he says before sitting the enormous tub of ice cream between your two bodies, nudging you to dig into the frozen delicacy.

“Yeah, but–”

“No buts, young lady. We are here to make you forget you ever even dated Mark Lee, so open up, eat the ice cream and focus your attention on Titanic so you can finally cry it out,” he says, and by the tone of his voice, you’d think he’s angry with you. Jihoon has this aura around him that makes you think he’s always at least a little annoyed at everything– but he told you to not mind it and that it’s just his sassy bitch attitude.

He does have a point, though. You broke up with Mark because he broke your heart first– there was no other reason for it. If it was something minor, something small, you were sure you could work on it. You have, numerous of times before, brought up something and had a mature conversation about it– something you always so admired about Mark, being so cautious and understanding when navigating problems in the relationship– but when you bring up the same thing over and over, and it never gets fixed despite him telling you he’ll try harder next time, you think you’re allowed to feel a little heartbroken at his nonexistent efforts. And that’s exactly why you decided to quit the relationship– after a while, you felt like you were putting in more effort than he was, effectively making you feel like he’s not even that interested in dating you in the first place.

First, he just told you he was forgetful. He forgot he promised to pick you up from class one day– and you said that it’s okay, he is busy, after all– and it was the first time it happened, so you didn’t really mind that much, truly. Then, he forgot about the date you scheduled– but it was fine, because you didn’t have reservations anyway, you could change the day to any other day of the week, after all. He kept forgetting the stuff you told him in between the conversations you shared– and it was small things, you understand, but sometimes, you wondered if he was ever really listening to you at all.

Forgetful soon turns not interested in your eyes, and when he doesn’t call you in the evening like he promised he would, when he doesn’t show up to the party you invited him to, because he forgot it was that day, you’re one step closer to calling it quits, because each and every one of these situations sends a sharp pain into your stomach. The last straw was just last week, though– and realistically, it was an important day, as much that you thought the day is somehow gonna fix everything, but the truth is somewhere completely else as Mark Lee forgets about your one year anniversary and never shows up at your doorstep for the dinner you prepared for the two of you like he promised he would.

And it doesn’t click in him two days after either– you don’t even get a text. He got so forgetful over time that he forgot about you completely, and that’s when you took an uber to his place and broke up with him for good.

And even though the breakup was the most painful thing you’ve ever felt yourself go through, Jihoon is right– you’re not the one that broke your own heart. Mark Lee did that for you many times before, and this was just the breaking point.

“Fucking hell, you bought cookies and cream again?” Jihoon huffs when he takes another spoonful of the ice cream into his mouth, eyebrows furrowing at the sweet taste. Looking at him from the corner of your eye, you wipe your left cheek as you hum, immune to his nagging by now.

“You know I hate cookies and cream!”

“You know, Hoon, I bought this for myself. When you’re the one that’s heartbroken, we’ll share your favorite ice cream flavor instead,” you mumble, munching on the coldness on your tongue, sniffling a little when your eyes avert to the TV screen.

And after that, the teasing from your best friend’s side stops. Maybe it’s just because he hates to see you cry– and he rarely gets the chance, if you’re being honest, since you’re pretty good at handling your emotions– but you secretly know that it’s because when he looks back at the TV screen in front of the two of you, the sad part of the movie hasn’t even started yet and the tears are not the result of the movie, but of your own thoughts instead.

Step two – give him back all of his stuff and the stuff he’s given you that reminds you of him. Demand that he does the same.

Now, step two was a thing most couples do when they break up. Realistically, it makes sense– you wouldn’t want stuff that’s not yours just laying around, and also, it’s just bound to remind you of the person you lost. Naturally, you’d want to return it.

“Why does he have to return my things as well?” you mutter under your breath as Jihoon helps you fold all Mark’s hoodies into a cardboard box, alongside with wrapping the little things your ex boyfriend made out of ceramic for you in tissue paper like you asked him to– even though he complained and said that it shouldn’t matter to you if they break, because you are the heartbroken one– but you held those little things too close to your heart to let them get damaged in the first place.

“Because that’s how it works,” Jihoon hums, watching as you throw another one of Mark’s shirts onto the top of his head, shielding his vision. “What, you don’t want your stuff back?”

“I mean…” you mumble, deeply considering of the fact that the thought of getting your stuff back didn’t even cross your mind until now, before you realize your favorite pair of socks is thrown somewhere in Mark’s drawers– the blue ones with peaches on them– and you suddenly have the revelation that while you don’t necessarily need the stuff back, you’d love to wear those socks again. “I guess…” you note as you walk over to Jihoon and take a glance into the full cardboard box, looking over the stuff and chewing on the inside of your cheek.

“It’s like witchcraft, y’know,” Jihoon points out, looking at you with fierce eyes mirroring the stupid idea that just flashed through his brain, “if you don’t exchange the things, a piece of you is still kept at his apartment and you won’t be able to move on.”

And again, Park Jihoon does have psychopathic tendencies, but he may be onto something here. So you listen to him as you nod along and close the cardboard box, ready to drive over to Mark Lee’s apartment and drop off the things you’ve collected from him for the past year. The box includes all of the clothes messily scattered across your drawers and your closet, the picture frame of you two together that you always had on your night stand, the ceramic bowls and a little tiger sculpture he made for you when he took a pottery class with his friend Renjun, and the lost guitar pics you found under your bed and at the very top of your bookshelf from when he used to bring his guitar along and play you songs on rainy afternoons. The only things of Mark’s that you kept were the love letter he gave you for your birthday and the USB with his cover of Justin Bieber’s Off my face on it that he shyly gifted to you on one of your dates; but you would never tell Jihoon that in fear of him getting rid of those most precious memories for you.

It’s good to let go, but you don’t think you’re wrong for wanting to keep something to remind you of the good times. The times you still felt loved by Mark.

“Off we go,” you say, standing up and bringing the box towards your front door, your best friend at your feet. He promised to drive you to Mark’s place– you think he’s worried about you meeting your ex-boyfriend face to face for the first time since the break up, but he said it’s because you’re too broke to Uber all the time, efficiently throwing all the considerate thoughts you were accrediting him out the window– and after a few minutes of the drive, you find yourself standing on the doorstep of Mark Lee's apartment.

Taking a deep breath in and out, almost chickening out with the flood of thoughts and excuses you could say to Jihoon when you come back to his car with the box still in your hands– sayings like “he wasn’t home” or “he didn’t want those back”, the latter stupider than the first– you decide to face your problems head-on and finally knock on the mahogany door, waiting for Mark to answer. And he does– of course he does, because he’s always home, and as his ex-girlfriend of one year, you're painfully aware of the fact– but when that happens, you feel your heart falling all the way down to your stomach, crushing you and suddenly making it hard for you to breathe.

“Um… hi,” he greets you, voice a little groggy, as if he hasn’t spoken in a while– and when you meet his eyes, the deep chocolate orbs you always found yourself admiring and writing silent odes to in your head, you quickly glance away in fear of staring into them for too long and making decisions you wouldn’t like to make.

“Hi,” you awkwardly greet back, clearing your throat and moving a little in your place, shifting the weight from one foot to the other. You're surprised you're able to keep up with the conversation, thoughts running in your brain faster than you can comprehend them, heartbeat ringing in your ears from the unexpected anxiety. Maybe Jihoon was right and you should've taken a shot before coming here– at least you'd have more courage and social skills clearly needed for this kind of interaction. “I… brought you back your things,” you say, finally looking up at the male and chewing on your lips, letting out an awkward, tense laugh when he stares at you with an empty look, “figured you’d want them back,” you add, watching as the male opens his mouth and closes it in what seems to be shock before he presses his lips tightly together and nods at you.

“Uh, yeah,” he says, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly as he watches you clumsily hold up the cardboard box to him, ready to leave his stuff there with him and escape as fast as you can, not really minding how you'll get back to Jihoon's car– if jumping down the window of the entrance hall is the fastest option, you're ready to get to it. The truth is, everything is starting to get a little too hard to bear– his familiar scent filling your nose, the hoodie he wore to your first date enveloping his figure, his messy hair reminding you of the many times you brushed your fingers through it in attempts to smooth it down. It’s only been two weeks since you last saw him, but it was starting to feel as if you forgot about him already and were now relearning all the things you once fell in love with again, looking at him in the same light, yet noticing him and all the small details a little bit differently. “Thanks, I… I actually, uh… I have your stuff here too, so if you want it back I’ll– I can just–”

“Y-yeah,” you nod, almost a little too eagerly, “that would be… cool,” you say, trying hard to ignore the fact that he had your stuff packed too, intending to give it to you, and the crashing reality that comes with it, telling you he was prepared to do this before you were and how it’s making you feel kind of shitty.

Mark moves further into the apartment, the sound of him dropping the box to the floor filling your ears before he’s back at the door in no time, a similar cardboard box in his hands that he offers to you with a tense smile on his face. “Wanted to bring it around so I had an excuse to see you, but you, uh… beat me to it, I guess…”

Looking at him as you take the box out of his hands, gaze as if to tell him not to say such words to you when you’re still so fragile to his effect, you only nod and mutter out a simple “Thanks,” before you turn on your heel and intend to take the stairs back down.

“I’ll… see you around, then?” Mark calls after you as you take the first step out– something about it making you feel like it’s the first step out of his life, in a way– and you only nod, because one, you truly don’t know how else to reply to this question, and two, you really, really don’t know if you’ll ever see him again, but you can't bring yourself to say it to his face. Somehow, it would feel like torture to admit it– and you're not prepared for that reality just yet.

Rushing outside and getting into Jihoon's car, you almost feel like you’re on the verge of breaking, and when the male asks you how it went as he’s reversing out of the parking lot, you only bid him a one-word reply before you look through the box on your way home, too impatient to stay back from the memories.

And Jihoon didn’t really think this one through, because the fact that you gave Mark back the things that reminded you of him meant that he did the same, and now all the things you brought along to Mark’s apartment were in the cardboard box, all stained with countless memories and feelings attached to each and every single thing. The artwork you made for him, the little heart-shaped keychain you gave him for his birthday, the plant you gave him that was now long dead and dried out– those were once your stuff, but all in this world with the intention of love being sent out through them to your now ex-lover, and the fact that they’re in your possession again instead of his is not making letting go of Mark any easier.

And maybe Mark was right and he truly was forgetful, because as you rummage through the contains of the box, while you find out your favorite blue socks are nowhere to be seen, surely still buried somewhere in the drawers of his closet, obliterated out of his memory, there’s a gray hoodie sitting at the bottom and it’s surely not yours– it’s his and it was always your favorite, and you always used to wear it at his place when you got cold or when you just really wanted to smell his cologne, and you suddenly don't know if it's presence in the box slipped his mind or if he truly left it there on purpose.

Couldn’t he forget about that too?

Step three – block his number.

The third step comes into place after you accidentally slip out to Jihoon about the phone call you get on a Friday night– more like two hours into Saturday already– and now, most of all, you must admit that your best friend might be right about his advice.

Your phone starts ringing at 2:11 AM, and while you weren’t sleeping– you’ve been having some trouble with dozing off without being overbeared with thoughts lately– the name flashing on your screen shocks you for more reasons than one.

Mark Lee calls you, three weeks after your breakup, in the middle of the night. You haven’t spoken since the time he gave you back your stuff, and even though you’ve done quite a bit of stalking on his social media, you have no news of him or his whereabouts. Naturally, a call from him in the middle of the night startles you and shakes you to the core. He has no reason to call you, so your brain does the math and concludes there must be an emergency– and god knows that even after being hurt by him, you could never ignore him and leave him hanging in a state of need.

So you pick up– with shaky hands and a raging heartbeat, expecting the worst. Listening to the other side of the line, you take a deep breath in and out, bracing yourself for the impact of the words you’re going to hear. The voice on the other side is laced with haziness and his tone is almost a little tired– worn out, even– when he finally greets you from wherever he is.

“Hi,” Mark says, and for a second, your heartbeat steadies itself and the world stops spinning– he sounds okay, and for a moment, you’re grateful to hear his voice.

Humming, as if to collect your thoughts, you clear your throat before you offer him an answer. “Hello,” you greet, “what’s- what’s up?”

“Just wanted to hear your voice,” he says, almost a little abruptly to your question. He doesn't overthink his answer and he doesn't give himself time to think if it's a good idea or not– he just blurts it out and now it's your problem to deal with, when it's there, out in the open. Your palms get sweaty and you start to lose feeling in your fingertips, making you take a few seconds to yourself to process the situation before you decide to finally answer to the strange sentence.

“It’s late, Mark,” you mumble, and you involuntarily wonder if the sentence doesn’t have double meaning– it's too late for anyone to call at this hour, and at the same time, it’s been weeks since your ex boyfriend lost the privilege of listening to your voice when he can’t sleep in the middle of the night whenever he feels like it– and it’s now too late to do anything about it or make it any easier to deal with.

“Shit, sorry,” he chuckles to himself, and you suddenly recognise the laziness in his voice to be the effect of his and his best friend Hyuck’s Friday endeavors; the sweet coating of his voice being the effect of none other than the momentary bliss that comes with the relaxation of his body and mind when he's high. “Didn’t realize,” he concludes, making you shake your head at him in disbelief– not really mattering that he can’t see you in the act.

“‘s okay,” you mumble– and in your perfect reality, you hang up the phone now. In your perfect reality, you connect it to your charger and close your eyes, calling it a night. You fall asleep with no thoughts rummaging through your brain and wake up in the morning to a new sunny day, ready to take on the responsibilities of what’s to come, having productive days ended with smiles and a hot dinner you make for yourself just because you feel like it. In your perfect reality, you protect your own heart. This is not your perfect reality, though– and that’s why you stay on the line, listening to Mark ramble on the other side of the phone, intoxicated and slightly out of it. You wonder if he’ll remember calling you when he wakes up tomorrow. You wonder if he’ll regret it, or if he’ll just shrug his shoulders at the fact and go on with his day, not really paying you much thought when he’s sober.

“I was with Hyuck just now,” he says, and you hear the rustling of his sheets on the other side of the line, making you wonder if he’s washed up and ready for bed, “and– and I remembered how we all used to hang out together, y’know… you with us all– you always clicked with my friends and it was so cool and stuff… and I realized, right, they’re not as funny when you’re not around… but anyways… Jeno’s girlfriend asked about you, ‘cause she didn’t know…and telling her felt so silly, ‘cause they all kept looking at me and I knew they were pitying me, but it was my fault in the first place–”

“Mark–”

“No, it’s true. And it’s cool, I don’t– I don’t blame you, or anything. I just… I dunno, I guess it got me wondering…”

The line goes silent on the other side, and you settle into your own bed, giving him time to continue. When he doesn’t say anything for a long time, you wonder if he’s fallen asleep.

“Mark?”

“Hm?”

“You still there?”

“Yeah. How was your day?” he asks, tone of voice casual as ever, as if he’s forgotten about all the words he’s told you up until now– as if it’s not 2 AM and both of your hearts aren’t breaking at the sound of each other’s voice on the other side of the line.

“It… it was okay, I guess,” you say nonetheless, too hopeless to find a way to end the conversation before he does.

“That’s good to hear,” he says, sighing, “that’s… awesome. You still taking those yoga classes on Mondays?” he asks, and you snicker to yourself– because what kind of question even is that? Who asks that on a late night call, when there are more important things you two need to talk about?

“Yeah,” you lie, still. You haven’t been since the breakup.

“That’s great. Wouldn’t want you to… y’know,” he laughs to himself, “be too sad over this… ‘t was for the better, after all.”

You hear yourself hum– the noise way more stable than your actual words ever could be– and you find yourself feeling silly in the conversation, lying to your ex boyfriend through your teeth; because at the end of the day, you don’t want him to worry about you– because it seems to be the case that he is. And it’s stupid, because he hurt you and you shouldn’t care, maybe you should’ve even show him that you’re heartbroken and that he is the reason behind your pain and the way your life is falling apart, bit by bit, but you don’t find it in you to be so cold and heartless. At the end of the day, you still care about Mark and there’s nothing you could do about it. Turns out that breaking up with him doesn’t magically make the feelings go away– and you knew that, but now you have proof.

“What were you saying before, by the way? You… trailed off at the end,” you say, reminding him of his previous words.

“Oh, that,” he snickers into the microphone again, a heavy sigh escaping his lips as he twists and turns in the sheets, “don’t worry about it. It was selfish of me.”

It was selfish of him to call in the first place. But you won’t tell him that.

“What was it?”

“It’s just… I was wondering if I lost you forever, y’know… if there was a chance we could ever…” he trails off again, but this time, you don’t bug him to complete it. You’re not stupid– you know the implication of his words. You’ve known him for a long time, after all– maybe you should’ve predicted this when you picked up the call.

“I mean…” you hum, “you didn’t lose me completely, if that’s– if that’s what’s keeping you up at night. We’re still friends, aren’t we?” you say, and in the corner of your brain, you can’t even believe the words yourself– but if it was selfish of him to call, you think it’s okay for you to selfishly fill both of you with empty promises, just for the sake of not breaking your heart even further.

“Yeah,” he mumbles, “that’s– …I’m glad.”

The line’s silent after that, and you wonder if you two have used up the list of words to say to each other this time, if there’s truly no other answer at the end of this conversation. When the situation gets too much for you to bear, the heaviness finally settling on your shoulders and your chest, you finally find the courage to sniffle out a quiet goodbye.

“Good night, Mark.”

“G’night,” he drags out, mind still cloudy. “Love you,” spills out from his tongue, like a bad habit.

He ends the call before you get to say it back. Maybe that’s for the better.

And the truth is, you should’ve really listened to Park Jihoon and blocked Mark’s number after this encounter. But you didn’t– you’re too weak for Mark’s sweet words, finding yourself still hanging on to his saccharine voice and the muffled ramble he has reserved for you only every time he gets high and loses all self-control before calling you on Friday nights selfishly demanding your attention, somehow falling for him like a teenager over and over again despite promising yourself you're gonna move on for real now.

Step four – date someone new.

“So…” Jihoon starts one day, eyes glued to your skull like laser beams, the tone of his voice so incomprehensible you think he’s going to scold you for the actions of your previous days– even though you haven't told him about the midnight calls with Mark and so if he's not going through your phone, he has no way of knowing. Tense and nervous, still, knowing that the impact of his words could either heal you or cut you open like a knife– damn him for always being so brutally honest, no matter how soft his heart is for you– you smile at him with tight lips, crossing your arms on your chest in defense.

“So…?”

A nervous laugh almost escapes your throat. If Jihoon wasn’t suspicious of you before, he surely is now– or he just finds you strange by the way he furrows his brows at you and scans you up and down, taking a second for himself before he sighs and seemingly decides to drop the weird way you’re acting right now, shaking his head and focusing on the task at hand.

“I was thinking… my friend asked about you,” he says, nonchalantly looking down onto his hands and taking the dirt out from behind his nails, as if it’s not a big deal and he doesn’t even care that much. “Choi Hyunsuk from Biology, you know him– shabby haircut, kinda short, failed the class so he has to retake it this year…?”

“I think you’re forgetting the fact that the two of us have completely different majors, Hoonie,” you sweetly smile at him with irony, making him roll his eyes with a sigh before he tries again.

“The guy who ripped his pants at Xiao Dejun’s party last year?”

“Oh, that one! You should’ve said that earlier, of course I remember Choi Hyunsuk from your Biology class,” you nod hurriedly, the gears finally clicking in your brain.

“As if I wasn’t talking about him for the last few minutes–”

“Okay, and what about him?” you cut him off, already tired of his annoying tangent.

“I said he asked about you.”

“I heard that already,” you nod, looking at him with expecting eyes. “And?”

Jihoon stares at you, unblinking, as if you fell on your head and he’s trying to comprehend if you’re still here with him or if you got a concussion and need to be transferred into a hospital. When the contact of his eyes on your skin gets a bit too uncomfortable– you swear his looks could actually kill someone, if he tried enough– you furrow your brows at him in confusion and shake your head in disbelief.

“Why are you staring at me like that, Park Jihoon?”

“Just tryna see if you’re really that stupid or if you’re just pretending,” he mutters under his nose before he sighs again– his favorite activity whenever you’re around, it seems– and speaks up again, tone of voice reminding you of a kindergartener teacher trying to explain why it gets dark in the evening to a bunch of 4 year olds. “You know, when people ask about you, they are usually interested in you, as in, my friend Hyunsuk didn’t ask because you’re nice, but because you’re hot, if you know what I'm getting onto.”

“Oh,” you get out, eyes wide in concern and a little shaken-up, “well, that’s… nice of him, I guess.”

Jihoon only hums at you before he looks around himself and brings out the bag of chips that he left open by his right side only a few seconds ago, not really speaking more about the topic. It’s either he’s waiting for you to get what he’s hinting at, or he’s just waiting for you to get even more confused and ask him about it in a few seconds again– either way, he’s not the one doing more talking right now, because conversations with you, the most oblivious person he’s ever seen, are never productive if he goes too fast.

Chewing on the chips, his eyes go wide when you finally open your mouth and talk more about the topic at hand– just like he predicted. “Why are you telling me this?”

Your best friend swallows before he places the bag of chips back to its original place and turns his whole body so he’s facing you, speaking up again. “I was thinking that maybe, just maybe, you’d like to hang out with him. Like a date, before you ask– because I know you’re gonna ask– and why? – because, again, I know you’re gonna ask– because I simply think you should try to date again to get your mind off the loser you broke up with two months ago,” he says, blunt and honest, answering all of your unsaid questions at once, and before you know it, he has you snickering and shaking your head in disapproval.

“Absolutely not,” you retort, waving your hands in the air to only further show your disagreement with the proposition, “that would just be a massive catastrophe.”

“Why? Hyunsuk’s nice.”

“I didn’t say he isn’t, it’s just…”

“Just?” he probes you, eyebrows raised and questioning.

“I… don’t know,” you nervously chew on the inside of your cheek, aimlessly shrugging. “I just don’t think it’s a good idea, Jihoon.”

“Because of Mark?” he asks, and the moment his name escapes your best friend’s mouth, the whole room goes strangely quiet– you feel your heartbeat in your throat, the tips of your fingers start tingling and you swear that if you concentrate hard enough, you could feel a bead of sweat drip down your forehead with the incoming stress and nerves only the mention of your ex boyfriend brings you.

“No, that’s not it–”

“Sure,” he nods, sighing to himself– and there it is again, the judging look you so despise.

“You can’t just expect me to date other people a few weeks after my break up, Jihoon,” you exclaim, “that– that wouldn’t even be fair to your friend. You know I wouldn’t be invested,” you explain, and your friend rolls his eyes in frustration, sighing to himself.

“Oh but I know that! And Hyunsuk does too,” he shakes his head at you, “just thought the company of someone else could take your mind off things.”

“I have you,” you try.

“Yeah, but all we do when we’re together is mope about Mark Lee,” Jihoon snickers, “and don’t get me wrong, I’m more than open to bitch about your ex boyfriend and as your best friend, I don’t mind, but the fact that you’d be hanging out with someone else could take your mind off him, because you wouldn’t feel comfortable talking about him with someone else, y’know?”

You shut your eyes closed, a heavy sigh heaving out of your body as you try hard to concentrate and not lose it, and with how Jihoon’s tone gets softer and he’s not as loud with his brutal, yet logical advice, he must feel you getting overwhelmed and accommodates to your needs. “Look, it’s gonna be fun. I promise. Hang out with someone new, feel wanted and hot and pretty again, get some male attention that’s not your ex boyfriend, and you’ll see how it makes you feel. If you hate it, you hate it and you can slap me, I don’t know... If you don’t, you can keep dating around with my friends, and I swear I’ll hook you up only with the nice ones,” he takes your hand into his and waves it around in comfort, making you open your eyes and look at him again.

Seeing the softness and encouragement in your best friend’s eyes, you sigh to yourself. All this time, he’s tried to help you– what if you finally follow his advice? Who knows, it might even help.

Sighing, you squeeze his palm and hover over him to get the stranded bag of chips he’s guarding on the other side of the sofa. “Fine,” you mutter, “but let your friend know that he’s the one paying, okay?”

“Perfect. I'll text him your number, then.“

And maybe Jihoon was right and after dolling yourself up and dressing up in your favorite dress just so you would feel as comfortable as possible, you don’t feel as bad when his friend Hyunsuk picks you up in his white Volvo and chats with you on the way to the restaurant. He makes good small talk and even gets a giggle out of you, the music in his car is low and you find yourself slowly easing into the situation. You don’t remember when the last time you went out with a guy that wasn’t Mark was, but it’s surprisingly nice.

And Jihoon was right– you feel pretty. And when Hyunsuk opens the door for you after pulling up to the parking lot of the restaurant, you even feel wanted. You like the attention, just like any other girl would, and the smile you offer to your date seeps of tender shyness as you get out of the comfortable seat of his car.

The illusion, though, is soon broken as you notice the restaurant he pulled up to. Your smile freezes, your palms get sweaty and you feel your heartbeat rummaging against your ribcage as soon as the idle atmosphere of the restaurant opens up before you. And realistically, you could turn on your heel and get back to the car, tell Hyunsuk that you want to go to another restaurant– but you don’t do it, against your biggest wishes, because you worry that the boy already made a reservation and you don’t want to ruin an evening that’s going well so far.

“Everything alright?” your date checks up on you, seemingly noticing the frown on your face, and when his worried eyes meet yours, it’s sealed– you’d feel too bad for pulling out of the date now. So you only do what you always do best– you put on your best relaxed smile and nod, catching up to him and ensuring him that you’re all okay and you didn’t just talk yourself out of an anxiety attack.

Because you owe it to him and to Jihoon– both of them worked so hard to make you feel happy and help you to get over your ex boyfriend. It’s not Hyunsuk’s fault that he just managed to pick the restaurant your said ex boyfriend works at part-time. He had no way of knowing, and if you’re lucky enough, Mark wouldn’t be on today. He only works here part-time, it’s not like he’s here every day, and as far as you’re concerned, he only worked like two or three days a week when you dated. It would be a weird coincidence for him to be working the day you go there with your new date– you hope you’re not that unlucky.

Hyunsuk is a gentleman. Opening up doors for you, pulling out the chair for you, letting you talk and not interrupting you. He watches you with fond eyes and you almost try to feel bad for the fact that even if this ended well, the poor boy would just end up being a rebound. He deserves so much more, and you start to worry if this date was a good idea after all. Wasn’t it selfish of you to agree to this?

“What do you want to get?” he asks as you open up the menu, and you squint at the prices, mentally taking a note to order the cheapest thing just in case he wants to pay for you at the end of the evening.

“Spaghetti Bolognese,” you blurt out, despite it not being your favorite meal. Hyunsuk just stares at you with squinted eyes, but doesn’t disagree with you. After all, he has no way of knowing that you dislike the taste of the sauce in most restaurants– even though your conscience tells you that Mark knew that and always made sure to remind you about it before ordering for you, worried that you won’t get to eat much that evening– the only thing left to hope is that it tastes good in this particular place.

“Okay, sure,” he nods and puts the menu down, smiling at you before engaging in a comfortable conversation with you. It feels like you’ve known Hyunsuk forever– his personality oddly reminding you of Jihoon’s caused mainly by the fact that the two have grown up together. Everything flows soundly, but you still find yourself anxiously picking at your cuticles as you cautiously look around the restaurant, fearing the fact that you could catch a glimpse of your ex boyfriend at any second.

And maybe you should be a psychic, because those bad feelings were not there for nothing– when you see a waiter walking out of the back and eyeing your table, ready to get your order, the boy is a few inches taller than your current date, raven hair messy, but still a little styled, dark circles under the man’s eyes, and there he is– your ex boyfriend. Mark Lee halts in his movements, wearing his work uniform, eyes wide, a hint of something that breaks you at least in two mirroring in his orbs before he turns on his heel and disappears in the back again. When he doesn’t come back and his co-worker joins you and Hyunsuk at your table with a warm smile, you stop waiting to see the glimpse of him you selfishly desired to catch despite fearing the interaction the whole evening.

You want to fall through the floor and disappear in the depths of this earth. For some reason, you feel mortified. What would he think? And why do you even care about his feelings? A million different thoughts run through your brain and you worry that you’re being too distant from your current date, but Hyunsuk’s warm eyes reassure you that he doesn’t mind.

Piercing the food on your table with your eyes, you try to battle the noisy words running around your brain.

It’s easy to say you’re over someone when you don’t see them. To have them in front of you, meet their gaze and acknowledge their existence and still be able to nod and say that you’ve moved on, is something completely different.

Were you ever convinced that you were over Mark Lee in the first place, though?

After all of this– the months of following Jihoon’s advice, although making a few mishaps along the way as you continue to pick up Mark’s calls on Friday nights, snoop around his socials and let your mind wander to places it shouldn’t, overthinking everything and making you wish the relationship never ended in the first place– it’s time for the last step of it all. The last, most crucial part of this whole moving on process– the most important one, if you may.

Step five – avoid him at all costs.

Sounds easy, right? After the four previous steps, you’d already cried plenty about the lost months with your ex-boyfriend. You’d already given him back all of his stuff, not tying yourself to him with any material memory. You’d already gone on a date with someone new, choosing to distract yourself instead of letting yourself feel the emotions. After all the previous steps, this one’s supposed to be the easiest one. The one you’re supposed to want to do, after all. The break-up wasn’t messy, but it was still painful– it’s only natural for you to not want to see Mark ever again, right?

Wrong.

Because you never listen to the advice you’re given. That just wouldn’t be you, would it?

And so when Mark Lee calls you one day and tells you that he has a free train ticket to the Bukhansan stop, explaining that he was supposed to go hike there with Donghyuck who canceled on him last minute because of an assignment due midnight, you don’t really hesitate much before you shoot him a short text saying that you’re down and get ready for the short hike.

When you meet your ex boyfriend at the station, his figure slightly slouched up until the moment his eyes meet yours, you feel the quiet tension in the air. You’ve seen each other a few times before this meeting– on a party you went to with Jihoon, at the campus when you went to class one morning, your ex boyfriend walking you towards the Art building, hell, you’ve even met in the grocery store, all accidental and making your heart leap in your chest with tension. This time, though, you’re here completely intentionally, just to hang out with him, and something about the fact makes a dull pain shoot all through your intestines, a sensation so uncomfortable you try to hide with a tight-lipped smile.

“Ready for the hike?” he asks, adjusting the bag on his back, playing with the straps with clammy fingers. You can’t help but notice how he looks just like a little boy, in his little world, shielded from everything. He seems to have taken a protective stance, and you hate how the air between you shifted from how you two used to be when you were dating. Mark seems scared. Nervous. On top of his feet. Maybe you shouldn’t have agreed to this at all.

You’re already here, though. Turning around and leaving wouldn’t really work right now, as you take a step towards the train that’s just arrived, humming to your ex boyfriend in agreement. Taking a seat on the place Mark’s pointed to you on the train ticket, you try to loosen up your muscles and get as comfortable as you can, clearing your mind as you gaze outside of the window.

“How have you been?” he asks, clearing his throat.

Pressing your lips into a tight line, you turn to him as you search for an answer. “Better,” you nod, voice quiet. “You?”

Mark hums, chewing the inside of his cheek. “Good, good,” he lies through his teeth, “I’ve seen you at the restaurant the other day,” he hints, and you battle the sigh that’s begging to cut out of your throat. You don’t know where he’s going with the sentence. It’s not a question– only a proposition, barely even that– and you could ignore it with a nod of your head, you could pay it no mind as you see the bitterness in his gaze and the slightly self-conscious averting of his stare. You don’t know where he’s going with the conversation, but frankly, you don’t know where you are going with your answer either, as you shrug to him in a casual manner and peep under your breath.

“Yeah,” you say, “that was just… Jihoon’s friend from uni, I suppose,” you complete, and the sentence hints at nothing– it doesn’t clear out the confusion, it doesn’t outright say anything that could make Mark believe that it was just a casual hang-out with a friend, but still, you see the boy visibly relax as he nods to you and offers you a tight-lipped smile.

“Oh,” he hums, looking out of the window, past the profile of your face. The change in topic is sudden and sharp, but also welcome as he falls into a casual conversation with you, and suddenly, you’re reminded by the Mark you once knew– the guy you’ve once called not socially awkward, but so social that it’s awkward– as he talks to you about his day and rambles on about the weather. “It’s good that it won’t rain today, I bet the view will be nice.”

Locking your gaze with him for a brief second, you lick your lips and point your eyes towards the ground. It’s good that it won’t rain today, as opposed to last time you two went to the Bukhansan trail. You wonder if he remembers.

Before you have a chance to mention it– and in all reality, you won’t, no matter how bold you could be feeling at the moment– the train comes to a stop at your station and you hop out of the carriage, ready for the hike.

It’s easy to forget how messed up things have gotten between the two of you when you walk alongside with your ex boyfriend, laughing at his silly jokes and gasping at everything he shows to you with a pointed finger, finding yourself admiring the sound of his giggle when he spots a squirrel pass your path somewhere near the top of the hill. The trail is almost empty at this hour, since the two of you have decided to go in the late afternoon, and you find your soul to finally be at peace after so many weeks, you finally feel relaxed in the nature, one with the wind and the gentle sound of birds chirping lullying your running thoughts to a rest.

You realize that this is just what you needed all this time. You needed to get out and walk for some while, to tune out yourself and to accept the fact that you’re still here, for another day, and something about that is still a blessing. Watching the back of Mark’s head as he walks a step in front of you due to the narrowness of the trail in this area, you smile to yourself. It’s easy to forget just how much you were hurt by him when he heals your soul with such a simple gesture. It’s easy to forget you were hurt when he seemingly tries to put all the broken pieces back together, glue them to where they were in the first place, when things were easier and you both didn’t have so many things to worry about.

You reach the top just as the sun starts setting over the horizon, and there are only a few people scattered across the peak, sitting on their own picnic blankets and gazing into the distance. The hues of the sky paint the world in a different color, the oranges, pinks and muted purples playing with your heartstrings as you come to a halt and crouch down and feel the presence of another soul mirror your actions only a meter away to your right, his gaze glued to your side. The view is beautiful, but the feeling of being watched isn’t ignorable anymore, and so you turn to your companion and raise your eyebrows at him, wondering if he has something to say.

You don’t know how you’ll be able to come back to your life after this and pretend you still don’t want to spend every passing second with the man on your right. You don’t know how you’re supposed to ignore the ever so growing love for him– even though after being so disappointed with the past, the feelings should be decreasing, not doing the opposite– and frankly, you don’t even want to think of going back to the way it’s been for the past few months. And so you don’t– you allow yourself to indulge the moment, to ignore the pain that’s about to come, just so you could hold another beautiful memory to your heart and enjoy the moment before it hurts you to think of it tomorrow morning.

“It’s even more beautiful than the last time,” Mark hums, but his eyes never leave your figure– if you were still dating, you bet he’d come out with a cheesy line about how you’re prettier than the view, or something. “It didn’t rain this time around, thank god.”

Gazing at him, you shake your head in disbelief. Scoffing, you play with the grass between your fingers. “You remember that?”

“Yeah,” he hums, “I remember a lot of things.”

The sentence makes you bitterly chuckle. He knows why you’re reacting the way you are– and you have every right to. He claims to remember a lot of things, but the ones important to you, the ones you wanted him to remember, he failed to save into his memory. And that’s eventually what made you break up with him, at the end of it all.

At your reaction, he sighs and drags a hand across his face, seemingly realizing the weight of his own words and just how ridiculous he must have sounded to you right now.

“I- That-” he stutters, shaking his head, “that sounded stupid right now, considering… everything… Didn’t it?”

“Kind of,” you nod, not wanting to meet his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he blurts out, voice suddenly raw and serious, so different to the tone he’s been using with you the whole afternoon, “I don’t- I can’t remember if I said that back then, when you- when you… broke up with me, but I really am sorry, Y/N. You didn’t deserve that, and I am in no way shape or form trying to make this about me, but I hate myself every day for the way things turned out and if I could go back to that day, I’d do so many things differently.”

The sky in front of you deepens in reds and you taste iron on your tongue, suddenly hyper-aware of the fact that you’ve managed to bite on your lip too hard in the midst of the conversation. Tearing out stems of grass with your clammy fingertips, you focus on the clouds running through the sky, calculating your next response.

“Okay,” you nod, not giving him much else. The answer perfectly encapsulates the way you feel on the inside right now– you don’t know if you’re ready to accept his apology, if you’re ready to let go of it and act like you weren’t hurt or that none of it ever happened, but you listened to him and you internalized his words. He is sorry. He knows he was in the wrong. And you were aware that he knew all of this before– hell, you’d even go as far as say he knew it the moment you knocked on his door that day and told him it was over– but hearing it from him surely moved something inside of you to a more comfortable place.

��I-” he starts, voice breaking making him clear his throat before he continues, “I don’t expect you to forgive me. And I know I shouldn’t have expected you to still be my friend after all of this, and that- I shouldn’t have even called you so many times and approached you at the store and stuff, but um-” he mumbles, shrugging to himself, “I guess I just couldn’t stay away from you. And again, I don’t expect you to forgive me, I don’t expect you to do anything, really. So… yeah…”

Snickering at his aimless monologue, you shake your head in disbelief. “Mark?”

“Yeah?” he stares at you, eyes a bottomless pool of emotion.

“Why did you invite me here today? What was the… point, I guess?” you ask, hugging your knees to your chest as the breeze makes goosebumps appear all over your body.

Mark offers you a sad smile, head leaned to his right as he shrugs, and this time, his eyes don’t leave yours as he spills the truth into the air. “I guess I was just feeling selfish today,” he hums, and the sentence makes you cringe with the memory of his first call to you after your break up, “wanted to spend time with you.”

“Here, of all places?”

“Yeah,” he nods, “told you. I was feeling selfish.”

Snickering, you look away, staring at the sky again. The colors are starting to blend together into a deep, dark purple– the horizon darkening as the sun starts to say its final goodbyes to the day. You sigh to yourself, yet feel no bitterness or terror at his words. Somehow, you understand. Somehow, you get him a little too well. Somehow, you think you knew the moment he texted you today, and somehow, you think you felt it in your bones when you didn’t say no, although you could have. There’s calmness in your soul when you nod at the implication of his words, leaning back on your elbows and plopping your bottom to the ground, sitting at the dusty surface.

“You said you didn’t expect anything out of me today, Mark.”

“And I don’t,” he says, voice soft.

“And you brought me here to remind me of the last time we went?” you stare at him, a hint of a bitten-back smile playing with your lips. “Because you’re selfish?”

He nods, not escaping your gaze. “To remind you of the last time we went. To show you that… I remember, I guess. And that I still care, just like the last time. If not more.”

“Mark, you can’t just say all of this and expect nothing out of me right now,” you mutter.

“Actually, I can. Because that’s what I’m doing. I’m just… laying it out in the open, and what you do with the information is completely, completely up to you,” he explains, and you find yourself chuckling at him, the atmosphere instantly lighter as you hear his voice in its usual casualness, talking to you as if he was just unpacking what went on in class today, and not the starting and the end of your one year relationship.

And he’s right. What you do with the information is completely up to you, and the next steps and the progress of your relationship with Mark Lee is also completely in your hands. You could turn away and never talk to him again, you could curse at him and tell him that it’s too late now and he missed his chance, but if that was the case, you wouldn’t be here in the first place. He wouldn’t be inviting you to this place, lying about his roommate canceling just to trick you into going, and you wouldn’t be blindly accepting the invitation, wanting to see where the afternoon brings you.

“So you still care about me?” you hum, looking at him from under your eyelashes, noticing his slouched-over pose as he looks back at you over his shoulder.

“Always have,” he admits, “never stopped. Despite not really… acting like it in the past few months.”

“Why’d you stop acting like it, then?” you ask.

A sigh escapes his lips, his head turning forward before he leans back and sits cross-legged on the ground, more comfortably now. Shrugging, he answers the question. “I guess I just got too caught up with different things. And don’t get me wrong, you were always my priority, always, but I was all over the place with everything and my mind just couldn’t… there were too many things to keep up with and I couldn’t stay up to date with everything,” he says, “and I know it’s not an excuse, but it’s an explanation, and it doesn’t make it better or undo the pain I’ve caused you, but it’s… at least you know it was never because I’d care about you any less.”

His eyes bear into yours with such honesty you think the weight of the world will crash on you any minute, and suddenly, the whole situation seems so much clearer.

And you wouldn’t take it back, you wouldn’t undo the breakup or do anything differently, because at the end of the day, you think it was needed. Perhaps the time apart was what he needed as a wake up call and what you needed to shield yourself from hurting more.

“Stop me from saying it if you… if you don’t want to hear it right now,” he hums, voice barely louder than a whisper. There seems to be a silent communication between the two of you, a connection of some sort that brings out the strange telepathy, but you just nod at him, a gentle smile playing with your lips as you understand exactly what he means, telling him that it’s okay and that you don’t mind– you welcome, you need to hear him say it again.

Licking his lips, he turns to you fully, facing you. There’s not a hint of nervousness in his body, having done this a lot of times before, and then it happens– the repeated confession, confirming what was there the whole time, never leaving even when the times were rough.

“I love you,” he says.

And isn’t that all that’s needed?

A year is a long time with someone. Somehow, you wouldn’t want the time to go to waste. At the end of the day, if love is still present, isn’t it worth trying? One more time?

“And you still don’t expect anything from me?” you ask, gazing at him softly. “You don’t expect me to say it back?”

“No,” he breathes out, shrugging. “I just needed to get it off my chest.”

“Because you’re selfish like that,” you nod, teasing him.

“Because I’m selfish like that,” he agrees, breaking out into a slight grin.

Looking at the sky, now completely dipped in dark purple, you sigh to yourself at the turmoil of the conversation. You don’t say it back– although you feel it, you know it’s in there, playing with your heartstrings and clenching the muscle in the palm of its hand– you know love is there, deep inside, for the man that’s currently staring at you as if you hung the very stars appearing on the sky there yourself, stolen them from your own eyes and gluing them there selflessly, for everyone to see. You don’t tell him you love him back, you don’t tell him you forgive him or accept his apology. You don’t worry about what tomorrow will bring you, what your brain is going to tell you when you come down from the hill and get home, lay in your bed and overthink. You let the worries escape you, letting fondness and calm envelope you in a tight hug instead.

“Okay,” you nod, watching the boy next to you look at you with curious eyes. You take his hand into yours and place it on your thigh, playing with his fingers for a heartbeat before you meet his eyes again and smile. “I won’t say it back, but for all it’s worth, Mark… I’m glad you remembered.”

And that’s all he needs– there is love, there is fondness, and there is the silent confirmation that all you need right now is just a bit more time.

Where do broken hearts go?

Somehow, you think they hold on to the place where it all started. Somehow, you think your heart never went anywhere– it stayed on this hill, waiting for you to pay it a visit and pick back up everything right from where you left it.

“It doesn’t seem like a good idea to go here today, Y/N,” Mark laughed behind you as he looked up to the sky, the dark clouds shielding the sun that had been previously shining down on your hiking figures, casting an orange glow on the strands of your hair.

“Well, there’s no turning back now,” you shrugged, turning to him and grinning as you tugged on his hand, grip strong as you dragged the boy up the trail, your sneakers fast against the dirty ground. “We have finals starting next week and it’s gonna be too cold to go after the exam season is over, so we gotta go now.”

“I kind of regret telling you that I’ve never been here before now,” Mark sighed, but followed you nonetheless, breathlessly following your excited stride. It was October, the leaves on the trees were welcoming the two of you in shining colors, and the wind kissing your skin turned a bit chilly in the evenings– courtesy of the warm hoodie Mark shyly lended you when you shivered for the first time, adoring the way you, his friend, looked in the light gray fabric. Something about you wearing his clothes made the boy a bit hopeless about the day. Maybe he’ll have enough courage to confess his feelings to you, he thought. Maybe, despite the first raindrops falling on the skin of his bare arms, this evening will have a happy ending for you and him.

“Oh, please,” you squinted at him, continuing to run up the hill– thank god it wasn’t that steep, serving both of you as the perfect hiking difficulty, “even if you wouldn’t have, I’d drag you here anyway. It’s like, my favorite place to go in Seoul, haven’t I told you before?”

You have, Mark thought. But he was okay with hearing it again.

You squealed when the raindrops got heavier and the rain started pouring faster on the two of you, and Mark found himself laughing at your running figure. He was right behind you, praying that you don’t slip on one of the rocks and break your leg on the hiking trail, but he encouraged you with sweet comments and a hand on the small of your back as he watched the tip of the hill appear right in front of his very eyes, your body coming to a satisfied halt when you reached your destination.

“Tada!” you grinned at him, twirling a little like a ballerina, showing him the place with outstretched arms. He tried hard to observe the place, but his eyes stayed glued to your excited figure, gaze bearing into yours as you looked at him, amidst a little flustered, with sparkly orbs and a bright smile on your face. Your hair was a mess, his gray hoodie enveloping your body was slowly growing darker in color from absorbing the rain, and your sneakers were getting a bit muddy from walking around the place. He wanted to remember this moment forever, he thought– this version of you, the smiley expression on your face, the carefree and excited nature of your step.

“Isn’t it beautiful?” you exclaimed, jumping around and nearing the boy, but as you went to take his hand to drag him around the top of the hill once more, your feet slipped and you fell forward, a surprised squeak battling its way out of your throat.

Your whole life flashed in front of your very eyes in that moment, embarrassment spreading down your neck at the fact that you were about to fall face first onto the ground in front of your crush of a few months, before your body collided with a soft, yet firm mass engulfing you closer. A pair of strong arms steadied you against his chest, and when you looked up at your friend, you swear all words were taken out of your dictionary, the sight leaving you speechless.

“It is,” he gaped, eyes bearing into yours. Mark was agreeing with you, but something in the back of your head was telling you that he didn’t really admire this place as much as you did– his curious gaze was always plastered somewhere completely else.

That place being your face, of course. And your eyes, your cheeks, the mess of your bangs, and occasionally– screw that, almost always– your lips. Much like in that moment, a few centimeters away from his face, so inviting he thought it would be a crime to contain the urge.

And so he didn’t– he didn’t control his feelings and the ever-so growing yearning for you, as he silently leaned towards your face and captured his lips with yours in a firm, yet short kiss.

He looked at you with a nervous tint behind his gaze when he leaned away, the sight of your wide eyes staring at him making a slight flush grow on his cheeks. You looked so beautiful in that moment– flustered, surprised, with messy hair and lips still apart– and he was relieved to not find a hint of a displeased emotion in your expression.

“Okay, so- well-” you stuttered, laughing to yourself, “this didn’t go as I planned, but I guess I’m happy as long as the final result is the same,” you hummed, standing on your tippy-toes and pressing your lips against him once more, this time letting yourself enjoy the moment fully, mouth moving against his in a careful, yet excited rhythm. He tasted like the strawberry candy you offered him on the bottom of the trail and smelled a bit like rain, the mixture always staying in the depths of your mind as his warmth enveloped you in comfort and a feeling of home.

“The final result being…?” he asked when you pulled apart once again, a dazed expression overtaking his sharp features.

“Us,” you shrugged, “like this,” you clarified.

Mark laughed at that, hugging you closer to his chest. You rested your head on his shoulder, listening to the sound of raindrops washing away the top layer of dirt off the rocks on the tip of the hill, hands sneaking around his waist and enjoying the way they wrapped around him so tightly and so comfortably. You in his hoodie, in your favorite place, standing in his arms. It was raining, but it didn’t matter.

“Mark?”

“Hm?”

“If we ever get lost, or something happens… bring me back here, okay?” you mumbled close to his ear, lips gently glazing the skin of his ear, making goosebumps appear all over your new lover. “I’m convinced that this place could fix everything.”

“Even us?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. You’re not allowed to ever leave me now, what would there be to fix between us?” you smacked his shoulder, snickering to yourself.

“You never know,” he laughed, “what if I accidentally mess up somewhere along the way?” he asked, threading his fingers through your hair, smoothing down the wet mess.

“Okay then,” you hummed, “even us.”

Staring into your eyes, letting the moment play out by itself, Mark swore he’s never felt more at peace. He wondered if it was the effect of the place, the rain, or just your sheer presence. “I’ll remember that,” he giggled before he let go of your body, petting your head as he took a hold of your hand, tugging you down from where you came from, “now let’s go home before we catch a cold.”

Nodding, following the man as you both carefully, yet fastly made it down the trail, you enjoyed the way his hand fit into yours and the way you knew that after this, you can’t ever come back to being friends with Mark Lee. He was all yours, completely, utterly yours, and you knew in the back of your head, that you were his– and nothing will ever change that.

You would always come back to the hill with him. It felt ridiculous to think about you two ever having to fix anything between the two of you back then, but even in that moment, you knew that for him, you’d keep trying. As long as he does– as long as he remembers.

Where do broken hearts go? You guess they always come right back to the place they come from– and they leave glued back together every single time.

You guess your heart never really left the hill.

1K notes · View notes

sunoooism · 10 months

Text

I was down ; you picked me up

› summary: in which Taehyun finds you in a pit of despair and helps you climb out.

› angst, comfort / wc: 1,628

› warnings: mental health issues, self doubting thoughts, suicidal thoughts/intentions, eating disorder & depression, crying, mentions of throwing up, angst, comfort ending, some sort of higher education au (they live in dormitories), if you're ever feeling like this please reach out to someone (my dms r open), I'm not at all romanticising this kind of behaviour but it's comfort writing and very much self indulgent, don't read if you don't like, gn!reader.

everything around you felt dull and dark, felt like it was suffocating you, dragging you down into its grey mass. it had this horrible feeling of loneliness splashed into the mix, filling up your lungs until you were drowning in it. and what was worse, nobody cared enough to pull you out. you supposed it was nobody's fault but your own though. summer was the chance you had been waiting for, the chance to erase yourself. unanswered texts, missed calls and unreturned letters piled up for too long and eventually your friends stopped trying all together. it hurt, but you had achieved your motive in the end, so you didn't understand why you felt so unpleasantly about it. unfortunately rumours were now circling about the school, the hot new subject being that you thought you were too good for your old friends and that's why you ghosted them. ironic, your mind that loved to torture you so with your low self esteem was laughing at you. yet, today you didn't seem to care enough to express it outwardly.

hair askew, uniform crinkled, eyebags that felt ever so heavy, you dragged yourself to the library. earning a few glares and nudges on your way, you had guessed they were fueled by the rumours. and despite looking worse than death itself, no one seemed to notice the longing for it behind your lifeless eyes. as you passed through the many hallways, you spotted your friends, now ex friends, all laughing together through a window. the usual numbness you felt was replaced by a wave of hurt that almost swallowed you whole when you saw how unaffected they were by your absence, even though you knew you didn't have the right to, not after you purposely cut them off. although there were many students blocking your view of them, Soobin still managed to clock you gazing at them with wistful longing and regret.

in an act of panic you jumped at his sudden attention and sped away from them, but not before you heard Kai call your name. fortunately for you a study period was last on your schedule, so you made your way to your dorm, trying to look as inconspicuous as one could when speed walking away from a group of people. the footsteps managed to follow you through buzzing crowds until you reached the hall of which your dorm was located, you breathed a sigh of relief when you could no longer hear their thundering stomps.

warm tears were already making their way down your cheeks by the time you'd collapsed on your bed and hidden yourself amongst the many blankets and cushions sitting upon it. you let your sadness consume you once again, choking on your gasps and sniffles.

your room was your only outlet of peace, every student at the school knew that, which is why you didn't understand why someone was now banging on your door when they were meant to be in class anyway. you didn't have the energy nor the care to open the door. not leaving your dorm in three and a half days had made you feel like jelly whenever you moved, that and all those days depriving yourself of food, water and daylight didn't help either. you had hoped it was punishment enough for pushing your friends away, but apparently something in your body wanted for you to suffer more, curled up in your bed staring at a blank wall until you fell asleep. the showers and the cookie basket your mother sent were calling to you, almost as inviting as a siren song. but with most things these days you couldn't find it in yourself to want to or care enough.

the incessant knocking on your door continued, as well as the now overuse of your name being called. in all honesty the thought of someone seeing you like this made you want to throw up, probably what they would do at the sight of you. ah, your mind was torturing you again, enough to make you teeter and sway at the edge, but never enough to push you over and watch you tumble down until you hit rock bottom.

you heard your doorknob turn and someone walk in. you thought you had locked your door? not knowing who it was you were ready for some judgemental looks being thrown your way when they saw your state. you were hoping it was an axe murderer coming to end your pathetic and dreary life but apparently not as kang taehyun was all who flooded your vision.

"y/n, what the fuck? everyone thought you were dead" the sentence had come out more venomous than he'd of liked, but right now it was hard to sound soft as he stared at his friend looking like they'd been drained of all life.

"might as well be" your throaty response came out quiet, but he heard, and it broke his heart more than when you'd dumped him right before summer. though it was the first time he'd heard you speak in 9 weeks, he could hear all the self loathing and resentment your tone held. taehyun laid a hand on your arm, rubbing soothing circles that spread the first warmth you'd felt in weeks through your body, then he asked the question everyone who felt like you dreaded and hoped for at the same time.

"are you okay?"

somehow, you still had enough fluids in you to push down your stoic barrier and let everything pour out. tears began to stream down your cheeks, which only worried the boy that knelt beside you further. "y/n?" the call of your name passed right through you, too busy gasping between sobs to acknowledge he was talking to you.

"y/n? can you sit up for me?" his tone was mellow, just as soft as his touch that had now trailed down to your hands. you supposed he didn't want to upset you more than you already were by sounding angry. despite the gnawing thought of wanting to curl up in a ball and die because someone had seen you like this, you manoeuvred your body languidly so you could lean against the wall, because you knew that this was best for you right now.

after a moment of putting the deep breathing exercises Yeonjun had taught you to good use, a tissue was held in front of you. your shaky hand reached out and grasped it, barely strong enough to hold it up to your face.

"i'm sorry" the words escaped you before you could even choose to say them, a frown etching its way onto taehyun's brows when he heard. "why are you apologising?"

"I-" the words died in your throat once you realised you weren't quite sure why, was it because you dumped him? because of the fact you ignored him all summer only for him to be the person comforting you at your lowest? both?.

"you don't have to apologise for feeling things'' you didn't quite know how to respond to that. your lack of reply gave him another opening to speak. "do you want to talk more about it after some food and a shower?" nodding hesitantly, you followed his slow movements to walk towards the door, planning to grab clean clothes and a towel on the way. that plan was quickly brushed to the back of your mind when your vision clouded over with black spots, weakening you until you collapsed back onto your bed with a shaky breath that alerted taehyun to your troubles.

"woah, you alright? want me to grab a nurse?" all that followed was a brisk shake of your head and tears making their home under your lash line once again.

stupid. you couldn't even walk right.

"i'm sorry" you squeaked out, voice quivery with the sniffles. "hey, it's okay. there's no need for apologies over this, yeah?" your body sought out refuge as it leant into his palm he had placed gently on your cheek, his affection burning your skin with the familiar warmth that had always come to you when the two of you were dating. you wondered how he felt about all this, watching his ex fall apart multiple times in ten minutes for a reason that was unknown to him. god, you must have looked stupid.

"i'm sorry, taehyun" you finally spoke after an awkward silence, both waiting for the other to say something. "hey, what did I just-"

"no. it's, it's not for that," he watched you carefully, as if he looked too hard you might crack under his gaze. you hated that, but nevertheless you were grateful he cared. "i'm sorry for ignoring you this summer, it wasn't fair to you, or to anyone else I ditched. I just, I want you to know it wasn't because of you. i just thought it might hurt less for you and me when i…."

the rest was caught in your throat as you couldn't bring yourself to say it in front of him, the boy who'd said he would give you the whole world if he could. the boy who treated you like royalty every minute you spent together, the boy who used to love you more than anything else. the boy who still does love you more than anything else. he didn't deserve to hear what you were about to say.

"when you..?" one glance up into his curious brown eyes was all it took for him to understand. you could see him trying to mask the pain for your sake, hiding it so you didn't feel guilty. but you already did.

"i'm sor-" you were promptly interrupted when taehyun spoke over you, eyes gazing fondly into yours. "hey,"

"no more sorries, 'k?"

132 notes · View notes

inklore · 2 years

Text

sickly sweet

premise: becoming a monster was not how you saw your life going with the one you loved. but then eddie’s gone and you’re all alone. henry making sure to bring the both of you back together again.

pairing: vampire!eddie munson x (f)reader x vampire!henry creel

word count: 3k

warnings: eighteen+ content, blood and gore, dubcon (in the sense of reader not giving consent to be changed into a vampire), dark content-ish, endgame poly, mentions of eddie and henry hooking up, threesome illusions, choking, teasing, time skips, henry’s an ass.

etc: don’t ask me what this is but it just came to mind and was inspired by interview with a vampire a bit ok. eddie vamp edit credit goes to @cherubsfool.

i do not give anyone permission to translate or repost my work, please be respectful — if you enjoyed please comment or reblog!

You’d like to say you remember how it happened but you don’t. You only remember waking to a scorching pain in the back of your throat and an insatiable thirst.

And then there was Eddie.

Eddie who you thought you had lost. Who you mourned. Still mourned for. Cried for. Called out for at night through sleepless tears.

Here he was alive and above you. A scowl of concern on his face.

“It’s going to be okay!”

When he touches your skin it burns. His touch is cold while your body feels like an inferno. Like molten lava is running through your veins burning down every nerve ending, blood cell, and organ in its way.

You know now that it was doing just that. Burning everything in its wake to rebuild you into something else. Something deadly and gruesome.

“I told you I didn’t want this!” Eddie’s voice is like hot led, it sears, makes your ears ring, sounds off. Too loud. Too angry to be his.

You’re too weak to turn your head. To watch his descent from beside you, a loud crash in the corner of the room, growls, angry words.

This is all wrong. Your Eddie is not an angry boy, he’s kind, has a good heart, soft, understanding.

Everything is wrong. The way you’re breathing. The weakness in your body. The burn, the sweat that’s pouring off of you as you twitch and ache. Your eyelids feel heavy, breath coming out in a hoarse brittleness that makes your chest shake; were you dying? Was this death? Is that why Eddie was here?

You try to open your mouth. To speak. To say Eddie’s name. To cry out. To do anything but you’re stationed in pain and soon all you see is black.

“I told you I didn’t want this!” The anger that’s flowing through his bloodless veins is enough to have him across the room in seconds, his hand around the blondes throat.

“Ooh,” Henry smirks, hands up in defense. Fangs still dripping your blood. The sight making Eddie’s nails dig into the skin of his neck. A gruff wince falling from the blondes lips. “If I knew this is all it would take to break you I would have done it ages ago.”

Henry’s laugh hit’s the spot where his heart used to be. A growl burning harshly in his throat.

Eddie never knew anger like this. Not before this. Before he became this thing—monster. But now all he felt is anger. Everyday. Anger and despair from the endless need, crimson, copper, ache.

And the desire to have you.

For you to be his again.

It was a dead end fantasy that only made the anger worse. Fed the despair as he fed off of others.

In a perfect world Eddie would present this new self to you and you’d love him despite it. You’d wrap your arms around him and welcome him into your warm embrace and he’d be able to breathe again. He’d feel whole. Found.

But then the wind would blow just right, your window left open late at night as you got ready for bed. His dark figure behind a tree as he watched you; the scent of you filling his lungs where air couldn’t. The scent of your blood…of other things he could smell more now that he was this.

And he’d be reminded why he couldn’t show himself. Why he couldn’t allow you to wrap your arms around him, embrace him, love him again because he’d hurt you.

Not intentionally. No never intentionally.

That monster inside of him that craved the copper drip from one’s flesh would have its teeth in your neck within seconds. He’d be draining you of your sweet blood, your delicious taste sedating him while your eyes grew more lifeless with each savory swallow.

He’d kill you.

You’d be dead like him, except there would be no coming back for you.

So he couldn’t get close. Ever.

He was dead to you and he had to stay that way. For your own good. Even if it made him want to wipe out an entire town with the anguish it caused. He would do anything to protect you, from himself, from others—from Henry.

But he failed.

The heavy smash of the blondes back against the wall has a man sized hole cracking into the drywall. The pictures on the wall shattering at their feet. A pretentious laugh slipping into the cracks of Eddie’s rage.

“Why?”

“I figured you were sick of watching her. It was getting a little…depressing.”

“I told you! I told you. Not her!”

“I know,” Henry makes a pitying face. Moves a strand of Eddie’s hair out of his line of sight, cold palm lingering at the apple of his cheek. “It broke my heart to watch how sad you were. We don’t sulk.”

“Bullshit.” It had been two years since Eddie was like this. Two years of living alongside Henry—the one who had changed him. Turned him into the same deadly beast that he was.

He had asked him once. While they sat in the obnoxious mansion Henry called home; they called home.

“Beauty shouldn’t be wasted on human life. Neither should the hatred I saw in your soul.” Henry had looped his finger around one of his curls, a look of amusement and fondness in his eyes. Eyes that Eddie remembers looking into as he pressed his wrist to his lips and told him to drink. Stealing away his life; a life that was nothing to write home about, but it had you in it.

And Henry took that away from him.

“You could always change her. If you miss her that badly.” Henry had told him one night after Eddie came home just before dawn. By now he knew where he was going every night. If he wasn’t walking the streets beside him hunting, he was watching you. “Might be nice to have another to play with.” The smirk that met Eddie’s scowl was sickening.

He didn’t trust Henry. Anyone who could kill so effortlessly and freely as he did, who could rip the throat of the lover in bed at the same time he gave them pleasure was not someone who deserved trust.

He should have known that this would happen. He should have left Henry’s side a long time ago. Freed himself of the torment, from the psychopath.

But maybe he had become a masochist. Maybe that’s what helped with his anger-filled-loneliness; Henry.

His cruel ways. His beautiful smile. His mouth. His tongue.

Eddie would be lying to himself if he said that the thought of turning you, having you by his side forever didn’t cross his mind. But your sweet smile, full of life and joy, the kindness that he remembers always being in your eyes, set him straight. Reminded him that you were not like him. Or Henry.

You were good and they were fucked.

Depraved beasts.

Bloodthirsty monsters.

You didn’t deserve a life like this.

He can hear how weak your lungs are. Can sense those last breaths hanging on, waiting to see if your organs are going to help, going to save you from eternal darkness.

“Times running out.” Henry reminds the obvious, his tone filled with that berating amusement Eddie wishes he wasn’t used to. He can smell the sweetness of your blood still lathered on his tongue as Henry leans closer to him, the fist around his neck doing little to deter him, to actually hurt him. His lips are inches from his, “don’t you want to taste her? Don’t you want to save her? She needs you Eddie.” The tips of his nails scrape against the side of his neck as Henry tries his best to be affectionate, to hit him where it counts—where he holds a sliver of that humanity still. That softness he never lost.

Henry knew how to use it against him in all the right, and wrong, ways.

“What’s done is done. Save her or let her die. Your choice, but we both know you needed me to do this.”

“No.” Eddie scowls at him, the urge to press his teeth into the blonde's neck and rip out a chunk making his fangs buzz.

“You’d never have the strength to do it yourself. To turn her the way you wanted. I can feel how badly you want it. Take it. Take her. Make her ours.” Henry smirks, “or should we drain her dry? Have you really grown so fond of me that you don’t need her anymore? I’m touched,” when he leans centimeters closer to press his lips to Eddie’s in a mocking kiss it has an animalistic noise coming from his throat as that boiling rage has him pushing Henry—enough to break the chest cavity of a human but only enough to have the blonde going the rest of the way through the wall, unharmed.

“Good boy.” Henry says happily through the rubble as Eddie disregards him completely, moving back to your side.

His freezing fingers run along your cheek, soak in the last bits of warmth that he can feel quickly slipping from your body. Your body that’s almost lifeless. That’s so very close to becoming unresponsive and gone forever. Floating on that plain of darkness that only exists after death. Alone. You’ll both be alone.

But, this way, you’ll finally be with him.

Fuck Henry.

But he can’t let you die. Not like this.

Even inches from death you look so pretty. Even as Eddie bites into his own wrist and holds it to your lips, letting his blood drip into your mouth; one drop, two, three, four, then your throat his moving. Swallowing him down. Taking the poison of a monster to save your own life.

“Good girl,” Eddie whispers. Hates that he smiles. Hates that he feels a fluttering of something he hasn’t in what feels like centuries when he see’s the blood taking. The poison mixing with the venom of Henry’s teeth and tongue—you’d be his again.

Finally.

That insatiable thirst you remember, the one that scorched the back of your throat had grown since that night; to something worse than hunger. Than desire.

It was a sickening need that would leave you doubling over, a growl of pain and demand for the bittersweetness of what used to flow through your veins. For what you now needed to drink to survive. To kill for to live.

You couldn’t say you were happy to have ended up like this. To have become something that people wrote about in books and teenage girls went gaga over—if only they knew how torturing-ly dark and immoral it was to be such a thing. To live a life of not being alive but not fully dead, somewhere in between forever.

Until you dried up from thirst or someone stuck a steak through your heart.

You weren’t ungrateful for Eddie’s choice. Could never hate him for it for doing what he had to do, for bringing the two of you back together.

At first you had been more than grateful. Had spent every waking moment in his arms, the idea of spending centuries at his side seemed like an easy trade off for breathing and a pumping heart.

But then the thirst came. The pain. The blood you had to spill to live out those centuries with Eddie.

The anger and distance followed.

The more you killed the less the idea of Eddie turning you into this became a saving grace—now seen to you as a curse he passed onto you.

Henry was at fault with all of this. He was the one who got the brunt of your anger.

Eddie acted with the humanity that was still in his dead heart.

Henry was acting on jealousy and pettiness.

Both had put you in a numbness rage that blossomed into something dark and gritty and terrifying in the eyes of your lover.

A year had gone by without you and Eddie so much as being close let alone occupying each other’s beds, arms, bodies.

He resented you for turning into the monster he created and you resented him for aiding your turn into that monster.

When Henry demanded the three of you sit and drink together, the expensive china he had swiped from a family of victims filled to the brim with blood drained from only the finest of veins, in each of your hands as you sat in silence—the record playing in the background the only noise in the room.

And where you could see it tearing Eddie up inside, could feel the pull, the push, the tug, in your unbeating heart to reach out for him, for him to do the same—you ignored it, but he let it solidify in stolen glances and silence that came from his parted lips each time he attempted to find the right words but came up short.

Henry was eating it up. Loving it. The tapping of his nail on the china as he smirked at the both of you, as he tried to get under your skin with jabs and teasing words; and tried to anger Eddie with picks and pokes about how gruesome your kills had been when you went out.

“She looks so good covered in blood.” His eyes giving your body a once over, “makes me wish I hit a vein when I sank my teeth in her. Cover her in her own sweetness and licked it up.”

And while you hated Henry, despised him, and the lack of heat in your body made it hard to warm at words or blush; it did not stop the burn that happened between your legs each time he gave you that look, or cornered you in the hall and let his teeth scrape against your neck until you pushed him away, or how each time he accompanied you on a kill and blood trickled down his chin you found yourself wanting to lean over and lick it off of him.

It was hard to tell if Henry wanted to fuck you to spite Eddie or because he actually wanted you.

Sadly both turned you on.

Eddie had been the only boy you had been with and even after your untimely death he was still the only one.

Nights when you laid in the bed you could never use for sleeping, you thought of him, of letting this bitterness and rage slip and crawl into his bed—to feel his lips once again on yours, his touch, his tongue between your thighs.

But then you’d remember the look he’d given you when you’d come home one night covered in blood, darkness in your eyes, hair and skin from your helpless victims still under your finger nails; the look that let you know he had regretted changing you, bringing you back together, the look you’d give to a monster.

“Don’t be so squeamish, Eddie.” Henry had said as he leaned against the banister smirking down at the two of you. Chuckling as Eddie retreated down the hall, a door slamming behind him.

That had been the figurative nail in the coffin that pushed that distance even further to the point of silent aching.

And no matter how much you ached and hurt, rage and all: Eddie still had your heart. You’d never wish to betray him.

No matter how enticing Henry made it.

Even with your back pressed against the dirty wallpaper right now, his hands on either side of your head, lips so so close to yours.

“I know you're lonely,” a pause, a smirk, “and wet. I can smell it.” His knee slots itself between your thighs, the fabric of his pants hitting your covered cunt as the top of his thigh pushes up the bottom of your dress, making you swallow down a pathetic noise.

“You’re sickening.” You sneer, giving him a scowl.

“Why do you care what he thinks? Has he told you that he used to be in my bed every night before you came along.”

His words are meant to sting and they do. They hit exactly where he had them aimed and it has that rage simmering in your decaying chest cavity.

“Fuck off, Henry!”

He chuckles, “there’s that rage.” His lips are inches from yours now, a hand sliding down the wall to press a thumb at the corner of your mouth. “Fuck, I love it. Eddie’s so disturbingly sweet, just as he tastes. But you,” his hand trails down your chin to the column of your neck, his fingers wrapping around it. “You’re just as fucked up as me.”

“No,” you shake your head. Feel the added pressure he puts on your throat. Try not to let it affect you, try to focus on the rage, on anything other than the throbbing that’s burning your cold flesh. “I’m nothing like you.”

You choke on air when his grip grows tight enough to have your fingers move to his hand and try to pry them off. “It’s not an insult, don’t be rude. I made you. I can end you.” His forehead is on yours, nose to nose, lips brushing yours as he speaks. Other hand falling between your legs to run his nails up your thigh, “but it’d be a waste when all three of us could be do something so much more fun.”

And when his lips press to yours, his grip on your neck loosening, your fist is balled to push him away, but then you’re doing the opposite; leaning into him, kissing him back. Feeling that rage morph into that same need you get when you’re hungry—the need for flesh, to sink your teeth into something, to feel something.

“Care to join us, Eddie?” He’s saying when he pulls away. That hunger in you makes something inside of you plummet when you look behind him and meet Eddie’s eyes.

You expect an excuse to come. For the forgiveness and begging to come but it doesn’t.

Maybe it’s from the lack of rage in Eddie’s eyes and the understanding and lust that fills them instead.

Maybe it’s how an entirely new hunger is building inside of you.

Whatever it is has you opening your mouth and saying, “please.”

Henry turning back to look at him, giving him the softest smile you think he could ever fake, as he says, “remind us what it’s like to be sweet.”

#eddie munson x reader #henry creel x reader #vampire!eddie munson #eddie munson x you #vampire!eddie #eddie munson fic #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson one shot #henry creel x you #peter ballard x reader #001 x reader #001 x you #stranger things x reader

465 notes · View notes

darlingyanderes · 3 years

Text

It's better for you - Yandere!Belphegor x reader

Hi everyone! I'm very sorry that I haven't posted something in such a long time... I didn't have inspiration for the prompts in my inbox and I felt really guilty when I tried to write anything other than the suggestions I've received, so in the end I didn't write anything for months. I started writing these fics for fun, so I think I should keep it fun. So I wrote something that wasn't a suggestion, in the hopes that I'll also get the motivation and inspiration to write for suggestions :) I'm sorry for being selfish like this, but I hope you enjoy this fic!!

Warnings: kidnapping, physical force, yandere behaviour

Word count: 1000

It was already hard to navigate the building when you were still there walking around as a fresh exchange student. But it was harder to figure out where to go when you’ve been locked up in a cage for the past 6 months.

Who knew that Belphie’s way of thanking you for letting him out of the attic was to put you in it?

You mentally scolded yourself as your bare feet hit the tiles on the ground. Right after you broke him out of the attic, he was so kind to you. Showering you in compliments, giving you gifts, and eventually, asking you to go out with him. And of course you said yes. He was so nice and sweet, how could you possibly refuse?

But after that, things turned sour. He started demanding that you spend every waking (and sleeping) hour with him. When one of the other brothers wanted to talk to you or even as much as look at you, Belphie glared at them until they left and if they didn’t, he started barking insults at them and telling them to leave you alone. When they were gone, he’d grab your face between both of his hands and turned your head towards his so you have no choice but to look him in the eyes. With a weird glint in his eyes, he’d growl at you to stay away from them. He is everything you need, no one else.

That weird feeling in your stomach kept growing every day as he grew more possessive of you, but this is normal demon behaviour, right? It was to be expected from a demon, right? There’s nothing to worry about, right? You could still attend your classes and Belphie allowed you to talk to Beel, so it’s not like you were completely isolated from everyone.

You come to a screeching halt in the hallway, only to realise you had somehow managed to run through the building in a circle; you were back at the stairs to the attic. You whisper a curse beneath your breath as you remember your last stupid act of naivety.

You never should’ve trusted him when he told you to follow him with that weird vacant look in his eyes. You should’ve turned around when he led you up those large stairs. You should’ve ran away when he wanted to show you something inside the attic he was kept in.

But you didn’t

You trusted him, and that was the worst mistake you made in your entire life. A mistake that you somehow needed to claw your way out of now.

You take a few deep breaths. Judging from the fact that you don’t hear screaming and things being thrown around, you assume that Belphie is still asleep. You still have time to escape, you just need to be a bit smarter about it this time.

As your breathing calms down a bit, your thoughts clear. The best thing to do would be to find another brother, preferably multiple. You could tell them everything and ask them to protect you. Belphie is strong, but there’s no way that he’d be able to fight every single one of his brothers.

You try to think of the lay-out of the house, where the bedrooms of the brothers are, and start running again. As if on cue, you almost immediately bump into the chest of Beel.

You feel a wave of relief hit you when your eyes met, tears filling your eyes from the sheer joy of the nightmare almost being over. He looks at you with his normal stoic expression as you clutch his hands and choke out: “Beel, Belphie is- he, he locked m- locked me up, I- please, help!”

Beel’s expression barely changes as he hears your desperate pleas. Without saying a word, he grabs you and lifts you up on his shoulder.

For a brief moment, you allowed yourself to feel safe. Secure in his arms, ready to be carried away to freedom.

Except that he was going in the opposite direction.

To your dismay, Beel was walking up the stairs to the attic. The moment you realised, you started thrashing around as wildly as you could, kicking his chest and punching at his back. You screamed at the top of your lungs, begging him to let you go and asking anyone else to save you.

None of it fazed Beel. With one arm, he restrained your legs, while the other arm tightened around your waist, forcing the air out of your lungs. You could swear your ribs were almost breaking from the sheer force put on your body. Out of shock and fear, you stopped moving and turned quiet.

“Belphie was right,” Beel said, maybe more to himself than to you, “you are very confused. It’s better for you if you stay with him so he can take care of you. I agree that you would be in great danger outside if you’re like this.”

You frowned. You, confused? If anything, you were the only sane person in this entire building. And what on Earth does he mean ‘take care of you’? Since when is locking someone up and torturing them ‘taking care of someone’? The only danger that you are facing right now is Belphie and his insane twin.

You could feel sharp words in the back of your throat, ready to bite at Beel at the moment you open your mouth.

But you didn’t have the energy to fight back. Maybe it was the fact that you couldn’t breathe properly with Beel pressing down on you like that, or the sheer amounts of stress and despair you just experienced, but you simply couldn’t retaliate. What was the use of it? You’ll never be able to escape, not when he has convinced Beel of whatever twisted image he has in his mind. Who knows what he told the other brothers too?

Belphie had won. You can’t escape. You are stuck here forever.

#yandere #yandere x reader #yandere obey me #yandere belphie #yandere belphegor #yandere belphie x reader #yandere belphegor x reader

227 notes · View notes

writefightandflightclub · 3 years

Text

End of the line (Santiago Garcia x GN! reader)

@autumnleaves1991-blog runs a fantasic # Writer Wednesday, and this week’s photo prompt sparked a lil idea! Of course I’m a day late, please forgive. The prompt is the photo below, and my response is a rather angsty Triple Frontier one-shot. This is different to my usual takes, so I’m so grateful for the prompt!

Summary: you are reaching the end of the line, and there’s only one person you want to pick up the phone to.

Word count: 2.4k, somehow

Rating: mature for themes of violence (18+ only)

Warnings: theme of reader being pursued / targeted; ongoing mentions of guns / gun violence (not graphic); reader injuries (not graphic); themes of character death; angst; vague mentions of past wrongdoing / implied illicit activities; theme of former lovers.

You run your fingers over your scathed knuckles and the bruises on your hands, flexing and opening your fingers and trying to work out niggles in your wrist that you doubt will ever truly leave you. You wince as the motion tugs on a spot which is particularly stiff, and a pain zips all the way up your forearm.

Your only consolation is that the other guy fared far worse.

Undoing all your attempts to unknot your taut muscles, your fists clench again as you hear the door to the dingy motel bar swing open to your right. Your head whips towards the newly-arrived patron and you tense, your hand twitching against the weapon concealed in your jacket. As it becomes clear the new arrival is an old, inebriated local and not a threat, you relax a shade; though not all the way.

You barely remember the last time you fully relaxed. You wish you could shake this state of hyper-vigilance. Eyes constantly sweeping the perimeter. Clocking every open-carry tucked into a belt, scoping every exit route, monitoring every micro-gesture and expression. But one slip now and it will cost you.

You bounce your leg under the table, filled with an onslaught of sadness that you can’t even enjoy a cup of coffee without the looming fear of retribution. Still, you are safe enough here for now, you assess. For at least one more night. At least, you hope. Certainty is a thing long-dead, just like your old life.

Your eyes flick out through the scummy window, reaching across the lot to the stretch of motel illuminated to your left. Not that there’s much to look at out there -snow and vehicles and the shitty exterior- but you are not looking at those things, after all. Your study is far more careful. You’ve been sat here long enough though to be sure that no-one is casing your room. No suspicious vehicles or individuals; at least - there are plenty of suspicious individuals, but none whom seem to have followed you here.

So, you allow yourself to shed one layer of worry, and you give your gaze permission to wander back to the only other thing you can see out there. The ominous looking phone box, stood directly in the path between your table and the window to your motel room. It glows in the dark like an illuminated angel, though you are not sure whether this signals it is a guardian or a traitor. Angels can be fickle things too.

Either way, the booth taunts you, like some dark harbinger or sentinel from a horror film, and, each time your eyes flick back to it, it seems to loom more prominent - even if that’s only because of the single, related thought which swells to the forefront of your mind.

Call him. It’s time to call him.

You promised yourself you would only call him as a last resort. If you had no other options remaining. If you were at the end of the line.

A nausea rolls in the pit of you when you realise that might be true. After so long on the run, you’ve called in every favour you were owed, exploited every scrap of intel you could, manipulated or paid-off every asset you could find to help you... And now there is no-one else left. No-one else left who owes you a favour. There is only the man who had once promised you he would always have your six. There is only the last person you want to ask for help, and the first person you want to see.

Santiago Garcia.

Your nausea turns to aching despair, and you wrap your hands around your cup of shitty coffee, reaching for some vestige of warmth, however faint. And yet, like everything else, it offers you little comfort. Indeed, you have lived without comfort for so long that you tell yourself you don’t need it, but as soon as memories of him flood you, you ache for the distant comfort of his arms.

Arms which will never encircle you again, you’re sure. Not since you’d been forced to compromise every ideal you’d once shared with the solider. Still, that was back in the days when things seemed a lot more black and white. When you still believed in good people and untarnished souls. When he still believed in you.

Your eyes flick once again to the boxy, mocking angel in the parking lot. Now you are sure it is fallen, and that it has come to drag you to hell.

Still, hell would be a relief, you think, compared to this. Compared to this vestige of a life.

Call him. It’s the end of the line.

You bounce your leg more furiously, your muscles tensing so hard they cramp as you think about the prospect. You used to carry his number on a little slip of paper in your top pocket. You’d long since memorised it, but it was the last thing he gave you - you suppose that’s why you couldn’t throw it away. Why you subconsciously kept it close to your heart.

If you ever needed him, he would be there. You knew it. Maybe you should have called him long ago, when things first went south. When you first pissed off the kinda man it wasn’t desirable to piss off. Maybe you would have, but then one thing after another kept happening, and the slow descent into hell began, one compromise and one mistake at a time. So, you called in every other favour rather than face him. Rather than having to explain how you’d let him down - become someone he could no longer believe in. Like a fallen angel.

Now, years had gone by.

Years on the run. Years of hyper-vigilance. Years that had taken their toll.

Now, you’re out of options. Out of money. Out of favours. You’re even out of burner phones until you can hitch a lift to the next town over.

So, the glowing phone box almost sings to you, as if it’s a siren luring you on to the rocks. As if it’s a magical item in a computer game and if you step into its circle of light you can have a new life. You can reset everything. Return to a prior save point.

You know exactly where you would go, if you could. Back to the last time your remember where you didn’t feel so alone. The last time you felt comfort.

You fumble some over-spilling tears from your cheeks and stand, pushing the chair back across the floor behind you with a harsh scrape. Then, with a soft smile to the barkeep you return your mug to the bar-top, to save her from having to clear up. You wonder then. You can’t help but wonder like you do every time. If she’ll be the last person to see you alive will she at least say, to who ever shows up looking, that you seemed kind?

She gives you a small smile and you hang on to this vestige of warmth too, wishing you could pocket it for later for when you inevitably feel so empty and so cold. If only you could have stored up warmth, you would have more than enough to thaw you. There was a time when you had an abundance, after all. Enough to carry you through the longest of winters.

Your face drops as you tread out, winding your scarf around your neck and your boots puncturing the fresh, powdery snow.

Would anyone who mattered even show up looking? you ponder. Is there anyone left who would remember all the things you were before all this? Before you were a cold, lost thing?

There may be one person left.

Your eyes patrol the lot around you, an automatic sweep for threats, and, seeing nothing of note, you track determinedly towards the phone box, tears near-freezing on your cheeks.

You pick up the receiver and you punch in that number you have memorised, your eyes closing and your other hand bracing itself against the scratched and cigarette-burn puckered surface. You don’t even know if it will ring, or if he will still be at this address, but you do know that your knees will buckle either way. With relief if he does, and hopelessness if he doesn’t.

The line clacks as the number connects, and you grip the receiver hard enough that a day-old wound on your knuckle splits, but you can scarce care. Instead you simply hold your breath as the phone rings once, twice, three times...

Your stomach lurches as the ringing stops.

“Santiago? Santiago Garcia?” you ask, hoarsely, tugging on the coiled phone wire so hard as you wind it around your fingers that you are close to breaking it.

“This is Mrs. Garcia. Can I help you?” a woman’s voice responds.

You want to dry heave. Your heart drops to your stomach.

“You’re his wife?” you ask, the question like a poison barb on your tongue.

“Yes, who’s speaking, please? Can I take a message?”

All this time, you had been the only one alone, it seems. You should be glad for him, but you are too sad for yourself to muster it.

You hesitate. You can’t say who’s calling. You can’t risk it. However, while he may not be at the end of the line, you are. This might be the last chance you get to say your piece.

You have to think on your feet, but that’s become second-nature for you. You haven’t enjoyed the luxury of plans or hopes or dreams for some time now.

You begin. Your voice is choked up.

“Just tell him... Tell him to remember me the way I was in Massachusetts. Tell him I’ve never been happier than then. Tell him not to worry. I won’t cash in that favour, but he’s already done enough.”

He has. He’s given you the strength to make it this far, even if he didn’t know it.

“Who is this?” his wife presses, her tone sharp.

You can’t say, but he’ll know. He’ll know - if he remembers you. Your eyes mist over with tears, and your chest tightens, emotion stealing the air from your lungs.

“Can you just tell him that? Please?” you beg, having been strong for so long and finally collapsing in on yourself, a desperate plea imbuing your voice.

Still, you don’t even wait for an answer before slamming the phone back down on its hook -can’t bear to hear her say no. Instead you surge towards your hotel room, sobs wracking your chest as you realise the cold hard facts. Now, you are truly on the run without any semblance of home to return to, even if you could ever stop. He did not wait for you.

So, you cry, even as you peel off your clothes from your pained body, leaning into the stream of luke-warm water in the motel shower. Water which may rinse the blood and grime from the surface of your skin but has no hope of washing the blood from your hands, or wiping the red from your ledger.

Nothing ever could.

Then, you lie alone in bed, your sleeping bag and liner protecting you from the motel bed covers, at least. You stare up blankly at the ceiling, and, as you often do, you try to pinpoint where it all went wrong. You try to rewrite history. You try to imagine all the ways in which things could have worked out.

As always, with certainty, you can say exactly when and where it all went to shit. And, as always, you wish that you could take it back.

You loll your head against the pillow, watching shadows dance through your curtains as snow falls past the glow of that ugly, beautiful phone box. It was a guardian after all, you think, if Santi got to know that you still think of him. That even now you can’t let him go.

Always. Until the end.

Then, your whole body jolts in shock as the phone begins to ring - a loud, shrill insistent noise sounding out into the night, setting off a dog barking across the way, and a baby crying through the paper thin walls to your left.

It couldn’t be? Could it? It couldn’t be for you?

Still, you have to know, and so, you scramble into your snow boots and dash into the brisk night, grappling to lift the phone from its receiver before it rings out, your breath a white cloud of exertion before you.

And, at the same time that you connect to the caller, you spot the second harbinger. You see the shadowed figure there, approaching you from across the lot. You see the outline of a gun in their hand, and their trench billowing around their shins as they maintain a steady pace towards you.

You have nowhere left to run. This is the end of the line. You know it in the depths of you.

So, you simply flatten your back to the phone box, facing your assailant.

You simply close your eyes, willing everything else to disappear as an unmistakeably familiar voice filters through the speaker into your ear. You grip the receiver tightly with both hands.

Santiago Garcia says your name. Your real name. Not one of many aliases you’ve had to assume, painting lies over your existence. He says your real name -one you haven’t heard spoken in so long- and your bottom lip begins to tremble. “Honey, is that you?”

You smile, tears of joy cascading down your face as his simple words stoke more warmth than you have felt in so long. Even as the cold bites at your skin. Even as you hear the continued crunch of footsteps in the snow. Even as you hear a gun cock, mere feet from your body.

Hearing his voice, you think your knees may buckle in relief regardless.

“Hey, old friend,” you say fondly, through an inexplicable, watery smile. And, despite the situation, you feel happy, for the first time in a long while. Bizarre as it is, you are finally able to relax all the way.

Will he remember me as kind, at least?

You grip the phone even more tightly as Santi’s voice surges, coming at you with a million urgent questions. You let them flow through you, and then they are gone, just as easily. You know you will not be afforded the chance to answer even one. So, you say something else instead.

“Remember me, okay?” you breathe. “Remember how I loved you. And I did, Santiago. Right until the end of the line.”

You hope that he will. You can only hope that when the stories and lies and secrets and compromises come out, that he will remember you the way you were in Massachusetts. Before things started to unravel. Before you went on the run.

And, as your eyes screw themelsleves tightly shut, and you brace yourself for what is inevitably coming, you don’t think of him as he is now. Someone distant. Someone who doesn’t belong to you. Someone at the end of the line. You don’t think of yourself that way either.

You remember him the way he was in Massachusetts.

You hope dearly, that he will think of you that way too.

You finally feel warm.

#santiago pope garcia x reader #triple frontier #angst #writer wednesday #santiago pope garcia

162 notes · View notes

spxllcxstxr · 3 years

Text

Bridge Over Troubled Water • R.L

(Gif not mine)

Requests: can you do a blurb with Remus where the reader is nervous and anxious, maybe has a tough week and he gives her a massage and helps her relax? — anon and Hi! can you write an imagine where the reader is dating Remus and is disappointed in her school grades / results and is overall doubting herself and is disappointed with herself? — @emmaev

Summary: Things are getting really tough. Remus is here for you.

Warnings: mention of food, not eating/skipping a meal, hunger, depression, anxiety, a bit of a panic attack, homework, school, self deprecating thoughts, kinda take how we’re feeling in this pandemic and that’s kinda what this fic is, Snape being an ass for like two sentences, crying

Word Count: 1.7k

A.N: I hope it’s alright that I combined your two requests. But, I decided to make it longer with a lot more comfort. I really hope it’s ok with you guys ❤️ Kinda a vent fic? So that’s why it’s lowkey all over the place and the ending is sorta..abrupt? I hope you like it, though. I wanna say that I’m always here for you guys. This whole thing has been kicking my ass and school has been extremely tough for me, so know that you’re not alone. Know that you’ve got this. I believe wholeheartedly in you. Love you all. ❤️

Title: Simon and Garfunkel - Bridge Over Troubled Water

****

You trudge up the stone steps to the boys dorms, your bag dragging heavily behind you. With your robes slipping from your shoulders and your tie dangling loosely around your neck, you almost consider letting your bag go. Watching the heavy sack of books tumble recklessly down the spiral staircase seems like a great idea to you. However, you make it to the sixth year dorms before you’re able to loosen your grip.

The oak door was closed but not locked. What use was a lock when the door was charmed to singe off the eyebrows of any unwelcome visitor? Thankfully, the boys granted you complete access to their room in third year, so the door couldn’t harm you.

Turning the brass doorknob and stepping through the threshold, you’re greeted by somewhat organized chaos.

Sirius and Peter’s side of the room was a complete disaster while James and Remus’ side was at least nicer to look at. Sure a few books were scattered on the floor and James’ red and yellow underwear was hanging from his bedpost visible to anyone who walked in, but that’s nothing compared to whatever the other two have going on. You don’t even want to look at it, knowing full well that just one tiny glance would make your already terrible day worse.

The room is empty and completely quiet, the boys, just like every other person in the castle, were down in the Great Hall for dinner. At the thought of dinner just downstairs, your stomach grumbles before quickly churning in agony.

Quickly, you dump your bag next to the door and go through Remus’ drawers, searching for that one specific jumper.

It’s the deep blue cable knit one that always smells like him. The jumper is soft and warm and the perfect piece of clothing to cuddle into when you needed a good cry. And Godric, you needed a good, long, ugly cry.

After finding it and throwing it on, you barely lift up your feet walking to your boyfriend’s bed to get swallowed up by his blankets.

The weight of the day hits you full force the moment your head collides with his pillow, and your lips wobbles, the day replaying in your mind.

Your morning started with a Transfiguration exam that definitely was not on what you studied all night for.

Then, your potion bubbled out of your cauldron and started disintegrating the stone flooring, making Slughorn shoot you very disappointed look that made you want to disappear into the Forbidden Forest forever.

Defense Against the Dark Arts turned into a complete disaster as well when Professor Bluebell handed back your essays on inferi, and yours ended up with a spikey red D scrawled angrily on the top. D, which stands for Dreadful, as Snape snidely reminded you from over your shoulder. He flashed you smug little smirk along with the delicate O that adorned his own essay.

And to top it all off, you had to meet up with Flitwick right after classes to go over the vinegar to wine charm that for some reason wouldn’t work for you no matter how hard you tried. And you still weren’t successful.

This was becoming a common occurrence.

You always knew that your N.E.W.T. year was going to be tough, but Merlin, you never expected it to be this awful.

Classes were longer and harder and your professors were relentless and unforgiving with the amount of homework and exams they started handing out.

Sure you had more free periods, but those were filled with research and essays and studying, you had no free time at all—it was all a lie.

You couldn’t escape it. Sleep was just more time to be plagued by anxiety to the point you barely even slept at all. Most of the time you stared blankly up at the ceiling thinking about all the assignments you could be doing instead.

It’s this torturous and vicious cycle that you just can’t get out of.

And your motivation was quickly disappearing.

It was getting tougher and tougher each time to even do your homework. Lifting up your quill and taking out a stack of parchment was just difficult. It took too much energy out of you.

Smothering your face in Remus’ pillow, you groan out your frustration, balling your fists around the frayed sleeves of the jumper.

You’re so wrapped up in your despair and panic that you don’t hear the door creak open and four sets of footfalls and laughter bounce around the room.

“Damn, what’s up with you?” Sirius chuckles. You hear him flop onto his own bed.

You bury your nose in the fabric of the jumper, inhaling the sweet and comforting scent of chocolate and old parchment that always accompanies Remus Lupin.

“Don’t be a git, Pads.” Remus scoffs, making his way towards you.

He crouches down by your head, placing a delicate thumb on your cheekbone.

“Darling, what’s wrong?” His tone turns soft, drenched with concern.

You squeeze your eyes shut tight, tears trickling down the bridge of your nose and dripping down to the white sheets.

“Alright, darling, hold on.” Remus whispers, placing a dainty kiss on your forehead.

He straightens up, knees creaking the way no sixteen year old’s should.

“Alright, lads, clear out.” Remus declares to his friends.

“You can’t kick me out of my room, Moony. No way.” You hear James whine.

“Yes, I can, Prongs, c’mon. Go play chess with Peter or something.”

“But he always beats me.”

“C’mon, Prongsie, we can scam the first years by making them place bets on you winning.” Sirius suggests. His boots click against the floorboards, trailing towards the door.

Peter’s light footsteps follow after them.

“Fine.” James huffs dramatically. “But I’m not sleeping on the couch again, so no funny business.”

The door slams shut and once again you’re met with silence, though you do hear Remus changing out of his uniform and into more comfortable attire.

The bed dips underneath Remus’ weight and his hand gently starts to stroke through your hair.

“Tell me what’s wrong, my love.” Remus mumbles just loud enough for you to hear.

You try to swallow down the lump in the back of your throat.

“Just a very shitty day, Rem.” You manage to croak out, the words choppy and wavering.

Tears begin to flow freely, warm salty streaks making their way down your face in rapid succession.

“Oh darling.” Remus coos, practically pulling you into his arms and between his legs. You bury your face into his neck, tears dampening his scarred flesh. “It’s alright, let it out.” He continues to run your hair between his fingers. “Let it all out...”

“I-I’m just so stupid!” You sob, choking on spit. “Everything’s just getting too much and I can’t fucking take it anymore!”

He squeezes you closer to his chest, opting to stay silent so you can vent everything off of your chest. His cheek is pressed to the top of your head and you’re vaguely aware that you’re being rocked gently back and forth.

“It’s so hard!” You continue to wail, lungs constricting rapidly. It’s a struggle to keep breathing and your words barely come out fully, instead broken fragments are the only things spewing out.

“I’m a failure!” You spit out, face wet with tears.

“You’re not a failure, my love. I promise.” Remus tried to soothe, his voice adopting a small but noticeable waver. His hand rubs your back.

“I am! I’m a disappointment!” You sniff, taking in deep gulps of air.

“Shh...” Remus pulls you back a bit so he can see your entire face.

You already know you look disgusting. Eyes blotchy and red, tears streaming down your face. Snotty, spitty, wobbling, and watery features taking up his entire vision.

“What’s goin’ on in that pretty head of yours, hm? Let me help.” He consoles you softly.

You gaze into his warm honey brown eyes, glistening with his own tears.

You sniff, rubbing the sleeves of Remus’ stolen jumper across your face in an attempt to dry yourself off.

“Everything’s slipping, Rem. My grades, my mental health, everything. And I’m so lost I don’t know what to do anymore.” You confess. “What am I supposed to do?” You bring your hands up to you hair, tugging at your scalp enough for you to feel sparks of pain.

Quickly, his own trembling hands take yours. He stops you from tugging, instead bringing them to rest on his jumper clad chest.

You swallow harshly.

“I’m going to help you, (Y/n)—“

“You can’t help me, Remus! I’m beyond help—“

“No, you’re not.” He retorts lightly. “I’ll help you with homework and help you ask for a few extensions...we can get you back on track.”

“Remus...” Your voice trembles at his kindness.

“I’m sorry.” He rasps out, a tear or two slipping from his waterline. “I’m so so sorry that I didn’t see you suffering like this. Merlin, (Y/n).”

Shaking his head at himself, he brings his forehead down to your own.

“I’ll be better. I’ll be better, I swear.” Remus keeps repeating in a pained mutter.

“It’s not your fault, Rem. I got good at acting like everything was fine.” Your voice cracks.

“Still! I should’ve realized!” He mutters angrily.

“I love you, Remus. I love you so much, please don’t beat yourself up over this.” You plead.

He bites his lip, deciding to drop it, instead focusing on you.

“Why don’t we try to relax, hm? Just take a nice night off?” Remus suggests, pulling away to brush strands of hair away from your sticky face.

“But what about homework—?”

“Tomorrow, love. I think we deserve a break, don’t you?”

You shlyly nod, and he presses his lips to your forehead.

“You’re beautiful, darling.” Remus whispers.

“I just bawled my eyes out, Rem, I’m sure I look like a swamp hag.” You snort.

He brings his hands to your shoulders, rubbing deep circles into your back muscles. The knots start to dissipate.

“Never seen a swamp hag as angelic as you.” Remus flirts. But his voice is so sincere and honest, you have no choice but to somewhat believe him.

“Thank you, Remus.” You smile. “It means so much to me.”

“Anything for the love of my life.” He confesses, trailing his pink lips down your neck. “Now let me hold you close.”

He lays down, resting his head on his pillow, your head resting on his chest.

Things are going to get better.

Probably not tomorrow.

Probably not this week.

But things will.

•

All Character Taglist: @aspiringsloth20

#Remus Lupin #remus lupin x reader #remus lupin imagine #remus lupin fanfiction #remus lupin angst #remus lupin fluff #the marauders x reader #the marauders

257 notes · View notes

xaphrin · 3 years

Text

So, there’s some angst in here, if you want to call it that. I blow goats when it comes to angst so I genuinely apologize, but... here we are.

Also I’m sorry it’s late and short, and completely unedited. I’ve been battling a full array of... stuff for the last few months. So, this is what I managed to eek out this week.

- - - - - - - - - -

The lobby smelled of sterile, but stale, air, and also of sadness and despair.

...and death.

The lobby of the ER always seemed to have the faint smell of death that permeated everything.

His stomach twisted and turned as guilt rose into his throat, nearly strangling him of all the air in his lungs. It was as if Damian ran his hands down his thighs and he leaned forward, letting his head drop between his knees. His phone dangled in front of his face, and his thumb hovered over the “Empty Cart” button. He couldn’t look away from it - this cart filled with the best of everything.

For a child they would never have.

Ignoring the sensible part of his mind, Damian locked his phone and leaned back into the hard plastic chair. His head rested on his shoulders and he let go of a long, deep breath, as he stared at the ceiling. In the back of his mind, he imagined a little girl with the same soft smile as his wife, the same quiet giggle, the same deep midnight hair…

Shaking his head, Damian sat back up and opened his phone, hitting the “Empty Cart” button, and then cleared the notes app containing possible names. There was no use holding onto something that would never happen, and he felt guilty that he continued to try - over and over again. Raven had warned him when they had gotten married, and again after her first miscarriage, and again after she had gotten pregnant this time. She had warned him that there were still curses lingering inside her from her father, even though he had been defeated.

This was one of them.

His heart felt heavy, and he felt his hope dissolve into a thin layer of dust. He couldn’t keep doing this to her, and himself. That thick, poisonous feeling of guilt choked him again. He kept making her live this nightmare over and over, and everytime they had a thin ray of hope that maybe this time was different, only to be crushed again. Damian took a deep breath and let it escape. Tomorrow, he’d make an appointment for a vasectomy.

“Damian?”

He looked up to see Raven standing over him, looking as exhausted as ever. She was pale and drawn, and her hand ran along the length of her neck. Her eyes met his, and he watched shame fill her eyes before looking away. It felt as though all the eyes in the lobby were watching them and this private moment.

“We need to stop by the pharmacy on the way home.”

He nodded and stood up. Raven clutched her discharge paperwork, letting her head dip, as if she was trying to hide from the rest of the people in the lobby. With a soft sigh, she slipped her free hand into his. It was clammy and shaking, and Damian just wanted to hold her close until the rest of the world dissolved around them. He wanted her to know that he was here for her - no questions, no judgments. They stepped from the shadows of the ER into the brilliantly warm and sunny day. The kind of day where he would take her to the posh beach house down south, and just lounge around in the sun with her.

Instead, he was here. Grieving with her.

He glanced down into her face, seeing the sorrow draw lines across her forehead as she fidgeted with the ring on her finger. Damian raised her hand to his mouth and kissed her fingertips. “What can I-”

“I think we should-”

They both snapped their mouths shut, waiting for the other to speak. Damian nodded for her to go first, staying quiet. Raven looked into his eyes and then away, as she took a shaking breath, trying to find some kind of courage to speak.

“I think we should get a divorce.”

What.

What?

What the fucking Hell…?

He stood there, reeling. It felt like he was going to fall to the ground, her words scratching against his skin like claws dripping with poison. He blinked several times, trying to clear his head in a way that made no sense at all. His stomach rolled and twisted, and Damian took a deep breath trying to calm himself before his temper took hold. Pressing his lips in a firm line, he stopped walking and stared firmly into her eyes.

“Okay.” He cleared his throat and looked at Raven, firmly in her eyes. “Can you tell me why?”

She sighed and met his stare with one of sorrow and sadness, and resignation. As if this was somehow the only place her soul belonged. “You want a child, Damian. Progeny to carry on the world you’ve created and live in. You want something I am clearly unable to give you, no matter how many miracles we try. This is who I am - cursed and broken - and there’s nothing we can do to fix that. I can’t give you what you want.”

Damian let go of a breath he had forgotten he was holding, and a weak laugh escaped. Relief flooded his chest and he shook his head. “That’s it? That’s the only reason?”

Raven pursed her lips and stared at him. “What do you mean? The only reason? This is important to you.”

Damian stepped up to her and cupped her face tilting it up to his own, pressing his lips to her forehead. “First of all, my love, you are not cursed and broken, nor will you ever be. And if you call yourself that again, I promise to turn you over my knee and spank you.”

He felt a shiver run down her spine, and he smiled.

“Second of all, I want progeny - as you so tactfully put it - with you. Not anyone else. Only you. I love you, more than I have words to explain. A child is a gift and a blessing, but it’s not the only part of my love. I love your smile-” He kissed her lips softly. “-your laugh-” He kissed her again. “-the way you get so involved in books and magic-” He kissed both of her eyes. “-the way the world around you continues to fascinate you.” He kissed her forehead again. “I love the way you rise early and whisper things in my ear that you think I don’t hear-” She flushed and he kissed her cheeks. “-and the way you dance when you think no one is watching you.” She chewed on her lower lip, and Damian kissed her again. “I love everything about you, your womb is not paramount, I assure you.”

Raven opened her mouth to try and say something, but he cut her off with another kiss, his fingers curling into her hair as he deepened the kiss until she was gasping, clinging onto his shirt.

Damian pulled away and kissed along her jaw. “Besides… if you decide to leave me, I assure you that I will spend every hour of the rest of my life working to get you to come back to me.”

When he pulled away, he saw tears gathering in her eyes, and he knew that everything was going to be okay. They both needed to heal, to collect broken pieces of their hearts and mend them back together, but they would do that with each other. This was, first and foremost, a partnership, and he wanted no one else to be his partner.

He kissed her forehead again and took her hand. “Let’s get you home and order pizza, my love.”

She gave him another weak smile, but this time it reached her eyes. “You know just how to charm me.”

He opened his car door and helped her inside, a warm smile filling his face as he held her hand. “Yes. Because you are my wife, and my whole universe, my love.”

Raven just flushed and buried her face in her hands.

#damirae #damirae week 2021 #damiraeweek2021 #TW #miscarriage #Day One: Parenting/Family #Look ya'll know how I feel about pregnancy/family fics #so ya know.......... make it sad?

144 notes · View notes

r3volutionary-queen · 3 years

Text

Chapter 31 Sneak Peek

In his arms, Darcy was laughing.

She lay back against his chest, her head slotting perfectly under his chin, and she laughed. It was sunlight to his soul, bright and pure and warm and kind and it softened every jagged edge inside of him. Steve pressed a lingering kiss into her hair and tightened his arms around her middle, making her giggle even more—a happy sound that he could have listened to for the rest of his life.

Below, Bucky sprawled across both of their laps, using their thighs as his personal pillows. Darcy’s fingers were carding through his long hair, nails scraping gently across his scalp until the man was all but putty in her hands. His dark head swiveled up, love-drunk eyes openly watching her before crinkling around the edges, squinting like two happy half-moons. That gray gaze then slid upwards and met Steve’s soft look.

It was like staring into a marbled sky moments before the sun broke through.

“Love you,” Bucky mouthed to him and Steve’s heart swelled and swelled and swelled until it threatened to burst.

In this place there were no shadows, no war, no death. In this place Darcy’s skin was not littered in scars and Bucky’s arm was warm and whole.

In this place Steve did not burn.

He would have been content to spend eternity here, if it weren’t for the tug on his shoulder, soft but insistent.

Steve jolted and inhaled on instinct, lungs gasping for air as he surged back into consciousness. It was not a peaceful float to the surface; it was sudden and jarring, like the leg of a once trusted chair snapping beneath him. Pain was the first thing to register, a raw kind of agony, as if someone or something had pried him open and scrambled all of his insides. Blood trickled down his shredded throat and he swallowed with a grimace.

Another tug and a voice, quietly murmuring—urging.

“Wake up.”

Blue eyes fluttered open; everything was a blur. Icy rain stung his skin like a thousand needles, cold mud seeped into his suit, and thunder cracked through the air, so loud and so deep it rolled over his skin and shook the ground beneath him. A second later, the sky splintered in a dazzling flash of light as white-hot electricity threaded the earth to the clouds.

And hovering over him, silhouetted against that bright flash of light, was a strange face. Strange because they were familiar; strange because they were dead.

Or at least they were supposed to be.

And then it struck him—

The stone.

Steve’s heart lurched in his chest. The world spun and tipped itself out before righting once more. He blinked and blinked again in disbelief, in fear, in hope, in a painful, terrified mixture of all three.

“T…” he started with a sandpaper rasp. “T’Challa?”

The Wakandan king’s mouth curved and brown eyes softened in relief. His dark brows rose and he dipped his chin, nodding once. “On your feet, Captain.”

Stunned, Steve could not move.

“Am I dreaming?”

“This is no dream,” T’Challa assured him softly. He lifted his head and spun on his haunches, looking at something Steve could not see. A light filled the king’s eyes, both kind and fierce. He glanced down at Steve where he lay, beaten and broken, and T’Challa’s words pierced right through his weary heart. “Hope has not deceived you.”

The words sank beneath his skin, cutting into the meat of his heart, and Steve’s eyes misted. There were things he wanted to say, to ask, but the words couldn’t make it through his tightened throat. For a long moment, he could not even breathe. It felt surreal, liminal.

Hope has not deceived you.

It was strange, almost, how hope felt more dangerous, more treacherous, than the very war surrounding him. A fight could destroy his body, but hope? Hope, or rather hope lost, could ruin his soul. It had been a long time since he allowed himself to truly hope and so when it bloomed in the center of his chest now, like a warm pool of sunlight cascading down his limbs and filling him to the brim, he shook under its raw power.

“Are there,” Steve swallowed heavily, his voice thick, “Are there others? How many?”

T’Challa watched him closely and the corners of his eyes fanned out in a warm smile. The Wakandan king shifted on the balls of his feet and held out his hand. “Rise and see for yourself.”

Steve opened his mouth to respond when an animalistic roar ripped through the air like a serrated knife. The blond stiffened, recognizing the Hulk’s bellow of rage instantly. His heart pounded painfully in his chest and before he could stop it, that dangerous, treacherous hope inside of him grew wings and took flight.

It rose up the length of his throat and surged out of his mouth in a single, wet, hysterical sob of a laugh. He clapped his hand over his mouth and his eyes screwed shut.

All around him, the rain continued to fall.

Finally, Steve sniffed and wiped his face. With a grunt, he slapped his hand into the king’s waiting palm and it was the strength of the Black Panther, not his own, that pulled him to his feet. Instantly, his back erupted in a blinding pain and he staggered, groaning, shoulders hunching as his muscles trembled and stretched. Steve shook and panted through chapped lips, trying to push past the all-consuming agony. His vision blurred, static around the edges, and then finally, he lifted his gaze to the battlefield—

And froze.

Over the last few months, Steve had grown accustomed to the feeling of shock. He knew what it tasted like, how it jolted through his veins, paralyzing him, but this shock was not one born out of terror or dread.

The shock that rolled through him now was one of awe.

The battle still raged; the rain had sunk the fires back into the earth and a white-gray smoke clouded the blood-soaked ground. Explosions flung mud in the air, coating the chaos of fighting armies in filth until it was near impossible to tell who was who. But beyond all of that, beyond the looming warships and the waves of Chitauri and the wolf-like monsters of Thanos, was something else entirely.

Amid the debris and the bombed-out craters and the piles of bodies littering the ground vast beyond number and recognition was an army—and not just any army.

It was the Avengers.

His team, his friends, his family; the world’s last hope. All of them, every last one he had watched dissolve into ash just months ago.

They were scattered but they fought like creatures that exhaustion, despair, and even death itself could not subdue. And even beyond that, a great host of Wakandan warriors were charging into the fray with what was left of the Asgardians and the Skrulls.

And for the first time since any of this began, they were pushing Thanos’ army back to the tree line; theywere overwhelming their enemy.

Wonder overtook him, and indescribable joy; it was beautiful—stunning, robbing him of all thought and word, and for a moment, Steve wished he could paint this.

The only thing that was missing—

Steve’s stomach dropped.

His mind splintered into a million pieces upon the realization and fear prickled along his skin like the legs of a thousand spiders. Panicked, Steve spun around wildly, searching the chaos for two familiar shapes.

“What is it? What is wrong?”

Snapping his head up, a wild kind of insanity tugged at the edges of his mind as he held T’Challa’s worried gaze. Because if the stone had knocked himout cold, he could only imagine what it had done to Bucky, let alone Darcy. In fact, he knew all too well what that stone did to her every time she touched it and the memories that flooded his mind had him in a blind terror.

“There’s a woman,” Steve gasped out, choking on the words, his eyes still roving over the vast, simmering field. Raindrops slid down his face, dripped from his nose, his jaw, his chin. “Darcy. I need to find her. I have to find her—she was hurt pretty bad and… She’s—and Bucky—”

A blood-curling scream.

Steve whipped around, heart in his throat. Somewhere to his right there was a high-pitched female scream—a wail, really—and Steve had never heard Darcy make a noise like that before, but he knew instantly that it was her.

His heart told him so.

Steve couldn’t see her, couldn’t see much of anything beyond the flurry of war and the blasts from the enemy’s weapons. He paled and his vision spun as a new and torrential kind of fear seared through every vein in his body.

“Go,” T’Challa urged at his side and Steve snapped his head around, panting and trembling all over. The king clasped his shoulder, tilting his head toward him. “Do what you must. We will meet when this is over, my friend.”

Unable to do anything but nod, Steve mustered up the very last of his strength (all he had left) and turned and ran into the heart of the battle. Even as the abyss of terror threatened to pull him under, Steve felt something inside of him shift, something endless and ancient, and suddenly his spine was carved out of steel. He was going to find her, both her and Bucky, and he was going to get them out of this place—even if it broke his back and heart and left nothing but his bones behind.

He was going to find them both and he was going to bring them home.

(GUYS IT IS HAPPENING. WE ARE LIKE 6K IN ON THIS CHAPTER SO PLEASE EXCUSE IF YOU'VE MESSAGED ME TODAY, I'LL ANSWER LATER BECAUSE THE FLOW CANNOT BE INTERRUPTED KAY THANKS)

#darcy lewis #steve rogers #bucky barnes #wintershieldshock #shieldshock #stucky #wintershock #ignition #fic sneak peek #fic snippet #darcy x bucky #darcy x steve #steve x bucky #bucky x darcy x steve #endgame fix it

55 notes · View notes

tsarisfanfiction · 3 years

Note

Trope #36: Amnesia, Prompt #633: "Please, stop saying my name like that." for TAG

Forget Me Not

Fandom: Thunderbirds Rating: Teen Genre: Angst/Family Characters: Scott, Virgil, John

Ah, good old amnesia time! And you know what, apparently my muse has decided it wants to beat up someone who isn’t Scott, entirely without prompting! Although that might have something to do with the angst of a little brother not knowing who he is... So there’s that.

Another old prompt I’m finally getting around to, so let’s see if I can even find the original post, oops...

Writing Game: Tropes

Scott had thought he’d known despair. He’d felt its frigid bite the day the snow roared down, had it steal all the breath from his lungs the day the Zero-X exploded, heard its white noise when the call had come about a hydrofoil. He’d lost - or almost lost - so much, and seen the way it infected other families every time a rescue didn’t have a hundred percent success rate. He’d been sure, so sure, he’d known what it could do.

The vice around his heart, frigid and thieving and loud, was all of those together and more. Too many things, too much to take in, too much to react to, and he was gasping for breath he didn’t have, drowning on dry land.

“Virgil,” he gasped out, his brother’s name something wet and rasping all at once. Brown eyes regarded him, warm and concerned and a little upset. More than a little upset; he was hiding it but not well enough. Not from Scott.

“Please,” his little brother said, and his voice tightened the vice until Scott thought his heart would stop. “Stop saying my name like that.”

It was only force of will that kept Scott standing, kept him in the same room, because every fibre of his being was screaming for him to get out of there. Before it killed him, so he could find a way to fix it, before he broke in front of the brothers he had to be strong for.

Even the one that didn’t remember him.

Especially the one that didn’t remember him.

Amnesia. A head injury at just the right - wrong - spot, and now Virgil couldn’t remember them. Couldn’t remember him. His brown eyes were warm and concerned but also empty of that one spark that made Virgil Virgil.

They didn’t know if it was permanent.

Grandma had scans running, Brains was delving into research, but the simple fact of the matter was that it was entirely down to Virgil. Either he’d remember, or he wouldn’t, and there was nothing Scott could do to make it happen.

They’d done everything they could; they’d surrounded him with familiarity, family in and out with Scott the constant because he couldn’t - couldn’t - leave even though every moment that passed with no recognition destroyed him just a little more inside. A trip to the hangars, Thunderbird Two in all her beautiful green glory. It hadn’t helped.

Now all they could do was wait. Wait and hope and pray that Virgil’s brain would recover the memories in time.

Scott had never been good at waiting. Waiting for the news that Mom hadn’t made it, waiting for the body they never found, waiting for Gordon to regain consciousness. His job was to protect his family, to help them when things got tough. To do things. Fix things, because he was the big brother and all his little brothers needed him to be able to make the world right again - or at least to keep it turning.

Now he had a little brother who didn’t remember that. A little brother who looked at him without a single spark of recognition but was still so painfully Virgil that he could tell everyone was upset and wanted to help them.

There were three other little brothers still looking to him, three different colours of eyes watching him with thinly veiled hope and belief that somehow, somehow, he could fix this. Big brother could make it right again. After all, there’d always been something between them, hadn’t there? That mutual understanding that went beyond comprehension but was always, always there.

Scott could feel the gaping hole where it should be. Where it was gone, and that alone had him crippled, because he’d had Virgil since he was four, almost as long as he could remember. They’d always said nothing could tear them apart. Even in his blackest days, days he’d done his damnest to block from his memories, it had been there. But this? One simple knock to the wrong part of a head, and it was gone.

“You don’t have to stay with me,” Virgil said, dragging him out of his mind and back into the room where his brother was watching him with those concerned yet sparkless eyes.

“Yes, I do,” he corrected. His voice almost managed to stay steady.

“No,” Virgil said. “You need to leave.” The voice was all Virgil, but the words... Virgil had never, ever, tried to send him away. Not like that.

“Virgil-”

“You think watching you fall apart is helping me?” his brother demanded, shocking him into silence. “I can barely remember my own name, you hovering isn’t going to change anything. You’re just hurting yourself more.”

“No-”

“Get out. Go do whatever you do to relax, and don’t come back until you don’t look like you’re about to shatter.”

Scott’s eye stung. Virgil’s voice was making noises but they were nothing he would say. His brother knew he could never relax when one of his brothers was in trouble, knew that he had to be there. Knew that sending him away would always be infinitely more painful than sitting vigil by a bed.

But he didn’t know, because he didn’t remember. Didn’t know he was tearing Scott’s heart out of his chest, one strip at a time. Thought, in Virgil’s kind way, that it would help him.

Scott couldn’t correct him, though. Because him staying was hurting Virgil, doing the absolute opposite of what he was supposed to be doing, where big brother was supposed to help, was supposed to make everything better. Scott’s job was to fix things but now he was just breaking them more.

It was the worried brown eyes that did it. Filled with pain and frustration but also worry and concern for him. Scott’s other eye stung, at the same time something salty dripped into the corner of his mouth.

“I-”

“Go.”

Brown eyes were unwavering, and Scott swallowed with an unbearably tight throat. One last moment of hesitation, one last silent plea for Virgil to change his mind, to let him stay, but he didn’t.

Scott barely made it out of the room before he broke, his knees crashing to the floor as the door shut behind him and his lungs shuddering and heaving as every breath that escaped was accompanied by a wrenching sob.

Virgil. Scott had never felt so helpless, so useless, in his life. Not only could he not fix it, but he couldn’t even reassure his brother like he normally would. No, he’d just made things worse, his presence an additional stress on the brother who was going through hell. So much so that Virgil - Virgil - had sent him away.

He didn’t know how his heart still had the space to beat, how it could keep going under the crushing pressure surrounding it. His lungs were barely functioning, air replaced by salty sobs and hiccups. Open eyes couldn’t see anything, his sight blurred beyond all comprehension. Extremities were numb, muscles were locked rigid, and there was nothing he could do.

“Scott!” Hands grasped at him, pawing and tugging in a futile attempt to get him to move.

“Scott?” Quiet, worried. Part of Scott stirred at it, recognising a little brother in distress, but it couldn’t break through the rest of him.

“Alan, go sit with Virgil. You too, Gordon.” A third voice joined in, the third and final little brother there to witness Scott’s greatest failure.

“But, Scott-”

“I’ve got him.” Strong arms wrapped around him. “You two check on Virgil.”

Hands fell away.

“Come on, Scotty.” It was John talking, voice quiet and calm and everything Scott couldn’t be. “Let’s get you off the floor.”

Scott’s limbs still weren’t responding, but John was stronger than he had any right to be with all the time he spent in space. His younger brother dragged him upright, or at least to his feet, and then down the hallway. Scott had minimal awareness of where they were going, barely able to put one foot in front of the other until there was something soft and he was sinking down onto it - into it.

John didn’t speak, but the arms didn’t leave him, holding him together so he didn’t have to. It was wrong, another failure - he couldn’t fix Virgil, and now he couldn’t even reassure his other brothers either - but John was unrelenting and so were the tears.

“I-” he choked out, not sure what he was trying to say, but needing to say something. “He- Virg-” Another wave of sobs caught him, and John pulled him closer.

“Virgil’s strong,” John said, quietly but without a hint of doubt. “Whatever happens, he’ll overcome it.” Slender fingers coaxed through his hair, somehow more grounding than the arms around him. “We’ll overcome it, Scott. All of us, together.”

He shuddered involuntarily. Together, John said, but Virgil didn’t even want him in the same room. Found that he was hurting rather than helping.

“I couldn’t- couldn’t help,” he hiccupped, a painful admittance that burned his throat. “He said-”

“You can’t help anyone when you’re a wreck yourself.” John’s voice stayed level and calm. “You know this, Scott. Take a break. Get some rest. You don’t have to do this all alone. He’s our brother, too.”

“But-”

“Rest, Scott.” John didn’t raise his voice, but the command was clear nonetheless. “You’re no good to Virgil like this.”

The words cut, but they didn’t burn like the words he’d been telling himself did. John had always had a gift with words; coming from him, they were marginally easier to swallow.

“Go to him,” he begged.

“Alan and Gordon are with him,” John reminded him. “He’s not alone.”

Scott knew that, but his heart still seized at the terror that somehow it wouldn’t be enough. “Please.”

John’s fingers stilled in his hair. “Okay,” he agreed. The hands slipped away from him and Scott found himself toppling sideways onto the same soft that he was sat on. A bed.

It shifted as weight lifted, and Scott blinked enough moisture away to see the vibrant ginger hair of his brother.

“John,” he rasped. His brother paused. “I’m sorry.” Sorry for failing. Sorry for being blind. Sorry for being so useless. “Thank you.”

“You’re not alone,” the Voice That Answers said. “Either of you.”

John left, and Scott was left staring at the wall - pale silver, not his own - as his heart tried to wriggle free of the clamp around it. John was right; John was always right. They weren’t alone. They would get through, one way or another.

The despair ebbed, just a fraction.

Just enough for him to breathe again.

#thunderbirds are go #thunderbirds are go fanfiction #tsari writes fanfiction #scott tracy #virgil tracy #john tracy #gordon tracy #alan tracy #thunderangst #drabbles #purfectpurple #forget me not

46 notes · View notes

first-and-last-neocount · 3 years

Text

Whumptober Day 4

This is it. The big one.

This is the all-devouring AU that has now eaten nearly half of my Whumptober fill ideas. It’s a scenario I’ve carried in my brain for years, and when I initially looked through the prompt list this year and decided to write for it, my brain said ‘Hey, look at that Escape prompt. You could write something for that one AU that would fit that. And this one could work as a follow-up!’ and I said yeah, sure, why not. And I listed those ideas as ‘Escape!AU’, because that was the one that sparked the idea and I figured there’d only be one or two others.

By now, the AU has absorbed close to a dozen other prompts. They’re wildly out of order, of course, because I’m writing them in order of the prompts and not how those moments happen in the story. With every additional prompt I write out, there is the chance that it will mutate before my eyes and become part of the Escape!AU with little to no input or control from myself. I feel like I invited the muse for this story into my head without realizing that it’s not a fluffy hamster, IT’S A BLOODY TRIBBLE.

That being said, I should probably have at least kinda seen it coming, because it’s a fix-it for the ending of CoS. That’s a topic that I... feel passionately about, to put it mildly. This is that other AU I mentioned yesterday, where Gerald still has extra-special Hunter powers and the Patriarch did not manage to take the fae away from everyone; please just go with it, and I’ll actually address how that happened at some point. Although the Gerald-not-actually-being-mortal isn’t really relevant in this bit, because he’s so drained from everything that’s happened that it doesn’t do anything to resolve the situation.

That’s what we have Damien for.

Opening two lines, in italics, are quoted directly from Crown of Shadows to help set where the scene splits from canon.

Day 4 - Theme Chosen: “Do you trust me?”

Damien hesitated, then looked at Gerald. The Hunter nodded ever so slightly. “He's right, Damien.” His voice was quiet but strained. “There's nothing more you can do here.”

“Gerald-”

The Hunter was already shaking his head. Damien felt his throat constrict, as if the force of his own panic and despair was physically crushing it. He knew what the next word from Gerald's mouth was going to be, knew that the adept was going to send him away, that this was how it was all going to end; blood and bitterness and revenge, all that potential for redemption wrenched away at the last second, wasted...

Do you trust me?

He'd never initiated contact through the link before – the few times they'd spoken through it, Gerald had been the one to open the connection, Damien only responding to the Hunter's questing reach. It wasn't as hard as he might have thought, though; only a matter of reaching for that ever-present sense of connection that throbbed quietly between them, touching that indefinable thread that bound them and spilling his thoughts into it, the question carried forward in a rush by the tide of fear and desperation that was sweeping through him. Damien saw the Hunter twitch slightly, grey eyes widening in surprise at the message, or at the strength of the emotions that accompanied it – but the response came immediately nonetheless, no hesitation on the other man's part.

Yes.

Damien looked back at Andrys, the young man's green eyes blazing with restless fury as he waited for the Knight to step aside, and let his whole demeanour shift. He dropped his hands from where they'd been held, conciliatory, in front of him; he let his shoulders shift up and back, his stance transforming from defensive to confident, even cocky, as he hardened his expression into a look of stern determination. He saw shock and uncertainty ripple through Andrys at just the change in his body language, and he went for the opening with ruthless speed, forcing even his voice to come out steady and unaffected.

“Fine. Since you're not buying the concerned ally angle... let me put this a little more plainly. You're ruining my plan, boy.”

“What?”

The shocked exclamation had come, in the same tone, from both Gerald and Andrys in nearly the same breath. Damien forced the tiny urge to laugh hysterically into the furthest recesses of his mind, glaring at Andrys with all the disdain he could muster.

“You know what he is, and in case it escaped your notice, I'm a priest,” he bit out, gesturing dismissively at Gerald where the adept stood half-shielded behind him, lean frame now rigid with disbelief at the scene unfolding in front of him. “You think I actually wanted to have to work with a monster to save the world? That I seriously planned to just let him walk away when all this was said and done?”

Already, there was a flash of dawning understanding in Andrys's eyes; the young man looked from Damien to Gerald and back, the blind aggression on his face giving way to realization as he put the pieces together.

“You set him up...”

“I swore, back on the day I first found out that he was the Hunter, that I'd kill him with my own two hands,” Damien growled, and felt the fae around him shimmer with the force of the truth behind those words, so obvious that surely even Andrys could see it. With his adept's Sight, Gerald certainly could – and had, judging by the sudden alarm that flickered over his face. “I've been biding my time for vulking years, fighting this damn war, putting up with his power slithering through my head – I've endured nightmares and murders and horrors beyond your comprehension, and now you're just going to waltz in and finish him off, just when I've finally got the upper hand? No. No, I don't think so.”

He could feel real trepidation bleeding through the link now, knew that he had forced just enough true resentment into his words to off-balance Gerald – and Andrys must have been able to see it in the adept's face as well, because the young man suddenly laughed, a malicious little chuckle half choked by his own heightened emotions.

“Well, that's certainly a twist,” he said, eyes gleaming as he lowered the springbolt in his hands ever so slightly, the angle of the bolt canting down just enough that it was no longer aimed at Damien's chest but more at hip height. “And, from the looks of it, one that you weren't expecting.” Those words, dripping with spite, were aimed at Gerald, who actually flinched again in response. Andrys's gaze swung back to Damien, a dark, sick hunger that reminded the former Knight all too much of Calesta stirring behind his eyes. “So, you're the priest... Jaxom told me about you. Said you'd lost your way, fallen further than even he expected.” A smirk tugged at his lips. “This makes more sense, though. You needed this bastard too much to kill him then, but of course you're angry. What was the plan? Bring him back here and walk right into the heart of the crusade, so you'd have backup?”

“Of course.” Damien forced a mirroring smirk onto his own features, and though it felt heinously wrong on his face, Andrys didn't seem to notice anything amiss with it. “I'm not an idiot – I want payback, but I know he's still powerful. I wasn't going to provoke that showdown unless I knew I had some kind of safety net.”

Andrys nodded, his eyes glittering; Damien could all but see the pieces aligning in his mind, the world finally taking a shape that meshed sensibly with the young man's own personal mania.

“I see,” he said finally, the springbolt lowering a little more – the weapon was heavy, his arms had to be tiring by now. “It was my family that he slaughtered, you know... but I understand what you're saying, as well. You had to travel with him, endure him, for the entire fight against Calesta – that can't have been easy. I won't deny you have a claim on his head, but I think you must see my point of view as well...”

Damien barely heard his words. His eyes were on the springbolt, watching the nose dip further and further – until, as Andrys rambled on about the weight of their differing claims and his own suffering in having to work with Calesta to put an end to the Hunter, the trajectory of the bolt fell so far that it was aimed at the very ground.

Now!

Damien shoved the word through the link at the same time that he moved, lunging forward with every ounce of speed his tense muscles could offer. He left his reservations behind him, the conflict that had raged through him for so long suddenly silenced, irrelevant; as it had that night in Morgot when Hesseth's tidal Working had hit them, his innate drive to defend those he cared for subsumed everything else, every other voice in his head drowning under the overwhelming instinct to protect.

Andrys was wearing too much armour to try any more delicate method of incapacitating him, so Damien fell back on the basics; closing the distance between them with that desperate lunge, he brought his arm back and punched Andrys in the jaw with all the force he could muster. Even in his exhausted state, his speed and strength were forces to be reckoned with. Andrys had tried to react to Damien's sudden attack, jerking the springbolt back up and getting off a single shot, but Gerald had taken Damien's cue to throw himself to the side out of Andrys's line of attack; the bolt fired at a useless angle, flying low across the room to bury itself in the far wall near the floor. Then, Damien's blow connected.

Damien wasn't just well-trained in combat; as a Healer, he knew exactly how to do the most damage to the human body when he needed to. The gorget of the armour was protecting Andrys's throat too well for a jab to connect, but the sideways force of a blow could be an effective method of knocking an opponent out as well, if the attacker had aimed correctly. Damien had thrown the punch from as much of a sideways angle as he could manage, his fist coming in from the side with terrifying force; as it connected, Andrys's head snapped hard to the side, and the young man crumpled to the ground like a marionette with cut strings, knocked instantly unconscious by the force of his own brain being slammed against the inside of his skull.

The crash of his armoured form hitting the floor was followed by utter silence, broken only by Damien's own heavy breathing. He stared down at the young man, heart pounding with delayed adrenaline, feeling a wave of numbness slowly wash through him and replace the panic that had driven him to action.

God, forgive me... is this what I've become? Is this what You wanted when you brought us together, or have I truly lost myself so badly?

“Damien?”

The soft utterance of his name snapped Damien out of his trance, and he turned, shaking off the fog. Gerald had closed the distance between them in his moment of distraction and was now standing only a couple feet away, staring at Damien as if he'd never seen the Knight before, grey eyes wide. He didn't say anything else aloud, but he didn't need to; the link between them was saturated with emotion. Shock, wonder, gratitude, a fading echo of wariness...

And something else. Something so strong, so deeply felt, that it took Damien's breath away all over again. A sense of devotion, almost akin to his own fierce faith in God yet so much more personal, flooding through the link between their souls. A dizzying awareness that a line had been crossed, and a promise made: not with words, but with actions, unable to be taken back or misinterpreted. Gerald was wholly aware of what Damien had just declared, by stepping between himself and his descendant, by striking out at Andrys in defence of the Hunter – and he was returning the sentiment tenfold.

There would be time to put it all into words later. Damien took a deep breath, finally feeling the ground firm beneath his feet once more, his world steadying from where it had tilted on its axis in the moment he thought that Gerald was going to die.

“Time to grab what we came for and get the Hell out of here,” he said, mouth dry. “I'd say we're pretty definitively out of time.”

As Gerald nodded and turned to find the books they'd risked so much for, Damien moved to help, marveling at the way the link remained open and resonating between them, emotions flowing freely back and forth – and wondering what it meant for the state of his immortal soul that none of those emotions, from either end of the link, was anything like regret.

#whumptober2021 #no.4 #Do You Trust Me?#coldfire trilogy #fic #evil is what you make of it #gerald tarrant #damien vryce #the neocount writes

6 notes · View notes

fatewills · 2 years

Text

𝐈𝐓 𝐑𝐄𝐄𝐊𝐒 . . of sulfur and brimstone .

𝐈𝐓 𝐒𝐂𝐎𝐑𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐒 . . bares through skin as the flames of her sins engulf her . smother her .

why can't i -

wake up .

why can't i -

it's time to wake , now .

why can't i breathe ?

𝐅𝐈𝐑𝐒𝐓 , came the ringing . pitched like shattered bells piercing throughout her lobe . she can feel it , reverberating along her throat as it contracts . a grip bound along thin and slender neck , she finds herself gasping ; her lungs begin to expand , they shutter . foreign air so forbidden , filling within the once collapsed organ . new life soon lifts barriers , and life flows through her blood as ravaging as the river . plush , parched lips divide to inhale , violent and desperate as it takes it in , in , in . lapping away as the taste of iron and metallic settles on the back of her tongue . nauseating . repulsive . she can't , the muscles within her convulsing , pressing her down within the make - shift coffin crafted for her corpse . voices find their way within the ringing , cutting through the fog that harbors in her mind and festers . the fluids from within the carbonite dislodges , forming waves that exhume from the corner of her mouth - foaming . up her airwaves and down her chin and cheeks . her head is lifted to allow it to pearl down her bare chest .

𝐒𝐄𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐃 , came the screaming . as soul - curdling as despair personified into a human form . it is mixed with the sputtering of fluids , gagging and writhing . she is a babe , borne again from the womb of an unknown mother . hands with permanently curled digits extend out to find the mother for which birthed her , limbs soon curling into a fetal position . the air is frozen against exposed skin , twitching and shivering to protect herself from the world around her . was this how infants felt , desperately snatching for the voice that once guided them ? she finds no voice to guide her , only the deafening silence she has been subdued to . the silence she believed the heavens to be . her screams broke dry , cracking against newly - filled lungs as she found herself suffocating once again , head tossed back to swallow air .

𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐑𝐃 , came the feeling . darkness engulfing , no shred of light seemingly making its way through the cracks . it faded out like the dispersing of fog . hands reach for her , a gentle brush , and she feels her body snatching from it . kicking , clawing - muscles weak and soon collapsing back down onto the carbonite . it feels violating , exposure revealing vulgarity , revealing weakness . more reach to lift her , yet she strikes . was this truly her life after death ? now shadows lingering over blurred vision . she wanted to go back - go back into the darkness , into the fate she had been dealt . had she not been kind ? had she not been merciful ? the actions of her deeds awakening her within hell . within nothing . within everything . within shame .

shivering palms reach , crawling up the familiarity of her body , to her stomach . she remembers now , yes . the twins , her children . always so playful within the shelter of her womb . she needed to feel them , she needed to -

there was nothing , hand running over flattened surface .

again , she tried . over and over she tried as though she could not believe herself .

do you remember . . do you remember the feeling . . of him . . choking you ?

" where are they ? " she squeaked , voice shattered and weakened in soft yet dry whispers . " where are they ? " her life , her blood . everything she had wanted . to give them the peace she hoped to find , the life she hoped to give them .

" my babies - b-babies . . where . . ? " nails begin to claw , savagely , as though she could peel back the layers of flesh and feel them nestled together deep within . those same hands rush to pin her arms back , the warmth of blood pearling down her stomach . marks in clusters along her abdomen .

did . . they . .

" please - pl-please tell me . . where . . " the tears fell thick down her cheeks , clouding already obstructed vision . " my babies ! where are my babies ? ! "

padme wept in death harder than she had in life .

please , send me back to the darkness . please , let me die .

#‧͙⁺˚*･༓☾ ❬ 𝐃𝐑𝐀𝐁𝐁𝐋𝐄 ❭ 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐘'𝐑𝐄 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐒 - 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐘 𝐀𝐑𝐄 𝐌𝐘 𝐎𝐖𝐍 .#AU perspective of padme waking up in carbonite #tw : blood #tw : mentions of nudity #tw : child loss #tw : convulsions #listen i love to hurt my own feelings in my writing - so here is a small taste.#‧͙⁺˚*･༓☾ ❬ 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐂𝐀𝐍𝐎𝐍 ❭ 𝐈 𝐆𝐀𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐌𝐘𝐒𝐄𝐋𝐅 𝐀𝐑𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐃 𝐌𝐘 𝐅𝐀𝐈𝐓𝐇 .

6 notes · View notes

sweater-daddiesdumbdork · 4 years

Text

Needs

Summary- Ransom x You. You can feel yourself spiraling out of control, and Ransom sets you straight. Warnings- Dominance, degradation. NSFW

Word Count-2.7 k

Most days your fine, normal, able to laugh, smile, tease your boyfriend, put up with his attitude and general snarkiness in strides. It all worked, you were happy and in love with the bastard.

But once in a while, you would slip into a place hard to describe. It would start with a moment of distance. Ransom would be venting about something, usually his family. They were the primary source of his frustration although he leaned heavily on Harlans financial support. Then he would pause, his eyes snapping over you as you seemed not there. “Whats wrong with you?” a bit of snark lacing his voice, and you would just smile a bit and come back to focus on him. “Nothing, Im fine. So Walt really said that?”

He would look doubtful, but wouldnt comment anymore on your strange behavior for the time being.

And that would be the start of your despair. It would start to consume you till it traveled into your chest, aching, heavy. Your body to would start to loose interest in touches and affection, pulling away when he would reach for you during the night. It was nothing Ransom done, and he would ask you once more “Whats wrong Y/N?” Leaning over you in the dark, but you had no real answer. You could feel him withdraw, leaning to sit up against the headboard, the tension brewing.

Then the day came you couldnt handle it anymore. Your skin was crawling, and no amount of distractions would help. Your mind buzzed incessantly with nothingness and everything. You needed it to shut the fuck up. When you heard Ransom coming up the steps and the door click, you fell to your knees with a bowed head, waiting for him to enter. Once he did, you head his audible sharp intake of breath. Please fix me, I need you. Silently you plead while not moving an inch.

Ransom admired you, he knew this was coming. Recognizing that dark little demon that had made its home in you for a lifetime, it matched well with his own. He approached you, his hand gentle at first along your jaw, his thumb brushing over the softness of your cheeks, this little soft hairs near your hairline, going to cling at his hand. But softness is to much, not want you need, and hes well aware.

The touch swiftly changed, going from caring to bruising as he grabbed your chin, fingers digging right into the fleshy part of your cheeks and tipping your head up so he could study you, and when your eyes met his, he snarled out “Did I tell the whore she could look at me?” Immediately your gaze dropped, his hand went to his pants, snapping open the button and unzipping the fly. Taking himself out, a few pumps around his erection made him stiff. Fingers digging in enough to pop your jaw to open. “Dont you dare loose a single drop slut.” He continued harshly, and you nodded, your words slurred from the grip he still had on you. “May I use my hands Sir?”

“Hands behind your back, your taking all of it” Ransom let go and fisted his hands in your hair, to hold you in place, the head of his cock slipping around your mouth and the tip of your tongue slides out to trace the head, flicking over his sit to and then he dominated your mouth, choking around him. “See, I knew you didnt need to use your hands, such a good little whore.” You do your best, your hands folding behind you, fingers locking together to keep from pressing them against his thighs to slow his thrusts down. Finally you match his thrusts, your tongue sloppily curling around his length, your cheeks hollowing as you suck on him. Heavy as he slams into the back of your throat, over you his grunts make you squirm, trying your best not to look up to see his expression.

Soon your gagging, messy between drool and tears brimming from your eyes when he looks down at you, drenching his cock and balls sloppinly when he pulls you closer, the spiral of heat snapping his gut as his cum shot the back of your throat, your eyes rolling up finally as you whimpered, doing your best to take it as he had told you to, brimming on the edge of your lips when he finally pulled from you and tucked himself back away. The tip of your tongue traces your lips to clean up quickly, slouching slightly even though his hand still is twisted roughly in your hair, it stings with a hiss as he jerks you enough to lift you to your feet.

“Dont forget, I own you little slut. Now get undressed and on the bed now. Do you understand me?” His head tilted as he stared you down, loosening his hold when you again dropped your gaze, Ransom dared you to defy him, but you knew better. “Yes Sir…”

“Go” he wrenched his hand away, and you were quick to escape to the bedroom while he went off to the kitchen. Tugging away your clothes and putting them into a pile, you folded them carefully and set them on the floor, on your side of the bed and crawled into the center, again taking a similar kneeling pose as before. When Ransom came back into the room, a tumbler of whisky in hand. Seeing you so patient, he was quick to finish it off, setting the tumbler aside on the nightstand “My little whore, so patiently waiting for me after being so good earlier. Its not going to save you though.” He promised as he placed a kiss on your lips, drawing out your tongue and slipping over your teeth, dragging your lips into a bite.

“Face down in those pillows, ass up high. Spread those thighs till I can see your pussy.”

You were quick to oblige, hearing him behind you rummaging through his chest drawers. You knew your ass was about to burn, but from what? You didnt have to wait to long when you felt the dip of the bed behind you, a glance over your shoulder showed that he had undressed as well. A sharp sting of his hand against your ass was issued when you looked back, growling out. “I said face down in the pillows.” You should have known better. His fingers traced the red handprint he left, admiring the way your back curved down, and you displayed yourself just for him, his fingers slipping between slickened folds.” Did eating my cock make you this wet, or have you been a needy little slut well before I came home?” spreading your slickness over your folds, around your clit. A slight pinch to your nerves made you yelp into the pillow “Answer me, I know you havent forgotten how to talk”

“From sucking you off Sir.” You imagined the satisfied smirk behind you playing across his face. Thats when you heard the whir of a vibrator, and he ran it along the back of your thighs, slipping to the inside of them. Ransom was always adding new toys to your collection, but he knew this happened to be a favorite of yours, making you come undone at the seams, but it was a two edged sword. He would bring it so close, making you bite your lip at the anticipation. A frustrated groan would fall from you, and his sharp laughter would come from behind you. “What, little slut cant wait to get what she wants?”

You knew better then to answer him, he was waiting for it though, letting the vibrator hover close to your aching pussy, but not giving it to you. Your ass sways, and that gets a sharp broad slap of a paddle, pushing you forward into the pillows. Right after that, Ransom slid the vibrator against your core, making the sting burn in all the best ways. The warmth of it traveled up your spine, and you arched further, crushing your chest into the mattress, and your back bending in a sharp curve. The vibes from the toy left you squirming slightly now, dripping mess. Ransoms hand replaced the paddle, digging his fingers into your ass cheek, pushing it up and jerking your hips back against him as you tried to pull away from the overload of sensations the vibrator rattling your core. “Oh no my little Slut, theres no getting away from it.” He leaned over and gave a sharp bite to your cheek.

You start whining into the pillows, fisting your hands into your designer sheets he insisted on having, panting as he upped the speed of the vibrator, your toes locking and legs half lifting off the bed. “Ransom, oh fuck.” Your pushing yourself back against the vibrator to dig into your pussy, harder, your eyes are rolling back in your head and taunt like your about to snap. The tension is hurting your muscles that cant loosen, they are about to break, and he pushed that vibrator up another speed, causing you to crash without permission. Your scream still sharp in the pillows and you try to drag any kind of air into your lungs, but the pillows are suffocating. Ransom turns off the vibrator and tosses it away.

Leaning over you as your still struggling to lift your head in these seconds, his frame leans over you and he fists his hand back in your hair, lifting your head to hear you drag in a gasp of air finally. “Fuck little whore, you came without permission.” He hissed against your neck, biting at your cheek, and down onto your neck, ripping his hand away for you to drop into the pillows. His hands curved around your hips and jerked them into where he wanted you. You shift to your elbows, or attempt to, but his hand wraps on the back of your neck, shoving you back into the pillows, twisting your head enough so you werent smothered. The thick head of his cock pushed against your entrance.

it was a hard snap, his thick cock felt like it was splitting you open, and there was no moment to adjust. Quick snaps of his hips slapping against the back of your thighs and ass, the tight hold of his hold on the back of your neck keeping you in place, but jerking you into the mattress beneath you. His feet locked behind your ankles to keep you legs spread and in place. There was no escaping him, driving himself deeper into you, was there anyplace he wasnt? It was as if he was rearranging your insides.

“Fuck Y/N” the first time since you two started he used your name, his slaps behind you bruising. He released his hold to slid under your chin, snapping your head up, and his fingers filled your mouth, unable to muffle the whines and cries now, his chest burned against your back, his teeth and mouth laying claim to your neck and shoulder, it wasnt kisses, it was inhalation of skin. firm sharp bites digging in, pulling sucking remarks of how good a fuck you were pressed into your ear as he bit your lobe, and all you could do was hold on best you could, your hands ripping into the sheets. Your channel clenching around his cock, but that didnt slow him any, and he ripped another screaming orgasm from you.

Shaking uncontrolled, you are sure hes ready to end you. But he pulls out and with a grasp to your hips, he whips you onto your back and jerks you down the bed till your perfectly flat. “No Ransom Im done” You claim, and he wraps your legs around your hips, catching the first glimpse you have had of him, his hair is disheveled in a flop over his eyes, and the tops of his cheeks are flushed red, his chest heaving slightly in exertion. He pops his hand against your breast, pulling the nipple with a sharpness that has you arching from it with a cry. “You dont look done to me, your not dripping my cum from that sweet little hole of yours. Were done when I say were done Slut.”

He was right, you reach to touch him, but his hand catches your wrists and slams them down above your head as he fills you again. “And your sweet pussy is just taking me so well. Going to leave you full of my cum. Cant let you forget who owns you.” Ransom grasped your breast, pulling and twisting till you were arching for more, or to try to break his hold, your not sure. It was a border line or pleasure and pain. He replaced it with his mouth, hot tongue and sharp bites holting you from his mouth with his hard thrusts, your hips rolling to meet him. Your fingers twisted in his hold, and head falling back as all of it, the sensations were becoming an overwhelming mess , and you snapped, coming again, your orgasm ripping you apart at the seams. Screaming his name and he lifted his head from where he was biting and kissing your breasts. Your tears streaming down your face, and there it was, finally.

Ransom had gotten you were you needed to be, that hard dominating look softened and shifted enough to cup the back of your head, and kissed you deeply, grunting against your lips as he chased his own orgasm, his hips rutting out of sync now and burying himself as he filled you, just as he promised he would. A few unsteady rolls of his hips spread his cum through you, and you just cried at all of it, his arms wrapping around you and rolling enough so that you laid against his chest, rubbing your back deeply and speaking softly as you cried against his neck. “Now thats my good girl, I got you its okay. So good to me, I love how well you took all that.” His hands would brush through your hair and everywhere was gentle touches, caresses bringing you back to him.

Soft kisses rove over the bite marks he had left of your neck and shoulder. You ache, you can feel how hes still buried in you, but soft now. Everything is about bringing you back down. Finally you lift your face and look up at him. “Can I have a bath?”

“Of course, let me just go set it up.” He moved you to curl up next to him and he slid from the bed, and into the bathroom. Ransom was alot of things, but these moments, you wouldnt know that he could be a spoiled trust fund brat. Everything was about taking care of you. All the way from drawing a bath, to easing you into the tub, he sat behind you and did things such as wash your back and took his time with your hair, sure to use your favorite washes. He even toweled dried you and brought you back to bed. “Hows take out sound tonight?”

“Yea that sounds really good” You started to perk up as you sat at the headboard of the bed, and he winked pulling out his phone. He knew your order, and he left the room to make the call. You wait, stretching yourself out, and once he returns, he fell down on the bed next to you, grabbing the remotes, flipping through the channels on the wide screen tv hanging across the room. It was an easy silence between you two when he settled it on a movie you two had seen many times before. Ransom was sitting against the headboard, your head laying on his stomach as you lay crossways across the bed. His fingers trailed slowly through your hair, the tv softly muffled and the only glow in the room.

After several minutes, he spoke, his voice catching your attention. “Are you feeling better now Y/N?” You twist so that your able to look up at him, laying on your back, still pillowed on his stomach.

“Yes thank you Ransom”

“Anytime Sweetheart, you know I love you, but next time tell me before it gets that bad.”

@what-is-your-plan-today @official-and-unstable-satan @jtargaryen18 @p8tn0lish @imanuglywombat

#ransom be my mean daddy any day #ransom drysdale #ransom thrombey x reader #ransom drysdale x you #knives out

544 notes · View notes