#matters to him. hes like 'ive killed the part of me that feels anything but anger towards Van Eck and Rollins. i dont love anyone. | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

liliacamethyst · 10 months

Text

Webs of Fate - Miguel O'Hara (Part II)

Sequel to Web of Secrets

Miguel O'Hara x SpiderSun Reader

words: 5.2K

warnings: secret pregnancy trope, swearing, angst, heartbreak, grumpy/sunshine, smut, time jumps, not really comic accurate (canon events), semi public piv, 18+

Part I Part II Part III Part IV

You are all back at the Spider-Verse Headquarters and the atmosphere is tense. Everyone is still high on adrenaline from the mission. You’re nursing a deep gash on your arm but your spirit is far from broken.

Miguel, however, seems to be on the verge of an explosion.

“WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT OUT THERE SPIDER SUN?” he bursts out, his voice echoing through the HQ.

You're taken aback. “What do you mean?”

“That reckless behavior! You could have been killed!” he roars. “Why didn’t you retreat when you were injured?!”

“Because there were lives at stake! I can handle myself, Miguel!” you shout back.

“You think this is a game?! You think being part of this team is just for kicks?” Miguel’s face is red, his voice strained.

“Don’t you dare! Don’t you dare question my dedication!” you yell, your own anger now matching his.

The team is watching, shifting uncomfortably. Gwen looks at Jess, who shakes her head. The room is thick with tension.

Alright, if you are being honest with yourself, your recent actions in the field could definitely be classified as reckless. Perhaps even bordering on idiotic - not that you’d ever confess that in front of Miguel. You didn’t know where your mind went. Wait, no, scratch that. You knew precisely where your thoughts were, every mission since you discovered your pregnancy has been like this; your spider senses dulled, focus scattered to the wind, and reflexes that would’ve made a sloth proud.

And then there was this mission – your first one in quite a while alongside Miguel. He was bound to notice.

So you were fighting an Electro variant from an alternate universe, alongside Jess, Gwen, Ben and Miguel. The electric villain was throwing bolts of energy left and right and everyone was giving their all. You noticed a civilian trapped under some debris. You made a beeline for them, not thinking about anything else.

As you lifted the debris, an energy bolt flew straight for you. Usually, your Spider-Senses would have alerted you but not today. It hit you square in the back and sent you flying.

You hit a wall but ignored the pain as you scrambled back to your feet. A sharp ache spread across your arm but you gritted your teeth and kept fighting.

Miguel yelled, “What the hell are you doing?! Fall back!”

But you didn’t, you kept pushing forward.

He landed next to you, his eyes filled with anger and something else, maybe a hint of worry. He grabbed your waist to pull you back. But as another energy bolt was coming your way, you shoved him out of the path, taking the hit for the second time. So yeah, you could say that this mission wasn't exactly the shining star in your superhero career.

“ESTÚPIDA! So damn stupid. I won’t fucking watch someone throw their life away recklessly!” Miguel was now yelling loudly in oyur face for everyone in the HQ to hear.

“Oh, please. What’s it to you? Since when do you care, Miguel?!” you shout back, finally having enough of his insufferable attitude. “All this time, you’ve treated me like I’m dispensable. Like I don't matter! Well, guess what? I can fight, I can make decisions, and I don’t need you to approve them!”

“Don’t!” Miguel's voice cracks, and for a brief second, there’s a look of hurt on his face that surprises you. But his rage quickly replaces it. “I cannot do this anymore with you, ¿me entiendes?” he yells.

The room falls silent. Everyone’s gazes dart between you and Miguel. You can feel Gwen’s worried eyes on you, and Ben Riley. looks like he wants to intervene, but this moment is too charged.

You take a deep breath, tears welling up. “I can't do this anymore either,” you whisper.

“What?” Miguel's voice is barely audible.

“I can't keep fighting for a team where I’m not respected or trusted. Where you treat me constantly like a liability, like I am worth nothing to you,” you say, your voice steadier now.

“You don’t know what you are saying,” Miguel says, his tone slightly softening.

You turn around, your eyes welling up once again and open a portal to your universe. “I do, I quit” you say, your voice breaking.

You reach into your pocket and pull out your transdimensional gizmo, the small device that every Spider-person uses to travel across the multiverse. It's an intricate piece of technology, a blend of science and magic that fits in the palm of your hand.

You toss the device on the table in front of Miguel. It skids across the surface before coming to a stop right in front of him. He looks from the gizmo to you, his expression unreadable.

"Take it. We don’t need it anymore." You say defiantly, meeting his gaze.

Everyone knows the implication of you returning the gizmo. Without it, you're effectively stranded in your universe, unable to return to the society. This isn't a decision made lightly, it's a point of no return.

As you step through the portal, you glance back one last time. You see Miguel’s face, contorted in pain, but he doesn’t move, he doesn’t speak and he doesn't stop you.

Your heart is breaking, but you can’t stay here. Not when it’s this painful.

You turn away and head toward the portal room, with one hand lightly grazing your tummy. Gwen calls your name, but you don’t stop.

In the dim light of the room, the world seems to fade away as you lie there with Miguel on top of you. You are under him, breathless, your fingers running through his hair. His body pins you down in a tender, electrifying way, and you can feel the rhythm of his heart beating against yours.

His fangs graze the curve of your neck lightly, eliciting a shiver that runs through you. In response, he nuzzles into you, his breath warm against your skin.

"Ever think about what we're doing?" he asks in a whisper that vibrates against your neck.

"Constantly," you respond, your fingers tracing the curve of his broad shoulders, "but I don’t regret it, not a moment.”

He lifts his head, his red orbs searching yours. “Neither do I,” he says, his voice barely more than a whisper. His hand reaches up to trace the contour of your face.

"You know," you whisper, your hands continuing caressing his back, "I always wondered what it was like in your universe, in your time."

He shifts a little, propping himself up on one elbow as he looks down at you. His eyes, usually as unreadable, now seem to crack open; emotions swirl within them like stars.

"It was great, you know," his voice is gentle, each word enveloping you. "No, more than that – it was perfect," he corrects himself. His eyes never leave yours as he continues, "I had my Gabriella. Ah, you would have adored her." His voice softens to a mere whisper as if speaking her name too loudly might shatter the memory. "She was this incredible burst of life just like you. My own little sunshine. I didn’t know my heart could hold so much until she came into my life."

"The way she would throw her head back and laugh, it was like music. Her tiny hands – so soft and gentle. I remember how one of them always found mine, and the world felt... right." He continued, "I was never alone, never empty." He swallows hard, as if trying to keep the flood of emotions from washing over him.

You cup his cheek gently, smiling up at him. "You don't have to be alone, you know?"

He lets out a dry chuckle. “Sometimes it feels like there's no other option. It’s my fate."

“What scares you the most, Miguel?” you suddenly ask, your voice barely above a whisper.

He hesitates. “To lose myself… to forget what it means to care for someone,” he finally confesses.

“You won’t,” you assure him, your thumb stroking his cheek. “Not if you don’t let yourself.”

“¿y tú?” His voice is husky. “What’s your biggest fear?”

“To be forgotten,” you whisper.

He lowers himself and presses his forehead against yours. “Imposible,” he breathes. “You’re the sun. No one forgets the sun.” He pulls you closer, pressing a soft kiss to your lips, his arms tighten around you, pulling you closer until the world outside disappears.

Suddenly, his wrist console beeps, yanking him back to the present. "O’Hara, are you okay?" Lyla's voice echoes in the room, breaking the silence. He blinks, his gaze focusing on the holographic screen displaying the mission details in front of him. "Yeah, Lyla," he responds, his voice a bit hoarse. "Just remembered something," he murmurs, and refocuses on the screen before him.

Amidst the sea of codes and numbers, Miguel finds himself struggling to focus. His thoughts still are consumed by you, and a heavy realization crashes down upon him like a tidal wave - he’s lost you forever.

He always knew that this was how it was meant to be. This was the only logical conclusion, the inevitable outcome that he had tried so hard to deny. He was aware of the potential repercussions, the cosmic imbalance that could be brought about by your intertwining fates.

Lyla had warned him multiple times, cautioned him against letting you close. But how could he have possibly resisted you? You, who shone brighter than the sun, who captured the hearts of everyone around with your aura and your kind soul. Your beauty was unparalleled, and your laughter had the power to fill a room, casting away shadows. He was a moth drawn to your flame, hopelessly captivated from the very first day he met you.

But you were never meant to be his story, not the path his life was meant to tread. You belonged to another world, another universe.

"You're thinking about her, aren't you?" Lyla breaks the silence with her smooth, computerized voice. “No,” he interrupts her sharply, his voice a little too forceful.

But Lyla isn't easily deterred. "You know it was dangerous from the beginning, Miguel," Lyla continues. "Engaging with her like that...it could have caused irreparable damage to the multiverse."

"I know," he replies curtly.

Unyielding, Lyla continues, "This was never supposed to be a canon event. Her universe is not meant to mix with yours. It's fortunate that she left when she did. The damage could've been—"

“I KNOW!” Miguel suddenly erupts, his voice thundering through the room. He screams, his frustration boiling over, "¡Ya lo sé, Lyla! ¡Basta ya!" ("I already know, Lyla! Enough already!") With a loud grunt, he sweeps his arm across his desk, sending his keyboard, mug, and various other items crashing to the ground.

There is a deafening silence as Miguel breathes heavily, his chest heaving. His eyes are wide, his face is flushed and his fangs are bared. He never loses control, not like this.

Lyla, for once, remains silent.

3 months later…

Back in Nea Yorkey, Earth 586 , you are perched on the rooftop, absentmindedly rubbing your stomach. Time has passed since you left Nueva York and Miguel, but your feelings for him are still a tangled mess. Damn these pesky pregnancy hormones.

For once, it’s pretty calm out there. No honking horns in traffic jams or the usual buzz of people everywhere. It’s like the city hit the pause button and honestly, it’s kind of nice. The streetlights are like tiny fairy lights all over, and the tall buildings around you feel like they’re keeping you company.

The cool breeze brushes against your face, and you can't help but be lost in your thoughts. Thoughts of him. The relentless flood of emotions is almost too much to handle.

The flashback hits you hard, placing you right back in Miguel's office late one evening. Your legs were wrapped around his waist, your backside planted firmly on his desk amidst strewn cables and metallic pieces and half-empty coffee mugs.

"Miguel, someone will catch us," you had warned, your breath hitching as he nipped at your skin, his hands deftly moving to undo your skintight suit. His hair was a little longer then, the ends tickling your forehead as he kissed you.

He had just chuckled, the sound deep and throaty, making your heart flutter. "They know better than to disturb me," he'd responded confidently, his lips trailing fiery kisses along your jawline.

Usually, Miguel was cautious about showing any sign of affection when others might be around, even if 'around' meant anywhere in the sprawling headquarters of the Spider Society. Yet, that night, he seemed to throw caution to the wind.

In his enclosed office, late into the evening, he let his guard down - a rarity. His lips were insistent against your skin, his touch setting you alight. You remember how the soft glow of the desk lamp had caught in his eyes, making them appear even more mesmerizing.

As he was holding your ass up steady and pounding into you, in a pace and fervor you never experienced before, you hear his communicator ring vibrating. You instinctively attempt to pull away, assuming he would answer the call, but he holds you tighter, his lips never leaving your skin.

His free hand pulls up a holographic screen,which flickered to life above the desk, revealing a slightly pixelated image of Jess. You panic for a moment, worried that she might see you in this intimate moment with Miguel, but he just shook his head slightly, reassuring you that she can't. He must have filtered the video feed on his end.

“Yes, Jess?” Miguel’s voice was steady, but his breath ghosted your neck in short spurts. He continued with his action, his thrusts a little slower but deep, nevertheless. You clamp your teeth down onto Miguel's shoulder in a desperate attempt to stifle the moans escaping your throat, your senses overwhelmed by the intensity of the moment. You can barely contain yourself. Miguel's soft, amused chuckle vibrate through you as he wraps his arms around you protectively. Asshole.

“We’ve got an anomaly on Earth-4067, seems like a temporal rift,” Jess's voice came through the hologram.

“Have you tried the Q-particle stabilizer?” Miguel asks, his voice so casual it's almost disarming. His eyes meet yours, a playful glint in them.

“Yeah, but it didn’t work. The rift is actually growing,” Jess responds, the worry in her voice increasing. “What do you think we should do?”

“Alright, I want you to reconfigure the dimensional frequency to match the rift. Then patch the satellite feed through the Alchemax algorithm, reverse the temporal frequency by 4.7 hertz and use the resonance pulse to stabilize the rift,” Miguel articulates with authority as he continues to pick up his pace. You’re close to the edge, with the euphoria threatening to make you cry out. The sheer pleasure is now tinged with a faint edge of pain, and a wave of panic crashes over you. The thought of Jess possibly hearing you is nerve-wracking, and you’re now fighting to suppress your screams.

Your breathing becomes erratic as you whisper in a hoarse, needy voice, “Miguel, ‘m close."

"I know, mami. Come for me," he whispers back, his voice filled with a playful mischief that seems to defy the gravity of the situation. His hot breath against your ear sends shivers down your spine and the wave of pleasure crushes down on you.

“Miguel, are you sure about this? I mean, if something goes wrong…” Jess hesitates.

“I’m sure, Jess.” Thrust. “Do.” Another hard thrust. “it.” Miguel’s voice turns forceful.

“Okay, I trust you. But... are you alright? You sound kinda breathless,” Jess's suspicion returns.

“Oh, just...uh...running some diagnostics. It’s a bit stuffy in here,” Miguel replies with a smirk on his face, his fingers now gently brushing against your bare heated skin.

The rooftop is silent again, and you're still rubbing your belly, where the life you and Miguel created is growing. A bittersweet tear rolls down your cheek as you wish, not for the first time, that things could have been different.

You don’t know how long you are sitting there, taking in the city scene. But it was getting dark, when a familiar figure swings onto the rooftop. It's Gwen, carrying a small package in her hand. “Gwen? What brings you to Nea Yorkey?”

She walks up to you with a soft smile, "Do I need a reason to visit my favourite Spider-Ma? I've got something for you."

You raise an eyebrow as she hands you the package. As you unwrap it, you find a tiny Spider-Man hat, similar to the one Mayday usually wears. And to your surprise, there’s a tiny anarchy pin, attached to it.

"From the group," she says softly. She adds, pointing at the pin, "This bit here, that’s from Hobie." Of course it is.

You’re moved to tears as you hug the hat close. It's a simple gift, yet it means so much. You feel a lump in your throat, and Gwen steps forward, wrapping you in a warm, comforting hug.

"I...I miss all of you so much," you manage to whisper, your voice choked with emotion.

"We miss you too," Gwen replies, her voice equally soft.

You pull back, wiping your eyes. Gwen tries to lighten the mood, "So, any guesses on the gender? I bet it’s a boy."

You shrug, a small smile tugging at your lips, "I don't care what it's going to be. I just want them to be healthy."

Gwen grins, "Just remember, if it is a boy and he turns out to be a handful, you owe me a soda."

You both sit on the edge of the rooftop in a comfortable silence, legs swinging over the city, the conversation turns more serious.

"So," you venture, "how are things back at the Spider Society?"

Gwen’s expression turns contemplative. "It's been... strange since you left," she admits.

"Strange how?" you prod.

"Well, you know how Miguel was always a little on the, uh, grumpy side?" she says, making a grimace.

"You mean being a brooding fortress of doom and gloom?" you quip, and Gwen chuckles.

"Yeah, that. Well, he's gotten worse since you left. Like, way worse," Gwen's face turns somber as she continues. "He’s even more closed off than before. His temper’s shorter, he barely communicates, and he's been pushing everyone away. Miguel’s basically got everyone on lockdown. No unauthorized visits between universes. There’s this... I don’t know... this cloud hanging over him, you know?”

Your heart tightens as you take in her words. You had no idea that your departure had such an impact on him, or anyone for that matter.

“He doesn’t talk about it, but I think he misses you,” Gwen adds, looking directly into your eyes.

You are torn. Part of you wants to be angry at Miguel for how things went down, but another part aches for him.

Gwen nudges you. "Maybe he needs his sunshine back," she says with a gentle smile.

You sit in silence for a moment, the weight of Gwen’s words sinking in. “Don’t be silly. I was never his sunshine.”

4 months later…

Beneath the pale glow of hospital lights, pain and joy mingle in the delivery room. The grip you have on the sheets gets tighter as you push to usher your baby into the world. Your hair is sticking to your forehead, your breath comes in heaving gasps, exhaustion painting dark circles under your eyes.

Meanwhile, unbeknownst to you, a portal flickers to life outside your window, and Gwen, Peter B., and Hobie emerge.

“Make way! The party has arrived!” Peter B. exclaims loudly.

“I don’t believe in parties.” Hobie says as he struts in, clad in his Spider suit with a leather jacket over it, pins and patches proudly displayed.

Gwen knocks at your door. The midwife, busy with you in the labor, answers.

“Uh, who are you?” the midwife asks, slightly agitated.

“We’re friends of hers,” Peter gestures towards you, “is it a good time?”

You hear their voices, but you cant muster up a response all you can do is scream and push.

“Blimey, I didn’t think it’d be like somethin’ outta Alien! You alright there, love?” Hobie’s eyes go wide, as he enters the room.

You can't help but laugh through the pain, "Oh, just peachy, thanks for asking."

Gwen steps forward, immediately grabbing your hand, her voice soothing, “Hey, you’re doing great. Is there anything we can do?”

“You could get Hobie out of here,” you jest, rolling your eyes, but your smile betrays your appreciation. Another loud scream follows.

“You got this, luv!” Hobie shouts. “Just imagine the bloody contractions as guitar riffs! You’re about to release the raddest album in history!”

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, you hear the cries of your newborn baby.

“Congratulations, it's a boy!” the nurse announces, handing the baby to to you.

You can’t help but laugh. Gwen steps closer to the bed and takes a peek at the baby. Her eyes light up. “Told you, it’s a boy. He’s absolutely beautiful,” she whispers.

Hobie chimes in. “Alright, let’s get a proper look at the little bloke!” He leans in, and his face softens. "Oh, look at 'im!" Hobie exclaims in his thick British accent, peering at him. "Little blighter's a spitting image of 'is mum, ain't he?” No. You see it then, the dark eyes with a hint of red glow echo the intensity of his father's gaze, the dark chocolate hair and the sun kissed complexion. He looked undeniably just like Miguel. You cant help yourself but fall immediately in love with your and Miguel’s little boy.

As they prepare to leave, Gwen, Peter B., and Hobie each take turns holding Gabriel and whispering well-wishes to him.

“I can’t thank you guys enough for being here,” you say, wiping away a tear.

Peter’s mask is off and he’s beaming. "We couldn't miss this for the multiverse!"

Gwen follows suit, "Yeah! Plus, Hobie wouldn't let us hear the end of it if we didn’t."

“We’re family,” Peter says firmly. “Across universes and timelines. We’re always here for each other.”

With that, the trio put on their masks and with another whoosh, they're gone.

1 year later...

One year has passed like a whirlwind. You've established a balance in your life. By day, you are a doting mother, and your world revolves around a little ball of energy named Gabriel. His laugh is the music that fuels your day, and his tiny hands holding yours make everything seem alright.

At night, though, you become someone else. Clad in a white suit adorned with golden sun patterns, you swing through the skyscrapers of Nea Yorkey as the Sun Spider. Your heart swells with pride, knowing that you’re keeping the streets and your little boy safe.

Your neighbor, Melissa, sometimes babysits Gabriel. She is a cheerful, quirky 19-year-old neighbor who dreams of becoming an Instagram influencer. You trust her (her career choice not so much) and, most importantly, Gabriel adores her.

Up until today, you believed that he hadn't inherited any powers. However, today was the first time he climbed up a wall and spun a web, without the aid of a web-slinger. It was the first time you witnessed him display such powers, and naturally, you were impressed. However, you also realized that being a mom would now involve dealing with a whole new set of challenges and responsibilities, making everyday life more exhausting than before. But you are up for the challenge;

Meanwhile, in the Spider Society’s HQ in Nueva York, Lyla’s holographic screen blinks red as she detects an anomaly in Earth 586 - your universe. She reports it to Miguel, who is still his grumpy self, seemingly even more irritable with each day passing.

“There’s a presence in Earth 586 that does not belong,” Lyla reports in her emotionless tone.

Miguel, sitting at his desk, sighs deeply. “Assemble the team. Pavitr, Lego Spider-Man, and... let’s bring in the newbie, Miles.”

Minutes later, the trio is briefed about the anomaly – a two-year-old child. They are to extract the child and bring it back.

Back in your universe, you're facing off against a notorious villain – The Shocker, who is on a rampage downtown. His high-frequency shock waves shake the very foundations of the buildings around you.

“Not tonight, Shocker,” you quip as you dodge a blast. “I’ve got a bedtime story to read!”

You're agile and sharp, but you can’t wait to get back home to Gabriel.

In your apartment, Melissa is on the couch, engrossed in her phone. She doesn't notice Pavitr slyly slipping into Gabriel's room. He can’t help but feel conflicted, seeing the innocent child asleep.

“This is the target?” Pavitr speaks in a hushed tone into his communicator. His voice is laced with doubt.

“Yes, proceed,” responds Miguel firmly.

Pavitr gently picks up Gabriel, cradling him in his arms. “Sorry, little guy,” he whispers and slips out.

Outside, they gather near the portal. Miles, who is visibly excited to be on his first mission, can sense the tension among the group.

“That was… too easy,” Pavitr murmurs, still holding the sleeping child.

Through the swirling portal, they make their way back to Nueva York.

Meanwhile, you web up The Shocker and leave him hanging for the police.

Back in the Spider Society's HQ in Nueva York, the team stands in a specialized containment room with the toddler still peacefully sleeping nestled in a makeshift bed of spider-web, completely oblivious to the attention he's attracting. One by one, members of the Spider Society trickle into the room, drawn by curiosity and concern.

Miles, who is new to the Spider Society, looks at the child with confusion. "I don't get it, what's so dangerous about a kid?" he asks.

Pavitr looks conflicted, “We have to determine where he came from and why he is considered an anomaly.”

Lego Spider-Man remains silent, trying to analyze the situation. He finally speaks up. "We should be cautious. Just because it's a child doesn't mean it's not potentially hazardous to the multiverse."

Miguel enters the room, his face cold and emotionless. He glances at the sleeping child, then at his team. “It doesn’t matter what it is. Anomalies threaten the balance of the multiverse. Every anomaly has to be returned to its home universe. That’s the rule.” he says sternly.

"But he's not an anomaly, boss," Jess adds, gazing fondly at the child. "He's a little boy."

Miguel’s gaze is unwavering, ignoring Jess. “Lyla? Whats the status?”

Lyla's holographic form flickers into the room. "This entity possesses unknown powers," she declares, her voice ringing out with clinical detachment. "And according to my scans, it doesn't belong to any known universe. Therefore, it cannot be returned. It must be... eliminated."

Miles' eyes widen. “Wait, you mean…?” he can’t bring himself to finish the sentence.

Pavitr steps forward, his fists clenched. “We can’t just... There must be another way.”

Back in your universe, you swing closer to your apartment, but your spider-sense starts are tingling with a ferocity you’ve never experienced before. Your heart races, and you quicken your pace. Bursting through the window, you find Melissa still sitting on the couch, scrolling through her phone.

"Where is he? Where’s Gabriel?!" you shout, panic straining your voice.

Melissa's eyes go wide as she looks up from her phone. "What? He's in his room, sleeping," she says, but her voice falters when she sees the terror on your face.

You rush into Gabriel's room and find the crib empty. Your knees buckle, and a guttural scream escapes your lips. The room spins as you run back to the living room, grabbing Melissa by the shoulders.

"Did anyone come in? Did you see anything?!" you practically scream at her.

“I... I didn’t see anyone. I swear!” Melissa's voice shakes.

Your heart feels like it's tearing apart. You look around the room, desperate for any clue. You need to find your son, and something deep within you tells you that the Spider Society is where you need to go. You have to find a way to travel through the multiverse without a gizmo and the time is ticking. You have to find your son.

Back in the HQ in the midst of the tension-filled room, Gwen stands up, "Miguel, you can't be serious," she pleads, disbelief resonating in her voice. "We can't just... kill a baby.”

Miguel's eyes narrow. "Sometimes tough decisions have to be made for the greater good.”

Just then, little Gabriel wakes up. His big eyes wander curiously around the room, and he starts to make happy babbling sounds. Unfazed by his surroundings, he looks at each of the Spider-People with fascination.

As Peter B. is about to reach down to pick Gabriel up, the toddler crawls quickly over to Miguel. His little face lights up with the purest of smiles and he reaches his tiny arms towards Miguel as if trying to give him a hug.

The room seems to collectively hold its breath. Even Miguel seems taken aback.

Pavitr can't help it, “He seems to have taken a liking to you, boss.”

Gwen smiles, her eyes watering up. “See? Even this innocent soul can sense there’s still good in you.”

Tiny fingers grip at the fabric of Miguel's suit, baby Gabriel coos and giggles as he clambers up the towering figure. Planting tiny baby kisses on any part of Miguel he can reach, the toddler's joyous laughter rings in the silent room. "Vete, Vete." Miguel mutters. And despite Miguel's cold exterior, Gabriel is unphased, drawn to him as though an invisible bond exists between them.

Miguel looks frustrated and uncomfortable with the baby's affection. He awkwardly picks Gabriel up at arm’s length. But the little one is relentless, trying to cuddle into Miguel’s chest.

Annoyed, Miguel places Gabriel into a containment field made of energy beams, to keep him in place. The baby, though restrained, is still reaching out to Miguel with his tiny hands, cooing.

The room goes quiet again, and Gwen speaks, her voice soft.

“Look at him, Miguel. Please. You can’t tell me that this doesn’t affect you in any way.”

Miguel's face is tense, his jaw clenched. His eyes dart between Gwen and Gabriel. All eyes are directed towards Miguel. The room feels like it’s waiting for something to shatter.

“We do what needs to be done, no exceptions.”

Part III "Web of Shadow and Light"

a/n: Honestly, I can't begin to express how much your support and kind messages mean to me. I literally started crying when I saw how much love this story received. It means the world to me. Truly, thank you. I'd love to hear your thoughts, and if someone could give me a heads-up on whether the tag list functioned properly, that would be great. Also, apologies for any inconsistencies or logical errors regarding the multiverse or canon theory. I watched the movie but I'm not 100% sure of that's how it works.

Once again, I really do appreciate each and everyone of you. Please, don’t forget to take good care of yourselves and stay hydrated! ILYSM

@ieatmunson @buggiecrawls @strawberriesareprettycool @lux-thebimbo @hk-4ever @invaderzim13 @hannah-goulll @arivh @alwayslegendarymoon @deputy-videogamer @560ria @myconglomerateromance @mateihavenoidea @alwayslegendarymoon @shibble @pagesfalling @kurooyy @regretfulmoth @crazysandwichlady2p04 @ poet-dae @rev-hellfyr @suya-x-syx @daimiyu @lazy-idate @jenniferdixon05207 @lostprince @amplsblog @eternalsams @cubinhodegelo @ prvttystvr @dabi-hawksbrainrot @noxiousfeline @maeplayscello @everyoneluvsvane @vinskyspuff @snazzajazz @yuuuumii @loreleis-world @fuckub @shugrcrush @fandomsinthegalaxies @vladersira @greatstudentbird @avengersinitiative2012 @therealnekomari @xiangping-28 @tanchosanke @tulipsc @tonystank1011 @la--figue @pingpongfingfong @ash-tronomicall @spardaenjoyer @venuswash3re @sofi786 @ranpuwo @sayonaratoyou @fuckthatfeeling @k7a4 @mxjss @rizahawkeye1380 @sinnamongirl @soosheee @cheezit-luv3rr @ransbatonowo @azurerose010 @azestar12334 @muertethekid @jay-joy @staronus0buttercup @mashiromochi @iseizeyourmom @salty-sister @aryjai @surhii @sinning-fae @gel0517 @hinata7346 @princessfuckyou @danyisawesomedontdenyit @typicalife-101 @arabell13 @thekinghazzastyles @sockears @perfectprofessorloverapricot

@mkissad @spiritndrain @melovetitties @ihateuguys @honeycriess @pinkbearddragon @yrlocalsimp @savagemickey03 @beiroviski @vanilla-sweets @autismsupermusicalassassin @itsjstz @wifeofnatasharomanoff @alleo-i @jxsoook @saint-chlorine @novausstuff @canary58143 @amal31 @belle643 @ellahlour @akyino @give-me-cats-or-give-me-death @daemonlover @jiminling @forever1kay @chixkencxrry @nessrin @noelsilly @crispmarshmallow @rfvuhhvbin @johfaam @cenkisabibl @rosseyblog @pixiepaintt @pissboyazzy @couchpotato2006 @youcantseem3

@chuckle-nuts @trashybebe @cowabummwerdude @fresa-luna @fjordg @perkip3nguin @randomficlover @skylarlyn823 @prettysbliss @sajova @xxtipherethxx @yeahnotf @pendeja4bts @shoxji @mysingularitybts @moon-alexys00 @szaplsdropthealbum @kibo-ichiro @ace-mothman

@burningfishkidlamp @hellsingalucard18 @mimooyi @riverflowsanywherebuthere @desmanchaprazeres @dorck26 @seasaltjackal @cupcakeandkisses @lost-in-thevoids @starlightaura @stained-tea-cup @yarri0 @mellowstatesmanhandsempath @rizzie-lovee127 @shirasakai @holymotherfxrkingshirtballs @hiptobesquare13 @iloveplayboicarti @cosmoscoffeee @spaceemeeatt2 @bblouifford @aisyakirmann @xdarkcreaturex @lotustv @fenrysashryver @bri-loves-sunflowers @azrealbanerstark @lostaudfound @ithechipmonk @bby-lupin @mortallyscrumptiousmilkshake @hxlytrin @laennetargaryenskywalker @angi531 @namjooningera @stevenknightmarc @vr00m-vr00m @itsmadamehydra @blep-23 @alastorhazbin @bluevenus19 @bxdbxtxh15 @mrs-ohara09 @strangetrashblog @embersfae @animez96 @thekidscallmebosss @missdragon-1 @navyyoo @harmonics0537 @1206kju @chiharuundead @ahleeyuh @amyg1509 @kiruoris @rvnd0m-th1ngs @vallaufeyson @roses-and-grasses @enalofi @janeety @ash-aragami @peachycreamysmut @saltyllamakidwombat @3zae-zae3 @soupinacan444 @thepassionatereader @lukasdreamland @miracleangel19 @blackqueengold @yosistairl @adv3rs1ty @walkingtravesty97 @girlbloggingisamentalillness @rocketstyx @joined2023lol @whatdudtheysay @thatshouldgoonahat @eileen201804 @nuhteyam @panassbitch @ahoeformyself @abyemayiamay @stevenandmarcslove @froginmygarden @yunamaii @polireader @st0rmyt @delusional505 @enesitamor @groovycass @teamowolverine @blueoorchid @ausara23 @cyberv0dka @danika1994 @rawegggohan @mysteriousmeaning @defiance749 @rinx35 @tamales78 @saucypeanuttt @mitskistannn @shinydragoneagle @rorytrusov @shoyosdoll @sleepycow21 @urdads-gf @okgenic @nim360

@shadowdaddysposts @emmytheinsecurepinata @darksunemiku @inafantasyworld10 @kyezofficial @beanstock7 @awesome-animenerd @levermilion @elliellielliesgirl @ thesimpybitch @jasontoddsfavoritechair @athena-portgas @redhoodedtoad @strawnanamilk @bijuu-naginata @chaimantis @ef4iryone @1-800-call-a-milf @idcalol @eddiesb3dstainss @rootintootincowboi@6billionyearsold @xiaolanternn @etherealkistar @mitzukichan18 @quackimilktea @my-goverment-is-a-dictator @bxbyyyjocelyn @teramjna @morilemochi @chompwoman @vanillacoffeeology @calicoootalks @shine101 @mental-illness-is-my-friend @myhomethesea @janedah0e @st4rrlighttt @imnotyourbcbe @1lyyff @marsbars09 @migueloharaapologist2

8K notes · View notes

xcrust · 3 months

Text

Paint the Town Red [PREVIEW]

I seriously haven't written due to having an education but for my story i want to give you improvement and quality content. So I am not making you all wait too long here is a preview of the next chapter. If there is anything that you feel is needed and note you would want to offer then i would love for you to throw it my way

FULL STORY HERE

All the latest chapters and previous is at that link!!!

Looking between the mirror in front of you, reflecting In the soft glow of dawn's embrace, (Y/n) stood before the ornate mirror that adorned her room. The morning sunlight filtered through the delicate curtains, casting a warm radiance upon them as they examined her reflection. It wasn't the typical admiration one might associate with vanity; rather, it was an introspective gaze that transcended the surface.

As they lifted a lock of hair, the sunlight or rather the glimmer caught the subtle highlights, reminiscent of the glimmers of hope that had guided them through the darkest nights. The relationship between their parents isn't inherently bad. But the isolating feeling never evolved or made anything better. This dark world was something that was all you knew. Inherently when it came to your view of humans it had to be a little different from your older sister. All humans are made corrupt. No matter the family a person is raised from. Though what allows hell borns to be condemned to whatever flock shows up. It is a harsh ideal but with so much bad coming from earth then how could someone even have a belief that earth is all that good when it's corrupting the supposed bad.

Nevertheless the people that showed up from earth kept the seven rings entertained the more time went on. In fact if it weren't for earth then you wouldn't be in the situation that you are now. You couldn't remember the last time you had dinner with your parents, Family dinners hadn't been a thing in a long time. So sitting across a little table of a cafe with the infamous radio demon for dinner is the last thing that would have been imagined in your life.

“So my dearest! I want to know everything about you and what makes you tick” Closing your new pocket mirror you glance at him before going to pick at your clothes, the bunny painted in red stares at you with a charming look in his eye.

“Alastor, you're going all out for a person like me. But what is it that you want.” curiosity might have killed the cat but in hell its survival of the fittest. Between you and him, that's an easy feat for you but survival in getting higher in the food chain? Well that's some grounds you need to work on.

“ Heavens me, or should I say hells me? HA can't a guy get to know another fella?” His burgundy pinstripe suit made your weakness to elegant things. In your heart you are truly someone that cannot be so easily deterred by another. If leaving the Morningstar household didnt prove it. Maybe working on social skills might be the first thing to work on.

“Who are you kidding? What?! Did you want to talk to my dad? Sorry to best your bubble but i'm making a nam-”

“Hush now” he quipped in “now what are you assuming on today” taking out a pocket watch from his top pocket. The ticking being comically loud. Being in hell should have you used to an odd face every once in a while. But looking at him felt like a lost cartoon. “As ive said before, i know nothing about you. You've just got a nifty little… look to you” There goes his smile again. It's so shameless.

“Yeah right” Being hell royalty should've put your name towards everyone that walks this street.

“Sorry doll face, having such a smooth face in this area of town might just be the most interesting piece of plot in these parts” you let out a sudden hitch in your breath. Does he actually not know anything about you? Maybe the overlord title might be a lot harder than intended. “Now doll you're never fully dressed without a smile, now play nice” The grimace on your face might’ve just drowned in your thoughts hearing him say that.

You couldn't make sense of his statement. An earthborn being known to you and probably the purest kind of entertainment in hell. Though if he didnt even know who you were then maybe this could be a better opportunity in the end. No phony respect. Something that would actually make a difference to yourself. Smoothing your expression into soft passiveness.

“Say there, bunny tail, how about you and I take a stroll down the boulevard and paint the town red”

“Aren't you a tough nut to crack? Well who am I to deny a bona fide high roller”

347 notes · View notes

dottores · 10 months

Text

HELIOTROPES

pairing: dottore x fem!reader & segments

summary: the gods were sick and twisted. for five hundred years, he believed he was fated to be alone. he had long accepted it—embraced it, even. that is, until a midwinter night when that elusive red thread finally appeared on his finger. but as much as he wants to ignore it, the pull of a soulmate simply cannot be ignored.

genre: soulmate au, canon compliant for the most part.

warnings: fem!reader, worldbuilding for snezhnaya & fatui & fontaine.

notes: GUYS THIS IS MY FAV CHAPTER IVE WRITTEN SO FAR HDFISHDFSUAFDSDF

THE TIES THAT BIND

It was him. Distantly, his words resounded through your head but no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t understand what he had asked you—his words sounded garbled and clear at the same time, as if he was speaking in an ancient language you couldn’t decipher.

It was him, your soulmate, the man you had been waiting your whole life to finally meet, the man that the gods had tied you with.

The man that ignored you all of these years no matter how hard you tried.

The man that attacked you at the inn.

Any elation you might have felt whittled away the longer you stared at him, anger and anxiety beginning to take hold instead. What had he said? The Second Harbinger? You felt unnerved, you had a feeling that you would somehow run into your soulmate while trying to find the evidence to condemn your stepfather but you had no idea he would be… this.

This is good, the more logical part of you tried to push through the turmoil of emotions you felt, you can use his position, this is your in.

But nothing about you was logical right now—part of you wanted to pull away, part of you wanted to slap him, and part of you wanted to throw yourself in his arms and grant yourself the warmth you’d been denied for so long. The divide in what you wanted to do had you frozen in place, unable to do anything.

Dance with me, he had said—phrased as a question but somehow you knew it wasn’t one.

Thin fingers wrapped around your other arm, Artem forcing your attention back to him, a worried expression directed toward you. “You don’t have to,” he said, and you swore the temperature in the room dropped at his words—maybe it was just a figment of your imagination due to the eerily cold feeling that swept through you, something that was clearly his and not yours, but from the way Artem and his cousins tensed, you thought it might not be.

He was angry, you couldn’t see it on his face—you could barely see his face, his mask hiding it from view, but you could feel it in your gut, an emotion that wasn’t yours pushing to the surface and threatening to break through. But it was more than just anger: if you didn’t know any better, you might’ve thought it was jealousy… a part of you wanted to feed into it to test the theory but you had a distinct feeling that would end with Artem being killed and he had been nothing but kind and helpful to you and you didn’t want to risk him like that.

“It’s okay,” you said tightly, a thin and unkind smile edging at your lips as you pulled your arm from his grasp and let Dottore lead you out to the large, empty floor in the center of the room, all eyes on the two of you.

Your chest constricted as the Doctor pulled you just a bit closer than the acceptable dancing distance as the two of you found a place on the tiled floor—one hand sliding behind you, fingers dipping low to the small of your back, while the fingers of his other hand intertwined with yours, a more intimate version of the palm-to-palm expected in the Snezhnayan Waltz.

You thought you should feel different. You thought that your chest should be light and you thought your heart should be skipping beats, adoring and enthralled, lost in the moment of finally meeting him… but all you could muster was a sense of dread. This man had never cared for you before—not to meet you, not to get to know you, not even to give into your childish desire to play the tugging game with him. In his eyes, you had probably forced his hand by coming here, even if it hadn’t been your intention.

“What game are you playing?” he asked, voice cold and unfriendly, but you were barely paying attention to him now, gaze wandering as other pairs began to make their way to the floor at the sight of you and Dottore, the necessary signal they needed to know it was now acceptable to dance. “Dance with me.”

“I am,” you replied, your surroundings blurring again as you focused back on him. “I’m not playing games.”

You were sure that the smile on his lips would not have met his eyes were they visible. “Yet you are here,” Dottore replied, the ensemble getting louder and the chatter across the floor masking your conversation from unwanted ears. “Somehow managing to track me down so you can force me into acknowledging you.”

You couldn’t bite back the scoff that rose to your chest. “How self important,” you said coolly. “Do you really think I have any interest in meeting you after all the years you spent ignoring me?”

You did, you corrected yourself silently, but he didn’t have to know that. It was humiliating enough to admit to yourself that even after all of the blatant neglect and lack of interest, you still had longed for meeting him, no matter how far down you might’ve pushed that desire.

His lip twitched—the only physical reaction you managed to draw from him thus far but even then, you couldn’t tell if he was irritated or surprised. “Then why are you here?” he asked and for a moment, you regretted your quick tongue. You should have gone along with the lovesick soulmate act so that you would have an excuse as to why you had come to Snezhnaya but you were more focused on your pride than your mission.

Now, you fumbled—a damning mistake—as you said: “None of your business.”

“Ah, but alas it is my business,” Dottore did not fumble like you did, an empty smile painted on his lips as he watched you from beneath the mask. You felt uncomfortable, you didn’t like not being able to see people’s eyes when you spoke to them. “You see, I was sent to figure out why you are here and if your answer is not to my liking, I am meant to… dispose of you. Now, if you would like me to help you, I suggest you answer my question.”

You took in a sharp breath—one that you couldn’t quite hide from him as you realized that you had been wrong. You had hoped that the eyes you had felt on you earlier were just him, that he had been the one to recognize you, but this confirmed that was not the case. The other Harbingers knew who you were and suddenly, the room felt all the more suffocating.

Dottore leaned down, lips brushing your ear and breath warm against your skin. “Don’t you feel their eyes on you?” he murmured. “They’re waiting for my decision, I do implore you to start speaking.”

He leaned back just a bit but now you couldn’t keep your eyes trained on his face, too aware of all of the gazes set on you. You could feel Artem’s eyes heavy on you from the other side of the room, they hadn’t left your body once since Dottore had led you to the dancefloor, following the two of you as you spun across the floor in step with the other partners, but he wasn’t the only one.

Your eyes flickered behind Dottore to where the dark haired girl dressed in white was sitting at the piano, fingers flying across the keys as she played an eerie tune that didn’t quite match the tempo or energy of the Snezhnayan Waltz—the lace over her eyes blocked them from sight but her head was turned in the direction of the two of you. A taller woman with silvery hair leaned on the instrument next to her, blatantly watching the two of you.

There were too many eyes on you—even who you could assume were newly promoted Fatui captains were glancing your way, the other pairs on the dancefloor kept sparing looks in your direction, giving you a wide berth. You thought you were used to the feeling of being watched, after all in Fontaine, you couldn’t even step outside your quarters without the eyes of justice bearing down on you.

Dottore suddenly cleared his throat, forcing your attention back to him. “Is it not common courtesy to give your dancing partner your full attention?” he drawled.

“Clearly you’re undeserving of my attention considering you can’t even hold it,” your tongue lashed before you could think. Instead of regretting your words, you doubled down. “It appears you’re not fond of being ignored, how fascinating.”

How hypocritical, you didn’t have to speak what you meant for him to understand. Dottore let out a huff of amusement but you knew very well that he was not amused if the way his hand tensed on the small of your back had anything to say about it.

“How ungrateful,” Dottore said quietly, the empty smile on his lips not faltering for even a second, “even when I’m going out of my way to try to make sure you stay alive.”

“We both know that you only want me alive for your own sake,” you countered, taking a small leap in speculation. You knew he didn’t care for you but the consequences of losing a soulmate could range from dire to lethal, if you knew anything about him, you knew that was not something he would want to risk.

“Clearly I did not ignore you well enough.”

The smile finally fell—he didn’t like that you could read him the way that you were, although you would argue that you weren’t reading him at all, just placing together the few puzzle pieces he had left for you to complete a small section, the majority of the puzzle was still empty.

“You-” you began, but you were forced to cut yourself off, eyes darting down as you realized that Dottore had purposefully taken a wrong step in the waltz—subtle enough so that others wouldn’t notice his fault, but just enough so that if you took the correct step, you would twist your ankle over his foot.

He’s trying to make a fool out of you, fury flooded you at the realization, shifting your foot just to the right so that you could avoid his. The next step of the dance, a half-spin of a turn, was jerky and sharp because of it, veering off track and into the path of a nearby woman and her partner, who were forced to scramble out of your way or risk drawing the Doctor’s ire.

Dottore’s lip twitched up when he realized that you hadn’t fallen for his trick and the waltz continued smoothly, returning to the graceful spins and turns and steps that the two of you had been dancing in tune with before his attempt at making you humiliate yourself.

“I’ve been patient enough,” he said. “It’s time for you to answer my question.”

Your lip curled in annoyance, searching for an answer to give him before your silence became prolonged and suspicious.

“I’m looking for something,” you said simply. This time, you didn’t have to look down to know he had taken another false step—instead of having to shift at the last second and fall into another jarring turn, you altered the direction of the turn, spinning out just a bit further than was expected of the dance and forcing him to follow.

“For what?” Dottore didn’t give you a second to recuperate or think and you forced yourself not to bite the inside of your cheek, irritated at the game he was playing no matter how much he might deny playing one should you ask. He was forcing you to focus more on the dance with his purposefully wrong steps so you couldn’t concentrate on coming up with coherent lies.

For what? That was the question. What should you tell him? The truth? What would he do with it? Could you trust him? You doubted it, but you could trust in his self-preservation at least—you didn’t think he would do anything to damn you because that would mean damning himself. But would he get in your way? Maybe, if only to see you stumble.

Finally, you spoke, and the words felt weighted on your tongue, mouth dry: “The Fatui killed my father.”

“And you’ve come for evidence. How noble,” Dottore mocked you—if he hated how you could deduce that he didn’t care for your survival beyond for his own sake, you hated even more that he had put together your whole reason for being in Snezhnaya just from the one sentence. “The Hydro Archon is so arrogant that she fails to see foreign threats within her own walls, forcing you to venture into a den of wolves to acquire the proof yourself. What a magnificent god.”

Again, you found sharp words leaving your lips in defense of your nation and Archon: “Perhaps the Hydro Archon is not the only god blind to threats,” you noted off-handedly at the hypocrisy, dancing around another targeted step and forcing another pair of dancers to dodge the two of you—the Hydro Archon might be blind the Snezhnayan spy that was your stepfather, but at least there wasn’t an entire organization working beneath her nose and in her court.

“What exactly does that mean?” Dottore asked—was that confirmation that the Harbingers were unaware of the masked group that had approached you and the aristocrats? Or was it just Dottore trying to figure out how much you knew? Or maybe it was both.

“Take it as you will,” you answered, eyes narrowing as instead of continuing the dance, he came to a stop in the middle of the floor.

His hand was still pressed to your lower back, holding your body close to his even as you tried to step away. You hated how you had to turn your head up to look at him and you hated the smirk that spread across his face as he looked down at you. Distantly, you noticed that the music had come to an end as the ensemble prepared for another dance.

“You’re not what I expected,” he said after a moment of silence, releasing your hand only to bring his to your face when you looked away. He used two fingers beneath your chin to tilt your head up in his direction, forcing you to look at him. “I’ll find you again.”

A promise or a threat? You couldn’t tell, throat thick and swollen as he stood straight again, stepping away from you and looking behind you. You looked over your shoulder, eyes falling upon Artem as he walked up to the two of you.

“Your second dance?” he asked quietly, holding his hand out toward you. You took the escape gratefully and yet somehow, a part of you felt empty as soon as you stepped away from Dottore, a primal and fundamental part of you knew you were meant to be with him and was unhappy with your decision.

You wondered if he felt it too.

“Are you okay?” Artem questioned as soon as your hand was in his and you stood in position for the next dance—an acceptable distance, unlike how close Dottore had drawn you in.

You glanced back to look at him as you murmured out a ‘yes’ to Artem, but he was already gone.

His hands were tingling.

This wasn't right, he wanted to spit out in protest of the way his body was reacting to you—itching to walk back over and rip you away from the Snezhnayan aristocrat who had the audacity to lay hands on what was his.

His. The word echoed through his head, condemning—he was already beginning thinking like them, like a mortal, an irrational beast that cared for naught but personal pleasure, latching onto someone with the barest interaction. But no matter how much he tried to deny the attachment, his body was betraying him, begging him to turn back for another dance so he could feel your skin against his again.

He thought it might be different, he had abandoned his original body for an artificial one. He thought it could lessen the effects of the bond but he should’ve known better—having an artificial body did not change the fact that his mark had appeared on him, it didn’t change the fact that there was a thread connecting him to you.

He should’ve known this would only make it worse.

Dottore didn’t dare look back, no matter how much his body ached for one last look, he needed to retain some semblance of control over himself and he knew that if he looked back now, he would not like what he saw. His teeth ground together at the thought, scraping against his tongue. He imagined the aristocrat’s hand inching down your back, his fingers intertwined with yours. He imagined your body pressed close to his—a slower song was playing, a more intimate one, one that he should be dancing with you to.

As soon as the final thought crossed his mind, he nearly rolled his eyes, shaking his head as he made his way toward the other Harbingers.

“You looked like you enjoyed yourself,” one said, voice cold and mocking, Dottore’s eyes lifted to Arlecchino.

“Thoroughly,” Dottore replied, dry and sarcastic to mask the fact that yes, he had enjoyed his dance with you.

You were not what he expected. Your tongue was sharp and violent whereas he had thought you to be a docile noble girl, sheltered in the palace of Fontaine City. He could still see that part of you, thinly veiled behind the anger in your eyes; the part of you that longed for the sanctity of the bond between a fated pair, the part of you that still had hope things could work out. He wondered if that was the part of you that you showed to everyone else, the gentleness and the kindness. He thought so, if the way you looked at Artem Melnyk had anything to say about it.

Then, he wondered if your violence was reserved only for him—for some reason, the thought left him pleased, smothering the way the corner of his lips twitched up.

“Well?” Sandrone said sharply, garnering the attention of the Harbingers in the area. To Dottore’s absolute displeasure, he noticed that both the Balladeer and the Friar had come closer to listen in, two wolves drawn in by the scent of blood.

You could keep up with him too, every attempt he had made to make you stumble, you caught and readjusted. He had never met anyone that could keep up with him the way you were able to—most didn’t even dare to try, backing down at the mere sight of him, and those that did tended to not be able to hold their bravado for long—even if it was just boldness because you knew that as your soulmate, it’d be unlikely he would do anything to put you at risk.

“A fawn,” Dottore told her coolly, “just as I said. You wasted my time, and my patience. You can explain to the Jester why I decided to leave the event early.”

Dottore thought you were closer to a wolf pup than a fawn, bearing your teeth against greater predators instead of fleeing because you thought yourself more dangerous than you really were—he wasn’t going to tell them that though.

Sandrone did not look convinced at his words. “Perhaps I should go talk to her,” she said doubtfully.

Unamused, Dottore turned his full attention onto her. “You doubt me?” he asked, an edge to his tone that he dared her to push further. Sandrone looked at him but didn’t respond, he continued: “All she cared for was her first dance with her fiancé being interrupted. Air-headed and dimwitted—whatever you think that girl is, she is not.”

Dottore studied Sandrone from beneath his mask, wondering if she would push even further, but she only shook her head and walked away in the direction of the Captain, clearly unhappy but dropping it, for now at least.

Perhaps the Hydro Archon is not the only god blind to threats, your words ran through his head again as Sandrone pushed past him. What did you mean? It was a dig at the Tsaritsa, that much was certain but what threat was the Fatui missing that was within their own walls? Could it be the aristocrats? If so, you were a fool to think that they weren’t addressing the more hostile families already… but somehow, Dottore knew that you were talking about something else, something far more worrisome.

… and that begged the question of how you even knew of it when they, clearly, did not.

Finally, Dottore’s gaze drew back to the dance floor where you were dancing slowly with the dark-haired aristocrat, arms draped around his shoulders as you swayed to the slow music. You were talking quietly to him, hushed, heads leaned into each other so no one could overhear the two of you. You looked far more at ease with him than you had been with Dottore, your shoulders lax instead of tense, your body loose instead of stiff. That feeling from before—ugly and green—resurfaced.

“Sandrone,” Dottore finally said, stopping the lower-ranked Harbinger in her tracks, “if you’re so suspicious of her, then why don’t we keep her in the palace for a few days under observation? That way, we can figure out whether or not Fontaine is declaring war or not and handle it duly.”

A risk, Dottore noted, they’re going to wonder why he cares so much, but he thought it was a worthy one. He could knock two birds with one stone: separate his soulmate from her apparent fiancé and try to figure out what the cryptic comment meant. He couldn’t help but notice the long look exchanged by Arlecchino and Brighella, as if they knew something that he did not.

Sandrone hesitated, eyes narrowing for a moment before she nodded, “I think that’s a good idea.”

“And who, exactly, is going to care for this girl?” Brighella, voice high and reedy, interjected himself into the conversation. “Heh… if you’d like-”

“I’ll do it,” another voice interrupted as fury knotted Dottore’s insides so intensely that he thought he might lash out at the vulture. Pantalone was the one to step forward, eyes turned upward and a thin smile pulled tight across his lips, “I’d like to pick at her brains for her thoughts on the aristocrats anyway. I’m sure she’ll have some sort of insight.”

Dottore watched Pantalone carefully, trying to figure out what sort of game he was playing. He made sure that she wasn’t killed on the spot before—not that Dottore would have let that happen, but he would’ve been forced to reveal who exactly you were to him and he didn’t want to open up that weakness. He wanted something and from the way his smile fell and his violet eyes went cold, looking at Dottore as the Harbingers began talking amongst each other, he knew it was nothing good.

Irritated, Dottore cast a cold look in your direction—one way or another, he was constantly being backed into a corner because of you. But looking at you was a mistake, evidently, because the annoyance swelled as he watched the aristocrat smile at you as you swooped under his arm in a dramatic spin.

Dottore shook his head as he looked away, rolling his eyes beneath his mask as he stifled the vile emotions rearing their head at the sight. As he turned his attention back to the discussion at hand, listening to them talk about the approaching missions, Dottore wondered if he should try to make his exit now, leave Pantalone to deal with her now that he had kindly offered to—the less interaction with her, the better, he thought, even though his body shrieked in protest—and he wanted to get back to the lab anyway. The Theta segment was down there alone and quite frankly, he didn’t trust him around his stuff.

Alas, he did not get the chance to slip away. As he moved to turn, he noticed that Pantalone was nodding for him to follow.

Dottore bit back a sigh—you, Pantalone, the other Harbingers—this was all going to cut into his research, he had a feeling that he wasn’t going to get anything done for quite a bit.

“What was that all about?” Artem asked you quietly as the music began to pick up again, masking your voices—it was a slower dance, one that was far less demanding than the waltz with the Doctor, who had you struggling to keep up mentally and physically.

You were lucky that Miss Elyna had been so strict with your dancing lessons, not only did she prepare you by teaching you all of the popular dances amongst aristocrats across the seven nations but she also forced you to know how to dance with an incompetent partner so that the you were not made to look like a fool in public.

Dottore was not an incompetent partner by any means, but he surely was a malicious one.

“They’re suspicious of me,” you said softly, watching his expression twist into one that bordered between shocked and horrified, confirming what you already knew—you were not in a good place.

But he didn’t know that you weren’t in the worst place, you couldn’t tell him about your relationship to Dottore. You didn’t know how he would react and you needed him on your side for the duration of this event. You figured that Dottore wouldn’t let them kill you, at least for his own sake, but there were fates worse than death and the thought of that made your skin crawl.

“After this song, we’ll head over to my father, I’ll ask him what to do,” Artem said, nodding to himself. “They can’t do anything, not without risking our support and our support is the only support they have amongst all of the Snezhnayan nobles. So unless they want every single aristocratic family against them…”

Your eyes drew across the room briefly, at the captains and the elite members of the Fatui lingering around the floor and dancing with their partners, at the Harbingers still lurking on the outskirts of the room, some still looking in your direction. There were so many of them and you didn’t have to face them in combat to know that they were all strong, the Harbingers alone reeked of power.

“... if you tell your father, he’ll be upset,” you finally said, voice low—you hadn’t phrased it as a question but you supposed it was one.

“He’ll be livid,” Artem confirmed, jaw tightening. “They… they all think that I’m going to propose to you soon—they were upset that I hadn’t introduced you sooner but they’ve been waiting for me to get married for three years now. If the Fatui try to do something to you…”

Maybe you shouldn’t say anything then, you wanted to say, but the words were stuck in your mouth. The Fatui were strong, you thought again. Artem had claimed that they host these events as a show of power, to force the aristocrats to understand just who they were dealing with, and even from this glimpse you knew that the threat the Fatui posed was beyond anything that the elites of the Fontaine court and the Hydro Archon imagined.

You wondered, then, why did they not take control of Snezhnaya through sheer force alone? They could do it, surely, the Harbingers themselves could probably handle it on their own. You figured that the aristocrats held a lot of sway amongst the common people—if it was anything like the structure of the Fontaine countryside where each town was centered around one of the aristocrats' estates—and from there, you could assume that the Fatui did not want to rule their own people through fear.

But you feared that if push came to shove, the Fatui would have no issue slamming their iron fist down upon the people of Snezhnaya and if that was the case, you didn’t want that blood on your hands because Artem had rushed to the defense of a girl he barely knows… especially because you thought if he knew who exactly your soulmate was, he wouldn’t be so quick to help you.

“Don’t tell them,” you finally said, mouth dry, glancing away as you continued, “whatever happens, I’ll deal with it. Don’t risk pissing the Fatui off even more.”

Artem’s brows knit together. “What?” he asked, voice hushed. “You have no idea what they’re capable of, what they’ll do to you and if the Doctor of all Harbingers is interested in you then-”

“I’m not a helpless girl, Artem,” you said sharply, careful to keep your voice low. “I will do what I must to survive, you need to focus on…”

Your family, the other nobles, this organization that’s pulling all of the strings. Let me deal with this, it’s my mission.

Artem didn’t look happy, shaking his head again. “I didn’t say you were helpless,” he said, lowering his voice even more as he leaned his head down to you. To all others, you thought it probably looked romantic, but you could feel his arms tense around you, “but you can’t do this alone. They’ll find you out and-and you don’t want to know what they’ll do when they do.”

There was a haunted expression on his face, as if he had personal experience with the Fatui and what they would do to the people that actively worked against them. There was a pit in your stomach as you looked away—guilt, anxiety, maybe something else or a combination of both, knowing who your soulmate was and how even though Artem was terrified of him, he still was trying to defend you against him.

“I need to use the restroom to freshen up,” you said, changing the subject abruptly—you didn’t want to talk about this anymore, if the Fatui were already onto you, you were running out of time to do what you needed to do.

You didn’t want to rely on Dottore, not if you didn’t have to.

Artem stared at you for a long moment before sighing, arm slipping around your waist as he guided you back to the front of the room toward the wide double doors that led to the entrance hall, “There’s only two ways in and out of here, the only other way…”

You glanced backward to another door on the opposite side of the room—the only way to get to it would be to walk past several Harbingers and that was simply not going to happen, not when a few of them were clearly suspicious of you already. You could only hope that they missed you slipping out of the hall but somehow, you doubted they would.

Reaching the doors, you raised your eyebrows when neither of the Fatui subordinates moved out of your way. Artem stepped forward, slightly in front of you.

“Is there an issue?” Artem asked coldly, motioning to the door. “Are the hinges not working properly? They seemed just fine before. My lady needs to freshen up.”

The two men exchanged a long look with one another before shifting out of the way, albeit a bit reluctantly. You looked back at Artem, squeezing his arm, “I’ll be right back.”

And if I’m not, don’t come looking.

“They’re a lovely couple, hm?” Pantalone smiled as the two of them walked the length of the ballroom. Dottore’s jaw clenched, irritation skyrocketing when he continued, “They look very happy together, don’t they?”

“Very,” Dottore agreed dryly, not letting the man get a rise out of him like he wanted, but unlike Pantalone, he did not look in your direction.

Instead, he kept his gaze trained forward, mind-racing as he tried to figure out what Pantalone might want from him. If he had to guess, it was going to be something with the residue research and creating a stronger delusion for him but the man was as unpredictable as the wind—there was no telling what demands would spew from his mouth.

“Do you think that’s why she was ignoring you?” Pantalone asked, trying to gossip like a pair of old wives as if they weren’t talking about his soulmate. “She finally found someone better and doesn’t want anything to do with you?”

Dottore didn’t think that was the case. He finally looked back over to where you were dancing with the aristocrat. You looked comfortable with him, but not happy, and you looked safe with him, but not hopeful—not the way you had been with him, at least. You had been tense and stressed but there was no denying that lingering hope that swam behind your eyes, as much as you tried to hide it with your sharp tongue and harsh jabs.

Dottore had never been able to read people well—he compensated with intimidation—but it came naturally when looking at you, probably because of the bond. He didn’t know whether or not to be appreciative of it or to resent it because you could clearly read him as well as he could read you and the thought of that left him uncomfortable.

“No,” Dottore finally said after a few moments of silence. “I think she was ignoring me to be petty.”

It appears you’re not fond of being ignored. How fascinating.

He had recognized the underlying message, calling him a hypocrite—he wouldn’t put it past you to have spent the past two weeks ignoring him after he finally reached out to you just to be spiteful.

“Not quite the air-headed and dimwitted fawn you described to the others then,” Pantalone drawled, smile widening as he finally looked at Dottore. “Oh, don’t worry. I won’t say anything… but there’s no way the others will fall for the facade once they realize who she is to you. Anyone fated to you is bound to be closer to monster than man.”

That was unacceptable. His chest tightened at his words, a foul feeling swirling his insides. It was not about the implied insult to him, nor was it about the subtle threat of the other Harbingers finding out who you were to him—it was the insult to you, the mocking comment Pantalone made calling you closer to monster than man. That was not acceptable.

And then he realized what he was doing, getting defensive over you for no reason at all. Careful, he told himself, this was what he hadn’t wanted.

He pushed it away, again, focusing on the issue at hand.

“Was she everything you hoped?” Pantalone pressed, a sardonic smile twisting his lips as he watched you.

More, Dottore answered silently. You were beyond anything he had imagined, but he kept his answer to himself, “What do you want, Regrator?”

“Fair exchange,” Pantalone spoke of the policy he had lived by since the day Dottore met him and Dottore knew that he wasn’t going to like this. Pantalone’s eyes gleamed at the prospect of it, that thin thread of control waning as it always did when he got the upperhand on someone. “I am owed. Our previous exchange has been fulfilled—you brought me into the Fatui and helped me obtain my position, I gave you better funding and support in meetings. This is the start of a new exchange. Twice now, I’ve protected her and now, I’ve brought her in so that you weren’t exposed. I am owed.”

“What do you want?” Dottore repeated again, unperturbed by Pantalone’s demeanor, wanting to get this conversation over with. “The residue research? One of my segments to help with your missions?”

“The prototype for the new delusion,” Pantalone said. Dottore raised his eyebrows—it’s a prototype for a reason, on his lips but he decided against it. If the Regrator wanted to use the prototype, all the better for Dottore: he would be able to study how he reacts to it, and how it reacts to him. “And a branch of the Northland Bank in Fontaine City.”

Dottore tilted his head, “How exactly do you expect me to help with that? Just take one of the segments and tell them what to do.”

Pantalone smiled again but this time, it was colder—the same smile he directed at the other Harbingers when they pissed him off. His head turned in the direction of where you were dancing with the aristocrat and then he asked, voice amused: “You didn’t think I was helping her for your sake, did you?”

There it is.

Dottore stared at Pantalone emptily from beneath his mask. He had expected this from the moment he had initially offered his help in finding you, he knew there would be a catch but he did not think it would have to do with you.

A branch of the Northland Bank set up in Fontaine City. What would that entail from you? Information on the court that only the upper echelon of aristocrats would know? Weaknesses and holes in their defenses? Either way, it would entail betraying your nation and he had a feeling you wouldn’t do that… which meant he would somehow have to get the information from you to pass it on to Pantalone, which meant he would have to betray you. For some reason, the thought left him feeling uneasy.

“Very well,” he agreed. “Consider it done.”

Pleased, Pantalone looked back out to the ballroom floor.

“Oh?” he noted. “She’s on the move.”

Dottore’s head snapped to the side, eyes searching the floor until they landed on where the aristocrat was leading you through the hall and to the entrance of the room.

What were you doing? He had a bad feeling, exhaling as he waited. Were you really going to go out and try to find the evidence you wanted now? Right after he had told you that the Harbingers have their eye on you? You couldn’t be that stupid… unless you were trying to rush to do it before he could get involved but that would be ridiculous.

Dottore’s eyes followed you until the doors of the ballroom shut behind you and you were gone from sight. He didn’t bother explaining to Pantalone where he was going, turning on his heel and made his way to the door on the opposite side of the room, closer to where he and Pantalone were standing.

The Fatui subordinates scattered at his approach, allowing an easy exit for him. Pantalone followed, much to his distaste, but he supposed this way it didn’t look as suspicious. As soon as he pushed the door open, a rush of cold air met him—a welcome escape from the stuffiness of the ballroom and the endless chatter of the aristocrats and the music and all of the overwhelming noise.

The hall was dimly lit by candles mounted on the walls, there was no one in the hall besides them—Dottore assumed that you had turned down the hall on the right instead, heading to the washroom.

Was that what you were doing? Faking going to the washroom so you could slip away and search? Why weren’t their subordinates lining the halls to make sure people couldn’t do that?

“Are you going after her?” Pantalone asked, amused, slinking up beside him. Dottore gave him a cold look from the corner of his eye. “Relax, I won’t interfere.”

Dottore wasn’t sure how much he believed that but he didn’t have time to call him out for it. He wanted to get to you before you did something stupid. He gave Pantalone one last look before making his way down the hall in the direction of the washroom, turning left down two different halls until he was on the opposite side of the ballroom—just as he came to a stop outside of the door, it opened.

“There you are.”

REBLOGS APPRECIATED

#dottore x reader #dottore x you #genshin x reader #genshin x you #dottore smut #genshin smut #genshin impact x reader #genshin impact smut #genshin impact x you

992 notes · View notes

wildestdreamsblog · 8 months

Text

Hiraeth IV

Pairing: Kim Seokjin x Reader

Summary: You had always been his, and no one could take you away from him. Idol!AU

Warnings: Yandere behavior, Obsessiveness, Possessiveness, Manipulative behavior, Slight age gap, Murder intention, Mention of death, Sexual themes, If you’re not 18+ please, PLEASE, do not interact. Be mindful of the warnings. Let me know if I miss anything.

A/N: back from the grave :>

Masterlist, Hiraeth III

Seven years ago, United States of America

“You saw him last night,” your therapist repeated gently when you paused to breathe. Your eyes watered, remembering the dream- no, the nightmare you had last night. It had been almost two years since you last saw any of them, since you last saw any remnants of your past.

It had been two years, yet one dream of him managed to shatter your progress. One dream of his sorrowful eyes managed to break you. And you hated it. You hated him. You hated yourself for not being stronger.

He was just a figment of your imagination, memories manifesting themselves through your subconscious- and sadly, that was enough to make you crumble.

You reminded yourself that Seokjin was just that- someone from your past.

“And how did that make you feel?”

You looked up at her with tears in your eyes, “Terrified,” you whispered shakily, wrapping your hands tighter around yourself. “He terrifies me.”

She regarded you over her eyeglasses for a moment, her hands posed to write on her list of all the things that were wrong about you. “You still think he killed your father,” she said with a matter-of-fact tone.

And you answered merely with anger in your eyes.

You ran.

Of course you ran again. You weren’t strong enough to stay, and even if you were, there was no place in your heart for him. Not when it still hurt looking at him. Not when every time you look into his eyes, you were brought back to that day when he died. Not when you were reminded of that day, not when your desperation and misery were resurfacing every time he was near.

Not when a part of you blamed him for the tragedy of the only family you had.

This was exactly why you left.

This was why you ran so far that you left the only home you knew, and why you left him standing there alone with his head bowed down.

“The faster you get the owner to sign, the faster you can return here,” your boss replied from over the video chat, excitement apparent in his voice once you finished your presentation. You included other restaurants that you visited with Jungkook, even going as far as underselling Seokjin’s business. You even didn’t mention that he was the owner, respecting his privacy.

And yet, your boss who wasn’t even paying you enough to face your nightmare, chose his restaurant. It was just your fucking luck, you thought.

“Boss, I really think that the first option is better-“

He squinted his eyes at you as though he was looking right through your bullshits. You knew his restaurants was the best among the choices. Objectively speaking, choosing him would benefit your company the most. Even without his named connected to the store, it was already performing better than the others. You wondered that what height of success it would reached once people knew that the Kim Seokjin owned it? You knew that. Yet, you were only human and as such, you couldn’t help but be affected by your emotions, to be subjective when success was merely one signature away.

“The faster you can return here, the sooner you’ll get your promotion which is already being processed. The only thing missing is my signature. And I did promise you I will sign, the promotion is yours- as soon as you get the owner to sign.”

This was a draining meeting and an even more exhausting day. You didn’t think you slept at all last night, and you left his house early morning like a common thief, moving so quietly and taking the things you considered essential with you. You just really wanted to breathe, to be think without his intoxicating presence clouding your mind.

“I know you can do this. I trust no one but you.”

Of course you knew you could. The question lied whether you would survive this, whether you would survived him.

Those were his parting words before he ended the call. Had this been anyone else, literally anyone else, you would have been on top of this. You were a professional and damn good with your job. This shouldn’t be any different…right?

In fact, this should have been easier because you knew him. You knew Kim Seokjin. Except that you couldn’t be any more wrong. You didn’t know the other half of him, the sinister, selfish and dark side of him.

The coffee shop was now swarming with people as the day approached midmorning. Ever since you left his house, you were here quietly working, doing anything to take your mind off that kiss…off of him. Yet, every time you closed your eyes, your mind went to him. You could still feel his lips on yours, could still feel the warmth of his hands as he cradled you so close to him, could still feel how truly powerless you were when it came to him. If you were going to be completely and utterly honest, you could still feel how hard your heart was beating that moment. He was a force to be reckoned with. He was then, and still was, bigger than life. It was truly unfair how he grew old to be even more perfect and dashing than he was when you were younger. And what you hated the most was how he could still fucking affect you as though you were still that young girl who followed him around. And look what he reduced you to, a coward who ran when he was at his weakest.

You sighed before turning to look at the window to your right, only to be met with who seemed to be the lead rapper and main dancer of the group, Jung Hoseok. He was wearing a disguised, only his eyes could be seen and he was apparently looking at you with urgency in his eyes. His body was huffing in exhaustion as though he had been running around.

He did not waste anymore time as he entered the coffee shop and went to you, his hand immediately encircling your wrist as though to ensure that you could no longer run.

“You have to come with me.”

“What? Why?” Your brows furrowed at the seriousness on his face. You were aware that he was the sunshine of the group, that he was the light of the group. You would be living under a rock if you didn’t know of him. This was the reason why it confused you why he suddenly seemed…angry. Or why he looked to be moving with utmost urgency.

You could feel people looking at you with curiosity, and it wouldn’t be long before someone recognized him. He knew it. And you knew it. Hoseok was taking advantage of the fact that he bet you wouldn’t want to make a scene, and thus he was able to take you in his car without much of a fight.

He maneuvered the car expertly, his eyes focused on road. He was the perfect picture of calmed and composed if not for the way he gripped the steering wheel. Amongst all the members, he was probably the least you had interaction with which was precisely why how he was acting confused the hell out of you. He was acting as though you had personally offended him, as though what you did was close to becoming unforgivable.

Which brought you once again to this question: what did you do to him?

“What is this all about?” You asked him in a barely restrained contempt. You didn’t bode well with being dragged out of an establishment by a man you barely knew, and his silence was not doing him any good but to piss you. It was a good thing you weren’t a sensitive person for how could you grow up to be one when you were being constantly rejected by Seokjin. He was running and pushing you away at least three times a day that you almost felt bad for him. Almost.

But this man beside you was driving you nuts

You thought he wouldn’t answer as he only chuckled without any emotions, his eyes cold as he glanced briefly at you.

“Do you know what you’ve done to him? Do you have any idea what you’re doing to my hyung?” He asked conversationally as if his words weren’t meant to be knives to you.

“Wha-“

“Put on your seatbelt,” he ordered harshly, looking at you with coldness in his eyes. “As much as I hate how you made him a mess, I know you getting hurt would messed him up further.”

“What are you talking about?!”

“You’ll see.”

Hoseok left you with no choice but to follow him, his steps brisk as he entered the Hybe building with obvious familiarity. After numerous turns, he stopped in front of a door. You heard crashes of something heavy and corresponding grunts of men struggling before you even saw him. Hoseok turned to you with coldness in his eyes before he even opened the door. And what you saw was your usually strong Jin reduced to a mess of a man. His eyes were hallow, his hair a mess as he struggled against the hold of Namjoon and Jungkook who were trying their best to contain him. Your mouth hanged agape as you took him in and the chaos that he seemed to have caused to the what you thought was once a pristine room: chair thrown across the room, devices swept off of the table, decorations askew as though they suffered from violence. He still hadn’t looked at you, still hadn’t taken notice of your presence and you didn’t know why you were glad for it.

“Hyung, stop it! You’re hurting yourself!” Jungkook pleaded, yet it was as though he wasn’t heard. Jin’s eyes were unfocused as he struggled with the hold the two men had on him, his eyes determined.

“P-Princess- I have to find her,” he mumbled incoherently as he tried to push them away.

You stepped back albeit unconsciously as though it was your mind telling you to run from this…to run from him. But you didn’t go far. You felt J-hopes hands on your shoulders, effectively preventing you from leaving.

“Where are you going?” He asked with a low voice. “Why can’t you look at what you’ve done to him?”

“I didn’t do anything to him!” You hissed at him, struggling to get away from him, only for it to draw attention to you. Namjoon was the first to notice you and he looked both alarmed and relieved by your presence. “Fix this,” Hoseok ordered you coldly.

He smiled before stepping you near to where Jin was. “I found her, hyung,” he announced gently to the man you almost couldn’t recognized. “You need to calm down now, okay? We still need to go to our shoot, hyung.”

Jin blinked his eyes before he focused on you, his body immediately relaxing upon seeing you. Yet, your eyes weren’t on him. Instead, they focused on the nondescript bottle of medicine beside him. The orange bottle looked to be almost empty. You didn’t know why it seemed to be something important, but you couldn’t help wondering…What was that?

Namjoon’s eyes widened when he saw where your eyes were and in a blink of an eye, he snatched the container and pocketed it away from your prying eyes. However, even Namjoon’s quick reflexes were not able to stop that image from being engraved in your mind. Was Seokjin…sick?

“P-princess?” Seokjin called for you, disbelief evident in his voice. He pushed their hands away from him, his sole focus on you. He stood up immediately, his long limbs carrying him. He looked as disheveled as he felt when he thought you left him again.

You couldn’t moved. It was as though you were rooted to the ground, waiting for the inevitable. You felt his arms wrapped around you like a child scared to part with you, he was trembling as he held you to him. However, his voice was dark as he whispered to you.

“Don’t leave? Please? Never leave me again. Never disappear without saying a word again. Please. I don’t know what I’ll do if you leave.”

“Something is clearly very wrong with that boy,” Seokjin’s father muttered lowly as he watched his only son talked to you in the garden.

It was Jin’s birthday and like every year, the family threw a party for their beloved son. He was perfect, they thought. He got good grades, was sporty, obedient, independent, and showed promising intelligence when it came to their company. See, he was perfect in theory. However, the older Kim couldn’t help but noticed his strange dependence on you. It wasn’t…normal, he thought.

You weren’t supposed to be here. In fact, you had an exam tomorrow and as a fourteen year-old girl, you took your studies seriously. However, Jin didn’t take your absence from his birthday lightly. Upon hearing that you wouldn’t be able to make it, it was as though he lost his smile and what took over was an expressionless face. He didn’t know how, but Seokjin was able to make several calls and lo and behold, your exam was rescheduled.

Even at his age, a ripe eighteen year-old young man, he excluded power and he wasn’t afraid to use it and his charms to get what he wanted.

“Don’t say that, honey,” Mrs. Kim chided him gently, a frown on her face as she watched her son smiled genuinely for the first time tonight. “He’s just…close with her.”

“Honey, he’s eighteen years old now. He shouldn’t act like he did just because she wasn’t near him. You know that,” he said gently, looking into his wife’s eyes with concern. “It’s not normal. His need for her isn’t normal.”

Mrs. Kim placed her tea on the table with a light thud, “Our son is perfect. There’s nothing wrong with him,” she replied in defiance.

Perhaps, if she accepted what was apparent that time, Kim Seokjin wouldn’t turn out to be evil living in the body of an angel.

Tip Jar

Hiraeth V

#kim seokjin #bts fic #yandere bts #bts fanfic #bts yandere #kim seokjin fic #yandere kim seokjin #yandere seokjin #kim seokjin x you #kim seokjin x reader #kim seokjin x y/n #seokjin x reader #seokjin fanfic #seokjin x y/n

587 notes · View notes

rollingsins · 10 months

Text

all hers, part xxi

summary: Richie's gone. Sam and Tara rush to the police station, and R gets a visit from someone she hoped to never see again.

warnings: (+18), Tara is Ghostface, mention of murder. Mention of sex, violence.

word count: 3.5k

a/n: it's here! GF final reveal. as mentioned previously, I'm going to try keep the blog spoiler free for the next 48 hours, so won't be posting spoilery asks, but please still feel free to send them through! I'll post them a little later :))))) hope you all enjoy, and I hope your theory was correct!

Nobody says anything for a good twenty seconds.

The Sheriff’s face is stony. Serious.

You feel as if your heart has just dropped down into your stomach.

Tara’s hand grips tight on your hip.

Sam blinks, mouth open like a fish out of water.

And then it’s her who breaks the silence.

“He’s gone?”

She blinks once more. Her words turn into a splutter.

“But he’s dead.”

The Sheriff swallows. You almost feel bad for her, the way she wrings her hat in her hands like she’s standing in front of a courthouse of jurors.

“He was admitted to the morgue,” She explains, voice soft, “There was a fifteen minute window where the Coroner was off shift. We think it happened then.”

“You think what happened?” You ask, heartbeat hammering loudly in your ears, “You think he got up and walked out?”

“No,” Says the Sheriff, a little impatient, “He was dead. He’s definitely dead-”

“And you lost him?” Tara asks, her voice rising, “You lost a dead guy?”

The Sheriff looks at Sam.

“Perhaps we should do this somewhere more private?”

“Absolutely not,” Sneers Tara, “You don’t exactly have a track record of asking the right questions, Sheriff.”

Except she does. And you know it. You touch Tara’s arm, try to quiet her.

Let’s not piss off the person who can haul you right back to jail, the look in your eyes says.

But Sam crosses her arms.

“Tara stays. She’s right, Sheriff. First you try to pin six murders on her, then you lose the actual culprit. The dead culprit.”

The Sheriff purses her lips.

“I’m not here to argue,” She says, directing a pointed look at your girlfriend, “But I am here to find out what happened. Whoever Richie was working with likely took his body. Why? I don’t know. But I need answers. And fast.”

Sam furrows her brow.

“I don’t know who he was working with,” She says, “I didn’t even know what he was doing in his spare time. Hell, I had no idea who he truly was.”

She sounds a little agonized. Like it’s her fault her boyfriend almost had her sister killed.

“But you knew him.” Says the Sheriff, “You knew his patterns, his friends, his routine. If we can pin down some names, we might be able to find the culprit.”

She stands a little taller.

“And I’d like you to come down to the station and help me figure it out. Please.”

Sam looks at Tara, a little torn.

“I need to be here with my sister.” She says.

“Your sister will be fine,” Says the Sheriff, “I can arrange for a squad car. Two, if you need it. She’ll be safe, Sam. They won’t let anything happen to her.”

“Fuck that,” Says Tara, “We’re coming. Down to the station. Sam, I’m not letting you talk to them alone.”

There’s fire in her voice. Fire that usually only sparks when it comes to you. You blink, a little surprised. Sam seems to be surprised by it too, going off the look on her face.

“That really isn’t necessary.” Cuts in the Sheriff, hurriedly, “Tara, it’s really better if I talk to Sam alone-”

“You’re not talking to Sam without me,” Growls Tara.

The Sheriff blinks, her shoulders drawn tight like she’s gearing for a fight. And then she slumps them.

“Alright,” She says, voice even, “What matters is finding Richie and his partner. Tara can be with you.”

Sam swallows. She nods, only slightly.

“I’ll get my jacket.”

You’re halfway into climbing into the Sheriff’s squad car when a familiar Ford Focus pulls into the driveway.

It’s your Mom’s car. You spot her behind the wheel, looking a little forlorn as she hurries to step out.

And then you see your Dad. Face pinched. Annoyed. Like this is the last place he wants to be.

“One second,” You tell the Sheriff, and before she can protest, you’re climbing out of the backseat and stepping out onto the drive.

“YN,” Says your Mom, a little out of breath as she approaches.

Your Dad hovers by the car, scowl on his face as he surveys Tara in the backseat of the squad car. Your Mom’s eyes widen.

“She’s not been arrested again?”

“No, Mom,” You huff, “The Sheriff just needs Sam’s help on something, that’s all.”

“Oh,” Says your Mom. Then her voice softens, “Darling, please. Come home with us. We all need to talk.”

“I don’t think so, Mom.” You begin, “Not when Dad’s acting- crazy, like this.”

You look over at him. He hasn’t taken his eyes off Tara. Glaring, eyes frosted over. Like he hates her more than anyone else in the world.

“Dad has agreed to listen,” Your Mom begs, “Please, sweetheart. He knows he overreacted about the- sex,” Her voice drops, like she’s just said something scandalous, “But the other things - the arrest. The manslaughter?”

“Self-defense,” You say immediately.

Your Mom swallows.

“The self-defense. We need to talk about it. You’re still our daughter. Our only daughter. And we’re worried about you.”

You shoot a look over to the squad car.

The Sheriff is watching, her eyes pinched. Sam’s watching your Dad, but Tara is looking at you.

“Babe?” She says from the car, voice soft, “What is it?”

It isn’t the worst idea in the world. They’re still your parents, after all. You don’t want this - your Dad angry at you. Angry at Tara. You don’t want to ruin your relationship with them if it can be salvaged.

Your Mom blinks, desperation in her eyes. You soften, pursing your lips.

“I’m going to go with my parents,” You tell Tara, “My Mom is right. We should talk.”

Tara sits up. She pries off her seatbelt immediately.

“I’ll come.” Tara says, climbing out of the car.

“No.” Your Dad growls from the car. You ignore him. Rub your hands over Tara’s forearms.

“Babe, it’s fine. You need to go with Sam,” You remind her. You lower your voice, “You need to be in there, make sure she’s okay. Like you said."

Tara looks at you, conflicted.

“But, babe-”

“I’ll be fine,” You assure, “I’ll be with my parents. You and Sam can come and pick me up from the house when you’re done.”

“But Ghostface-”

“Isn’t going to attack me in broad daylight,” You say, “Besides. My Dad’s arsenal is almost as big as Sam’s. Remember?”

Tara looks at your Dad, a little doubtful.

“She’ll be fine, Tara, I’ll send in a squad car.” Says The Sheriff, looking over the rim of her sunglasses at you, “But if you want to go, I don’t mind talking to Sam alone-”

Her tone of voice suggests she very much wants Tara to stay with you. Tara picks it up the same moment you do. Her eyes narrow. Sam's an easy target - Richie's girlfriend, perhaps she could even be sold as his partner in crime.

“You’re not talking to Sam without me,” She says, voice a growl. She shimmies out of the backseat and presses a kiss to your lips, “Keep your phone on,” She says, “Text me every five minutes, okay?”

You nod.

“Okay, babe.” You assure, offering her a small smile.

She kisses you once more.

“And be careful.”

The drive back to your parents house is in silence.

You sit in the back seat, twiddling your thumbs. Your Mom drives, your Dad stewing in silence.

When you arrive at the house, it isn’t much better.

“I’ll make tea,” Says your Mom, hurrying off to the kitchen as you and your Dad settle down on the sofa. His lip twitches, like he has something he wants to say, but you get in first.

“You owe Tara an apology,” You say, eyes narrowed, “She has a bruise on her arm the size of Iowa-”

“She’s lucky that’s all she got,” Says your Dad.

You stare at him for a moment. Then stand.

“I’m not talking to you if you’re going to be like this,” You say, voice hot.

Your Dad hesitates. Then puts his arm out to draw you back down.

“I’m sorry,” He says, and although it’s through gritted teeth, he does sound like he means it, “I shouldn’t have grabbed her. I’ll apologize to her.”

You blink.

“Thank you.”

Your Mom reemerges, cups of hot tea in hand.

“Darling,” She says, “Please. Sit down.”

You settle back into your seat, phone buzzing in your hand. It’s Tara.

In Sheriff’s office with Sam, waiting for her to come back, it reads.

Then. It buzzes again.

You ok baby?

Fine, you message back, Dad said he’s sorry for grabbing u.

I’ll believe it when I hear it, Tara sends back.

Your Mom clears her throat.

“YN,” She says, “Can you put the phone down please? We need to talk.”

And talk you do.

Your Dad stays quiet while your Mom outlines her concerns. The plan, the manslaughter. Tara’s arrest. Her concerns are valid.

Yes, Tara had been arrested for murder. Murders that she had committed.

Yes, you’d set up a foolhardy plan with Tara’s friends to capture Ghostface.

And yes, you’d gone into that school knowing you were about to take someone’s life. And done exactly that.

You watch as your Mother tries to understand. And know there’s nothing you can say to quell her fears.

“I think we need to get you into therapy.” Says your Mom, chewing her lip, “We should have done it earlier. I’m sorry we didn’t do it earlier.”

You blink.

“I don’t want to talk to a shrink,” You argue.

You don’t want to talk to anyone about this. Talking led to answers, answers that you very much need to keep buried. For your sake, just as much as Tara’s.

“Please, honey,” Begs your Mom, “You haven’t been coping, that much is obvious.”

“I’m fine,” You say, leaning forward, “As fine as I can be. I know you’re upset about the plan, but Mom- it was the only way. I mean, look what he was doing to us. Dad carries around a shotgun like it’s his wallet, Tara was going out of her mind, and poor Sam is one more attack away from a nervous breakdown-”

“Exactly why you should talk to someone,” Says your Dad, quietly, “This isn’t normal, YN. Normal eighteen year olds are worried about which colleges they’re going to get into. Not about if they’re going to be attacked in their homes in the middle of the night.”

He pauses.

“And it wouldn’t hurt Tara to go, either.”

Annoyance flares up in your chest.

“Can you stop going after Tara?” You say, suddenly on edge, “She’s done nothing to you, Dad. All she’s done is protect me, and you’re acting like she’s been abusing me or something-”

“There’s something not right about her,” Your Dad says. His brows furrow, like there’s something he just can’t quite work out, “YN, she treats you like you belong to her.”

“I do belong to her,” You say immediately, and then regret it almost instantly. Your Dad’s face contorts in anger. Hurriedly, you walk it back, “I mean, she belongs to me too. I’m her girlfriend. And she’s mine.”

“Honey.” Your Mom is looking at your Dad, a serious look in her eye. Like she’s trying to warn him off saying the wrong thing.

You watch his fists ball.

“Nobody belongs to anyone,” Your Dad says, “You’re not a piece of property. See, this is exactly what I mean. Any shrink worth his weight will tell you the same.”

“I’m not talking to a shrink,” You say, voice raising, “You can’t make me.”

Your Dad stands. His voice is like thunder.

“You’re my child and you’ll do what I say,” He says, familiar vein popping out of his forehead.

You sink back into your seat, crossing your arms, “I thought I didn’t belong to anyone?” You say, voice flat.

Your Dad takes a deep breath. The way he usually does before he’s about to launch into a tirade.

His hand raises, and he points a finger at you.

And then his face freezes.

It’s unmistakable. A loud shattering, like a glass has been dropped. Your Mom’s face falls. You blink, head turning to see where it had come from.

“What was that?” Your Dad says, turning from you, suddenly on guard.

It had sounded from the kitchen. Butterflies soar within your stomach, but not the good kind. The kind that feel like you’re being eaten from the inside out.

The back of your neck prickles. And then your heart almost leaps out of your chest as you feel your phone buzzing in your hands.

It’s Tara. Her pretty smile flashes across the screen. You gulp, silencing your phone with a click of your button.

“The gun,” Hisses your Mom, “Get the gun.”

Your Dad fumbles around behind the sofa. He pulls out his shotgun, posies it against his chest.

“Who’s there?” He calls out, but his voice shakes, “I’m armed. I have a weapon.”

Silence.

Your Mom grabs you by the arm, pulls you back against the wall.

“Stay here,” Your Dad says, cocking the shotgun.

“Dad, don’t-” You hiss, as you grab your phone. It’s buzzing again, Tara’s name flashing across the screen, “I’m going to call the police.”

But he doesn’t listen.

He draws closer to the kitchen, step by step. Your Mom’s eyes are wide, fearful, as she clings onto your arm for dear life.

You press your phone to your ear, answer Tara’s call.

“Babe-” She says, voice urgent, “Stay where you are, I know who Ghostface is.”

But you barely hear her. Your heartbeat is thundering in your ears, fire flooding through your veins.

“He’s in the house,” You say, breath caught in the back of your throat, “Tara, he’s here-”

The crunch of your Dad’s boots against the kitchen tile. You watch as he disappears out of sight. Tears spill wet down your cheeks. Your Mom’s grip on your hand is so hard you feel as if she might pull it clean off.

“Baby, I’m coming,” Tara says. She’s out of breath, like she’s running, “Sam- drive.”

“Call the police, Tara, please,” You whisper, voice a beg, “Call the police right now.”

“Stay on the line, babe,” Tara says. You hear the click of the car door, and Sam’s voice. Urgent. Desperate, “We’re coming right now. We figured it out - Ghostface is-”

But you don’t hear what she says.

Your Dad disappears into the kitchen for less than a second. Another loud crash sounds, then your Dad cries out.

The shotgun blasts.

Your Mom screams.

Your ears ring as you drop your phone to the floor, the screen smashing instantly.

“Dad?” You call out, hands shaking as you move your Mom behind you, “Dad, say something. Are you okay?”

But he doesn’t say a thing.

Blood pounds through your body. Your mother starts to cry. Adrenaline floods through you.

And suddenly you know exactly what you need to do.

“Run.” You tell your Mom.

Your legs feel like jelly as you sprint through the living room, your Mom close behind. You make it to the foyer, looking behind you wildly in an attempt to see if anyone’s behind you. You press your hand against the handle and attempt to draw it open.

But it stays firm, locked.

“It’s the alarm system,” Says your Mother, face thick with tears, “The house is on lockdown, Daddy set it up to go through our phones.”

“So get your phone out.” You hiss.

She fumbles around in her pockets and draws out her phone. You watch the hallway. It’s quiet. Eerie. No sign of your Dad, and no sign of anyone else. You eye the living room window, thinking.

“It won’t unlock,” Your mother says, voice frantic.

You seize the phone from her hands, fiddle around in the app. UNLOCK is near the center, a bright green button. You press it once. Then twice, but nothing happens.

As if it’s been overridden.

“Window,” You mumble, “Mom, get to the window. I’ll break it.”

It happens in a flash.

One moment you’re dropping her phone to the floor, in an effort to grab her hand and run.

And the next, you see him.

Black cloak. Mask pulled over his face.

Your Dad’s shotgun in his hands. Blood coated over his gloves, gleaming in the daylight.

“Run!” You scream out.

Your Mother sprints. Ghostface raises the weapon, lets out a single shot that rings out heavy into the air. It misses, flies off into the wall behind you.

“Don’t move.” Says Ghostface, voice contorted, “Move and you die.”

But you don’t listen. The gun isn’t reloaded - you don’t know much about weapons, but you’ve seen your Dad shoot it before. You tear off, ignoring his angry cry out as you follow your Mom into the living room.

Your Mom grabs a nearby lamp, flings it wildly at the window. It shatters, almost as loudly as the shotgun. Pieces of broken glass litter the carpet, but it's the least of your worries.

You leap over the couch, take your Mother’s hand and lead her to the window.

And then, out of the corner of your eye, you see him again.

He’s loading pellets into the shotgun, and then, with a quiet click, he raises it once more.

But he doesn’t point it at you.

“Mom!” You scream.

Another blast sounds out. You grip either side of your head, ears ringing painfully at the sound. Your mother screams, and then falls to the floor.

Blood spills thick and fast onto the carpet.

You drop down, watch in horror as you catch sight of the wound. It’s gory, bloody, half of her leg blasted clean off. She wails, eyes wide in agony, clutching at her leg as if it will fall off if she lets go.

“Mom.” You sob. You grip her shoulders, in a feeble attempt to drag her to the window.

You should run. You should leave her and run.

But you can’t.

She’s your Mother.

And it’s just the distraction Ghostface needs.

Your Mom looks up at you, mouth open in horror as sees him, looming behind you.

“YN!” She cries out.

But you don’t turn in time.

You feel the hard press as the back of the shotgun slams against your head.

And then everything turns black.

You feel like you’re floating.

Over the earth, mind dizzy, like you’ve been launched into space without an oxygen mask.

There are stars behind your eyes. The back of your head aches, unpleasantly. You can feel something wet against the back of your neck, trickling down underneath your shirt. You groan, move your hand to wipe it away.

And then you realize your hands are bound behind your back.

Panic surges through you as you remember your last moments of consciousness.

Your Dad, walking into the kitchen with a shotgun. The bang of the bullet.

Your Mom, screaming, writhing in pain on the living room floor, shotgun pellet in her leg.

Ghostface.

You open your eyes, chest heaving.

Everything’s fuzzy, blurred. It hurts to look. The room is dark, save for a single ceiling lamp, flickering as if it’s down to its last few minutes of light. You squint, trying to make out your surroundings.

You’re in a basement, maybe. It’s dirty, dusty. Unused. Somewhere completely unfamiliar.

A wave of nausea floods through you.

Your head pounds. The wetness seeping down onto the back of your neck is blood, you realize all at once.

Your phone is broken, gone.

And Ghostface stands in front of you, shimmering dagger in his hands.

You tug at your restraints, hysteria surging through you.

Ghostface has taken you somewhere. To his house, maybe. To somewhere the police, and Tara won’t be able to find you. There’s no sign of your mother, or your father.

It’s quiet.

The only sounds are the desperate fidgeting of your hands and the heavy noise of his breathing.

But it’s hopeless.

Your hands are bound too tight. You have no weapon, and you feel light. Dizzy. Like even if you managed to stand you’d pass out instantly.

It’s the end, you realize all at once.

He has you. And this is how you’re going to die.

You swallow, squint a little harder, ignoring the waves of sickness that flood through you.

And suddenly you only want to know one thing.

“Who are you?” You mumble, “Please. Tell me what you want.”

“Who am I?” Ghostface says. He tilts his head, and you can hear the sneer in his voice. He drops his dagger, then curls his fingers around the edge of the mask.

It pulls off in one clean swipe.

Gone is the mystery. The unfamiliarity.

Your heart drops.

You’ve seen this face before. Not once or twice.

You’ve seen this face so many times in the last twenty-four hours. You remember never wanting to see it again.

But she’s here.

She has you here.

Blood streaming down your neck, hands bound so tight your fingertips are starting to lose feeling.

She stands a little taller, drops her robes and tosses the mask to the floor.

Blonde hair, wide blue eyes.

The spitting image of him.

Sheriff’s badge pressed to her chest.

And suddenly it all falls into place.

She leans in, until she’s so close you can see the untamed lunacy in her eyes. She looks wild, deranged as she tilts the blade against your cheek.

There’s nothing in her eyes but pure, unadulterated hatred.

And then her lips curls as she spits out: “I’m the mother of the boy you murdered.”

#all hers #scream #scream vi #tara carpenter #jenna ortega #tara carpenter x yn #tara carpenter x you #tara carpenter x reader #jenna ortega x yn #jenna ortega x you #jenna ortega x reader #fanfic #mine

541 notes · View notes

pascals-doll · 3 months

Text

kill kill 2

joel miller x reader

🫧 part 2 | ✩°｡⋆⸜ 🎧 PART 1 | PART 3

🫧 based off kill kill by lana del rey, written loosly off the lyrics

🫧 description: angst, heated arguing, all of this is dramatized tbh, outbreak! joel, reader having a meltdown, no mentions of y/n, reader is in distress, joel tries his best to calm you down, soft joel, suggestive not really, mentions of joel dying (not word for word but just something happening to him)

Tell me about Ray and his girl

Do I know Ray has gone to meet you?

Love you, I do

Stay here, I won't

The stars fade from your eyes

🫧

Joel stood there speechless to say the least. you didnt mean the way it sounded but also perfectly explained how you felt “all i do is wait even if i go outside to tend the garden, practice my range, visit tommys or the stables, or even fucking leaving this house at all! no matter what i do, i am waiting. my mind goes in circles knowing all the things you face out there. you wouldnt even begin to understand the feeling my heart feels everytime you walk out that goddamn door- heartbreak is not even the fucking word.” you sob out, youre speech of pure pent up emotions.

you hadn’t spoken much words in that past months, if anything you spent more time writing them than saying them. this was, to say the least the most youve said in months. youre sobs didnt stop even after. Joel stood there for only a moment before immediately taking you into his embrace, his bulked up completely engulfing your vulnerable one.

“oh…princess, shh” Joel shushes into your ear, you squirm wanting to pull away in frustation as a river of tears fall down your puffy cheeks. Joel didnt budge until you began to grunt in his embrace, not giving up the struggle to get out of his arms “please doll-dont fight me” Joel says softly, struggling slightly because of the slight push of your hands “let go of me! Ive done everything i can! im so alone-im so alone! its like youre dead. we all might aswell be…” you get quieter on your last two sentences, becoming timid but still youre mind in a frenzy.

“nothing is going to happen to me.” Joel states, he meant it. although you loved him dearly, you knew he wasnt immune to infected or a human bullet-proof vest. no matter how much skill.

“you and i know better than to say that.” you state coldly, his big deep eyes that you swore you saw stars in them each time fall. he knew you were right “lemme get the shower runnin’ f’us doll? wha’da ya say?” he suggests softly, a soft smile tugging his lips while wiping the tears from your pink puffy cheeks. you just nod returning the soft smile.

he helped you up the stairs into your bathroom. you just hopped up ontop of your sink counter, opening your medicine cabinet to get your med-kit while Joel got the hot shower running for both of you.

it was winter, the last time you had seen him it was fall.

you couldn’t help all the random thoughts that overfilled your mind “did ya’ hear me darlin?” Joel calls out to you, settling you out of your head into reality “hm?” you hummed softly, confused. Joel just threw you a soft grin while walking closer to you “our bath is ready” he says, his hands resting on your thighs. you giggle slightly, playing with the buttoms of his button-up “im sorry doll. my intentions are never to hurt you. that is the last thing i want to do. there isnt enough medicine supply at Tommy’s, you knew were responsible for to go out for supply.” Joel says softly, slowly pulling off your furry cardigan from your shoulders. you roll your eyes, your attitude inches away from coming back “Tommy has plenty of men.” your tone came out a bit harsh “those men have families m’doll” he explains, caressing your cheek.

you couldnt fight there, you werent dumb enough to argue with family. you werent family whatsoever but you were somebody.

“i know, but last time i checked because of me you have a place to come home too! and yes, you have your own place at Tommys. yet, theres a reason you come here. i deserve more.” you explain and there goes your eyes, welling up with tears. you refused to look at Joel in the eyes.

Joel couldnt say anything as he didnt think about it like that, yes he had his own house yet nothing made it ‘home’. you were right “yes doll, m’such a fucked up old man…i aint even realize that without you, all this i considered home. it would seize to exist.”

from the first word to his last, his fingers slowly undressed you with each sentence building up and leaving his mouth. youre loose long sleeve with sly buttons already popped off and open. his hands rested on your legging covered thighs.

you shuddered under his touch, feeling already soft under his sharp gaze. he meant every word he said “let me make it up to you, princess” he says, his fingers finding the hemming of your soft leggings.

you leaned up at him, looking up at him wirh such loving teary eyes. you were inches away from kissing him, your hands beginning to unbutton his dark long sleeve.

“only if you stay”

🫧

I'm in love with a dying man

I'm in love, lying in the sand

I'm in love with a dying man

I have done everything I can

100 notes · View notes

ilynpilled · 10 months

Text

i feel like ive seen too many very odd reads of this whole thing, so i do wanna go through jaime & the brutal murder of rhaegar and elia’s children situation.

first of all, we know jaime’s main function as a kingsguard at 15: he is a pawn in aerys and tywin’s beef. he is a hostage and a means to rob tywin of an heir

this is what rhaegar tells him too. despite jaime’s guilt, it was not a “i am leaving everything in your hands 💔 you are my most trusted knight” being said to an unseasoned teen, rhaegar isn’t dense, but a: “he is tywin’s son, he is the ideal hostage to keep him under control. a crutch for aerys and his dangerous paranoia (even if just to satiate him, which is why he was kept close, again, people knew that aerys was erratic atp.)” we have the actual conversation. rhaegar is open about this, he isnt really tricking jaime here. they also emphasize that he has to stay near aerys. that is his primary role, not anything else. what rhaegar didn’t take into consideration is that tywin, when it comes down to it, will sack the city anyway (neither did he know what would happen at the trident, and how badly the tides will turn, how it will affect aerys and how he will think he was betrayed by lewyn and dorne, how he will not let elia and the children leave etc), the stakes are too great for house lannister and we know tywin will not pick the losing side. it is already a pretty grim situation for jaime, who had witnessed the brutal executions of a bunch of people at this point, to be left alone in the hands of a mad man as someone who eventually becomes solely responsible for the red keep, while also being functionally a hostage while his father decides to betray the crown, but of course, aerys has a bigger plan to retaliate and therefore jaime also has bigger things to worry about.

jaime feels guilt and responsibility about the whole thing anyway, and the way it is read in the most bad faith way imaginable is kind of odd to me. the dream is extremely integral. it reveals things to us that jaime pushes down as a narrator. it peels off the layers. first of all, jaime is explicit about ned’s judgement, the kingslayer complex, and the role that played, and his concious expects ned to show up in the dream as well, but it is revealed to be not actually about that. he, and that external source of judgement and scorn, is not the thing that haunts him. we see that it is a deep sense of failure over being unable to triumph over contradictions. he reflects on this after the dream too: “it was not him. it was never him.” and the message is deliberately delivered by the ghosts of the people that embody that initial quixotic view of the world that he had as a boy.

i have seen people claim that the “light dimming” is meant to indicate jaime lying about not knowing (being aware that tywin can be very brutal and is capable of hurting innocents is different from jaime knowing or suspecting this order). even if that wasnt contradicted in the text (ill get to this), it doesnt seem to work with the dream? the fires also gutter out when he gets condemned for killing the king right after, there is no clear him “lying” consistency here. and even if you go by that interpretation, the flame is unaffected by the claim of “i was with the king”, which would then have to be true (and it is—so again what is jaime meant to do here?) because we know the scaling of maegor’s holdfast was happening simultaneously with aerys being murdered and the wildfire plot being stopped. the main function of this part of the dream is jaime’s light, a “romantic burning out” as george puts it, being destroyed by contradictory oaths and a fundamentally unjust and cynical world. the light being withered is about losing hope & purpose, and failing to keep vows that actually matter. rhaegar’s children, his guilt over them, and the oath they embody (protect the weak, defend the innocent) plague his mind. the “I never thought he’d hurt them” is relevant in a different way. jaime is guilty of being an extension of the lannister regime. he is guilty of enabling it. and this is more relevant to him after this event, in the present. the whole dream operates on three levels: past, present, and future.

it is why this idea comes up with the tysha situation as well. whether he knew or considered it at the time (and i do not personally think he did, or it was compartmentalized) or not is not whats truly relevant. i think the point that is being emphasized is that tywin and his legacy is something that has to be rejected entirely in the present. he knows by now inarguably. no more “looking without seeing.” this justification does not work anymore. anyway, the point is that his light goes out because of the terror of being confronted with these contradictory oaths and impossible situations where these heavy choices have to be made, with devastating costs. the vows cannot compromise. these are situations and choices that destroy a nonexistent ideal that he had always romanticized in every aspect of his life. it is a culmination of the build up of everything jaime held close to his heart being torn down during those two years serving in the kingsguard. it is about the conflict between ethics and morals: “In some queer way, that had been worse than Lord Chelsted’s screaming. “We are sworn to protect her as well,” Jaime had finally been driven to say. “We are,” Darry allowed, “but not from him.” & “After, Gerold Hightower himself took me aside and said to me, “You swore a vow to guard the king, not to judge him.”

but this situation is intentionally impossible in every aspect. morals and ethics conflict. we have the obvious of what do you do when killing the king breaks the oath you swore to protect him? what if not doing it means breaking the oath to protect the innocent? what if your heroes condemn you despite you telling them the full context of this dilemma and make the fire gutter out permanently? what if being with the king (be it to protect him or kill him to save a city) means you are not there to protect the children from your own father (who you are also sworn to obey)? the moral constructs that this society operates with is nonsense, and it is not confronted by people. can the horrors be fought at all? this is how you have someone described as a “very idealistic young man” by george turn into the amoral bitter cynic we see in the actual series who proceeds to revolve his life around another delusion instead, the only one that remains to him, and loses his own moral code due to how extremely it all conflicts with all code of ethics. it results in a cowardly acceptance of the horrors, his selfishness and faux nihilism, and leads to the enablement and perpetuation of evil.

there is a reason this whole thing haunts jaime and his narrative, and starts blending together with the starks in adwd (something jaime is directly accountable for), and is a huge factor when it comes to jaime effectively contradicting tywin’s dogma when he goes with brienne. jaime became that “knight” in many ways, he, by his own admission, became the smiling knight, who he later also labels “the mountain of my boyhood.” but he is not anymore, which is why there are notable anti parallels in that chapter.

when it comes to how much jaime knew back then, i think the text is pretty clear:

1. if jaime knew or suspected that tywin had the massacre of an entire family already in motion the hope of “leaving to make terms” would not really be there. 2. after he is found, crakehall informs him that they secured the city and the castle. jaime points out in retrospect that this was only half true, and that he couldn’t have known about the scaling (and other things) still happening by this point. jaime is under the impression that everything is secured as a result. he orders everyone who yields to be spared. he is also under the impression as per his narration that aegon is still there, safe and alive, and could be a potential king. however, he does become concerned about the possibility of another aerys. there is a reason he climbs the throne here imo. i never read this as “jaime too busy fucking around lol” or “is intentionally letting them die because his blood is in both of them.” again, he orders everyone who yields spared, and is under the impression that the castle is already secured. he even entertains the possibility of tywin being hand to aegon as king (clearly not possible with what is in the middle of happening —and if he even suspects this threat, why is this considered a possibility by him?) until he gets an aerys flashback, and decides against it despite it serving his family. he has a lot of things on his mind right now anyway to figure out tywin’s current strategy when it comes to house lannister (not to mention this is not really how jaime’s brain works, he is not very machiavellian minded) considering he just damned himself by committing one of the most significant oathbreakings in history, and that someone will fill the hole left by the person who had the power to nuke a city, something that jaime has nightmares about nearly 20 years later. and even if he was aware of this threat that he clearly wasn’t, considering the fact that it was happening simultaneously with jaime killing aerys and being found, if he knew and tried to rush over there after killing aerys, judging from the distance, it would have been too late. hence “i was with the king…” in the dream.

#jaime lannister #i am genuinely baffled at how something so clearly presented can be skewed to the point that it usually is #like this is the core of much of his character too like hello #ig bc none of this was in the show??? lol???

259 notes · View notes

rabidaly · 19 days

Note

Ok one more update from a shark in the water? Please???

Here’s the first 1k(roughly)! Keep in mind I haven’t edited and I had like. A three-month long writers block for this fic so I’m not super attached/happy with this intro— it may change when I go back next weekend!

Hopefully it’s enough to wet your appetite tho ;)

—

Stiles had friends.

Lydia was his friend. Erica. Danny and Kira danced the line between acquaintance and actual friendship, but gun to his head, Stiles would count them as the latter. And Scott. God knows they'd been inseperable for over a decade.

It's just—

Stiles didn’t text his friends the way he texted Derek.

Or as often.

It wasn’t anything serious. Just lots of little, trivial things: pictures here and there, Stiles blinking doe eyes at the camera, biting his lip. He texted Derek about his annoying professor, the chronological order of the Marvel movies, his attempts at latte foam art. Stiles rambled and vented and altogether talked too much, but—

Derek always answered.

Even if it was a simple, one-word reply. Even if sometimes it took a couple hours. Stiles wasn’t sure he’d have been able to stop even if he didn’t; every little thing that popped into his head came with the companion thought of, oh! I wonder what Derek would think about this!

ive never seen you play a video game, he texted on Thursday evening.

I don’t. What are you playing?

COD

with scott

R u home?

At the gym.

Stiles had figured as much, but he still caught himself sighing. They were in the Hale-McCall living room, playing on Scott’s family Xbox, both sore and tired from their shifts at work. From his spot on the couch, Stiles could hear Peter humming in the kitchen, most likely prepping for dinner. Melissa was still at work.

And Derek was at the gym. Snooze.

how much can u lift? Stiles texted, before his character on screen ran into a wall and he had to put his phone down. Scott side-eyed him, hard.

Stiles caught the tail-end of Scott taking incoming fire before his phone buzzed again. He looked back down.

I can lift double your weight, easy, Derek had typed, cutting to the heart of the matter.

Stiles pinkened.

for how long?

For as long as it takes. Derek replied. it’s your endurance we need to work on, if anything.

Stiles could taste the sharp edge of Derek’s condescension on his tongue. Something inside him went molten-hot, liquified, like the liquid wax of a burning candle.

maybe you should take me to the gym with you, he typed, squirming at just the thought of it. Derek all sweaty, the graceful arch of spine, muscles flexing as he lifts himself. we could be workout buddies.

Would you wear leggings?

Stiles readjusted on the couch, his leg coming up against his chest.

in public? no.

but I could sit on you.

on your back. while you do push ups

A bit too daring. Stiles bit his lip when Derek didn’t respond. He focused back on the game, hoping to distract himself.

It didn’t help much.

Scott huffed, throwing down his remote when they both died.

“What is with you, man?”

“What do you mean?” Stiles said, peeking at his phone again. No new messages.

“I mean, you’re not even watching where you’re going. You just got us both killed!”

”I’m just—“ Stiles felt unreasonably grumpy. “Bored. Can’t we play something else?”

“Like what?”

Like Mario Kart, per Stiles’ suggestion. The best part about Mario Kart was that Scott was—

“Awful, man. Just terrible,” Stiles laughed as Scott swerved off the road, twisting his remote uselessly, as if that were going to do anything while he wasn’t holding down the gas. “Honestly, it’s embarrassing to watch. You should just stop. You’re bringing shame to your family name.”

“I used to beat you at every game!”

“Yeah, in like seventh grade.” Stiles shook his head. “How’s it feel, Scott? To have peaked in middle school?”

“I haven’t peaked, I’m just—“ Scott threw down the controller as the track completed, screen flashing the stats. Scott in tenth place, Stiles in first. Just like the last time. And the time before that. “Out of practice. God, screw this. I want to play Skyrim.”

“Skyrim is god-awful on the Switch.”

“Well, then, I’ll bring the PS4 down here.”

“But it’s single player,” Stiles scrunched up his nose. “I’m not going to just sit here like your girlfriend and pretend watching you play video games is interesting.”

Scott looked offended. “Allison isn’t pretending. She said she loves watching me play.”

Right.

“Sure she does.” Stiles rolled his eyes. "We can just put on a horror movie or something, play fuck, marry, kill." A weird little tradition of theirs, any time they break out the b-rate horror films.

"Which one do you wanna watch?"

Stiles shrugged, "You pick."

He checked his phone again. Sighed for the millionth time.

Scott noticed.

“Who are you texting?”

Fuck.

”No one important,” Stiles said quickly, and put his phone face down on the side table.

Scott stared at it. “Is that a new phone?”

”What? No.”

”It’s pink," Scott pointed out. "Your phone's not pink.”

Stiles really needed to get a case for the thing. “Okay,” he conceded. “It’s a new phone. I splurged.”

The reaction was immediate.

”Stiles! We’re supposed to be saving up for an apartment!” Scott shook his head. “You’ve got to stop spending money, dude.”

Scott was definitely right about that. Stiles might not have bought the phone, but he'd hardly saved a dime since he’d started his job. He’d been too busy buying— well. You know.

As if summoned by the thought of his underwear alone, Stiles' phone (finally, finally) buzzed. Stiles had moved before his brain had fully processed the sound, snatching his phone up from the table on reflex.

Stay put. I’ll be there in 10.

Stiles’ cheeks darkened to a fire-engine red. Uh-oh.

#siyw #am open to suggestions!! especially that first 300 words or so #I’ve written this beginning so many times I ended up just leaving it the way it is to finish the actual meat of the story #sterek

65 notes · View notes

petricocked · 6 months

Text

winter king x softdom!reader

u made me do this... anyways ive never posted on tumblr before so i dont really know how this works

cw: smut, pwp, soft dom reader, reader is called "princess", bitchboy winter king, also probably ooc wk, not proofread

wc: 987

You had him slotted between your legs, arms wrapping around his front to let your hands glide across his chest. You could feel his heart beating through his half-buttoned dress shirt. His breaths came out in short gasps in spite of the fact that you had barely started touching him.

He whined when your hand inched down to ghost over the crotch of his pants, instinctively bucking up into you.

He was, Golb bless him, trying his damndest to keep his regal composure, but you could tell he was growing impatient. Sucks for him. Not you, though. It was fun for you.

"Princess, please," he pleaded with you.

You thought you'd take pity on him this time.

You took your time undoing his fly, making it a point to run your fingers painstakingly slow up against him.

He let out another one of his pretty whines, wordlessly begging you to fist his cock until he squirted against his chest. But you wouldn't do that. Not yet, at least.

Pretty tears welled up in his eyes, and you think they'd crystalize if they fell out. You wanted him in you in a way that surpassed sex and was far beyond morally correct. You thought about eating him, but that made it weird.

He was fucking hard. His poor cock strained against those fancy boxers he wore and literally sprung up when you freed him.

He was gorgeous. Had the prettiest little dick-- blue at the base and flushed a cotton candy pink at the tip.

Your hands danced around the extremely pressing matter. Of course, you weren't just gonna give him what he wanted-- he had to work for it!

"Tell me what you want,"

Golb, that got him. He hated being out of control like this. Poor thing.

"Want you," he breathed out.

"Already got me, what now?"

That irritated him.

"Want you to touch me,"

"'M already touching you,"

Poor thing couldn't catch a break, and to frost the metaphorical cake: after his slip-up, you let your fingers rest against his thighs. Completely opposite of where he wanted them.

He genuinely cried at this, gripping his own hands atop yours.

"My cock! Please, want you to help me get off!" he affirmed the earnestness of his confession with a sharp and almost involuntary upward thrust of his hips.

Much better! You'd accept that.

"What a good boy, baby! See, was that so hard?"

He was. Indefinitely.

You felt equal parts bad for him and fucking turned on at how hot he was letting himself go like this.

Your hands found their way back to his cock, finally giving him what he wanted.

You worked the tip of his cock with your index and middle finger, not yet giving him the exact amount of pressure he wanted.

Your fingers slinked down to wrap around his cock. Did I mention it was pretty?

Golb, was he a sight. Splayed out for you, open and completely vulnerable. Head tilted back against you, eyes lidded, and glasses slipping down his nose. His glittery hair was mussed, and his chest was rising and falling at a rate you think would kill him. You think you want him in your chest.

You wanted to see him ruined and cumming all over himself. But you'd draw it out a little longer.

He'd never say it outright, but he wanted that too. There was something so, for a lack of better words, hot, about letting you humiliate him like this. Being reduced to nothing more than a crying mess in your lap.

Literally crying.

Pretty tears had started to run down his cheeks as you pumped his cock, and you reveled in them.

He couldn't take much more of this. You knew he was going to cum if you kept it up.

So you didn't.

And, Golb, did that almost kill him.

He jerked up, whining and humping aimlessly at the air, hands frantically reaching back to grab at you for leaving him, (your king!!!!) like this. He would definitely mention his title if he could think about anything else besides your hands on his cock.

"Please, please, please, please, please, please, holy fucking shit,"

The mouth on this so-called "king"!

"Princess, can't, I,"

"You can,"

"Can't, need to cum," he knew better than to get himself off, so his hands gripped desperately at yours on his taut thighs.

"Mm," you anything but half-heartedly retorted.

You lifted your left hand up to stretch out his mouth, your warm fingers perfectly contrasting his cold tongue, which left your right hand to make its way back to jackhammering away at his poor swollen cock.

He was fucking gone. His spit dripped down and coated your fingers, and his little hips were moving as fast as he could will them to.

Golb bless him, he was really trying his hardest to talk to you with your fingers jammed down his throat and rubbing against his teeth, but all he could get out were garbled moans and pleas.

You thought you might be nice this go around.

He looked so pretty like this, you wanted to give him the world.

So you didn't stop this time, you kept your fist working diligently around his cock until his thrusts devolved into erratic jerky spasms, and his pretty mouth went limp, no longer able to service your fingers. His entire face contorted, partly in sheer shock that you were actually letting him cum this time. He came in thin milky ropes, shooting up against his fancy blazer and dribbling out onto your hand.

You jerked him off through his high and sincerely thought about not stopping until he was crying for a different reason, but that was for a different day.

"Thank you," he mumbled against your fingers, shifting his hips to get comfortable in your lap.

Wow! What a gracious and unexpected show of gratitude!

"But my BLAZER," :((((((

-----------

ok um.. idrk how to use tumblr but anyways i wrote this because i had evil awful winter king thoughts in my head and had to get them out.. if anyone reads this its not my fault.. if u liked it ummm u can request anything go nuts idrc just be rlly specific but i cant guarantee u ill write it im a busy girl!!!!!

#winter king x reader smut #the winter king x reader smut #fionna and cake fic #winter king x reader #the winter king x reader

61 notes · View notes

ruiniel · 2 months

Text

Remember

Fandom: Demon Slayer: Kimetsu no Yaiba

Pairing: Kokushibō x fem!Reader

Count: 1.9K

Rating: 🔞

Tags & Warnings: Multichapter, POV Second Person, Darkfic, Angst, Ambiguity, Past Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Reincarnation, Toxic relationship, Codependency, Blood Drinking, Non-con, Flashbacks, Hurt/Comfort, Kokushibō's wife, Her name is Hisami, References to childbirth but nothing graphic, POV Tsugikuni Michikatsu, Emotional Sex, Mild Smut, is it gratuitous yes and no, Human!Kokushibō, Kokushibō | Tsugikuni Michikatsu-centric, Sengoku Period (1467-1590), If there's anything Upper Moon One fears it's his memories

On AO3

Part II - Part III - Part IV - Part V

Summary:

"...and I can't remember my wife's or children's faces..." —Kokushibō Taishō era, 1915. A lonely young woman's life changes after a strange encounter where the surface of a hidden world is revealed. A story of contrasts.

You foolish girl...

You run shaking fingers over your dry lips, feeling a sear that rushes through your veins like hot, poisoned wine.

It was not supposed to happen this way, and maybe it was indeed all your fault. You’d been weak, tried to show him you didn’t care what he was or what form he took, no matter how divorced from reality it appeared. You only wanted to show him that... that you wanted.

And what precisely did you want? You gaze up at the sky, where the night is cloudless yet there is no moon or stars: as if they, too, fled the aftermath of his fury.

Once, you said you did not fear him, standing like an unmovable pillar before the potent dread and despair that seemed to consume the living breath of everything in his presence. You didn’t know better, and it was easier that way.

“We should never have crossed paths,” you tell the nothingness outside. You wish he could hear it. Then you’d have your dignity back, and maybe he’d be satisfied knowing he was right.

A spring evening. It was early April, the air drunk on the bloom of cherry blossoms. You were returning from the festival, feeling too warm even in your thin yukata, strands of hair sticking to your temples. It was the herald of a mercilessly hot summer.

Alone, you took the streets towards home, yearning for your refuge after the day’s agitation. You felt safe in your small town and thought nothing of the steps echoing behind: until it was too late.

You offered them whatever money you had, but that was not their intent. Terror paralyzed you, choked you so you couldn’t even yell for aid. You tore at their faces, kicked and thrashed. You’d never known true hatred, but as you cried in despair you wished the grizzliest death upon them.

“How pitiful.”

Words echoing like a hollow wind, words you’ll never forget until your years are spent and the spark of life fades from your body. The grip on your arms froze, and in your own heart fear unending spread like rot.

There was nothing there when you looked, though, only a shadow in the shape of a... man?

“Humans have not changed. You all remain disgusting… and weak.”

His voice was deep. Cold like a winter moon, resonating within you like the shuddering vibrations of an earthquake. A speech strange and antiquated, the tone laced with contempt, and through the blur of tears you couldn’t see his face.

“Even to your kind, preying on others seems to be the norm.”

They... there were two of them, both of which had simply forgotten all about you and turned to run.

You must’ve cried, you must’ve screamed. Your mind couldn’t comprehend what your eyes showed you. You could not even move.

But where two men stood a moment before, now were merely two widening pools of blood, flowing into one another.

The stranger stood there, turned away from you.

You retreated back on your hands and legs, your back hitting the nearest wooden hedge. You tried to speak, but what would you even say? “Will you kill me?”

He looked over his shoulder at you. He had long, shining dark hair, tied back from his face. He wore a kimono and hakama. Was that a blade fastened at his waist? His features were still muddled, or perhaps it was your fear toying with perception but try as you did, you couldn’t discern them.

The stranger—the murderer—turned back ahead, saying nothing.

For a mere moment the paralysis in your limbs eased, and you took the chance: you up and ran, as fast as your legs could take you, never looking back.

You sit alone on your bench, wiping your forehead. An early summer evening falls. It was another hard day of labor, but you are pleased: the garden now looks as you’d wanted it to, and that brings a sense of peace as you watch the silver slice of the moon, set like a brooch in the velvet sky.

The sensation of being watched is sudden. The surprise is great when you gaze ahead and see the Shadow. The now familiar frost encircles your heart, and the world has become eerily still as even cicadas stopped their endless chirping. You stand.

That night, that gruesome, surreal experience still lingers in your memory, no matter how many times you tried to forget. And now it’s here, a living nightmare having taken two lives that you know of—saving you from your fate in the process. But your curiosity of all things unexplainable is innate, and instead of fear, you find a voice to speak. “Have you... Have you come to take your due from me?”

What does one even ask a revenant? Is this presence such an entity? You’d never been deeply spiritual or religious, but now, this feels like a haunting.

He is not looking at you, as though he’d not heard your question. He appears taken with the small pool mirroring the golden light from several lamps, highlighting the crimson tips of his hair.

You try again. “Am I being haunted?”

No answer comes. He is as still as the stones in your garden.

“Did you make this arrangement… yourself?”

You recall that timbre and odd fluctuations, soft and umbrous. His archaic speech, as from another age. His voice akin to an ill omen. But within, you feel no threat or peril, not this time. Might as well humor him. Or it. “I did,” you answer. You are surely mad… surely, you think, even as your feet drag your body closer until you stand at his side.

His long locks hide most of his features, but despite that you can tell they are youthful, those of someone in their prime. He feels very present, for a ghost.

You watch the water in silence, the sickle moon reflected in the shallow pool. In its mirror-like surface, you, too, look like a shadow next to him. A single petal falls, causing a ripple that breaks the vision.

“I did not thank you, sir. For... that time.” When you blink, you are alone. “Wait!” You look around, darting to and fro in the garden, finding not a wisp of him.

“Well, then. It seems I am being haunted after all.”

At first, it is morbid curiosity. You go, night after night, sitting in the same place, waiting. The wraith does not show itself again, but still, you go.

One night, you play the flute—an old thing your late father used to entertain you with once upon a time, until you begged and insisted you wanted to be taught too. You’d use the pastime to fill the empty spaces in your day, and it became a habit. It reminded you of him.

An intriguing meld of thrill and fear unfurls in your chest, and you know.

This time, he is seated on the same bench, back straight, posture dignified. His sheathed blade rests over his knees. He never looks at you, your haunting spirit. But he’s returned and this time, you don’t speak at all, you ask no questions. You keep playing, and he listens, and an ancient joy fills you to the brim.

You play the flute often after that. Sometimes, you also sing, alone. When the moon is full, he stays longer. Now he speaks more than before, though his words are measured and at times even curt. Some questions he never answers: such as his name, his origin.

Once you asked who he’d been in life.

“Different.” Not quite an answer, but the most you’d gotten on the topic.

You slowly set down the flute. “Do you play?”

A hand twitches nervously on his knee: the most human reaction you’ve seen from him to date. It charms you, that same meld of unease and thrill flowering through your body. Wordlessly, you extend your hand, offering him the instrument.

The shock is great: for the brief moment in which his fingers brush yours, there is no other sensation but that of calloused human skin touching skin. He feels as solid as any other man. And this, now this gives you pause.

Your fingers close around his without thought and you gaze upward, finding...

Him, staring back at you, lips parted, revealing... fangs.

His features are indeed young, but like a veil lifted you see him: three pairs of eyes stare back at you, at first in surprise, then narrowing. The next moment he is on his feet, the flute fallen on the ground between you.

“You... You are no wraith.” What are you, then?

He turns around faster than you can see.

You’re shaking, you remember the deaths, his manner, and now the inhuman, impossible make of his physiognomy. Are you hallucinating? You must be. Perhaps loneliness has sickened your spirit, perhaps the effect of his presence instills madness in minds. But you’re boldly pulling at the sleeve of his patterned garment, rounding and facing him.

“Upper Rank… One,” you read in his eyes. He is still as Death, the void of silence surrounding him stronger than ever before. “Is that your name?”

You stare, fascinated. Your body cries flee but as in a spell you lean closer, balancing on your tiptoes. He is tall, taller than any man you’d seen or known; what are you doing? Your arm wraps around his neck and finds hot iron beneath silk. His lips are just as warm as the rest of him, but the rumble of a growl bursts through your chest.

You cannot breathe; the air refuses to enter your lungs.

He faces you, standing a distance away now with veined hands balled into fists.

“You foolish girl...”

His icy voice hurts your ears, the raw hatred in it so scathing your legs fail you as though severed, and you fall to your knees.

“How dare you... I could crush you like a fallen petal.” That same voice, dripping malice withering the life around you. The crimson in his eyes is aflame. “Perhaps, I will...”

“Yes I’m human, and I'm flawed, and overstepped! But you do not even have the courage to say what you are. Why? ... Why do you keep coming here?”

He stares you down, silent, cruelty twisting his mouth.

“Please, tell me. At least tell me, and then do what you will… but why?”

Please… tell me why.

His expression morphs from cruelty to utter horror, yellow pupils blown so wide they nearly swallow the red. His entire presence disrupting the world around you now seeps... regret?

Why? Why must you leave?

He raises a hand as if to ward you off, even though you still kneel and plead.

He takes one step back—away from you—and whispers, for the first time in a trembling voice. “You... your face...”

Michikatsu, please...

He retreats another step, a hand to his head.

We are a family... are you not happy? Are you not...

You slowly rise, against all reason trying to reach him again.

“Begone!” he thunders, and though you near him, though you wrap your arms around him driven by a need so deep its roots reach beyond your own life, you find yourself alone again; unscathed, holding nothing.

The song of cicadas fills the night. Your chest hurts, your heart feels bruised and broken behind your ribs. An overflow of emotion wells in your eyes.

I will never see him again.

A voice within, your own and not your own. But you wish...

You wish it were his fingers playing through your hair instead of the empty wind.

The moon above is blood-red, partly hidden beneath a cloud. The flute lies at your feet, abandoned by the bench.

Part II

#kokushibo #kimetsu no yaiba #demon slayer #demon slayer x reader #kokushibo x reader #kny #michikatsu tsugikuni #ruiniel:fanfiction #kny fanfic #kokushibou

31 notes · View notes

bluelolblue · 2 months

Note

what r ur thoughts on gianna and santino’s relationship? (ive always loved gianna but it feels like she’s just as if not more ruthless than santino. she just manages to act civilized more)

The D'Antonio siblings

They're both so fucking beautiful 💕

I definitely think Santino was jealous of Gianna when their father willed his seat to her and throughout their childhood

The reason for their father leaving his seat to Gianna is unknown in the movie (we can make headcanons on that ofc). However, I think that just made the relationship between Santino and Gianna even worse

I think through their childhood, Gianna was more the serious one, had more tolerance, patience and took things as a D'Antonio heir seriously.

While Santino probably wasn't like that. He's the younger sibling, and he was probably a bit spoiled. Or he tried his best to impress their father, but he was "not good enough."

Since they're both D'Antonios, they got everything served on a plate for them... but it's not as easy as they thought. Or at least not how Santino thought

Idk what Santino was thinking. That he's gonna get the seat after his sister proved herself more? But this is just my thought since we don't know that part

Really, it could've been differently. Maybe he did everything he could to prove himself, but his father was just an asshole

In the movie, we don't even see them interact with each other. Only like through John. Santino saying "I could never do it. She is my blood. I still love her." Has a little bit of truth in it, but the real reason he couldn't kill his sister was just that he didn't want to risk getting his hands dirty. And to kill Gianna D'Antonio, he needs someone special... and that someone special is John Wick. Just what Santino told him "That's why I need the ghost, lo spettro, John Wick. That's why I need you."

While Gianna called John "Death's very emissary." So even in all this, you can see how they're both using and picking their words carefully

Gianna didn't seem very fond of the fact that when she dies, Santino takes her place, but he also takes New York. And John would be the one who gifted it to him. So that's something I'll have to analyze more

Although, I feel like they both still cared for each other in their own ways. No matter how cold they might have acted towards each other, I still think they cared and loved each other. Or that sibling love is somewhere deep in them

They were both born into this D'Antonio family, into this toxic hierarchy of the High Table, and they couldn't do anything about it. It's the way they were raised to believe that this life is normal and it's supposed to be like that

That one of them is gonna be the next representative of Camorra. Of course that one child is gonna be jealous of another. It just happened to be Santino

I do agree that Gianna seems just as ruthless as Santino. HOWEVER, she has more self-control, can act more civilized, and has more patience, so she is really good at hiding all that, which makes her a great leader in my opinion

They both share the same way of having good ways with their words. They both talked to John in a very...how do I say it? Manipulative but calm tone and had rather relaxed and even dominant body language around him. So they both don't fear John, and they're not afraid to show that

But we all know what happened to her and later on to Santino. Gianna had a really tragic death, in my opinion, since she killed herself. "I lived my life my way. And I'll die my way." That line sends chills down my spine and it's fucked up in a tragic way. Makes me think she actually didn't want to be a part of all this. And really, the only way to escape from the curse of being a D'Antonio that's supposed to represent Camorra in the High Table is death

While Santino literally decided his own death with talking back to John. All he had to do was not mock John any further, and maybe he could've had his seat at the High Table for a longer time

Both share a lot of similarities, actually...it's just that Gianna died willingly trying to escape from this life she was born into, and Santino died after he got what he wanted by force

There is, unfortunately, no good ending for the D'Antonio siblings

Rip Gianna and Santino D'Antonio... yall were too attractive to die 😞 💔

I'll write more about them in the future, I wanna do deep analysis on both of them so... one day, it's gonna happen. I love their sibling rivalry lol it's very interesting

Also, I like to add some pics from pinterest for aesthetic lmao :3

#santino d'antonio #santino d’antonio #gianna d’antonio #john wick #john wick chapter 2 #I'll write more abt them in the future #i have to rewatch the movie over and over again to make a deep analysis on them #but yeah Gianna deserves more credit #will write more abt her eventually #and the sibling rivalry between them is really interesting

12 notes · View notes

walnutcookie · 3 months

Note

tell me your headcanons for mac n cheese and cheddar RIGHT NOW!! /nf /silly

HI THANK U SO MUCH FOR THIS ASK AGSJDBDKFBSKRB /GEN THIS MAKESME SO HAPPY ,,,,

i think that if i were to go in depth about my headcanons and lore for them this post would be a bit long so heres some of the simpler ones X]

links lead to drawings ive made relating to my headcanons 👍

Cheddar Cheese

• cheddar is very. VERY tall. like 6'9" (funny number). Makes it worse because sometimes they like to wear heels

• uses all pronouns but mainly they/them :3 male/female honorifics

• a lesbian. Question mark ? still debating

• rogueforts cousin!!! Survived the blue cheese manor fire (which happened when it was just a teen)

• related to above if you know anything about my roguefort lore they grew up in a Not so great rich snobby family!! they were buxton blue cheeses child which makes cheesecake their sister as well. Dont ask where the accent came from let me have this JZVDKFBDK

• intersex and bigender - when growing up they were forced to fit into either "boy" or "girl" and didnt exactly fit either stereotype biologically or through their behavior so their parents were very frustrated with them. Turns out theyre both!!!

• it started as a joke because of ratatouille but. i am a firm believer in ratmouse cheddar. are they a rat? is he a mouse? both? Neither? no matter what they hide ears under their hat and paws under her gloves and a rat tail under their coat because i think its fun💥💥they should have rat/mouse features as a treat

• they have legs that are way too thin and not at all proportinate to tjeir body. i cannot stand drawing them because of this.

• resting :3 face

• very much cursed (it would take a few posts to explain this one)

• whatever this is

Macaroni

• shorter than cheddar but still on the taller side!! 5'11"

• uses he/him pronouns but he doesnt really care what pronouns are used on him. fem honorifics or anything he doesnt mind that either

• amab and genderfae :] (basically genderfluid without the masc part of the spectrum)

• lesbian

• older sister of my oc maccy cheese cookie (who was made before mac and cheddar were introduced HXBFJ). macaroni is 6 years older than them

• parents just Straight up abandoned him and his sibling as kids!! i could explain this one further but probably in another post

• it may be hard to believe but he is older than cheddar

• CANNOT STAND unsolved mysteries. having unsolved cases or puzzles makes him physically ill and he cant stand to eat or sleep when he doesnt know the solution

• related to above he despises cliffhangers and surprises and if he cant read a mystery novel in one full sitting it will EAT HIM ALIVE

• also related. Loves math! fun little puzzles that (almost) always have one logical solution. he does NOT however like math problems with multiple/no solutions

• easily startled by sudden loud noises or actions

• a lil chubby!!

• he has a little macaroni tail. sorry

as for my mac n cheese (ship) headcanons,, i cant explain them very well without context to my Full lore for the two but heres my attempt HVDKFB

• started as INCREDIBLY one sided (cheddar had romantic feelings for mac while mac had feelings of. Hatred)

• cheddar is incredibly easy to fluster because shes not used to being on the Recieving end of affection (cough cough for curse reasons cough)

• cheddar is also incredibly touch starved (cough cough for curse reasons cough)

• macaroni can just. Use cheddar as a bed. they are so fucking tall and wide he can just snooze on them

• they are so doomed toxictragic yuricore im going to kill them

YAAY thats all ill do for now but if anyone has any further questions i would love to answer

rbs ok!!!

#aaa idk if i wanna main tag #but #yeagh!!!#🎉 asks #🎉 rambles #universe a au

12 notes · View notes

antebellumite · 3 months

Note

(since i sense you may be having an atticus finch moment rn) is go set a watchman "canon" to you? i always liked tkam but i never read gsaw (even though someone gave it to me when it came out) because i got a weird feeling about the circumstances of it being published among other things. never talked to anybody about it so figured i'd ask a certified tkam enjoyer

i am having Such an atticus finch moment that i have three fics in the works for him

ohhh boy so hear me out.

warning: i'm rereading tkam as we speak and its been a while since ive read gsaw

in my own personal head-interpretation of to kill a mockingbird, in which the irl reality of its publication is disregarded, gsaw is canon in the sense that it's the alternate universe of to kill a mockingbird, with the point of divergence being the tom robinson trial.

tom robinson is found guilty: atticus experiences Character Growth and becomes and remains the folk hero Defender of Rights and dilf we know today

tom robinson is not found guilty [or at least, not found guilty via the defense atticus uses in gsaw]: atticus basically remains on the natural course he was in the beginning of tkam to bigotry and Racism TM

tldr: gsaw, on its own, is not a good book, and nor is it fully canon, but it does serve as great contextualization to the person that atticus is in tkam and who atticus could have been.

at the beginning of the book and throughout the trial, atticus finch is clearly a very White Moderate in our Modern Terms, in the sense that he might disapprove of the racism exhibited by the citizens of maycomb, but he also is more than content to not do anything about it. his worldview is essentially: "man it sure sucks that my neighbors are prejudiced and more than willing to sentence an innocent man to death, and but i guess i'll tolerate it and spend time around them because they're good people at heart [to other white people]." you know how one of the most memorable lessons atticus teaches to scout is to have empathy for others? my argument is that atticus's practicing of that is what makes him to give too much leeway to the bigoted members of the community around him.

we see this with ike finch, maycomb's "sole surviving confederate veteran" and stonewall jackson fetishist. he makes his appearance early on in the book, prior to the robinson case even being introduced. according to scout, he comes by at least once a year to "rehash the war" with atticus. while i can assume this means that ike is representing the confederacy and atticus the union in this conversation, considering that in the immediate paragraph after, atticus states "this time we aren't fighting the yankees, we're fighting our friends. but remember this, no matter how bitter things get, they're still our friends and this is still our home." it implies that in this american civil war replay, either both of them are identifying with the confederacy, or ike is and atticus is more than okay to go along with it. and in addition, atticus's apparent determination to remain on good terms with the people of maycomb no matter how bitter it got adds questions to just what he would have considered bitter enough for the people of maycomb to no longer remain his friends. if the mob at the scene at the jailhouse actually managed to lynch tom robinson, which they were probably going to do, until scout saved the day, would that have been "bitter enough" for atticus to reconsider being friends with murderers?

actually the fact that he adds in 'and this is still our home' makes me think he was planning to leave maycomb entirely if that scenerio actually happened but i digress

and then you get to ms. dubose, who serves as another aspect to how atticus views the racism of his town. when ms. dubose dies, he calls her the most bravest person he'd ever known, for having the courage to die clean of her morphine addiction, and also a "great lady". which, i understand, in part, is because she Just Died and he's talking to Jem and Scout who are children, but the way that atticus talks about it makes you feel as though he's implying that her courage serves as either recompense or excuse for a. the racism and b. the whole thing where she essentially verbally harassed jem and scout whenever they came by for the horrid sin of walking where she could see them.

of course there's also maycomb trial in general. atticus obviously knows that he cant win-- the famous 'just because you're licked doesn't mean you can give up' quote-- because he understands the prejudice of the town. but i believe that behind the quote, atticus still had faith in the judicial process, just not in the people who were in charge of it in maycomb. its part of the reason for his appeal-- to get robinson to a higher court where the people there could be more open-minded.

so in essence, atticus at the turning point of his story [ the trial ], is someone who's

1. overly lenient and sympathetic view of his maycomb neighbors allows him to excuse much of the harmful rhetoric and actions they perpetrate

2. considers racism to be, while Bad, a certain type of bad that is ultimately forgivable/excusable. i think there's also evidence in tkam that he basically also thinks the same thing for other forms of bigotry but i'm not going to look for them.

3. has trust in the judicial system

so from there, we have the tom robinson trial.

i like to think that what acting as tom robinson's defense attorney did for atticus was that it forced him to actually reckon with the racism of maycomb as directed towards an actual human being rather than a Nebulous Construct. when tom robinson got declared guilty despite being innocent, it showed him the actual harmful effects of what the people of maycomb believed, on an actual human being, who was subsequently presumably murdered via 17 gunshot wounds. it showed the failures of a system that allowed for tom robinson to be murdered and sentenced for a crime he didn't commit in the first place.

in gsaw, without tom robinson being convicted, i don't think that lesson would have hit so hard. to gsaw!atticus, robinson being declared not guilty is proof that the racism of maycomb is ultimately Not That Harmful, proof that the system ultimately Works As It Should, and it allows him to sink deeper into interactions with more extreme racist individuals, and eventually become the verison of atticus we see in gsaw.

in addition, gsaw!atticus's defense for tom robinson that gets him acquitted is that the robinson's presumed rape of mayella was consensual, whereas tkam!atticus reveals that the rape didn't happen between robinson and mayella in the first place (although, you know.) which implies a contrast between gsaw!atticus and tkam!atticus where tkam!atticus was focused on exonerating robinson's public image in order to then acquit robinson, but gsaw!atticus was focused on acquitting robinson head on, even if it meant attacking mayella instead.

what this would mean is that gsaw!atticus might not even have had all that much of an interaction with tom robinson, and therefore wasn't able to do that whole tkam-trademark Understanding and Seeing Him As A Person, thereby Removing his past Blinders to Injustice TM TM TM.

and this leads to the changes in atticus from tkam and gsaw. they're still the same person, but with a different turning point.

#thank u for asking!!!#atticus finch #to kill a mockingbird #go set a watchman #fic purge #long post #what if the trial turned out differently is such a potentially insanely juicy concept i need to rip into it #i understand why it isnt for very important Reasons relating to the Real World #but WOW #anyawys this is my reading and i am not a very Big tkam-er #more knowledgable tkam enjoyers please feel free to add on or correct anything

14 notes · View notes