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The reader is one of the many monarchs that sung jinwoo intends to kill during the period of 27 years. At first the reader regarded sung jinwoo the same way the other monarchs did until having to fight him. That ends with the reader almost dying brutally before using their deceptive abilities (I can’t think of any abilities besides Neos semblance from the RWBY series but stronger in terms of being able to affect the environment on a wide scale as well. The illusions don’t fade when touched.) to escape by using a fake corpse. The reader decides to wisely avoid jinwoo and stay under the radar which works most of the time. Though eventually the reader has to face off against him due to the other monarchs being dissatisfied with them running away every time jinwoo shows up. Hence the reader almost dying brutally again before escaping using their abilities and avoiding him again. It turns into a cycle of almost dying repeatedly (escaping differently each time) and avoiding.
Jinwoo notices and confronts reader about it on one of their fights but the reader says nothing and simply attacks. Eventually reader does start speaking to him during their fights and they get closer as time moves on but reader thinks their feelings are one sided due to jinwoo not holding back in their fights and still on the brink of death each time after their fights. Jinwoo doesn’t want the other monarchs to become suspicious so keeps almost killing them. It’s not until the 27th year that it becomes obvious to the monarchs still left that while jinwoo does fight the reader he intentionally avoids being in the same place as them to not bump into them and be forced to fight them. The monarchs decide to hatch a plan using the reader as bait to finally kill him. They fail and the reader thinks jinwoo will finally kill them but is instead surprised by how gentle he is with them. The reader has spent 27 years under his cold stare and anger. To be treated like an enemy meant to be killed. It will take a while for the reader to feel comfortable with him and not walk eggshells around him in fear of retaliation. Jinwoo will be there every step of the way to convince them otherwise.
I like to imagine the reader wearing black knight armor with only their glowing eyes peaking through their helmet along with carrying a sword on their waist. The reader also being proficient in daggers that they summon. They don’t speak to their enemies.
Cha Hae-In could also be an obstacle and struggle to jinwoo and the reader that they have to go through. 27 years should be taken into consideration of their feelings versus Hae-In.
I really like the idea of the reader being on the receiving end of his ire and brutality to suddenly being the one under his affection and protection.
To Grow from Pain — Jinwoo x Monarch!Reader
tags: fluff but mentions of death / dying and reader very absorbed in their thoughts
A/N: oh gosh this took me forever blehhhh I had to fight between writing a full fic for this or just cut stuff out so I chose the ladder . I’m not fully satisfied but I did try branching out a bit with our dear reader character so hopefully it works … sorry it took so long (not proof read)!
p.s: this is broken into first encounter (first part) to after multiple encounters (second part—this is after the break in the page)!
The echo of footsteps resounded through your sanctuary. The presence emitted was enough to make the ground shake and cause your hands to slightly tremble. It was obvious who was encroaching into your domain—the man who convinced the Harbingers of Light to turn back the clock. You remembered him and his power—it was not something easily forgotten. The way he waved a hand and spawned thousands of warriors in a blink of an eye to overwhelm his foes was notorious among the Monarchs. Each council meeting held promises of vanquishing the Monarch of Shadows—the traitor who went against his fellow Monarchs—yet those who ensured victory were the ones befallen instead.
As his footsteps crept closer, you thought of the others. Perhaps you would join them in the abyss—the purgatory they endured after death. Would it be brutal? Would you too be overwhelmed? There was a chance, but there was also a non-zero chance that you could persevere. In a few moments, you would know whether fleeing was the correct option or not.
You drew in a breath. Your mind flickered back through your history, the eons of slaughter you faced and the countless beings you had slain to sprinkle your story with glory. You are a Monarch, a being that symbolized—no, IS true power. Your story, your name would continue to be shouted through the heavens because you would not be so easily defeated by a mere human who had a lucky draw.
You blinked once, then twice. The trespasser’s steps were booming loudly against the hard rock floor. From within the confines of your helmet you watched his coat tail sway with each passing step, however now there was not only one pair of stepping. From behind, a dark fog was lifting—beyond that veil you saw numerous entities rising. Each entity was a beast you had previously encountered and slain, yet there were thousands. The steps had multiplied now—it was like a kingdom’s military invading a lone village.
Their white eyes glared at you, blanketing the exit entirely. Among them, you saw a few you immediately recognized as high-ranking soldiers. A majority might be fodder to deal with, but there were some beings that rivaled the weaker Monarchs themselves.
The stepping stopped. You calmly watched the Monarch of Shadows reach for his two daggers, torn from a mighty dragon breed that you saw resided in his army. Your armor quietly whistled as you moved your hand to the sword that hung at your side, gloved hands curling around the hilt.
“Your friends sold you out.” He started, mindlessly twirling one of the daggers in his hand.
“I’ll do you a favor. Tell me where the other Monarchs are, and I’ll let you go in exchange.”
You silently stared at his face. His expression was carefully kept blank, yet his eyes betrayed everything. His gray eyes were swelling with a deep purple, yet despite how vivid they looked, they were icy to the core.
In the first place, his terms were not equal. He would get information, then just kill you. It was for his own convenience that he attempted to negotiate, because out of all the Monarchs he had encountered, not a single one survived.
That did not matter, however. This was a battlefield, not a place for entertainment.
You drew your sword, the harsh metal grating against the sheath as it was fully drawn out. You assumed a stance, just as you always have for every single battle you’ve done.
This one would be no different.
The Shadow Monarch’s eyebrows slightly raised before shifting his daggers into his own stance. His glare was even more piercing than before, as if he was slowly unleashing the years of anger that continuously plagued his heart.
“Let’s fight, then,” He said, flicking his hand forward.
The shadow army surged immediately, thousands of entities flowing from the black mist. As soon as they tumbled out, you raised your sword. You fended off waves and waves of monstrosities, but no matter how many you defeated, more spawned in its place.
It did not take you long to realize that in this battle your greatest enemy would be yourself—the limit to which you could endure would be decided by how long you could hold. It would be a simple victory for the Monarch of Shadows but an utter disgrace to your own story. You were both Monarchs, yet the Shadow Monarch could easily win in such a way?
Stupid fool. You weren’t as dull as the others.
With more ferocity, you pumped force into your swings, cleaving through whole waves of beasts. You were rushing into the fray rather than out because you intended to destroy the mastermind behind it all. Your slices picked up more momentum each swing, the sounds of air being cut bouncing off the walls. The waves didn’t seem to end, and neither did your cuts—the huffs emitting from underneath your armor, however, were growing into heavy wheezes.
Beyond the army’s dark veil, a voice spoke up.
“It would be easier if you gave up.”
He was taunting you. The menace who brought tragedy to your peers—the one who ravaged them until not even their names were left—was so disinterested that he was taunting you.
Still a stupid fool. Even if you were to fall here, perhaps you could get a stab in.
Time went on, and the waves continued to seep your energy. Pieces of shadow flitted underneath your feet, but your strength carried you to the point where the other Monarch’s glare was viewable. After the waves ended, would he fight you himself? Almost as if in response to your thoughts, your chest tightened as you gulped in more air. It would be hard to continue, even harder to duel.
From the corner of your eye, you watched as he raised his arm. The dagger gleamed as it tilted upward, arm slowly pulling back. Insurmountable dread piled within you once your mind shuffled through each scenario—bridges burning and puzzle pieces scattering upon recognizing his first attack would also be his final.
Even from the peripherals, your eyes carefully registered each movement—a futile attempt to delay something that you knew was inevitable. It was unlike you, the way your breathing started to become staggered. You felt your sword slightly slip—a shadow passing you and marking your armor.
Then there was another slip, and another—the dents became deeper and now you were gasping for air. A ringing reverberated across your ears, almost as if imitating the bell tolls heard amongst the heavens. Your mind, for the first time since your birth, was empty. And, so too shall your armor follow.
Perhaps your brief spiral was what you needed, as a sudden shock flashed through your body, akin to when you drenched yourself in the dreadful and cold waters of this world.
Finally, the Monarch of Shadow’s blade briefly disappeared, and all went black.
The sound of water gently brushing against the ground stirred your eyes awake. Your eyes shifted to the blackened rod protruding from the ground, and to the fabrics wrapped around it. You tightened the knots between the different fabrics before leaning back against the rod, light pillows fixed between you.
You slowly turned your head, eyeing each individual piece that laid within the blanket sprawled out just a few feet in front of you. There was some food, more blankets, clothes… and your sword.
The gap between the invasion of your now-destroyed domain and your supposed ‘deaths’ was… admittedly long. Much to your despair, you had been overwhelmed by the power of the Shadow Monarch, to the point where he barely needed to move even a finger to defeat you. It was at what you believed to be your final breath that you recalled a crucial piece of information: your sword. That is, the power of your sword did not merely mount to slicing and cleaving above the average weapon, but that it held the power of teleportation. It was severely limited, since it uses a large portion of energy from its carrier and has a ‘cooldown’, but you were willing to risk a shallow living over sure death.
Each day passed painstakingly slow, enough so that you eventually stopped counting—there was no need, however, as the glow emitting from your sword was enough. It was like a timer, and you used that to track the passage of time. That, and how many times you continuously slipped his grasp. His voice was starting to become ingrained into your mind, to the point where your closed eyes flashed images of his hollow stare and gritted teeth…
You shook your head. No, now that you pondered it closely, the growling wolf’s features seemed to be… softening? You hadn’t really noticed, but he wasn’t even scowling as deeply as the first time. At the last encounter, it felt less like you were being overwhelmed with fighting, but more overwhelmed by how his stare cut into your form in a way that felt less violent. Perhaps you were imagining it, but his soldiers’ movements felt slower and swings less forceful. Suffice to say, you were perturbed—why did humans have to act so complex? They made nonsensical decisions and had illogical thinking—something you would never be able to understand as a non-human. They were stupid—foolish, even. So why did you feel a weight within your chest?
Regardless, he would find you again, of course, because he seemed like the type to not let any slight besmirch his name—nor wanted unresolved conflict. At this point, you were simply biding the small amount of time you had until the inevitable battle. And maybe your inevitable death.
Your head tilted up slightly at the sound of soft taps behind you. Speak of the devil.
“You must really enjoy this cat and mouse game,” His voice drawled from behind you. Your hands shook with the urge to grab your sword, but your insides had knotted themselves enough that even your muscle memory went unresponsive.
Predictably, his leg reached out to kick the sword away from your reach. You watched with wide eyes as its metallic end clattered harshly against the ground, finally recognizing how much your body was shaking. Was this… fear?
You must ignore his prickling eyes, lest you fall apart and lose what little reputation you despairingly clung to—the only part of yourself that seemed recognizable.
Suddenly, you felt a large fabric envelop your back.
“You’re shaking too much,” The man huffed. You tore yourself away from the sight of your downed blade to a pair of bright blue eyes.
You must’ve been staring too much—too busy wondering why he hadn’t killed you yet—that he spoke up again.
“I’m not here looking for a fight, if that’s what you’re wondering,” He said assuredly, raising his hands in a form of placation. “In fact, I wanted to see if you were interested in talking with me.”
Your eyebrow twitched. Certainly, this was not the fearsome Monarch of Shadows—perhaps some idiot creature attempted to clone him to lower your guard. Or maybe, he was real, but doing this to lure you into a false sense of security to land the decisive strike once and for all.
You suddenly stiffened—did it matter his reason? Why were you contemplating such useless thinking again? No matter what you mulled over, it didn’t matter—you lost your sword, and thus should have lost your will to live.
…Should have, yet, why does your body still ache to live?
You turned your head forward, observing the crashing of waves against the shore once more. Your silent admission prompted him to lower himself beside you, sitting within close proximity yet you found yourself shaking less than you were before.
“The water… do you like it?” The Monarch asked. There was no anger sealed within his words, no hate—just a lulling murmur, like a cat purring under a gentle hand.
The unexpected calmness in his voice prompted a slow shake from you. How were you to ‘like’ something if you were a being that couldn’t truly experience a feeling?
From the corner of your eye, you watched the corners of the other Monarch’s mouth tilt up a bit. Perhaps that upset him.
“I find it odd to look at something that you don’t like.” His voice was lighter now, emitting barely audible wheezes that made you more confused.
You turned again towards him to find his eyes slightly crinkled and still holding that immature tenderness that you were sure other Monarchs would call weakness. The sight was baffling for you—to think the sort of power that would rewrite the world would be given to an emotional human. His comments seemed pointless, in fact, but you surprisingly didn’t mind.
You hesitated, mouthing to yourself your thoughts before saying, “Monarch of Shadows—“—His eyes widened to a point it nearly made you pause but you continued—“—What is your purpose for coming here?”
The twinkling of his eyes and more noticeable curvature in his mouth made something twist inside you. You wished the questions churning inside your head would stop, particularly the one asking why you continued entertaining him. Maybe it was because you found yourself looking at the face of an average man; one not burdened by countless graves and shadows of creatures he’s slaughtered.
Ever so slowly, you watched as he raised one hand towards your own. Your breath hitched as he gently brushed his hand across the top of yours, like he was testing something. You narrowed your eyes at the contact, but made no move to push him away.
The Monarch of Shadows let out something akin to a chortle. He then pulled away, and so too did the warmth leave with him—your other hand raised to touch the downward curve your mouth made. What was this?
“All the other Monarchs only know the meaning of power and battle.” He began after a pause. “If they lose, they die, while winning brings bounties.
“Yet, while your own noose was within my grasp, you still struggled.”
His gaze fell on the water bed that you looked upon each morning, as if trapped under a daze.
“Despite your world being filled with only conflict, you still developed the means of curiosity and will,” He whispered, and the building trepidation that was stirring began to grow lighter. His words… held a deeper meaning, likely. Why else, then, would he sound as if he were so far away?
The questions within you were brimming, now—to a degree that made your muscles ache and legs shake that nearly became unbearable. You gritted your teeth.
“That gaze of yours… why did it change?” You asked hesitantly. Maybe this question would be able to quell the tension within you—to smooth the creases and provide you a fragment of ‘tranquility’ that the other Monarchs talked so highly of.
“You remind me of myself.” He admitted, shining blue eyes raking in your form. “In a sense, your divergence is similar to mine. Perhaps I can teach you more about our world and alleviate some of your hostility.”
“An… offer?” You noted incredulously, feeling the fangs of your training—to not give in—seep within you.
“A trade.” The Monarch gently corrected. “That is, I would like to learn more about you.”
Preposterous, you nearly spat. This was the same man who killed others of your kind—and nearly did the same to you. You knew this, yet still felt tempted by the bait he swung in front of you. It was cruel—you knew this much because you had been the same to others in the past.
As if sensing your discomfort, he spoke up one again.
“We don’t need to start immediately, or we can start off on something small.” He suddenly held up the palm of his hand, other hand gesturing towards it.
“We can start with learning trust.” He said, voice filled with a jovial lilt that went nearly unnoticed. “My name is Sung Jinwoo.”
His words sounded… odd. Strange. No one you encountered ever knew what ‘happiness’ meant, nor ‘trust.’ You were hanging by a thread just to not succumb to a state of darkness, yet you continued to cling. Above all, however, you felt at ease. Maybe it was the way that his black hair fluttered gently amongst the wind, how his cheeks steadily became flushed at his proposal, or how earnestly his blue eyes regarded your form (no longer the piercing cold pair you were used to).
Jinwoo talked of trust, but he was also showing you acceptance. Humans truly were complicated creatures.
Your hand clasped his, and now you found yourself in a more unfortunate predicament: how noisy your chest became at his crinkled eyes and wide grin.
As usual, thank you all, my dear sweethearts, for your support!
NOT SUITED FOR MINORS. Author does not endorse or condone any of the actions depicted in real life. Not proofread. Also, English is not the author's first language, so there might be some mistakes.
Please remember that you are responsible for your own media consumption.
The shrill ring of the intercom sliced through the mundane hum of the staff lounge, a discordant note in the otherwise predictable rhythm of your shift. You flinched, a familiar knot tightening in your stomach. It wasn’t just any call; it was the call~. The one that meant your brief respite was over, and a particular, unsettling presence demanded your attention.
The manager’s office, in all its glory, was a shrine to late capitalism: the scent of old paper, cold coffee, and broken dreams. He barely looked up from his ledger, his face a roadmap of stress lines.
“He is here, in the Obsidian Suite. And he is asking for you as usual.”
His tone was a blend of exasperation and thinly veiled threat. “Do your usual and... you know, whatever he demands. And I mean it. He spends a lot of money here."
A lot was an understatement. Aventurine, the senior manager from the IPC Strategic Investment Department, one of the notorious Ten Stonehearts, was less a client and more a force of nature. His visits, once sporadic, had become almost daily pilgrimages since that one, fateful night. And every single time, his demand was the same: your presence. Not the head of hospitality, not the most experienced dealer or the most beautiful escort, but you, the simple staff member who refilled champagne flutes and cleared empty chip trays, face hurting from the “very natural, compassionate, approved by promotion manager client-oriented™” smile in hopes of getting a bigger tip.
Your thoughts were interrupted by an asthmatic sound of your name, “Understood?”
“Understood, sir.”
"Good. And try to look...you know,” he wiggled his brows suggestively. “…less like you're walking to your execution. Oh, and by the way! Other staff noticed that he often looks at your legs, so… be a darling and pull up your skirt a little bit,” he cleared his throat.
“I believe it would be… quite a distraction for him, therefore it will be harder to win,” the manager finally met your gaze, a flicker of something akin to pity in his eyes, before it was quickly masked by professional indifference.
Your throat tightened at the request.
The journey to the Obsidian Suite was a descent into a different kind of luxury. The main casino floor, with its cacophony of slot machines and excited shouts, faded into hushed corridors carpeted in plush velvet. The air grew heavier, scented with expensive cigars and the faint, metallic tang of high stakes. Each private room was a gilded cage, designed for the elite to play out their fantasies of fortune and power. You knew your place in this ecosystem – a silent, almost invisible servant. Not for him, though.
Your brain started the usual process of detachment when you stalked the hallways of a will vip lounge. The memory, vivid and unsettling, bloomed in your mind like a poisonous flower. It had been months ago, a night like any other, until it wasn’t.
The casino was a shimmering beast of light and sound, devouring fortunes and spitting out dreams. You moved through it, a ghost in a crisp uniform, collecting abandoned glasses, wiping down tables. It was late, and the VIP section was slowly but surely thinning out. You were assigned to the Obsidian Suite, a space usually reserved for the highest rollers. Tonight, it was reserved for the special special guest: Aventurine of stratagems.
When you entered the lavishly decorated door, he was sitting alone at a polished table, a scattering of chips before him, his signature smirk playing on his lips. Yet his unsettling heterocromic eyes held a distant, almost melancholic glint. His colleagues, or perhaps just his entourage, had departed somewhere, leaving him to the quiet hum of his own thoughts and he didn’t look like he particularly enjoyed them. You had glanced at his file earlier, a routine check for the special special guests, and a small detail had caught your eye.
His birthdate was today.
He hadn’t mentioned it, though. The staff hadn’t been informed of any celebration. He had, in fact, explicitly told the manager there was “no need for such trivialities.” But as you watched him, a strange impulse stirred within you. He was a man who seemed to have everything, yet he sat utterly alone on a day meant for love and joy.
During your brief break, you hadn’t gone to the staff canteen in your usual manner. Instead, you’d slipped out the back door and made a quick dash to the small bakery on the corner, which worked unusual hours. You’d bought a slice of your favorite cake – a simple, unassuming chocolate confection. It was cheaper than a glass of water in the casino, but it was something. Back in the staff canteen, you’d carefully transferred it to a neat, white plate, found a stray candle someone had left behind from a forgotten party, and lit it with a lighter.
Your heart hammered as you approached the table. Aventurine looked up with a smirk, his empty eyes narrowing slightly, a flicker of surprise in their depths. You gently placed the plate before him, the tiny flame casting a warm, dancing glow on his face in the dimly lit room.
“Mr. Aventurine, I know you didn’t want us to prepare a big celebration in your honour,” you began, your voice a little shaky from his unyielding gaze, “but I’ve figured you might like some sweet treat on this special day.”
His smirk vanished. The distant melancholy in his eyes deepened, then something else, something unreadable and intense, flared within them.
It lasted just a second, but with all your experience in this casino, you had seen that look many times on the faces of unlucky gamblers who had lost everything. That brief moment when they realised their future had just crumbled before their eyes.
Same hollowness.
He stared at the small cake, then at you, a profound silence stretching.
You braced for one of the following:
1) Dismissal,
2) Pity tip,
3) Existential soliloquy about the hollowness of (his) success.
So, when he moved, it wasn’t the reaction you expected. No dismissive wave, no amused chuckle. Just that piercing, unblinking gaze that made your palms sweat.
He picked up the small fork, slowly, deliberately, and took a bite. His expression remained unreadable, but a subtle shift seemed to occur in the air around him, as if a tightly wound spring had suddenly, almost imperceptibly, loosened. He finished the cake in silence, then pushed the plate aside.
“Your name?” he asked, his voice low, a silken thread in the quiet room.
You answered, voice barely a whisper.
He nodded, a slow, almost imperceptible movement. Then, with a flourish that seemed to defy the quiet intimacy of the moment, he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a stack of credits. He pushed them across the table towards you. It was a staggering amount, easily twice your monthly wage. “Take it, gem. For your... thoughtfulness,” he said, his eyes still fixed on yours, that strange emotion swirling within them.
You were stunned. You tried to refuse, stammering about company policy, but he simply leaned back, his smirk returning, though it felt different now, a little bit more determined and sharper.
“Consider it a bonus. Or a lucky charm from the house. I don’t care what you will use them for, just keep them.”
Then he stood up and left, not uttering another word.
From that day forward, your life at the casino had become inextricably linked to his visits. He gambled almost daily, always requesting you as his personal waiter. His tips, always left for you, consistently dwarfed his winnings, a silent, extravagant declaration that his true gamble wasn’t on the boards. You were the only one he truly spoke to, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur amidst the clinking of chips and the murmur of other staff he barely acknowledged.
He was a relentless flirt, a master of gilded words and charming, manipulative smiles.
“My dear gem," he’d purr, his eyes glinting like polished jewels, “you’re a risk I’d take every single time. My winnings seem to multiply tenfold when you’re near. Perhaps you’ve become my personal lucky charm?"
He’d shower you with expensive gifts – delicate silk scarves, shimmering jewelry, even a rare, antique watch that looked awfully similar to his. You always politely, but firmly, refused them.
“Mr. Aventurine, I appreciate your… gratitude, but I cannot accept such extravagant gifts. It is against the policy.”
He’d just sigh, a theatrical, wounded sound. “Ah, company policy. The true villain of every good love story. Pity. I thought perhaps you’d appreciate a little beauty in your life. After all, you bring so much to mine.” His puns were as frequent as his visits, often accompanied by a wink.
“So, should I just send them straight to your apartment? Since you’re off the clock there, it won’t be breaking any company rules, right?"
An uneasy shiver went down your spine. Now, how the hell did he know where you lived? Or did he just absentmindedly say that? Were you in danger?
Honestly, those little comments of his scared you, because beneath the playful banter, however, you sensed a desperate current. He was almost always tipsy when he gambled, the alcohol seemingly a lubricant for his courage, or perhaps a balm for his ego. Each failed attempt to woo you, each polite refusal, seemed to amplify this strange emotion in his eyes. You saw the way his hand would clench imperceptibly when you turned away, the fleeting shadow that crossed his face before the smirk snapped back into place.
You were just staff, trying to do your job. You enjoyed simple things: watching dumb movies after work, eating those cupcakes from the bakery, attending Robin’s concert with friends, and all stuff likewise.
Why would he be so interested in you all of the sudden?
The elevator doors chimed softly, pulling you back to the present. You were on the executive floor now, the air even more rarefied, the silence almost oppressive. The Obsidian Suite’s door stood slightly ajar, a sliver of darkness within. You pushed it open gently, stepping into the cavernous private room.
It was almost completely dark, save for the faint glow of the city lights filtering in from the balcony. The grand chandeliers were unlit, the plush furniture swallowed by shadows, the chips lying on the coffee table. It felt less like a luxurious retreat and more like a forgotten stage, waiting for a single, solitary actor.
A one-man show, with you as the unwilling audience.
The room itself was lifeless, so you walked towards the balcony, your footsteps muffled by the thick carpet. As you neared the threshold, his silhouette became clear. Aventurine stood at the railing, gazing out at the sprawling metropolis below, a lone figure against a glittering tapestry of urban sprawl. The wind, a cool, unseen hand, ruffled his perfectly styled hair. He held a glass in his hand, the melting ice clinking softly as he swirled the amber liquid.
He was drunk again. You could tell by the slight sway of his shoulders, the way his head was tilted, exposing the vulnerable line of his nape. The usual sharp edges of his charisma seemed softened by the alcohol, leaving behind only raw, unguarded emotions.
You stood at the doors of the balcony, the city a glittering tapestry of indifference below, and the air around Aventurine a palpable hum of unaddressed tension. He finally turned, his eyes, those captivating pools of amethyst, unfocused yet piercing, found yours. A slow, drunken smile spread across his lips, devoid of its usual calculated charm. He seemed drunker than usual, a rosy pink spreading across his face.
“Ah, it’s you. Finally,” he slurred, his voice a low rumble, rich as aged whiskey.
“My personal lucky charm. Come closer! The view from the precipice is always the most thrilling, wouldn’t you agree?”
He gestured vaguely at the cityscape, then back at you, a silent invitation that felt more like an inescapable magnetic pull.
“Mr. Aventurine, I really must insist we maintain a professional distance,” you said, trying to keep your voice steady, professional, but a tremor betrayed your fear. You were just staff. This was all wrong.
He laughed, a melancholic sound. “Professional distance? My dear, that ship sailed the moment you brought a lonely gambler a slice of chocolate cake. A single, humble candle, illuminating a truth I hadn’t dared to acknowledge,” His voice dropped, becoming a low, confiding murmur, as if sharing the most profound secret, “that even a Stoneheart might secretly long for a little light in the vast, uncaring cosmos.” He was bolder than usual.
You took a tentative step forward, then another, until you were just an arm’s length away. The scent of alcohol, and his expensive cologne, something minty and citrusy clung to him. He leaned against the railing, his gaze never leaving you, a predator observing its most prized, elusive quarry. You straightened under the weight of his gaze.
“You know,” he began again, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, as if sharing the universe’s most profound secret, “they say money can’t buy happiness. They’re fools, of course. Money can buy a private spaceship, a yacht, a casino... happiness comes from owning and using those things,” he giggled drunkenly.
“But there are other things that cannot be bought. Like true freedom. And perhaps, a certain… invaluable connection.” He paused, his eyes tracing the line of your jaw, a shiver running down your spine from the intensity.
“I’ve thrown away fortunes, built empires on sheer audacity, always believing the greater the risk, the grander the reward.”
He took another sip from his glass, the ice clinking like tiny, mournful bells.
“But with you… With you, I feel like I’m finally playing for something real. I feel like there’s a chance of losing something very valuable. Something beyond mere credits and corporate shares.”
His words, slurred yet articulate, sent a ripple of unease through you. He was speaking of you as if you were his ultimate gamble, the one bet that mattered above all others.
“You always refuse my gifts,” he continued, a pout forming on his lips, surprisingly childlike. “Diamonds, silks, watches... these are crumbs compared to what I can truly give, I assure you. But still, it pains me. Like watching a royal flush slip through my own fingers.” He chuckled, a humorless sound.
“A true tragedy, wouldn’t you say? I can’t win the game when I play for something much more important than money,” Aventurine stepped close with those words, his smile sour.
“Even though I am a professional, who’s been gambling all my life. Every breath, every decision, a toss of the dice. Born with nothing, owned by others, I learned early that the only way to gain anything was to risk everything. And I won. I won my… well, my everything. But I always thought I had to take it myself, to trick fate into yielding.”
He was dangerously close now, his hand reaching out, not to touch, but to hover inches from your arm, as if seeking permission even in his inebriated state. “But you were the one who offered me something without any expectation. Just… a genuine kindness. You know, somehow that cake of yours became the rarest, most impossible jackpot.”
His eyes, though still clouded by drink, were burning with an intensity that pierced through your composure. “And now, I find myself in the highest stakes game of my life. My soul is on the table again,” you couldn’t hear the last word that he mumbled, but the whole implication made your limbs stiffen. Aventurine reached out, his hand hovering near yours.
“So tell me, gem. What do you desire? What do you wish for me to provide you with in exchange for just a drop of your affection? Name your price. A private island? A star in the sky? A personal spacecraft? Consider it a no-limit game, where I'm always willing to raise the stakes.”
You swallowed, your voice barely a whisper against the vastness of the night. “N-Nothing, Mr. Aventurine. I… I just want to finish my job and go home to rewatch that old show called Friends."
Because honestly, Ross and Rachel’s on-again, off-again relationship was less complicated than whatever was going on between him and you right now.
Upon hearing your answer, a slow, utterly incandescent smile bloomed across his face, a raw, unbridled joy that transformed his drunken features. His purple eyes, usually so calculating, now shone with an almost terrifying adoration.
“Really? Nothing?” he repeated, the word a prayer on his lips. “Oh, my dear gem! You truly are so genuine. A soul uncorrupted by the hunger for gold, a spirit untainted by the lure of power. You demand nothing, ask for no collateral, no guarantee,” he took another step closer, his eyes burning into yours.
“And while I can’t deny how stupid it is,” he murmured, his voice now a fervent hum, “it’s what captivated me from a first meeting of ours,” his hand grasped your shoulder.
“And that’s why you deserve so much more than this.”
Before you could even begin to process, let alone correct his profound misinterpretation, Aventurine closed the remaining distance. His hands, surprisingly gentle, cupped your face, his thumbs brushing lightly over your cheekbones, the coldness of his rings seeping into your skin. His eyes, inches from yours, were a swirling vortex of desire and a lifetime of suppressed longing. Your feet felt rooted to the spot, paralyzed by a mix of fear and an undeniable, terrifying c-
His lips met yours.
It began as a feather-light touch, tentative and slow, as if he were afraid you might vanish like a mirage. There was the softness of his mouth, the faint taste of something sweet and alcoholic. But then, as if realizing this wasn’t a dream, the gentleness morphed. It became hungry, desperate, a silent plea for solace and possession. His arms lowered and wrapped around your waist, pulling you flush against his chest, a tight embrace that stole the air from your lungs. Your hands, caught between your bodies, instinctively pressed against his chest, feeling the frantic thump of his heart against your palms.
He deepened the kiss, a soft moan vibrating from his throat. His lips moved over yours with an almost brutal tenderness, demanding, consuming, yet still imbued with a profound gentleness that spoke of something within. It was the kiss of a man who had gambled everything on this single moment, who had waited a lifetime for a genuine connection, who saw you as his ultimate salvation, his lucky break in a life filled with calculated risks and hollow victories.
Every suppressed emotion, every lonely night, every yearning for something real, poured into that embrace, hot and desperate. You felt the raw edges, a fragile loneliness beneath his usual charming facade, a profound need for someone to see him. It was overwhelming, intoxicating, and utterly terrifying.
When he finally pulled back, breathless, his forehead rested against yours, his eyes still closed, a tremor running through his body. His grip on your waist was crushing, possessive. He opened his eyes, and the depths of them were clouded with emotion, a fragile vulnerability that made your throat dry.
The night air suddenly felt colder, the city lights blurring into an indistinguishable haze. You were caught in the eye of his storm, his emotions a tangible force, and you had no idea how to escape.
Aventurine whispered your name, his voice thick with emotion.
“Call me Kakavasha, please.”
.
Likes, reblogs and comments are appreciated!
So...
This one was originally a part of the kiss headcanons but somehow it escalated quickly
Also, I didn’t finish Penacony story quest yet, so there might be some inaccuracies ;c
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Heyy love your work. I wanted to make a request for Bucky Barne was thinking something like reader goes to his house for Christmas but then he forcefully drugs her with a syringe and she's held captive. But he's overal nice enough. He'd let her kick or scream or fight back. But then one day he lets her out of the basement or wherever he keeps her and she tries to escape and succeeds to some degree He manages to catch her and he snaps, gets angry and punishes her and she's scared cuz he snapped.
Winter
i love this! i’m sorry this isn’t proofread—i’m late as is and needed to get this out into the world so at least some people can read this as they lie in bed and have it be relevant. also, i’m so sorry, i left out the syringe bit because i got too into the plot i conjured up with the food coma here, sorry, sweetheart, but please, send another request if you really want to see it get done. let me know your thoughts, also to my sister @thehydraethereal. with that out of the way:
Bucky Barnes: A Christmas dinner opens your eyes to a new type of Winter.
additional content warnings here!
CONTENT WARNING, PLEASE READ: This piece includes graphic depictions of torture. Seriously, this is really dark; do not proceed if you are not comfortable with explicit descriptions of physical violence. This is your warning. This is fucking dark. I can not stress this enough. I am fucked up.
It wasn’t that you were technically averse to relationships or had commitment issues, you just feel like at this point in your life a solid relationship wasn’t really going to work. You had been travelling to the other side of the country quite a bit to take care of your sister, but this Christmas, your parents went down, so you didn’t really have an excuse to bail when Bucky invited you to dinner.
You don’t think you’re technically dating him–you don’t ever recall you or him asking the other to be their partner–but you’ve at least been going out with him for a few months. Guess you’d have to face him at some point; it’s been nearly three weeks since he had suggested you live together, which had caught you completely off-guard. You had managed to side-step the conversation at the time before making up some bullshit excuse to leave, and you haven’t had the courage to face him since.
Pulling into Bucky’s driveway always makes you feel a little uneasy; he doesn’t live like a hermit or overly secluded, but for some reason the houses in this suburb seem just a little too far apart for comfort–no one really has ‘neighbours.’
The scent of a very well-cooked meal carries right up to the front door, making you take a deep whiff before knocking.
“Hi, honey,” Bucky answers the door, leaning down to give you a kiss on the cheek.
“God, I’m practically drooling out here,” you say, and Bucky laughs as he steps out of the way and allows you in. “How long have you been standing?”
“Ah, a few hours,” he admits, sheepishly, watching you hang your coat up and rubbing the back of his neck when you raise your eyebrows at him.
“But it’s just the two of us, no?” you question as you lead him into the kitchen (maybe you being so casual in his home gave him the impression you’d like to move in with him).
“Yeah,” he replies, tailing you. “But I realised I don’t really know what you like and I panicked a bit.”
You giggle and that seems to ease his apparent embarrassment, allowing him to let out a breathless laugh as he moves into the kitchen, standing on the other side of the island as you settle on a stool.
“How have you been?” he inquires as he pours you a glass of wine, not making eye contact.
“Alright,” you reply, watching the red liquid slosh into the glass. “Glad to have some time off.”
“How’s your sister?”
You sigh and mouth a thank you to him as he slides the glass towards you. After a sip, you look up at him. “Better, I think, and she’s only allowed two visitors at a time–my parents really wanted to see her so I let them for Christmas, they don’t really get a chance otherwise.”
He hums in understanding as he puts on pink oven mitts and crouches down.
“Are you disappointed?” he asks loudly as he pulls a dish out of the oven.
You shrug. “I’d have liked to go, but I’m not all that sad about it. I don’t have much going for me in New York, so I was worried I’d be bored, but I’m having a good time.
“You just got here!” He laughs as he rises with a turkey.
“I know, but wine.” You raise your glass to him and peer into the ceramic dish. “Turkey?” you ask, which he responds to with a hum of affirmation.
“I don’t really like it, not sure if you do.”
“I like it. I would have thought you patriots like Thanksgiving stuff, though.”
You help him set up a few dishes across a small dining table and sit down.
“This was really sweet, Bucky.” You smile, tone sincere and nearly sappy as he cuts you a large leg of turkey. “Doesn’t this stuff make you sleepy?” you joke, and it takes him just a beat too long to chuckle.
“I think that’s a myth, actually,” he responds as he sits back down across from you.
“Really?” you raise your eyebrows as you dig your knife and fork into the leg. “I could have sworn...”
“Is it good?” he asks, watching you carefully, and with a kind of interest that makes you slightly uneasy, but you can’t deny it’s heavenly. You nod enthusiastically and point to the meat.
“God, this is great! You’d swear there was cocaine in here or something.”
Something lights in his eyes for a second, a spark you mistake for happiness. Bucky has always loved nothing more than to see you happy and relaxed: one of the reasons you were so drawn to him was his genuine desire to not only make you as happy as possible, but to appreciate that joy. Sometimes you got the impression making you happy pleased him almost as much as it pleased you, if not more. And it was times like these you felt bad you weren’t really able to make a commitment to him. He never seemed to mind it all too much, but you can tell it’s something he wants, and you almost feel like you’re taking advantage of his affection–but he knows, and you know, and if he isn’t happy with this arrangement, surely he’d say something.
But Bucky has to bite back the retort, “Well, not that drug.”
After a hearty meal you only put down when you feel you’re genuinely on the verge of passing out, you push away your plate. “Woo! I don’t know how I’m ever gonna work that off. I think I’ve gained, like, 10.”
“You're perfect the way you are,” Bucky says, leaning down to press his lips to your cheek as he clears the table.
You close your eyes and hum in delight, but you find it a little hard to open them again. When you manage to pry your eyes open again, it’s not much, still looking at the table through droopy lids. You stand and sway, rattling your chair as you grapple the table for support.
“Are you okay?” Bucky asks as he reappears in your line of sight, brows furrowed in concern.
“Yeah,” you respond, squeezing your eyes shut and ripping them open again. “But I really should get going.”
“Get going?” he repeats, moving to your side for support as you stumble forward. “I don’t think you should drive right now.”
But you dismiss him with a wave of your hand, pushing off of him to stand up straight. You think you say, “I’m fine. I’ll call you.” but you can’t really make out the words through the slight slurring.
“Lie down,” he offers gently, taking a step towards his bedroom.
“No…” you tear your arm free of his grasp. You had spent the night with him before, but for a reason you can’t figure out, this time, something is screaming at you to decline.
“Really, darling, you need to,” he insists, his voice having dropped to a low murmur. He takes a step forward and you instinctively take a step back, feeling a little guilty when he stops dead in his tracks and something like hurt flashes across his features. You know something that makes Bucky wince is when he feels someone is afraid of him, and you can only imagine how he must feel now if you’re the one displaying apprehension.
You shake your head and turn away from him to the doorway.
“Hey...” You startle as you feel his grip on your forearm, gentle, but firm. “You’re not leaving.” The words are said in a sincerely concerned way, but the fact the statement came off as more of a command than a suggestion really triggers something in you.
“Bucky...” you groan as you uselessly try to pull away, feeling weaker than you otherwise would, even against him.
He doesn’t have to give too sharp of a tug to make you stumble into his arms, his hold on you steady, and, at any other time, safe, but now it feels more certain, somehow, almost possessive. You try to protest but you’re practically babbling incoherently under him, head lolled to the side as he adjusts his grip from under your arms to pick you up bridal style.
“Just lie down for a second...”
And you’re too out of it to notice he’s passed his bedroom door.
***
It’s difficult to open your eyes again, your lashes stuck together as you turn your head over. When vision slowly comes back to you, you’re met with a midcentury wooden bedside table you don’t recognise. You prop yourself up on your forearm and squint into the room, looking for any signs of familiarity, and the only thing you recognise is the thing you dread.
“What…” you begin to mutter, and Bucky looks up from the book he’s reading with a smile.
“You’re up.” He stands from the chair positioned by ‘your’ (this isn’t your bed) beside and moves to sit on the edge, placing a hand to your forehead. “How’re you feeling?”
You weakly slap his hand away as you start to really wake up and realise what’s going on.
“I’m not… this isn’t… what…” you can’t really find the words to ask the questions you need answers to.
“It’s your Christmas present!” he says with a grin, standing to make a grand gesture with his arms, out to the room. I’ve got your favourite books here, I remember you telling me you used to want a four poster princess bed.” He points to the ceiling and sure enough, pretty curtains hang over your head. “But if you don’t like it I can change it.” He shrugs and stands somewhat nervously as he waits for you to react.
“What… the fuck.”
He tsks and swings his arms back and forth, rocking on his heels.
“I set it up for you a few weeks ago, I didn’t know if you’d be comfortable sleeping with me every night, I know you like your space.”
“Are you out of your mind!?” You throw the sheets off of you and manage to stand, even though your head feels a little heavy.
He sighs and steps forward. “I know it feels like–”
“Oh, you know what it feels like? You know what it feels like to be ostensibly kidnapped by your boyfriend?”
He blushes. “So I am your boyfriend.”
“What the fuck is wrong with you!?” You throw a pillow at him (ineffective but it was the nearest thing) which he catches with ease and turns over to reveal an embroidered flower. “I made this,” he says, proudly.
“What the fuck!?” you shriek as you throw another pillow at him, this one he dodges easily.
You’ve never seen him like this, nearly giddy and, in this context, borderline delusional. It makes you grip onto your hair and bunch your fingers into the locks. “Oh, my god, you’re insane!”
“I’m not the one yelling and throwing things,” he mutters, and your eyes snap up to his.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” you begin, exasperated. “I’m so fucking sorry I don’t react well to crimes committed against me.”
“You came into my house.”
“Yes, but I didn’t come into this room! Do you really expect me to believe I can just leave anytime? That that door isn’t locked. You think I’m fucking stupid?”
He gently tosses the pillow back onto the bed and winces. “I was hoping you wouldn’t.”
“Bucky,” you begin, carefully, voice dangerously low as you step up to him. “I don’t know what in god’s name has gotten into you, but I’m not having it. I’m leaving.”
“Sweetheart, you really don’t intimidate me.” And the way he says it with such sincere pity makes you shove at his chest. He doesn’t stumble, but he takes a step back for your benefit.
You match his step and poke your finger in his chest, glaring up at him with more fury than you thought you had and trying your hardest not to wrap your hand around his throat. What really pisses you off is his patronising speech; you can tell he genuinely thinks he’s doing good, and that he honestly feels bad that you can’t appreciate it, that you’re weaker than him, and it boils your blood. Apathy or even mockery would be better than this condescending way he’s deluded himself into believing this is for your benefit.
“Don’t call me sweetheart, you piece of shit. If that door is locked, you’re gonna unlock it, and you’re going to leave me the fuck alone.” You practically spit the words at him through gritted teeth, seething to the point you can feel heat radiating from your body and wouldn’t be surprised if there was literal steam coming out of your ears.
“Sit down, angel.”
“Talk to me like that again and there will be nothing angelic about what I do to you.”
“Your mother called.”
That gets your attention and your anger dissipates for a moment. “Really? What did she say?”
When he guides you to sit down, you’re not really in the space to fight him off, waiting to hear any news from your family.
“They’re coming down in a few days, for New Year’s, and, they’re bringing your sister–they say she’s stable enough for travel.”
You feel your eyes begin to water at the thought of your sister being that strong, of being able to talk to her like you used to, before she got sick. But you snap out of it, and that swelling in your heart turns to something close to anxiety, but closer to suspicion. “Why are you telling me this?”
He scoffs as if you’re asking him if the sky is blue. “Because I know you want to see them. I told them they could stay with us for a few days.”
“With us?”
He just blinks. “Yes, with us.”
“You must be out of your fucking mind if you think…” And the next few hours are spent with you screaming in his face, swinging punches which he easily dodges, but sometimes he humours you and allows you a hit–not like it hurts anyway. His calm demeanour and ‘care’ makes you infuriated beyond belief, and by the end of the night the room has been trashed, there are scratches on the door from your desperate clawing and pounding, your voice is hoarse from all the yelling, and you’re exhausted while Bucky is no more beaten than when you first woke up.
Eventually, you’ve physically exhausted yourself so much you can’t even push him away when he climbs into bed next to you and holds you in his arms, placing your head against his chest and caressing your hair, which he knows always relaxes you and helps you fall asleep.
***
You only know it’s morning when you wake up because Bucky greets you with it, but it doesn’t take long for your attention to fall to the walls, noticing there aren’t any windows.
“We’re in the basement, you know.” Bucky comments, watching your eyes dart around the room and catching on to what you’re doing. “I don’t have a spare room, you know that.”
You’re nearly tired of glaring daggers at him seeing as he doesn’t really feel it–if anything, it seems to spur him on, like he doesn’t really care what you do as long as he gets some kind of reaction out of you. If you remained as stoic as he did, maybe that would give him pause for thought, but you really can’t resist the urge to attack him, and he somehow sees it as endearing, like any attention you give him makes his heart swell.
Initially, you refuse his invitation for breakfast upstairs, but when that morning grumpiness subsides, you let your stubbornness fall away in favour of opportunity. This really solidifies in your mind Bucky is so convinced you’ll stay that he doesn’t really worry about turning his back on you as he flips an egg.
“Where’re you going?”
You stop dead in your tracks, shocked he had heard you get up when you were practically sneaking like a cartoonish villain.
“To the bathroom,” you lie, to which he responds with a simple, “Okay.”
It’s too easy, but you’d rather take your chances than wonder if this is some kind of setup. You have to get out of here as soon as possible, so you don’t have time to look for your car keys, but you hesitate at the door. It’s beginning to snow, and you’re not dressed anywhere near enough to make it to a neighbour–the only thing that had kept you warm before coming up to see him was that nice coat, but it’s not on the rack anymore.
There’re only a few locks you have to turn to quietly open the door, your teeth chattering as a cold breeze hits you so hard it’s painful, like your skin is literally freezing onto your bones. You’re barefoot, no less. You can’t kid yourself into thinking you won’t lose a toe or some extremities in the process, but you can not stay. It really has only been one night, but something you’ve never liked in your life is being trapped, makes your skin crawl to the point you’d rather shed it than be deprived of freedom, especially when you’ve got the chance to see your family soon. And besides, it’s really not that long of a walk to the next house, you won’t die out there, but you can only vaguely make it out through the snow, and if you scream, it’ll surely be drowned by the harsh winds. With one last glance behind you, you step into the snow, and instantly regret it, your feet set close to frozen in just a few seconds, and goosebumps rising so quickly across your skin it feels like you’ve suddenly broken out in hives. And just as you consider turning back, you’re shoved forward, and you shriek as you land face first in the snow, afraid of crying at the impact lest your tears turn to ice right on your cheeks.
You’re gripped by the arm and pulled upright, before being again pushed further away from the house you can feel radiating warmth just through the open door. You gasp for air as you manage to bring yourself to your hands and knees, fingers curling into the snow and slowly becoming numb. A harsh gust blows, nearly knocking you off balance, and you squint to look up at the door, Bucky standing before you in little more than a long-sleeved t-shirt (he’s more underdressed than you) and sweatpants, hair still a little messy with sleep, but the look in his eyes, it’s a look you’ve never been on the receiving end of–in fact, you’ve never even seen it, but you can recognise it immediately.
“You forget I’m the Winter Soldier.” You’re not sure how his deep growl manages to carry across the howling of the winds, but you don’t have time to figure it out before a metal hand grips a fistful of your hair and you’re dragged through the snow, instinctively trying to plant your feet in the ground to stop him but even if you could match his strength, the cold is unbearable, and your legs are starting to feel numb, yet still stiff.
You don’t have time to be grateful that you’ve been thrown back into warmth as you slide across the floor and Bucky kicks the door shut behind him. From a hallway table, he pulls out a wrench, and you struggle to get your arms and legs to move away from him as he approaches you, menacingly.
You don’t know how such slow and heavy footsteps manage to catch up to you so quickly, but soon he’s got his boot pressing down on your ankle, preventing you from doing more than thrashing around. He leans down and grips your face roughly, forcibly pulling you up to meet him, and his eyes are so void of emotion he nearly looks dead. He doesn’t look angry, he looks like he just can’t feel.
“I do all this for you, and you can’t even offer me a pretty little smile.” His large fingers reach into your mouth, pulling your lips and teeth apart wide, wide enough for him to shove the wrench into your mouth and attach it to one of your teeth. “You don’t know what you have until it’s gone. Maybe you’ll appreciate it more if it just wasn’t the same.” You feel your gum twist and let out a cry, gurgling through your throat. Your frail fingers grasp onto his wrist as you desperately try to shake your head, but his strong hold prevents you from it. He twists a little more and you squeeze your eyes shut, holding your breath, before he eventually pulls out and you gasp for dear life, tears stinging your vision.
He roughly tugs you up and practically throws you into a nearby chair, before taking your hand with surprising gentleness, caressing your hurting fingers with the back of his for a moment before adjusting his grip to bring the wrench back forward.
“Now this is no good…” he remarks, moving his head to see more of your frostbitten marks you’re sure will leave scars. “You know what happens to these?” The wrench attacks itself to your index finger and Bucky adjusts its width so it’s threatening to chop your finger right off.
You scream at him to let go, kicking at his legs gets no reaction out of him, but don’t dare to move the hand he’s still holding.
“What if I just…” He twists only slightly and your skin breaks, blood seeping down from your frayed skin and dripping onto your thigh.
Just as you’re about to let out an unstoppable shriek of pain, Bucky’s metal hand presses to your mouth, stopping the sound going any further than echoing off his palm for only you to hear again. He twists more and you move your wrist with it, trying anything to stop him from twisting your finger off. He notices this and removes his other hand from your mouth to hold your wrist firmly in place.
“Bucky, please–”
“Shut up!” he shouts, his hold on you tightening even further. He lowers his face to yours with wide eyes, jaw clenched impossibly tight, and speaks in a dangerously low register, his voice trembling with fury as he tries to hold it together, at least in demeanour if not in action. “You really fucked up, and if you don’t have any fingers, you won’t be able to open my door ever again.”
I’m back at uni and waaaowww lots of req… gonna temporarily close requests for a lil til I sort some of these out. if you requested something—thanks! but do keep in mind non-specific requests will take me longer as I need to sift my barren brain for ideas . If u think of something to add to ur requests, feel free to add on ! but otherwise, my asks will remain open for everything else not regarding req
probably drabbles I’ll try to draft, then?
anyway my list goes:
- jinwoo (2)
- Zato / sol (ggst)
- chipp zanuff (ggst)
- Johnny (ggst)
- slayer (ggst)
might do these out of order for funsies ! stay tuned
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Yandere Ky Kiske,,,, ouhhh. OUHHH. I HAVE BEEN SEARCHING FOR SO LONGGG THANK YOU FOR BRINGING SUCH A BEAUTY INTO REALITY,,, Its so inchresting to see Ky in sucha situation that turns him into a yandere and ur interpretation makes me wanna put him in a clear plastic hamster cage and see how he behaves omggg /pos/pos/VERYpos
YES!!!!! I was looking for Yandere guilty gear and was so sad to see there was barely anything for it, especially the male cast… like ur telling me not one male (other than Faust) from guilty gear made the cut???? so I decided that I shall do it myself. I was sitting on this ky concept for awhile and listened to roar of the spark a few times , then the request came in (thank you @illusionsignmisdirecti0n ) so I actually got motivation to do it (which also kinda stemmed from me picking up ky) . might do another quick piece on this ky since I fancy him quite a lot but that’ll come after I explore other characters .
if people like him enough maybe I’ll do a quick (actual headcanon) follow up !
thank u for ur kind words anon <3 ky would very much love being caged as long as he gets to serve you
HOLY SHIT... YANDERE KY KISKE IS SOMETHING WE DIDN'T DESERVE, BUT WERE GRACEFULLY GIFTED 🙏🙏🙏
yes!!!! I feel like playing into ky’s religious/faithful/loyal aspect by turning it up a notch can make him quite scary considering the type of man he is. he is as stubborn as sol, except he’s formal and does things with restraint. I tried to play more into his lack of confidence about leading and a ‘what-if his will was not as strong?’ (thanks roar of the spark for that idea)—instead of finding strength through the whole, he finds it in just one part, and will do anything to maintain it.
I’d like to do Yandere sol and asuka next because Ive been sitting on some pretty cool ideas for those two, but likely in a longer fic format after my finals. soooooo, stay tuned?
it is so nice for my writing pieces to make it out of drafts… it’s a war zone in my notes app of like unfinished resident evil, persona, and solo leveling pieces lmao
ooooo you do yandere guilty gear stuff? Could you please make some headcanons for Ky? Thank you in advance!
Divine Love — Yan!Ky Kiske HC x Reader
A/N: finally had time to finish this—thanks for the request! been looking for an excuse to do yandere strive hehe. since there’s no general prompt I decided to wing my own idea—there was a lot on my mind so it stems away from HC into a mini-fic…oops? Anyway, hope you like it! feedback always appreciated. maybe sol or asuka next?
WC: 3.2k
- A prodigal swordsman in his youth, Ky Kiske was a polished gem that rose amongst the ranks in the Sacred Order of Holy Knights. His commitment to fighting alongside humanity to end the Crusades awarded him honor and nobility—he was a man who was recognized as a hero, a powerhouse that rivaled the Guilty Gear himself.
- Yet, no matter how much recognition he was given, that would never take away the burning images of horrifying expressions, unmoving bodies, and blood-soaked hands.
- The end of the Crusades was welcomed with open arms by humanity, and Ky Kiske could not help but consider society’s naivety. Their ‘peace’ was forged from mountains of corpses littering destroyed land, with some unable to be recovered. It was not only war that forged him, but war that shaped humanity, too.
- The joy, the celebrations that placed people like Ky at the frontier made him sick. As his name rung throughout the land of Illyria—thousands chanting his name to the heavens—Ky merely stared emptily.
- Then, the day he was crowned king, standing amongst his peers, he felt the knot around his heart trembling violently, as if the strings were snapping one by one.
- You are crowning a killer. You are crowning a killer that reaped more lives than could be remembered.
- The people Ky Kiske fought so hard to protect, the ones who he wanted to save so that they would never face a sorry fate that matched his mother’s, then threatened the life of him and his son.
- Disgusting, disgusting, disgusting. Perhaps Ariels was right.
- It was on a whim that Ky, wrapped in ragged clothes and cloak, visited a small town in Illyria.
- His kingly life that adorned him with beautiful white coats and an egregious amount of riches came at a price of remembering civilization’s transgressions as well as his own. One day, those same nice white suits would be dyed red as he slayed more beings over and over and over and over—
- If the next war brewing came to fruition, would he remain the same?
- Where did he stand?
“Your suffering is not in vain—we hear you.”
Your words were soft-spoken as you handed a familiar woman a piece of bread and a bottle of water. She bowed as she took the food, tears welling her eyes.
“Bless you, bless you,” She repeated, hands clasped around yours.
“May all that is holy be with you in these trying times.”
The battles with Ariels was a reminder about war and its consequences. The fragments scattered just along the borders of Illyria suffered the most—which is where you exactly resided.
The capital is too engrossed in its affairs that happens within its imaginary wall that they never noticed how you and your people have suffered. To get help from them could take months, or years—that is why the Church acts in their stead instead.
And in their stead they shall, for they have already taken initiative in providing donations to the public in need.
Picking up another piece of bread, your eyes stray away from the others to a hooded figure standing a few feet away. As if they sensed you, cold, blue eyes match your gaze and you cannot help but shake slightly. They had been watching for awhile from a distance, yet they never moved towards the Church at all. It is with honest conviction that you stride forward with hands fully spread out to help those in need.
The blue eyes shake slightly, as if almost baffled by the action. They do not shift their gaze, and do not make a move for the bread.
You smile gently. “If you are in need of something, perhaps start with this?”
The person’s lips twitch and you can make out their nose scrunched from a little beyond the darkness veiling them. There was one beat, then two, before a voice finally graced your ears.
“I would like to ask a question.” The voice spoke, sounding gravely tired but of a sophisticated timbre that flowed through your ears like water.
You nodded encouragingly, hoping you successfully masked your surprise at the stranger’s sudden inquiry and manner of speech. Were you imagining the man’s formalities?
That didn’t matter, regardless.
“What value is there to life and certainty?”
You blinked, pondering for a few moments. A heavy question, indeed, but one that you were familiar with. After all, it had been contemplated so often that the answer came almost as second-nature to you.
“Life is an embodiment of various beings and things, encompassing the Divine One’s innovation and creativity. Life is infinite and therefore its value is inherently infinite as well.”
His eyes were fully entrenched onto yours, the beautiful blues reminding you of the vivid sky above the two of you.
“As for certainty… that is a question that will always be asked by us humans. Can I or can I not, or should I or should I not? Certainty can only be answered by beings whose beliefs are as rooted as the oldest trees that remain on earth.” You said, fingers gently curling and uncurling around the bread.
The man stared some more. You wished you could see his expression, to truly know the thoughts that plagued his mind and to reassure him of his doubts. He seemed troubled, so troubled, that your heart was aching.
“Beliefs… how does one root them?”
‘I’m lost and cannot find my way.’ Words, after all, never had one intended meaning.
“I cannot say whether there is an objective right way or not,” You said, eyes crinkling apologetically.
“But, do know this: salvation is paved by hope.”
“Hope?” The man repeated, wind swaying the hood of his cloak slightly to reveal beautiful blond hair.
You smiled knowingly, having once echoed that very same word. “Nothing can be done without hope.”
- it was after this encounter, perhaps, that sealed your fate.
- The hooded man quickly became acquainted with the Church where you resided, your eyes sweeping the room where it always eventually met the familiar torn material. For every prayer, recitation, and baptism he was in attendance and was seemingly engrossed in each activity.
- When you were in attendance, he would be present—whether you noticed or not.
That crawling feeling was back again. The one that made your spine tingle and welcomed a burst of cold wind that completely tempered your body’s homeostasis. It was after the Church’s weekly activity that you traced your uneasiness back to piercing bright ocean blues.
Your discomfort lingered as you made eye contact, yet you shrugged it off to be the nervousness from numerous gazes that buzzed around you. It ended up being a motivator to excuse yourself from the circle you were in to make strides towards the man that sat on one of the bench’s near the corner.
“Greetings,” You bowed, a small smile elevating your face at the man’s head perking up.
“Ah,” The man’s cloak shook, and your eyes noticed the gloved hands curling around the Rosary Beads.
“I am happy to see you becoming well-acquainted with us.” You nodded towards the Beads. “Has the difficulty of your journey towards belief alleviated at all?”
The man—regaining composure, you assumed, as he rubbed his thumb across one of the beads—hummed.
“It is clearer, but akin to observing a picture with an unfocused lens.” His voice was more lively than the last time—purposeful.
“If possible, I would like to learn more about faith.”
‘He is eager,’ you thought happily.
“Faith is one belief that concerns itself with following that of divine authority, such as the Divine One.” Your hand gestured towards the statue placed in the middle of the Church.
“It is a pledge to that which is holy to abide by One’s teachings. In having faith, one establishes trust with that which is greater.”
“Faith, then, is loyalty?” The man surmised.
“Correct. Loyalty is how we connect with divinity.”
The end of your teaching was followed by a few pastors requesting your presence. You quickly waved goodbye to the lonesome man, ignoring the sudden tenseness that swelled past your shoulders.
“Loyalty in following…” The man murmured, uncaringly burning his gaze into your backside.
Yes, the way your hair gently swayed as the wind blew and your sparkling smiles that enchanted his dark soul instilled a powerful sense that made his entire body tremble.
His legs shook and he willed himself not to bend his knees there and then as he greedily watched your rescinding silhouette.
- You received an invitation to visit the capital of Illyria on behalf of the Church at the request of an unspecified royal.
- The capital was big, beautiful, and bold—its inhabitants were nothing less than that.
- You, accompanied by a fellow male pastor, watched in awe from the carriage as you passed by various structures and villas.
- There would be initial greetings, then a grand party hosted by the Kings to celebrate another year of peace to the kingdom.
- Exiting the carriage and entering the palace was a different experience entirely—one that you could not fully describe
- As you continued to be enlightened, you eventually stumbled upon a blond man with bright blue eyes
Ah, wait, didn’t he look—
Catching your fellow company bowing from the corner of your eye, you quickly snapped your head down.
“My humble greetings to one of the Suns of Illyria,” Your companion—Peter—said, recovering swiftly.
There was a long, dreadful pause—an excruciating tremor passing through you at what you thought was the heat of the room. Your partner tapped your foot at the king’s silence.
“My humble greetings—and apologies—to one of the Suns of Illyria.” You were silently praying the noble in front of you did not pay attention to your lapse in formality.
“It is so wonderful to see you.” The king’s response came so quickly at the end of your words you couldn’t help but peek from underneath your eyelashes.
To say that Ky Kiske was simply a ‘Sun of Illyria’ was an understatement. The illumination of the room you were standing in was not of the photons transcending beyond the glass panels but of King Kiske’s exuberant smile. His golden hair reminded you of the daisies and sunflowers that lined the gates of Illyria and his blue eyes reflected the sky itself. The king’s posture, so upright and composed, rivaled that of the still lakes which oversee a multitude of beings underneath its tranquil waters.
Still, his smile did little to cease the burning stare into your body. And did little to quell your agitation.
King Kiske tilted his head. “What have you been up to since arriving?”
“Just—touring,” You meekly replied. A flash of pain pouring out of your head made you avert your gaze away from eyes seemingly tracking your every movement.
The king’s actions made you feel nervous, yet nervous over what? You silently prayed for strength, something that used to come easily to you under the roof your home’s Church.
“The agriculture and architect of Illyria is astounding.” Peter added, posturing in front of you to block his gaze.
The downturn of the king’s smile into a still-expression was immediate. It was almost as if he was just now registering the extra body beside you.
“I don’t recall asking for your input.” King Kiske’s voice was teetering beyond his collected tone, just enough for you to catch Peter flinch in front of you.
The king ran a quick hand through his hair, an expression you couldn’t quite catch now masked under an eerie coolness. Warning chimes rung through your mind as you gripped Peter’s hand tightly.
“Forgive us for the indecency but we must get going.” You said, already stringing along your companion. “It was a pleasure meeting you.”
“Let us cross paths again soon.” You did not bother to look back, fearing you might get even more sickly over that saccharine smile.
Once out of sight, you let out a shaky breath you did not even know you were holding.
- You both traveled around for a while before the party, killing time and distracting yourselves from admitting that conversation ever happened in the first place.
- There was a sinking feeling, one that started from the surface but was melting all the way down to your gut.
- It was a feeling you strongly despised, one that you did not experience even as individuals reprimanded you for not giving enough food or losing your loved ones to Gears.
- When it came time for the party, it was nearly ten times more grand than you could have expected it to be
- The vitality encompassing the gala simmered your experience earlier but did not quite eliminate it.
- At Peter’s request, you both separated—wandering the room so that you may see everything.
- You were distracted, to the point where you did not notice the blond male slowly trailing behind you, even with the crowd he carried with him.
- When it came time to reunite with Peter, you spent quite the amount of time looking for him
- He, too, was looking around, yet he was nowhere to be seen.
- With the crowds seeming ever larger and your breaths drawing shorter, you stepped out into the palace’s garden.
The flowers, illuminated under the translucent moon’s gaze, looked even more invigorated than they were under the sun.
…The sun. The mere thought of it made you feel perturbed. It was like an itch you couldn’t scratch, a lingering feeling that drifted far out of your reach. An irremediable state of mind.
On nights where you felt the most… unlike yourself, you snuck back into the church. A small sin, perhaps, but praying under the statue was all you could do to relieve your conscious. Others felt the same, too, as you united from time to time with fellow pastors—a shared faith between you all.
Under the crescent moon in Illyria’s palace garden, there was no statue to turn to. But, when you find Peter then you cou—
A sharp shriek filled the air, startling you off a fountain’s marble perch you were previously sitting on. As the screams echoed, their tone was tinged with a familiarity that you used to find complacency in.
Within seconds you were running, towards thick bushes in the center of the garden that resembled border walls. Navigating through various greenery kept your mind occupied as you continuously prayed the shrieking was of your imagination.
The next shrill cry sounded fainter, and this time you knew it was real.
Reaching the center, your heart sunk at familiar white robes tinged with a dark, crimson substance. The man on the floor was trying desperately to breathe, clutching his neck as more crimson drew out. Your gasp of air as you sucked in a heavy breath felt like an insult as his eyes met yours.
“Peter!” You cried out, hand reaching for him.
Desperately, his hand reached for yours, shaking wildly as his fingers sprawled out. Although fear and panic painted his features, a small sliver of relief reflected in his irises.
A small shuffle of movement from beyond the shadows made you realize you two were not fully alone, the cries welling in your throat propagating a moment too late as a sword plunged straight through Peter’s chest.
The Thunderseal, one of the eight Sacred Treasures that burned away Gears in droves on the battlefield, had splatters of blood between its white and blues. The faint sparks that emitted around the blade as it slowly pulled out of the sunken man’s chest was subservient in the elimination of its foes. In truth, the one wielding the Thunderseal is the epitome of the ‘storm’ itself—the on bringer of destruction and endless ferocity.
Encased in cloudy blue orbs was an eerie coolness; a stillness that acted as a facade for the raging tide that plagued his mind. No longer was a ‘human’ in front of you, but perhaps the true form of the man who performed the role of a king.
“With this blade I have torn lives apart; too many, in fact, that each name and face are fleeting memories unveiled only when I dream,” Ky Kiske said, gloved hand raising the Thunderseal.
Its brilliance danced under the light yet looked dimmer around the parts covered by crimson. You wanted to look away, to pretend its history was not there, but that would never take away the tragedy it brought.
“I had a purpose for fighting but it withered to the point it was unrecognizable.”
For a moment, Ky stared at his hand, gaze longing for something he could not quite grasp.
You took a step back. There was something very, very wrong with your interaction back then and you wished you left. Not only for your sake, but for Peter. The regret and fear pooling your stomach made you want to vomit but perhaps there was a chance you could still escape this. With enough faith—
Ky smiled. “I like the look in your eyes.”
“Yes, it was you who gave me meaning.” He continued, legs slightly bending.
“It wasn’t Kliff, who gave me the Thunderseal, or Sol, who I’ve fight alongside all these years… but you.
“You gave me hope.”
Your eyes widened. “No—you?”
It made a lot more sense now, the small familiarities that were piling up. The similarities the two shared… it was all connected to the same person. But, back then, he was timid; someone who exuded strength but no reason to wield it. He changed so quickly that he…?
“This is absurd! After everything I’ve taught you, this was your answer?” You cried, finger pointing at him.
“Committing murder—that’s the biggest sin of all!”
“He got too close to you,” Ky snarled, “He turned from a nuisance to a parasite so I got rid of him. The mere idea of him being so close to you…”
He drew a shaky breath, running a hand through his slightly ragged hair. Ky resumed his kneeling position a few feet in front of you, and despite being farther, you felt like he would chase you with as much ease as walking.
“The day I met you, I pledged myself to you. You are the presence I have been looking for all this time, the taste of holiness that will cleanse me of not evil, but emptiness.”
“My Goddess,” He whispered.
Ky smiled—the genuine kind—a type of smile he thought he could no longer do.
His sword plunged into the ground, the sharp scraping and clattering stronger than when he pierced Peter’s chest.
“All I ask is to be your only knight and loyal follower.”
Ky raised his head and you could see the faint blush tinging his cheeks and turbulence swirling within his eyes.
“You’re too far gone…” You murmured quietly, heart held against your chest in an attempt to still its frantic beating.
“I could never agree to something like this, especially with words bespoken from that of such a monstrosity such as you.”
His entire body flinched and he was standing upright within a flash.
“Is there more competition? Is that it?” Ky asked, ocean blue eyes widened. There was a slight quiver in his voice and visible shaking surrounding his body, as if a loved one passed away.
Ky gripped his scabbard after a minute and the trembling vanished.
“…That is reasonable. I must prove my worth to Her Holiness.”
He flung the blood still encased around his blade, clots of red scattering on the ground.
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I’ve been so busy prepping for my app to med school & college so I apologize for the inactivity 😭😭 I promise I’ll get to the request and hopefully some other pieces soon but probably nothing big for awhile. hope everyone is doing well!!!
this request for sung jinwoo is really good so I’m afraid I might write too much for it so it’ll probably be a mini-fic 😭 hope the anon doesn’t mind haha . If it takes too long I’ll just do pieces and then probably drabble form after.
also peep the tag! I’ll tag requests as this so it’s easier to keep track of
