#SURROUNDED BY JUST. EXPLODED GORE BODIES.

[illyrianbitch]

A Place for Dying

Pairing: Reader x Cassian

Summary: A mission with Cassian goes terribly wrong.

Warnings: major angst, mentions and depiction of gore, injury, battle, death.

Word Count: 2.3k

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

The rain lashed down in relentless torrents as the sounds of clashing steel filled the air.

You didn’t know where they came from or how they managed to sneak up on you and Cassian so swiftly— appearing as if conjured by the storm itself. Within seconds you were swarmed.

The male in front of you was unlike any you’ve faced before, eyes ablaze with an eerie light as he attacked. You parried his blows with all your skill, but the mud beneath your feet made your movements slow and predictable, and his skill was otherworldly— something far sinister than what you’d been trained to fight. From the corner of your eye, you could see Cassian locked in combat with two other males, hair matted and siphons glowing angrily as he moved.

And then a searing pain exploded in your abdomen.

Time seemed to slow to a crawl as you glanced down, watching in horror as a sword was drawn from your abdomen, coated in blood. You felt your own weapon slipping from your now lax grip as your hand found its way to your gaping wound. A faint scream echoed in your ears as you looked up, meeting the male's triumphant grin, his sword poised to deliver the final blow.

Within a seconds, there was a second figure before you as a flash of red glow and power surged.

But you weren’t paying attention as your legs gave way beneath you.

You felt yourself falling, the world spinning as a fuzzy darkness crawled into your eyesight. You blinked. Cassian was there, hands reaching out to catch you and pull you into him.

"Shit, shit," he cursed under his breath. "Shit."

"Cassian," you croaked. Your voice was barely a whisper against the roar of the storm, a painful groan that made his stomach clench. His gaze swept over the chaos around you, the soaked mud now scarcely decorated with the bodies of the fallen soldiers. He looked over briefly at the male that had stabbed you, now lying lifeless where Cassian had struck him.

"You're okay, you're good," Cassian said. He attempted to readjust himself, wrapping an arm around your torso as he pulled your other around his shoulders. His body groaned in response, searing pain igniting through his torn clothes.

"Cass, I can't—I can't.”

"Shhh," Cassian said. He took a deep breath as he began to walk forward, surveying his surroundings for the next possible move. "Don't speak. I got ya."

His shredded wings hung limp behind him, now sodden and stained with mud. You hung from him completely, unable to keep yourself up as your legs dragged behind you with every move. Cass clenched his teeth, his mind blurring out the pain of his own injuries to focus solely on you. Any wrong move could worsen your injuries. He needed to find a place to rest, to wait for Rhysand or Azriel.

Your grip tightened on your stomach, trying to staunch the flow of blood as Cassian's hand now covered yours.

"Cass," you rasped.

He kept moving, his body protesting with every step forward.

"Rhys and Az will be here, okay?" Cassian replied, his voice strained with the effort of masking his own fear. "Let me just get you somewhere safe."

"We don't have time."

Cassian shook his head, his feet dragging through the mud as he continued. Everywhere in his body screamed with pain, his senses overwhelmed by the taste of blood in the air and the relentless pounding of the rain. He could feel the weight of you pulling on him getting worse as you weakened, the strain growing in the tension of his muscles as he struggled to keep moving.

Through the hand that covered yours, Cassian could feel the blood seeping through your fingers. He fought to distract himself from the sight and sensation, focusing instead on the rhythm of his own breath, the steady beat of his heart. He needed to think.

He whispered silent prayers to whatever gods may be listening, willing you to hold on just a little while longer. But the taste of blood lingered in his mouth and every scream in his mind was met with empty silence. A deep sense of foreboding settled in his gut, a primal instinct that warned him that you might be vulnerable to yet another ambush. He also knew, deep down, that Rhys and Az wouldn’t be coming anytime soon.

All he could do was wait, to get you settled somewhere so your body could begin to heal. That wouldn’t happen as long as he was dragging your body through mud and rain. With a determined mind, he steered you deeper into a grove of trees.

You reached a small clearing, the burden of the pouring rain now lessened by the canopy above you. Cassian leaned against a sturdy tree, carefully lowering you both down until you were cradled in his arms, your back pressed against his chest. You let out a choked sound of pain, eyes clenching as a wave of nausea ran through you.

“I know, sweetheart. I’m sorry.”

Cassian’s voice was a gentle caress. If you had the energy to pay attention, you would have noticed the fear that settled in it, the utter desperation.

Cassian let out a deep breath, his jaw set in determination as he lifted his hand to help you raise your shaky one, guiding it to apply more pressure to your wound. He could feel it underneath his fingertips, see it even through your black leathers, the blood pouring from you still. A knot tightened in his stomach.

He felt your shallow breaths against his chest as your trembling form leaned back against him. You closed your eyes and let your head fall backwards onto his shoulder.

"It's bad, isn't it?" you whispered.

Cassian took another deep breath, his mind racing as he fought to keep his composure for your sake. "Nothing you haven't faced before."

A small laugh escaped your lips. For a moment, Cassian's gaze softened as the sound filled his ears, a sense of comfort rolling through his body in a slow wave.

"Just keep the pressure on it, alright?"

You gave a shaky nod. "Okay.”

Cassian took a moment to assess the situation. Without any materials to staunch the bleeding, all he could do was wait and try to keep you distracted from the pain. He looked down at you, taking in the sight of your matted hair, drenched in mud and blood, streaks of crimson mingling with the rainwater on your face. Despite it all, you were still the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

Desperation clawed at him as he continued to plead with Rhys in his mind, willing his friend to come to your aid. But yet again, his cries were met with a deep, heavy silence. No response, no feeling of a message having been received. Cass wrapped himself around you even closer.

"It'll make a badass scar," he said.

Again, you managed a weak laugh, but it was cut short by a bubbling sound that sent a chill down Cassian's spine. He felt his stomach drop as he realized the source— blood gurgling from your throat, staining your perfect smile crimson.

With a trembling hand, Cassian cradled your head, pulling you closer to him, his own face hovering inches from yours in a desperate attempt to offer what little comfort he could. There was a painful pang in his chest as he felt your breaths becoming shallower. He gave you a gentle nudge.

"Hey, stay with me," he implored, voice laced with desperation. "Look at me.”

"I can't… I'm so tired," you replied weakly.

"Yes, you can," Cassian said. "I know it's hard, but you gotta keep those pretty eyes open, okay?"

"Cassian."

His name was a desperate plea, a sound of pure agony that fell from your lips.

"I know, I know," he murmured, his own voice choking. He cleared his throat. "But you gotta keep fighting, alright? Can you do that for me?"

You nodded faintly, your voice barely above a whisper as you replied, "Okay."

"Good, good," Cassian said, his heart aching as he watched you struggle. "Let me see."

With great effort, you managed to tilt your head, your teary eyes meeting his. Cassian swallowed back his own tears, his voice trembling slightly as he whispered, "There they are."

Your brow furrowed in determination as you gathered the strength to speak, and you began, "Cass, I want you to know…"

But Cassian started shaking his head vehemently, his voice firm as he interrupted, "No, no."

"I should've told you sooner-”

Cassian's head continued to shake, his eyes pleading with you to stop. "Y/n, please.”

But you pressed on, the words tumbling from your lips despite his protests. "You need to know that I-"

"No," Cassian interrupted again, his voice desperate. "You can tell me when we get back. Don't say that."

"Cassian, please, let me-"

"No. You can tell me when we get back home," Cassian insisted once again, his eyes wide and desperate. "And then I can tell you I feel the same way. That I’ve felt the same way for centuries. And I can take you out on a real date. Do it all properly. Okay?"

You paused. After a moment, you quietly replied, "Okay."

Cassian leaned his head down, pressing a tender kiss to the top of your head before resting his own against it. "Just a little longer," he whispered softly, “I promise.”

He knew it was wrong, that he shouldn’t be promising anything in your condition, that he should have let you speak. But Cassian refused. He refused because your words were those of a dying female, words of a confession that you’d release upon death. And you weren’t dying, not today. He refused.

So he focused on your body against him, playing another chaste kiss atop your head. He felt you shift slightly beneath him.

"Isn't that beautiful?"

Cassian frowned, pulling his eyes away from you to look at the view in front. Over the small clearing the setting sun shone through gaps within the trees. Cassian nodded, his eyes fixed on the horizon for a moment before he looked down at you, gaze tender and unwavering. "Breathtaking," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. Those words were only for you.

"So beautiful.”

But as Cassian continued to hold you close, a sense of unease began to gnaw at him. Where were Rhysand and Azriel? Who else was hurt? What could he do to help you?

His thoughts ran through his mind, clumping into large knots he couldn’t read. But then, Cassian’s heart stopped, a surge of panic flowing through his body as he tightened his grip on your hand.

You weren’t moving beneath him. No shallow breaths, no coughing.

"Y/n?" he whispered, his hand moving to cradle your face, angling it towards him. “No, no, no.”

His hand trembled as he brushed your cheek, searching desperately for any sign of life. But there was no response, no flutter of eyelids or rise and fall of breath. And then he saw it—your eyes closed, your features peaceful in repose, the ghost of a weak smile.

His eyesight began to grow blurry as tears filled his eyes once more, now freely falling as he took you in. Cassian let his forehead fall to rest against yours as he began to sob, the weight of grief crushing him in its wake.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹

The sun was gone by time Rhys and Azriel appeared, desperately running forward with bruised and bloodied faces. Rhys was the first to speak, his words tumbling out before he could fully take in the scene. "We came as fast as we could, there was an att—"

But his voice faltered the same second Az took a sharp inhale next to him.

Cassian sat before them, hair matted and wings limp around him, cradling your body in his hands. He brushed his thumb against your cheek, tears glistening in his eyes as he remained lost in his grief, not sparing his brothers a glance.

Without hesitation, Azriel's shadows swarmed around you, a protective cocoon enfolding your form. One shadow returned to him, and within seconds his expression dropped. He turned to Rhys with a shake of his head.

"I told her to stop," Cassian's voice trembled as he finally looked up, meeting their gazes. His face was still painted in blood and dirt, streaked by the rain and tears. There were bags under his eyes and a sense of despair they'd never seen before, not in the centuries he had existed. "I told her to wait until we got home to tell me."

He glanced down at you again, running a hand over your hair as he continued, "I didn't let her tell me she loved me." Each word hung heavy in the air, a tangible ache in his voice as he spoke.

Rhys stepped forward, clearing his throat as a deep sadness weighed in his stomach. "Cass—"

But Cassian shook his head, cutting him off. "I didn't get to tell her I love her."

Loved her, his mind reminded him. Loved her.

Rhys knelt down in front of him, exchanging a solemn glance with Azriel. He gave a nod with his head towards Cassian’s wings. It only took Azriel seconds to take in the state of them, torn and bloody, more of the membrane missing than what remained.

"We need to go home," Rhys said quietly, his hand resting on Cassian's shoulder. “You need Madja.”

But Cassian only shook his head as he pulled you closer.

"Just five more minutes," he pleaded, pressing his face to your head. He took a deep breath, his senses filled with the smell of dirt, sweat, and blood. But beneath it all, he caught a hint of you, of the smell he’d grown to love. A scent that felt like home.

He inhaled it deeply, savoring it and storing it away in his mind. He would never smell it again.

“Just five more minutes.”

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹

me saying i need to get in the headspace of writing angst for one of my series parts and writing this teehee

also… isn’t it so sad when u realize they never ever kissed 😭(😋😋)

permanent tag list 🫶🏻: @rhysandorian @itsswritten @milswrites

[ryescapades]

❝ [ coolest brother ever! ] ╰┈➤ of the same thread (kaiju no. 8)

— iv. he will always be your number 1, even in life and death.

genre/warning: narumi gen x lil sis!reader, bf!hoshina, angst, death, mention of gore and blood

a/n: uuhhhhh yea .. this is my first time writing pure angst actually so lmk what u think !

1.7k wc | mini series masterlist

it all happened in just mere seconds.

it was just another neutralisation mission, you were guarding the perimeter surrounding the evacuation area, taking down any kaiju trying to trespass. it was at a wrong time, at the wrong place; the group of young kids wasn't supposed to be this far out of the area when the officers had declared all homes had been emptied.

maybe it was the officers' carelessness, or maybe it was your own, but when you and a few others from your platoon, all fatigued and weary in your overly heated suits with no more reinforced shields from the earlier battle, raced towards the crying sound, it was almost too late to save them from the kaiju hovering over their small trembling bodies, trapped between the monster and a brick wall of a cafe next to an alley.

however, the events happening after that seemed to be lost on everyone. this time it was really your fault, your fault for not noticing there was another kaiju hiding, waiting in the dark even though you were the one standing closest to the alley. you should've picked up on its presence sooner.

the monster burst out of the wrecked building adjacent to the cafe, concretes flying past you as it immediately bolted towards its nearest prey; one of the children.

your suit had overheated one too many times before but with one last push to get your combat power surging, you dash forward to the space between the kid and the yoju, ignoring the shouts and screams around you.

the next thing you knew, agonizing pain exploded on your side.

∘₊✧─────────────✧₊∘

the officers knew better than to intervene. there was an aura. it was uncomfortable, oppressive. it enveloped the very figure of japan's top fighter as he spoke into the earpiece, an expression of pure murder marring his youthful face.

"what the fuck did you just say?" narumi seethed quietly into his earpiece, but he might as well be yelling from how the command seemed to bellow across the communication device. "t-the evacuation center, sir! there was an emergency and y-your sister—"

he didn't need to hear more. no less than a second later he was already moving, cursing every damn thing to the deepest pits of hell when he realized the evacuation center was on the opposite side of the whole neutralization area, which mean his assigned battlefield was the furthest from yours.

his heart thundered against his ribcage. please be safe, please be safe, please be fucking safe—

it took some good fifteen minutes, fifteen minutes too long when he finally arrived at your post. the organ thumping in his chest dropped at the sight that greeted him, and he prayed to every god up there that your very own was still beating.

narumi sprinted towards where you were laying limp in hoshina's arms, pushing away the other officers standing nearby. sensing the incoming figure, hoshina gently laid you down and soon enough, your brother had you in his own embrace.

it was cold. your body felt cold, but there was also a certain warmth lingering on your skin. oh, you were bleeding. crimson liquid slowly dripped down from your mouth, your temple, the scrapes, the bruises and your side. god, your side.

how bad was the injury? you felt like you were run over by a freaking dump truck over and over and over again. another rush of blinding pain had your lips giving out a whimper, your eyelids heavy when a familiar face greeted you.

"n-nii chan..?"

narumi almost bawled at how weak and croaky your voice was. he gently adjusted your body in his hold, tenderly stroking your matted hair. "it's me, kiddo. how are you holding up? you good?" he murmured, face hardening when he saw the gaping hole on your side, all torn flesh and blood.

he knew fully well 'good' wasn't the word to describe your condition right now but fuck if he cared about his wordings, he was about to go crazy here. ain't no way he's losing you to some goddamn pathetic kaiju.

against both your wishes, more blood seemed to pour out from the poor excuse of a makeshift bandage around your side, causing you two to swear simultaneously. "s-shit, that hurts—" you weakly gasped out, the corners of your eyes pricking with tears.

"where the hell are the medics?!" narumi barked to those around him. "they're on the way, captain. we're short on hands in every sector. we're doing our best here," hoshina explained, though the sorrowness radiating from his body and his clenched fists betrayed his firm tone.

narumi was about to snap when a frail hand grabbed at the collar of his suit. "please don't get angry at them, nii-chan. they're doing their job as they should," you shakily said before erupting in a fit of wet coughs.

your brother gritted his teeth and pressed down harder on your wound, the growing red color nearly sent him into hysteria. you were losing too much blood, too fatally wounded that the kaiju tissues in the combat suit could only do so much. "don't strain yourself, y/n. you're gonna get worse,"

"it's still gonna get bad no matter what—"

at this point, narumi was pleading, his voice breaking at the end of his sentence. "don't say that. you're gonna make it, kiddo. i know you will," he grunted, not knowing whether he was convincing you or himself.

who was he kidding? maybe he was convincing the ghosts ready to take his precious little sister from him instead.

your breaths trembled the same way your hand shook while reaching to hold onto his own, your fluttering, hazy eyes fondly watching him as the blood and sweat rolled down his face.

"hey... hey. gen," you managed to call, gaining your brother's darting attention. the kaiju irises burning so deeply into yours, carving the familiar magenta hues in your mind for one last time. "you're gonna be fine. you're my brother, no?" you whispered.

"what the hell are you talking about, you brat? stay awake. you owe me those gundom figurines, remember?" he shakily said, gripping on your hand so tight as if his own life depended on it. it did, it has always been. the warmth of your hand in his, that was his absolute lifeline.

everything was fading, you couldn't hear what the others were saying anymore, the pain on your side was almost numb to the point you felt like you were floating.

there was fear in your heart, but there was also a sense peace. at least you've done your job. you were glad you got to save the children, and your comrades who were fighting alongside you were alive and well.

your voice cracked, choking slightly as clumps of blood stuck to your throat when you chuckled in a daze. "i do, don't i? but you'll manage. you're amazing, after all—"

"y/n, y/n! hey, open your eyes! no, no, no, Y/N!"

"you know, gen... you really are the coolest brother i could ever ask for,"

narumi's heartbeat spiked up, his mind going into overdrive as he listened as your voice died down. as he watched your eyes losing the spark they once held. as he noticed your chest had stopped rising and falling. as he felt your hand slowly falling from his hold. as he realized you will never wake up to see the sunrise again, to see him again.

narumi gen has never cried before. but for you, he felt like his eyes could bleed even worse than what his kaiju retina could ever. before he realized it, his cheeks were wet, and not just from the sweat. tears streamed down his face, his head bowed down to rest against the chestplate of your suit, trying to find any semblance of a movement from your body. a heartbeat, a twitch, anything.

alas, he knew better than to wish for the dead.

standing just beside the two siblings, hoshina's jaw tightened as he watched your brother slowly let go of your now dead, lifeless body. he’d said his piece when he last held you, but that didn’t mean he had fully accepted your fate. his own pulse was slow, as if the blood in his veins was reluctant to even continue pumping.

how could it? when the sole reason for his heart to be alive in the first place was not there anymore. hoshina's heart used to beat for you. and now you're... gone.

with his mind half absent, the swordsman took quite a while to register that he was suddenly yanked forward, the front of his suit now tightly gripped in narumi's fist, the latter seething in pure malice.

"your post was closer to hers. you could've saved her. what were you doing, you bastard?!" the captain snarled, fury dripping in every roll of his tongue. "answer me, hoshina. you were supposed to be there with her. protecting her!" his name was uttered with such venom that he just snapped, "ya think i didn't know that? ya think i didn't blame myself for reachin' here so late, thinking i should've been the one to die instead?!" hoshina growled back at him.

ashiro, who had just arrived at the scene, darted her eyes sadly between the two men. she stared at your body with a heavy heart, but then something glinting in the light caught her attention. bending down, she realized it was a small pocket watch and inside it sat a crumpled piece of paper; it was a photo of a younger version of you and your brother, both happy and smiling.

"narumi," ashiro called out, causing the man in question to snap his head towards her. she wordlessly handed the pocket watch to him, taking note of the recognition in his eyes before they went back to that somber gaze.

with a downturned and lowered face, narumi shoved hoshina away and snatched the pocket watch before silently marching off, grabbing his weapon along the way.

both ashiro and hoshina pretended not to hear the reverberating slam of the bayonet in the far distance, echoing through the walls of the buildings around them like a deafening, broken lullaby.

'the coolest brother i could ever ask for', narumi almost laughed. what meaning did it hold when he couldn't even save you?

u died lol.

—

©🅁🅈🄴🅂🄲🄰🄿🄰🄳🄴🅂. do not steal, translate or repost my work anywhere else !

[sttm99]

Trueform!Sukuna X Reader

Content Warnings...? Slight gore

Once again, it is time for Sukuna to collect his payment for a decade of peace; twenty young women sacrificed for his pleasure. For over fifty years, Sukuna has he has enjoyed murdering these women for pleasure until finally, he meets you.

You had been in the cell for so long with these girls. Their cries had become obnoxious and pathetic. It was irritating to your ears. It wasn't as though they weren't being heard. They were.

But they were being ignored.

And why would they not be? You shuffled further into the corner of the cell, disregarding the moistness of the ground as it seeped the thin fabric of your kimono. You brought your knees to your chest, wrapping your arms around it and closing your eyes.

It was a futile attempt to drown out the screams. It was becoming a mess of noise. You could no longer differentiate the screams of the girls past the door from the ones of the girls scared of their turn.

You sighed as you shifted unto your side and leaned your entire weight unto the wall. You didn't know how long it'd been since the first girl had been taken. Then the next one that was pulled away after that, and the one after her. Your sense of time was practically non-existent.

You were hungry and tired, and your heart pounded viciously from the fear. You could be the next girl to be pulled away and offered up to the demon whom the village paid tithes to. Because that was what you all were, useless offerings to appease the creature for a single decade of peace.

Your throat was dry, and you fought the urge to soothe the itch in your ankle, knowing that once you started, you'd find it hard to stop. You were absolutely silent, never moving unless thoroughly uncomfortable, never making a sound. Few others were motionless like you. The majority of the girls had been reduced to cries and screams of anguish and pain.

You didn't understand what they were shouting or crying for. It wasn't that you weren't afraid, you were, much more so than you let on. Your skin was covered in goosebumps, and your chest felt as though it were going to explode. But you had nothing to cry for. Even if you were released, you had nowhere to return to.

Your parents had been the ones to sell you off as an offering. Why would they want you if you managed to escape? So you hugged your knees tighter to your chest, holding in the tears in your eyes, praying that you would survive, even though it was more or less impossible.

Ryomen Sukuna never took brides. He had been receiving offerings for decades longer than her parents had lived. Of all the girls he'd been given, he'd never left a single one alive when she was offered.

There were people that theorised he wasn't interested in brides and just used the sacrificial ceremony as an excuse to kill women, because they never fought in any wars or battles against him, and this was the easiest way he could get a steady stream of women to slaughter.

It was a cold and sinister thought, that this whole thing was an excuse for him to slaughter. Yet, this was still your fate, and you had no choice but to accept it.

That knowledge didn't make acceptance any easier, though. You didn't want to accept a quick death. You wanted, more than anything, to live. You weren't heroic or brave. You were scared, more so than any of the girls surrounding you.

Your body shook with it, your skin blazed with that sickly feeling. Your chest hurt against your pounding heart, and your fingernails were digging into the peeling skin of your knees. Your lips quivered as you sucked in your sobs, vision blurred with tears.

You were so scared. You tried to escape into your thoughts, but the discomfort of the moisture that had seeped through the fabric of your clothing, wetting your skin, didn't allow you believe you were anywhere other than the cell.

The doors opened, a village guard walking out to pick out another victim, and you gasped loudly at the sight of a hand peeking through. It was pale, covered with splashes of blood. You choked in a sob, pushing impossibly further into the wall, wishing that you could seep through the cement.

The guard's head snapped manically in your direction, his eyes catching yours. Your stomach dropped as you made eye contact, and your lips quivered as he began taking steps in your direction. You pushed back against the hard cement, shaking your head profusely, silently begging not to be taken.

It was useless. The other girls whimpered and looked at you, and you couldn't feel sorry for them because you were the one being taken, and you knew that they were all glad it wasn't them this time. You pulled against the guard, grabbing you, trying to kick yourself further into the wall.

It made the whole thing worse. The wetness of the ground had completely damaged your clothes and had reached the skin of your butt. The continuous brushing of your body against the floor had caused it to ache.

"Stop struggling, whore. Be grateful for the honor to help your village!" The guard spat, forcibly dragging you across the floor.

You kicked and wailed, finally breaking your silence. In the end, your own screams were the loudest of all as you were being dragged away. You met the eyes of so many of the girls, all of them scared like you were, all of them happy you were taken instead of them.

"Please," you begged as your skin scraped along the hard floor, "Please, please, please! PLEASE LET ME GO!" Your pleas were futile as you were dragged through the door.

The guard shut the doors quickly, the wood banging against your fingers as you were dragged through. The volume of your screams got impossibly louder because of the pain. You were in so much pain.

The guard bent down and grabbed your hands, harshly pulling you up to your feet. You stumbled into him, forcing him back just a few steps before he hit your face and pushed you through darkness and through another door.

You stumbled through, falling and landing on your hands and knees. You cried out at the impact on your already aching fingers, falling forward unto your chest as you instinctively began holding and massaging your fingers.

The room was dark, lit by just the lighted lamps at regular intervals on the high ends of the walls. The floor was covered with blood and strands of hair and limbs. And a figure shadowed in darkness stood near the edge of the pentagon-shaped room, motionless.

Your eyes were trained on the figure in the dark, your face contorting as cries and sobs wrenched themselves from your throat. You flinched as the door closed behind you quickly, breaking your stare. You turned around just as swiftly, legs kicking through the pool of blood on the floor, pounding against the wood in frenzy. You had completely disregarded the horrible ache in your fingers as you slammed your palms against the door repeatedly, switching to pounding with closed fists. There were tears streaming down your face with your hair matted to your skin.

"PLEASE! LET ME OUT! PLEASE! COME BACK!" Your yells fell on deaf ears as you kept pounding, too scared to look behind again at what was in the room with you. You had never seen Ryōmen Sukuna in the flesh before, and you never wanted to.

"My, a really pretty one tonight," your blood ran cold at the sound of the voice coming from behind you. Your body froze, and you went silent.

A shiver ran down your spine, and your eyes widened at the sensation. His voice reverberated round the room. It was nothing short of inhuman.

You felt like throwing up.

"Why stop on my account?" You could feel the heat radiating from him as he squatted next to you.

You flinched away, falling on your hips and elbows. You hadn't even heard when he approached her. Against your better judgement and out of nothing but pure, human curiosity, you turned your head to gaze up at him.

Ryōmen Sukuna, slaughterer, demon, King of Curses.

His uncovered chest was adorned with black markings, snaking over the ridges and contours of his body. Your eyes trailed the beads of sweat that dripped from him until finally, you were looking at his face. Just like the rest of him, his fair face was adorned with black inking.

His eyes were a sinister red, like the blood moon that announced his arrival, like the blood of his victims that stained his neck. You pushed away from him, eyes wide as you memorised every feature of him, mouth slightly agape.

There was nothing that could ever make you believe him to have ever been as human as you or the guard that had thrown you in there.

Tears began falling from your eyes as he grinned at you, not because you were scared of dying, that this was your end, but because you were scared of how you were feeling in his presence. You were absolutely terrified of how his gaze made you feel, and you felt disgusted for feeling such a way for a curse.

Sukuna smiled down at you, his fangs more than visible. He stood up from his position and walked to tower over you. There was something addictive in how your eyes ran along his entire body, something he never wanted to stop seeing.

It wasn't just how they looked at him. It was your eyes in general. He stared at them intently, a shade like nothing he'd ever seen.

In that moment, he was willing to kill anything that would keep him from the prize he'd finally discovered. It was like picking up the decapitated head of the enemy captain, it was a satisfying victory he could only enjoy after mass slaughter. It was pleasure he didn't know he could feel.

He banged against the door harshly, prompting a flinch from you at the sudden sound.

The guard opened the door soon and you could see another girl's arm tight in his grasp. He was about to throw her in just as he'd done with you but the giant, pink haired cursed spirit pushed the girl away, and the guard as well, stumbled back.

"Get them out," He seethed, eyes glancing momentarily away from you to instruct the male quivering in his presence, "All of them. Get them out! The ceremony is over!"

With that, he shut the door and walked towards you again, squatting when he was just above your waist. His grin widened at how you flinched away just slightly. He reached out to grip your chin with his bloodstained hands. He tilted your chin, examining all the angles of your face. You were still shaking in his presence, and he liked that. But then he pulled his hand away and decided that he didn't like how blood looked on your face.

He still stayed there, squatting with his legs on either side of your torso. "Your eyes," he began, not knowing exactly what to say about them, "How lovely they'd look as rings of honour." In the end, he smiled and decided he liked it when your eyes widened in fear.

"You do not wish to speak?" A chuckle rumbled low in his throat. "Is your throat sore from your screams?" Before you could realize what was happening, he'd reached out to grip your throat, "Speak, you worthless mortal!"

You choked out a scream at how tight he held your throat. Your hands instinctively went to grip his, legs shuffling in struggle against him, "Please," you whimpered, tears streaming down your dirty cheeks, "Let me go, please."

Sukuna grinned manically at your face. That look was there again in your eyes. "There is a look in your eyes that I do not understand. What is it? Is it some sort of fear? What do you think of when you look at me?" He tightened his grip, moving to kneel above you and support his weight with a hand on the ground just beside your head. 

You were pushed back by his movements, your back coming in contact with the blood stained floors. "I don't know." You replied to him, fighting against your sobs, "I don't know, Sukuna."

His eyes widened, "Again." He said, leaning into you, "Speak my name again, mortal."

Your lips trembled as you began scratching at his tightening hold, "Sukuna, please. Please, Sukuna, let me go."

He let go of your neck and stared at you. His eyes raked over her eyes, sickly looking skin and hair, greasy, stained with blood, and matted to your skin. He brought his bloody knuckles against her prominent cheekbones.

"Never," he leaned forward and brought his nose to your ear, taking in a deep breath, smelling the blood and your scent. "I will never let you go."

You began to cry.

[nn-ee-zz]

Hello!

Your art is so gorgeous and inspirational!

Do you have any tips on drawing body horror and character design? When I've tried to design some characters with body horror they all end up looking rather friendly 😅

Hope you have a lovely day and thanks in advance!

Thank you! I'm happy to hear that! Here goes!

NEZ GUIDE TO BODY HORROR

(Disclaimer; this is my advice, not rules. Break them as you wish)

Despite not doing it on purpose, a lot of my art is tagged as body-horror. I've embraced it. Here are my 3 pillars for frightening art. I don't have to follow them all at once, at least one is enough.

Nature

Get inspired by nature. Not necessarily by gore and wounds, but by things that look normal in one context but might appear unsettling in another. A great example is my pumpkin creature; everyone has seen the insides of a pumpkin but adding that texture to a living body made everyone react more strongly to it. I highly recommend natural things with strange textures and patterns (especially seeds)

Book Recommendation; The Art and Science of Ernst Haeckel

I recently bought this for all the gorgeous pattern and creature drawings. It's a beautiful book for those who want to draw horror based on nature. Careful if you have tyrophobia, this has some INTENSE patterns.

Subtlety

In either execution or concept.

In execution; give the drawing other recognizable characteristics. The gore is NOT them, it's just part of them. An example would be my cowboy creature. They have the coat, the hat, the boots, the smile...and then you notice the heads. Give your character more than their frightening parts.

In concept; If you want the bright reds and obvious gore, follow one simple concept. In the example below, the concept was a wound surrounded by mushrooms. That is all. If I were to add 'but also mushrooms leave their eyes, and bloody tears fall from them, and they have gashes in their skin, and'' it would have made the impact of all of those concepts collapse. Like a bed of nails. The more nails you add, the less a single individual nail will hurt.

Feeling

It follows the theme above. I noticed horror works better when it's not an abudance but also when it's relatable. I've seen people react more intensely to an animated character brushing a line of yarn against their eyeball than an animated character having their head explode in blood, brains, and bone. You can draw from emotional feelings as well, turning your mental pain into a physical manifestation of it.

This is not a must follow because I do plenty horror art without being vulnerable nor making myself uncomfortable, I just notice people react when they can relate and feel it too.

I hope it helps anon!

[sp4ceboo]

CHAPTER 5 ~ VISIONS

beneath a crimson sky masterlist | ch 1 | ch 2 | ch 3 | ch 4 | ch 5

pairing: stray kids ot8 x afab!reader

genre: apocalypse au, dystopian, dark, adventure, action, thriller, fighting, eventual smut, romance

a/n: for someone who's terrified of any sort of horror etc i sure get the urge to write it

chapter warnings: gore, lots of vivdly described disturbing stuff, illness, starvation, hallucinations

chapter word count: 2.5k

Hissing in your ears, the shadows bear you up in their arms, whisking you so high that you thrash in their shackles, screaming for them to let you down.

The whites of their eyes show as they laugh at you.

You sob, trying to grab at the inky chains they’ve fixed around your wrists and ankles, but they turn insubstantial the moment your fingers close around them, dissolving away in curls of cold smoke to reform away from your touch. Grinning faces surround you, multitudes of strange faces you cannot explain: an army assembled to mock you.

In a flash, they are gone. Bony fingers crawl over your face. Flailing, you try to bite down, but another hand clamps over your mouth as the fingers creep upwards, digging into your eye sockets and scooping. Cold envelops you, and you spasm, back arching as sight returns to you.

There’s bloody tears dripping down your face.

You weep.

Below you, a vast crowd stretches, wreathed in flames and lined up in endless rows, so far that you cannot see their ends. Dressed in rags that they treat as finery are a man and a woman, standing at the head of the formation, their faces slack and empty. Their bodies are not theirs to control.

The woman’s blonde hair hangs limp and matted around her face. There’s a glint of something metal at her waist. It’s the hilt of a knife, snug between her ribs, and though blood oozes down her clothes and soaks into her rags, she acts as if it isn’t there. Beside her, the man sways, bronzed skin pallid and coated in a sheen of sweat; he looks not entirely healthy, as if he’d just recovered from an illness. 

A figure rides up. Even from so far above, you feel the blaze of his hate. His horse is a steed forged from an inferno, red and fiery, and you catch a glimpse of sharpened iron teeth as its lip curls, tossing its flame weaved mane and pawing at the ground, the air around it undulating with heat. You begin to tremble.

The rider’s face is terrible and beguiling. His flesh drips from his bones, sizzling where it touches the horse's flanks. You are struck through with terror as his eyes find you from where you are suspended in the wine tinted sky; they are deep and endless and full of an ocean of loathing. For a moment, you are drowning in them, and fire tugs at your limbs, ripping your skin off them and gnawing through you until it finds your heart.

A wretched sound leaves you as the rider stretches out his hand and plucks it from your chest. The worst thing is that beneath the fear and the acrid scent of your burning body, there is an unexplainable elation, planted there against your will. It swells in your chest, and you begin to laugh, laugh and laugh and laugh, as the rider brings your heart to his bloody mouth and sinks his teeth in.

Pain explodes through you, and suddenly you are back in the sky. You clutch at the shadows now, pleading for them to keep you away from the rider, pleading for them to make it stop.

Again, they laugh, a chorus of shrieks and cackles, shrill, the sound boring into your head.

Though your limbs are weak with fear, you still find it within you to struggle against them. Wordless, frightened noises leave you, for below, the rider is cradling the face of the woman, close as a lover, and she is transfixed by him. You scream, begging her to pull away, to resist, but a dumb smile crawls over her face and she drops to her knees before the rider. As she falls, he grips the blade in her side and pulls it out. She does not even twitch.

You can only watch in horror as he moves onto the man. He too kneels without a fight.

Pulling the broadsword from where it is slung over his back, the second horseman draws it and rests the flat of it on the woman’s shoulder. For a panic stricken moment, you think he will behead her right there and eviscerate her beside the man, but he doesn’t.

He knights her, then the man next.

The rider gestures at them, and together, they stand, their movements jerky as if pulled on by puppet strings. You cry out when you see their eyes - deep and murky, insidious darkness leaking from their irises into their blood woven sclera.

All semblance of humanity has been erased from them.

They are nothing more than vessels.

Cool hands cup your face.

Moaning, you lean towards them, willing them to stay there and beat back the scorching desert beneath your skin. You can hear voices, but they’re far away. Your breath comes out short and laboured.

It sounds like you’re dying.

The same cool hands ease your jaw open, and water floods your parched tongue. At first, you cough, but you choke it down, so thirsty that you barely pause to breathe. Blearily, you open your eyes, but they don’t make out anything but light and dark blurs.

“She’s drinking, thank god,” the cool hands say.

You frown. It’s Minho’s voice, flat enough that you can’t read the emotions swirling beneath it, but his words sound relieved. You can’t think why Minho would be relieved that you’re alive. The room is slowly swimming into focus, and you spot two smears of black, one a little taller than the other.

A rough palm touches your cheek. “She’s still burning up, though.”

That’s Seungmin. Turning your head, you try to claw your way to lucidity, but it evades you. The cool hands sweep a damp cloth over your forehead as you begin to register his words.

“Burning,” you rasp. “He’ll make them burn everything down.”

Minho pauses, opening his mouth. The shadows sink their teeth into you before you can hear what he says.

This time, they leave you under a reddened night sky devoid of stars. No shackles bind you, but you can sense them slinking in the corners of your vision and where you cannot see, waiting to pounce. Turning in a circle, you scan the darkness, searching for the next horror that awaits you.

The sound of horse hooves rings out. You whirl around, trying to find their source, trying to ignore the tittering of the shadows as they mock you with their derisive faces.

You blink, and then the third horseman is there before you.

She sits astride a horse so black that it had blended into the circle of shadows as it approached. It is glossy and healthy looking, yet it froths at the mouth, snapping its teeth at you. The rider places a soft hand on its flank, and it calms. She smiles at you, saccharine, and it incites so much comfort inside you that you know it’s a lie.

Her extrasolar face is cold and so beautiful it cuts you, her lacy hair like cobwebs where it hangs around her face. It drapes, dripping, over her shoulders - a veil.

There’s blood on your tongue.

You take a step back, and the gentle look on her face turns ugly. Holding up her hand, a pair of scales appears between her fingers, and she places a delicate feather, white as a lamb, in the first dish.

Though there’s nothing in the second dish, the moment she releases the feather, it hurtles downwards - the scales shriek shrilly as they move, and you watch in horror as the feather begins to bleed until it is soaked red. The rider turns to you, and now there is nothing comforting about her sharpened smile. Heart pounding, you back away, but the shadows push you back towards her, and what you believe must certainly be your doom.

She raises her hand and points at you.

Immediately, you collapse, your stomach cramping. You are filled with a sudden craving, a hunger so vast you cannot think; you merely scrabble at the floor, tremors wracking your body as you cry out, needing to fill the yawning cavern inside you. It erodes you from the inside out, so acute it burns like vile acid.

Wailing, you claw your way forward until your vision is filled with the hooves of her horse. You are weak with hunger, so weak that it is a battle to raise your head and look up at her, your mouth hanging open to plead for her to release you from the pain. No sound comes out.

Caressing the horse’s mane, she leans forward and whispers into its velvety ear. You quake as you look up at her, wondering what she said, wondering if she will take mercy on you and knowing she will not.

Whinnying, the horse rears, and you scream as its hooves slam down and punch right through your ribcage.

The combined agony radiating from your crushed torso and the gaping hunger in your stomach paralyses you, locking your muscles so tight it hurts. Your body begins to spasm, and your teeth close around your tongue. Panic spears through you as you begin to choke on your own blood.

Your skin tears, your bones cracking and popping and rearranging within you. You’re aware of protrusions pushing their way out of your back and down your arms, burrowing through your muscles and forcing them to reform around them. When you look up, the rider has dismounted her horse.

Tenderly, she touches your lips.

As if it has its own will, your body bends like a tree in a gale, and she kisses your forehead, her scarlet mouth terrible and searing against your skin, yet upon its touch, the pain in your ribs recedes, reforming you into something new.

The hunger roiling and snapping like a beast within only sharpens its claws.

“Go,” she murmurs. “Slaughter awaits.”

The world shakes with how hard you’re shivering, yet you can’t help but kick off your blankets. Someone secures them more tightly around them and you lash out, but your arms are weak and all it does is flop your hand against their leg. A voice floats down from somewhere in the sky.

“You need to eat.”

“Chan?” You groan, words slurred as strong hands ease you upright. “Changbin?”

“We’re here,” one of them says, although you’re not sure which one.

A spoon is pressed against your lips, and you hold back a cough long enough to swallow - they’ve mashed food so it’s liquid, easier for you to get down and keep down. Your head spins, the faces before you blurring. You realise Jisung is also with them, crouched beside Changbin, his face pale as he watches you.

“What did you mean before, about slaughter?”

Another face swims into view. Jeongin. You stare at him, bewildered both by his question and why he is bobbing up and down in front of you like a rubber duck caught in the crashing waves of the sea.

“I - I don’t remember,” you mumble.

Chan puts his hand on Jeongin’s shoulder. “It’s fine. She’ll tell us when she’s better.”

He says it like it’s final, like he’s sure that you will get through it, like there’s no other option. You want to believe him.

The shadows craft you a leash out of the ephemeral material that clothes them. Laughing, always laughing, they secure it around your neck, so tight that only strained gasps of air make it out of you, and drag you along with them, letting your body get broken and battered by the rocks in their path. Mud chokes your lungs, settling heavy in your chest when you inhale it, and fragments of rubbish and twigs tangle into your hair.

They’re bringing you to someone.

You begin to kick and struggle then, tearing at the leash, but it sinks deeper into your flesh, and your own torn nails leave gashes in your skin. As normal, your screams fall on deaf ears, and you writhe, knowing that who they’re taking you to will be far worse than the previous you’ve seen.

The collar of shadow rings tighter around your neck. Tighter and tighter and tighter until an abyss gapes open below you, and you fall right through, and this time even the shadows forsake you, letting you descend into the blackness as they recede from your vision. Somehow, it brings you no comfort, for they too fear he who has summoned you.

Your bones crunch and snap as you land; it is certain that the fall has ended you, and now your soul is trapped in the cage of your broken ribs, fluttering and trying to shake itself free. You cannot move. You cannot flee.

A pale horse walks towards you, yet its hooves make no noise. Fearful, you raise your eyes to see its rider.

He too is pale, and wreathed in a colourless cloak that casts a shadow over his face, yet you can see his skeletal features, motionless and terribly still within his cowl. The arc of the scythe in his fingers winks at you, even in the dark, and he uses the end of it to hook you and drag you from your body. Your bones clatter as your essence leaves them.

Death holds you in the palm of his hand, and you are captivated by the darkness within his hood. You know that this is the moment that your life rests upon.

“I have come to reap,” he says, with a voice like the slam of nails into a coffin lid. “Yet your time is not up yet.”

Again, you are falling.

There’s someone talking to you. You can see his face, see his lips moving, but you don’t understand a word he’s saying.

You don’t remember his name, nor the name of the one beside him, but you know who they are: there’s the blonde angel, his eyes earnest and worried as they search your slack face, and the dark haired prince, his handsome face etched in fear as he wipes your brow with a damp cloth.

The angel clasps your hands in his small ones, and this time, his words are audible, drifting down to you as if he talks to you from the top of a canyon while you’re tied to the bottom of the gorge, straining to hear his words. You fight to pick them out from the whisperings of the shadows, the freckles on his face swirling like constellations.

“Fight it,” he says, squeezing your fingers. “Fight just a little longer.”

You want to. You want to fight it, but the shadows creep closer, tugging at your limbs, and suddenly you’re just their puppet, them the cruel puppeteers.

You watch in horror as your own hands rear up like snakes and claw at the angel’s face.

taglist: @estella-novella@0bticeo@lixies-favorite-cookie@smashleywow@realrintaro @extremechaoswarning @4l17h4 @hyunjinsjeans @insufferablyunbearable @lovemepie67 @needsumcomfypillowstosleep @loumin908 (let me know if you want to be added)

[lorimnnn]

dbd killers with a crybaby!reader

don’t worry, i promise i’m working on pt.3 of Mine for the Michael fic. I’m just supr unmotivated but don’t want you thinking i’m dead or something. anyway:

summary: jiwoon hak and the ghost face with a reader who tears up easily. you’re sensitive and not good with confrontation nor blood, and are super sensitive to the pain around you. sometimes you get overwhelmed and just need to sit down and cry it out...

cw: i mean, it’s dbd? swearing, gore, murders, obsession

also, i’m taking requests!

---

THE TRICKSTER - JIWOON HAK

finds your tears entertaining, appreciates that you’re such a willing participant in his art

it takes a few trials for him to realise that your reactions aren’t temporary and are a genuine response to your surroundings

starts to find you a bit annoying after that

like, what are you doing here if you can’t handle it? all the survivors need a bit of grit to survive. you’re no fun otherwise. once he realises that, he starts to transfer his anger towards the Entity.

will be in denial that he feels bad for you

the first few trials that he realises if he chases you, you’ll just collapse and cry or sniffle really adorably pathetically. unintentionally makes you his obsession each trial because he saves you for last, mostly because you’re no fun and the easiest to kill

will mori you out of frustration

eventually starts snatching you by the back of your collar and dumping you through the hatch. not because he feels guilty. no, not at all. you’re just really, really annoying...

finds himself thinking about you always 

why are you always crying?

don’t you know you have to adapt?

you have to get over it. 

one day you’re the only one left again and not only that, but that dreaded Trickster is saving you for last again. from your point of view, he’s deliberately tormenting you knowing that mentally, you can’t take it.

he’s secretly going easy on you because he’s wondering whether or not you’ll have it in yourself to finish the generators and stand up for yourself

but you’re so distraught that you mess up one of the generators and it explodes, and you can’t take it, you burst into tears. you feel so bad for the other survivors for being roped in with you, and you can’t even do your part right without crying. 

“Aish!” he swears sharply. A knife slams into the wall next to your head and you jump, lifting your wet face from your arms to stare at The Trickster. Fear quakes through your body and you brace yourself for his assault, whether that be another mori or basically dumping you through the hatch like used trash (it hasn’t occurred to you that he might be being nice when he does it, because logically, he has no reason to be nice)

you start to whimper when the tip of his blade finds your chin, forcing your head back. it thuds against the wall and pain spirals across the back of your skull, a wince lancing across your expression--- a cute little look that earns you a chuckle from the demented idol. 

“You’re really annoying, you know,” he tells you. “You can’t do anything right.”

oh, and he’ll say this like he’s comforting you, his voice soft and sweet and soothing. your muddled little brain can’t begin to understand what he’s trying to say to you, and only clings to his faux kindness.

at this point, he’ll just have to accept it. he has a soft spot for you. you’re just so cute and helpless, and you can’t help it that you care so much for your fellow survivors even though you’re nothing but a waste of space on their team...

is this why you’re always compensating by using yourself as a human shield? honestly, while it’s partly admirable, he finds the more you offer yourself up to him like that, the less he wants to hurt you

With his other hand, he strokes buries it in your hair. The way he strokes it is gentle enough, but you’re well aware he can snap your neck in seconds if he wants to. 

“You’re really lucky you’re cute. I almost feel bad for you.”

he does. he feels extremely bad for you because you’re not designed for this kind of world, and because of that he just can’t bring himself to recognise you as another survivor

“Hah,” he’ll sigh. “I can’t do it.”

“C-can’t do what?”

He’ll roll his eyes. “What else? Kill you.”

pulls you into his arms before you can comment on it. the affection is too much, you cry into him. he’ll make some comments about you ruining his clothes, but he doesn’t really mean it. will pull you closer if you try pull away. 

also keep in mind--- is not sympathising with you at all. he’s a psycho. he just learned to find pleasure in your tears and realised you’re kinda cute and can’t be roped in with the rest of the survivors if you’re never going to play the Entity’s game. (this is when he’ll start thinking something narccistic, like, ‘of course she cries and makes noises. this is the entity’s gift to me.)

the type to lick your face and taste your tears. “no more crying when you’re with me, okay? or I’ll give you something real to cry about.”

he either means he’ll fuck you or kill you again, but could honestly mean both depending on how you take it

GHOST FACE - DANNY ‘JED OLSEN’ JOHNSON

so many pictures

will max out his film on your tears

he knew about you the second the Entity welcomed you into her realm. at first, he just thought you were cute. he blamed it on the fleeting infatuation he felt towards you, knowing that once your fear wore off, you wouldn’t be that cute anymore

it never wore off

he became obsessed

openly obsessed too, will seek you out and ignore all the other survivors despite the Entity’s will, and will track you down outside of trials to stalk you, taunt you, anything to keep you in the constant state of meltdown he finds so endearing

experiments with your tears. doesn’t want you panicked all the time, of course. 

because of how he targets you in trials, the other survivors quickly adapted and learned to abandon you if they wanted to save themselves or win. danny weaponised this fact, of course.

“aw, babe, don’t be sad. or do. you’re all alone!”

will pull your terrified body against his chest and tip your head back with his knife, forcing you to watch your fellow survivors scatter around you. will tour you around the trial to see what makes you tick the most.

“are you proud of me, babe? i hooked all your friends within the first ten minutes of the trial.”

cue a sniffle that excites him even more

and you’ll feel it too. his hardness against your back, solid and probing and thrilled at your sensitivity. he wants to traumatise you as much as possible. he wants you horrified, and he wants to abuse your fear until there’s none left. there’s never been so much of it before.

don’t get the wrong idea, though. no matter how much he likes you, he won’t touch you--- he’s not a rapist, he’s a killer and a perv. will exploit your face with his camera and mori you and hook you as much as he wants. there’s no stopping him.

not for a while

it’s takes a really long time for him to start challenging why you still cry. it won’t occur to him that it’s such an abnormality until he’s stalking you six months in and watching you mourn another failed trial. let’s say it was with the oni. the oni mori-d you on the spot, and here you were, crying over it despite those same events happening every other trial without fail. and it only occurs to him because it’s six months and he was planning on something cheesy like, “happy six-month anniversary!” because he’s never been consistently obsessed for such a long period of time.

this is when the posessiveness starts to hit. The Oni made you cry? That large, angry piece of shit?

don’t worry babe, he’ll take care of it for you

Only he’s allowed to make you cry like that. only him and nobody else. this is when he’ll start laying claim, calling you his.

he flays the Oni and leaves his scraps scattered across his temple. takes a picture and leaves it on your bed so you know what he’s done, and calls it his anniversary gift

he’ll now start putting in the effort for you to trust him. wants you to admit you’re his, too!

who cares if he’s mori’d, hooked, tunnelled, and killed you a billion times over? fresh start, new beginnings!

will nail it through every one else’s heads that you’re his and that you’re tears are his and that blah blah blah is his

honestly, the other killers will only leave you alone so Danny will stop blabbing on and on about you 

he’s really starting to feel like your boyfriend now

that’s what the other survivors are calling him, anyway. y/n’s boyfriend. 

Danny fully embraces it and starts calling himself your boyfriend, much to your displeasure. But you do start to notice that your trials are becoming less and less frustrating to endure, and you know it’s because of him. He’s even saving you for last, now. The chasing isn’t even half-bad anymore. (And especially with Danny, he’s going to make the chasing feel kinky as fuck)

learns he really likes your laugh as much as he likes your tears. finds himself smiling when he grabs you around the waist mid-spring and hoists you off the ground.

shudders with a sick smirk when you hug him back. you’re so cute.

but he is the Ghostface. Wants you to love his alter-ego as much has you love Danny Johnson, your mostly normal, stalkerish boyfriend

forces you to hold his knife and pretend to hurt him, smirking when you cry 

makes you carve your initials into his body as you sniffle here and there, your tears stinging against the open wound 

kisses you and whispers dirty shit into your ear as you do so, because the dumbass thinks it’ll make it all better

“that’s it, baby. God, that feels so good. Push harder. Hurt me. Fuckkkk-”

“I don’t like this, Danny.”

“Who?”

“G-Ghostface.” Your bottom lip wobbles as more tears slip down your face. “I don’t like this, Ghostface.”

“Just a little longer, baby.”

Will be surprisingly gentle with you, once you admit you’re his

but don’t be fooled. you’re his forever. the second he’s jealous, or you consider leaving, remember he’s the same man who gets off on your pain and tormented you the first six months of knowing you...

[cherryandsugar]

Corpse

Pairing: Spawn!Astarion x Redeemed!Durge!Reader

Genre: Angst w/ a Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort

WC: 3,688

Warnings: MAJOR DURGE SPOILERS, blood and death, canon level violence, magical sedation, slight canon noncompliance, Y/N used exactly once

Requested by @gourmetcheese24 "Can I make a request where Astarion goes down during a fight and dies and Tav stays with his body for several days - the rest of the party unable to remove her. Maybe at this point Withers is away from camp. But when he returns he revives Astarion… super super angsty but with a sweet ending please!"

Bhaal’s will was clear. Only a one on one duel, a fight to the death, with Orin the Red would satisfy him. A battle for his favor, not that you wanted it, could free you from his grasp. But Orin had gone too far. She had taken your one and only love, your Astarion. And she would pay. Even in her monstrous slayer form, nothing could shake your resolve as you faced her down in the bowels of her disgusting temple. Shadowheart, Karlach and Lae’zel stood at your back as a wall of magic encircled the central platform. And just as Orin’s metamorphosis ended, and her massive insectile body towered over yours, the battle began.

Everything you’d done, all the lives you had saved  since surviving the Nautiloid crash had led to this moment. Fighting your Urges, discovering your true origin and your part in the creation of the Absolute, had led to this moment. Not only were you fighting to free Astarion from your wretched sister, but you were also fighting for yourself. Fighting to free yourself from Bhaal’s clutches, so that you and Astarion might live. The only thing standing between you and your happy ending was Orin (and an all-powerful Elder Brain, but that could be dealt with later).

Her offense was impressive, using her many appendages to rake your flesh and draw your blood. But rage is a weapon in itself, and no claws could match the sharpness of your fury. You met her every strike, cleaving limb from thorax as your friends looked on with bated breath. With a cruel swipe, her claws rend your legs and you fall beneath her, blood pooling beneath you. Faintly, you hear your companions shout at you to get up, to keep fighting. Orin raises her arms above her head, ready to land a killing blow. With your last ounce of strength you thrust your sword up into her stomach, halting her attack. She reels backward, and when her final breath is stolen, and her form collapses, she begins to… laugh? 

She drags her half-corpse backwards on her arms, screeching with each step as she mounts the sacrificial platform. Astarion lays helplessly beneath her. You struggle to get up, slipping on your own blood and falling back to the ground. You can’t even follow her on your ruined legs as you watch in horror. She raises her arm, and plunges her dagger into Astarion’s chest before exploding into a puddle of gore. Astarion seizes for a split second, his body waking only to die. You try to drag yourself to him as he gasps… and goes still.

“...no,” you whisper, as the magical barrier that surrounded your arena dissipates and your companions rush to your side. Karlach helps you to stand and you try to stagger over to Astarion. She halts as Scleritas Fel climbs over his body to address you, and you slump against her. You can only stare at Astarion’s lifeless corpse as he begins to speak.

“He… is near… He comes for you,” your butler gasps before a dagger erupts from his chest. His body is lifted from the ground, as even more phantom daggers pierce through him and he floats before you. A fresh puddle of blood gathers on the floor at your feet. His reflection in the blood stands upright, it’s eyes glowing a punishing red as they land on you.

“Child of slaughter…” it growls, “I come to give you your inheritance…” you blink back at it, trying to back away. Karlach holds you firm, not because she wants to force you to confront your father, but because she knows it must be done. She squeezes your arms in reassurance. You do not face your father alone, no matter how isolated you might feel.

“I have a gift for you Child… You will use it to lacerate this world,” he commands. But you want no gift from him. The only gift you could possibly want at this moment is Astarion, returned to you. Tears well in your eyes as you try to find your strength. You swallow the lump in your throat before you tear your gaze away from Astarion to meet the eyes of your father.

“I need no further gifts,” your voice shakes, “You have tainted me enough,” you whisper. This defiance may be your last act, but your life has already been damned. What difference does it make if you are damned in death?

“You refuse me?” Bhaal seethes, “You are my spawn, your veins course with my unholy blood. Your life is mine. Accept your inheritance or I will reclaim it.”

You bow your head, Karlach squeezes your side again and you nudge her back as you regain your footing and stagger to stand on your own. If this is to be your fate, then so be it. Who were you to think you could deny Bhaal and live to tell the tale? Without Astarion, would you even want to? Grief and pain cloud your judgment as you raise your head to speak your final words, “I don’t need any of this. I don’t need you. The only family I know are those that fight by my side.” 

And as soon as you reject him, a tingle in your arm erupts into a burning, searing pain. Your breath constricts as he speaks again, “You were made to conquer. To devour,” he growls. You fall to your knees as your breath fades, unable to draw in fresh air as your ribcage tightens around your organs. Your lungs scream as your heartbeat races, trying desperately to keep your body from shutting down. A searing headache blazes across your skull, but your arms are useless at your side as you try to hold your head against the pain.

“You reject my blood, so I will reclaim it.”

Your body rises from the ground, levitating in Bhaal’s cruel grasp. Before you can desperately cry out for help, you feel your bones shatter. It begins in your limbs, your legs and arms twisting into cruel, unnatural shapes before your ribs finally crack and shatter. And it ends with your skull, caving in on itself. The last thing you hear before the light fades is your father promising, “I will make another who is worthy…”

~~~

When you wake, Withers stands above you. You heave and cough as the breath returns to your tired lungs. You look up at him from where you kneel on the unforgiving stone of your former temple, “What… are you?” you gasp.

“Most of the time, a mere observer. But thine circumstances are extraordinary, and so art thou. Mine intervention is rare, and shall be dealt with,” he begins to glow with a golden light, “And now I must answer for my defiance, just as thou hast answered for thine own…” 

The glow intensifies until it reaches a blinding peak. You shut your eyes against the onslaught, shielding them with your arms before the light flashes and disappears. And when you open your eyes, Withers is gone with it. 

But Withers is the least of your concerns. Your Urge is gone, but so is your love. On freshly healed legs, you scramble to your feet and rush over to the altar. Astarion had been a corpse for a long time. About 200 years in fact. Longer than you’ve known him. But in all that time you’d never thought of him as a corpse. How could you, with his witty remarks and self-assured smirk? 

But now, before you, he’d never looked more dead, despite his two centuries of undeath. It had all happened so fast, before you could truly process it. And now, your love was dead before your very eyes. Well and truly dead. Stabbed through the heart by Orin’s cruel red dagger before you’d managed to stop her. You grasp at his cold hand, turning behind you.

“Shadowheart! Please, do something!” you beg, nearing hysteria.

She wastes no time, joining you at his side as a soft blue glow envelops her hands. She places them over his unbeating heart and whispers a prayer. You watch the magical energy pass from her into him, but nothing happens. You hold your breath as you wait, watching as she furrows her brows.

“I don’t understand, that should have worked,” she sounds unsure of herself before trying again, this time with a scroll, reading the incantation over his body. The scroll glows and disintegrates, just as they have when used in the past, but Astarion still does not rise.

“What’s going on?” your breath hitches as you look wildly between your three companions. In your desperation you didn’t notice the crowd of Bhaalists observing your distress until they began to cackle and laugh around you. The one closest to you catches his breath for a moment to torment you further.

“You know what this is,  you fool. That blade was once yours after all,” he taunts as his laughter bubbles up again. “The lash of Bhaal!” he shrieks, “You cannot be revived from its strike,” he chokes out through his smile.

All words are lost to you as a desperate cry strangles you. The Bhaalists laugh harder at your anguish, but you don’t hear them. You don’t hear Shadowheart try to revive Astarion once more, despite its futility. You can’t feel Lae’zel try to pull you away from his corpse as Karlach moves to unshackle his body and carry him away. Even as you struggle against her, heaving sobs tear themselves from your chest. Hysteria has truly claimed you this time. It was not the Urges that drove you to madness, but the loss of the person who helped turn you away from them. As you grasp and grab at Astarions hand, begging him to wake up, you feel a wave of calming energy pass over you before you once again lose consciousness, and the world fades to black.

~~~

When you wake in your bed at the Elfsong Tavern you are not alone. Jaheira sits beside you as she has done on so many nights before, guarding you and your friends from the Urges that tried to rule you. You sit up slowly, and rub your eyes, trying to sort through your memories. 

So much had happened since you last slept in your bed, but nothing could erase the cold dread that settled in your stomach when you remembered what had befallen your love. Your breath hitches, and Jaheira places a firm hand on your shoulder.

“Easy now,” she soothes, “You are safe.”

“No, no forget that,” your voice scratches on your throat, “Astarion, where is he?” you demand.

Jaheira takes a measured breath, considering her words before responding, “His body is resting in Stelmane’s room. We are waiting for the skeleton to return, to see if he can revive him.”

“If!?” you shout, “No. No, I need to see him, there must be something we can do,” you rip the blanket from your legs and scramble off of your bed. Jaheira tries to push you back, but you brush her off. She follows at your heels as you tear through the common area of your suite, drawing attention from your other companions on the way. Wyll tries to grab your arm but you shake him off harshly, barreling towards the door before Karlach blocks it, standing directly in your path, arms crossed and face pained.

“Trust me, Soldier, you don’t want to see him like this,” she reasons.

“What do you mean?” your voice shakes, fear settling in your gut like a stone.

“You’ve been out for two days. He’s not…” she begins.

“He doesn’t look like himself,” Jaheira finishes.

“Two days?” you cry, “And Withers hasn’t returned?” a headache begins to form behind your eyes as the inconsistencies start to build up, “How did I even get back here? Why did I sleep for so long?” you all but beg.

Your friends share worried glances between each other, which confuses you even more.

“What aren’t you telling me?” your voice is a whisper. Shadowheart sighs as she takes your hand. Against your better judgment, you allow her to lead you to the seating area around the fireplace. The party follows close behind as you all find seats on the couches and chairs in the center of your suite.

Shadowheart sits right beside you, continues to hold your hand as she begins to explain, “Back in the Temple, you were inconsolable. We had to leave, so I did what I needed to do. I used Feign Death so Lae’zel could carry you here. Karlach took Astarion and we returned.”

You shot her an icy glare, “Feign Death doesn’t last two days,” you bite.

“No,” she admits, “But you needed to heal. Withers may have revived you, but Bhaal destroyed your body. That kind of damage doesn’t repair itself overnight. So, I kept you sedated, I placed you in a healing sleep while I tended to Astarion.”

“But you said he was…” your voice cracks and fails before you can finish your thought. Before you can say the word… dead. 

She rubs soothing lines on your back before replying, “He is. But if he is to be revived, we have to maintain his body. Gale and I have been using our magic to prevent his… decay.”

Tears well in your eyes as a crushing pressure grips your heart, “Then why can’t I see him?” you choke out as the tears begin to fall in earnest. As soon as the words leave your mouth your head droops and silent sobs rack your body. Your group is silent as you weep, the only noise coming from your sniffles and gasps for breath.

“I… I can’t do this without him,” you cry to no one in particular. “So much of me is missing, I can’t even remember who I was before him,” you begin to babble through your tears, I– I can’t… I,” you trail off.

Shadowheart shushes you, bringing you into a hug as she tries to comfort you. 

“Please, can I just sit with him until Withers returns?” you beg them, hoping against hope that they won’t take that from you. Not after so much has already been stolen from you.

Gale is the next to speak up, “Time passes differently in the Outer Planes, we can’t know for sure how long it will be before Withers returns.” he warns.

“Please” you whisper, crying softly to your friends. They look around at each other once more, communicating silently before coming to a decision.

“Very well,” Shadowheart whispers, standing up with you, never once removing her comforting hold from your shoulders. Gale holds the door for the two of you as you walk across the hall to the room Duke Stelmane was murdered in, now the home of your murdered love. The rest of your group stays behind so as not to crowd you. At the sight of him, your quiet sobs devolve into full-blown wails of grief.

His chest in bare, shirt removed to expose the singular stab wound just above his heart. It has been thoroughly cleaned, but it will not heal… not until he is brought back to you. The circles under his eyes are somehow darker, a purple so deep it is practically black. His fingers are blue as stagnant blood pools beneath the skin. You fall to your knees before him, grabbing his hand, but startling at how stiff it sits. The joints resist your movement as you pull it towards your chest, only forcing you to sob harder. Never has he been so still. But in that moment, you decide, you will not leave his side until he wakes. And maybe not even after that.

After a while, a few minutes… or maybe hours, Gale and Shadowheart try to pull you to your feet, remove you from his side and return you to bed. But you refuse. You shake your head, and plant yourself down. You will not budge, and you tell them as much. You will not leave.

They sigh, almost in unison, before quickly discussing a solution. Gale will watch over you tonight after casting a freezing spell to preserve Astarion’s body. And Shadowheart will take his place in the morning.

This alternating schedule continues for days. Shadowheart and Gale take the majority of the watch shifts, occasionally replaced by your other companions when they return from adventuring in the city. You don’t eat, you barely sleep, only occasionally nodding off from your place on the floor beside him. When Wyll brings you a plate of fruit to snack on, served with a concerned glance, it sits untouched beside you. The only thing on your broken mind is Astarion.

It takes a total of five days for Withers to return from the Outer Planes. He tried to explain where he was when you presented him with a small bag of coin, but he may as well have been talking to the wall. It doesn’t matter to you why he was gone, but you can tell that Shadowheart and Gale are listening with rapt attention as he explains. The four of you stand around Astarion’s body, and you cast your eyes downward as he begins his chant, striking Astarion’s name from the archives and commanding him to rise. A gust of wind passes over you, the curtains swish softly and a faint gasp sounds from the center of the room. You raise your eyes just in time to see Astarion jerk and shoot upwards, grasping at his chest and coughing violently.

You’re with him before he can utter a word, rubbing his back in an effort to soothe his panic. He flinches away from your touch. You recoil, holding your hands up beside you to prove you mean no harm, “Sorry, I’m sor–”

He cuts you off, “What… the bloody hells happened?” his voice is hoarse as he demands answers. He pats himself down as if to prove to himself that he still draws breath, looking around frantically, eyes wild. Your mouth hangs open, trying to find a way to explain what had happened before Shadowheart steps in. She really had been your rock throughout this whole ordeal.

“Y/N should be the one to explain. The two of you have a lot to catch up on,” she murmured, patting your back before directing Gale to follow her out of the room. And then you were alone. Astarion was alive and well before you, and you struggled to find the words to express what you had been through. It must have shown on your face, because his agitation was quickly replaced with concern as he takes one of your hands in his own. Briefly, you recall a similar moment, days ago, when you grasped his cold, stiff hand and wept over him.

As tears begin to gather on your waterline, you take a deep breath, attempting to compose yourself. He waits patiently for you to begin, trying to provide as much comfort as he can muster.

“You were dead,” you begin in a whisper, “You died, and so did I.” His grip on your hand tightens at the mention of your own death.

“Orin took you… she used you as bait, to force me to fight her. It was… a fight to the death for Bhaal’s favor, and I won,” you breathed, pausing for a moment.

Astarion speaks up softly before you can continue, “If you won, then why did we die?”

You shudder at the memory, “In her final moments, she crawled over you and killed you with her dagger, and you can’t be brought back from that, not by the normal means,” a steady stream of tears began to fall down your cheeks. Astarion uses one of his hands to wipe them away, silently encouraging you to continue.

“Once she was dead, Bhaal appeared to us in the temple. He tried to name me his Chosen, but I refused him, I turned down his power just like you turned down the Ascension. I wanted us to be free, together,” the last word was a sob, ripped from your throat.

“Shhh, shh, it’s okay love,” Astarion soothes as he pets your hair, bringing you closer to him and wrapping an arm around your shoulders. You lean into him, tucking your head into the space between his neck and his shoulder.

“But… but he said I was his, and he killed me for rejecting him. Withers brought me back, but he said he had to ‘answer for his defiance’ and he was gone. Shadowheart put me to sleep for two days. When I woke, Withers was still gone. He has been gone… for five days.”

The arm around your shoulder rubs up and down your arm as he processes his own death. You can practically hear the cogs turning in his head before he whispers, “I’ve been dead for a week?” he asks.

You sniffle and nod against his shoulder. He laughs for a brief moment before trying to reassure you, “It certainly doesn’t feel like it, I feel quite refreshed actually.”

You laugh silently against him before he continues, “You, however, look like you’ve been trampled by a tarrasque. Tell me darling, when was the last time you slept?”

“I’m not sure,” you admit.

He chuckles, and you relish the feeling of his chest rising and falling beneath your head. He pauses for a moment before reassuring you, “Truly darling, I feel just fine. But you clearly do not. Let’s get you some food and a nice long nap, hmm?”

You nod again, your eyes already beginning to droop in the comfort of his hold. With his body seemingly returned to full strength, he stands before you, offering his hand to help you. You take it gratefully, and he squeezes your hand, almost as if to prove that he is real. He pulls you up and together you walk back into your party’s shared suite, eager to spend a night wrapped in each other’s arms, able to truly rest for the first time in a week.

~~~ A/N: HI! This is my longest published fic yet! Super special thanks to @gourmetcheese24 for the request, and to those who also sent in requests, fear not! I am working on them! As always, if you enjoyed please be sure to let me know! Reblogs and comments mean the world to me, I love reading each and every one. If you find any mistakes please let me know, I have been working on this with all my spare time for two days straight now and I just want to hit the little post button I'm so excited. Anyway, bye bye, x

[giorno-plays-piano]

We're In This Together

Pairing: monster!Peter Parker x monster!reader

Warnings: yandere-ish Peter, allusion to non-con, gore, child abuse, a bit of body horror (nothing descriptive), death of minor characters, smut, hurt/comfort.

Words: 3.2k

Summary: Peter wasn't like you, he had said. He wasn't a demon, really, but he made a deal with one, promised his life in exchange for this power. He hadn't had a good life, he said, hemming as if it was something to laugh about, so he had wanted to change it. When he needed it most, a man showed up in front of him, a strange man with strange limbs growing from the wrong parts of his body. The man had killed someone Peter hated for him and asked if Peter wanted to be strong, and Peter said yes. And then he could grow any limbs he wanted himself.

________

"Don't you think it's strange they still have no idea what's happening?" You wondered, wiping your shoe on a garbage bin, behind you a bloody mess of flesh and bones that was a lesser demon just a few minutes ago. "It's been almost a week."

The guy snorted, getting on one knee to rummage through dead demon's clothes and swiftly pulling out a fat leather wallet out of a pocket of his coat. It was conveniently full of cash, you saw when your partner in crime opened it and took out the money, pocketing them before you had a chance to say something.

"What?" He asked, squinting at you wearing a confused expression. "Too morally dubious to steal money from a demon who murdered hell knows how many people? Don't try to make me feel bad about it."

Well, maybe it was sketchy, but now it didn't sound too bad. In the end, you got nothing for cleaning the city from these creatures, not even a kind word since people conveniently didn't see demons until the creatures pounced on them. You could hardly blame Peter for wanting to benefit from this bloodbath at least somehow.

"We could go shopping," he smirked as he observed his own bloodied sweatpants that were beyond salvation. "I'd buy you some pretty stuff you like."

Yeah, maybe it didn't sound too bad. You wouldn't mind a change of clothes, especially since you had nothing but top and worn-out jeans.

It had started with you waking up in the middle of the night in a place you couldn't recognize, surrounded by dead bodies and blood. The sky had been bright red, and you remembered the distinctive smell of gas as if something had exploded nearby. You had lost consciousness before you could understand what had been happening around you.

The next morning, you had woken up in a place you hadn't recognized either, but a very different place, nonetheless. There had been no fire, no bodies, no blood. You had been laying on the top of a building, a high school, as you found out later. How did you end up there? Who had carried you to the rooftop? Why? And, most importantly, who were you?

It wasn't like you remembered nothing about who you were. You had a good idea about how your house looked, what you liked and disliked, what sorts of courses you took in uni, and that you had a job back home... but when you thought about the faces of your parents, they were blank. You couldn't remember the name of your hometown, either. The circumstances of your arrival here... or what had happened that night when you woke up with dead people all around you remained shrouded in mystery. One thing you knew for sure: you weren't entirely human.

And neither was Peter. You found him on the first or second day of your awakening: everything was blurry, your mind hazy, and you couldn't really recall what you were doing after you had woken up on the roof of a high school. You did, however, distinctly remember him fighting a hellish-looking creature, all exposed flesh and bones, in a back alley somewhere at the outskirts of the city. Not that Peter didn't look like a demon himself with his arms changing form, stretching, razor-sharp teeth growing right through his skin, multiple mouths biting off chunks of flesh from the creature.

But Peter was human, and the creature was not. And when the creature had stabbed him in the chest, you suddenly felt like it was wrong for Peter to die and that it was very sad to see him on the ground, bleeding so much. He was young, and he fought the demon because he felt it was wrong to let it roam free, to let him stuff its belly with other humans who'd be helpless against it. Peter had done a good thing, and the world would be poorer without him, you thought and crushed the creature with a giant arm coming out of your back, ripping through your jacket. You remembered the squelching sound the creature's body made under your massive palm when you squished it like a bug.

Despite you being sure you were human, apparently, you were not. Or not entirely, at least.

Putting back a piece of flesh in Peter's chest wasn't easy, but you had done it like you knew exactly what needed to be done, and it grew back in very nicely, and the boy no longer bled. He opened his eyes and stared at you for a long, long time.

You remembered asking him to lead the way to his home - although you couldn't recall what exactly triggered you to go there - and him bringing you to a stuffy apartment somewhere at the edge of the city. Then, you supposed, you either fainted or went to sleep. By the time you woke up, the boy was at your side, waiting impatiently when you'd come around.

Peter wasn't like you, he had said. He wasn't a demon, really, but he made a deal with one, promised his life in exchange for this power. He hadn't had a good life, he said, hemming as if it was something to laugh about, so he had wanted to change it. When he needed it most, a man had shown up in front of him, a strange man with strange limbs growing from the wrong parts of his body. The man had killed someone Peter hated for him and asked if Peter wanted to be strong, and Peter said yes. And then he could grow any limbs he wanted himself.

He wasn't some fighter for justice, he said. He didn't get power to protect humanity against demons. There hadn't been any demons in the city that time to begin with, just his teacher, the man with strange limbs. He had fun with his new power, he said. But then the elder gods had showed up and wrecked chaos, and his teacher was killed. Then the lesser demons had appeared, and while he saw some that were harmless, others were eager for human flesh, and it was making him sick. So, he had killed a couple. And the last one killed him. And then you came and brought him back.

He wasn't a very gentle man, you saw. He was intentionally rough and swore all the time and acted like he couldn't care if the world went down tomorrow, but when you asked him for water, he brought you a glass, and when you said you were hungry, he made you a sandwich. And when you went on a demon hunt next night, he shielded you from a monster aiming at your back.

Peter was an ally. A friend.

"This would look good on you," the guy snorted, handing you a short leather skirt and motioning to the fitting rooms. "I'll come back after you're done."

You had a whole heap of clothes in your hands. Nodding to him, you went into one of numerous cabins, carefully putting hangers on a rack before you took out a skirt and started changing.

You weren't wearing clothes like that before. Now you liked leather, vinyl, low-cut crop tops, and studded jackets. Why? Was it because it no longer mattered what other people would think? Because nothing really mattered after these grotesque monsters appeared, and you didn't know if you'd live tomorrow? Or was it because that's what Peter liked, and you unconsciously decided to please him?

Peter asked you who you were and how you had saved him, but there wasn't much to tell. You didn't remember making a deal with demons, and you weren't demon-born either. You didn't think so, at least. You had human parents, human life, and until that night, there was nothing wrong with your body, no powers to speak of. What if you weren't human then, Peter had asked. What if those weren't your memories?

You'd be very sad if they weren't yours, you had told him.

But even if they belonged to you, you didn't harry to get back the life you had. You couldn't even tell how you had ended up in this city, surely far away from home. All you could say was that it wasn't important, your life back then. The elder gods and demons, they were the cause of your worry now. Maybe you couldn't remember anything because you were destined to stop them or something like that. And so that nothing could distract you from your mission, some memories of yours were taken away.

Sounds poetic, the guy said mockingly, but you could see he wasn't sure himself. Somehow, you ended up killing the creature he had fought but saved him, nonetheless, even if that night they both looked like demons. You had distinguished right from wrong, knowing nothing about him.

You were glad he was alive, you had told Peter. You liked him.

His face turned fiery red, and he grumbled something inarticulate to you. You could feel he liked you, too. He liked you since that night when he had woken up to you wiping blood off his chest.

"For you," he said when you left the cabin with a top and that leather skirt he gave you. He was handing you a small paper bag with a nice pink pattern on it. "They'd look cool on you."

Earrings. Nice, pretty silver earrings, shining under the bright light of a fitting room.

"I'll put them on," the guy took the box out of hands and pulled them out, then fumbled with the clasp. You felt his hands trembling just a little when he carefully put them in your ears.

You vaguely remembered it was supposed to be a necklace a man should help a woman to put on, not earrings, but you didn't correct Peter. His touch was warm, human.

"Good," he murmed, avoiding looking at you, his face turning red again despite his best efforts to look indifferent, and marched to the cashier with your clothes in hand. "I'll pay."

He was a good boy. Before the demon had come and made him the way he was, he was a tender creature, soft and caring, with kind hands and a good heart. But people hadn't treated him right, and he couldn't stop them from hurting him. Years had been going by, but people still weren't kind to him, and so he was no longer kind either.

Sometimes, you wondered if he murdered his parents like he murdered the classmates who had abused him. You knew his father had been hitting him, sensed it when you touched him and he shriveled back on impulse before he realized, when you heard him thinking - god knows how, really - and you weren't sure if it was bad he killed him. Murdering people wasn't a good thing, surely, but his father was beating him, and maybe it was alright Peter got rid of him.

It would've been fair.

___________________

It was already evening by the time you got home.

"I'm itching," you blurted out as soon as you took off your shoes, and Peter sent you a sly smile. He knew what it meant.

He had gotten this strange itch too shortly after he made a deal with demon. It happened because it was hard for a human body to contain raw monster power, he said. You needed more energy. But what sort of energy? Did it mean you needed to sleep or eat more? No, he said. He had kindly offered to show you.

At first, you suspected him tricking you - Peter was hungry, and he would take anything there was to take - but sex with him felt good, nonetheless. He was possessive, dominating, and sometimes it felt like he was having some sort of revenge - not against you, against women in general. Women who hadn't wanted him before he became a half-demon, before his feeble body grew in size, his powers developed, and he stopped being a loser he had been. But then he looked into your face after you kissed him, and something changed in his expression. He hugged you tight like you were about to dissappear, fucking you into his bed, and you felt his desperation, his desire for warmth, for company. He needed you so much more than he showed.

It hadn't been painful. A little rough, perhaps, with a pleasant sort of pain following, but never really painful. Surprisingly, after a little help, Peter turned out to be a considerate lover.

And the itch really stopped.

Later at night, when you two lied in bed, wrinkled blankets cast aside as you put your head right beneath Peter's arm, your breath warming his side as you absent-mindedly put your palm on his chest, you asked him, "Could you put on TV?"

He visibly stiffened, narrowing his eyes at you. "Why? What do you expect to see there?"

You smiled dreamily, letting out a breath, and kissed him just beneath his rib, earning an unexpected grunt from the boy.

"I think I used to fall asleep with a TV on." You murmured, staring at an old TV set standing against the wall with peeling discolorated wallpaper before you furrowed your brows. "I think I did."

You felt Peter relax against you, grubbing a black remote control with dust covering its buttons somewhere from the side table and pushing one of them, the TV proptly showing you a neat woman in a costume with her hair up, clearly a news reporter.

"Why do you want to know who you were before all this?" He hemmed, head inching towards yours as he threw his hand around your shoulder. "Why care? You're not the girl you were. Don't you feel better now? More powerful?"

"I do," you nodded. "It's nice... and strange. But it doesn't mean I'm no longer who I used to be. Don't most people want to be themselves, anyway?"

He clamped his jaw. "I don't want to be myself."

The woman's monotonous voice was trying to slowly lull you into sleep, but the rising heat of Peter's body was making you concerned. He was agitated. Although he didn't speak much, now it felt like he needed to tell you - or anyone at all, perhaps - something that he had been keeping to himself for far too long.

Leaving a gentle kiss on his skin, you asked, "Why?"

He let out a gruff laugh, rubbing his eyebrows furiously as if he wanted to scrub them off his face.

"Because I was a stupid whipping boy. Everyone around used me as a punching bag, and I couldn't do anything," he said, angry, clenching his fists. "What a fucking failure I was."

You kept quiet as he continued, laughing, "Guys beat me at school, and dad beat me at home. And my mom just watched because it was better he beat me than her, y'know?

"And I couldn't do anything. I tried telling some random police officer, but they just filled their papers at the station, talked to my dad, and left. He hit me so hard that day I still have a scar somewhere at the back of my head."

The boy gulped down, staring at the ceiling as you listened to his rapid heartbeat in the darkness of the room lit only by the old TV.

"I could never get rid of them all, so I just settled on being miserable for as long as I'd last, which wasn't even long, by the way. When Teacher found me, I was standing on the city bridge, debating if I was brave enough to jump. I don't think I'd jump, though. I've always been a coward. And if Teacher didn't help me then, I'd still be a coward now, and my dad would continue beating the shit out of me for it.

"You don't know what it felt like to be liberated from all of it. From HIM. From my mother. From those guys at school, though it was Teacher who murdered them. I was so happy... I didn’t know someone could be happy like that. Be free. Do anything I want, take anything I want because I can. I could have any girl I wanted, any car, any house, as much money as I could imagine because I could rip someone's heart from their chest if they refused, and it wouldn't even make me sweat."

He sounded both happy and anxious, covering his face with his arm, dragging it against his sweaty forehead as he laughed, but you could hear a chocked sob somewhere in between, too.

"I don't want to be who I am. Who I was. I want to be this cool, mad guy with many limbs and jaws who scares the shit out of people and never have to be beaten again. And I'd never have you if I was that wimp too, would I?" Finally, he turned his red face back to you, and you saw tears glistening in the corners of his eyes as he tried to hold them in. "You wouldn't even have a second look at me. Girls like you never did. You'd stroll by, laugh at my pimpled face, and continue on your way."

You heard resentment in his voice, the same with which he spoke to you sometimes when you had sex as if he was taking revenge against you, against all pretty women who'd never let him touch them before he became a monster.

His tears dried quickly.

"And that creature you saw me fighting would just chomp me down in a second. It fucking hurt me... but I killed several of them before. And we kill all of them together now. I'd sell my soul three times over to have this, to be who I am now." His gaze suddenly shifted to you when you didn't look, your eyes on his chest. "To take you because I can."

When you raised your eyes to his face, you saw him staring at you intently like a predator before it pounced on you with its claws outstretched, as if he wanted to hurt you for not wanting him, that other small, weak boy he had been who'd never have a chance to have you.

Your hand brushed against his short, dense hair before you ran your fingers through it, looking him into the eyes, not smiling. You couldn't reassure him you'd take him even when he had been small, and hurt, and miserable.

"I don't know what you were like before," you started in a small voice, your palm resting on the side of his face. "I don't know if I'd love you the same I do now. And I'm sorry I wasn't there to kill all these people for you because, I think, I'd really like to if I met you earlier."

You saw him partying his lips as if he wanted to say something, but before he had a chance to, you gave him a small smile and stroked his cheek with your warm hand. "But this world would be poorer without you, and I'd be too."

Some tears finally escaped from his eyes despite his earnest attempt to hold them in, and then Peter shifted and buried his face in the crook of your neck, sobbing.

_______

Tags: @finleyjayne @alexakeyloveloki ​@helenaeisenhower @villanellevi @inlovewiththefictionalcharacters @navegandoaciegas @rosalynshields @sllooney @angrythingstarlight @lookiamtrying @buckysbunny @soleil-dor @stargazingfangirl18 @dillybuggg @literate-lamb @cosicas-cuquis @sarge-barnes-sir @buckybarnesplumwhore @jaysayey @megzdoodle @gotnofucks @lux-ravenwolf @biiskuitx @stupendouslovegardener @melodierin @yeolliedokai @what-is-your-wish @lou-la-lou @gachawipes133 @eralen @magnificantmermaid

[marchtothefuckingsea]

Guardian Angel - Lucifer

My Masterlist.

Word count: 2.2k

Warnings: Injury, canon typical violence/gore. Lucifer is good(ish) au, like it or leave it.

x gender neutral reader, hurt/comfort, enemies to allies

Summary: Who knew the devil could be a guardian angel?

"Where is this?" I demanded, spinning around to face the angel Zachariah. I had been in the middle of a demon case but after the sound of fluttering feathers and my salt line blowing away, a hand grabbed my shoulder roughly and I now found myself somewhere completely different. 

Taking in my surroundings, the place was light and elegant-or gaudy, depending on who you asked- and clean. A long table was lined with food and drink, but my narrowed eyes came to rest on the bald man in a suit several feet away from me.

"What do you want?" I backed away from him slowly, my hand coming to rest on the demon blade at my hip. I knew it couldn't hurt him, and I didn't have anything that could. 

"I need you to tell me where Micheal's vessel is."

"Do you think I'm an idiot?" I retorted. "Besides, I haven't even had contact with them for weeks at this point. They're off the map." 

Zachariah brought his hand up before clenching his fist, and I suddenly felt my heart seize in my chest. I dropped to my knees, clawing at my chest and glaring up at him. 

"Find them yourself, you bastard angel." I hissed. 

He took a step towards me, and then another. I hastily scrambled back. With a swift kick, he sent me flying into the wall. I felt my bones crack and I fell to the floor with a thud. A groan escaped my lips, my breaths ragged and shallow. He hauled me up by my collar so I was eye level with him.

"Where. Is. Dean. Winchester?" He punctuated each word with a blow to the side of my head. I was seeing spots by now, and I was lucky to still be conscious. 

Blood had pooled in my mouth, and I spit it in his face with a bloody grin. "No chance." I rasped out. "You can torture me all you want, but you have no other leverage over me." 

Frustrated, he released me, and my body dropped limply onto the floor once again. I couldn't keep my eyes from shutting, my breath rattling in my throat. 

"This is all very unnecessary. Tsk, tsk, tsk."  I heard a smooth voice. I struggled to force my eyes open, but my vision was too blurry anyways.

"Lucifer." Zachariah's voice was as threatening as it could be, given the situation. Although he was high up in the ranks of heaven, the archangel could smite him with next to no effort. 

Their voices faded in and out. I tried to make myself as small as possible; a small, hopeful part of me desperately wishing they would just forget I was there entirely. I heard a snap, and something told me to open my eyes. The archangel had exploded Zachariah into nothing, and he was now looking directly at me. 

With my back already up against a wall, there was nothing I could do except to curl my arms around my middle defensively. I sucked in a sharp breath when my hand brushed against my ribcage. It was definitely bruised beyond a few potent painkillers.

The devil kneeled beside me. "I don't know where they are." I mumbled. I gasped, my breath rattling in my chest. I tried my best to cough, but it only came out as small huffs of air. 

"I'm not worried about that." 

"Then what do you want from me?" My voice was quiet.

"Nothing." He said simply.

"You're going to kill me now, aren't you?"

He frowned, but didn’t answer.

"Just get it over with." I said bravely, but when he reached to place his fingers on my forehead, I couldn't stop myself from flinching away from the contact, my breath hitching in my throat.

I briefly felt the touch of his cool fingers. My eyes rolled to the back of my head, and everything was dark. 

-

When I awoke, I was back in the dilapidated cabin I had shut myself in. I laid there for a moment, remembering what had happened and now realizing that I could breathe without difficulty. Tentatively, I tested each of my limbs, then I finally sucked in a deep breath. There was no pain. 

I tiredly swung my legs over the side of the bed, healed, but still feeling incredibly weak. Lucifer had healed me, I wondered. He had zapped me back here and healed me. He hadn't killed me. There had to be a reason, he had to have some other use for me. 

Almost as if thinking about the fallen angel was enough to summon him, I heard a flutter of wings, and the pages of a dusty notepad on the bedside waved slightly. I pushed myself to my feet at the sound, instinctively on guard. My vision was filled with white for a split second as I leaned against the wall.

"You're awake, I see." The devil's voice said approvingly. "And feisty as ever." 

He sauntered around the bed, forcing me to back away from him. Eventually my legs hit the back of a sofa, and I stumbled to a halt.

"How are you feeling?" Lucifer asked, cooking his head to the side. I just shook my head. I was still weak enough to be struggling to stand on my own.

"Why did you help me?" I countered. My back was up against the other wall, mostly for support, because he hadn't moved past the sofa.

"I was feeling…Generous." He crossed his arms. "A thank you would be nice." 

"I'm sure you had your reasons." I said suspiciously. 

An arrogant smile crossed his face. "Of course I do. But that's for me to know and, well, you know." 

"Oh and, by the way, you might want to watch your back."  And he was gone as quickly as he had come.

"Thanks." I muttered into the empty room. 

-

I had allowed myself a day to rest and recover, while still doing research in connection with the case. Afterwards, it went how I had expected it to, save for yet another beating I could have gone without. It was nothing major. 

I was tending to my wounds in the bathroom, watching in the dirty mirror as I stitched up the gash on my arm. I quickly ducked my head to bite the thread in two, and when I looked in the mirror again, I jumped.

"Lucifer, what the hell-" I hissed, spinning around to face him. He immediately grabbed me by the arm, but before he could teleport us out, I yanked my arm out of his grip. I cursed when the action tore the stitches I had just finished.

"What's going on?" I demanded. 

"Angels. They've found out where you are." He informed me."They're on their way." 

I was in the room now, and even though I knew he wasn't exactly trustable, I found myself subconsciously looking for my angel blade. "How do you know?" I tucked it into my waistband. 

He huffed in frustration, but answered my question anyway. "Angel radio." 

"I think I'll just stay here and fight. Thanks for the heads up." I took a hunting knife out of my boot and sliced across my left arm. I felt the devil's eyes on my back as I began to draw the angel banishing sigil on a wall. 

"We don't have time for this." He snapped, reaching for me again. I dodged him with a glare.

"I'm not going anywhere with you." I said lowly. 

"That," He pointed to the sigil I had just finished. "Isn't going to work. And neither is that blade. We're talking about another archangel here."

At the mention of an archangel, I froze, twisting to meet his gaze. "What do they want with me?" 

Lucifer seemed glad to finally have my attention. "What do you think?" 

Our heads both snapped up at the sound of fluttering wings. I instinctively backed up, bumping right into Lucifer in the process. His reaction was quick and unexpected; he stepped around and in front of me, shoving me behind him and putting himself between me and the new archangel in the room. 

"Brother." He greeted, though his voice was far from being happy to see the other angel.

"Lucifer." Raphael said formally. "You know why I am here." 

"No." His answer was short and even, but I could see the tension in his posture now. 

"Step out of the way. We must find the Winchesters so that the apocalypse may begin." 

"They have nothing on their whereabouts, believe me." His voice was becoming more strained, and if I hadn't been behind him, I would have seen the way his eyes began to glow red in warning. Raphael took a step forward.

In one swift movement, he swung at Lucifer, who ducked and countered with another swing. Raphael met his blow, and managed to gain the upper hand. Lucifer could have taken him easily, but with me behind him, he fought defensively.

I waited for an opening. Even though the angel blade couldn't kill the archangel, I hoped it might drag his attention away from Lucifer long enough for him to regain the upper hand. I thrust the blade forward into the middle of Raphael's back. 

He shoved away from Lucifer, turning to me and a murderous look in his eyes. I staggered back, just as an invisible force sent me flying into the wall. I crumpled to the floor, shoving myself to my elbows and watching as he pulled the blade out without even flinching. Lucifer’s eyes darted between his brother and I.

"I can tell you where the Winchesters are." I groaned out through gritted teeth, desperately trying to keep his attention away from the devil, who was now drawing a sigil on the wall. 

Raphael grabbed me roughly by the collar, lifting me to my feet and swinging me around. Lucifer, froze with his hand in the air, poised to activate the sigil. 

"Let them go." His voice was low and dangerous. 

I was yanked back into him, and the angel blade was pointed at my chest.  "I'll have them stabbed clean through before you can banish me." My eyes met Lucifer's, urging him to activate the sigil. If the archangel escaped with me in tow, there would be things worse than death planned for me.

Lucifer slammed his hand in the middle of the sigil, simultaneously I felt a white hot pain in my chest. A blinding light filling the room. My body dropped to the floor with a dull thud and all I knew at the moment was pain. I gasped for air, my eyes wide in panic now that the light had faded. It was only a split second before I saw Lucifer above me. 

I tried to gargle out something, I wasn't sure what, but he silenced me. "Don't talk." He ordered, but his voice wasn't harsh. I settled for grasping at his hands instead when he wrapped one around the handle of the blade that was embedded in my lungs. It shifted ever so slightly, triggering another spasm of pain.

"I have to take this out to heal you." He informed me, seeing the fear in my eyes. It took everything I had not to fight against him as he began to pull the blade out, as carefully as possible. I couldn't sense anything but white hot agony, but I was sure something resembling a scream tore out of my throat.

As soon as the blade was out, a wave of warmth washed over my entire body, washing away the pain with it. I gasped, shoving myself upright. My eyes darted around before meeting Lucifer's, my chest heaving.

I struggled to my feet, and the angel was supporting me as soon as I stood, leading me over to the bed and pushing me back onto it. Adrenaline still pumped through my veins, and my heart was still beating out of my chest. It took everything in me to even begin to calm myself down. 

After several minutes, I was still shaking and hyperventilating. Lucifer sat patiently in the chair at the bedside the entire time, watching me closely until he decided to intervene. My eyes darted over to him when he stood. His movements were deliberately slow as he sat next to me and tentatively pulled me into an awkward embrace. 

I couldn't believe this was the devil himself, but that was the last thing on my mind at the moment. It took another several minutes for me to calm down completely and finally relax into his side, but the effect began to take place immediately. I wasn't sure if it was my body reacting to the comfort of 'human' contact, or if it was an effect of his grace, but I was grateful. 

"I'm okay." I finally said, pulling away from him. He let me, but still kept his hand on the small of my back.  "Thank you." I said genuinely. At that, his arm wound around my shoulders and pulled me into him again, and I thought I felt his lips in my hair.

"You are one of the few worth protecting." He murmured. 

[kudzuoath]

Breath and Omniscience

Temperance goes down in battle. Gale doesn’t take it well. 

cw: for blood, injuries, possibly body horror? I don't think I'm particularly graphic but I'm warning you just in case.

–--

I miscalculated, is all he can think. I know that spell. I know it. But I miscalculated.

He spotted the enemy sorcerer’s familiar movements and knew the spell immediately. Had known exactly how much power to imbue his counter with.

Only he’d been wrong.

Temperance lay face down in a pool of her own blood and melting shards of ice. She wasn’t moving. He couldn’t tell if she was breathing.

“Either help her or do something useful, wizard, this battle isn’t done yet!”

Jaheira. Tearing past him, blood running down the side of her face, sabres slick with gore. All of them were hurting. They were used to Temperance taking point and drawing fire – but Jaheira was the next best thing with their paladin down. With an explosion of feathers and a piercing shriek, she proved it by shifting into an owlbear and savaging the enemy barbarian.

Gale only had eyes for the sorcerer across the way. Temperance was still surrounded. If he tried to help her now, they’d both go down. It still took something vital from him to leave her laying there.

It wasn't cowardice, but rationality.

He hated himself for thinking logically anyway. His hands itched to lay on her and find her pulse. To prove life.

No, he couldn’t run to her.

But that didn’t mean he couldn’t make the bastards bleed.

Or rather, burn.

Gale didn’t tug at the weave so much as tear at it, teeth barred and fingers rigid claws as he spun a mote of fire into a raging maelstrom. The sorcerer’s scream when the world exploded around him did nothing to assuage Gale’s thundering heartbeat, or the cold chill of terror slinking down his spine.

She cannot die. I won’t allow it.

He had no spells of healing. And little knowledge of it. He’d rarely found cause to regret that fact. Until now.

His hands blurred. His throat went raw. His typically meticulous composition of the weave burning him as the spells slipped through his fingers and out into the world. Inflicting the bane of any element he could muster upon their worthless hides.

Temperance, Temperance, Temperance, don’t be dead.

The rest of the fight blurred. It might have lasted seconds. It might have lasted hours – though that wasn’t likely. All he knew was the second their last enemy fell he was running. Shoving bodies off of his Paladin with a strength he didn’t know he had. His feet slid through the mud made from Temperance’s blood, and the spell that took her down. The scent of it hung sharp and copper in the air. And when he saw her face – too pale, too still, his fingers went numb.

“Now is no time to die,” he chastised. His own voice felt distant.

Jaheira knelt beside him. Without speaking she reached through the cradle of his arms and laid softly glowing hands on the wound in Temperance’s chest.

“That is a lot of blood,” Astarion commented.

Gale noted with the same distant way he noted everything at the moment how far away the vampire sounded.

Good. Good of him to keep his distance now.

“Come on little hero, get up,” Jaheira muttered. The glow grew brighter. He could see the threads of the weave thickening into small rivers of magic as the druid pumped more energy into the spell.

Temperance’s eyes flickered. The bubbling wheezing quality of her breath lessened. And something horrible gnawing at his heart unstuck its teeth.

“Temperance?”

She groaned and weakly flapped her hand until it landed on one of his arms. “Hate… fainting,” she mumbled.

“Ha! You did something little more dramatic than a mere faint,” Jeheira said. “I think you almost caused your Gale a breakdown.”

His paladin mumbled something he couldn’t decipher, a stream of disjointed syllables that might well have been infernal. Then she cracked one eye – the purple one – to look at him. A dazed smile crossed her face.

“‘Lo, Gale.”

Her lips were blue. And she was a tiefling with a typically human skin tone.

"Temperance," he said, voice breaking.

Jaheira stood. She said… something not particularly important to Astarion like ‘give them a moment’ and then both rogue and druid were. Elsewhere. Not important. Gale could only stare. His hand – trembling, he realized – went to her face. He tried to wipe away some of the blood. All he managed was to smear it around a little.

“I don’t think my heart can take you doing that again,” he said. And even these words felt too distant, too far away. There was a roaring in his ears like the sea in a tempest. “Please… don’t… don’t do that again.”

Temperance reached for him like her arms weighed two hundred pounds. It took her a try or two before her hands landed in his hair. Rougher than she likely meant to, she pulled him down into a kiss.

It tasted of blood, and he mostly missed her lips with her shoddy aim. And when he found those lips with his, they were still too cold. It took everything in him not to crush her against him. She was still hurt. They needed to get her to Shadowheart, to camp, to rest.

“You’re alive,” he murmured against her skin. Over and over. Lips brushing her forehead, her temple, the end of her nose.

And she seemed to be trying to comfort him. Her hands must have woken at some point, for now he became aware of her fingers carding through his hair.

“I’m alive,” she agreed hoarsely. Then with a touch of sternness – “Gale… breathe. If you pass out… on top of me right now… I don’t think I can move you.”

His laugh ripped out of him. He buried his head in her neck, breathing in the bloody scent of her. Under the copper were the familiar scents of leather, and something herbal and minty from the soap she used. It grounded his panicked heart still further to find her skin warming here.

Temperance hooked her arms around him in a hug.

“Breathe,” she admonished again. “Come on, Gale of Waterdeep. It’s the easiest thing in the world – breathe.”

This laugh sounded a little less mad. And the shake to his limbs was starting to settle.

“I am… so sorry. I am so sorry. I thought I had that spell. I thought I knew –”

She shifted, finding his face with hers. Pressed their foreheads together. Later he’d realize how distressingly sticky it was, from all the blood. At least they were right by a water source. Even if it was probably salted.

“You’re not omniscient,” she scolded. “You didn’t cast it.”

Not omniscient, no. Not yet.

But he could be.

The idea was not a new one. He couldn’t say it was stronger than it had been before either – but the pale, bloodless face of Temperance was certainly adding fuel to the fire that had lit inside him shortly after he chose life over forgiveness.

He closed his eyes, and leaned into her touch.

“I promise you, I will do better,” he said. “Be better.”

Be who she deserved.

Her chilly hand on his cheek. Black claw points pressing into his skin just slightly, just enough to get his attention.

Temperance’s eyes weren’t clear exactly, but she was looking at him with a fierce stubbornness he’d come to recognize. And with so much warmth below all that worry. Her knit brow, her half smile.

“I understand.” And she would, wouldn’t she? There’d been times where she was the last one fighting.

Never again.

He was never letting that happen again.

[mslanna]

Fühl dich frei mein Prompt für AO3 zu übersetzen, aber ich kann auf Deutsch besser beschreiben was ich meine ☺️

Wie wäre es wenn zur Abwechslung Mal Tav mit einem "mine" Raphael dazu bringt "yours" zu sagen? ( Can be explicit, doesn't have to tho )

Ich liebe deine Stories und freue mich immer wenn's was neues gibt :)

Thank you for this lovely prompt. 🥰

they/them tav without body configuration hurt/comfort tw: blood, injuries read it on AO3

To Claim What is Mine

Conquering the hells was hard work. Tav smashed in another devil head, swinging their maul in a wide arc to keep their surroundings clear. They got used to the incessant flood of burning blood and gore covering their armour and face. All in all, it was worth it.

Each battle fought was a battle won. And injuries – well-earned and badges of honour – as painful as they were, were easily treated in the House of Hope. The healing pool was a second home at home to Tav. The warm waters embraced them regularly.

Those moments of quiet and healing were not always spent alone. Fighting at their side, Raphael garnered his own share of injuries. Tav tended to them with reverent hands in the field and Raphael called on that gentle touch in his home. A mutual comfort not acknowledged in speech.

Another devil shattered on Tav's weapon. The spikes on the Maul ripped through its armour, spreading guts and bone around the mortal. An arrow grazed Tav's shoulder as they turned to crash the maul into the body of an imp trying to break into their circle. They winced but smashed the imp into pulp anyway.

At their side Raphael kept his own, scorching enemies and earth alike. The smell of burning flesh and ash hung heavy in the air. A trickle of blood ran down his temple and Tav suppressed the instinct to staunch the flow and tend to the wound. Any excuse to get their hands onto their devil was a good one.

Between the fighting and healing, Tav studied infernal medicine and physiology. Small things that helped as they inched closer to the cambion, working knots and kinks out of his back and shoulders. After a first tensing, Raphael relaxed into their touch. One more perk in the House of Hope.

Another arrow bounced off the protection spell covering Raphael's wings as they stretched out around Tav. They slammed an imp out of the air that aimed for the head of their cambion. A thick spray of blood erupted from the falling body and covered everything around. They stayed back-to-back for a moment, assessing the fight while they picked off more enemies.

It didn't look good. The two of them were outnumbered and though the supply of imps was running out, the other side still had over a dozen of devils coming at them. Two of them against a dozen were usually good odds. Tav loved letting go and just smashing through enemy ranks, fired by Raphael's approval and the promise of shared downtime.

But they were tired already. The enemy kept pushing them back against a sheer cliff that rose like a razor-studded wall behind them. Following their gaze, Raphael threw a devil against the wall. It's body exploded on the sharp protrusions jutting out like crooked teeth. In the drizzle of blood, Tav spotted their reprieve.

A turn of the head was enough to let Raphael know of their plan. Together they moved backwards and right towards a narrow crack in the rock. When they reached it, Raphael used his wings to shield them both while Tav worked. They changed into gaseous form and slipped through the crack. Moments later a tendril returned and Raphael followed.

As soon as the cambion was through the crack, a wall of stone rose behind him. Tav took a deep breath and looked him over. The devil was in a sorry state. With time to take the damage in, Tav counted now fewer than five arrow shafts sticking from joints in his armour. Blood ran down his face and some of it was his. The protective spell over his wings flickered. It wouldn't hold out much longer.

Protected from the enemy for now, Tav looked around. The cave was a dead end and not very big. They pulled Raphael behind the gentle bend though the dent wasn't large enough to fully hide his cambion body.

Tav pressed healing charges into their own flesh, mending broken muscle and ripped skin. It helped, the armour was easier to carry, and a spring returned to their step despite the heavy maul in their hands.

They pushed an armoured shoulder under Raphael and dragged him deeper into the darkness. He winced at every little jolt, a worrisome development. When they reached the end of the cave, Raphael slipped to the ground, a low groan escaping his lips. Tav concentrated on his body through the armour for a moment and found a ruin held together by metal and willpower.

They rifled through their remaining scrolls. There was little that would help their cambion. Tav put aside a scroll of higher invisibility. The potions looked even worse. No bottled healing was left. The remaining charge would help get them back up to speed, but it would not heal Raphael enough to fight. Various poisons and elixirs tumbled over each other. At the very bottom was one potion of angelic reprieve.

Tav shot a glance at Raphael. Their cambion lay with his eyes closed and laboured breath rattled through his lungs. The spell on his wings petered out and left the appendages horribly vulnerable. Also, Tav had to note, they already were pierced close to the tips in a few places. They put a hand against his face and called for him softly.

Black-hole eyes cracked open and took a long time to focus on their face. Raphael's hand rose slowly. When it wavered, Tav caught it and placed it against their cheek. The warm skin was damp with sweat and blood. They did their best not to add tears to the mix. He did not know how their unspoken bond pierced them with pain ever so often.

Raphael's wings fluttered attempting another shared comfort. But he was too weak to raise them and soon they drooped back to the ground. He was not in any shape to fight. Tav wondered how he held out so long. The fire in his eyes answered clearly.

Fire that burned brighter whenever Tav was near. Pointed claws that moved gently over their skin. Tav remembered their sharp inhale the first time Raphael laid hands on them vividly. Often. A perfect moment. The warmth of the House of Hope engulfed them, the warm waters of the healing pool lapping at their skin.

And their head, bravely, recklessly, leaning against Raphael's shoulder. Tav had closed their eyes and awaited doom. But instead, down came the claws. Softly and ever so carefully they cupped Tav's shoulder. As they sighed into the infernal skin, the wing closed in as well, sheltering them from the world.

Infernal wings were an excellent shied even for nightmares. And Tav well-rested was unstoppable. It made only sense they sleep well. And if sometimes they got buried under the full weight of their cambion, that was only to be expected. They woke with breath and limbs tangled, more refreshed than such contortions should serve.

Tav pressed a kiss into the bloody hand before putting it down on Raphael's chest. Soon their spell would wane and the crack to the outside world open again. But it was only a dozen devils give or take. They looked down at their cambion. Worth it. Worth every moment. Worth words.

"Mine?" Tav asked holding the cambion's gaze.

Raphael attempted a smile that fell as horribly short as his hand reaching for their face. "Yours," he breathed.

Tav smiled and bent down to press a soft kiss over his broken lips before feeding him the potion of angelic reprieve. The scroll of greater invisibility would hide Raphael well enough for now. Then they rose and hefted their maul. A tight grin split their face. The devils outside were dead men walking, they just didn't know it yet.

[abbythewritor]

"Fairness" One Piece x Saitama reader, Nine.

"Just a Normal girl looking for an everyday life. At least, if you call sailing across the seas with idiots with useless dreams a simple task, then you might wanna see a doctor. Seriously."

Warnings: Blood, gore, mentions of Luekimia, and heaps amount of blood and strength. It might be a little cursing, but not bad, and maybe some flirting in there, but it's mostly clean.

Other things:

-You didn't get bald due to your powers; you got bald to an extreme illness.

-You part of the straw hat crew, but others are interested in you and your power.

-Everyone that is a male is taller than you.

-Monsters from the OPM world will appear in One Piece, and I'll make some new monsters you will fight.

Enjoy the Ninth chapter, everyone!! :)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"CU-A-AH-CUTIE!!!!!"

The ground below you exploded as you landed in front of the admirals and a Giant orc whose head was bleeding.

Your eyes were darkened, your wig nowhere to be found, as your bald head was revealed, to the world, a new world.

Everyone around you was shocked, as your face didn't change a shade, as the dust finally calmed down, as your eyes and face looked up at the three men, your mouth son forming a snarl shape.

It seemed like Luffy made it as well, as he was smiling, his body all wet thanks to Jimbei helping him. I didn't have time to chit-chat; instead, I teleported from my spot, somewhat closer to the three admirals, as my leg returned. "DISTRACTING WIND KICK!" I yelled, kicking the air right in front of them as a blast of wind came from the impact, but Aokiji froze the air somehow, which made my eyes widen, as the three bolted to me.

I was able to teleport away, didn't know Luffy had a plan as when I teleported, a large log was thrown at them.

Stopping, Aokiji froze the log as well, forcing it back to Luffy, who broke it into millions of Pieces, using the gatling attack, but with his foot to send the pieces back to them.

That destracted the three, as I grabbed Luffy's hand. "Come on!" I zoomed quickly behind them, both of us flying to the execution platform Until Kizaru caught up to us, about to kick Luffy. "Too Slow, Mugiwara..." My eyes widened when he kicked Luffy far, my head whipping that way. "Luffy!" I yelled, blocking Kizaru's kick to my easily, as my head looked to him. "You made it this far little one, I'm surprised....especially with that injury of yours..." I smirked to him. "Do you think I'd let a sharp stick take the best of me? Think again!" I pushed his leg of, both of us going back as I slid on the floor, as he just simply landed as well. "Your strong. Guess I won't back down when facing you this time..."

But, as he was saying that, the men were about to execute Ace, which I saw, as my eyes widened. "ACE!!" I yelled, the weapons about to go down on him as Kizaru saw a chance to leave, not bothered to fight me which pissed me off, but I bolted, faster to Ace, not wanting him to die yet.

I was far away, I needed to move faster, but, time had different plans, as the weapons were already almost to the kill points.

'SHIT! NO! THIS IS NOT HOW FAIRNESS WORKS! HE CAN'T DIE! NOT LIKE THIS!' I thought, moving even faster, but, it was too late, as I was just too far away from him.

Or so I thought.

Sand erupted under the platform boards, killing the two guards before the blades could poke Ace, as mine, and everyone else's eyes widened, as Sengoku's teeth gritted with annoyance, looking for the coraprate.

My face turned releifed, a smile plastering my face as Crocodile strood firm in the crowed, his cloak blowing in the wind, sand swirling around him as the marines pointed guns at him, as he didnt' hesitate.

"I thought that it was to our advantage to have you since you hold a grudge against whitebeard. Crocodile." He finished, Luffy's eyes widened in surprise, hopping out of the debree, ignoring the marines surrounding him as well, as Marco landed on a metal beam above, while Jimbei was still in the water. I smirked, as I look straight at garp. "He still wanted to kill the old man. But he and the waters have changed. Do you think he's stupid to let the Marines get what they want?"

Crocodile looked to me, landing beside him as I touched his hook. "Are you alright?" He looked down at me. "I should be asking you that." I smiled. "Ah, right, just a scratch, I'll pull through, thanks for Saving Ace." He nodded, and looked back at Sengoku. "Don't think I switched dramatically, I can kill the old man later, like Y/n-san said....I won't let the mairnes have this win...or a taste of victory.." His words sent shivers down your spine, as you saw a white line go to his neck. Curious, my head tilted, as I simply grabbed the white line, which only scratched me. "Huh? What's this?" Crocodiles eyes widened, as he recognised the white line, as he looked to hear a familiar laugh, Doflamingo walking to the two of us. "Hey, you, gator guy! You turned me down and now, you wanna team up with Whitebeard and this cutie? It makes me Jealous." He smirked, his power leaving my hands, as I glared to him, as crocodile did as well. "I'm not gonna team up with anybody. I'll make an accepting arrangement to Y/n....she earns my respect..." Corcodile spoke, Doflamigno's smirk growing wider. "So that means your still giving me the cold shoulder, even taking the cutie with you, how fair is that?" "Looks like it's fair to me...I ain't taking her no where bird brain....think of it as being fair." I smile up at him when he looked to me, as Doflamingo let out anouth laugh. "I see then, let's see how this fairness deal plays out!" He attacked as well as Crocodile, as both of them clashed together, knocking some marines back.

My eyes widened with surprise, worried, but saw this as a helping opportunity, Luffy did as well, as we bolted away, heading back towards the platform.

We scattered everyone, clearing a pathway like bowling pins, as I was able to catch up to him.

My eyes looked up at Ace, who was looking down, not at us as I knew how he felt, which made me want to push forwards, to not loose.

As we kept fighting, dodging, trying to survive, as got closer and closer, until Luffy got hit with an Ice shard, as my eyes widened. "LUFFY!" He flung back, his back slamming and sliding on the floor,

Admrial Aokiji stood before him, taking the ice weapon out of his arm, towering over Luffy. "I owed a favor to your grandfather.." He lifted the weapon again. "But I have no choice! Because you chose to risk your life!" But, before he could stab Luffy again, I bolted, standing in front of Luffy, which made his eyes widened,until Marco kicked his side, sending Aokiji flying.

My eyes widened, eyes locking to the man, as Luffy did as well. "Y-Y/n." He spoke, as I just look up at Marco with admiration. "Thank you, for saving my tail.." He smirked down at me. "No problem Miss, Yoi, don't get your cute but in danger again ok?" He winked, turning to fight again as my heart raced, my mouth soon letting out a snort as I turned to Luffy. "Are you alright?!" He nodded, but winced when he leaned on his bad arm, as I held it gently. "Hang on." I ripped both of my pant leg fabrics, exposing my rather large thighs, as marines started to blush, as I wasn't bothered with the stairs, as I kneeled down, wrapping Luffy's arm with the fabric. "So no dirt or debree will get into it." His face watched me with awe, the sunlight shining on the battlefield behind me, as his heart raced, a small smile forming his lips. "Thank you, Y/n-san. What would I do without you?" I sighed. "Probably be dead." He chuckled. "Your right, but, that's not who I am. I came here fighting, for a purpose, for a reason, and that's to save Ace, so you can join my crew." My eyes widened. "Why would saving Ace make me join your crew?" He smiled. "So I can prove to you how good of a captain I can be, even if everyone is separated. Yet again, I'm not just saving Ace to get what I want, I'm saving him because he's my brother-" He pause when we heard explosions, as the giant Orc that helped a ship to land, got shot down, as mine and his eyes widened.

"N-No.." I whispered, as the Orc was an innocent soul, which was falling down to his death.

As he was falling, I saw him look to whitebeard, who held a face of remorse and sadness, as he looked back up to Sengoku.

The action made the old man pissed, as he clenched the weapon in his hand, as he began to walk, towards the edge of his own ship.

Everyone was watching, as he jumped over, right on the ground below.

"WHITEBEARD HAS DECENDED TO THE PLAZA!!" A marine yelled, as the man stood back up, Marines pointing their guns as him. "Stay back, my sons!" he ordered, looking ahead as he lifted up his two handed weapon, a white ball of energy coming out of it while he yelled swinging it to the left.

Cracks were made in the air, which caused your eyes to widen, which broke, a large amount of energy escaping as a shit tone of marines scattered everywhere, like an invisible bomb went off.

As i held onto Luffy as the wind picked up, soon it died down, as whitbeards face was lined with black, as he was angry, his own main grew hopping down with him before he held up his fist. "GUYS! RESCUE ACE AND DESTROY THE NAVY!!!" His words made me smirk, as I was done with Luffy's injuring, both of us hopping up, as we joined them, both of us bolting.

'Don't worry Ace.' I thought, as me and Luffy looked up at him, who's eyes were filled with water.

'We're on our way!'

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was tragic. Oars death.

It affected ace, as of the whitebeard crew, as Marco stood in front of him, with a blank face. "Thank you, Oars." He spoke, turning, to seek out the battle, as it was pure an utter chaos, more chaotic than before.

Whitebeard was walking, preparing energy on his weapon again. "Clear the way for me!" He ordered, his crew following orders as they ran, whitebeard about to do his main attack again, until Aokiji went up in the air, putting his hands together. "ICE BALL!" I large amount of ice spread throughout, heading to whitebeard to enclose him, as I turned, looking that way. "OLD MAN!" I yelled, telling Luffy to go ahead, as I bolted, Aokiji landing, as some marines though he was trapped.

But oh boy, where they wrong.

The ice suddenly broke, as I simply punched it, freeing the Yonko, as the Admrials eyes widened. "Ah! The kid is on his side! How could I forgotten!" Getting his powers ready again, as he jumped, about to attack me. "ICE..." I turned, Whitebeard growling with annoyance as his weapon came up, stabbing the Admiral straight through, protecting me.

My eyes widened from his actions, time stopped, as whitebeards large hand was shielding me from some shards, his hand bleeding. "O-Old man!" I yeld, as he glared down at me. "Don't be reckless next time brat.....your lucky it was just my hand and not your heart.." I gulped, as Aokiji's hand grabbed his weapon, Ice forming on it, as my eyes widened. "Pops!" I yelled, him not changing a shade, until Aokiji was hit, spread apart while he turned himself into snow.

A gaint man, his arm lined with Dimon projectect whitebeard, as he landed in front of him and me. "Pops! Move forwards!"

Whitebeard nodded. "Right, I leave him to you. Don't fail me." Whitebeard moved forwards, as I followed after, going ahead of him, as Aokiji was left with the Dimond dude, as the battle and war continued.

Luffy was way ahead, looking up at Ace, as Garp noticed this, his body shaking with sadness and fear for Luffy's life, as Sengoku just simply looked to him not saying anything.

But, as Luffy continued to run, he got slashed down, by a navy Vice admiral, as my eyes widened again. "LUFFY!!!" He slid on the floor, face first, his breaths more tired and heavy. "Vie admiral? The same rank as G-Grandpa?" He asked, slowly getting up, he tried to fight him off, but another Vice admrial came to help, Knocking Luffy down again, which made me run faster. "DON'T GET UP! I'M COMING LUFFY!!" I ran even faster, when Kizaru sent an explosion his way, as I teleported behind kizaru, kicking him easily out of the way, into the nearest building, as I was beside Luffy once more. "Luffy! Fuck, Luffy can you hear me?!" I was worried, until Kizaru came back. "Why don't you both just go away?" I dodged him, but he kicked Luffy away, making him fly to whitebeard, who caught him like a doll.

I sighed with releif, but still felt worried as Luffy was gravely injured, whitebeard glaring to him, as Luffy was upside down. Kizaru smirked at the sight. "OOOH! Whitebeard's command has dulled. You could've done better than that. I can't belive that you let that piece of crap...who is so reckless, take the lead!" His words made me angry, though they were meant to whitebeard who was holding Luffy, as my face lined with Anger. Soon enough, I stepped in front of him, and Luffy, my arms holding out widem my face serious. "I won't let you hurt either of them!" Kizaru's eyes slightly widened. "Oh really?That's a bold move coming from you Little one..." He readied his devil fruit again, as Whitebeards crew stepped in front of him also, ready to protect pops at all cost. "Oh how touching! A family reunion....let's see how all of you can survive this-" "THERE THEY ARE! Y/N-GIRL AND STRAW BOY!" A familiar voice spoke, as I turned and smiled, everyone else did as well, as Ivanka grew in size, herself like a giant as some pirates and marines spit their Saliva out. "I KNEW IT! THIS IS EXACTLY WHAT I THOUGHT WAS HAPPENING!" she told Jimbei, who was standing beside her large head. JImebi jumped down, worried for Luffy as Ivanka looked to me. "IS HE DEAD Y/N GIRL?!" My brows furrowed, looking down. "He's badly injured..." Ivanka called, Luffy struggling in whitebeards hold, as he tossed him to some crew members to get checked out and treated, as I bolted, running that way. Luffy struggled against their hold, getting out as he pleaded to let him go and save Ace, as everyone heard his hurtful cries and please, but as he left and tried to run, he just tumbled to the floor again, as I rushed to his side. "Luffy!" I spoke, worried, as Jimbei went beside me, as I shook him, trying to get him to wake up, but nothing was happening, as he was passed out.

"Shit..! Surgeon you have to do something, please! He needs to save Ace!" The doctor reasurred me he will do his work, as Jimbie looked back, as whitebeard and Aukini clashed, large amounts of Whit/red energy clashing each other, as I never seen so much power in my life. "Y/n-San! Let's leave Luffy with the surgeon! We need to move forwards!" I didn't like his statement, but understood as all Luffy wants to do is rescue Ace. I turned to look at him, my face gently caressing his face. "Don't worry Luffy...we'll rescue Ace...you'll recover...I have faith...." Before i left, I pecked his cheek gently, yet lovingly, before running with Jimbei, advancing to the battle.

Marco seemed to be coming with us, as many allies of the whitebeard pirates joined as well, all of us heading to Ace's direction. Looking to Marco through the smoke, I yelled to him. "Try to see is you can get to Ace by air!" Liking my statement, he already thought of that plan as he advanced high in the air, which the admirals saw.

Sengoku, annoyed, spoke in the snail thing. "WHAT ARE YOU IDIOTS DOING!? SHOOT HIM DOWN ALREADY!!" As some of the marines tried to shoot Marco, but didn't work. "W-WE CAN'T" They replied as Marco got closer, until Garp got up from his seat, bolting to Marco, who easily got knocked back by him.

But, for Marco to do an areal attack was all apart of your plan, as you looked to Jimbei. "Give me a boost!" I spoke, Stopping a little ways from him as he knew what I was doing, and nodded..

Once Jimbei bended down a little, I ran to him, his large hands getting stepped on by my feet as he used his strength to push me up high in the sky, as I used my incredible speed to get even closer, right up to Sengoku's face. "You think that was the only move he thought of!? Think again!"

I puched Sengoku, away from Ace as he stumbled off the platform, his teeth gritting with annoyance, looking up as I landed on the platform, my eyes dark.

Ace was shocked, looking up at me, as I didn't let my guard down, as I simply sat down, as I knew Luffy was going to get up. "Ace.." I spoke, himself still not believing I'm right next to him, as my head turned to face him. "Are you ready to be rescued?" My words were almost a myth, as he just looked down at me, as I simply blankly looked at him, as I scooted closer.

But, as I got coser, Garp, Sengoku, and some of the Admrials surrounded the two of us, as his eyes widened. "Get out of the way!!" I didn't change a shade of emotion, instead, I looked to the four, before my eyes slightly widened. "Die." Energy came out of me, a unique sound going throughout everywhere, as the energy spread through the adrmials, pushing them back, as their eyes widened, recognizing the power.

All of them landed to the floor, some other marines and pirates unable to stand, as tinted yellow electricity and light came out of me, as if the energy is destructive.

'I-It can't be...' Ace thought, looking to me with utter shock, as did garp and the admrials.

Ivankove and Jimbei where shocked as well, Marco and pops smirking, as of Doflamingo, who him and Crocodile paused their fighting, looking my way, as did Mihawk, whoput his sword away. A small smile formed his lips, as he finally understood me, as I was just like Luffy, not wanting to back down. "Looks like you evolved, little rabbit...." He spoke, his heart racing wildly, as Whitebeard's smirk was still on his face. "The brat........"

"Has conquerer's Haki..."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Author: WOOOOHOOO!! Another chapter done! Sorry it took awhile, I have been busy with my everyday life and writing other chapters from other books. I hope you all are still doing safe, and don't forget about the fanart contest by the end of the week!

For this book make sure you do two things.

Draw Y/n by herself.

And draw any character from this book with her, or your favorite scene so far.

The only Major rule I require is no adult content, or your art will be disqualified!

Anyways, I have to prepare for work tomorrow and have a blessed evening!

BYE LOVELIES!!"

[lewdcookies]

"Slay-kill the lightning one!" The Grey Seer's impending rant about how he was going to personally gut Nalia was interrupted as his head exploded suddenly. With their leader dead the fight drained out of the rest of the pack and with a collective shriek they scampered in all directions. "Skaven," the tone in Vespine von Carroguard's voice dripped with venom as she strode through the panicking rats, one hand holding her smoking pistol raised while the other rested on the pommel of her sword.

She gestured at her accompanying house guard. "Get them out of my sight."

There was a distinct flush on the noblewoman's face as she took in the gore drenched Stormcast surrounded by skaven corpses. But she composed herself before speaking, even if it was with slight a purr.

"I must thank you for rooting out this infestation. I shall not delay you more in clearing out the last of them. But once you're done, come see me in my manor. I'd be happy to show you my... gratitude."

***

I really like how the jacket turned out, for a while I was on the fence on how that would work. But once I had gotten the shades down I was all like "Oh yeah. It's all coming together." The boots got a bit naff, due to me overpainting previous steps because I didn't like it. In hindsight I should've just gone straight for black contrast instead of going for a grey undercoat. But at that point I was mostly done with it so couldn't really stripe that down.

Otherwise, it's Glaurion ven Alten III from Cursed City but with a headswap with a Sisters of Battle head. The body is armoured enough for it not to really make much of a difference in the end.

[smogfromkortalmombat1]

The beginning (MK1 Tomas fic)

Hey there! Do you like Mortal Kombat 1? Do you like the Lin Kuei? Do you like traumatising children?

Well boy do I have the fanfiction for you!

Summary: The beginning of the Lin Kuei trio - The murder of the Vrbada family (Hurt/comfort - slight gore) - Word count ~ 6000

Can also be read here, on AO3: We are family. - Tsukuyomi_Ravioli - Mortal Kombat - All Media Types [Archive of Our Own]

.

He had been only five. Only five, when his family were slaughtered.

That day- it was something he would never, ever forget. One of the first ever full memories to grace what he considered his early ‘childhood’, and it was one of his most vivid to date even all these years later.

His family were not deserving of the end that befell them that fateful day. They were not criminals- they had not stolen, pillaged or murdered. Their hearts were pure and beautiful, despite their personal struggles. They had been humble hunters, seeking a quiet, calm life. Yet despite this, their bright, kind souls were extinguished without a second thought that day. Right before his very eyes. His life had almost been taken in that fell swoop too.

And for what reason? Well, Tomas was still chasing the answer to this very day. Twenty nine years later. He had a feeling that he would never find it, though.

“Tomas-!”

Even if he did finally find an answer that made sense- an excuse that he could possibly understand and reason with, it didn’t change the fact that that day hurt him more than he had ever been hurt in his whole life. No physical wound could reap as much sorrow and pain as he had felt that day.

“Máma?”

Not even his own death could ever compare.

Tomas had been dozing, his little head resting in his hands when loud, violent shouting tore him from the beginning of a peaceful dream. 

Someone was yelling. In what language, exactly, Tomas wasn’t sure. What he was sure of was that whoever it was was really, really upset, their snarls rattling the walls around him. They sounded like his Tatínek- when he drank too much juice, that was. Maybe this person had drunk too much too? They must have drunk a lot, if so. Tomas had never heard someone sound so angry.

 A sudden crash rattled the wall near his bedroom window. Tomas startled, his pale eyes wide. The whole room seemed to tremble with the impact, groaning as if it might collapse at any moment. His toys, once steady in their scattered spots across his floor wobbled and fell, little wooden soldiers clattering to the floor. Another shout, more yelling and then-

He gasped as his window shattered, exploding inwards towards him, tiny, fine shards of glittering glass raining down upon him like tiny, sparkling knives. He bit his lip, hard, a shiver wracking through his body as the cold night’s air swept easily into the room, biting into his exposed skin uncomfortably. This person- they needed to calm down. Papa got angry too, sometimes really, really angry, but never like this. 

Speaking of his Tatínek, he could hear him now, voice rising to meet the stranger’s own. Angry, heated words- something about the window, about the money it would cost. Typical of his Papa, really, but Tomas could hear, under that familiar, fiery anger, something new. Something different. Something that made his little stomach twist into knots. Fear.

His dad was scared.

He looked down at the glass surrounding him once more. It was like a landmine of sharp little daggers of ice, glistening from the lanterns outside. Máma would be so mad. She hated messes like this. Tomas would know- he’d caused many himself. Accidentally, of course. 

He should go and find her, really. Tell her that his window was broken, that he was cold, and that Papa may or may not be outside arguing with another crazy-man. She’d drag his Papa back inside so fast by just the ear if she found out he was causing up a stir. She was always quick to stomp his argumentative flame out.

Ever-so-carefully, he pushed himself upwards. His tiny hands brushed off the glass from his clothes as best as he could. He grabbed his favourite toy- a little wooden horse, handmade from the finest wood. A birthday gift, from his late babička. ‘For protection’ he reasoned with himself as he held the wooden figure close to his chest, letting his thumb gently run over the familiar grooves, feeling each and every cut that had been deliberately made in order to form the cute horse staring up at him. Comfort and ease washed over him.

Now, to find his Máma.

Cracking his door open, he peered out into the dimly lit corridor. The shouting was louder here, somehow. It was harsh and ugly, words Tomas hadn’t ever heard before being exchanged by his Papa and the stranger. More things were thrown, too, hitting the outer walls in rapid succession, shattering upon impact, rattling the house as they went. Grown-ups were scary, scary things.

“You’ve wandered into the wrong fucking area.” His father was slurring in Czech, voice muffled behind the bulk of the front door separating Tomas from the madness outside. His words were heavy, like it was a strain on his whole body to talk. Tomas’ little feet were quick to move away from the door, carrying him towards the kitchen instead, which resided right at the back of their house. That’s where he would find his Máma, napping in her big, brown, cosy rocking chair. She loved that chair. So did he- she always rocked him in it when he had nightmares. “You think you can come here and threaten me? Threaten my family? Do you? Who do you think you are, huh? Huh!?”

The stranger yelled something in their own native tongue, and before Tomas could even attempt to debunk it, a new sound tore through the night. 

His father’s screams.

Tomas froze, his breath catching in his throat. It wasn’t a mad scream. It was something else entirely, something he had never heard from his father before until this very moment. Pain. His father was screaming from pure and utter agony. He sounded hurt, really, really badly hurt. The house shook with the sound, the walls shuddering and whining. It sounded like the house was crying. Or maybe that was his Tatínek, Tomas couldn’t tell anymore.

Just as quickly as it started, it stopped. Everything stopped. The world was so incredibly still that the only thing he could hear was his own blood pounding in his ears. The frantic flutter of his petrified heart was loud, and painful, too. His tiny hand came to rest on his shirt above the spot, squeezing tight. 

“Papa?” He couldn’t help but call out, voice croaky and raspy with fear. He listened for a moment, straining his ears to hear anything other than his own laboured, terrified breathing. Nothing. Not a single sound.

The door unlocked with a soft click, like a twig snapping in a quiet forest, creaking open slowly on its hinges.

Tomas tried again, hopeful and desperate. His fingers tightened on his toy. “Papa?”

It wasn’t his Papa.

Tomas found himself here often.

It wasn’t a particularly well-known spot to those residing in the Shirai Ryu temples. An old, withered security post, high up out of the reach of even their best students, overlooking the wondrous, snow-capped mountains the very temples were built upon. The little area was untouched by humans for the most part, and, because of this, mother nature had been quick to recapture it. Birds’ nests, moss, lichen, it all grew and flourished in the cover of concrete privacy. Its beauty now marred the once dead stone walls, turning them into something new. Something alive. Something cherishable, and beautiful.

It reminded him of his first ever hunt with his dad. Covering his body in dirt and sticks and other gross muck in an attempt to ‘blend in’ with nature, trying to hold back his childish giggles as he lay stomach-down on the forest floor, His father laying beside him, dripping in mud and covered head-to-toe in leaves, attempting to shush and scold him with a finger against his own curled grin.

They had looked like a pair of idiots. Came back empty-handed too. As it turns out, birds and hares startled easily when you had a wiggling, excited toddler at your side, no matter how much of an expert you were. His dad hadn’t been upset, though. Instead he had ruffled Tomas’ filthy, mud-streaked hair with a laugh, and bought some rabbit meat from one of the local butchers on the way home.

His dad had tried to pretend Tomas had caught it, when confronted curiously by his mother. Wound up a wild tale of a chase that led to Tomas wrangling the prey with his bare hands. Obviously, Tomas’ mother wasn’t stupid enough to buy into that. Still, it had them all laughing and snorting and giggling over a nice cooked stew later that day. The rabbit had tasted amazing. 

Of course, that only happened once she had thoroughly scrubbed the pair of them clean from the dirt on the porch outside. She wouldn’t have let them step a single foot in the house before they were sparkling clean.

The sword was the first thing his eyes latched onto, the blade catching in the moonlight. Long streaks of crimson smeared the metal, thick drops of blood sliding off its edge and hitting the ground in sickening splats. 

The person didn’t look at him. He didn’t need to. His intentions were clear.

“Máma!” He shrieked, stealth forgotten as he turned tail and ran. His heart was in his throat- he felt sick. Deeply, truly sick. “Máma! Máma!”

He burst into the kitchen, nearly tripping over his own feet in the process as he reached his mother. She was there, right where he’d pictured she would be, sat in her cosy rocking chair, looking at him with kind, sleep-fogged eyes. Her calm demeanour did nothing to ease him. He couldn’t stop shaking. 

Flinging herself at her, he buried his face into her lap, tiny hands desperately clutching onto her with newfound strength. His breath came in ragged, whimpered gasps, “Máma!”

“Tomas?” Her voice was silky and soft, still heavy with sleep as she blinked at him. His twin sister, Anna, sirred in her arms, pink tongue sticking out as she yawned. “Tomas? Sweetheart?” His mother called again, her beautiful, graceful features etched in a worried frown. A hand came to cup his cheek, thumb wiping at the tears in his eyes. “Another nightmare?”

The birds were chirping softly, nestled high above him, the moss wet and soothing under his palms.

His sister would have loved it. 

At least, he thinks she would have.

If Tomas closed his eyes, he could imagine it. Imagine Anna laughing, how the echoes of her giggles would ring through the quiet space. Her small, soft hands reaching out to touch the moss, her big, doe brown eyes staring up in wonder at the birds nesting above her head. She had always been the more adventurous of the two of them. Braver, louder, she was everything he was not. 

If he closed his eyes, he could see her here, with him. See her older, wiser, but still the little Anna he had grown up with. Cheeky and loving, her blonde hair longer, curling slightly at the ends, and still that same kind, curious gaze in her eyes as she took in the world around them both like she was five once more.

But it was just that, wasn’t it? Just imagination. Some sad, bittersweet fantasy his mind created, desperate to try and fill the aching void in his heart.

Today that void could not be filled. The gaping chasm of aching in his battered soul only wanted one thing, and that thing could never be given to him. 

Another year, that’s what today marked. Another year since his family’s murder.

The wind whispered softly through the temples, ruffling his clothes as if desperately attempting to soothe him. But that ache in his chest remained. It was a familiar pain, one Tomas was well aware of. A special place in his heart that ached only for his family. To play with his sister, or his father. To hug his mother. To feel her gentle arms on him, rocking him as she once did, her lips in his hair, pressing a kiss to chase away his nightmares.

The rocking chair lay on its side now, abandoned, its familiar, loving creak silenced. The three of them were huddled on the floor now, tucked away in the nearest corner; Tomas’ Máma had been quick to push him behind her, positioning herself between her children and the man stood in the doorway. Anna was clutched onto her side, her little face buried deep in their mother’s chest, her tiny body wracked with the trembles of complete and utter fear.

Anna’s sobs were muffled against their mother’s nightgown, but Tomas could feel every tremor. He pressed himself close to his mother too, peering out from behind his Máma’s shoulder, his small hands clung tightly to her gown, fingers twisting the fabric in a white-knuckled grip. 

The man- he was just standing there, in the doorway, watching them cower, only a few feet away. In his hand, that fated sword. Tomas could see it clearer now. Bits of hair and flesh were scattered among its crimson smears, like grotesque ornaments. He felt sick.

His mother noticed it too. She let out a heart-wrenching sob, her whole body beginning to tremble as realisation dawned upon her. “Marek…”

The man took a step closer. His mother’s hand shot backwards blindly, searching for Tomas, grasping a tight hold on him, pulling him even closer to her. He could feel the raw desperation in the way her nails dug into his skin, her breath hitching. It was as if she was trying to anchor them together, save them from a fate unsavable. Even she could not will them away from the inevitable. 

“They’re just children.” She choked out, her voice a true desperate plea. There was no anger, no fight. Just a mother’s last true hope. “They are just children.” Her voice shook, her body quaking. “Just kill me, please. Please leave them alone. Let them live, please. Please, god, let them live.”

Another step. Then another. Tomas buried his head into his mother’s soft hair, the familiar, comforting scent of her filling his nose. He could hear Anna’s frightened whimpers, feel her writhing and quaking against him. He reached out with his free hand, finding her arm and squeezing tightly. ‘I’m here’ he wanted to say, ‘I’m here. I love you’, but his mouth was screwed shut. The words couldn’t come, no matter how hard he willed them to. 

“I don’t want to die.” Anna’s whisper, hot and frantic in his ear, broke his heart into a thousand pieces. “Tomas, I don’t want to die. I’m scared-” Her voice broke into another sob. He wanted to tell her so, so badly that it would be okay. That they would be safe, somehow, that their Máma would get them out of this, but the words, just like before, simply would not come. He was scared too. So, so scared.

He never got the chance to comfort her. To hold her tightly, to kiss her forehead like he did so very often. The blade descended, swift and merciless, before he could even blink.

“Tomas?”

A voice startled him from his thoughts, though it was gentle, familiar. Kuai Liang. Leave it to his brother to track him down even when Tomas himself didn’t want to be found. ‘Where there’s smoke, there’s fire’. Something like that.

He didn’t need to look to know what his brother was thinking. Kuai Liang was no stranger to loss himself, and he was not blind to others' losses either, especially not his younger brother’s. Tomas felt a flicker of gratitude- a small ember of light in the darkness he had been drifting in. He wasn’t being pressured to talk, to make up silly excuses. Tomas didn’t need to explain himself. Kuai Liang wasn’t seeking an explanation. He knew why Tomas was here.

The silence settled between them, only disturbed by the wind. It wasn’t uncomfortable, though. It could never be awkward with Kuai Liang. Tomas could feel his warmth from here, a gentle, welcoming presence. An anchor to reality amidst his spiralling thoughts.

Kuai Liang’s footsteps, light, yet deliberate, broke their shared quiet, though barely heard over the wild whistling around them. He moved carefully into Tomas’ peripheral, his posture relaxed and calm as he claimed the empty spot beside him. With a deep, tired sigh, Kuai Liang leaned back on his hands, his gaze wandering over the surrounding landscape. The freshly-healed scar over his right eye tugged slightly with every small movement of his face. “I’ve never been up here before.” He hummed, “It’s nice. Peaceful.”

Tomas swallowed, his voice rough and croaky from disuse, “You don’t have to do this.” He started, “I’d understand.”

Kuai Liang paused. He shifted closer, until their shoulders touched, a steady warmth radiating from his body into Tomas’ own. His brother was a furnace. Always had been, really. The heat grounded Tomas in the moment. Kuai Liang shook his head, his expression calm but firm. “I do.”

“You shouldn’t have to.”

“Don’t.” 

Tomas left it at that.

Go limp. Play dead.

Close your eyes, slow your breathing. Pretend it doesn’t hurt. Don’t flinch, don’t cry, don’t make a single sound. Do nothing at all. If you’re still, maybe you’ll live to see another day.

Anna was choking next to him,her breaths gurgling, wet and ragged, as if she were drowning. His mother was silent. Tomas kept his eyes tightly shut, willing himself not to look.

He attempted to steady his breathing, to quiet the frantic pounding of his heart. His whole body screamed in agony, twitching and writhing despite his best efforts. The blade hadn’t been merciful- the man had not held back. Deep, painful lacerations laced his skin- his face felt like it was on fire, his blood boiling as it pooled out of him, searing his pale, once unmarred skin. He wanted to cry so badly. To shriek and thrash and wail. He was only five. Only five.

He wanted his Máma. To feel her arms around him, hear her soft voice as she soothed away the pain. To have her kiss his bruises and bandage his cuts, to rock him to sleep like she always did when he was upset. His hand was still entangled in her nightgown, his face pressed against the back of her neck, which was steadily growing colder with each passing second. 

She was right there, beside him, and yet Tomas had never felt so alone.

He sighed, turning to lean closer into Kuai Liang’s welcoming presence, resting his cheek on his elder brother’s shoulder. In turn, Kuai Liang’s arm wrapped around him, tugging him closer. 

“I hate seeing you like this.” His brother whispered, as if almost to himself, gaze still set on the mountains before them. On the setting sun casting pretty yellows and purples across the cloudless sky. “I always hoped, as the years went by, that you’d be able to heal fully.” His mouth tugged into a grim, thin line, “I know now that pain like that doesn’t disappear, no matter how much you will it to.”

Watching his mother and sister die was something that Tomas could never, ever truly scrub from his memory. Pieces of his childhood had fallen away over the years, slipping through his fingers slowly like sand as he aged, but that memory would never leave him. It was imprinted on his brain, hardwired into his DNA, entangled in his coding- whatever metaphor he tried to use didn’t give it enough justice. It was there, and it was never leaving him. No matter what.

Part of him was thankful. Knowing that he’ll keep a memory of them forever- be able to remember their faces in such vivid detail, their voices clean and well-kept in tone, as other memories of his faded and warped over time. He won’t ever forget what they looked like. To him, that is invaluable.

Part of him though, deep down? He felt as though that moment was glued to him to remind him how he failed them. He led that attacker right to them both as they slept, unaware of the dangers. If he had run elsewhere, had time to wake them up before leading the man to them, done something brave and different- maybe the outcome would have changed. Maybe they would still be here today, alongside him.

Tomas didn’t know how long he lay there, motionless, his small, tiny body curled against his mother’s cold side. Time had become a blur, a slow, endless stretch of darkness and pain. He was caught between the terrifying thought that maybe this was what death was, and the equally more petrifying idea that if he was alive, and he moved, even just an inch, the man would return and finish what he started. 

Maybe this is what death really was. Nothingness. No heaven, no hell, just absolute nothingness. You just lay there, alone, forever, feeling nothing but aching emptiness and unending agony. He hoped it wasn't. He really, really hoped it wasn’t.

The sound of footsteps reached his ears eventually, breaking the eerie silence of the night. They were growing louder and louder. Voices hit the air around him, unfamiliar and hurried, a language he didn’t understand. He stayed still, squeezing his eyes shut tighter, his breath catching in his throat as the footsteps drew nearer and nearer, creaking down the hallway in a hurried fashion. The kitchen door whined on its hinges. His bloodied fingers clenched tighter onto his mother’s nightgown. 

A gentle, soft hand touched his neck, nimble fingers feeling for a pulse. Then, another cradled his head. Tomas couldn’t help but flinch, a sharp, violent shiver running through his body. The touch was warm. Alive. He dared to open his eyes. Just a little.

A woman. Long, black, silky strands of hair curling delicately around her cheeks, her haunted face pale in the moonlight. She was kneeling beside him, once-white clothes soaked crimson in the blood of his mother, sister- him, too, to an extent. Her eyes were the same shade of brown as his mother’s. Filled with the same concern, the same kindness. She was talking to him, her lips moving, though blurred by his tear-clouded vision, voice low and soothing, though he couldn’t understand a single word.

“Máma…” He whimpered, his voice barely more than a whisper. He wasn’t sure if he was calling for his mother, or asking this kind, strange lady to be her.

The woman, in turn, gave him a sad, heartbroken smile. She reached forward, her arms slipping under him, lifting him gently from the blood-soaked floor, pressing him close into her side. Tomas let her, too numb and weak to resist, a hand curling in the cloth of her dress. His head lolled against her shoulder tiredly, half-lidded eyes drawn back to the scene he had been pulled from.

His mother, his sister- they were just… lying there. Still and silent, their faces pale in the dim light of the night. His mother’s hand, the one that had held onto him so dearly, was so deathly limp now. Contorted and completely lifeless. Anna’s small body was curled into her side, half-tucked away from view, his mother’s last attempts at saving her clear as day. 

The woman holding onto him began moving away, turning towards the door without much notice, eager to leave the massacre behind. Her voice was still soft, though dripping in worry and urgency. Her hand cupped the back of his head where it rested against her shoulder, thumb feeling over a long, deep cut on his scalp. His gaze remained fixed on his family’s corpses, though. A part of him wanted to cry out, to reach for them. To demand that this woman put him down, let him cuddle with them one last time, to fall asleep in his mother’s arms once more, but his body wouldn’t respond. It felt as though he was floating, detached from everything around him. From himself, especially. His lips were sealed tightly shut as the door to the kitchen closed, his family disappearing for the last time behind its wooden frame.

Tomas’ world was a blur of movement and noises as the woman carried him through the cold night’s air. He could hear her calling out, her voice urgent and strong, though her words foreign and unfamiliar. Men, women, they had joined her as she walked, lanterns held up high, glinting weapons sheathed safely in scabbards as they escorted the pair. He glanced around, head still resting on the woman’s shoulder, eyes heavy with exhaustion. They were approaching something- something big. Massive, really. Tall and elegant, high up atop a hill, the climb steep and treacherous.

Oh. This must be a temple. Tomas had never seen a temple before.

The temple's inhabitants were beginning to stir as the woman’s calls echoed through the courtyards. Sleepy, confused faces appearing in windows and doorways, their features blurred by the soft glow of the travelling lanterns moving past. He could feel their eyes on him, though, their gazes shocked and concerned, racking over his wounds and the blood smeared both over him and his saviour. The woman’s hands tightened on him, pulling him closer, as if attempting to shield him from their judging view. That, he appreciated.

Two boys caught his own gaze as he sleepily looked at the crowds around him. One taller, more broader, the other smaller, but no less muscular, both staring at him from the footpath to one of the much larger, prettier temple homes. The taller one wore a deep, calming blue, the other a bright, fiery yellow, their little confused faces peering out at him, dark, curious eyes meeting his own pale ones. 

The woman holding him looked over herself, her own eyes meeting those of the young boys. She said something in her native tongue that sent the two of them scrambling back behind closed doors, out of view. Tomas tiredly wondered what she had said to them. Were those her children?

He was whisked away before he could question it further, carried down a narrow corridor into a dimly-lit room where the strong scent of sage and sandalwood greeted him, tickling his nose gently. There, she lay him down upon a low cot, his battered body sinking into the fabric. A man was waiting nearby- a doctor, if Tomas had to guess. He was much, much older than her, his face lined with wrinkles of age and wisdom. His eyes, though sharp, held a kindness as they took in the sight of the small boy placed before him. 

His voice was deep, calm and well-controlled as he turned to speak to the woman, his hands gesturing towards Tomas as he himself rolled back on his chair, checking over his equipment. In response, the woman touched Tomas’ shoulder, her fingers gentle as she began to peel back the layers of clothing clinging to his skin. Her movements were deliberate and careful, each button of his torn and bloodied shirt undone with absolute care. She murmured quietly in his ear the whole time as she worked, her voice a soothing balm to his frayed, jumpy nerves, even if her words were incomprehensible.

Once he was stripped bare of his clothes, the doctor leaned back in, his gaze sharpening as he examined the full extent of Tomas’ injuries. His cold, rough hands shifted Tomas back and forth and side-to-side, eyes hesitating over the deeper cuts across his shoulders and upper back. He muttered something short under his breath before turning away back to his equipment nearby.

Throughout it all, the woman stayed close, her hands never leaving him. Her fingers, which had deftly unbuttoned his shirt moments before now traced delicate patterns across the skin of his face, her nails scratching lightly at his scalp as she combed through his smoky hair. It reminded him achingly of his mother.

A single tear slipped from Tomas’ eye, tracing a path down his bloodied face. The woman’s thumb was quick to catch it, her lips pressing into a thin line as she leaned forwards, closer, whispering something to him, her eyes filled with honest concern. At just the simple gesture, more tears followed, and Tomas had to look away, his pale eyes staring down at his bloodied hands resting in his lap, entangling his fingers together. His lip wobbled dangerously. “Máma…”

Eventually, the woman was called away from him. Her warm hands left him hesitantly, replaced by the cold, harsh string of the needle as the doctor attempted to stitch him back up. As she stepped back, Tomas looked up, watching as she wandered over to a newcomer, a man, who was stood in the doorway, arms crossed and expression grim. Their conversation wasn’t a loud one by any means, but it held heat, their whispered voices rising and falling. Tomas noticed their eyes dart towards him occasionally, looking him up and down. Judging him. Were they discussing what to do with him? Was he even welcome here?

When the doctor finally finished, his wounds stinging and raw, but now clean and tended to, whatever argument had befallen the pair seemed to cease as well, an answer concluded, if the man’s dip of his head and his quick exit had anything to go by. The woman returned quickly, gathering Tomas up in one arm, cradling his tiny body close to her chest, her other hand reaching out, snagging the dirtied, slashed clothing he had once worn. She softly thanked the doctor, at least, he assumed so, Tomas hearing him murmur something to her in turn. A gentle, satisfied exchange between the pair before she took her leave, dragging Tomas away with her. Back down the narrow corridor they went, away from the scent of herbs and towards the crisp chill of the night’s air once more. 

She was quick to lead him towards another building- the same one, he noted, that he had seen those two boys disappear into earlier. She didn’t hesitate, waltzing in through the large, elegant door, down the winding hallways until she reached what he assumed were her own quarters, letting them both in quickly, the thin wooden door closing with a click behind them.

She moved with practised ease, setting Tomas down on a cushioned mat as she moved further into another room, returning moments later with an old, dusty box, full to the brim of children’s clothes- blue and yellow outfits, like the two boys he had seen. After rummaging around inside the box, and comparing him to the garments she found, the woman settled on a small pair of yellow pyjamas. The fabric was soft and worn from time, smelling faintly of lavender and rose. Though they were far too large on his small frame, the cuffs reaching the very tips of his fingertips, the bottoms pooling well past his toes. Regardless, they were comfortable- a stark contrast to his previous attire, which now sat abandoned near the doorway in a bloodied heap. The relief was immediate and more than welcome.

The woman changed out of her own blood-soaked dress, donning something soft and simple in tow. She sat down beside Tomas, pulling him into her lap, her arms wrapping around him in a comforting embrace. He curled into her almost immediately, pressing his face into the crook of her neck, seeking solace in her warmth. He could hear her murmuring softly to him, her voice soothing and melodic as she spoke simple, singular words to him. She was trying different languages, he realised, attempting to find which one he would react to- some words she spoke he vaguely recognized from stories or encounters, some completely foreign to him entirely. She didn’t speak Czech, though, but Tomas didn’t expect her to. Instead, he simply burrowed closer, letting the sound of her voice wash over him, lulling him toward the sleep his body desperately begged for.

Sensing his need for quiet and peace, the woman’s words gradually faded into a gentle hum as she began to rock him slowly, her hand idly stroking his soft, pale hair. The tune she hummed was soft and tender, a melody that felt like a distant memory. It sounded like something his own mother may have sung to him. Maybe one she may have sung to him tonight, in her beloved brown rocking chair. Had she been given the chance to.

Tomas’s eyelids grew heavier as his body sank deeper into the woman’s comforting embrace. He felt the tension in his muscles slowly ebb away, replaced by an overwhelming exhaustion that he could no longer fight. The horrors of the night began to blur, replaced by the warmth of her arms, the softness of her voice, the steady beat of her heart beneath his cheek. He let himself drift, slipping into the safety of sleep, the last thing he heard being the woman’s gentle hum, carrying him into a world where, for a moment, he could forget everything.

Tomas awoke to Kuai Liang’s rough, scarred hand ghosting across his face, idly tracing old scars. His fingertips were careful and precise, brushing through his hair, flattening smoky strands. He tucked a few particularly curly rebels behind his ears ever-so-gently.

When he had fallen asleep, he hadn’t a clue. He had gone from sitting up to laying down somehow, his head now pillowed in his brother’s lap. The night’s winds were no longer a gentle breeze, instead howling and wailing through the mountains. The cold of the air bit at the exposed skin of his arms, but Kuai Liang’s unnatural, fiery warmth kept most of the discomfort at bay.

They hadn’t cuddled like this since they were children. Kuai Liang was much like Bi-Han when it came to things like affection, making Tomas the odd one out of the three, naturally. Cold and icy, Kuai Liang never wanted to get too close to anyone, attempting desperately to mimic his elder brother, wanting to be everything he was and more, even at the cost of his own mental health. It seems Harumi had done a good job in getting his brother to take up on his naturally softer side once more.

Losing Bi-Han to that same coldness he had once strived hard for probably helped, though. Tomas knew it was a sore spot still, even after all the time passed. It hurt him, too- he wasn’t afraid to admit it. Losing Bi-Han was like losing his blood family all over again. Like losing his adoptive father and mother. Bi-Han was the closest person he had to a parental figure after everything he had lost over the years, and just like the previous ones, he had disappeared too. Instead this time, on his own volition. That had stung even deeper.

“Sleep, brother.” Kuai Liang whispered, voice barely heard over the wind. “I’ll keep you safe.”

He yawned, jaw cracking. His brother’s warmth and ghosting touch were slowly dragging him back under, reminding his mind of better days, soothing his aching, lonely heart. And who was he to fight it?

[stranger-fanfiction-n-things]

CHAPTER 6: THE MONSTER

This is an Original Character fanfiction. All Stranger Things characters and content are owned by Netflix and The Duffer Brothers.

a/n: I would actually faint if I were in the Upside Down for the first time like that.

Warnings: The Upside Down

Word Count: 1819

Masterlist

PART I || PART II ||

Friday, November 11, 1983 - THE UPSIDE DOWN

It was like crawling through one of those plastic tunnels in a playground but instead of seeing sand and sunlight on the other side, I see darkness and decay. I wrinkle my nose at the mucus-like substance coating my hair and clothes. What is this?

“Nancy?” I whisper. 

“Diana! Are you okay?” she breathes, helping me up. 

“Yeah, just,” I wipe my hands on my jeans. “What is this stuff?” 

“I don’t know,” she answers, looking around. 

I follow her gaze and realize we’re in a forest, similar to the one we crawled out of? I feel discombobulated like Alice falling down the hole chasing the white rabbit. The forest is covered in fog and I squint taking in my surroundings. There are weird flakes falling from the sky, but they rarely land on the ground. It’s like they’re floating, taunting me. I remove a flake stuck on my jacket and it disintegrates between my fingers like ash. This place…I don’t understand—where are we? It looks like the forest we were just in but colder, darker and more unsettling. 

Nancy motions for me to follow and I oblige stepping over a weird vine thing with mucus all over it. I then step through a splitting tree, cringing at the mucus covered vines spiralling all over. The flashlight begins to flicker and Nancy hits the tin box trying to fix it. I squint, looking around the forest. A sudden movement from the corner of my eye makes my skin tingle. Nancy gasps shining the light to the right of us. 

I am utterly frozen. My body cut all communication with my mind, and no matter how much my brain screamed for me to run. I am immobilized in terror. In the far corner by a tree was the animal I saw in the photograph. I remember its long, lithe figure. What I couldn’t see in the photo that I see now is it’s long sharp claws and slimy skin. I hear it tearing into the deer we saw earlier; the wounded one Jonathan was about to put out of its misery. It disappeared here. That thing—that animal dragged it here. The animal was vicious and brutal, gnawing at tissue and bones. Blood…so much blood dripped down its body. It didn’t notice Nancy’s flashlight shining on it or us staring wide-eyed while it ate. Nancy grabs my hand and we begin to back away slowly. I follow her cautious movements, neither of us taking our eyes off the animal. 

Breathe. Breathe, Diana. Just one step at a time. 

I feel the crunch beneath my boot before I hear it. The animal whips around roaring a terrifying screech that I’m sure will haunt me for the rest of my life. Its mouth opens wide like petals of a flower and I see several jagged, pointy teeth, covered in blood and gore. A guttural scream erupts from my throat and I sprint through the forest not daring to look back. I don’t know when or where or how I lost Nancy. The animal’s fierce growls replaying over and over in head. I run and run and run until I can’t anymore and hide behind a tree. 

��Jonathan!” I hear Nancy shouting from the distance. “Jonathan! Jonathan! I’m right here!” 

“Nancy!” I shout, running towards her voice. I can’t see through much through the fog. “Nancy!” 

“Diana!” 

A terrifying growl followed by her scream echoes through the forest. I dash to the nearest tree huddling behind it, wrapping my arms tightly around myself. I’m trembling so much I feel the tree is moving with me. I press my hand to my mouth to stifle my uncontrollable sobs. I can’t—think. I don’t know what’s happening. All I can hear is my heart beating so fast in my chest I fear it might explode. Black spots cloud my vision. I’m going to faint. No! I pinch myself hard. No. You cannot faint, Diana. Not here. 

My mind feels like it’s been tossed in a blender, filled with fragmented thoughts of my life and worse-case scenarios. I don’t know how long I stay crouched behind the tree. I don’t know if I’m even alive right now. Something tickles my ankles and I jump up, covering my mouth to stifle my scream. I back away watching the vines move and slither along the tree. The small hairs across my body stand up. The vines…they’re alive. I wring out my hands, letting my tears fall freely. 

I can’t. I can’t. 

My eyes trail down and around at all the vines wrapped and draped over the forest. They seem to be moving…breathing, actually. I look up and around trying to understand this…place. I hear a low growl in the distance and have no choice but to hide behind the tree covered in breathing vines. I clench my muscles so tight they ache. 

“Diana!” I hear a voice shout. I flinch, eyes wide in horror. “Diana!” It’s muffled like it’s coming from the other side of a door. “Diana! Hurry!” The voice says. “Find the tree! Find the tree!” 

Nancy. It’s Nancy! She’s alive! She’s alive and with Jonathan. How? Wait. Find the tree. What tree? There are so many. I peer around the web-like tendrils looking for the animal, but I can’t see through the stupid fog. I press my trembling hands against my temples, trying to still the frantic thoughts that raced through my mind, each one a taunting reminder of my mounting panic. Find the tree. The tree! The tree we crawled out of. Okay. Okay. I can do this. I can find it. I didn’t run that far, did I? 

“Diana!” Jonathan shouts. “Listen to the sound of my voice.” 

I whip my head to the side. Left. Go Left. I hold my breath trying to make myself as small as possible and scurry to the next nearby tree, trying my best not to press against the vines. I want to shout to them but I’m frightened it would give my hideout away. My eyes dart around the forest, searching for an escape route. If I run from tree to tree toward the sound of Nancy and Jonathan’s voices, I’ll be able to find the tree. I grit my teeth in determination. I am not going to die. 

My entire being is on high alert as I quiet the sound of my panting to open my senses to any small sound. I don’t know where that thing is, but I know I need to get to the nearest tree. I take off to the left, light and delicate on my feet. Who knew ballet would come in handy when escaping impending death. I run from tree to tree keeping my eyes peeled for anything strange. 

“Diana!” I hear Nancy more clearly.  

I cling to the vine, fingers digging into the soft surface. It moves beneath my fingers and I jump back stifling a scream. To the right I notice the tree. It’s gaping hole was growing…smaller, as if it were closing. The surge of panic consumes me. I am not getting stuck here. I am not going to die. I sprint straight to the tree refusing to take my eyes off it. I drop heavily onto my knees and begin to squeeze my body through. I clench my jaw fighting to fit my hips through. I can’t see anything tucking my chin into my chest refusing to get any of that slime on my face. I push the rest of my body inside, but I feel stuck. Like the walls are closing in on me. I open my mouth, breathing in jagged uneven gasps. I taste mould in my mouth and I cough, my lungs struggling to draw in air.  

“Nancy!” I cry, my voice quivers, words stumbling out in disjointed fragments. “Jonathan!” 

THE WOODS

I push my body through the damp tunnel desperately clawing my way out to the other side. The muffled voices of Jonathan and Nancy shouting my name grow more and more clear as I crawl. The space in the tunnel becomes narrow and I find it difficult to squeeze my shoulders through. I grit my teeth pushing my arm through the sticky webbing as far as I can reach. My hand oozes past the gummy surface until I feel a pop breaking free of the goop.  

Someone grabs my hand and pulls my body through with so much force I pop out of the hole landing on my side. I draw in my first breath filling my lungs with cool, clean air and immediately begin to cough inhaling too much for my lungs to filter. The violent blood-chilling screech of that thing with no face replays over and over in my mind like a broken record. The image of its big, sharp teeth eating the poor deer will be engraved in my head forever. I can smell the old mouldy scent of the decaying trees. All that blood. My breathing is shallow as I claw the damp earth with my fingers. My pulse is loud in my ears and my mouth is dry. The darkness. The ash-like spores falling down from the sky like fluffy snowflakes. The gooey, slimy gunk clinging to the trees. I look down at my hands. It was all over me. 

I sit up. My entire body trembling violently yet, I feel like I can’t move. Pressure builds in my chest like a balloon filled with helium. The pressure is so heavy in my chest, I can barely breathe. I look down at my clothes and all the grey goop slathered all over me. I feel sticky and dirty. I wipe the mysterious substance off my body but it only smears it across my jacket creating a stain. Tears brim my eyes clouding my vision. 

“I-It’s not coming off,” I whimper, adding more pressure. “It’s not coming off!” I cry out growing more and more frantic. “I-I can’t get it off me!” I shout. “I-I can’t. I can’t!” 

“Diana!” Jonathan shouts. “Hey!” I shiver against the cold hands holding my face. Jonathan wipes my tears away with the pads of his thumbs. “It’s gonna come off, okay? It’s gonna come off.” I nod my head in a daze. “Breathe, Diana. Breathe. It’s going to be okay. You’re okay.” 

All the adrenaline I had in that forest drains out of me and I am faced with the reality of the situation. I almost died. A sob shakes my body and I cling to Jonathan burying my face in the crook of his neck. My mind can’t process what I witnessed. It all felt like a crazy fever dream I couldn’t wake up from. But it was all real and I can’t stop crying. 

“You’re safe,” Jonathan whispers in my ear. “You’re safe.” 

NEXT -> PART II

Taglist 🤍: @tinydramatist

[blackjackkent]

So, I thought I'd already explored this whole place, pretty much, on Hector's run, and was just having Rakha go through all the motions in a different order, but @rhysintherain has informed me that there's a whole area down on the lower level that I didn't know you could reach at all, down by the feet of the giant Shar statue in the center of the temple!

Rakha wasn't really expecting to find the library with the Spear down here, and she's correct; in truth what led her down here, rather to her shame, is the lingering smell of the blood that stains the floor. There are long streaks of it, deep sticky puddles, and - most curiously - a small circle painted into the dirt by Shar's feet.

Rakha's heart clenches in her chest. She remembers another such circle painted in the dirt beneath Alfira's dead body. This one is smaller, though; considerably less elaborate, and surrounded by dark and unlit candles. The Shadowfell magic swirls around it in uneasy ripples.

A book lies on the floor at the circle's edge. One Becomes Many reads the title, almost obscured by dust, on the front page.

Rakha squints at these words in abject bewilderment. Only one word sticks out to her, dramatic and familiar - Raphael. She cannot tell if it it is a signature, an invocation, a warning...

The rest is subtler. The words are rhythmic, poetic, cryptic - but there is a spell at the center of them. Itori mustag.

She does not know what it means, but she can visualize the way those words would resonate through the Weave. She can imagine the spell even if she has never seen it. A splitting, a rending apart...

"This speaks of magic that can divide someone into many... but many what?"

A flicker of suspicion touches the back of her mind.

She crouches to examine the brazier nearby, which is filled with dried gore and the bones of some indeterminate animal.

As she reaches out and places a hand carefully on the brazier's edge, there's a shimmer of magic next to her and yet another rat appears out of the darkness, almost into the circle's center.

Narrator: The rat stares at you. It almost seems like it wants your attention.

The creature is much smaller than Scratch and Buddy - but nevertheless Rakha can see similarities in the rat's expression (such as it is) to the moments when Scratch wishes to beg for something - a piece of sausage from Rakha's dinner, or a scratch under his jaw, or a run through the woods.

She turns and squints more closely at the little animal, trying to parse the details of its behavior.

[ANIMAL HANDLING] Study the rat. Try to figure out what it wants.

Narrator: It wants you to leave it and its fellow rats in peace.

(A/N: I know there's more content here if you speak with animals; however as mentioned, I'm saving that for my stream playthrough. We have the option of backing up and leaving the rat in peace, at which point it just runs off. However, what follows if you attack it is FAR more interesting, and also has the added benefit of tying into the Dark Urge and making Rakha feel miserable yet again. So we'll go with that. ^_^ )

Pain spasms through Rakha's head. The beast's mocking laugh in the back of her mind - Peace? Hah. Kill it. The crunch of innocent bones under a boot; you know the song, how sweet it sounds. Her vision whites out.

"Rakha!" she hears Wyll shout. He knows the signs by now, and he has sworn to help her fight the urge... but she's too quick. Her boot stomps down on the creature's head and there's a light spray of blood in all directions.

Suddenly the cavern echoes with a cacophany of angry squeals, and around them the shadows come alive. From every corner surges a tide, a wave, of angry rats bearing down with teeth and claws.

------

This fight is WILD.

We get a series of increasingly large waves of rats coming in from all directions. They start out normal, but start to incorporate more "Necrotic Rats" (which have more health and do extra damage) and "Soporific Rats" (which explode on death and put the attacker to sleep).

You might also notice that there are several cats and dogs in the combatant list in this screenshot; that's because Rakha had to use Tides of Chaos to pass the animal handling check, and thus this happened when she cast her first fireball on the rat horde:

She transformed herself into a dog, Wyll into a cat, and several of the rats also into cats and dogs - which gave them more health and enhanced their combat options while severely limiting her own. Never let it be said wild magic doesn't keep things interesting, but to say Rakha was miserable during this whole process would be putting it VERY mildly.

She knows perfectly well what she did and why and she hates it, and now her magic has turned her into a dog to add insult to injury. It's not as bad as the sheep, at least.

The whole team was never really in danger of dying per se, at least not on easy mode, but nevertheless it definitely got a little hairy in the latter rounds when about fifteen rats were spawning onto the field at once.

Eventually, though, the waves slow, and then stop as they manage to finish off the last of the rats. And as the last one falls... its dead body begins to shiver and shake and tremble... and transform.

A form in Justiciar armor, similar to the empty armors they fought in front of Balthazar's lab. This one, though, is fleshed; there's a man inside it, and he is trembling violently as he staggers to his feet.

"These hands... too big..." he mumbles frantically. "Where are the others? Where's the rest of me?!"

His head lifts and his eyes fix on Rakha from behind the blank stare of his mask.

"You!" he howls. "Why did you have to keep prying? WHY COULDN'T YOU JUST LEAVE?"

She was right. That spell - itori mustag - a spell of splitting, of rending. It turned this man into all the rats that she has seen scurrying around the temple. Has he been here since Ketheric's Sharran forces were driven out? Has he been here, housed in all the rats, for a century?

"Hold on," she says. "Who are you?"

"Lyrthindor. Last Dark Justiciar," the man hisses. His voice has a skittering, hectic quality to it, very akin to the chittering beasts he inhabited. "I kept watch over Lady Shar's temple. Kept the faith alive, after all the others were killed."

He fumbles unsteadily for the sword at his belt. "But you ruined it!" he yelps. "Trespassed! Spoiled our-- my-- secret. Now you'll rot in the dark!"

(A/N: There are a few dialogue options here, but none of them are Rakha-ish - one apology, one assertion that there's no need for violence, and one claim that all Sharrans are better off dead. The other option is to attack, and all of the dialogue leads to violence at this point anyway, so...)

Attack.

Rakha sees him move, sees the blade halfway out of its sheathe-- and she moves first, swinging her quarterstaff around to clock him at the hinge of his skull. His head snaps sideways with a loud crack and he falls into a still pile at her feet without a sound.

-----

(Annoyingly, we don't have the option to talk to Shadowheart about this at all; this seems like something she should have a reaction to. But that's FINE, I'll do it myself. XD )

As soon as the Justiciar is dead, Rakha's arms fall to her sides and she scowls, turning away sharply. "Damn," she mutters, and stalks away to begin clambering back up the slope that led them here. "Damn. Damn. Damn. Damn. Damn. Damn. Damn..."

Wyll has no love in particular for the Dark Justiciars, but he does nevertheless look at Shadowheart with an apologetic expression. "Sorry," he says.

"It's not your fault," she answers. She is looking at the corpse with great intensity. "We all saw what happened. Rakha--"

"Let her be," Lae'zel says abruptly, tone rough. "We saw indeed. And we know that was not her."

She glances at Wyll, who nods. "I should have been watching for it," he mutters. "I told her I would..."

Silence. Shadowheart sighs heavily. "He said he was the last Justiciar. All the more reason I must be strong. I must find the Spear and complete the trials and be a new hand for the Dark Lady." But in spite of the confidence of the words, she doesn't move for a long time, just stares down at the dead man's body with a troubled expression playing around her lips.