#fragile vessels | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

sixeyesonathiel · 1 month ago

Text

what happens when satoru gojo, age 8, discovers affection in the most annoying form possible?

a/n: satoru gojo was born the strongest but also the most emotionally constipated. this is what happens when an eight-year-old demigod gets hit with a fever and accidentally manifests a clingy, semi-feral bestie with the spiritual energy of a raccoon and the vocabulary of a broken answering machine. if you think about it, this is basically one-sided imprinting. twilight wishes.

anyway. you are soulmates now. he can’t return you. there’s no receipt.

the fever had lasted for days.

your body, or what would eventually become your body, didn’t exist yet when it started. when the boy with the six eyes lay burning and thrashing in a silken futon soaked through with sweat, whispering things no one could understand. he was eight. too small for that much cursed energy. too divine for the fragile vessel he lived in.

the gojo clan elders panicked. the medics couldn’t touch him. no barrier could stabilize him. and so, desperate, they turned to a half-forgotten ritual. the theory was simple enough: take the excess cursed energy he couldn’t contain and make it take shape. mold it into a vessel.

something that could carry the weight.

what they expected was a tool. a familiar. a shikigami to leech off the pressure.

what they got was... you.

not quite a doll. not quite a beast. pale and blinking, limbs shaking like a newborn deer. your skin shimmered faintly under moonlight, like dew on porcelain. two eyes that opened slow and unblinking, and a voice that came out in cracked syllables and broken sounds. you fell into the world with a gasp, like you’d been holding your breath for a thousand years.

and the boy—the one they called satoru—woke up.

his fever broke that night.

you didn’t know any of this, of course. you didn’t know your purpose, or why people stared at you like you shouldn’t exist. you only knew one thing:

he was warm.

so you followed him.

at first, satoru tried to ignore you. he walked faster. you ran after him like your joints were made of pudding, arms flapping, hair sticking up in tufts like static cling. your little feet slapped against polished wood as you tumbled through paper doors left ajar. you mimicked whatever you heard, a walking echo of servant chatter and household scolding.

he ducked through sliding doors; you smacked into them face-first with a dramatic thud, then clawed them open with stubby fingers and a war cry that sounded suspiciously like “no touching young master table yes!”

he once tried to hide behind a folding screen. you climbed onto a lacquered table, knocked over a bonsai tree, squatted there like a gremlin, and chirped “young master?” until a maid screamed and dropped a tray of tea with a shatter.

he told a servant to get rid of you. you reappeared at dinner an hour later with a leaf on your head, mud on your knees, and a fistful of vaguely rice-shaped pebbles you thought were food. you plopped down beside him, beaming like you'd just won a prize.

in one particularly dramatic escape attempt, he climbed halfway up a cherry tree, disappearing into the blossoms like a sulky cat. half-hidden among the pink petals, he peeked down, eyes narrowed. you stood at the base of the tree with a delighted gasp.

“go!” you chirped. “go—ru!”

he scowled. his pale hair, disheveled from the climb, was caught in the breeze, framing his flushed face like a wilting halo. “that’s not even my name.”

you pointed up at him again, nose scrunching with joy. “go!”

his jaw twitched. “you’re the worst little—” he stopped himself and clicked his tongue. “ugh.”

maybe you were.

you couldn’t talk well yet, just repeated whatever you overheard. “young master,” “this way,” “no touching that,” “off the table”—you strung them together like talismans, proud and fearless, like a goblin parrot in training. once, you ran after him yelling, “no touching young master table yes off!” until he turned with the most baffled expression, like you'd just spoken in tongues.

he started throwing off your trail. dashing around corners. hiding behind fusuma doors. pretending to tie his shoes, then bolting like the wind the second you blinked.

and you? you escalated.

you started crawling under tables, squeezing through servant hallways, perching atop window sills like an owl. you once disguised yourself as a folded futon and waited in his room for two hours until he stepped inside, sighed, and said, “absolutely not,” before turning around and leaving again.

when he looked annoyed, you giggled like it was the funniest thing in the world.

one afternoon, while he was mid-sulk beside a courtyard pond, you tiptoed close and stared. he pointedly ignored you.

“stop looking at me like that,” he muttered after a long pause, glancing sideways beneath thick lashes. he fiddled with the sleeve of his haori, brows knit tight.

you beamed wider. then reached out and poked his cheek.

“why frown?”

his breath caught. he flinched back so quickly it startled a nearby koi fish.

his cursed energy snapped to life—just a flicker, a breath—and suddenly your finger hit resistance. it hovered in midair, like touching a sheet of ice. your brows lifted. confused, you leaned in again, finger outstretched like a curious child.

still nothing. a perfect, invisible wall.

he was using infinity.

your bottom lip trembled. “meanie,” you mumbled, eyes big and glassy. your arms drooped. you stared up at him, unmoving.

and stared.

he twitched. his shoulders hunched tighter. “you’re not gonna cry, are you? seriously?”

you didn’t answer. just kept staring. one foot shuffled in the dirt. a single leaf fluttered past between you.

he squirmed. “ugh, fine!” the infinity dropped like a curtain. “there. happy now?”

instantly, you lit up and poked his cheek again. “no frown!”

he jolted. “gah—!” then scowled, swatting your hand away like it burned. “what is wrong with you?”

but his voice cracked slightly at the end.

he tried to eat faster after that, hunching over his tray like a raccoon, scarfing down his meals before you could sit beside him. you followed anyway, hopping into the seat with a bright grin, swinging your legs like a clock pendulum. sometimes you tried to feed him from your own chopsticks. once, you pressed a dumpling into his cheek and declared, “for go!”

he sputtered. “do i look like a baby bird to you?!”

the servants whispered every time you passed. “it looks too human.” “should we seal it?” “it doesn’t even understand commands.”

you never paid them any mind. you only listened to him.

you curled up outside his room like a stray cat, snoring softly beneath the paper screen. you crawled into his futon without asking, worming beneath the covers like a cold octopus, limbs flopping all over him. you tapped your head against his shoulder when you wanted attention, tugged at his sleeve when he ignored you. when he glared, you tilted your head like a confused owl and poked his cheek again.

“why frown?”

he groaned into his pillow.

and then the strangest thing happened.

one day, he let you sit beside him without protest.

another day, he saved a bit of sweet mochi, eyes flicking to you before silently placing it in your hands, face turned away.

and then one day, you flopped into his lap upside down like a sack of vegetables, legs dangling off the side. he gave an exhausted sigh and muttered, “you’re such a weirdo.”

you blinked up at him, crumbs in your lashes, nose scrunched in thought.

he didn’t call you weirdo again. he called you something else.

and you smiled like you understood everything in the world.

#౨ৎ — flash reports #gojo satoru #satoru gojo #jjk gojo #jjk #jujutsu kaisen #jjk fluff #gojo fluff #jujutsu kaisen fluff #gojo x reader #gojo x female reader #gojo satoru x reader #satoru gojo x reader #satoru gojo x you #gojo satoru x you #satoru gojo x y/n #gojo satoru x y/n #jjk x reader #reader insert

1K notes · View notes

hayatheauthor · 10 months ago

Text

The Anatomy of Punching a Character in the Face

Punching scenes are a staple of action sequences in many genres. Whether it’s an intense brawl, a quick defense, or an emotional outburst, a punch can carry a lot of weight both physically and narratively. As a writer, it’s essential to understand what really happens when a fist meets a face—from the immediate impact to the longer-lasting effects on both the person getting punched and the one throwing the punch.

This guide will help you craft authentic, detailed, and believable punch scenes by exploring different areas of the face, types of punches, and the aftermath of such an impact.

1. Target Areas of the Face and Their Vulnerabilities

A punch isn’t a one-size-fits-all situation. Depending on where the fist lands, the consequences will vary significantly. Different parts of the face have varying levels of vulnerability, and targeting these areas produces different effects, from knockouts to broken bones.

A. Jawline: The Knockout Zone

The jawline is a classic target in many fight scenes, especially when knockout punches are involved. This area is highly vulnerable because a hit here causes the head to snap to the side, leading to a sharp rotational movement of the brain inside the skull. This movement disrupts the brain’s communication and often results in a temporary loss of consciousness—what we commonly refer to as a "knockout."

Common Effects: Dislocation or fracture of the jaw, loss of consciousness, slurred speech, and severe pain.

Visual Aftermath: Swelling around the jawline, bruising, and possible misalignment of the jaw if broken.

B. Nose: Breaking and Bleeding

The nose is another vulnerable target, known for being easily broken. It’s not just a fragile bone structure, but it’s also connected to many blood vessels, meaning a direct punch to the nose often results in immediate bleeding. The nasal bone can fracture, causing difficulty in breathing, and in some cases, the nose may need surgical intervention to reset.

Common Effects: Intense pain, bleeding, difficulty breathing, potential for a broken nose.

Visual Aftermath: Blood running from the nostrils, swelling, and significant bruising around the nose and eyes.

C. Cheekbones (Zygomatic Bones): Bruising and Fractures

The cheekbones are one of the more solid structures in the face but are still susceptible to breaks, particularly from a heavy blow. Damage here can lead to not just bruising, but potentially severe injuries that can affect the entire facial structure.

Common Effects: Fractures of the zygomatic bone, swelling, bruising, and pain extending to the eye socket.

Visual Aftermath: Black eyes, noticeable swelling on one side of the face, and a sunken appearance if the bone is fractured.

D. Forehead: A Hard Target

The forehead is much harder than most parts of the face and is less vulnerable to severe damage. However, punches to the forehead can still cause pain, disorientation, and dazing of the recipient. While it’s less likely to result in a knockout, it’s effective in dazing an opponent, especially if the puncher’s goal is to create an opening for another strike.

Common Effects: Swelling, redness, and potential concussions if hit with enough force.

Visual Aftermath: Redness, minimal bruising, and a dazed expression.

E. Eyes: Black Eyes and Swelling

A punch to the eyes is particularly brutal because the area around the eyes is delicate, and the skin is thin. It’s not just about swelling but also potential damage to the orbital bones. The impact can cause "black eyes," characterized by intense bruising and swelling that may close the eye shut for days.

Common Effects: Swelling, black eyes, potential orbital bone fractures, temporary blurred vision.

Visual Aftermath: Discoloration that starts purple and turns yellowish-green as it heals, swollen shut eyes.

2. Types of Punches

Not all punches are created equal. The type of punch thrown can drastically change the outcome of the scene, both in terms of damage and realism. Understanding these different types of punches will allow you to convey more varied and dynamic fight sequences.

A. Jab: Speed and Precision

A jab is a quick, straight punch, usually thrown with the non-dominant hand. It’s not meant to be a knockout punch but more of a setup punch to create an opening or keep the opponent at a distance. Jabs are fast and can be disorienting, especially if they repeatedly land in quick succession.

Common Effects: Light bruising, potential cuts, and swelling in the area hit.

B. Cross: Power and Impact

The cross is a powerful, straight punch delivered with the dominant hand. It’s often aimed at vulnerable spots like the jaw or nose. Unlike a jab, the cross is meant to deliver a significant amount of force, and when landed properly, it can cause serious damage.

Common Effects: Knockouts, broken bones, severe swelling, and bruising.

C. Hook: Lateral Devastation

A hook is a wide, circular punch that targets the side of the head, particularly the jaw or temple. It’s one of the most powerful punches and is often used with the intent of knocking the opponent out.

Common Effects: Knockouts, severe disorientation, potential for concussions, and jaw dislocations.

D. Uppercut: Lifting from Below

The uppercut is thrown upward, usually aimed at the chin. It’s a devastating punch that can lift the opponent’s head and jolt their brain, leading to knockouts. Uppercuts are especially dangerous when they land cleanly on the jaw or chin.

Common Effects: Knockouts, broken teeth, jaw fractures, and disorientation.

E. Haymaker: Risky but Powerful

A haymaker is a wild, swinging punch delivered with as much force as possible. It’s often thrown with reckless abandon and is easy to dodge, but if it connects, it can deal significant damage. Because of its wide arc, it leaves the puncher exposed to counterattacks.

Common Effects: Knockouts, severe bruising, and possible fractures if landed correctly.

3. Punch Wounds: What They Look Like and Healing

Punches to the face leave lasting marks, some immediately visible and others taking days to fully form. Understanding the aftermath of a punch will help you describe the physical toll on your characters more accurately.

A. Immediate Effects

Swelling and Redness: Swelling can begin almost instantly, particularly in areas with soft tissue like the eyes and lips.

Bruising: Bruises start off as red, then turn purple, blue, and eventually fade into yellow or green as they heal.

Bleeding: Punches to the nose, lips, and even cheeks can result in bleeding, either from the skin breaking or from internal damage like a broken nose.

B. Long-Term Injuries

Black Eyes: Punches near the eyes can lead to bruising that darkens the skin around the eyes, giving it a purplish hue.

Fractures: Broken bones, such as the nose or jaw, may require weeks to heal, and in severe cases, surgery may be necessary.

Scarring: If the skin is cut open, there’s the potential for scarring, especially if stitches are required.

C. Healing Process

Bruises: These typically take about a week to two weeks to heal, with the colors shifting as the body absorbs the blood trapped under the skin.

Fractures: Healing from fractures can take several weeks to months, depending on the severity.

Swelling: Swelling can last anywhere from a few hours to a few days, with cold compresses helping to reduce it.

4. How the Punch Affects the Puncher

While we often focus on the person receiving the punch, it’s important to remember that throwing a punch can also take a toll on the puncher.

A. Physical Strain

Knuckle Damage: Hitting a hard surface, like a jaw or forehead, can cause damage to the puncher’s knuckles. This is known as a “boxer’s fracture,” where the small bones in the hand break due to impact.

Wrist Injury: If the punch is not aligned correctly, the wrist can absorb too much force, leading to sprains or breaks.

Fatigue: After multiple punches, especially in a drawn-out fight, the puncher can become fatigued, leading to less powerful or accurate strikes.

B. Emotional and Psychological Effects

Adrenaline Rush: For inexperienced fighters, throwing a punch can lead to an adrenaline surge, which can cause tunnel vision or reckless behavior.

Moral Conflict: If the puncher is not used to violence, they may experience guilt or shock at the damage they’ve caused, especially if the recipient is significantly injured.

5. Psychological Impact of Receiving a Punch

A punch to the face doesn’t only cause physical damage. For the recipient, it can have a lasting psychological effect, especially if the punch was unexpected or in a vulnerable situation. Writing this aspect adds depth to your characters and shows that a punch is more than just physical pain.

A. Shock and Fear

Fight or Flight Response: Getting punched can immediately trigger a fight-or-flight reaction. Some characters might freeze or retreat, especially if they’ve never been in a physical altercation before.

Loss of Confidence: For characters not used to violence, being punched in the face may cause a significant loss of confidence. They may question their own strength, bravery, or ability to defend themselves.

Increased Aggression: Alternatively, the punch may trigger a rage-fueled response, pushing the character into aggressive, reckless action.

B. Embarrassment and Humiliation

Public Fights: If the punch occurs in front of others, there’s often an added layer of humiliation. Characters might feel embarrassed, even if they weren’t at fault.

Internalizing the Event: The recipient of the punch may carry the emotional impact for a long time, replaying the event in their mind, feeling shame, or seeking revenge.

C. Post-Traumatic Stress

Lingering Anxiety: In extreme cases, receiving a punch can cause anxiety or even post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD). Characters who’ve experienced significant trauma might relive the event through flashbacks or become hyper-vigilant, avoiding confrontations in the future.

Fear of Future Confrontations: A character who’s been severely beaten might actively avoid scenarios where they could be hit again, making them overly cautious or paranoid.

6. Writing Tips: Making It Believable

Writing a punch scene isn't just about describing the physical action. To make the moment believable and impactful, you’ll need to consider various elements—from pacing and sensory details to character psychology and aftermath. Here’s how to make your punch scenes authentic:

A. Build Tension Before the Punch

Foreshadowing Conflict: Build up the tension before the punch is thrown. Is the character agitated? Are there verbal warnings or body language that suggests things are escalating? By slowly ramping up the tension, the eventual punch feels earned and inevitable.

Use Dialogue: A heated exchange of words can make a punch more meaningful. If the punch follows a particularly cutting remark or threat, it adds weight to the action.

B. Focus on Sensory Details

Physical Sensations: Describe not just the punch itself, but how it feels. Does the skin split? Does the puncher’s knuckles scrape against teeth or bone? Is there an immediate sting or delayed throbbing pain?

Sound: The sound of a punch can enhance the realism of the scene. A dull thud as a fist connects with soft tissue, the crack of a bone breaking, or the splatter of blood hitting the floor are all effective auditory details.

C. Show Immediate and Delayed Reactions

Physical Reaction: After being punched, characters rarely shake it off immediately. Staggering, falling, or momentarily losing their vision are realistic reactions. You can also show how the puncher feels—did their hand hurt from the impact?

Emotional Fallout: Punches are often emotional events. Show how your characters feel right after—whether it’s satisfaction, regret, or shock. The emotional weight of a punch can be just as impactful as the physical consequences.

D. Consider the Aftermath

Healing Process: Don’t forget that punches have a lasting impact. A black eye will take days to heal, and a broken nose could require medical attention. Characters might have to deal with soreness, swelling, or difficulty talking and eating.

Ongoing Tension: A punch can dramatically shift relationships. A once-trusting friendship could be shattered, or a bitter rivalry could be born. Make sure to carry the emotional weight of the punch forward in your story.

7. Common Misconceptions About Punching

Many writers fall into the trap of perpetuating unrealistic portrayals of punches. These misconceptions can make your scenes feel less authentic or overly cinematic. Here’s how to avoid them.

A. The Myth of the "Clean Knockout"

Reality: A punch to the jaw might cause a knockout, but it’s not always instant. In real life, knockouts are often messy and unpredictable. The recipient might stagger or struggle before finally losing consciousness, and they could wake up with serious concussions, memory loss, or nausea.

B. Punches Always Cause Immediate Bleeding

Reality: While a punch to the nose often causes immediate bleeding, not all punches result in visible blood. Even when skin splits, it might take a moment for blood to pool and become visible. Bruising and swelling often take hours to fully appear.

C. Punching Doesn’t Always Lead to a Win

Reality: Throwing a punch doesn’t guarantee victory. The puncher could hurt themselves, miss entirely, or end up escalating a fight they weren’t prepared for. Additionally, punches to the forehead or temple might not have the knockout effect portrayed in movies—they could just make the puncher’s hand hurt more than the opponent.

Looking For More Writing Tips And Tricks?

Are you an author looking for writing tips and tricks to better your manuscript? Or do you want to learn about how to get a literary agent, get published and properly market your book? Consider checking out the rest of Quillology with Haya Sameer; a blog dedicated to writing and publishing tips for authors! While you’re at it, don’t forget to head over to my TikTok and Instagram profiles @hayatheauthor to learn more about my WIP and writing journey!

3K notes · View notes

dvchvnde · 7 months ago

Text

PRAIRIE WOLF | prologue

domestic violence, abuse (not Price). unexpected pregnancy. implied age gap.

MASTERLIST. AO3

He's a regular at the diner you work at.

Sits in the same spot, orders the same thing. Doesn't say much, but—according to Elliot—he never does. English, too. A foreigner. But here longer than you've been. Grown roots. Stretched his legs.

He owns a cabin in the woods that be built with his bare hands, and does odd jobs around town wherever he's needed. Mostly carpentry. Woodwork. Only forty, Elliot says, and already semi-retired. Military grunt, though (and in a terrible, exaggerated cockney accent, he adds) back home.

Running from something, he surmises, and you try not to feel flayed under his heavy, pointed stare, offering little more than a shrug you hope is more blase than you feel and a flat, aren't we all? so what makes his marathon so special?

Comes by at five in the morning, fours hours into a twelve hour shift. Likes, what he calls, an English Breakfast.

He isn't like some of the men who show up after midnight, or in the early hours. Blue collar works hungry for more than rubbery pancakes and coffee. The ones who ignore the split in your lip, hidden under a thick coat of lipstick, the puffiness of your eye. Whispering oil-slick charm at quarter to three in the morning when the pregnancy test you stole from the dollarrama is still buried under bloodied toilet paper in the motel you've converted into a temporary home.

Price—John Price—stares at the mess of your pretty face and meets the ugliness head-on, eyes narrowed into something that might be suspicion. Askance. Wariness. Some amalgamation of what the fuck happened to you and don't bring that mess over to my table.

Quiet. In theory.

You've heard him talk—this low, growling thing; the misfire of an engine, a rumble that reminds you of the old Plymouth Fury your dad had. Dangerous. Men like him usually are.

Little girl fantasies spun into real life. Duct tape. Magnets to girls like you with all the broken pieces, fragile parts. And with the bruises bubbling under your skin—burst blood vessels, fist-sized—and the—

The kid, you suppose. Baby. You can't afford to get wrapped up into something like that no matter how many times you catch him staring.

Watching.

The other server always handles his order when he arrives. Since starting work here four months ago, you maybe had all of a single conversation when you floated through the diner in search of something to do.

more coffee? a glance. a grunt. yeah, love. I'll have some more.

So you ignore it. Him. Keep your head down and pour cup after cup to the other regulars who congregate and pretend you aren't living in a motel to escape a man who seems to prefer you bruised up and bloody. Who—

Knocked you up.

Your hand goes there. To your belly. Nauseous, suddenly, with the thought of it. This.

When you glance up, unease prickling across your nape, you catch him staring at you. At the hand still splayed over your stomach. Something frisson across his expression—whiplike: ripples over a lake—but it's too fast, fleeting, for you to catch. Tucked back inside the folds of his patented frown, the ever present crease between his thick, umbre brows.

John lifts his eyes from your ringless hand, the swollen index finger from when you made the mistake of pointing to the door, trying to stand firm with your luggage hidden in the bushes, and meets your gaze. Stares at you head-on. Implacable as always. Blank.

But—and it's so silly, really—for a moment, you thought it was hunger. Something heavy and dark. Possessive.

Then his head dips. A shallow nod. John looks away, eyes slanting towards the window as if he didn't have to tear his gaze away from your belly. From you.

Your heart is in your throat. This too thick, fragile thing thudding against your jugular. Hard to breathe, hard to swallow around it. In the way—

Outside, tires squeal against the pavement.

John tenses. A shadow falling over his brow, a tug on his lips hidden under thick, wry curls.

You don't know what it is until the familiar gurgle of an engine cuts through the silent diner.

He looks back at you as a door slams. A shout erupts.

Fear is a thick, oily sludge filling your lungs. Tarlike. Sticky molasses. It burns, corrosive, and eats away at your tissue until a hole forms, letting spill out inside of you. To your belly where it hardens into a ferric ball of panic.

You thought you had time. One last shift. Collect your paycheck and then run—

But he found you.

He bellows out your name, angry and a little slurred. Drunk. High. Like the passive, maltreated dog he turned you into, you follow the sound, cowing a little when you see him stumble into the diner, face collapsed into fury.

There's a clatter. The hollow echo of wood hitting linoleum. Screams, his yells. It's all muted in your head. Panic throbbing against your ears, stuffing them full of cotton.

His bruised, marled fist reaches for you—

But John gets there first. His broad stretch of his back filling your vision as he pushes himself into the empty space between you and this man, hands raised, catching his mangled fist in one and grabbing a handful of his shirt, tugging him closer. It's all raw, untameable anger as he huffs into the man's face, grinding the words out on a rough, animalistic snarl—

"Touch her again, and it'll be the last thing you ever fuckin' do."

Stress like this ain't good for the baby, the paramedic tells you, brown eyes dampening with a thick ring of sympathy as she turns over your wrist, and dabs cool, wet cotton over the welts on your skin.

She's pushing for you to press charges. Keeps swiping at your skin to unveil more of your hidden hurts to the police officer that holds an old kodak in his hands and snaps, snaps, snaps at every weakness, each vulnerability she offers up.

It'd be the smart thing to do. He's already being booked on assault, threats. Battery for hitting John on the shoulder, the only place he could reach, with the shovel left by the cooks to scrape the snow away from the spot they usually gather around to smoke. No one brings up the fact that John was choking the life out of him at the time, and the bruises around his neck—ugly red fingerprints—are easily ignored.

Adding domestic violence to the list of charges, she mutters, will keep him locked up. Away from you. Can file for a restraining order, the cop adds, scratching the back of his neck as the camera sits, poised and intrusive, in his other hand.

The problem is that you've been through this before.

Like mother, like daughter.

The knife twists a little deeper. Gouges out another pound of flesh lost to a broken home. Another cog in a ruinous system. Poor kid, below the poverty line, with a dad who sold drugs and mother who did them. Dime a dozen.

And with that comes the knowledge that his sentence will be lighter than they're alluding to—if he has one at all. Upstanding citizen before he got shackled in with the wrong crowd, the runaway. Trouble who breezed through and picked the son of an attorney in the big city some three hours away from this town, this dilapidated diner. Sinking claws in.

My son never drank or did drugs before, your honour—

He'll get off with a slap on the wrist because he's never been in trouble before.

Your dad, too—in jail for the weekend when your mother relented to the impassioned beseeches given to her by rookie cops who just wanted that arrest notch on their belt. Saw a judge on Monday. Prison too crowded for such a paltry offense.

The hurt, after, was always worse than what he went to jail for.

So. No. You won't press charges even though you know you should. It'll take too long and you don't plan on staying much longer. Not with your luggage packed in the trunk. The cheque shoved clumsily into your hands when the manager came out to make a fuss, angling a purpling finger in your direction—nothin' but trouble since the day you were hired—only to be stopped by the wall that is John Price, a snarl pulling up at his lips as he barked call the fuckin' police and, low, as if he didn't want you to hear, adding: you ever point your finger at her again like that, and I'll hang you from the goddamn rafters.

You're not sure why he's still here, standing watch. On guard. His bloodied, bruised hands shoved into his armpits as he paces back and forth like a caged tiger unaware the door has been open the whole time. Stalking. Taking measured, meaningful steps towards anyone who tries to come over—badge or not. Barking out orders. Lancing people with his glare when they tread too closely.

Good fucking samaritan, you think, eyes riveted on the blood drying over the gravel. Your head looping, weaving in arching circles as you try to contend with the fact that it somehow isn't yours, but his.

Maybe that's why he stays. Obligation. Civic duty. It makes you snort, and the paramedic glances at you sharply, assessing in that too thick, too kind, way of hers.

"You doin' okay, mama?"

And you wish she wouldn't call you that. Make it real. Mama. Your idea of motherhood, of mothers and moms and mamas, is a woman slumped on the couch, passed out after staying up all night talking to ghosts. Nails caked with the dust of percocets and restoril and oxycodone (oxycotton, she's always called it). Popping mouthful of pills in the morning, afternoon, evening, and night. An assortment to keep her functional—and asleep.

Nodding off in the middle of conversations. Or fighting it to stay high. Irritated and combative whenever she ran out, supply gone dry.

Toxic.

Neglectful—at best.

You can't think about what you'll end up doing to this kid with her blood in your veins. Her ghosts in your head.

John moves. A shadow in the corner of your eye. "'bout enough of that, don't you think?"

She backs up, startled by the aggression in his voice. "I just—"

You think you hate them both. "I'm fine."

She looks back at you, searching. Wanting that assurance, but whatever she's looking to find, it isn't there. You won't give it, and eventually she nods. Peels back. "Okay. If you feel any soreness at all, if anything changes, come to the hospital."

The nod is for her benefit only, and she takes it with a deep inhale.

It thins out after that. The cop and his camera leave, too, after making you take the paperwork needed to file charges. If you change your mind. His number in smeared blue ink on the back. The paramedics go after another futile round of are you sure you don't want to get checked out at the hospital that's decline with a shake of your head.

It's just you and Price now. Your beatup Saturn three spots away from his truck—an old Ford you hadn't been expecting a man like him to drive, with his thick Levi jacket and his steel-toed boots. Standing there with an armful of paper that's going to go in the trash, you're not sure what to do. How to untangle yourself from the claws of this vicious bear that seems content to loom over you like an unasked for cloud, glaring down at you from the bridge of his nose. Expression pinched, like he's displeased. Mad.

You've had enough of angry men, though, and you turn, offering a hollow smile that works it's way around your mouth like a grimace. "Guess I should head home—"

"Running, mm?"

You blink. "Sorry?"

He leans down, all grit and blunt teeth. "That your plan? Runnin' away from all'a this? Find another town. Another motel."

Another man.

He doesn't say it, but it's there. The implication. The idea. It rankles down your spine, a whitehot ooze of shame. Of anger.

"You don't know me," you spit, all anger and indignation. Embarrassment so sharp, it cuts. "You don't know anything about me."

He rocks back on his heel, mouth flattening into an even line. "No, I don't. But I know your type."

"You—"

The indignity is increased tenfold when he meets your ire with an impassive stare, so firm in his assessment of you that he doesn't even bulk when you glare at him. When you rage in quiet fury, shoulders shaking.

"You'll run," he continues, bulling over the vitriol that stutters out in broken squeals of anger. "You'll find a new place. And it'll be fine for a little while but then you'll end up in the same situation because that's all you know, isn't it? S'why you're not pressing charges. Why you got your bag in your back seat. The slightest pressure and you bolt—straight into the same predicament you're in now."

"It's not my fault—"

"No," he grinds the word, firm and sure, and it snatches you by the throat because no one has ever agreed with you on that. It's not your fault. It's just—

"—all you know."

"What am I supposed to do differently, huh? Stay and press charges that won't stick? Wait for him to get out, frothing at the mouth for revenge? Yeah, right," you scoff, rolling your eyes up towards the stale sky. "End up as another statistic? Or—"

Like your mother. It quiets you. Snuffs the flames. All you feel is scraped raw. Hollowed out. Empty and hitting and—

"So you'll just run your whole life? Until it catches up to you, mm? What happens when someone finds you in a place you can't run? When you're all alone, and cornered?"

It tastes like defeat. Resignation. "You think I haven't thought of that before?"

From the corner of your eye, you see him shrug. "Got yourself into a little mess, but it ain't the end of the world. Jus' got to fix it. Can't do that when you run."

"And what's your solution? Find another job, hope that his charges stick? He—"

Drained you financially. Beat you bloody.

You shake your head. "The best thing to do is to leave. I'll be smarter, I'll—"

He scoffs. You ignore it, hands shaking.

"I can't. I just—I can't."

"Come stay with me," he says. Just like that. Stay with me. The sky is blue. The grass is green. Come stay with me. "Got a spare room."

"I don't even know you—"

"People rent to strangers all the time."

"I don't have a job. Money. I can't pay you—"

"Been needin' a receptionist for some time. Pay is fair. Hourly."

You blink, eyes hot. Wet. You feel the sharp edge of hope digging in, that deadly, terrible thing that only ever falls apart when you finally relax.

"Just like that?"

He nods, sharp and firm. "Jus' like that."

"I have a kid," you blurt out, panicked. This conversation is getting away from you. Slipping through your fingers. And the worst is that it sounds so good. Too good. "I'm—I'm pregnant," you add like he doesn't already know. Hadn't heard you mutter it to the paramedic hours ago.

The look he levels you with is an incendiary thing. You feel it in your chest. Deadcentre. "I know," he rasps, head bending down closer to you. "Doesn't change anythin'."

"How could it not?"

"How should it?" He counters.

"In a few months, when the baby is here—"

"I won't change my mind."

"You say that now," you breathe, pulse thudding in your ears. "But when it's screaming in the middle of the night, and—"

His hand reaches out slowly, like he's trying not to startle a horse. Fingers grazing your arm, warm and rough, before closing around your wrist. The one that's bruised and sore. Swollen in his hand. Its done with measured purpose, confidence, that the panic doesn't have time to surge. Instincts too incipient to keep up with the sure, steady way he winds around you.

With his hand on your wrist, fingers folding over the hurt—hiding them—he leans down, thumb stroking along your skittish, unraveling pulse, and makes you meet his stare. Open, maybe, for the first time since you met him. All raw want, naked truth. The bare, fractured look is enough to steal the air in your lungs, snuffing out the innate protests that spume whenever someone offers any sort of help or charity. The no crushed under his heel.

"m'a man of my word," he low, drawing the words out. "I'll be there for the cryin' and the dirty diapers and the sleepless nights."

"And when I can't work for you?"

His lips quirk. "I offer better MAT leave than most places. Reckon you could even do the bloody job from bed."

"Price, that's—this is insane—"

"John," he grunts, giving another shrug before peeling away from you. "Savin' me the trouble of talking to these idiots. Ain't nothin' crazy about that."

"I could be a horrible person. A murderer. Rob you blind, and leave you with you nothing."

It has the opposite effect of scaring him off. If anything, he looks amused. Squares his shoulders, stands to his full—intimidating, impressive—height. Stares down at you with a brow quirked and strange gleam in his eyes.

"Think I can handle myself, love. And if you wanna rob me, bite the hand, so to speak, then I promise you, you won't like the consequences."

You swallow. His tone sparks against your sense of self-preservation, and you fight the urge to take a step back. To put distance between yourself and this grizzly-like man with blunt teeth and sharp claws.

He senses your hesitation. Must because he quiets, shoulders sinking. Hand warm on your skin, giving a slight squeeze before he lets go. You ignore the urge to chase that heat again, and hide a shiver behind a shift.

"How 'bout a test ride, mm? A trial. Stay for a few weeks and then decide if you still want to leave."

Too good to be true. You know this deep down in your marrow. Every instinct inside of you rebelling against this, screaming trap, it's a trap. But there's a truth to what he says, and maybe if you weren't pregnant, you would have flipped him off and ran because men like him aren't kind to girls like you unless they have a reason to be.

You're just not sure what he has to gain in all of this. Why he put himself between you and harm without so much as a sparing glance. Stayed, too, and barked at everyone who got too close. A thunderous shadow full of teeth.

And maybe it's that. The blood concealing into a thick, pulpy plum over the split of his knuckles, the blood on the gravel that isn't yours, the goosebumps rising over the spot he touched, colder than the rest of your skin, that makes you quieten under his heavy stare. Softening into something agreeable. Unreasonable. Instincts shoved into a box.

So you nod and let him place his hand over the small of your back, guiding you to his truck with a firm nudge. Say anything when he helps you in, hands fastening the seatbelt with a clipped I'll be back when he finishes, keeping his wary eyes on you even as he moves quickly towards your car, grabbing your suitcase from the back. Promises to get your car later, too. Bring it back to his house.

And yours, too, he adds, glancing your way after he tosses the suitcase in the backseat, searching for something you're not sure he'll find. So you look away, staring at the dust on the dashboard as he rounds the truck, and slips into the front seat. It smells like him. Fresh leather and the wild. Cedar and moss. Tobacco. Something heady. Masculine. Soaked sage. Loam. Gasoline.

You lean back on the headrest, breathing it in. Trying not to think.

You'll keep your luggage packed. The keys in the ignition. When whatever it is he's planning comes to the forefront, you'll be ready to run.

But right now—

You just want to sleep. Your jaw aches. Your wrist. There's a knot in your stomach—not good for the baby—and it thickens each time you look at his bloodied knuckles curled loosely over the steering wheel, the other on the stick. Close enough that you can feel the heat bleeding into your knee. All fire and spite, and—

Touch her again, and it'll be the last thing you ever fuckin' do.

"Get some rest," he grunts, eyes slanting towards you in a brief, heavy flick. "I'll stop and get some food soon, too, but it's a two hour drive to mine. And you look dead on your feet, sweetheart."

Love. Sweetheart. I won't change my mind.

You swallow down the protest that swells, the lingering residuum of self-preservation that won't let you bear your neck just yet, and offer a slow nod, blaming the easy submission on fatigue. These aches and pains that weep, tender to the touch.

Your eyes slip shut against your better judgement, the warm interior of the truck, his smell, bleeding a sense of soporific comfort you can't remember the last time you ever felt. Just a quick nap, you think. Long enough to rest your eyes—

It's swallowed under the deluge of exhaustion that rushes through when your shoulders drop, lax. He mutters something, but it's awash under the seafoam that fills your ears, lapping waves dragging you further and further away from shore. Something that sounds like girl good but you can't be sure. Hypnagogia is a terrible a thing that likes to spin dreams, play pretend in the cradle of your subconsciousness until the lines between reality and fantasy blur. Ignoring it is easier than admitting that it floods you with a warmth so deep, sweat gathers along your hairline. Feverish and sickly sweet.

Fingers dance along the edge of your brow, rough and coarse, and it's a devastating thing, isn't it? All this tenderness along the broken edges of yourself, nails grazing the fractures like they can be fixed, pushed back into place, and not as if they're about to shatter. It makes you want to lash out even though you can't feel your body anymore, stuck between worlds of wake and rest. Later, maybe, when the phantom press doesn't feel so sweet you'll snap—broken jaw and brittle teeth—at his hand until he remembers to never touch you again. A risk he won't take.

But with the knot in your belly, a baby there, too, and a body more contusion than flesh, you let it happen. Mewl, maybe, a quiet little slip of a thing, and curve into the palm resting over your cheek. Small and docile, leaching comfort as fast as you can before you remember yourself.

in the moonglade, you murmur thank you and swallow down a rough, painful sound when he scoffs under his breath, and says ain't got nothin' to thank me for, sweetheart.

#this is rough and messy but i woke up with this idea burning in my head and couldn't write it out fast enough #john price x reader #captain john price x reader #wips #fic: prairie wolf

3K notes · View notes

ancientbygone · 2 years ago

Text

time and time again

#sleep token #sleep token art #sleep token him #sleep token vessel #sleep token sleep #sleep token one #thread the needle #bygone art #it's him. it's him now. it's still him.#still an unstable thing; such a fragile bond it is #but even still it's more uniform than it is in nazareth #still separate consciousnesses but they work in perfect tandem #the line only continues to blur further #bygone lore

103 notes · View notes

lustlovehart · 8 months ago

Text

Warnings: Human eating, Blood, Hints of Possesion (Jealousy) and Possesion, They ask you on a date towards the end, and you accept??????

Your gaze swiftly locks onto the bodies that float aimlessly in the water, not a sign of life in either vessel. You’re so entranced by the sight you don’t feel the clawed hand that hooks under your legs, slowly carrying you into the crimson water. Even when another pair of hands gently soothes your shoulder, you don’t speak, not even breathe.

“Heyy, Helloo?” Floyd waves his webbed fingers in front of your face, a pout accessorizing his features as if he didn’t just leave the have eaten body of a sailor in the water. “Look at me, not that guy… Man, I shoulda eaten his face first��” His voice has a certain whine a jealous boyfriend would have, not a monster of the sea. You continue to not reply to his whims, only letting the giant beast rest his head on your shoulders.

“Be patient Floyd, death is a distraughting sight for humans.” Jades voice is deep, his hands tracing over your wet clothes as he massages any place of tension that could be in your limbs. You would’ve relaxed if it weren’t of the way the corpse slowly floats towards you, only stopping when Jades spiked tail quickly whips it away. “Do not worry, you’re not apart of our diet. No never.” his words are meant to be comforting, buy they come off more condescending if anything.

You look away in the sliver of conscience you have, hesitantly resting your hand on Jades and laying your head on Floyds.

“Is Shrimpy done gawking at those guys? They’re not all that good looking… Me and Jade are better, riight~?” you don’t speak, but you nod in a confused agreement. It’s not a clear “yes” but it’s enough to make Floyd jump from his position, hugging you in a tight embrace and rubbing his skinned cheek to yours. “Good, it’d be bad if yah liked those plankton more than us.” Floyd's tail slowly wraps around your legs, your support from falling into the ocean being taken away from you. The only reason you’re not drowning in the moment is due to Floyd and Jade holding you up with their hands.

“That would be unfortunate wouldn’t it?” Jade flips the hand you had splayed on his clawed limb, intertwining his fingers with yours, the tenderness of a lover evident in the way he tightens his grasp. It’s distraughting just how gentle they are, treating you as if you’ve been with them for years. But, you haven’t.

You peak your eye open at the corpse one more time, but it’s gone. Slowly, you wrap your arms around Floyd, allowing their quiet chuckles to envelop you.

“Shall we treat you like a pearl today?” Jade swims around you and Floyd, allowing you to see him and all his glory, the moon swallowing the two of them like their angels, rather than the monsters of the night you’ve been tasked to kill. You open your mouth to reply, taking back the action with a nod of your undecided head.

“Aww don’t worry, we’ll treat you real nice tonight.”

You know they will. It just makes you feel all the more guilty to those who don't get your treatment.

Key differences/traits:

- Floyd has a more defensive structure with his bones, the hard armor carving around his tail and wrapping around his chest, better protecting his heart. Don’t be deceived though, he still is very capable in offense, but instead of quickly slashing his prey, he simply slams his body or heavily constricts them with the bone.

- Jade has an offensive build, the bones on his tail poking out more than his brothers, to easily slash and puncture prey. With it though, his heart I smuch more vulnerable to attacks without the protection his brother has. This does not deter him though, it just fuels his strategic play much more, impaling his food without them even realizing until they’re in his jaws.

- The exposed bone on their arm seems to be fragile, but it’s quite the opposite, it’s extremely durable and has the capability of being used as a weapon. It’s especially useful when they’re in their smaller form and not their true form, as they can make larger spike of bone emerge, using the limb as a desperation weapon if their tail doesn’t work. (They do it often though even when they don’t need to because they find it fun.)

- Floyd hugs you much more as he doesn’t have the attacking structure Jade has, so he doesn’t run the risk of stabbing you on accident more frequently. This status though, does leave a very depressed and jealous Jade watching from the corner at the lack of physical contact he has with you. Depending on who you are, this could be a blessing! If not, lay a few kisses on his cheek (or maybe his lips huhu) in secret, and he’ll be much happier in the following days. Just...

Don’t let Floyd or Azul know. They’ll make sure you give them the same treatment as well >:(

#monster!twst #twisted wonderland x reader #twst x reader #jade leech x reader #floyd leech x reader #yandere twst #yandere twisted wonderland #yandere floyd leech #yandere jade leech #yan twst #vesperdraws

1K notes · View notes

senseioftheseidiots · 2 months ago

Text

" Don't look at me with those eyes. "

DRAGONS RISING WHAT IF/AU

Technically not a spoiler since I've had this thought since the beginning of DR and we all know the glowey orb bits are wu

Anywho, HUSK!AU Wu

I shared this only a little bit, but never with any proper drawings. In this what if/AU, Wu had split his body from his soul, ENTIRELY. As the name Husk suggests. Stripping himself of whatever made him human, all to make sure the ninja have a fighting chance to find eachother again. After all. Unity is key.. His soul split into fragments in different realms, the portal gates being something of wus creation, being a dragon and all, he's created these to give the ninja better access in teleporting, this is HIS power gifted onto the monastery.

His form is weak, fragile, and unable to fully return unless he fulfills his goal, and that is to find and reunite his family once more. All in the whole his body is..somewhere else, lost? Perhaps with garmadon? Even he could barely remember, now. His body retains memory, consciousness. Just not the emotions that attached themselves to them.

It is a vessel made to survive.

#master wu #ninjago #ninjago wu #ninjago master wu #wu #ninjago dragons rising #garmadon #zane #kai #lloyd #cole #jay #lloyd ninjago #ninjago au #dragons rising ninjago

507 notes · View notes

thestupidhelmet · 5 months ago

Note

lol I hope you and Einstein are happy together, considering no one else in this fandom will touch you with a ten foot pole

Hi, my dear Anon! 😊

I don’t know who hurt you or how, but I’m sorry for your pain. �� I hope you can find a healthy way to heal. Lashing out anonymously at people you don’t know on the internet is not the way.

I’m happy with all the friends I’ve made through this fandom the last fifteen years. We treat each other with compassion and respect, have fun and supportive private conversations, and they’re wonderful people. I feel gratitude and gratified that they continue to enjoy my That ‘70s Show fanworks after all this time and look forward to more.

I extend that compassion and respect to you. May you find peace within yourself, and may people treat you kinder than you have me with this ask. 🤗❤️

#Tell them that to ease them of their griefs/#Their fear of hostile strokes #their aches #their losses/#Their pangs of love #with other incident throes/#That nature's fragile vessel doth sustain life's uncertain voyage #I will some kindness do them.#Ask #Anon #Comment #Response #Personalish

11 notes · View notes

snail-day · 3 months ago

Text

Hush Now, Sweet Lamb

Sum: When the spankings won't stop unruly darling lambs, perhaps a lobotomy will.

Yandere! Geto x Reader

WC: 3.9k

TW: Yandere Behaviors, Lobotomy, Body Horror, Non-consensual medical procedure, Gore, Non-con/dub-con, Drool, Vore/Cannibalism (idk he licks the needle), Mental Regression, Death, Unreliable Narrator, ANGST, No happy ending, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat. MDNI

a/n: Hugggeee shout out to @pink-cakes-and-treats for hearing me ramble about this for like what seems like months. Thank you for being my buddy and yapping with me about horrific ideas <3

“I love you.” The words managed to scrape from your throat as if broken glass, torn from the depths of you, raw and trembling, drowned beneath sobs that had started as fragile whispers - please don’t do this. Please. But pleading never worked with him. Not anymore. Not now that he believed in something greater than mercy.

I love you.

Three little words, simple on the surface. But words like that, they grow claws in the wrong hands. Those are words that dig deep. They change shape. Once, they meant comfort. Now, they meant surrender.

A slow blink of your eyes, vision awash with salt and candlelight, and tried to look at him clearly.

Geto Suguru.

The man who stood before you cradled your face like a lover - not the monster delivering your demise. Those violet eyes, once soft and bright with life, were now eclipsed by the sermon room’s dim, flickering glow, like stained glass in a cathedral set aflame. Somewhere within those depths, buried beneath devotion and delirium, was a love that hadn’t died. Instead, the love had festered.

You wanted to close your eyes. But even the darkness behind your lids pulsed with memories of him. The boy next door with pink, sun-kissed cheeks and chubby fingers that always curled around yours. The boy who kissed your scraped knees after washing them clumsily with water that was always too cold. Who made a whole ceremony out of applying Doraemon band-aids, pressing the softest kiss on top of the bandage, despite your complaints about cooties.

He used to say, “I’ll protect you.” You had, foolish and small at the time, believed him.

You remembered your mother’s fingers ruffling his inky, silken hair, laughter spilling from her lips like sunshine on a summer's day - He’s so strong, isn’t he? Like a little guardian angel.

But angels don’t whisper in tongues only curses understand.

Angels don’t weave bindings made of curses around the people they claim to love.

Angels don’t press needles into soft, trembling skin and call it mercy.

The curses - grotesque, sinewy things born from nightmares and grief - curdled in the air around you like sour smoke. They slithered closer, tighter, their slick, obsidian tendrils humming with quiet, predatory malice as they coiled around your limbs, your throat, your wrists. They weren’t angry. No. They purred. Like obedient beasts, eager to serve. And their master, well, he wanted you still as a sacrificial lamb. Fitting for his little nickname for you. His little lamb.

Suguru - who had always moved with the effortless grace of a man both adored and feared - looked almost divine in the candlelight. A priest cloaked in ritual and reverence, lit from below like a god born of scripture and shadows. Or perhaps a martyr - beaten holy by his own devotion. His shadow stretched across the altar like a veil of ink, falling over you where you lay: trembling, meek, and bare as birth, reduced to little more than breath and bone.

Not a woman. Not even a body.

Just a vessel. Just a lamb. Who had become soft. Submissive. Shorn of will. A beloved offering, cradled in ritual, smothered in grace. Something holy only to him. You tried to run in your mind as he stepped closer, tried to fold yourself into some memory where he was still safe to love.

You remembered the summer festivals, when fireworks lit the sky and he bought you watermelon-flavored ice you could barely finish. You remembered sitting on his porch, legs kicking in sync, cicadas screaming so loud it almost drowned out the silence between your hearts. You remembered the way he used to almost hold your hand. Always almost. Until he didn’t.

You remembered that day at the train station - he was leaving for that strange religious school. His shoulders had grown broader. His smile softened. “I love you. Stay safe,” you had said, like you knew something was already being lost.

He stared at you through the closing doors, lips parted in surprise. And then his hand rose, maybe to hide a blush. Maybe to keep from reaching out.

You blocked him after that. His messages grew too much. The words were too insistent. Desperate of sorts. You didn’t know why. You only knew your body was warning you, whispering in every nerve: This love will consume you.

And now - here you are. On the altar. Bound and beautiful in his eyes. A sacrament. He still reaches for you with that same tenderness from your childhood; the same hands that once held juice boxes and glow sticks now steadied a needle. The metal glinted as he lifted it gently, reverently. Not like a tool. Like a gift.

Like he was about to free you from something as a chilling smile curled upon his lips. Soft. Adoring in more ways than one. That left an unshakable unease rippling through your skin.

“Don’t cry,” Suguru whispered, brushing a tear from your cheek with the roughened pad of his thumb. “You’ll feel so much better soon. I promise. Then you won’t have to be afraid anymore.”

Your gaze flickered to the ceiling. Candles flickered like stars. The kind you used to wish on together.

It's funny how you used to think monsters lived under the bed. But the real ones? They grow up beside you. They kiss your wounds. They fall in love with you. When they finally snap, they smile as they make you forget everything you ever were.

You didn’t scream, just a shallow gasp. Not because it didn’t hurt, but because screaming no longer belonged to you. Nothing did. Not your voice, not your body, not your memories. Not even your pain.

It all belonged to him now.

The first prick of the needle behind your eye slid in with a sickening certainty - too precise to be mercy, too gentle to be anything but intimate. You felt it bloom inside your skull like a flower made of splinters. It slipped past flesh like it was always meant to find you there. As if your body had been made for this moment. As if your skull had been carved to cradle his madness.

And in that stillness, something warm trickled down your temple.

He wiped it gently with his thumb, kissed the damp skin with trembling lips. “Shhh, my sweet little lamb,” he whispered, low and soft, as if you were a child crying over a scraped knee. “I know. I know it’s frightening. But I promise you - it’s all for your own good.”

His voice trembled not with guilt but with awe. Like he couldn’t believe he was finally holding you like this. Like he was performing communion - your blood, his wine. Your silence, his scripture. You wanted to move. To recoil. To bite. But your limbs were tangled in a lattice of cursed tendrils, slithering just beneath your skin now - stroking you, soothing you, restraining you. They purred when he touched you. They loved you because he did.

You blinked. Or tried to. The world fuzzed, then snapped. The light was far too bright. Or maybe it was inside your head now, blooming behind your eyes like rot disguised as sunrise. He hummed under his breath, some soft, low hymn that no god ever asked for. And you thought or at least did your best:

This is the boy I loved. The one who carried your schoolbag when it rained. Who tucked tissue in his sleeve just in case your nose ran in the cold. The boy who picked you flowers with dirty hands and whispered, One day, I’ll marry you.

You remembered the shape of his laugh. The way his cheeks would puff when he was sulking. How he used to stand too close, hoping you’d notice. You remembered the way his hands used to shake the first time they touched yours.

They weren’t shaking now.

His hands were steady as death as he adjusted the needle, guiding it deeper with the devotion of a priest performing holy rites. You felt it slip - inside.

Your vision shuttered. The pain was distant now. But the wrongness, that had the luxury of staying and growing in the pits of your stomach.

“You were too soft for this world,” Suguru murmured, pressing his cheek to yours. “Too delicate. That’s why I had to take you. The world would’ve broken you. Used you up. But I kept you safe. I preserved you.” He smelled like incense and iron. Like sweat and sanctity. You could feel his smile against your skin, stretched wide, trembling with overwhelming joy.

“And now… now you’ll finally be perfect. Pure. Still. A lamb in the arms of her shepherd.” Your lips parted, but no words came. Your tongue felt thick. Like it didn’t remember language. Something fizzled - snapped. You twitched again. He caught your jaw in his hand and steadied you, looking into your eyes like he was watching the stars flicker out one by one.

“I used to wonder,” he said softly, “why you kept trying to run. Even after I gave you the twins. Even after I gave you a purpose. A family.”

He tilted your head back. A trickle of blood slipped down your nose. He didn’t wipe it away this time. He watched it.

“You were just scared, weren’t you?” he whispered, nearly too soft compared to the ringing of bells in your ears. “Still clinging to the old world. But that world is gone, my love. I burned it down - for you.”

You remembered the smell of it. The fire. The smoke. The wet, coppery heat of your mother’s blood soaking into the hem of your pajamas.

You remembered him cradling your body as your knees buckled, stroking your back as you retched. Whispering into your ear like a lullaby, “Don’t cry, little lamb. They were wicked. They would’ve turned you against me.”

And then he had carried you through the carnage like a bride.

He took you into the cult’s sanctum and gave you a bed, a brush for your hair, and two scared children who clung to you like reeds in a storm. Girls whose names you didn’t even know until they started calling you mama.

He carved a home from your prison - a gilded cage lined with velvet and rot. Kissed you goodnight like a good husband would.

He called you blessed. In front of his followers, he praised your existence like a miracle, declaring it a divine mercy that a non-sorcerer like you still drew breath within his arms.

As if your survival was a gift. As if your captivity was sacred.

Every time you fled, every time you clawed your way toward freedom, gasping for air outside the pretty cage he built - he found you. Forgave you after he had the luxury of breaking you.

With the kind of love that tasted like blood in your mouth. The kind that turned screams into moans as he dragged you to the dirt, pinning you down on cold, splintered floors in whatever half-lit corner you thought might hide you.

With chains that bit deep into your wrists as he forced your legs apart, lapping at you like a beast in heat - obsessive, starving, single-minded - until your cries melted into gutted whimpers, soaked in shame and submission.

With arms that clamped around you as he rutted into your limp, trembling body, whispering filth like worship against your throat. He liked to hold you close while he took you. Said that’s what good husbands do. Said it made him feel close to your soul.

“I could’ve punished you,” he whispered now, nose brushing yours, dragging you from your thoughts. “I could’ve let them tear you apart. But I didn’t. I saved you. And now, I’m saving you again.”

The needle pushed deeper. A strange warmth bloomed through your skull - thick, slow, unnatural. Then cold. Then silence.

Something vital inside you didn't have the grace of death, instead, the fight in you burned out. It gave up as you tried to gasp outwards. Your chest rose, then failed. Your throat strained, but no sound came, just a trembling echo of what used to be a voice.

The motion hitched halfway through your lungs and collapsed in on itself like wet fabric. Your throat made a sound, but it didn’t belong to you. Not anymore. It dragged out garbled and raw, something caught between a sob and a death rattle. Like your body had already started mourning itself.

“There now,” Suguru sighed, almost dreamily. He sounded like a man slipping into silk sheets, not someone pressing steel into brain tissue. “It’s working.” You felt his breath against your cheek, humid and reverent, as though your suffering was a sacred thing to be exhaled over. His fingers moved through your hair with that same obscene gentleness he used on the twins when they cried. Like he believed he was comforting you. Like this wasn’t desecration.

“You won’t need memories where we’re going,” he whispered, fingers sticky with whatever he’d pulled out of you. “You won’t need thoughts. Or fear. Or doubt.”

You blinked, at least, you think you did. Your eyes were open. Or partly. But the light fractured, soft, too gold, too much. The world stuttered and blurred around him like a fever dream unraveling into a nightmare.

His voice curved into a smile. “You’ll only need me.”

You weren’t sure when it happened. When your eyes dulled. When your breath fell into someone else's rhythm. When the needle slid out, smooth and glistening, red and glinting like something freshly birthed.

You didn’t feel it. But you heard it. A soft, wet pop - like something precious giving way inside your skull. A balloon rupturing in thick fluid. He hushed you as your body spasmed, more out of instinct than resistance.

“Don’t move, little lamb,” he murmured. “Don’t scramble what’s left.”

You couldn’t have moved if you tried. Your limbs had forgotten themselves. Your muscles were pudding beneath your skin, twitching without coordination. Your mouth hung open uselessly.

That was when the drool began. Thick, ropy strings of it, tinged pink and metallic, sliding down your chin in slow, shameful drips. It clung to your lips like it didn’t want to leave. Slid over your teeth. Fell in beads to your collarbone.

You tasted it as the saliva filled your mouth - thick and warm, crawling slow over your tongue like something alive. Copper. Meat. Rot. And something else. Something wrong. Something slick and electric, like licking the edge of a live wire soaked in acid. Your mouth tasted like what you used to be. Like memory liquefied. Like identity spoiled into nectar.

And Suguru… watched. Watched like he was witnessing a miracle unravel. Like your unraveling was the miracle. His gaze devoured you, eyes wide, glassy, rapt. Worshipping the mess of you. The way your lips hung open. How your drool pooled like syrup along your chin. The way your body, even now, still gave. His fingers trailed adoringly along your jaw, collecting the viscous spill of drool-blood-spit that clung there like a sacrament. He brought it to his mouth.

There was no hesitation as he licked the obscene liquid from his knuckles slowly - slowly - as though savoring something rare and precious. Letting the fluid coat his tongue. Letting your essence melt into the heat of his mouth like the candy he used to feed you.

He swirled it across the roof of his mouth like wine, eyes fluttering closed, lashes trembling. Releasing a soft, breathless sound close to ecstasy from his lips as his gaze flicked to the needle. The needle was still warm and glistening, still wet with the remnants of your mind. With a reverence that bordered on religious delirium, he leaned in and dragged his tongue along its length, slow, unhurried, adoring.

Suguru licked it clean the way one might lick honey from a spoon. Red. Silver. Viscera-smudged. He moaned, quiet, breathless. A sound that would be beautiful, if he wasn't such an insane bastard. Oh, how he moaned, like the taste of you, your thoughts and ruin, was from one of his holy sermons. As if your suffering was something sweet.

He lifted the object of demise like it was precious. Sacred. Like it belonged in a reliquary, not his hand. But Suguru never did worship like the others did. No, he needed to taste divinity. To consume it. To consume the fight you're leaving behind.

So he brought it to his lips.

Opened his mouth.

And lowered his head.

His throat welcomed the steel like it was communion. The glinting metal disappeared inch by inch, his lips stretching, jaw relaxing as he swallowed it down. Past tongue. Past teeth. Down, down, until the hilt kissed his lips, and his throat bobbed around it. Pretty, violet eyes that rolled back, lashes fluttering, a soft groan slipping from deep in his chest.

It wasn’t pain.

It was rapture.

He held it there for a moment - the instrument of your undoing lodged in his throat like a holy relic, his breath trembling around it. Then he pulled it back out - slow, glistening, wet. No longer coated with your blood, but his saliva.

Suguru looked back at you with something like ecstasy, and everything inside you screamed to recoil. But your body didn’t move. Couldn’t. You could only watch him watching you. His teeth, once pearly white, were now stained a soft pink as he spoke.

“I’ll always love that little fight in you,” he said, crouching beside your slack, drooling face. His thumb dragged your lip down slightly, just to watch it bounce back up uselessly. He smiled. “But in my new world…”

His voice lowered, thick with affection.

“…pets like you don’t need to fight.”

He cupped your face between his palms, cradling it like a fragile fruit, kissed your forehead, then your nose, then your lips - smeared in drool and blood, the flavor of your mind still on his tongue.

And then he kissed you deeper.

Your jaw didn’t move. Your lips didn’t purse. It didn’t matter. He kissed you like you were kissing him back. Like your silence was consent. When he pulled away, strings of spit - your spit - clung between your mouths like a web. He licked them away. Didn’t waste a drop of the sweetest nectar known to man.

-----

The air was warm today.

Cherry blossoms fluttered like slow snowfall across the temple courtyard, sticking to your hair, your lashes, the white fabric of your dress. The wind teased them loose from the trees, scattering them like blessings. You didn’t move when they landed on you. Didn’t blink when one brushed across your cheek and stayed there.

You just sat on the stone steps, knees tucked to your chest, head tilted toward the sun. A trickle of drool slid from the corner of your mouth, glistening in the light like nectar.

And you were smiling.

Suguru stood just behind you for a while, watching. Breathing. Listening to the soft rustle of petals and the small, wet click of your throat when you swallowed.

You looked so content. So quiet.

So loved.

He approached slowly, letting his sandals scuff against the stone so you’d hear him. Not that it mattered. You no longer startled when he moved. You no longer stiffened under his gaze.

When he knelt beside you, your head turned - just slightly, slow as honey dripping from a spoon. Your eyes fluttered toward him, soft and unfocused.

And then you smiled again.

That was the worst part. The best part. The part that made something in his chest crumple and swell at once.

You smiled like you loved him.

“Hello, my sweet little lamb,” he murmured, brushing a blossom from your hair. You didn’t react, but you leaned ever so slightly into his palm as it cradled your cheek. The skin beneath his hand was warm. Damp with sweat. Or maybe just the sun.

Your lips parted. “Sun…” you said, voice slow and syrup-thick, your tongue barely moving. “...pretty.”

It nearly knocked the breath from his lungs.

“Yes,” Suguru whispered. “So very pretty. Almost as much as you.”

He sat beside you and wrapped his arm around your waist. You didn’t lean in. You just… folded. Like your body recognized the weight and allowed it, welcomed it out of some primal muscle memory. Like an animal curling into its pen. He pressed a kiss to your temple. The scar was healing. Still red. Still swollen. Still a reminder.

Of what he’d done. What he’d chosen.

Sometimes, he dreamed of the needle. Of how your body twitched when it pierced the soft tissue behind your eye. Of how the drool began, slow at first, then steady. Of how your voice choked itself trying to say his name one last time.

And sometimes, in the rare moments when guilt crept in - when he remembered the way you screamed and kicked and begged him not to - he would look at you now.

Look at this.

The sun glowing on your skin. The way you tilted your face toward the warmth. The way your hand twitched faintly, as if reaching for him. The way you smiled when he touched you.

And the guilt would go quiet.

How could it be wrong, when you were so peaceful now? When you smiled at him like he was everything?

He whispered into your hair, “You’re happy, aren’t you?”

You blinked slowly. Your head lolled toward him. Another strand of drool slipped down your chin, caught on your collarbone. A blossom landed there. You didn’t notice.

“Pretty…” you murmured again, eyes glassy. “Suguru…”

His heart hammered once, twice. Pounding against his chest. The sound of his name - spoken like a lullaby. Like a sacred word. Not with fear. Not with rage. Just soft devotion. He swallowed thickly. His hands trembled as he pulled you closer. Pressed his forehead to yours.

“I love you,” he whispered. “I love you so much it aches. I’d do it all again, you know that?”

You stared past him.

“I had to,” he said, his voice cracking, guilt peeking through like weeds beneath stone. “You would’ve left me. You did. Again and again. I couldn’t let you. You understand that now, don’t you?”

You didn’t answer. But your hand - slow, clumsy - found the edge of his sleeve. Your fingers curled around the fabric and stayed there.

His breath hitched. That touch, that tiny act of agency, undid him. It didn’t matter that you no longer understood who you were, who he was. That you barely spoke, barely moved without prompting.

What mattered was this: you reached for him.

“You love me now,” he whispered, and it sounded like confession. “Even if you don’t know it. Even if you can’t say it. I made it true.”

A breeze passed. More petals fell. Your dress fluttered gently against his leg, and your head dropped against his shoulder.

Suguru held you tighter. As the twins ran around the garden barefoot and full of giggles, collecting flowers for their mama's flower crown. A mama that will no longer run away. You smiled as you watched, and Suguru believed - truly, deeply - that you were happy with this makeshift family.

"I love you," He whispered, pressing another lingering kiss to your temple. Three little words that made his heart swell for his little lamb.

#yandere jujutsu kaisen #yandere #jjk geto #dead dove do not eat #yandere geto suguru #yandere geto x reader #yandere imagines #yandere x reader #yandere suguru x reader #yandere jjk #yandere geto #yandere suguru #yandere suguru geto

527 notes · View notes