#my knees and feet are screaming bloody murder

[kiwisbell]

helen ; chapter one

dear joel

Si vis pacem, para bellum. Or, the inciting incident.

series masterlist | my masterlist pairing: joel miller x f!reader tags/warnings: 18+ (MDNI), john wick AU, (retired) hitman!joel, husband!joel, graphic violence, established relationship, artist!reader, love as worship (and blasphemy), blood + injuries, murder, cars, joel lifts reader once, reader has hair, oral sex (f receiving - aka munch!joel returns), married fluff, angst, threats of rape/SA, home invasion, disgusting awful men, childhood/religious trauma, the typical alcohol + smoking + profanity, erotic paintings, dividers by @/saradika word count: ~ 8.2k a/n: so i'm posting this and sprinting away because i'm terrified. that being said, this story means more to me than words can say and i sincerely hope you enjoy what i have to offer. thank you so much for reading, and please let me know what you think!! gigantic thanks to @cavillscurls for beta reading this chapter and being generally incredible throughout this whole process. i couldn't have done it without ya baby ❤️ next

PREFACE

“Love is my mover, source of all I say.”

— The Divine Comedy: Inferno, Canto II.

The blood is tangy, near-sweet, as he swipes his forearm over his mouth and smears crimson on his shirtsleeve. It tingles faintly on his lips and crackles, warm as the melt from a late-winter snow. He feels it settle in the grooves of his palms, the hairs of his beard. He’s drowning in it. 

Joel Miller grins as the punch rocks his jaw. 

His opponent hits hard, but he’s slow. He’ll take five punches in the time it takes to wind up for one. Joel brings his arm up to block the next and delivers a blow to the sternum with his knee as his opponent’s guard drops. Wide open, the man stumbles a few steps back, choking down the telltale wheeze of being winded. Joel marches forward, relentless in his crusade, grasping him by the scruff of his neck, teeth bared like a mad wild dog, and bears his skull down on the side of the railing. Around them, the wind howls and lashes at his clothes, but he still hears the pained scream as if it were poured into his ears. 

The man drops to his knees, and Joel grabs him again, bashing his head repeatedly against the steel bar, the lapel of an Italian leather coat bunching between his fingers, tainted by rainwater and the fist of the man who's about to take his life. 

And fuck, Joel wants to make it last. 

But there's a knife in his opponent’s hand, conjured from the darkness of his coat pocket, and Joel must release him to avoid the lethal slash of the blade. Blinking blood and lashing rain from his eyes, the man lunges with a snarl, and Joel recovers from his lost victory, stopping him with his fingers curled around his opponent’s wrist. He brings his hand to the crook of the man’s elbow and uses his leverage to snap the bone.

Yowling, the man drops to his haunches, the knife clattering to the ground. Joel, chest heaving, stands over him, flexing his fingers as he readies his fist for the killing blow.

His name leaves the man’s bloodied mouth, accompanied by a mouthful of crimson-tainted saliva spat on the ground at Joel’s feet. 

“Joel…” He lifts his head, cradling his own broken arm, and sneers. There’s a chilling glow of satisfaction in it. “Did you get your perfect life, Joel? Do you really think you’ve won? It won’t ever stop. Not after you’ve killed me, not after you’ve killed all of them. Is that what you’re going to do? Kill them all?”

Joel staggers backward to pick up the knife, clamping his hand over the curve of his opponent’s shoulder, and drives the blade down into his neck.

“Yeah.”

He leaves him slumped against the railing, choking on his own blood, and limps his way to one of the beaten-up Range Rovers whose front right bumper was totaled in the crash. Joel groans as he settles into the front seat, gnashing his teeth together as he lifts the hem of his dress shirt to inspect the damage. 

The bullet has pierced the soft flesh of his stomach. Blood blossoms bright through the white fabric and spirals outward. Joel blinks away rainwater and pulls his phone from his pocket, the screen smeared with blood. He doesn’t know if it belongs to him.

He grits his teeth and makes a call. 

In the back of his head, Joel vaguely recalls an old song of prayer. He used to watch others sing it while he lingered in the shadows at the back of the cathedral. He would memorise the shape of the words leaving their mouths and wonder how a benevolent God, who had shaped man—perfection—from red clay, could have made him. 

He would lower his head as if swept up in a tide of repentance, examining the bones beneath his hands. The flickering of tendons. The bulge of veins as he delicately folded his fingers into a fist.

Red clay. Blood. The old dance of serpent and man.

He was fourteen when he escaped.

Joel looks down at his bloodied hands. They’ve grown since then. They’re stronger, thicker, scarred. There are no pictures of him as a young boy, but if he saw one, he knows he would not recognise himself. Not his eyes nor his hands nor the set of his jaw. God makes man makes boy. He is destined for Hell.

The call goes to voicemail. 

Joel curls his hand into a fist and whispers a prayer.

Something cool and wet collides with Joel’s forehead as he stalks into the airport. It’s begun to rain. 

His target gate is close, and he's early. The press of bodies begins to crowd him. Prickling body spray and sickly-sweet perfume and sunburned skin from Spring Break return flights. Joel shoves through them, unseen, unnoticed amid the rowdy din of reunions. The collar of his shirt sticks to the nape of his neck. It’s the sensation of being strangled, clammy palms slick against his own skin. He adjusts his jacket and tightens his grip on the black fabric dangling from his hand. 

Joel waits by the gate, his eyes flitting between its apex and the people milling about him, reuniting with partners and parents and children. Nobody seems suspicious, but his fingers still dance upon the blade hidden in the inner lining of his leather jacket. Those performing wide berths around the scowling man try not to make eye contact. Most don't notice his presence at all. 

He waits, flicking his sleeve up every couple minutes to check the time on the inside of his wrist. Every tick of the thin hand registers in the pulse of his heart against his ribs. 

He hears the suitcase before he sees it—and it’s hard to miss. One wheel is wonky, and the case stutters in its path along the polished floor. It’s huge, pink, hideous. 

His hand dropping from the blade in his pocket, Joel makes his move. 

You see him approaching and drop the lopsided suitcase, shrieking as he takes you up in his arms. 

He swings you around twice, holding you firm against him, your fingers grabbing desperately at the locks of his curly, brown-grey hair. Joel nestles his face in your throat and breathes in: vanilla and shampoo and the unmistakable scent of a you he can never shake. Home.

You shudder into him, your feet barely scraping the floor as he holds you around the waist, one hand cradling the back of your head. Joel lets his eyes close. 

Daisies made of diamonds dangle from your wrist, connected by a fine golden chain. He can feel the faux petals dig into the back of his neck, etching their shape into the phantom pain of the ink peeking out from his collar. Sometimes, his skin would pull back with the needle, briefly protruding from his body like a tent made of flesh, as if grasping feebly onto some innocent time before the black hands of Dürer were permanently his. His to remember. His to loathe. 

There is a slight in the way his gift to you, wrapped snugly around your wrist since the first anniversary, kisses the old wound, the tip of the cross, and all he feels is the echo of agony. He holds you tighter.

“Can’t breathe, honey,” you croak, shoulders shaking with laughter. 

Joel mutters an apology, loosening his grip on you just enough to pull away and cup your face in his hands. His thumb traces the curve of your jaw, and you beam up at him, smoothing back the hair you’d tousled with your fingers. A curl swoops back down over his forehead.

“Hi,” you say softly. 

“Hi,” says Joel, already on his way to kissing you, his mouth slanting over yours. 

He tastes of mint and smells of his dark cologne, pine, Joel. Your Joel. And you kiss him like it—your hand cupping the nape of his neck, the other sliding up his strong, broad back, your lips meeting in a consuming kiss that knocks you off-kilter. He bends slightly over you, keeping you upright with a large hand on your lower back. 

“Never leave again,” mumbles Joel, grinning against your mouth, his hand sliding down your arm to your left hand, where two glimmering bands rest on your third finger. Your hands intertwine, and he bumps his nose into yours. 

You give him another short kiss. “Get me out of here.”

Joel slides your raincoat over your shoulders and you slip your arms through. He presses his lips to your forehead and closes his eyes, letting himself linger briefly in your space before he scoops up the handle to your affront of a suitcase and escorts you out back to the car. 

He opens the passenger-side door to let you slide into your seat, securing your case in the back, and makes his way around the vehicle. You reach for the collar of his jacket and pull him toward you for a kiss, grasping his jaw between your thumb and forefinger. He grins crookedly when you pull away, bushing the pad of his thumb across your cheekbone. 

“Missed you,” he says.

You sink your teeth into your bottom lip. “Yeah? How much?”

He reaches across the console and kisses you deeply, making you gasp into him as his hand slips underneath your silky little blouse and fits his fingers in the grooves between your ribs. Your skin prickles with goosebumps under his touch as his exploration migrates to your belly, sliding south, ever lower, his hand playing at the waistband of your panties—

“Okay,” you laugh, smacking his hand away. “Okay. You’re paying for parking, Miller.”

“I’ve got money,” he says plainly, dipping his head to kiss you again, his pupils fattening as he tries to gorge on all of you at once. You place a hand on his chest, enjoying the strong pulse of his heartbeat where you typically rest your head, and gently push him back. 

“Take me home,” you coo, your gaze sweeping fondly over the face that hasn’t changed, that you cannot forget, “and show me how much you missed me.”

His wedding band coolly kisses your cheek as he retracts his hand, reluctantly turning his key in the ignition. “Yes, ma’am.”

He’s always been a meticulous driver, expert in the way he flattens his palm on the wheel, his other on the back of your headrest, turns the car out of the spot, and merges onto the freeway. When he no longer needs his other hand, he gives it to you, and you bring his long-scarred knuckles to your lips. 

His hands are marked by years of use, of abuse, speckled with little white scars, freckles, divots, curves. You already know the lines in his palms, have traced them and painted them and put them under sensitive study with your body. But you turn his hand over nonetheless, your own fingertips careful in their examination, following their contours as if searching for a change. But they’re the same—he’s the same—and so you tuck your fingers between his and bring your palms together in a warm, awaited kiss.

It’s only been a month, but you study his profile as if years have passed. He’s still Joel, still surly, plush lips curved into a permanent pout, the space between his brows marked by a ponderous gash, the vein in his throat fluttering in silence when a driver cuts him off or he spots a car following too closely. He’s a good study, practised in his stoicism. 

His nose is artful. Its convex slope, pronounced, strong, curves deliciously into his upper lip, the soft greying hairs in between a space of waiting. His mouth, soft, learned, often languageless, is what you know best of him. You know it like your own—can trace its shape in the dark, hands behind your back. The strong jawline, the slight wrinkles beside his eyes, ones he never had before you met him, the patches of skin disrupting the fullness of his beard: they’re the picture of the man you married, and there’s always something you’re disappointed in discovering you’ve missed. A something you’ve never noticed, a something you wish you could go back and add to all your canvases. 

When you left him at the airport, it was a freckle just beneath the hollow of his throat. Now, it’s the frayed hairs just behind his ears, crimping in frizzy patterns that don’t match the languorous curls on the rest of his head. They look singed, as if he’d put a match to himself. 

Maybe it’s making up for lost time, for all the days you’d missed being away from your Joel. But there’s a second, smaller something: the little round scar beneath those wild hairs. You lift your hand to it, and before your thumb can make a pass over the white, puckered skin, he speaks. 

“It’s a burn.” Merging off the freeway, he pulls into a gas station. His fuel ticker is tapping gently at the E. “From a cigarette.”

Your heart tips off the edge of a yawning chasm, and your hand pulls back in a wary twitch of your fingers. Throat tightening, you feel a distinct pressure behind the T of your nose and forehead. “From the people who raised you?”

A muscle in his jaw spasms, and he lifts your joined hands to his mouth. “None of that,” he says softly, meeting your eyes that well with unshed tears. 

No tears for me, he once said to you. Not until I’ve earned ‘em.

You sniffle, watching him nuzzle his cheek against the soft flesh of your wrist, his lips finding your vein and following it halfway up your forearm. 

“Tell me about your show.” 

You let him tuck your tears away in the grooves between his joints and smile. “Successful, but lonely. So many people knew my name, and I’m pretty sure I knew about a quarter of theirs. Made me feel like some snobbish pig.”

“Nah, that’s my job,” says Joel. “Everybody loves you, baby.”

You roll your eyes. “Either way, the gallery was a hit. The triptych sold for the highest at the auction.”

Joel smirks. “The nude ones?”

“Yeah, dirtbag. The nude ones.” Your smile is dry, still somehow saccharine. 

“I liked those,” says Joel, fingers playing upon your upper thigh. 

“Perv.”

He playfully smacks your thigh. “Goddamn right.”

“It was good. It was. But I missed you.” Your voice breaks, and Joel squeezes your fingers in response. “Could hardly sleep without you there.”

He nods like he knows. And you know he does; he barely sleeps, even if you’re on top of him. “I know everybody loves you,” he says, “but next time you go away, remember I love you most.”

You blink away the shimmer of tears so you can see him clearly. “Casanova.”

“That's right,” he says, nosing his way into another kiss. “Don't ever leave me again, baby. My heart can't take it.”

You shake your head, laughing into his mouth as your tears slip onto your tongue. “Never again,” you whisper, “unless the hotel food is good.”

He nods. “I’ll make an exception, long as I can go.”

You grin. “You know… if I’m at home all the time…”

“We’re not getting a puppy.”

“Joel—”

“No.”

“Don't you want to make your wife happy?”

He faux-snaps at you like a dog, catching his teeth around your earlobe. “As a goddamn clam.”

You gasp as you feel his mouth suckle gently at the sensitive spot beneath your ear. “I… I want… We should at least talk about…”

“Hmm?” 

He’s playing with the hem of your blouse, deft fingers leaving warm imprints on the soft skin of your belly, fingers enveloping your precious heart when he places his hand on your upper back. The organ pounds under his touch, pouring its blood into his palms. 

You haven’t felt his touch in so long.

“I want…”

Joel hums again, prompting, his pinky finger dipping under the strap of your bra and pulling back, snapping it against your skin. 

“What was I talking about?”

He chuckles, bringing his lips back to yours. You grasp for him greedily, trying to fix him to you this time, your fingers bunching the fabric of his T-shirt. But he’s pulling back, his forehead falling against yours. 

“I’ll consider it,” he says, “if you can convince me.”

Giddily, perhaps stupidly, you smile. “I’m very prepared to convince you.”

“Uh-huh. I don't doubt you, baby. How ‘bout you let me fill up the car first?”

The throbbing bass of house music Dopplers as another car approaches the gas station. Three men exit the vehicle, one of them already lighting a cigarette while the other two make for the convenience store. One is wearing a backwards cap and the other a pressed suit. 

Nice move, you think, sinking back in your seat a little as Joel slides out of the car, smoking by a gas pump.

“Nice ride,” says the man at the opposite pump, puffing at his cigarette. 

“Thanks,” says Joel with a polite smile, locking the nozzle in the fuel tank and folding his arms over his chest. He’s hovering by the passenger door, halfway to blocking you from view.

The man surveys the hood, his fingers gently tracing the cool silver. “Boss Mustang 429. She a ‘70?”

“‘69,” says Joel.

“Very nice,” muses the man, drumming his hands on the hood. You feel the crude vibrations in your spine and straighten in your seat. This man—this kid, all his puffing and grinning and loud music—is bad news. Your stomach coils taut when his gaze shifts from Joel to you, staring hard through the windshield. 

“How much?” he asks Joel. 

You notice the minute stiffening of the muscles in Joel’s shoulders. “What?”

“How much for the car?” 

Joel pushes off the car and dislodges the pump, brushing the kid aside on his way back to the driver’s side. “It’s not for sale.”

The kid wanders to the passenger-side door before Joel can turn on the car and roll up the window. He leans his elbows just inside, his face mere inches from yours, and you can smell the sickly, cloying smoke of his cigarette as he blows it in your direction. 

He says something to Joel in Spanish that makes your husband’s hand still on the wheel.

And your Joel, your courteous Joel, your never-the-shit-stirrer Joel, narrows his eyes at the kid and says something in kind, his voice a low scrape that shudders through you.

It’s too fast for you to hear, and you never learned Spanish, and you were under the assumption (until right fucking now) that Joel never did, either. But he starts the car and rolls up the window, and you’re peeling away from the gas station before the kid can reply. 

“That was…” You cast around for the words and instead rest your eyes on Joel, whose jaw looks ready to snap. “Joel, honey, when did you learn Spanish?”

He’s silent for a long while, and you would assume that he didn’t hear you—if you didn't know that he has stellar hearing. When he pulls onto the long stretch of road, signalling your first firm tug away from the stifling noise of civilization, he finally speaks. 

“Picked it up in the Marines.” 

“What did he say to you?”

Joel’s skin is stretched taut over his knuckles. “Somethin’ stupid.”

You hum, letting him linger in silence for the remainder of the trip. Scenery, green and grey sky and the drizzle of rain, swoops by the window, and you're going home. It isn't much different from what you found in Vancouver, but it's familiar. It’s the smell of the air after the rain and the way your shared home comes into view the same way it always has. 

It isn’t a modest home. You and Joel had it built before the wedding, both eager to get away from the city and exist in relative peace when your job allowed it. It sits low and broad, geometric pillars framing the front porch, sleek modern lines in black and white. Your compromise: he assumed responsibility for the exterior, and you took everything within. Joel pulls into the garage, next to your beige SUV, and helps you and your hot-pink luggage out of the car. 

The walls are littered with canvases. Mostly, there are paintings of Joel. The first time you brought him to your studio, a few weeks into the relationship, he’d sat stone-still for hours. You don't recall even a twitch of a finger. He’s in shades of blue, red, green, grey. He’s sitting, standing, lounging, sleeping. His lashes lie in repose over his cheeks, eyes closed, sometimes open, often averted. You’ve captured him in bed, by the pool, in the kitchen, in your studio. Like a spider, you’ve ensnared his shyness, his care, his devotion, weaving it into a tapestry of oil, watercolour, pastel. 

You’ve never sold a single one. This Joel—whose eyes are sometimes closed, sometimes open, often averted—is for your eyes only. 

The curls at the nape of his neck are creeping under the collar of his jacket. Winding your finger around a rich brown lock, you give him a tug. “You haven't been taking good care of yourself.”

Joel brings your hand to his mouth, kissing the rings on your finger that bind you to him. “You told me you liked it long.”

“You told me it itches.” You shrug his jacket off his shoulders and trail your hands up his muscled arms. “It's not about me, honey.”

Joel hums, cradling the crown of your head in his palm and pressing a lingering kiss to your forehead. “When will you learn”—another hand around your hip, tugging you forward by the small of your back—“that everything is about you?”

You narrow your eyes at him. “That's a good answer, Mr. Miller.”

He grins crookedly, backing you against the kitchen counter. “Yeah?”

You scratch his scalp and feel his mouth descend on your jaw. “Mhm. You’ve been practising.”

“Didn't have much else to do,” he grumbles, fisting the fabric of your blouse and untucking it from the waistband of the old jeans sitting low on your hips. “My wife was gone.”

“You're getting whiny,” you chide, smacking his hand away from your fly. 

“Is it working?”

“You really wanna make your wife happy?”

“Yeah, baby. Yeah.” He looks down at you like he's close to pleading. 

“Then you'll let me cut your hair,” you purr. 

His pout lasts as long as it takes for you to get his hair soapy and your fingers in his curls, massaging slow and sweet. You take your time ridding him of the excess length, chopping carefully, your hands assured of their strength. You tell him to tilt up and look down and to the side, honey, and he obeys because it's your hands, and your voice, and he's pliable as molten glass. 

You get lost in the musical shhhick of the scissors cutting through hair, humming a tune that does not match, and he's reminded of ballet. Watching you in the mirror is like seeing the dance through a glass he cannot permeate. You may be touching him, but most times he's struggling to grasp you in your entirety. 

He sees an angel in his sleep, reaching out with a hand made of gold to guide him up from hell. 

You tell him more about the gallery. You tell him about whale-watching and being too seasick to take photos for him like he'd requested. Joel wants to shake his head but he stays still and tells you it’s okay, baby, all I wanted was to know you were happy. 

And you tell him I was happy. But it would've been better with you.

And he's joking, telling you I’d be throwin' up on the other side of the boat, but his body feels cold when you set down the scissors and leave his side. 

“How’s Tommy?” you ask, rubbing gel between your palms. This, he knows, is your favourite part: styling him up all pretty like your personal doll. 

It’s his favourite part, too. He holds you around the waist while you work. “He’s panicking.”

“Oh, come on,” you laugh. “He's read every book on the shelves. And your brother doesn't read.”

“Books can't prepare you for the real thing,” says Joel. “‘Least, that's what Maria told him.”

“Maria’s probably right.” You thread your fingers through his locks and watch with a smile as he closes his eyes, his forehead dropping to your belly. “But that doesn't take away from the fact that Tommy will make a great dad.”

Joel hums, pressing a kiss to your belly. “He’s been askin’ after you to paint their nursery. Want me to tell him to fuck off?”

You're beaming, curling one lock of hair around your finger and dangling it teasingly over his forehead. “Tell Tommy I'd be delighted. Maria shouldn't be doing any of that, pregnant as she is. You should smack some sense into your brother.”

“I tried every day when we were little. Didn't take.”

You give his styled hair a finalistic tug and brush it back from his ears. “Such a good model for me,” you coo, dropping into his lap, “just like always.”

“And what do I get?” he says, watching his own hand cup your breast, thumb ghosting over the soft swell, obscured by layers of fabric. 

Your wicked eyes feel heavy on his skin. “What you always get.” 

You take his hand in yours and lead him to the bedroom. You’ve done this a thousand times, it seems, this methodical undressing, made new with every hour spent apart. The dance replenishes in the sunlight, coming alive as spring blossoms, never stale, never withered. There is something new to discover each time. 

Joel kisses you, staggering backward until he’s sitting on the edge of the bed. You climb onto his lap without breaking the kiss, your arms winding around his neck as he tucks you into him. His cock is a hard, heavy weight between your thighs, accustomed to the touch of his hand alone in the month you've been apart. 

The revitalising warmth of skin-on-skin strikes him true, blooming like blood from his heart. He clutches you so close that your heartbeat skitters from your chest to his, your mouths exchanging breaths, your bodies sharing heat. He knows nothing but the shape, smell, sound of you. 

He trails his knuckles up and down your spine and wonders if he can make certain that he will die like this. He doesn't want to know an afterlife. It will spoil the memory of his very last moment, when he brings you in close and kisses your soft cheek and lets the darkness gently pull him down. 

The sisters at the orphanage would tell him things. You will never know peace until you know Him. You cannot know a person’s love until you know His. You will never understand, child, what it is to breathe, until every breath you take is in His name. Joel drags his open mouth up the column of your sternum, its golden pillar, his tongue dipping to taste the nectar that pools in the hollow of your throat. He tastes you instead, and he feels he has not cheated God. 

You gasp his name as he licks molten salt from your skin, and he feels the golden hand curl around his heart. His lids grow heavy with every taste. Intoxicated, he seeks more, putting his mouth to the crook of your neck. Your back arches, your chest flush with his own, melting and moulding together. Every second of time spent apart withers and dies. 

You have taken Joel to bed and felt him angry, happy, morose, insatiable—but the Joel you’re feeling now is tired. A drowning man finally cresting the surface, he touches you like he never will again. Your skin bunches and folds under his too-eager hands, rubbing you raw. Your muscles pull taut as you try to accommodate his frantic mouth. He bites you and your lips part in a silent scream. He pulls your hair and you gush, your chest hot, prickling with friction and sweat and heat. 

There is anguish in the way he holds you. It feels deep as a wound, old enough to still ache when it rains, old enough that you were never around to know him when it was cut into his body. You want to rescue him from the wordless pain, the agony that has no name. 

You want to know what has made him this way. Because there are times when you see your husband and it strikes you suddenly that a different person exists in the black of his eyes. Because there are parts he keeps hidden, for your sake or his. Because there is a little boy in his chest who's been hurt and you do not know how to save that sliver of him. 

Leftover hairs from his trim sting as your bodies slide together. Your scalp prickles at the desperate way he holds you at the crown of your head. You whisper his name and he looks up at you in the darkness, and there is water brimming beneath his irises. 

“Tell me what you need,” you say. 

He brings his hand between your thighs and touches the wet, warm place he seeks. You nod, letting him roll you onto your back, his mouth trailing kisses down your navel. When you squirm, he pins you by your belly, his palm flat to your skin. When you mewl his name, your chest heaving, he nods his head in reply, dipping his head and sliding his hot tongue through your slit. 

Joel is the prayer you chant. He kneels at the edge of the bed, bringing your thighs around his ears, closing his lips around your clit. You cry out, your hand flying to his hair, tugging him closer, eliciting a groan from his chest. It rumbles through you, his face buried in your pussy, his hands fastened around your thighs. He places searing kisses between your legs, lighting you ablaze, leaving scorch marks wherever his lips touch you. 

“Tell me you're mine,” he says, and the fractured sound of his voice cuts into your skin. He's watching you, his pupils puffy and seeking, hands squeezing, desperate. “Please.”

You whimper at the sight of the kiss he places on your clit. “I’m yours,” you tell him, reaching for his hand and threading your fingers through his. “I’m your wife, Joel. I’m not going anywhere. I’m yours and I love you.” 

He lowers his head, an apostate seeking redemption, and his tongue slides heavily over your clit. At the suction of his mouth around the slick pearl, you gasp, “Oh, God,” your head thrown back, your spine arching into his palm. The cut of the diamond on your finger is sharp against his skin. 

Joel relishes the cool bite of the gem as he licks through your folds and his saliva mingles with your wetness. He kneels with fervour, presses his mouth to you as if whispering his confessions through the lattice, and makes you his. 

The flat of his tongue is scalding, his palm a brand. He licks and sucks until you’re quivering, suffocating his hand in yours, and he wants to bare the imprint of your sigh forever. He should be the one submitting to you, and here you are, lending him your body to please, if only for another moment. Joel flicks his tongue over your clit, takes it into his mouth, and makes you sob his name. 

I’m yours. 

Yours. 

And it sounds so permanent that, for a second, he believes it himself.

You come with your back curving and your hips grinding and your nails in his skin. Joel doesn’t stop until you’re begging him to, until you push yourself onto your elbows and tell him to come here.

You swing your leg over him and bring your mouth down to his. Joel squeezes his eyes shut and kisses you so deeply that it bruises him somewhere he cannot reach. His hands cupping your face. His cock heavy between your bodies. The sun lowering, casting you in bronze. He loses his grip on the world.

“Now,” you whisper in the growing dark, “it’s your turn to tell me.”

You lift yourself onto his cock and bring yourself down, and Joel’s fist opens against your back. “I’ve been yours since the restaurant,” he rasps. 

You beam at him, and dusk ends.

There is a thumping beyond your bedroom door.

Joel hears it before you. In a flash, he hooks his leg under your knee and rolls you over, pinning you under his body. He reaches for the nightstand on his side, throws open the drawer, and pulls a gun. 

You grasp his shoulders, nails digging into flesh. Eyes meet in the slippery darkness. Wide, careful. Words wordlessly exchanged. 

Your fluttering heartbeat begins to pound in your ears. The noise migrates down the hall. 

Footsteps. 

In the kitchen, glass shatters, and your stomach swoops, down and back up, lodging in your throat. 

“Joel,” you whisper, your own voice trembling out of you. He shakes his head, his finger coming to his lips. Your body begins to tremble. The chill digs a pick into each knob of your spine as it climbs up to your brain stem. 

Your home begins to pound with its very own heartbeat. You can hear its tightly-wound tension in the walls. Nobody breathes except for your husband, slow and steady, hovering over you with a gun in his hand. 

You hadn’t known he owned a gun.

His hips ground you against the bed and his fingers intertwine with yours, bringing your hand to his chest. His heart pounds strongly into your palm, his eyes narrowed, fixed to you. But you know his focus is split down the middle, divided between keeping you safe and listening. 

Your breathing peters out until it’s silent as the breeze outside the window. A man’s voice carries from the kitchen, and another answers. Joel shifts slowly off the bed and brings you with him, handing you his T-shirt and boxers. He tucks himself into his jeans and pulls another shirt over his head while you silently dress. The fabric slips from your hand as your trembling fingers struggle for a purchase. Once you’re dressed, Joel pulls you into him, pressing his lips to your forehead. 

“Under the bed,” he whispers. 

Oh, fuck that.

“You want to go out there and confront them by yourself? Are you fucking crazy?”

He shuts you up by lowering his mouth to yours in a scorching kiss. “Do not fuckin’ argue with me,” he rasps, his teeth scraping against yours. You open your mouth to do exactly that, but another glass shatters, and you flinch away. 

“Under. The. Bed.”

And he’s gone, leaving you alone, helpless, the predatory prowl of his gait something unfamiliar to you. It’s learned, utterly silent, the curve of his elbow guiding your gaze to the gun held behind his back. His head juts out before him, peeking around corners.

There are dust bunnies underneath the bed. You’re a better cleaner than Joel, but he makes an effort. He gets lost in it sometimes, sweeping his way through the house as if there’s a grid on the floor, precise in his methods. He doesn’t attend to the details, like the corners of the trim or the grooves in the floorboards. And yet, your floors are polished. Your plants are watered. He cares for you in quiet ways, when words fail. 

Your heart thuds against the hardwood through the thin fabric of his T-shirt. It smells of rain and him. There are no more noises coming from the kitchen.

You drop your head into your folded arms and will yourself to breathe. The claustrophobic space between the bed frame and the floor edges in on you. The only light disrupting the vignette is the small lamp. You’re alone. 

When you lift your head again, a pair of heavy black boots stares you right in the face. 

You bite down on your scream as your heart swoops down into your stomach, pressed hard against the cold floor. Though you do not breathe, the thrum of your heart echoes in your throat as the sputtering of an engine in the dead of winter. The boots leave scuff marks on your floors, the boards groaning under the weight. The owner is heavyset, likely male from the size of his feet. And he's calling for you. 

“Here, pretty kitty.” He pitches his octave high as he taunts you. “Come on out, sweet girl. Don't make me mad.”

You watch the path of his boots across the floor as he approaches the nightstand, throwing open the drawer and rummaging through your belongings. 

Objects roll under the bed with you as he periodically drops them, careless in his vandalism. Your journal lands next to your head with a thunk, and you hear the low buzz of your vibrator in his hand. “Hmm, kitty likes to play.” And it lands on the floor, rolling to a cool stop in the groove between two boards. 

Petrified, you can only watch him stalk across the room, his heavy footfalls thundering in your ears. He whistles a tune you don't recognise, and you wonder what's taking your husband so fucking long. 

Joel, cries your heart as the man halts in his tracks, lowering himself to the ground, taking a knee. JoelJoelJoelplease—

And there's a spark of recognition when your eyes meet in the dark, like you've been acquainted with their black depths, before you're scrambling out from under the bed and kicking him square in the face with the heel of your foot. 

He grunts, holding his nose, free hand grasping for you like wisps of smoke. You crawl to your feet and begin to run, only for him to wrap one cold hand around your ankle and pull. 

You crumple back down to the floor with him, barely saving your own skull from cracking on the hardwood as you throw your hands in front of your eyes. The impact to your elbows radiates up to your neck, and you scream your throat raw, kicking out at your assailant, your blood roaring, weeping. 

With a firm kick to his throat, you force him to let go, his hand flying instinctively to his windpipe. He wheezes something crude, probably, but you’re running—limping, mostly, slamming the bedroom door behind you with a shattering thud that quakes the frame.

“Joel!” you cry, turning the corner in the hall, feeling the walls as you go as if your own home has become foreign to you. What if he’s dead? What if you’re about to stumble over his body in the dark—the only body you’ve ever been able to know as something more than a vessel for art, for a painstaking study? That body, the body you could trace in the black with fingertips, not brushes, does not make itself known. 

“JOEL—!”

A hand comes to rest on your cheek. It is not Joel’s hand. It is no hand at all, but the edge of a blade, a cool stinging thing that nicks the tender skin beneath your eye. 

Blood from his nose drips down his mouth, staining his teeth red. You feel a small thrill of victory. 

Joel is on the kitchen floor in a heap, vaguely stirring from the impact of a baseball bat to his ribs. The bat which a second intruder now uses to smash the framed pictures on your wall. Glass rains down on him. Shards have cut Joel’s soft belly, shredded the fabric of his shirt. Your captor holds you by the hair.

A third man smokes a cigarette, sitting on your countertop, swinging his feet back and forth, and it strikes you that he’s really only a kid. Twenty-five at most. You know young hands, young eyes. Your pencils and paper know them better. 

“Nice of you to join us,” says the man from the gas station, making shapes of the cigarette smoke. You watch the way it curls around the low-hanging light. 

“Joel,” you whisper, the salt of your tears stinging in the wound on your face. “Baby, please… get up…”

“He’s fine, chiquita,” says the kid. “Don’t waste your energy.”

Joel’s eyes peel open, his hands blindly grasping for something he does not have. He’s curled in on himself to protect himself from the inevitable next swing of the bat. You wonder if he’s been struck in the head, and you can feel pieces of your heart slowly wilting as petals untended.

His gun, you realise, your eyes dropping to the belt of the man who holds you hostage. It’s tucked into his waistband, but you cannot reach it with your arms trapped in front of you. His arm is a heavy band around your chest, glueing you to him, helpless. You’re fucking helpless and you cannot get to him and he will die.

Your Joel will die and he will know pain in the way you want him to know love. 

“Let him go, please. You hurt him.”

The kid sniffs, tossing his cigarette to the floor beside Joel and jumping down from the counter to stomp it out with an expensive sneaker. “He disrespected me,” says the kid, leering down at your half-conscious husband like a speck of dirt on a polished glass. “But he doesn’t matter.”

You choke on your sobs, writhing in your captor’s grasp in a futile effort to feel not-so-suffocated, not-so-stuck. “You can have anything you want. Please, take anything. We have money, we have cars, we have paintings. They’re worth something, I promise you. Just—just look up my name. They’re worth a lot, please, just take them and leave us alone, please—”

The anger explodes through the gash in his face where he’d put the cigarette, that yawning maw eager to swallow blood and pain. “I don’t want your fucking paintings!” he screams, stalking toward you and yanking you free of the other man’s grasp. 

Your stomach swoops as he shoves you, hard, to the floor. This time, your arms do not take the blow. It is your temple that absorbs the impact, striking hard on a floor already flecked with blood. Black seeps through paper. Your eyes darken. A man—you do not know which—is speaking.

“Go on, Emil, have some fun with the bitch,” he says. “We can put her up in the kennel when we’re done with them both.”

You hear the rustling of a belt as the man above you flicks open his fly, laughing all the while. 

You're still blinking hard to clear the fog when you hear a growl rumble in your husband’s chest, the faraway noise of a fist meeting flesh, the scuffle of feet across your freshly-washed floors, the first gunshot. 

Your cheek meets cool hardwood as you succumb, the shape of your Joel’s rage etched into your eyelids. 

There’s a painting on the wall depicting two bodies in orgasm. Curved spines, feverish hands, dimples where fingers meet flesh. There is a hole in the canvas where the woman’s heart should be. A splatter of blood taints the image where the man drags his open palm down her back. 

His face is obscured, but his mouth is on her throat, exposing the cut of his jaw. The scruff of his beard. Careful strokes of oil paint join their bodies in harmony. It’s knocked askew on the wall. 

He’s rusty. 

He can feel it in the taut pull of his shoulder as he brings his arm back for the death blow. The blade comes up against the rough skin beneath the man’s chin, slicing him open just beneath the scruff of his beard. Blood bruises the hardwood floors, and although the man is already dead, Joel grasps him by the hair at the crown of his head and brings him down against the wall. 

His shoulder aches. His finger joints crackle. His knuckles are already bruised, his abdomen sore. He spits out pinkish saliva and turns his attention to his next job. 

His gun now back in his hand and its thief dead, Joel puts a bullet between the eyes of the third man, and another in his chest. The baseball bat clatters to the floor.

He thinks of the first time he wanted to kill for you and couldn’t. 

A man at the bar had groped you while you were out with friends. A little tipsy, you told Joel as he tucked you gently into the passenger’s seat, wrapped in a pretty black dress, and fell promptly asleep. He remembers the cool flutter of your hair from the air vent. He remembers the way your lashes spread like spider legs on your cheeks at every red light, the way the street lamps turned you golden. 

He remembers the man’s name. His face. His address. Some of the little wrinkles in his brain still hold echoes of information he'll never need again. But he keeps it tucked up there anyway. Maybe it reminds him of what he could never do, now that he had you. 

It seems the rules have been bent. 

Glass crunches underfoot behind him. Joel turns just in time to see the retreating figure, the fucking coward, sprinting for the door. He fires a shot that chips a piece of drywall and goes nowhere significant. Cursing himself, Joel hears the roar of his Mustang come to life as the kid leaves with his fucking car. 

Everything has a price, he'd said, blowing smoke in your face. Including your bitch. 

Joel curls his hand around the hilt of the knife. Blood begins to crust along the edge. Some of the blood, he realises, has been stolen from your sacred body. There is a cut on your cheek. 

And does your bitch have a price? Joel had replied, glancing behind the kid at the lackey he'd brought along. He seems to like you. 

You teeter on your way to standing, and Joel rushes to catch you before you can hit the floor. He flicks on the safety and sets his gun aside, cupping your face in his bloodied hands. 

Your eyes, blurred with tears, struggle to meet his. They're fixed to the man in a heap over Joel’s shoulder—the man who'd cut you. 

“Baby,” he says. 

Trancelike, you shake your head. 

“Baby, I gotta see you're still with me. Don't look at him; he ain't important right now. You’re important. Hear me?”

His voice is gentle, guiding, his thumbs hooked just behind your ears, hard eyes flickering between each of yours. 

“You killed them.”

“Yeah,” says Joel as the pad of his thumb traces the soft skin beneath the cut on your cheek. Your fingers curl around his wrists as if you’re trying to strangle him, temper him. 

“You’re hurt.” Your soft cry inverts his ribs, sits heavy and wrong in his chest. When your glassy eyes slide to meet his at last, Joel remembers the second time he wanted to kill someone and couldn’t. 

A man from your past had visited your apartment and told you he wanted to try again. You'd politely escorted him out and laughed it off. Terrible in bed, you’d joked. 

Joel remembers kneeling in the cathedral, surrounded by the lick of a thousand votives coaxing sweat from his glands, as he tried and tried to find faith and only felt the agonising scrape of the floor against his kneecaps. 

He remembers the first time devotion meant something to him. In the name of your second gallery showing. Paintings lined the walls depicting couples in embrace. “Which one is us?” he asked. 

“I don't sell those,” you’d replied. 

“Why not?”

“Because you're only for me,” you told him. “But I’ll tell you a secret.”

He’d ached to hear it. Even leaned in, a co-conspirator. 

“There isn't any devotion in these paintings. They're all hired models.”

“Then why bother at all?” he'd asked. “Why call it that?”

“Because I like showing people that there’s love in the world. And because devotion means something to me now.” You’d looked up at him and tucked your hand in his and he knew what all those nights spent kneeling meant. 

Faith, he thinks now, glaring at the shallow cut on your cheek, is knowing your purpose. 

The wound is his purpose. 

“I’m not hurt, baby girl. We need to pack a bag, okay? I have somewhere for us to stay.”

“Are they—are they coming back?” you ask, your bottom lip wobbling. 

Joel swallows bile and a bit of blood. “No. No, they won't be comin’ back. But we need a safe place while I take care of things.”

“Take care of things.” 

Your echo is ominous in his ears, and when your eyes leave him again to watch the way the blood trickles into the grooves between the floorboards, Joel knows what you will say next. 

“Who are you?”

#fic: helen #kiwisbell's fics #joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller smut #joel miller x you #the last of us #john wick au #joel miller au #joel miller fic #joel miller fanfic #joel miller x female reader #joel miller x f!reader #tlou fic

[arminsumi]

HEAR ME OUT JAY— i’ve also been on a gojo kick too😩 i literally have no medical knowledge but thinking of gojo x reader angsty where he has to set one of our broken bones after a battle lowk has me giggling and kicking my feet UGEHHEHEHE

take your time w requests!! take care of yourself, lysm thank you sosososoosos much🫶🏻🫶🏻

blood n' bone.

note: hey honeypie!! yeah istg gojo has a death grip on my mind the dude doesn't let me think of anyone else rn. anyways, i have little medical knowledge on this too but i tried my best !!

warnings — lowercase used, injury ( knee dislocation, bone setting ), blood visuals, angst ( with fluff, happy ending 👍 ), he calls u angel, i think it might be implied fem reader ??

" are you okay ?! a—re you hur — oh shit, fuckfuckfuck that's bad. that's bad... okay. um. just breathe. just breathe! don't worry, you ain't gonna die sweetheart. look at me, ok — question. do you trust me ? "

" what on earth do you plan to do ? " you ask gojo wearily.

you look at him, the pain fogs your mind. it's so painful; a blinding, piping white hot pain, one that singes all your senses. it's all you focus on until you look into those soothing blue eyes.

he's hovering over you, eyeing out your knee and the gory scene of your battle-bloodied body. he's got your blood on his hands already. it hurts his heart more than anything to see you in pain.

part of him hates you, because if you had just listened to him and stayed out of this battle, then this wouldn't have happened. but you were so stubborn about staying at his side. and then part of him is thankful, because he didn't want to be alone, he didn't want to be without his girl just in case he didn't make it out alive. he didn't want someone else to come to you and bear the news that he's not coming home. gojo was selfish; if he died, he wanted to take you with him.

but he was fine. you were fine. well, "fine" besides the fact your knee was dislocated.

" do you trust me or not ? " he asks again.

" yes. " you say truthfully. of course you did, he's been your one and only since birth; the gojo clan and your clan were intertwined by fate. you and him have been in each other's lives since you were toddlers throwing tantrums.

there's a memory that comes to gojo when he places his calloused hands on your knee. it's a memory from his childhood with you.

one day, you fell and scraped your knees. gojo found you curled up, crying alone in an alley. " what the hell ? why didn't you come find me ? let's go back to my house. i'll carry you. yes of course i can carry you ! i'm stronger than you ! "

he takes his blindfold and puts it in your mouth, " need you to bite on this, angel. "

" hmmmf ?! " the reality of what he was about to do set in. but how could it be more painful than the dislocation itself?

there's no question that he can set your bone. he's the strongest; of course he can.

you watch his bicep muscles flex, his grip firm. he hesitates, breathe ragged like he's nervous. then you hear a loud pop and instantly scream blue murder into the fabric; it doesn't really do a good job of muffling the sound. it pierces gojo's heart.

" angel, angel — look at me. breathe. it's okay. i've got you. it's alright. it's really alright. angel ? there, just stay in my arms like th-this. you're okay now. i know it hurts, but you're okay. " his hair is messy, your blood is all over him, and you yourself look chaotic; but still you look beautiful to him. your face comforts him like no other; he's always had excited pangs in his chest when you walk into a room or show up at a battle.

he's always shared your pain. he's a highly sensitive, emotional boy but conceals it well; when you're in pain, he's in pain. when you're sad, he's sad. when you're happy, he's happy. and hence, if you would have died, he would have died. you're tied together by an invisible thread, the two of you couldn't escape each other even if you wanted to. at times, you hated how you always found your way back to him; especially when you and him had that fallout in your twenties after your dating life interfered with your friendship.

but your hostility towards each other ended, of course it did. and now you and him were always at each other's side. handholding, just like when you were kids exploring your little village.

" let's go home. " he murmurs, soothing you with his voice and the gentle feeling he radiated.

" i can't walk. " you mumble, " it hurts. "

" i'll carry you. "

" we're not little kids anymore, you can't carry me. "

" what the hell ! of course i can carry you; i'm the strongest. "

you smile, remembering that memory only now. " you're right. you are. "

his heart flutters hearing you agree for the first time. of course you always knew he was the strongest, it was indisputable. but you liked to tease him.

" better believe it . . . now wrap those arms 'round my neck. "

he wears a stupid, proud smile on his face while he carries you. when you're home, you feel extremely grateful.

" it's good to be home, huh, satoru ? " you say, knee bandaged and propped up.

he's given you pain medication by now. there's the background noise of the TV, and golden afternoon light sieving through the sheer curtains.

" home is wherever you are. " he says earnestly.

whenever he says things like this, it's always in a soft voice, almost like he's too shy to let you know his true feelings.

you feel warm, homely; and so does he.

© arminsumi

Do not plagiarize / repost / translate / copy layouts / etc.

Do not steal what I've worked hard to create.

#tw: injury #angst #fluff #gojo #gojo satoru #gojo x reader #gojo fluff #gojo angst #gojo x y/n #gojo x you #gojou satoru x reader #jjk satoru #jujutsu kaisen satoru #gojou satoru x you #gojou x reader #gojou satoru x y/n #gojou saturo #jujutsu kaisen #jjk #jjk fluff #jjk angst

[the-modern-typewriter]

Hi! I love your writing style and I'd love to see your take on the villain's backstory as they tell the tale of their parent getting murdered by the king for having or using magic when it's banned. Have a lovely day :)

"Are you traumatised, little princeling?" the villain asked.

The teasing nickname felt more like a nightmare now; the memories awash with betrayal and gore.

They villain settled themselves down on the throne; all elegant menace and crackling power. The crown that formed on their head was a thing of magic, shimmering and uncanny, swallowing light. It matched the pitiless hollows of the villain's eyes.

The prince's jaw clenched, his breathing hard and ragged. Bile clawed up his throat. He pushed himself shakily up off the ground, onto his knees. He was surprised he got that far. His whole body trembled.

But everyone else...

"What are you waiting for?" he demanded. "You got what you wanted. Kill me too."

The villain smiled, faintly, and considered him. There wasn't so much as a speck of blood on them but the polished throne room floor and the prince's hands were slick with it.

"You didn't answer my question, little princeling."

The prince bared his teeth, but couldn't quite master diplomacy in that moment. It was all he could do not to scream, or cry. "Who wouldn't be? You - you-" He couldn't quite articulate the horror of it. He closed his eyes but the memories flashed through his mind all the same.

His body moving through the throne room on someone else's command. A puppet of a prince. A slaughterer.

The magic had felt so good while it ensnared him, even as it was saturated by the nauseous inability to stop, the terror, the merciless guilt.

"You're a monster," the prince rasped.

His hands curled into fists. In an instant he was on his feet after all, body broken, sword in hand as he charged towards the villain.

He got as far as getting the tip of his blade to the villain's throat, and then his body locked. He could not kill nor retreat, nor do much of anything at all. Frozen.

The villain blinked at him, lazily almost, a they tipped their head back like the sword was actually a threat. No. Not lazy. It affected laziness, but it was...

"I was traumatized," the villain said, in the same light and mocking tone of voice as before, "when your father killed mine."

Their eyes met.

The prince willed his hand to move, to cut, to kill.

He didn't. He couldn't.

"And that excuses all of this?" the prince managed. "I am not my father. I am not - I wasn't even alive - I would have -".

The villain could have waited, could have let an old man die with some dignity, could have taken a higher ground, and the world would have changed. The change didn't have to be taken in blood and pain.

The prince didn't even agree with the magic laws. Ever since he'd met the monster in front of him, he'd...

He'd heard bits of the story before. Not the king, but some random attackers in some village, and how the villain had escaped only because the attackers had thought them a child dead already. How the magic had saved them.

The prince had thought of phoenixes, then. He should have thought of the ashes.

The villain flicked a dismissive hand and the magic curling around the prince yanked his arms back behind his back, roughly, forcing him to let go of the blade. It hit the ground with a clatter.

The prince landed on his knees, a stifled cry of pain on his lips, tears stinging in his eyes. Not for the hurt of it, not for that small bit of control, but all the rest.

The villain settled a clean hand atop the prince's dishevelled head, like a cruel and gentle benediction.

"Of course," the villain said, as if the prince hadn't spoken, "he didn't do it personally. A man like your father never bloodied his own hands when he could use someone else's. It was his guards. He..." The villain wet his lips, "watched though. I think it made him strong, killing magic users. A man-god, clinging to his false power, when he'd never even tasted what real magic felt like. Real power."

The villain's gaze flicked almost idly around the room, around all the royal guard - the prince's friends and mentors and protectors - who the prince's puppet body had killed.

The prince swallowed. He wanted to look away, but he couldn't.

The magic, that taste of real magic, still swirled around him. Oppressive and heady and awful and enticing. Dangerous.

The villain's attention fixed on him again. They caressed the prince's cheek as the prince shuddered.

"So, you understand, that if this was personal, it was only personal in the way that it was personal to your father," the villain said softly. "You were born to this and it was always going to be your fate."

"Then kill me for what I was born for. Be just like he was!"

"I did think you were just like him when we first met." The villain's hand moved down further still, wrapping almost curiously around the prince's throat. "But you've proven quite interesting. Not enough to change anything, but..." the villain shrugged.

The prince flinched, recoiled. "I wish I'd been more like him. Then I would have killed you before you ever did this. Before you even got the chance!"

The villain laughed. The sound didn't reach those eyes. The prince had seen the sadness in them, the loss, and he'd thought...well, it all felt stupid what he'd thought, with all the devastation behind them, with that terrible crown twinkling abyssal night atop of the villain's head.

The prince had been told since the moment he was born that magic was dangerous, that magic users were too dangerous to live. He'd thought there was a middle ground. He'd thought that it couldn't be all of them.

Maybe it wasn't all of them. But maybe it only took one. Maybe that was what his father had known when he'd ordered the deaths of two palace gardeners and their five year old.

The hate tasted like rot and hellfire in his mouth, but it felt better than the grief. The howling pit of what he'd done. Of what the villain had made him do.

"I should have killed you." The tears came then; wracking, poisonous things that he didn't want the villain to see and enjoy, but which he couldn't quite stop. "I should have killed you before you killed all of them."

"You know, my little princeling." The villain pressed the prince's head against their lap; a gross caricature of comfort, and bowed their head down too to whisper. "I remember thinking exactly the same thing. Look how far we've both come."

#antagonist and protagonist #villains #magic #writing #creative writing #fic #ficlet #story #short story #villain #fantasy

[koenigsbleachedshirt]

Please I need some emotions...I need how all three would react to finding YN beat up or something. The emotions, the angst, the possessive and protectiveness....PLS I BEG OF YOU

Bet 🙏🏻

TW: graphic violence, fighting, shooting

y/cs = your callsign

initial situation -> you were out on a mission with your team to deal with a no-name terrorist group. Everything had gone well until the last standing member managed to slam the butt of his gun against the back of your head. You toppled to the ground in pain, vision peppered with black spots. "Fuck... you piece of shit." You hiss when he gets you on your back and starts beating down on you.

Ghost

He hadn't seen or heard of you after calling through the comms, so he grew worried. "Cap', y/cs hasn't responded to my inquiries, I'mma go 'ave a look." Ghost informs Price, who nods in return.

He was decently close with you, so it left a bitter taste in his mouth when you didn't respond. What if someone had managed to mortally injure you and you were laying somewhere and bleeding out?

Ghost hurried through the rooms of the mostly cleared building and came to a stop when he spotted one of the terrorists on top of you, his fists continuously beating down on your, by now unconscious, body. Then he saw red.

Simon ran towards the fucker who dared to touch you yanked him up by his vest, literally throwing him a few feet away from you before proceeding to punch his living daylights out. "Ya fuckin' dare to hurt one of our mates?! I'm gonna fuckin' kill ya, damn cunt!"

He doesn't stop bashing his face in until it's a bloody mess, his fists dripping with the man's blood. He doesn't spare him another glance before going to check on you, blood running cold when he sees the state you're in. Simon's heart is beating out of his chest at the sight; your lip is busted and still slightly bleeding. There's also a laceration on your cheekbone and a nasty bruise forming around it, and not to forget the black eye you're starting to get.

Ghost exhales a shaky breath and gently scoops you up into his arms, careful not to hurt you any further. That bastard has probably beaten more places than just your face.

And he's going to kill them all by himself if he has to.

König

He had just finished absolutely obliterating five of the terrorists in another room and was about to check up on his team when he heard your pained cries from across the hall. König didn't waste any time, running to the source of the sound and kicking open the slightly ajar door.

The man was sitting on your stomach, violently beating you up; you try your best to kick him off, but he's too big. All you can do is try to shield your face, but it doesn't do much because he still got a few good hits on you.

But then you see your Colonel behind your attacker, distracting you enough to catch a fist to the jaw, and suddenly, you're out cold.

The giant colonel did not enjoy that. He picks the asshole up by the back of his collar and puts him in a chokehold. "You made a giant mistake here, du kleiner Bastard." König says into the terrorist's ear, sounding almost demonic, before he manhandles him around.

And then he breaks his back, like a stick that's being snapped over his knee. The man screams bloody murder, but König isn't done. Next, he breaks the arm he used to beat you up with, snapping it so hard the bone broke through the skin. And then the man went limp, either fell unconscious due to the pain, or straight up died.

He couldn't care less, though, as he tossed him aside and moved to kneel down next to your knocked out form. A pang of panic went through him as he hurriedly picked you up to evacuate and get you to a medic as soon as possible.

König is not going to lose you. Not when he finally found a new purpose.

Keegan

He witnessed it all through the scope of his sniper rifle, jaw clenched tightly. How dare this terrorist scum hurt you?

"Sergeant Russ here, I'm going in." He says into the comms before quickly making his way to where this man decided to touch something that wasn't his.

When Keegan arrived, you were already knocked out, his blood running cold. "You dare hurt my y/cs? Oh, you've made a grave mistake there." He says, voice dangerously low as he raises his assault rifle.

The terrorist on top of you freezes, arm raised back for another punch, but not plowing down again. "Get the fuck off of them, hands in the air."

The man does what he's told, but right when he's back on his feet, he moves to take out his gun, probably trying to shoot Keegan.

But instead, he aims it at you. Keegan's eyes widen, and without thinking, he shoots the terrorist straight through the forehead. The man's aim falters but still pulls the trigger, and the bullet lands inches from your face on the ground.

Keegan drops his rifle from the shock; that fucking man almost killed you right in front of him. His whole body is shaking as he flops down next to you, one hand gently caressing your cheek. "You're safe now. Let's go back to base." He says before slinging his rifle around himself and then picking you up and carrying you out of the building.

#ask - answered #cod mw2 #cod x reader #konig x reader #könig x reader #ghost x reader #keegan x reader #konig angst #könig angst #ghost angst #keegan angst #tw violence #tw guns #tw injury #tw shooting

[thateldribitch]

Just Be Mine

Yandere Azul/Reader

Word Count: 1240

General Warnings/Content: Possessive behavior, kidnapping, murder, gore, (y'know, yandere stuff). Light wounds; reader is referred to as 'wife' but gender really isn't specified (and I'd find it even funnier if he just called his partner his wife regardless of their gender tbh.)

Lightning cracks above the salt-soaked cliffs.  Don’t stop. Run. Drag your hands up rocks, drag your body out of the water, keep going, going, going. Drag yourself up the sand. Tonight’s storm consumes all light. Except, electricity briefly flashes. Except, twin fireflies glow in a glimpse of the waves. Don’t glance back. Don’t. 

You’re not safe on land. 

The lights in the distance provide no safe haven. You need to get away from the sea, have to, need to. But you can’t go towards the town either. The haunting cries from the water summon lanterns from even the darkest homes. Dogs bark. A hunting party—and your rabbiting heart knows their target. Fuck, you did see their eyes in the water; they must’ve been stalking after you and you didn’t. Fucking. Notice. And they let you run.

They always let you run.

And yet you still scrabble towards the woods, heaving for breath, sobbing for it. Hounds bay. They’ve caught your scent. No, no, no—it’s so fast, too fast. Damn it! Your bare feet slide through the mud. You bash your rock-scraped palms into the beach-grass. Hands pounce upon you, dragging you up. Voices. You can’t tell what they’re saying, don’t need to know. You just… know that they’re dragging your kicking body back to the black waves.

Back to him.

“Oh, my love….” Azul sighs, pushing his glasses up as he shakes his head at you. His body gently bobs in the waves. His black tendrils pull him up and onto the familiar rock, where the townsfolk have been ordered to take you after your escape attempts. Affectionate disappointment lights up his cold blue eyes. He looks warmer when he’s with you… but the men digging their hands into your struggling arms shake in fear before him. Your wince drags Azul’s gaze across you, searching for injury.

Bleeding hands, from the rocks. Bleeding knees, from numerous falls. You’re all but limp with exhaustion, but still putting up as much of a fight as you can. It’s cute, to him. What is decidedly not so adorable… are your captors handling you roughly. Not that they have much choice, but you’re his. And no one gets to just hurt you.

The moment you’re within reach, he snatches you into his many arms. His nose buries into your neck, nuzzling softly. Suckers pop off your skin, tasting your wounds, checking you for more… even as you squirm. But you wince a bit more as he brushes over your arms. And… that’s all it takes. He doesn’t even have to signal his displeasure. Firefly eyes burst out of the dark—two sets, Jade, Floyd, and then… screams. The horrific crunch-squish of Floyd tearing out a man’s windpipe with his teeth. The man chokes for his last, bloody breath. And Jade… drags his kicking, screaming kill beneath the waves. To savor.

“I do believe I’ve made myself clear,” Azul snaps a tendril out, squeezing the lone survivor’s neck until he’s red in the face. “You are not to harm my wife. Do kindly remind the village of that?” With a gracious smile, he drops the man at his feet. Your captor scrambles away, kicking sand on the corpse of his companion in his hasty flight. Will the rain wash away the gritty-red sand clinging to his skin?

A knuckle drags across your cheek, startling you out of your thoughts. A soft warning, before you’re dragged back into the cold, dark depths. The salt stings in your throat, but the enchantments lovingly woven into your skin glow… and your lungs adapt. Breathless gasps bubble out, as you pant from your haggard flight. “...So quiet, Darling….” Azul murmurs, dragging his lips across your rain-chilled pulse. A shiver wracks your body. It’s only been a few minutes of him gently dragging you through the water, but he doesn’t like the silence. Stubbornly, you glance off to the side. “...Come now. You know I’d never take your voice…. You may speak.”

How gracious of him to let you….

“I hate you.” Much as you want to snap, you’re too tired to. The adrenaline drains away. There’s no escaping Azul once he has you in his clutches. And the damn mer is warm. He must be using magic to do so, but it’s so horrifically soothing. Your body instinctively melts into his gentle ministrations. A bubbling breath grumbles out of your lips. 

“Darling, you know you could make this so much easier on yourself,” Azul murmurs against your neck. A million little suckers pop like gentle kisses off of your skin, as you’re pressed into his chest. “Just be mine….” It gets colder, as you get deeper. Inky darkness envelops you. Azul’s bright blue eyes glow softly; in the distance, two golden lights swirl around each other like ribbons. You put up one, last token struggle before you’re dragged into his grotto.

Enchanted lights surround you in a soft glow. He nudges you into his dark little nook, then just… holds you. So gently, so tightly. There’s no escape, as his plush body molds over yours. His soft limbs bustle around the familiar space, tugging items off shelves while he busies himself with running his fingers through your hair. He picks up your palm as a tendril sweeps into view with a roll of bandages. Soft lips trace your grit-pocked skin; a gentle tongue scrapes the gravelly bits away. “...You know I’ll take good care of you.”

“And keep me in a cave my whole life,” you snip, shivering at the overwhelming amount of contact. There’s the sting of his tongue on your wrist, the pressure of his body against yours, the tendrils swiping softly over your knees as they bandage and clean them…. Your legs twitch as some of his tentacles tenderly massage at your aching muscles. A tiny whimper slips out of you as he lovingly rubs away some of the pains, before just contently settling against your skin. He never… pushes. Oh, he wants. You see the way he settles so eagerly against your freshly bandaged body, pressing himself into every inch of you like he can’t get enough of it. Like he has to be able to touch every part of you to ever have enough contact with his ‘beloved.’ 

“Goodness, you need more exposure therapy….” He only sighs in response, dramatically nuzzling into your chest. His soft hair tickles against your chin, drifting softly in the current. “I’m your husband, my dear…. I’m not going to hurt you.” 

It’s true. He never has. He lets you run off, but always brings you back. He lets you leave the cave. He brings you gifts, food, takes you any place you like—except for back home. People have probably given up looking for you at this point. And the people in Azul’s town aren’t stupid enough to risk telling any passing strangers about the octo-mer’s captive wife. You’re trapped in a gilded cage…. Quietly, you whisper, “...I hate you,” into his hair. Your eyes flutter. You’re so… tired.

“...There we are,” Azul purrs, so soft that you barely make out his words. His fingers card through your hair. His limbs gently adjust the pillows and blankets piled around you. Much to your chagrin, you slowly start to sink into a hazy sleep. But just before you fully lose consciousness— “Don’t run away from me anymore….” His voice creaks out in the softest, saddest plea… right above your aching heart….

Aaaaaa I've had this on the back burner for a bit. I really like horror and imagery like this, so it was super fun! But this is the first real piece I've written in months, so I was a bit nervous to post it. I also really used to worry about word counts, but reading a lot of stories on here that were shorter, but no less impactful, made me feel so much better.

If you guys like it, I might write more for it? I have some loose ideas of including the tweels.

Also I know I have sentence fragments---sometimes they're an aesthetic choice tbh.

#yandere #yandere azul #twst #azul ashengrotto #azul/reader #azul ashengrotto/reader #yandere/reader #divider by cafekitsune #jade leech #floyd leech #mood board images from pinterest

[kiiyunz]

posted⠀by⠀junjiie⠀⠀⸻⠀⠀8th April,⠀2O24.

No-one’s journey through idol life is going to be all sunshine & rainbows, and that’s a fact I think we should all make peace with as soon as possible. If you’re going to type out a comment screaming bloody murder about how your favourite’s whole career has been nothing but shiny and perfect, then all I have to say to you is that I’m sure there’s been a whole number of not-shiny and not-perfect things going on when the cameras are off. Sorry. It’s just the truth. Probably. But I’m not here to talk about your favourite, I’m here to talk about mine. So, without further ado, strap yourself in for a run-down of IM KIHYUN throughout the years of NCT DREAM’s career—ranked on a three point scale: the GOOD, the BAD, and of course, the REALLY, REALLY UGLY.

CHEWING GUM (2016)⠀⠀fruit punch & bubble mixture

15-YEAR-OLD-KIHYUN had three lines in their debut single, a yellow hoverboard, and a dream—literally, considering the name of his unit. He was every bit the mood maker most people know him as today, filled to the brim with excitement and a sense of self-confidence that some people may have thought he would’ve lacked. While he hadn’t fully settled into himself just yet, still had voice cracks, and acne breakouts he’d stubbornly refuse to be filmed with while suffering through, and bouts of clumsiness that would leave him with bruises all over his elbows and plasters on his knees, for the most part it felt like he was an experienced performer rather than a just-arrived rookie. Most people immediately took a liking to him, and although his popularity wasn’t as sky-high as some of his fellow members, the fans he did have were a force to be reckoned with right from the start.

But whether you loved him or hated him, the one thing that everyone seemed to take notice of was the way he just looked like he loved performing on every single occasion, putting everything he had into every stage even with the little amount of time he was given to show off both himself & his budding talent to the people watching. His stage presence was compared to a breath of fresh air on a summer’s day, the wide grin he aimed at the cameras at any given opportunity one that aimed to brighten the mood of anyone witnessing it, and the enthusiasm with which he delivered his lines was something that even the harshest of critics could give a nod of acknowledgement to. Altogether, it’s widely agreed that CHEWING GUM for Kihyun was a GOOD era, on our three point scale.

(MY) FAVOURITE MOMENT: ⠀MU-BEYOND

Kihyun very obviously and very fiercely despising the way his hair was styled for one of the photoshoots, and making no attempt to hide it. As soon as the camera flashes stopped, gone was his sunshine smile, and in its place was a look that, if they could kill, would have put the photographer six feet under (even if the poor man would’ve had no say in how it was styled in the first place). While a few of the other members were enjoying themselves on the glossy pink bouncing balls they were perched on, as soon as it was announced they were done Kihyun was shooting up and making a runner for the bathroom, shooting the camera a glare and tugging on a few strands of his hair as he went. Chenle could be seen cracking up in the near background, creased over from the force of his laughter. Kihyun yelled something back at him, but whatever it was was drowned out by the editors with the persistent ‘Chew-chew-chew-chew chewing gum’ over the top of the footage, seemingly growing a little louder in order to hide his words.

THE FIRST (2017)⠀⠀bad hair & basketball

(STILL) 15-YEAR-OLD-KIHYUN had blue frosted tips and a tendency to get distracted on the music video set, far more interested in shooting hoops than dancing around in the school-band like outfit they were being made to wear and singing about being in head-over-heels in love with his teacher. He was still every bit the bust of energy he was previously, still throwing his all into everything he did, but it was obvious to some he’d rather be doing other things if he could. The whole riding-cardboard-cars-around was something he loved, though, and he stated more than once that was his favourite part by a mile. Kihyun was mostly the same as he was during the CHEWING GUM era in terms of performance, confidence, and the like—although it was noted by most that there was a little less of his occasional clumsiness, more stability in himself than there was previously. His popularity grew alongside the group’s, his consistent charm and apparent natural talent to draw people in appealing to many a new fan.

He slowly began to make more of a presence online during the MY FIRST AND LAST era, also. Posting both little messages and various photos of himself & the members (mainly in embarrassing positions, such as being half-asleep or making weird faces) on Twitter, interacting with fans whenever he could, and dragging out conversations for as long as he was allowed at fansigns, until the poor person in front of him was practically dragged along to the next member. And when there were more sides of him being shown to the public (and the internet, especially), there were more people waiting to pick apart every piece of him. While his popularity grew, the amount of people against him shot up in numbers, too. It wasn’t overwhelmingly bad, but there were a fair few who accused him of trying to take the spotlight too often, or being ungrateful for the opportunities he was being given after they’d heard the few comments he’d made here and there about the comeback’s concept not being his favourite. Still, despite these lower moments, there were still more pros than cons, and so MY FIRST AND LAST is another era ranked GOOD for Kihyun.

(MY)  FAVOURITE  MOMENT: ⠀MFAL FIRST WIN

He was so caught up in tugging at the various buttons and pins stuck onto his ugly blazer that he barely heard the MC announcing their win until all the other members were jumping around and crying and patting each other on the back. Kihyun himself didn’t cry until backstage, when it finally hit him properly that they’d actually won, so in the moment he was more so just a little confused and dazed than anything else as he celebrated with the rest, not-so-subtly trying to take the trophy out of Mark’s hands while he made his speech so he could get a better look at it, wrapping Jeno in a hug so tight it left them both wheezing, trying to jump on Jisung’s back in an attempt to get him to cheer up, and also making a whole host of excited gestures and faces over at the members of 127 across the stage.

WE YOUNG  (2017)⠀⠀fun  in  the  sun!

KIHYUN (NOW 16) loved every second of this era, and that was something you could make out from space. Even with his now-pink-streaked hair and sailor outfits they were being made to wear, he declared the music from the WE YOUNG era as his favourite thus far. It was just pure fun, simple as that. He enjoyed every performance they did, sang all his lines with a grin so wide it nearly split his lips, was as playful as ever with all the members, and simply let loose a little more, losing himself in the music rather than what people were saying about it. Despite him not overly loving the whole sailor concept, fans were of the opinion that he was one of the ones that pulled it off the best, and so he begrudgingly posted photos of him in the get-up as often as he could—to an overwhelmingly positive response every time. The public noticed that, while still not fully grown, Kihyun’s self-confidence seemed to be at an all-time-high. He really did look like he was just happy to be there, and his supporters couldn’t have been more glad about it.

What also made his fans happy was his amount of lines getting a boost. He’d consistently been receiving around three or four, five at a stretch, but now it was reaching into the sixes and sevens—which, really, was barely an upgrade, but it made a world of difference to fans of his. It gave him more of a chance to show off his vocal ability, and brought more attention to him from both the public & critics. It also just made him happy, to be able to spend more than ten minutes in the recording studio, to be given more of a chance to show off how he’d grown and improved so far (even if he still thought he had a ways to go before he reached the level of his role models, his own idols). WE YOUNG was yet another GOOD era for Kihyun by miles, with barely any pitfalls in sight, and probably his highest so far.

(MY)  FAVOURITE  MOMENT: ⠀COMEBACK SHOWCASE

He was jumping all over the stage throughout every performance, throwing everything he had (and probably more) into every line he sang and every move he executed. It was clear he was trying his hardest to contain himself, trying not to scream every one of his lines into the mic or trip himself up, but it was also clear he was struggling. He was also as clingy as anything towards the rest, always hanging off of someone’s back or linking their arms together while they were walking. There was never a shot of him without a smile on his face, never anything he did that made it feel like he’d rather be elsewhere. His enthusiasm and excitement was almost infectious, leaking out of the screen to put a smile on the face of whoever was watching along.

WE GO UP  (2018)⠀⠀breakdancing  &  beanies

NEARLY-ADULT (AKA.. 17-YEAR-OLD) KIHYUN seemed to be reaching for maturity a little too fast, fingers outstretched towards his eighteenth birthday and desperate for the months to pass by just a little faster. He had decided, somewhere along the line, that he was ready to be rid of the cuter concept the group was intended to present, and was more than ready for a switch-up. And while WE GO UP wasn’t exactly what he was hoping for, there was certainly less of the more childish aspects that were seen in their previous releases—which was both an acknowledgement of all the members growing older and also something that served as a reminder of Mark’s upcoming graduation from the group, which Kihyun would’ve rather done anything but think about. Still, while he didn’t put as much of his all into it as he had done in the past, he still put a fair amount of effort into the lines he was given (which were lessened once again, to the disappointment of many) and choreography they were made to learn. Fans noted that his personal style was beginning to develop in the WE GO UP era, their suspicions of Kihyun dressing himself confirmed when he mentioned here and there that most of his non-schedule outfits were his own.

The introduction of Bubble helped to boost Kihyun’s online presence, something that had fluctuated from era-to-era thus far (his highest amount of interactions previously being within the MY FIRST AND LAST era), and while he didn’t use it all the time, he still made an effort to communicate regularly with those who’d signed up when he could. He shared his inner reasonings on his online presence with those who were asking—saying that if he didn’t like the concept of the comeback too much he would compensate by being online and able to interact more. It’s a rule he’s mostly stuck with over the years, and fans have now said it’s easy to tell when Kihyun hates a concept because they’ll wake up with three new Twitter posts and ten times as many Bubble updates. So on the whole, although it was definitely on the lower end of the spectrum, WE GO UP is considered yet another GOOD era for Kihyun—making that a four-long streak (that—apologies for spoilers—was going to be broken fairly soon).

(MY)  FAVOURITE  MOMENT: ⠀FIRST SOLO LIVE

It was, to put it plainly, a little bit all over the place. He held it in his dorm room, half asleep but still managing to be every bit the charismatic personality most people knew and loved him for. He answered any questions threw at him with total honesty, didn’t hold his tongue when talking about various subjects that others may have (namely his personal thoughts & opinions on the comeback as whole—this live was where many found out he didn’t like it as much as they thought he did), and also showed a side to him that the majority hadn’t been able to see as much of before. He gave song recommendations, spoke about those who inspired him—both in a music and fashion sense—and altogether shared lots of fun facts that had been unknown to most previously.

WE BOOM  (2019)⠀⠀radio  silence

18-YEAR-OLD-KIHYUN was noticeably.. Different. While Mark’s graduation had hit all of the remaining seven hard, the other six still at least pushed on and tried to act as if things were fine as normal, carrying on as most expected them to. Kihyun, however, had seemed to undergo a complete personality shift. He was withdrawn, quieter than he’d ever been—barely offering anything up in conversations or interviews even when prompted, barely any footage of him in behind-the-scenes content because he made next to no contributions to it; always preferring to stay in the background, on his phone with his headphones on and trying to ignore the cameras following them around. Public opinion of him was also beginning to slip further into the red, following leaked photos of him at an undisclosed individual’s party getting cosy with an unnamed and non-idol slightly older male just after the release of the mini-album—photos that went unaddressed by both the company and Kihyun himself. His name was starting to grow in infamy rather than popularity, but the boy himself didn’t really seem to care.

All traces of Kihyun on social media seemed to go completely cold, barely any updates from him that weren’t group photos or content. From the whole era there were a measly two Twitter posts from him, and his Bubble subscribers got refunded more often than not. But while he was refraining from making any posts, news websites and anonymous users were more than happy to leak more and more photos of him—always with the same boy, always at a party, or at a club, or just generally anywhere that looked a little shady to the hundreds of thousands that saw it. Rumours began to spread about a drinking problem, about a shady boyfriend, about countless things that painted Kihyun in a type of light that he’d previously avoided like the plague, but Kihyun himself made no attempt to defend himself, and so they only got wilder. It’s unanimously decided that the BOOM is the first (but certainly not the last) of Kihyun’s BAD eras.

(MY)  FAVOURITE  MOMENT: ⠀JENO LIVE

The then-blonde took it upon himself to disregard all the rumours spreading about his dongsaeng—although not in a direct way. He was careful with his words, as well-spoken as he always is, but made sure to especially shut down the accusations of Kihyun turning into some reckless party animal, taking the former leader’s graduation so bad he turned to less-than-ideal ways to cope. “Kyunnie isn’t like that, and never will be,” was what he told his audience, and many noted the flat look on his face. After the captain had, many of the others took their turn to come to Kihyun’s defence—mostly always with vague comments, but statements nonetheless. Chenle’s response in particular was deemed to be one of the most direct, replying to a comment while on live with a simple “You don’t know Kihyun like that” and then ending the live not long afterwards, leaving the conversation at that and somewhat encouraging the people speculating to do the same.

RELOAD  (2020)⠀⠀cliff  drops  &  harmful  habits

NOW 19, KIHYUN seemed to be at something of his lowest point thus far. While he made more public appearances, more attempts to join in with behind-the-scenes content (or just extra content in general), most concluded it was the result of management telling him he had to, rather that Kihyun himself choosing to do so—and his return only gave more opportunities for those looking to find all the things wrong with the once-charismatic & energy-filled vocalist. And to make matters worse for him, more information had been dug up on his newfound non-idol friends (or rather, the one boy in particular that everyone wanted to know about). Oh Jinwoo, he had been discovered to be called, something of an influencer-like figure known more often than not for his whole host of partners over the years and tendency to get mixed in with the wrong crowd. You could say that you could only imagine what this did to Kihyun’s public image (which was practically halfway ruined by that point already), but there was no need for imagination—practically everyone witnessed his fall from the (mostly Korean) public’s good books, yet nobody could do anything about it. It felt like every day there was another article released leaking more photos and spreading more rumours about whatever dark web Kihyun was tangling himself in, but still the company made no move to stop them. 

It was also during the RIDIN era that Kihyun was rumoured to have started up the habit of smoking, with (albeit blurry) photos released to support the claims. This did absolutely nothing to help his reputation, tanking it further. His future was starting to look a little uncertain, questions being raised over whether his actions as of lately would warrant either a hiatus or removal from the group completely. He might’ve delivered all his lines as fine as normal, danced along with the rest in the same practised & efficient manner he always did, but talent didn’t mean much when placed on a scale against damaging the whole group’s image, rather than just his own. When people began to turn their nasty comments and endless gossip onto the other members, Kihyun was starting to look like more of a hindrance than a crucial member. It is, without a doubt, agreed by all that RIDIN was a REALLY, REALLY UGLY era.

(MY)  FAVOURITE  MOMENT: ⠀KIHYUN LIVE

It was short, it was vague, and it was still very obvious he was nowhere near to feeling like his normal self, but Kihyun himself did come forward to address a few things—mainly the smoking incident, which he admitted to be true and said that while he was trying to put a stop to it completely, habits like that were hard to quit. After the negative comments began to override the positive & supportive ones, he was quick to shut it off again and return to what was becoming his frighteningly normal status of radio silent. Still, it was something—and far more than anything SM gave, at that. Other members were also quick to dismiss or shut down any comments they saw on their own lives discussing Kihyun and his future of the group, all that they said mostly being along the simple and short lines of “Kihyun’s staying with us” and not elaborating any further.

HOT SAUCE  (2021)⠀⠀a start

20 YEARS OF AGE. Mark was back, their permanence as a group was finally confirmed, the graduation system having been abolished, and all eight of them were together again. After five whole years of being active they were finally releasing a full album, and getting the chance to do it the way they all wanted. But while things were happier in that regard, Kihyun’s situation was far from forgotten. Fans of his were relieved nothing had been done about his place in the group—even if a few solo stans wanted him out just as much as those who hated him did, for the sake of his own wellbeing rather than them holding any ill-will towards the other members—but public opinion of him was still mostly in the red. Things were again starting to feel like they were hitting a dead-end: with Kihyun’s presence sort of.. Drifting. Sometimes he’d be absent for a group live, sometimes he’d go silent on all social media for weeks with his only comeback usually being his presence in the background of another member’s photos. Everything was looking just as uncertain as they had during the RIDIN era—until Kihyun once again started a solo live with the simple title of ‘an explanation’ and proceeded to do just that: explain.

Most suspected he didn’t divulge all the details, but the run-down was this: he’d met Jinwoo at some party or other, and they’d gotten just as close as all the leaked photos and gossipy articles made them out to be (although, again, some thought them to be far closer). He’d led Kihyun into a little bit of a rebellious era, what he called his ‘chance to be young and reckless’ since he’d mostly missed out on it, what with all his years of both diligent training & as an active idol. While he admitted on the broadcast that it was fun for a while, he was also realising the damage it was doing to both himself & his fellow members, so attempted to cut contact with his newfound friend—to no avail, for a few months, as they had more than a few periods of arguments both over the phone and in person. He said he’d only officially completely cut Jinwoo off a few weeks before the live, and shared with something of a wistful smile that he didn’t plan to get in touch with him any more now that he was gone. His viewers were overjoyed to hear this, and the members shared the sentiment—but Kihyun still had a ways to go before he was back to being a generally accepted fan-favourite. Despite him taking his first steps towards being back to his usual self, HOT SAUCE is still considered a BAD era for the vocalist.

(MY)  FAVOURITE  MOMENT: ⠀MARK INSTAGRAM POST

It was a three-slide-long affair that was posted not too long after Kihyun’s live. The first was a selfie of himself & a sleeping Kihyun, one of the rapper’s arms gently holding the vocalist to his side while he grinned wide into the camera. The second, a solo shot of Kihyun’s face up close to the camera, tongue out and peace sign just barely visible in one of the corners, what with most of the frame being taken up by the odd expression he was pulling. The third slide was a short video, only ten seconds or so long, of Kihyun and him on the dorm’s sofa, the audio consisting the tail-end of Mark’s voice making a joke mostly unintelligible to the viewers that was quickly followed by Kihyun’s pure & unfiltered laughter as he cracked up at whatever the Dream leader had said. He was creased over, one hand repeatedly hitting Mark’s knee as the other held his stomach, breath coming out in jerky and uneven gasps as he tried to recover. The caption was made up of two words: ‘my KD.’ 

HELLO FUTURE  (2021)⠀⠀cotton  candy  &  back  to  normal

STILL 20, BUT NOW SEEMING MUCH HAPPIER, by the time HELLO FUTURE era rolled around Kihyun felt to most like he’d healed fully from what had then been a period a month shy of two years worth of the continuous cycle of being somewhat of a public enemy. People thought it was the combination of getting the truth about all that had happened off his chest, the continuous support of his members both in Dream and in NCT as a whole, and the seemingly infectious happy mood that came with the HELLO FUTURE era that managed to finally get Kihyun back on his feet, and with him he was bringing performances reminiscent of how full of joy and excited he’d been during the WE YOUNG era, smile wide on his face in every shot and dancing filled to the brim with passion. He even made more of an effort to make appearances on social media—contradictory to the rule he’d made during the WE GO UP era of only being constantly online during concepts he wasn’t too fond of. He gave happy little updates every once in a while, paired with smiling selcas both alone & with the other members, was as talkative as most remembered him to be before what some had started to dub ‘the dark ages’ during any group lives they held, and even crashed a few of the member’s solo lives every now and again.

His change was noticed easily, and was one that began to slowly turn the tides of public opinion on him once again. The comments made about him being someone who was bringing the group down and ruining their reputation with his recklessness were slowly lessening, being replaced with positive ones, and soon enough his popularity was starting to grow again, instead of the countless hate trains and calls for him to be kicked out. Kihyun was well on the way (if not mostly there already) to being completely fine again, even apparently feeling well enough to make more than a few jokes at his own expense here and there about staying far, far away from any parties held by a friend-of-a-friend in the future. HELLO FUTURE was the light (or rather.. Rainbow?) at the end of the tunnel for Kihyun, and so it was considered his first GOOD era after the nearly two years of BAD (with one REALLY, REALLY UGLY, at his lowest) ones.

(MY)  FAVOURITE  MOMENT: ⠀MV REACTION

Kihyun was seated next to Chenle, which could only really mean trouble—as it always did whenever the pair were within two metres of one another. They were cracking jokes every two seconds, falling all over one another with laughter and unable to shut up for even a minute. The rest paused the video more times to tell them to keep it together than they did for them to comment on anything actually happening in the MV, but you could tell from a mile away that they didn’t really mind in the slightest, more happy to see Kihyun laughing and smiling again than anything. They also all made sure to cheer the loudest when the vocalist’s solo scene appeared on screen, and then proceeded to (lovingly) make fun of him when his ears uncharacteristically went bright red at the praise being showered upon him, although he tried to get over it quickly and return back to his self-confidence-filled self.

GLITCH MODE  (2022)⠀⠀video  games  &  b-boying-in-progress

NOW FULLY BACK ON TRACK (& FRESHLY 21), Kihyun was ready to throw his all into their second full album. He was as good as new, his overwhelming feeling of excitement for every track recorded and released as clear as day. He even (again) broke his no-contact rule a few times just to relay how much he thought fans were going to love the album, posting spoilers as often as possible and revealing as much as he could get away with before it dropped. When it was released, he was practically talking about it non stop, chattering away on all platforms about the styling, the stages, the music, how fun it was, how much he was enjoying himself—the list went on. He declared the GLITCH MODE era to be his favourite, point blank, no matter how much he liked anything they would go on to release in the future. Public opinion of him was mostly completely smoothed over by that point, and his personal fan base was growing with every passing piece of content that was released. He seemed at his complete happiest, throwing everything he had and more into every single thing he did during promotions & extra content.

The GLITCH MODE era was also when he opened his personal Instagram account, his first post being a picture of him and Jeno glued to each other’s sides in a setting people assumed to be the SM building, with the caption ‘my favourite colleague.’ His follower count rose quickly, and is currently sitting at a comfortable 4.8M, mostly in the middle of Jisung and Chenle’s own numbers. Since then his account has become a home to photos that at times feel more like an exhibition of all the other Dream members (and his closer friends from the other units also) than anything involving himself, nonsensical lives that usually occur at the early hours of the morning where Kihyun—either alone or together with whoever decides to either join the live or join Kihyun himself wherever he’s holding it—has free reign to chatter on about whatever he pleases, although most of the time when he’s alone it turns into an impromptu radio hour where he takes the chance to talk about his favourite recent albums & artists, as well as listening to any recommendations his viewers give him. Slowly beginning to recover his streak, GLITCH MODE is seen as another GOOD era for Kihyun.

(MY)  FAVOURITE  MOMENT: ⠀MV BEHIND

Kihyun had decided that he was going to properly get into breakdancing during the GLITCH MODE era, and saw no better place than his solo interview moment in the behind-the-scenes video to show off the moves he’d begun to learn. At first he just spoke about how excited he was for the comeback, with Mark hanging off of his back and chiming in with comments of his own here and there, but after a couple minutes of that he was shrugging the leader off of him and telling the camera to “Watch this!” before launching into an impromptu downrock routine while Mark watched on in horror, looking a little like he was on the verge of a seizure even if Kihyun was perfectly fine. He also tried to do a headstand, and by that point Jeno had also wandered over to see what all the fuss was about, and viewers had the pleasure of watching both the leader and captain attempt to stop Kihyun from giving himself a concussion—the latter looking like he was about to burst into tears, and the former looking as if he was seconds away from collapsing.

BEATBOX (2022)⠀⠀boomboxes & makeshift english lessons

21, AND, IN HIS WORDS, “IN HIS PRIME,” the vocalist & dancer took to BEATBOX like a duck to water. While it wasn’t a huge favourite of his, he still liked it well enough and had enough fun on both the sets of the music video and all the photoshoots that accompanied the release to make up for it. The choreography was also a favourite for him in particular, and he practised it so much he could be seen absently dancing along to it whenever he stood still for too long in almost all of the extra content both before & after the release. It was practically ingrained in him, all of it coming to him like muscle memory. He swore up and down he could do the BEATBOX choreo tied up and blindfolded by the end of the era, although he was far from complaining, dragging every idol he vaguely knew (and even ones he hadn’t even introduced himself to) to do the challenge with him backstage at all the music shows they attended. Hardly anyone was safe from Kihyun’s pleading eyes and charming smile, and fans joked they’d seen more of Kihyun on TikTok doing dance challenges than they had seen him on any other platform from all of his past eras combined.

He was also noted for his sudden unexpected closeness with Jaemin in the BEATBOX era. While they were far from just acquaintances, and had expressed their shared love for one another multiple times in the past (even after their not-really-fight they’d shared in their trainee years, the story of which Kihyun had retold during a live with Jeno and could barely get though sentences of without laughing at how ridiculous it sounded all those years later), he just seemed a little closer, a little clingier in all of the behind-the-scenes content; hanging off of his arm or dragging im off somewhere to talk about something or other. When asked about it somewhere, he simply shrugged with a big grin on his face. “I just like Jaemin-hyung,” was all he said at the time, but later in an Instagram post of the two on the set of the music video he had written the caption ‘please give me lots of love—and lots of followers too!’ with a whole array of heart emojis to accompany it, to which Jaemin commented with a lot of laughter and promising he’d bring his dongsaeng all the Instagram fame he seemed to desire. Now most definitely building his streak back up, BEATBOX was a GOOD era for Kihyun all-around.

(MY)  FAVOURITE  MOMENT: ⠀UNBOXING BEATBOX ALBUM

Sat with Donghyuck, Renjun, and Mark, Kihyun was tearing off the cellophane packaging of the album before the rest could even greet the camera, practically desperate to look through the photobook and (most importantly, so he could add it to his ever-growing collection of all the photocards he owned of his fellow members) see who he’d pulled. He yelled out in delight and brandished his brand-new Jaemin PC at the camera, before almost immediately pulling out his phone and prying off the case to slip it into the back of it (covering up the GLITCH MODE era Mark he’d pulled the last time they’d done an unboxing, much to the leader’s dismay). After that was done with, he started spending an unnecessarily long amount of time pouring over each page of the photobook, trying to think of English adjectives to describe them with and then distracting Mark from his own unboxing in order to get him to whisper them in his ear when he couldn’t think of how to translate them. ‘Hot’ and Jaemin’s practically-trademarked ‘Sexy’ was what he ended up coming out with the most.

CANDY  (2022)⠀⠀earmuffs  &  christmas  karaoke

CHRISTMAS AT 21 was a very merry affair for Kihyun. He was as festive as could be, even wrangling Renjun and Jisung into buying a fake tree for their dorm that he decorated in a (very chaotic, and very loud) Christmas live a few days before the release of the EP. That seemed like the extent of his social media updates, though, only really appearing after that in group Twitter posts or lives (or occasionally the background of another member’s picture)—but this wasn’t all bad, seeing as it confirmed to most that he enjoyed the colourful and fun winter concept they were going with for the release. The only other real proper online presence he had was the random flurry of Bubble messages his subscribers would receive concerning his ranting and raving about his personal favourites from H.O.T.’s discography, seeing as he took it upon himself to listen to more of them because it was one of their songs they were remaking. Fans took delight in Kihyun’s wide smiles and overall joyful mannerism as he delivered lines about leaving his partner for another, saying his always-cheerful disposition made his performance of the title track all the more enjoyable.

In behind-the-scenes & extra content, Kihyun’s Christmas spirit felt infectious to viewers. There wasn’t a moment where he wasn’t belting out the lyrics to Christmas classics from all countries (even if he had to hold his phone up to Mark’s face on occasion and get him to help him with the pronunciation of some of the lyrics), or dancing around to something only he could hear in his head, or picking up some of the fake-snow they sprinkled around on a few of their sets and chucking it in Chenle’s face before sprinting in the other direction while the Chinese vocalist immediately gave chase, and the rest could only stand and watch it all play out. Now matching his previous four-long streak, CANDY is agreed to be yet another GOOD era for the vocalist.

(MY)  FAVOURITE  MOMENT: ⠀PACKING CANDY ALBUM

He was in Mark, Jisung, and Chenle’s group, and spent most of the time chucking baubles at Chenle, trying to balance the various items placed before them on the table on Jisung’s head & shoulders without him noticing, and steadily making his way through the whole rack of Chupa Chups sitting right beside him unattended rather than doing anything with the actual box in front of him. Mark took over the job for him in the end, leaving him to pretty much do whatever he pleased in the meantime (one of those things was repaying the favour Mark did him by tying him in bows with the ribbon that their boxes had come wrapped in, the leader making faces while he did so but doing absolutely nothing to stop him at the same time).

ISTJ (2023)⠀⠀mbti fraud & impulse decisions

22-YEAR-OLD-KIHYUN was as energetic as ever, full of ideas and eager to get all of them heard. ISTJ was the album where he received the most writing credits, recorded as having helped with the lyrics for all tracks bar Like We Just Met and Blue Wave. Fans liked to see that he was showing a more creative side of himself this era, and that he was vocal about all the things he’d had input in or had helped shape into the final form, polishing it to perfection for their third full album. He was most noticeably supportive in their behind-the-scenes recording videos, where he got through all of his own sessions quickly & efficiently (but with no lack of passion and enthusiasm for the lines he was given—which most were happy to see were more than usual, similar to the WE YOUNG era in terms of numbers, even occasionally soaring a few higher) and then stayed in to listen to all of his other fellow members, cheering them on from behind the glass and dancing around as they recorded, greeting them with a wide hug and endless amounts of praise when they left the booth.

Another thing that was enjoyable for fans was his complete lack of awareness of what an MBTI actually was. He’d heard of them, of course, but he’d never gone as far as to take a test and find out for himself. So Kihyun, curious to see what the fuss was all about, turned on an Instagram live, propped his phone up against his desk, switched his laptop on, and took one there and then. He consulted with viewers about every single one of the questions, taking far too long to complete it than any normal person would-and, when he finally did, disagreeing with his result right up until he saw people that shared his MBTI. He shut up pretty quick when he scrolled down a little more and saw that he apparently had the same one as Adele, changing his tune almost instantly and saying his result was the best of them all. Officially bumping his longest-running streak up to five, ISTJ was most definitely a GOOD era for Kihyun.

(MY)  FAVOURITE  MOMENT: ⠀MV BEHIND

He was clearly in his element, bouncing around from member to member to play with their hair or jump onto their back or whisper something in their ear before bursting out into a fit of snickers and running off again to see who else he could bother. He played photographer for most of their Instagram posts, taking the outtakes or moments where they had an eye closed or just clearly weren’t ready for his own feed, started a playfight with Jisung and nearly tripped himself up on a stray wire in the process, brought his own mini Bluetooth speaker to set one day so he could have a soundtrack while he caused his chaos, and attempted to show off more tricks he was learning, but was quickly stopped by Mark, who, as soon as he saw him getting in position for what looked like a cartwheel of some sort, was rushing over faster than light—his breakdancing routine from the GLITCH MODE era still very much as the forefront of his mind.

DREAM()SCAPE  (2024)⠀⠀mocktails  &  odd-looking  fruits

AGAIN FRESH OFF A BIRTHDAY (HIS 23RD THIS TIME), the vocalist felt just as excited for the release as he had for GLITCH MODE, even if it wasn’t a full album. It was calling back to their debut days, making a statement through all of the symbolism and hidden messages that was louder than any of them could convey with words, and was altogether a project that hoped to show to everyone how strong their bond actually was, to convince the few out there that were of the opposite opinion that they all loved one another throughout the thick and thin their eight years of being an active subunit, and weren’t likely to stop anytime soon. Kihyun was like Jisung in regards to all the fan-theories being made about the teasers, keeping his mouth mostly shut (although some thought that was just because he was barely on social media as it was), but did comment on some things in particular—namely Jeno’s back, the Jaemin trailer that had him locking eyes with the camera even in between a crowd, and the Chenle pill-biting scene. He kept quiet on his own, making brief comments about how cool he thought he looked on Bubble but not saying much otherwise.

The few things he did share about the comeback were mostly about the music. He had writing credits for the majority of the songs, but also had another piece of news that was exciting for him as a longtime personal goal he’d had for a good while—and that was that he’d assisted with the production on one of the tracks. Most that knew Kihyun knew that music production had been one of his interests since he knew what it was, and so naturally that meant they knew what some of his work in the production area actually getting used in an official release would mean to him. He couldn’t have been happier about it, and that happiness was a sentiment both the members and his closer friends outside of Dream shared with him, mentioning it in passing when talking about DREAM()SCAPE. Even if it only just ended, SMOOTHIE is considered yet another—making this his sixth in a row since ‘the dark ages’—GOOD era for Kihyun.

(MY)  FAVOURITE  MOMENT: ⠀DREAM()SCAPE COUPLE SONG MEETING

Amidst all the chaos, Kihyun was surprisingly quiet. He looked half-asleep for most of the meeting; Jamiroquai baseball cap backwards on his head, eyes drooping closed every now and again, and a thick sweater on that he kept pulling closer to himself as if he wanted it to suddenly transform into a blanket. The only thing he did the whole meeting was play Cooking Mama on his phone (we know this because he shared screenshots of his finished dishes on Bubble afterwards) and vouch for Carat Cake—yes, you heard that right, Carat Cake. The song that the rest of the members acted as if it didn’t exist. He didn’t really care if it wasn’t a couple song, and didn’t really care if it didn’t get picked, either—he just wanted it to be known that was where his vote lay. It was his favourite song on the EP, and hoped that somewhere out there there’d be people that liked it just as much as him. At some point in the middle he got bored with both his phone and the arguments still going on in front of him, so he nestled his head in his arms and attempted to have a nap. Which, predictably, didn’t work that well. By the end of it he was still dead tired, still the only one that liked Carat Cake, but also the only one who had three stars on his Cooking Mama carbonara, and so he considered himself the real winner of that meeting.

#⠀견니 ₊˚⠀⠀I’M MY ECSTASY⠀⠀——⠀⠀eras. #the ti pfp sneak top right IM JUST A MAN. #nct dream added member #nct oc addition #nct dream 8th member #nct addition #nct oc #kpop idol oc #kpop addition #kpop male oc #fictional idol community #temp cr. desi6ner

[jenna0rtega27]

I love you Vada Cavell

Masterlist

Vada x F!Reader Summary: Y/n walks through the school hallways during class while a gunman prepares to enter the school to kill students. Warnings: School shooting, blood, gunshot, murder Number of words: 1341 Send me your requests here or anonymously. I love reading you!

Pov Y/n: I walk through the empty corridors of the school. For what? Quite simply because I don't want to meet Vada. So I've been skipping all math classes for a month now. You see, Vada and I were the best of friends. But obviously, like the gay girl that I am, I had a huge crush on this girl. But Vada stopped talking to me overnight for no reason. So I never got to tell him that I loved him.

Now seeing Vada hurts me because 2 weeks after she stopped talking to me, she was dating stupid Logan. Do you know the popular rich boy at school? Well it's him. I don't even see what Vada sees in him. He's ugly, stupid and fucking stupid. Every girl would like to have him in their bed. Please note, I do not include myself in all his girls. Because I only want one person in my bed.

It's now been about 10 minutes since math class started and I'm wandering the halls of this stupid school. I say she's stupid because there are no supervisors in the hallways or if there are supervisors, they're not even monitoring because they're either in the moon or on their fucking phones.

20 minute skip

It's been 30 minutes now and I'm honestly starting to get bored. But suddenly, while I'm walking down the halls, I hear a loud sound and screams of fear. I immediately cover my ears and start to panic. I hear 2 more shots and more screams. I start to run but with the panic, I don't really know where I'm going.

I turn right to go to the other corridor and I see the horror. I see two students lying on the ground with lots of blood on and around them and not moving. Which tells me they were killed. I put my hand over my mouth to stop myself from screaming and tears flow down my cheeks. I'm shaking from head to toe.

Suddenly, I hear footsteps coming towards me. The fear of being killed goes to my head.

“You move and I’ll kill you.” » A man's voice said behind me. But like the bitch that I am, I turn around and find a man with a shotgun aiming at me.

“I’m telling you not to move, bitch. » The man insults me and pulls me in my stomach. I fall to the ground in pain and cry. The man leaves to I suppose kill another person.

I look at my wound and a lot of blood is coming out of my wound. I put my hand on my wound to try to stop the blood from flowing but nothing works. Too much blood is flowing.

I try to get up while keeping my hand on my wound. " Whore. » I swear, gritting my teeth in pain.

I walk to a nearby bathroom. I open the door and fall straight to the ground. I can see there's already blood on the bathroom floor leading to a stall and I see 6 feet there but I'm too focused on my wound to notice who was in the stall. I continue to moan in pain with tears streaming from my eyes.

I hear police sirens and then no more shots. So I think the shooter was either arrested or killed. After about 1 minute, the three people come out of the cabin and I hear someone almost screaming but my wound hurts too much to notice who it is.

“Y/N!? » I turn my head and see Vada, Mia Reed and Quinton Hasland. Quinton was bloody but he looked good so it wasn't his blood.

“Oh my god Vada are you hurt? I ask immediately, checking to see if Vada was hurt but she didn't seem to have any injuries. Which makes me breathe in relief but I immediately grit my teeth in pain.

“No, but you are injured. » Vada said worriedly. She sits on the floor and takes my head and places it on her knees.

“Don’t worry about me. I say with a smile as I start to feel dizzy from the lack of blood in my body.

“I will always worry about you. » Vada said to me looking into my eyes with teary eyes and running one hand through my hair and the other pressing on my wound to stop the blood. But the blood still comes out. I don't want to die, but I feel like it's my destiny. But I am grateful that I die with the image of the love of my life. Even if it's not the image I would have wanted.

After a few seconds of not speaking, Vada decides to speak.

“I’m so sorry Y/n. »

“Vada, you don’t have to apologize. »

“No Y/n you don’t understand. If I stopped talking to you it’s because I was afraid. » Vada told me with tears streaming down her cheeks.

" Afraid of what? » I ask confused wiping her tears but more is falling. “I was afraid of my feelings. » Vada whispered to me.

“I was scared because I love you Y/n. I have always loved you. But I thought you didn't love me like I love you. So I stopped talking to you and started dating Logan to try to get you out of my head. But you were always on my mind. » Vada told me while crying.

I feel like my heart wants to come out of my chest. I've been waiting for his words from him for so long.

I place my bleeding hand on his cheek and caress his cheekbone with my thumb.

“Vada, I have always loved you. I loved you the first time I saw you. » I say as my own tears roll down my cheeks. “I am in love with you Vada Cavell. » I say as I cough. I start to see blurred and black spots appear in my vision.

“I’m in love with you too Y/n L/n.” I regret so much that I didn't confess my feelings to you. » Vada tells me as her lower lip trembles.

“But at least you did it.” » I said weakly with a smile. I feel myself slowly leaving. But before I leave I want to do the thing I've wanted to do for so long. " Kiss Me. » I say to Vada. And Vada doesn't wait and immediately places her lips on mine. Our lips move slowly in sync. His lips taste of cherry. My new favorite taste that I unfortunately won't have the chance to taste again.

Vada pulls back and places her forehead on mine.

" I love you. » Vada whispers against my lips.

" I love you too. » I say as I feel my eyes weakening and wanting to close.

I look at all of Vada's features for the last time before she slowly dies in her arms. I look at her freckles for the last time, her brown eyes, her lips, her nose, her brown hair.

I never want to lose his images. I love him and I will love him endlessly. Vada has always and always will be my person, my soulmate.

" Do not forget me. » I say as I feel myself getting closer and closer to leaving.

" Never. » She responds by placing her lips on mine for one last kiss that tastes like cherries mixed with tears. The kiss represents the love that could never be demonstrated.

“You were my best moments. » I say as I close my eyes. The last thing I hear before leaving for the next world is me too with a last kiss on my lips which unfortunately I was not able to return.

I thank the Earth and the sky for bringing this girl to life. To have had my kiss with her. Although it was short, my best moments were with her.

I love you Vada Cavell.

#jenna marie ortega #vada cavell x reader #vada cavell x you #jenna ortega x fem reader #jenna ortega imagine #the fallout #mia reed

[tildeathiwillwrite]

Merry Whumpmas 2023 Day 6: No Where to Go

TW: mentioned abuse, gunshot wounds, running away, death, swearing

Hero stumbled through the night, hand pressed firmly over the throbbing, fiery wound in their side as the rain beat down upon them, soaking them to the skin and filling their shoes with water. Just a little further, they thought to themselves, skirting the halo of light emitted by a nearby lamp post. One more step. Now another.

And another.

Keeping their thoughts in line forced them to focus on walking, on getting to the only place of safety left to them. It kept their thoughts away from the cuts, bruises, and—ONE! MORE! STEP!

Hero was nearing a rough part of the city, and they knew it. But they had to keep moving; this was the last place their former allies would think to look for them. And, hopefully, the person who controlled this section of the city with an iron fist wouldn’t notice them either. Why would Hero, their sworn enemy, seek refuge in their territory? It would be a death sentence.

But, seeking refuge elsewhere also spelled death, so it no longer mattered to Hero. What mattered now was moving erratically, randomly, keeping their former allies guessing.

They heard the police sirens before they saw the car on the road ahead, racing toward them at high speeds. “Shit!”

Hero ducked into a nearby alley and pressed against the wall. They waited, not daring to breathe as the police car screamed past, the flashing lights temporarily blinding them.

They blinked, trying to regain their vision. When they opened their eyes again, a figure had appeared before them. Hero, in their dazed, terrified state, screamed and tried to run, but the figure darted in their path. 

“Where do you think you’re going, Hero?” Whumper said, smirking.

Hero backed away further down the alley. “S—stay back! Don’t…don’t come any closer!”

Whumper chuckled, causing the hairs on Hero's neck to rise. “You're not in a position to make demands like that, Hero.” They stalked closer, keeping just barely out of reach.

“I…I’ll use my powers on you!” Hero threatened. Their voice shook, betraying their fear.

Whumper outright laughed, a loud, explosive sound. Hero flinched back another step. Whumper focused their gaze sharply upon them, the grin on their lips not meeting their eyes. In the dim light from the street, their eyes appeared cold as ice. 

“Go ahead,” they taunted, “by all means, use your powers. Take what concentration's keeping you upright and KILL ME THEN!”

The sharp crack of a gunshot echoed in the night.

Whumper’s eyes went wide, and they stumbled backward, putting a hand to their chest. It came away bloody. Their eyes flicked up at Hero, who gaped at the hole directly piercing their heart. Whumper crumbled to the ground like a sadistic, lying, murderous pile of bricks, their cold, cold eyes staring lifelessly.

“Well, they did ask for it,” a voice said from behind Hero in a matter-of-fact tone.

Hero whirled around. Villain stood a few feet behind them, reloading their signature handgun. They turned their cool gaze upon Hero, who staggered back a step. Hero couldn't ignore the throbbing wound in their side any longer. Hot blood welled up, leaking out from the hasty bandage they’d—

“What the hell are you doing here?” Villain demanded. They’d pointed their handgun toward the ground, but Hero had seen them in action; they knew how fast they could aim and fire.

Hero’s breathing came faster now. Darkness threatened to close in on their vision. “I…” they stammered, “I… I didn’t… didn’t have… anywhere…”

Their knees buckled beneath their weight, and they collapsed. Something clattered on the ground. Hero realized Villain had dropped their gun to catch them. Villain’s eyes were wide, staring at the gaping wound in Hero’s side. Blood stained their hands as they held Hero upright. 

“What the hell did they do to you?”

Was that… concern? For Hero, Villain’s own worst enemy? Hero almost wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it all.

“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but you’re safe now. I’m not going to hurt you.”

Hero smiled. “I… I hoped you… would…” they murmured as consciousness retreated. The last thing they registered before the sweet unknowing of darkness enveloped them was movement, Villain carrying them somewhere unknown.

To safety.

Part 2 | Part 3

#merry whumpmas #my writing #whumpee #whump scenario #implied abuse #gunshot wounds #death #hero x villain #whump #stubborn whumpee

[monstrouslyobsessed]

Concept : Reader is a shrine priestess and have a crush on the shrine priest. But he is so powerful that people made a contract with the snake demon. They let him eat the priest in exchange for not attacking the village. The priest tried to fight the snake, but he was defeated. The villagers cut off his arms, so the snake can eat him better. Reader tried to save him, but was locked away in the shrine. But the priest cursed the village and his fused with the snake making him a snake monster he killed all the villagers and cut off six arms to replace those he lost. And now he can claim his sweet shrine maiden all for himself. (Sorry if its quite long and detailed, do as you wish) Thanks! —anonymous

—a/n: alright, i’ll bite and do this one with my own take, but please add the source behind such suggestions next time lol this one is originally from the compilation manga ive read forever ago, Hachishaku Hachiwa Keraku Meguri (TW!!! under-age, noncon, horror, extremely dead dove!!!), specifically the 4th story. i…don’t recommend reading every story btw, some of them are very…yikes, but the 4th one is pretty good if you can get past a certain issue (namely, the mc’s vague age range). the main difference is that the monster is a woman and mc’s a guy.

if you want my personal recs, stick with reading 3rd (the statues, is okay), 4th (6-armed snake lady, fave if only because of the monster’s beautiful design and backstory but wished the mc would be someone older), and 5th (swamp-worm monster in the forest, warning, pregnancy/birthing is involved, is okay) story and ignore the rest. 2nd (the monster on the road) is okay, actually, but i hated the monster’s creepy old man design lol rest is just a big fat no to me for various reasons.

anyway….i rambled enough. i think…i might actually keep this character, even if he isn't entirely original and is (almost) literally the genderbent version from the manga. i actually envisioned him with dark-colored skin though. hm, so the setting might even be different! i’ll let yall decide~enjoy!

—tw / tags: gn reader, horror, gore, violence, imprisonment, neglect, implied multiple deaths, amputations, general yandere themes, sfw…ish

—featured character(s): 6-armed snake-god / cursed priest

You can hear the screaming in your ears, the horrible gut-wrenching shrieks heralding the arrival of death. The earth rumbled distantly beneath your feet, striking unspeakable fear in your cold veins, pounding your heart, and your empty stomach twisting with nausea. You shuddered and your voice came out weak, dehydrated, “N-no…”

Raking your throbbing nails down the wood, bloody raw from scratching and pounding on the chained door, you fell to your knees and bowed your head. You’ve warned them, that the demon would not accept the trade—or that the priest wouldn’t retaliate in some way. A choke erupted from your dusty throat at the vision of the priest you cherished so, so much flashed within your mind.

His warming smile and the crinkles in the corners of his eyes, had transformed into something wrathful and malicious. His expression became one that spoke of murder, of dark, malevolent intent, as the hateful village men severed his arms and fed him into the yawning mouth of the snake-god. It wasn’t his cruel fate that had broken your heart and shattered it into pieces though.

The very moment before he disappeared into the slicked depth of the demon’s belly, the priest saw you and wore a horrified face. With blood tears running down his eyes, he interrupted his furious cursing with a soft whisper of your name. You remembered screaming through your tears and fighting against the fisted hands of burly men then, when the snake-god folded its mouth shut and swallowed him whole.

That was the last you’d seen of him and wept his name as the men dragged you from the forest clearing, satisfied that you were too weak to save the one they all feared.  

He shouldn’t have died fearing for you.

As they’d thrown you into the dilapidated shrine, you were numbed with fury and sorrow and shouted that the demon would hunger for their flesh once more, that the priest had cursed them all, when they slammed the door shut and leave you for the dead. Your pleas and cries grew hoarse as you screamed your grief to the sky. There was no reply, only jeers from the village in the distance, as if laughing about your foolishness, that you shouldn’t have fallen in love with the priest.

Their cruelty was beyond your comprehension

You had no idea how long time had passed, there was no light in this rotting shrine, not even a single peek of any warm sunlight or the moon’s soft glow. There was no water, for your throat ran dry and your skin tightened on your bones, and there was no food as your stomach stopped rumbling some time ago. The villagers intended to let you die alone, pitifully and bitterly alone.

It could’ve been days, it could’ve been weeks, when you rose your head from the coarse ground, confused.  Weakly, your hand reached towards the wooden door, and your calloused fingers traced around its edges, feeling along the rough surface and finding the raw marks you left behind, until they settled on a crook. Something familiar electrified the air, the sense of power pressed into your senses. You furrowed your brows—before fear sunk in your nerves once more.

The demon had returned to welt its hunger.

Screams followed and you remained in the shrine, with no more tears to shed. You couldn’t weep for the cruel men and your tongue was too dry for you to utter even a single prayer for the innocent children you once tended to. You bowed your head between your knees, but you were still alive.

You still knew fear, trembling with the desire to live.

Your hands were shaking wildly, but you forced them back into prayer as the screams continued unabated. The walls rattled with thunderous crashes. Louder and louder, until finally, after hours of agony, they stopped. Silence followed.

Only silence and the smell of blood, lingered. And an ominous feeling.

You slowly rose from your hunched position, your gaze fixed on the wooden door. The air had turned heavy with tension, and the hairs on the back of your neck stood on end. Something approached, quietly grinding the pebbles and dirt underfoot as it moved closer and closer.

Somehow, the walls started swaying and the sound of cracking timber reached your ears, rising above the deafening sounds of your heartbeats and your shuddering breathing. You clasped your hands into a prayer once more and begged the gods to answer, to spare you from the belly of the snake-god. Your prayers became desperate begging, for mercy.

As if in response to your prayer, the ceiling creaked and groaned and a low growl emanated from above. Your eyes widened, and you stumbled backward, barely catching yourself on a nearby pillar. The walls rumbled, and cracks began appearing along the floorboards.

Then, the light.

It cut into the pitch-black darkness you’d been trapped in for days and blinded you. Clasping your hands over your eyes, wincing in discomfort as if light burned you, something exploded overhead, shattering the roof tiles and raining tiny chunks onto your head. You flinched at the loud noise, shielding your face and ducking your head between your legs from any further danger.

As the crackling groan quietened, you remained still—half expecting the pain to cut into your skin and long teeth tearing into your brittle flesh. But, silence hangs thickly above into the air. As if in waiting for you to unveil your eyes to the world.

You hesitated, before slowly lifting your head, squinting and blinking against the light. When you adjusted to the brightness, you blinked and saw shadows. Shadows cast by a massive serpentine being coiling amidst the splinters and rocks littering the ground all around you, staring down at you with glowing golden eyes.

Your breath caught in your throat and you staggered forward, your arms reaching above your head, “—! You…you came back…?” Your words broke and dissolved into hiccupping sobs that shook your frail frame.

Long discolored arms distended from the being’s side, wrapping around you in a dangerous embrace. The priest’s pale face buried into the crook between your neck and shoulder, nuzzling into your dirt-caked hair and releasing a deep purr. Its body vibrated and you felt yourself being lifted from the ground. Your arms instinctively snaked themselves tighter around its thin neck, your cheek pressing against its strangely scaled skin, and you squeezed your eyes tightly shut. “Don’t leave me…please don’t leave me again…” You cried, with rivers of tears falling down your cheeks.

Tears you thought were completely dried out.

This was not the priest you remembered, his ashen body protruding from the mouth of the dead-eyed snake-god, his grin jarring with a smile too large for his handsome face, and having a few arms too many stitched to his sides. But as his fiery golden eyes warmed and his touches overly gentle on your skin, you knew. This was the same man you loved, the very man who never ceased to cherish you and always looked for ways to make you smile on bad days. Even after all this time. Even when everything else changed, he remained steadfast, loving, and kind.

—though, only to you, as he held you as if you were the most precious jewel in his world. Despite his loving gaze, he was dressed in the blood and guts of those he’d gleefully slaughtered for their slights against him, glimmering on his eternally long tail in the moonlight. Yes, he gripped your tiny body tighter to his emaciated body, all he’ll ever need is you.

—end

#my writing #monster's writing. 👹 #yandere #yandere imagine #yandere imagines #tetrophilia #exophilia #reader insert #long post #unedited #sfw #concept #gn reader #tw violent death #tw death #tw implied gore #tw imprisonment #horror #snake god #6 armed snake god #cursed priest #[idk what else to tag] #[so pls lmk!!!] #the cursed god #cursed god

[anonymousewrites]

One Hell of a Love (Book 2) Chapter Seven

Sebastian Michaelis x Demon! Reader

Chapter Seven: One Hell of a Fire

Summary: Lord Kelvin's dreams go up in smoke.

            There was silence as the smoke of Ciel’s gun drifted into the air and Kelvin fell from his wheelchair. And then Joker ripped from Sebastian’s grip and left his prosthetic arm behind.

            “Father!” he cried desperately, running towards Ciel with his sword drawn. He lunged.

            Shing!

            Joker’s working hand fell to the ground as his eyes widened. Sebastian stood over him as Joker fell. The bloody knife in the demon’s hand was the only evidence of his act. There had been no movement, no sight of Sebastian as he had moved. But it didn’t change that he had sliced Joker’s arm off.

            Sebastian smirked. “Might you be so kind as to not interfere with my Master?” Joker screamed in agony as he curled up on the ground.

            At Ciel’s feet, Kelvin dragged himself towards him as he bled out. “I-Its hurts, Earl! I’m in agony!” Blood dripped from his lips. “I b-I beg you. If you’re going to kill me, kill me just like you did them—!”

            “Like I did them?” said Ciel. He stomped on Kelvin’s head and pointed the gun at him again. His eyes were dark and murderous. “Then get on your knees like a worm and plead with the devil.”

            “Please don’t kill ‘im!” pleaded Joker. “Be as he may, we still owe him our lives. We, who were abandoned by our parents, by this nation—He saved us from the terror of starving to death, which plagued us day in and day out. We’ve many little brothers and sisters still in the workhouse. They can’t make it if he’s not around!”

            “And what of the children you kidnapped for him?” said (Y/N). They raised an eyebrow. “What about their lives? He did not save them. No, he stole their lives without a second thought. You traded your lives for theirs without a second thought, too. How very human of you, worried for yourself so much.” Their words were sharp but not admonishing. They understand human nature, they had once been one. They merely didn’t allow for Joker to lie to himself that Kelvin, the worm, deserved something for having saved a few children when he just as easily tortured dozens more.

            Joker’s eyes widened at the cold, straightforward words. The worst part was the truth of them. “Yes…You’ve got it right. For those born like us, Great Britain is nothing short of hell. We had not the money to buy bread or the skills to protect each other. We had nothing. But Father rescued us from the rubbish heap…gave us limbs that could protect the ones dear to us. That’s why we decided to go on living…even if another hell was waiting for us with open arms. I knew we were in the wrong from the very beginning, but I—”

            “You did the right thing,” said Ciel from where he stood over Kelvin. Joker looked up at him in surprise. “You fought to protect your own world. There’s nothing wrong with that. After all, the justice in this world is a sham created by those in power for themselves. No one gives a damn about anyone else. If you’re careless, you’re sure to lose.” His words held no emotions, just iciness. “To begin with, only two kinds of humans have ever existed in this world. Those who rob, and those who are robbed.”

            (Y/N) remained still as they watched him speak. They understood perfectly of what he was speaking. They had been robbed of their power during life for being born as “lesser” than others for attributes they couldn’t control. However, (Y/N) did know there was one more type of human—the one who would not rest until they had the power themself. After all, on the edge of their own death, (Y/N) had robbed others of their power, of their lives.

            And that night, Ciel would rob the same from Kelvin and his circus. “And today…” Ciel was deadly calm. “I shall rob you and your allies of your futures. That’s all there is to it.”

            Joker laughed suddenly and rolled over, blood seeping from his amputated arm. “Ye said it! But see…ye’ll also lose something precious this night.” He grinned madly. “The circus troupe’s headed to your manor!”

            Elizabeth, thought Ciel.

            “Why d’ye think we’ve been able to kidnap children without anyone catching on to us?” said Joker with a grin. “It’s ‘cos all the witnesses cease to exist! Thos of us in the troupe, we’re professionals. We dispose of everyone we come into contact with during our missions, no matter what reason. I wonder how many people’ll get killed off as they go sniffing ‘round for a target that’s not there in that great big house.”

            “Get killed off?” said Ciel.

            “Indeed. Right down to the last of the servants,” said Joker firmly.

            “The servants, you say?” repeated Ciel.

            Sebastian chuckled lightly, and (Y/N) smirked.

            “What is so funny?” cried Joker.

            “What do you take them for?” questioned Ciel. “They are servants of the Phantomhive family. They are private soldiers, carefully selected and hired by myself and my butler, Sebastian here.”

            “Wha—?!” Joker’s eyes widened.

            “To protect the secrets and honor of the Phantomhive Earldom, come what may,” said Ciel. “That is what it means to be the servants of the Phantomhive family.”

            (Y/N) doubted that at this hour any of Joker’s troupe were left alive. (Though (Y/N) did wish they were the one killing Beast, just for having touched Sebastian)

            “Private soldiers…ye say?” said Joker.

            “Phantomhive is a shadow, a phantom that exists solely to obliterate the sorrows of Her Majesty, the Queen,” said Ciel. “Step into its den, and you can never hope to return to the light.”

            “They’re anythin’ but amateurs themselves! They won’t be done in so easy like,” argued Joker, not wanting to accept the truth.

            “Though you are free to believe as if your wont, pray, do not forget that I selected all the servants of the household,” said Sebastian, smirking at Joker and glancing at (Y/N).

            “And all of us are exceptionally good at taking out the trash,” said (Y/N).

            Joker squeezed his eyes closed painfully. “We…What else could we ‘ave done? Like Tom, the Piper’s Son in the nursery rhyme, we could do but one thing ‘only play one tune.’ But if…if we’d been born in another country instead of this one…if-if my body ‘adn’t been this way…” Tears fell freely from Joker’s eyes. “…It wouldn’t ‘ave come to this.”

            “Don’t weep so disgracefully,” said Ciel. “Your tears will change nary a thing. The world is never kind to any of us.”

            Joker raised his eyes. “Smile…”

            “I am Ciel Phantomhive. That is my one and only name,” said Ciel firmly.

            At the top of the amphitheater, the doors were thrown open, and another man in a wheelchair appeared.

            “Apologies for having kept you waiting on additional reserves!” said the Doctor.

            Ah, another conspirator. Dolls are made of ceramic, after all, thought (Y/N).

            “Oh?” The Doctor noticed (Y/N), Sebastian, and Ciel standing above Joker’s bleeding body. “You are—Cat, Black, and Smile. Aah, now I see.” He stood from his wheelchair, another level to his façade. “So what Joker was saying was right on the money, hm?” He stepped down towards them. “The legendary Guard Pup of the Queen, all the more trouble than the Yard ‘cos money has no hold on him.”

            “Doc…yer legs…ye can walk…!” gasped Joker.

            “My legs?” The Doctor chuckled. “Ah, yes, my legs are, in truth, just fine. Children like you are less suspicious of folk in such circumstances, so I just always sat.” He noticed Kelvin’s body. “Oh! Baron Kelvin?! Oh, no!” He checked Kelvin, but at the point he was, there was nothing to do. The worm was far too gone. The Doctor sighed. “He’s beyond my help, now. How could you?! And after I’d finally met a patron who understood my ideals…”

            “Your ideals?” questioned (Y/N), nose twitching. They suspected they would find the Doctor yet another example of a distasteful human.

            “Yes,” said the Doctor. “Since long ago, I have continually developed and experimented in the quest for the perfect artificial limb. And as a result of my research, I succeeded in creating the best material possible! Lighter and more durable than wood and still possessing the inhuman beauty that is particular to ceramics…I came to create something that no one had ever made before! However, gathering raw material for it is rather a complicated venture, you see.”

            “Indeed,” remarked Sebastian. “The artificial limbs of your making were enchantingly silken to the touch…almost like tableware of bone china.”

            “So you understand the beauty of my creation, do you, Black?” said the Doctor excitedly. “But in reality, you’re still slightly off the mark! If you don’t mind, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t lump my creation in with bone china, which is made with the bones of cows and other livestock.”

            “Ah, yes. You did mention that you use special materials, did you not?” said Sebastian, manipulating the Doctor into revealing more of his crimes.

            “Yes, that’s right. And I can only obtain them here,” said the Doctor.

            “Ah.” (Y/N) made the connection as they gazed at the vacant, doll-like stares of the children in the cages. Once their strings were cut and they had no more entertainment to give Kelvin, it was clear what became of them. Their eyes narrowed. They had been correct to assume they’d find the Doctor a distasteful example of a human.

            “N…o!” Ciel’s eyes widened.

            The Doctor leaned on one of the cages and smiled. “This way, I don’t have to trouble myself with their disposal, either. Isn’t it the best recycling scheme you can think of?”

            Joker’s eyes widened in abject horror. “No…!” He vomited as his eyes landed on his own prosthesis, only the arm still on, the hand abandoned on the floor. “W-We’ve ‘ad on such a thing…this whole—?!” He couldn’t get through the idea.

            (Y/N) watched in satisfaction. Another one of Joker’s saviors had proved to be a villain and a curse in disguise. After the pain he had caused these children, it felt right to watch him squirm as the consequences reared their heads.

            “Here we go again.” The Doctor sighed in disappointment. “Come now, don’t reject them like that.” He opened a cage and reached in. “When the truth of the matter is kept in the dark, everyone praises them as magnificent.” He pulled an empty-eyed girl out. “But the Baron was different. He was a wonderful patron, one very much motivated by the pursuit of beauty. He provided me with an abundant amount of materials and endless funding. Don’t you agree that the best materials are essential to creating the best works?” The Doctor pulled the girl behind him to the pentacle. “There’s no success that comes without its sacrifices, but the fools in this society…”

            Ciel froze, and his eyes widened as he watched the Doctor placed the girl’s body on the sacrificial table. His gaze was faraway as unwanted memories forced themselves into his mind to replay.

            The Doctor tutted as he continued his speech. “They say cow bones are acceptable, but human bones are not?” He withdrew a carving knife from his belt and raised it above his head. “Who made those rules?!” He plunged the blade down.

            Ciel screamed. It was a sound of pure panic and agony that pierced the night as deeply as the knight pierced skin and bone. He couldn’t see the Doctor anymore but the cage, the table, he was back there, everything was wrong, there was going to be pain and suffering and more and more blood and death and—

            “Young Master.”

            A voice far different than the nobles who had dared to hurt him and the other children shot through the swirl of panic.

            “Young Master.”

            Another voice, different, but still grounding. Both were strong, assured.

            Ciel blinked, eyes still wide, but now he was staring at (Y/N) and Sebastian.

            “You have nothing to fear,” said (Y/N), a hand on his shoulder guiding him to Sebastian, who pulled him close.

            “You are outside the cage now, my Lord,” said Sebastian smoothly. His eyes turned fuchsia. “Now…” He reached up and untied the eyepatch. “Say my name.”

            “Seb-Seba…stain…Sebastian! Sebastian!” Ciel repeated the word like a lifeline, over and over with intensity as the two demons stood beside him, like a protecting blanket of darkness. Ciel’s eyes narrowed as the shadows focused him. “Kill them all!”

            The Doctor didn’t even blink before Sebastian’s hand went through his chest. Blood spurted through the air, and the Doctor’s eyes widened in a singular moment of confusion before he collapsed, dead. Kelvin barely turned his head in a last effort to move, and (Y/N) moved on him. The worm’s eyes widened as he stared up at (Y/N), and their foot slammed down on his head with a sickening crunch. Joker’s body lay still already.

            Silence descended on the room.

            “It is done,” said Sebastian to Ciel, who held tightly to Sebastian as he held him and buried his head in his neck.

            Ciel raised his head, contract seal on his eye blazing. “Burn it.”

            “Burn it? You mean this place?” asked Sebastian.

            “Yes,” said Ciel darkly. The panic had still not left him. There were too many memories in this room, too much human evil.

            “But Young Master, gathering from Her Majesty the Queen’s correspondence, this mission consists of finding the perpetrators and recusing the children, does it not?” warned Sebastian. “The perpetrators have been—.”

            “Quiet! Shut your mouth!” shouted Ciel, wild.

            (Y/N) remained silent. They would not interfere with such a moment between demon and contract. They could only hope to get a chance to give the human vermin in the room a proper sendoff to hell.

            “Don’t leave any trace behind!” cried Ciel. He gripped Sebastian’s face. “Turn everything here to ash! Have you forgotten your duties as my servant?! I command you!”

            Sebastian’s eyes turned a bright fuchsia. He pulled his bloody glove off with his teeth. He raised a hand to the candles. “Yes, my Lord.”

            And fire raged.

            Ciel’s eyes remained tightly closed as Sebastian held him protected from the flames. Sebastian’s eyes turned to (Y/N) and found them raising a hand to the flames. Their gloves were discarded on the floor, and they were simply holding the fire in their hands. For a moment, all Sebastian could see was them, a being wrapped in black standing amongst flames of gold, ruby, and amber.

            They transcended beauty and power.

            But beneath the calm expression and exterior, Sebastian could see a storm in their eyes, a reflection of the fire blazing around them.

            Death, decided Sebastian.

            Death was in their eyes. And as only someone who has looked at another being with love so deep that it allows them to understand their very soul could know, Sebastian knew that this was their death. Fire.

            (Y/N) turned and threw the flames in their hands onto the bodies of the men strewn on the ground.

            Sebastian smirked. There they stood, immune to the heat of the hellfire dancing around them, victorious over death, commanding it. And, hell, how Sebastian loved them for it.

Taglist:

@technikerin23

@im-making-an-effort

@izzieg3987

@jinxxangel13

@alexpangender

@otomyoli

@neenieweenie

@nex-crowley

@anxious-chick

@bellacastiel

@v1l-ismissing

@agentdedf1sh

@idkhowtoplayhoyoversegames

@iamsexytrash

@oceansfloor

#one hell of a love #x reader #x gn reader #gn reader #x nb reader #nb reader #demon reader #demon!reader #sebastian x demon!reader #sebastian x reader #black butler sebastian #sebastian michaelis x reader #sebastian michaelis #black butler fic #black butler ciel #black butler #black butler x reader #kuroshitsuji x reader #kuroshitsuji

[rezwrites]

Non Portae Caeli

Pairings: Dark!Priestess!Wanda/Reader

Word count: 1.1k

Summary: You reap the repercussions for trying to leave your Priestess.

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, TW graphic depictions of murder/parental death/blood, noncon/dubcon, beginning of loss of faith, pregnancy, vomit, religious upbringings, bloody Wanda in cleric’s clothing, unspecified age gap(reader is in college), Somno(tiny bit) cunnilingus, fingering

You do NOT have permission to copy or repost my works anywhere.

Masterlist :: Peccata et Paenitentiam

“For I have sinned against you,” she pleaded on her knees in front of you, hands clasped around her rosary, as if it was her only lifeline at the moment. Her eyes gazing into yours, “Please forgive me.”

“You hurt me. You defiled me!” Raising your voice, clenching and unclenching your fists. Turning your head up to the ceiling, you tried to stop your tears from forming. Wanda’s cold hands slipped under your shirt splaying over your stomach, kissing the small bump growing there. Head falling down, “Why did you do this? I tr-trusted you.”

A soft “l love you” left her lips as she lifted her tear filled eyes to yours. She had told you that after every session for the last two months, always touching your belly when she said it. “Let me take care of you,” her voice sounded so shattered while she tried remaining composed. Shaking your head, “No. No, I don’t want anything to do with you,” pushing her away.

“They have everything to do with me!” she screamed, catching your hand in an iron grip. The fire in her eyes growing as she stood to her feet, tugging you closer. Gripping your chin harshly, “You can try running all you want, but I will not stop until we are a family.”

“You’re sick,” you spat her with such disgust, finally wriggling free from her grasp, running out of the classroom.

———

You had come home late after school to avoid your parents, hoping to evade another argument about who could have possibly been leaving flowers at the doorstep in the middle of the night. Being raised in a strict Christian household your parents were already upset with you for skipping church and your afternoon sessions for the last month. On top of that, they are firm believers that pre-marital sex is a major sin. You wanted to tell them because there will be no point in hiding it and hopefully things would work out but you knew deep down they will be absolutely livid when you tell them.

Walking into the house you noticed that kitchen light is on, as well as the television. The digital clock under the television reading 8:56pm, normally your father would be up but the house was dead silent. Slowly walking to your parents bedroom door, you noticed it was slightly ajar. Swinging the door open, the stench of rusted iron hit you immediately. Face twisting in panic seeing Wanda standing over your father, dark sticky patches coating her shirt, white collar stained crimson. Your father was on his back, sputtering up blood, a knife deep in his chest.

“I know why you didn’t want us to be a family now, baby,” she shot a hard look to your mother hogtied and struggling on the bed, “You were afraid of your parents. Well I’m taking care of them so we can be together,” stepping over your father, Wanda outstretched her arms. Letting out a terrified scream, you dashed to the front door trying to get away, to outside so you could call for help. Kicking the door closed mid-swing, Wanda muffled you with her hand, her other hand trapping you against her. The metallic odor on her made you queasy. “You know better than to fight me,” she seethed through gritted teeth, but you weren’t paying attention, too busy emptying your stomach. Each time a smell hit you, you retched again. You hadn’t noticed her taping your arms behind your back or your ankles together until you were on the floor dry heaving, using your forehead to hold yourself up, vision blurring momentarily. Carding her fingers through your hair, she gently sat you up trying to force you to drink a glass of water but your stomach refused anything.

Placing a piece of tape over your mouth Wanda carried you back to your parents room. Your fight resuming once you were placed on the bed, struggling to rip the tape. Wanda crawled over you placing her hand on your stomach, her long red hair falling on your face. “Stay still. You could hurt the baby,” you froze in complete horror watching your mothers eyes widen. You frantically shook your head trying to tell her it wasn’t true. Effort, unfortunately, in vain when Wanda turned you on your back lifting your shirt to show your baby bump. Closing your eyes, cries racked your body as your mother screamed in shock. You prayed that this was all a nightmare and that you’d wake up soon.

"Didn't think I was serious, did you?,” you opened your eyes to Wanda’s viridescent orbs, “I always mean what I say.” Sliding off of you she bent over the edge of the bed, yanking the knife out of your father’s chest. Her eyes darkened, lips curling into a smile as she looked at your mother. Wanda ripped the tape off your her mouth. Your mother screaming obscenities to both you and Wanda. You backed up until you felt the cool metal of the footrest, curling in on yourself as much as you could, trying to dig your head under the covers hoping to block out the curses of your mother, and get rid of the oncoming nausea. Scooping you up in her arms, you kept your eyes closed as Wanda carried you into the hallway setting you against a wall. Hearing her footsteps fall away and come back Wanda covered you with a blanket. Wanda was quiet, you knew horrible things happen when she is quiet. The second the door closed you let it all out, trying to block out your mother’s screaming. Soon the house fell silent again, save for your sobs as you cried yourself to exhaustion.

———

Waking up your throat was sore, head pounding as you tried blinking your fuzzy sight away. You attempted to move your hips to dissuade the tingling feeling between your legs but Wanda kept her hold, sinking her teeth into your inner thigh.

“Please, stop,” moving to push her head away but she caught your hands, rubbing her thumb on the back of one of your hands. Her hair messy, eyes wild as she devoured you. Her fingers met your walls as she wrapped her lips around your clit, your back arching as you let out a moan. You felt Wanda smile as she sucked harder, curling her fingers. Your head fell back into the pillows, questioning why God would allow this to happen, or if there even is a God. Wanda gazed up at you, thanking God for bringing you into her life, she won’t ever let you go. Wanda refocused her attention, striving to bring you to the edge. A strangled cry left your lips as the knot in your abdomen snapped, your thighs unintentionally squeezing Wanda’s head as the she worked through your orgasm.

“I want to go home, please,” pleading as she stalked up your body like a predator, your juices dripping from her chin. Peppering kisses to your cheek she covered both of you up.

“But angel you are home, with your family,” Settling behind you, her hand falling to your belly, “And nothing will ever change that.”

#reposting #wanda maximoff x reader #dark wanda maximoff #wanda maximoff #wanda x reader #wanda x you #rezwrites

[soupieoopieisloopie]

I always wonder how Beetlejuice would react to someone who looks very sweet and soft but is actually really hardcore. Like death metal, rage room, loves extremely gorey and disturbing media, constantly wanting someone to pick a fight with them so they could pummel them kinda hardcore.

It would be funny if they scared Beetlejuice a bit more than beetlejuice would scare them haha

Here's some drabbles just to get this idea out of my head lol I'm no writer so aa yeah DJSBJZ idk if I captured his Beetlejuice-ness enough ee

No pronouns used but a little (and I mean very little) nsft bc it's beetlejuice lol

_______

"Hey babes! Ya miss-?" He'd ask as he suddenly appears in their room, loud gutteral screaming stopping him in his tracks for a split second before he basks in it. His breather is glued to the TV as he sways over to their side on the couch. Bloody cries and begs fill the silence between them.

Beetlejuice looks between the TV and his sweet breather, dressed in hello kitty pajamas with a stuffed animal under their arm. Kitten socks on their feet and a bunny hair band holding their hair from the puppy print face mask they have on. Such a stark contrast from the bloody murder playing on the TV. He chuckled to himself as he sat back and continued watching with them, laughing occasionally.

__________

"I'm going out, Beej. Please behave." You absentmindedly say as you grabbed your keys, heading for the door.

"Where'ya goin? Can I come?" Beetlejuice would say hopefully as he shot up from his place on the couch. You were wearing sweats with one leg covered in cutesy anime Chibis and some logo for the anime you were currently obsessed with and a tank top that read 'BE KIND' In bright letters with stars and smily faces surrounding it (If you have long hair it'll be tied up) you weren't dressed up fancy so he didn't have a clue where you'd be going. It was your day off and he couldn't recall any plans that didn't include suffocating you with his 'love'.

"I'm going to a rage room, helps me decompress." You said with a chuckle, wanting to see how he'd react since you knew he didn't think you had a violent bone in your body. You'd shoo out any bugs that got inside, choosing to let the spiders you'd see around your place be as they helped with other bugs, you weren't overly confrontational either and he'd only ever see you cry when you were really mad. He looked at you from across the room confused but intrigued.

"Rage room? Is that some breather code for orgy?" Beetlejuice sat up on his knees from his previous sitting position, looking dopey and cocky as per usual.

"If you wanted one babes all you had to do was-"

"No! That's not what that means!" You cut him off with a laugh, you always appreciated the demons enthusiasm and humor.

"Its a room where you break stuff! Hence 'rage' room." You explained as you put on your shoes. If he wasn't already interested in joining you, he sure as sugar was now. He'd never seen you take your anger out on anyone or anything for that matter. You tended to cry it out, take a moment and sometimes you'd yell a bit while venting to him but usually he was the one who broke things so he was definitely going to tag along for the ride.

"you can come, but I don't go easy on the stuff in there. Also if appreciate it if you didn't distract me. It's the only time I can take my pent up rage out and have zero consequences." You laugh as you pick up your bright bag with some first aid, water bottles and your wallet and things for your phone Incase you were there for longer than you planned.

Cut to you demolishing every piece of furniture in the room, the safety suit hiding the rage and fire behind your eyes as you yelled out and screamed all the things you'd wish you could say to the people that come in and out of your life. Beetlejuice watching in fascination and a little bit of 'im going to screw their brains out when we get home'

He loved this side of his sweet and cuddly breather.

______

You were listening to your usual music when beetlejuice decided now would be the perfect time to yank your headphones from your head and see what kind of cutesy music you were listening to as you went about your day. Safe to say his hears almost bled with the volume of the music, looking at you as if you were an imposter.

"Who are you?? Where's my precious breather??" He'd cry out as he took whatever you were working on from you and held it protectively.

"Beej, stop playing around I want to finish that!" You'd laugh out, only making him back away from you further.

"No! You're not allowed to touch (Y/N's) things!" He'd hiss as he playfully ran around your shared space. He only let up when you managed to bribe him with a few kisses.

______

I'm not a writer so djsbjxhs sorry if this is bad LOLOL I read lots of fan fics tho (⁠◠⁠‿⁠・⁠)⁠—⁠☆ this was pretty fun to do instead of working out tho haha

#beetlejuice #beetlebabes #beetlejuice fandom #beetlejuice x reader #fanfic

[ticklishraspberries]

grey's anatomy headcanons!! ♡

i'm just doing the main 4 interns bc they are the only people i truly, truly care about so far. al*x k*rev will die by my sword so he isn't here. just my 4 baby interns....<333

cristina: very good at pretending that she isn't ticklish at all, and will threaten to kill anyone who tries. she's still not super ticklish, only in certain spots - under her arms, the backs of her knees. mostly hard to reach places, places that only a few people know about. burke knows, and is the only person she would never actually murder for it. meredith knows, too, but almost never does it because cristina screams bloody murder and flails with the intention to hurt. is a cruel, cold, and calculating ler who usually sees tickling as something childish and beneath her, but will do it if provoked.

george: very ticklish, hates being tickled because his brothers used to torture him when he was a child. i think he could be swayed to not mind it with people who are gentle and nice about it. his stomach and sides are his worst spots, and he literally falls to the ground when tickled. his laugh is loud and squeaky and he babbles and curses a lot between giggles. he'd be a gentle but mischevious ler, and very good at verbally teasing. he'd make little comments about your blush, your laugh, all your bad spots and how it makes sense to be ticklish there because of all the bundles of nerves...

izzie: has the cutest, most girly, high-pitched giggle when she gets tickled. also flails a lot, but her intention isn't to hurt anyone, its all involuntary and would be the only person in this show so far that ican imagine finding tickling fun, or at least the only person i could imagine ever admitting it. her neck is super ticklish and she squeals whenever her friends swipe their fingers over it when they pass her in the hallways. is a super playful ler that giggles along with you and calls you adorable the whole time.

meredith: averagely ticklish and has a very neutral view on it. she didn't have a playful relationship with anyone growing up, the only time it really ever happened was accidental brushes during sex. but once she gets into real romantic relationships and has a real tickle fight, she sort of gets the hype. her thighs and feet are her worst spots, and her laugh is actually very soft and breathy. she also kicks, so be careful!!! finds tickling other people fun, especially derek because he breaks so easily. is a quiet but calculated ler, knows everyone's bad spots and has them stored away for future use.

#raspberry hcs #greyshc #grey's anatomy

[zombieunicorngamerzu]

(Amber Freeman x fem reader)

[ Warnings - smut, thigh riding, praise kink, fingering, murder, gore, Ghostface girlfriend, a little dark]

“When you said you’d do anything for Amber, she thought you were being rhetorical.”

The two of you were laying in bed together, curled up with the sheets kicked off your bodies as you laid on her chest, tracing your fingers delicately against her bare skin while looking up at her with a lovestruck gaze.

“Amber you know I’d do anything for you, right?” you mumbled out quietly, propping your chin up on her chest to look up at her.

“Oh yeah?” she looked down at you with a lazy smirk, dragging her fingers up the bare skin of your back, threading in your hair.

You nodded, sitting up on her lap to pepper kisses up her stomach to her chest before leaning up to catch her lips in a kiss, “I would do absolutely anything for you.”

And now here you were, shaky hands stained with blood after your fit of going rabid on a police officer in the hospital after he shot your girlfriend, yeah she was wearing a bulletproof vest but still… he still hurt your Amber.

You couldn’t help it, one moment you were at home and then the next Amber was calling you frantic from the hospital, rambling that she needed your help. Of course you’d come.

So when you got there and saw the man fire rounds into your unmasked girlfriend you got the hint, no, you got a revelation. Your girlfriend, your sweet loving girlfriend, your Amber, was Ghostface.

And that left you no choice when the knife slid your way with your girlfriend begging you to help her as she lay crippled in broken glass, a look of pure panic and plea on her face as she screamed over at you for help.

You had no choice.

You should have seen the pure look of sadistic pleasure on Ambers face as she watched your expression switch, her once innocent- so sweet little doe-eyed love, the adorable harmless girl she fell in love with turn into a stone-cold monster in a split second, oh god, it made her so incredibly wet.

The smile on Ambers face could rival the Devil gaining a throne to heaven as she watched you with wild eyes, you rushing with the knife quicker than she could think and stabbing it with an almost animalistic nature into the policeman’s back, coating your face and hands in blood.

Amber swore she’d never been more in love watching as you straddled the man’s back, shoving the knife into him over and over again with such brutality, animalistic growls and screams spilling from your mouth as she watched you both fall to the ground in a pool of blood, you never stopping until long after he was dead.

Amber stood up with a shaky breath, slowly approaching you like a person trying to coax an animal, that’s what you were right now, a panting bloody animal. Eyes wild as you stared down at the man you killed for her, the knife sliding out of your hand onto the floor with a clatter.

“Baby?”

Your head snapped up at the sound of her voice, skin scattered with flecks of blood, your face softening the moment your eyes met, knocking you back into the reality of what you’ve done.

“Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god-“

You rambled out as you came back to reality, scrambling off the man with a whimper, your feet kicking as you backed up and pressed yourself against a wall, shaking your head.

“Hey, hey, baby, it’s okay-its okay!”

Amber tried to calm you down as she moved over to you, slowly lowering herself to her knees by your side, reaching for your hand.

“Wait- wait, you?” You gasped out, the weight of everything crashing back into your mind again, your girlfriend was Ghostface and the look on your face must have alerted her because she took your hands in hers, trying to tug you into her embrace as you fought her.

“No-No!”

You shook your head again, starting to cry as you tried to push her away or fight to pull her closer, you couldn’t tell which one yet. Did she plan on ever telling you? Did she plan on killing you too? You had so many questions.

“Y/N, Y/N listen to me, I need you to calm down, we have to leave before the police get here.”

Amber tried to stay the calm one as you had your breakdown but she knew she needed to calm you down and get you home at the same time, she had to pull you up while you fought her and cried at the same time. She’ll deal with you when you both got home and she’ll fix everything.

She has to, she won’t loose you, no matter what.

When you got home after a very speedy car-ride home with you trying not to have a panic attack the whole time, Amber rushed you inside, half pulling you and half dragging you, she finally got you into her bedroom.

“Okay, Y/N, I know this looks bad-“

You almost broke your neck turning your head to look at her, a look of pure disbelief on your face,

“BAD? LOOKS BAD?!”

Amber winced at your tone, scratching the back of her head with the hunting knife she still held making your mouth drops open with how casual she was being about this, the stupid tone of her voice making your blood burn, rushing over to her to grab the knife from her hand forcibly, throwing it roughly to the side, both of your heads snapping to look at it stuck in the doorframe.

“Damn babe, nice aim.”

You couldn’t even look at her, the expression on your face dying as you bore your eyes into the knife lodged in the doorframe, you swore you might kill her if she said one more smart remark.

“You think this looks bad, me killing someone for you?”

Amber only shrugged with a shy innocent smile, “Actually, I thought it was pretty hot and very, very romantic baby… you killed someone for me…” she sung out with a smile as she placed her hands on your hips with a little wiggle she does when she’s excited, teasing you as she pressed closer and tried to kiss you, the kiss was full of passion, hit, sloppy, she was already moaning into it as you tired to push her off.

“Amber, this- you-“

Amber whined when you pushed her away slightly, rolling her eyes with a dramatic groan, “Oh come on, Y/N, don’t pretend you didn’t like the display of protecting me, the adrenaline rush, oh god…” she moaned again, her eyes rolling back when she backed you up in bed, you falling back when your knees hit the edge while she straddled you.

“Don’t pretend you hate me, you can’t hate me, I love you…” she ranted out erratically like she was trying to convince herself and you at the same time, her eyes getting more wild and possessive as she giggled and smiled, ducking down to kiss your neck and suck, mumbling against your skin,

“You love me, your mine, and I’m yours baby…”

Amber whined against your neck before looking down at you with a desperate look, her hands pinning your hips down as she rubbed her clothed core down against yours, her jeans giving her just the right friction against her clit, whining down at you with a slight head tilt,

“Come on baby, say something, I love you… I’m gonna prove it to you, I promise.”

As soon as she said those words she brought her hands down to the button on your jeans, starting to strip you as you laid there, you were slightly afraid of what would happen if you said no, you can’t leave her now, not after what you did for her, and even though all of this disgusts you, pisses you off, you think it does because she’s right.

You did like it.

You liked being able to be the one to save her, the look on her face was so pleasured when you stabbed that guy, like she had cum on the spot from seeing you display such animalistic tendencies, you just give into your girlfriend, you love her too much to deny her.

Amber smirked when she saw you give in, the look in your eyes begging as she smiled a little softer and leaned down to kiss you tenderly, you both were just in your panties and bras now but she was working your bra off so she could suck on your nipples.

Amber was always like that, so needy like a baby when it came to your nipples, she would sometimes just suck them raw for hours until you had to pry her off like some infant.

One she got your bra off you knew she was gonna latch on immediately and she did with a moan, eyes locking up with yours as she sucked and rolled her tongue across your nipple, sending a buzzing wave of pleasure to you, a soft moan slipping past your lips as you arched a little, making her eyes glint and smirk widen.

“That’s it baby, good girl, give into me okay? Tonight’s about you.” Amber spoke with a husky tone, she was really trying to take care of you after the event, she wanted to coax you to stay with her, she was slightly afraid you would leave her, but she wouldn’t let that happen, no, never.

She continued to suck and lick at your nipples before she straddled one of your thighs, making you feel her wet pantie-clothed core press down on your thigh, making you shiver as she dragged her fingers down and shoved them into your panties, a growl slipping past her lips as she found how wet you were.

“Oh fuck baby, I knew you were a slut, you loved that didn’t you, you love me, you love me so much even though I’m a cold-blooded killer, oh such a good girl!” Amber practically purred as she just went straight to work in rubbing your clit quickly, you were already soaked and squirming, she knew you wouldn’t last long so she started rutting her hips on your thigh, moaning with you to spur you on.

“Yes baby, take it like a good girl, fuck you look so pretty under me, letting me rub your pretty little clit, god…” She was getting breathless with how she was riding your thigh, using her free hand to undo her bra and let her breasts bounce out, her back arching as she pushed two fingers inside you with a vigor, making you arch and gasp loudly, “Amber!”

Amber only nodded and smiles wickedly as she started to pump them inside you at a quick pace, making sure to curl her fingers and rub her palm on your clit while you writhed and moaned for her.

“Thats it, your gonna cum for me, understand, cum for me baby!” Amber practically growled out as she shot down for a rough kiss, panting and moaning loudly into your mouth as she shoved her tongue in as soon as her body started to shutter and tremble, squealing out into your mouth as she came in her panties, sending you straight into a orgasm, crying out against her lips as your body keened up, trembling so violently before stilling and squirting all over her fingers, making her moan happily in satisfaction, working you through it.

“Good girl…”

#amber freeman smut #amber freeman #ghostface