NEFARIOUS • JJK

• 3 • ace of spades

"...Y/N?"

He knows my name, he knows who I am. That's a given, being the mastermind, plot-master that he is, he must not have agreed to his own marriage without running a deep background check. Right?

I nodded, pulling my lips together. Flushed. My name felt right on his lips. Did things to me, that accent. He said my name. At once, his tattoos came for my jugular, made me lose sense of time and space. I was ready to give up life.

Taking a brief assessing look at my face, indiscernible emotions, he threw me back. Pushed my neck so I stumble, while coughing. His touch cold and harsh, menacing. It showed he's never known soft. Never going to be...softer than required. For his malicious practices.

"You've grown up," he comments, low. When he says it, feels like it's against his nature to. Proceeds to forcefully pull out the wires injected into his arms. I flinch, when the deep wound opens again. God, he's rough. Discards all the carefully settled wires away from him with a rash throw.

"You know me?" I speak, elated at the possibility.

He looks up, bleeding black through the cuts. Dark accumulates around his body. His already wet and bloody tank dampens with a new trickle of red. Not a sign of feeling pain. This time, he doesn't answer me. Blatantly ignored. My gaze trails down thinking I misspoke. I shouldn't speak at all.

Click.

My eyes shoot up. To see smoke. Lots of smoke. He settles himself back in while the smoke wraps around him. More at comfort. A cigarette hangs between his fingers. I notice they're shaking as he fixes them again on his lips for a deeper inhale. Blood is now filthying the couch, a line of it makes a puddle in his palm. Dirties the cigarette too.

Shouldn't it hurt?

"Fuck off."

•••

After he came back, he would nearly come home every night, or day. Time doesn't apply to his schedule. I have not talked to him after that night.

My dignity couldn't take how obsequious I was willing to be. Yet I can't help it, his character commands it. So flexible with his morals, I fear him the same amount I admire him.

He has never looked at me again. I'm too bland to pique his interest? Nevertheless, I let myself be content with his ring-shaped bruises on my neck. I try to stop it but end up blushing when I look at my proud bare neck. I caress it and imagine his praising darkened blue eyes. Loving the fact that I display his touch.

It was afternoon. I was playing with Cara. The little girl was jumping around me while I was sitting on the steps. Sun hitting my eyes, I loved the golden light which blazed and scorched my skin. Unlike anything I've ever felt.

"I'm papà. You're mamma." She tapped at my arm before handing me her blanket, folded in a bundle. I look at it confused before throwing it back, thinking she doesn't need it. Which causes her to whine. "That's baby!"

She goes on scolding me, climbs up the stars to retrieve the blanket I just threw behind. When she goes behind, my eyes wander around. Breath hitches when I realise the eyes of a furious dragon are eager on me. Standing with a wide stance, a heavier rifle easily captured in his hand. Dried blood is caked on his neck. Yes, he's still healing. Bruises on his face are scabs now. Wears a sleek black shirt, expensive pointed Oxford shoes made of his enemy's flesh perhaps.

He's sharp. Ticking with intelligence. Handsome like snakes. Eyes keen on the little girl jumping around me. Unease scuffles through me.