#and his sheer horror and fear

[angorwhosebabyisthis]

oh hey, forgot about nine celebrating that five wanted to die, tried to kill himself in front of him, and almost succeeded 🙃🙃🙃🙃

[triglycercule]

if killer has differently sized eyes then does he blink like those lizards that have each eye blink abnormally. like the small eye has to be shut for a full second and then the big eye has to take a minute to blink. his blinks are delayed. they have their own timer. is this purposeful??? perhaps killer is doing it on purpose to freak people out and its just a really really really long running inside joke between himself and himself. or it could actually be srs and he can't blink synchronized. or he could use it to his advantage by like never having one eye closed ever. he'd never be held back by the disability that is blinking. AND it's a psychological trick on his enemy because they're weirded out like "why isnt this prick blinking normally"

does this make the top 20 dumbest triglycercule posts. i think this is a solid 12/20

[bajablastflavoredsaxreed]

quivering rn what the heck

baron from the baronies is something that can be so personal actually

ough

[lightwise]

Y’all…I am…this is….just incredible.

[zarameraki]

♡₊˚⚜️・₊✧ 𝘆𝗼𝘂'𝗿𝗲 𝗲𝘅𝗽𝗲𝗰𝘁𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘀𝘂𝗸𝘂𝗻𝗮'𝘀 𝗰𝗵𝗶𝗹𝗱, 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘂𝗻𝗱𝗲𝗿𝘄𝗼𝗿𝗹𝗱'𝘀 𝗰𝗿𝗶𝗺𝗲 𝗸𝗶𝗻𝗴 ♡₊˚⚜️・₊✧

: ̗̀➛ tropes: fem! reader 𖥔 mdni 𖥔 sukuna is a mafia kingpin 𖥔 teasing grumpy x sunshine 𖥔 pregnancy trope 𖥔 he'll burn the world for you 𖥔 "my wife" 𖥔 he's a great dad 𖥔 mentions of miscarriage 𖥔 mentions of physical and sexual assault 𖥔 mention of parental death 𖥔 major fluff 𖥔 sexual content 𖥔 alternate universe 𖥔 nsfw 𖥔 he loves eating you out 𖥔 anal play (yup.) 𖥔 last warning: mdni!

: ̗̀➛ words: 6.0k

: ̗̀➛ notes: no bc i love you all so much. it's insane how much you guys have supported my toji fanfic & and my nanami fanfic. i'll def be writing a part two to both of those masterpieces (yes i have self-confidence). as someone who's always imagined sukuna as a mafia leader, i decided to say fuck it and write it. please leave a comment, like, and reblog! thank you & ily. enjoy! (p.s. pregnancy trope>>>)

You never thought you'd be married to Sukuna Ryomen, let alone carrying his kid again. Yet, four years deep into this forced marital mess, thanks to your father owing a hefty debt to the kingpin of the underworld crime syndicate, here you were.

“Look at you, Mrs. Ryomen, radiant as ever!” chirped one of your husband’s associate's wives. You had studied a name list last night, but it all escaped your memory after you passed out from sheer exhaustion.

Sukuna wasn’t keeping a hawk's eye on you like he used to when you first stepped into the public eye. Gone were the days of his glares if you messed up a name. Never once had he laid a finger on you at home, despite your assumption that forgetfulness would earn you a beating.

“Thank you." You forced a smile at the woman, your patience waning as the mayor's birthday party stretched on. It was almost the end of the night, and your feet were protesting from traipsing around in flats. All you craved at that moment was your bed, pronto.

The woman and her husband attempted to capture Sukuna's lukewarm attention through political discussions and expressing gratitude for the illegal artillery shipments from your husband's syndicate. They made no effort to acknowledge your existence by his side.

Your hand rested on your belly, a mere eight months into your pregnancy—a new personal record. The first time you conceived, Sukuna demanded an heir, and you willingly agreed, knowing that the child would provide some distraction in the expansive estate that felt like a cage. Unfortunately, at the two-month mark, you experienced a miscarriage.

Feeling Sukuna's knuckles lightly tapping your back, you straightened your posture momentarily, only to slouch again almost instantly. It was futile. The discomfort of your swollen and cramped belly made it nearly impossible to maintain a poised demeanor in the midst of the party.

Disobeying Sukuna meant facing inevitable death, a fact well understood in his dangerous domain, and you had never dared to challenge that.

"Let's go," Sukuna said, cutting through the incessant chatter of the couple. He didn't grasp your hand, only your fragile wrist, a gesture you didn't mind. Yours was not a typical love; he, Sukuna Ryomen, a most feared monster in the criminal underworld, and you, a sacrificial lamb, a trophy collected three years ago, a means to his heir.

"I'm sorry," you whispered as you exited the venue, heading towards the limousine surrounded by fifteen armed guards under Sukuna's command. "I'm so sorry—"

"Get in the car." He held the door open for you, signaling his guards to disperse and take their positions in the Jeeps parked behind.

Silencing yourself, you cautiously settled into the back seat, and Sukuna joined you, slamming the door with force. His anger was discernible, and the memory of that night, losing your second unborn child to a kidnapping, plagued your dreams. You were uncertain if the nightmares were about Sukuna's wrath upon finding you or the horrors his enemies inflicted on you during your 48-hour captivity.

Sukuna noticed your struggle with the seatbelt and contorted his body toward you. Your fingers released their grip on the belt, allowing him to pull it taut and secure it snugly around your midsection. Click. He withdrew, distancing himself from your face that had been mere inches away.

“Tedious fucking party, anyway,” Sukuna grumbled, his left ankle casually perched on his right kneecap. He always adopted a specific posture, his elbow leaning against something, cheek resting on his knuckles, and his narrow eyes a rich brown that could almost pass for a deep shade of red. He exuded an unrelenting air of intimidation.

"I agree," you unintentionally voiced your thoughts, earning a sidelong glance from him. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to."

His attention barely lingered on you as the car roared to life. You breathed a sigh of relief, stretching out your legs and leaning your head back against the seat's shoulder. Your palm absentmindedly traced circles on your belly. Goosebumps peppered your skin from the frigidness in the car, stirring an involuntary shudder.

"Turn on the heater," Sukuna ordered the driver in his smooth, languid baritone.

"Yes, sir."

As warmth gradually surrounded the backseat, you hummed a small "Thank you" and closed your eyes, enjoying a few moments of peace.

Disorientation clouded your senses, and you dispelled it by rubbing your eyes and using your knuckles to prop yourself against the headboard. A couple of contractions ripped through your gut, causing you to groan and hiss through gritted teeth.

The enormous room was devoid of Sukuna, its black silk sheets hinting at the luxury covering you. The fireplace casted a warm glow, and a soft, dim golden light spilled from the lamp onto the floor.

In the first year of your marriage and pregnancy, your bedroom was located three doors away. You were tended to by on-site nurses and doctors, surrounded by an entourage of maids for company. Days were spent aimlessly wandering the estate, occasionally crossing paths with one of Sukuna's mistresses, their curious smirks evident as they exited his room.

The second year brought a subtle shift. You still slept alone, but now there was a surprising addition of joining Sukuna for dinner. Positioned diagonally from him, an air of restrained silence hung above your head. Yet, between the utensils clattering and quiet chewing, Sukuna's glances toward you and your five-month-old belly revealed your anticipation for the impending arrival of your child.

One of your maids had been instructed to lure you into a private conversation in the back garden, and before you could react, a group of men clad in black drugged you and forcibly removed you from the cage, which in that cruel moment felt like a sanctuary.

Most details of the monstrosities forced upon you in that warehouse have been compressed by your mind—the merciless physical and sexual assault endured for hours. They callously bragged that raping Sukuna's Ryomen's wife was a personal victory, cackling like bloodthirsty hyenas as you bled from your legs. In the thick of your suffering, you lost your second child in a pool of your own sweat and feces.

When Sukuna discovered you, when he annihilated every man along with their bloodlines, you were left as a mere shell of a woman, practically lifeless. You've existed as a walking corpse for quite some time now. Following that dreadful night, you attempted every conceivable means to end your own life—drowning, leaping out of windows, creating a makeshift noose from bed sheets and tying them around balcony railings, teetering on the edge—but every attempt proved useless. Sukuna consistently interfered at the last minute, sweeping in and enveloping you in his arms as you wept until unconsciousness claimed you for days.

Therapy provided some relief, as did the medications. Sukuna heightened security measures tenfold, keeping only those workers who served during his father and grandfather's reigns. He moved your belongings into his bedroom, sleeping by your side with a gun beneath his pillow. There were times when you would doze off in the library while reading, only to wake up in his room.

Two years seemed like an eternity in the slow process of healing, both physically and mentally, from the torment that had befallen you. Stepping into the garden was a reminder of the progress you had made, yet the hope that blossomed in your womb now filled you with a different kind of fear.

You needed your baby. Even if it meant risking your own life during childbirth. The only thing that mattered was the precious life you carried within you, and as long as your baby took that first breath, you'd welcome death with open arms.

Sukuna's bedroom door creaked open, revealing his presence.

Mink-colored tendrils of hair obscured his eyes, disheveled from their usual spiked stance. The stark white of his dress shirt was marred by the unmistakable stains of someone else's blood, and a gun dangled casually from his grasp. In the subdued lighting, his facial markings, inked tattoos designed to mask the scars of his tormented childhood, appeared more ominous than ever.

Without acknowledging your ogling, he briskly entered his bathroom.

You slipped back under the covers, pulling the comforter up to your chin, soothing the sharp twinges in your belly. The rhythmic sounds of his shower served as a background melody. Sukuna took an eternity to freshen up, nearly two hours passing before the door finally creaked open. You had kept a close eye on it, lost in your own world and trying to ignore the persistent contractions. No complaints, though – you were at the eight-month mark, and this baby was determined to make its entrance into the world.

Draped in a sleek black silk robe, Sukuna strolled toward his side of the bed, his eyes locking onto yours. "Why are you still awake?" He tilted his head as if studying an unfamiliar creature. He always regarded you with a curious interest, unearthing some new revelations about you.

"Cramps," you whispered in the dimness, even though the first rays of morning sun began to seep through the curtains.

Sukuna strolled to his side of the bed, lifting the comforter to settle down. "Do you take any medication for it?"

You shook your head. "I don't want to take any risks."

"So you're just going to endure the night with a migraine?"

Your husband seemed oblivious to the concept of cramps. He hadn't bothered to educate himself about your pregnancy or even familiarize himself with basic menstrual cycle terminology. You hesitated to bring attention to his title and position, but he was, after all, born from a woman.

How could he not know?

"Answer me," Sukuna demanded, fixing you with a cold, indifferent gaze. How could two simple words carry such a heavy, intimidating weight? Your entire body shuddered, and you swore you felt your child kick in response to his attitude, causing you to clench your teeth.

"Cramps . . . are something women experience during their period and pregnancy. They're sharp, unpredictable pains in your gut and back," you explained, finding a position that eased the cramps and calmed your baby. "It's worse when you're pregnant—like someone attached a taser to your body without a switch to turn it off."

Sukuna's brow furrowed, and he seemed pissed off as if he held a vendetta against cramps. "Will it have any consequence on the baby?"

You were really trying to be patient. “The baby is the reason why.” 

He ran his hands wearily down his face, casting a stern gaze at the ceiling, his breath quickening. "Is there any way to relieve the pain? Besides medication?"

“Well,” you said slowly, “when I first started menstruating, my mother used to place a warm rubber bottle on my stomach.” The recollection of nights spent groaning, tossing, and turning with your hand clutching your stomach brought a smile. After her passing in high school, you found yourself managing the household, dealing with your drug-addicted father, and taking care of yourself all on your own.

"Come here."

Startled, you shifted your focus to your husband, who raised the comforter like a makeshift tent with one arm. "You don't have to—"

"Come here."

With caution, you edged closer, lying flat and holding your breath. Sukuna propped himself up on one elbow, resting his temple on his knuckles while adjusting the blanket up to your neck. His left hand glided up your sweater and settled on your swollen belly.

An immediate sense of relaxation cocooned you, your eyes closing as warmth radiated from his palm onto your skin. The sensation passed through to your child, who quit kicking within seconds, seemingly recognizing their father's touch. It dawned on you that Sukuna hadn't touched you since you conceived, and you hadn't realized the volume of your misery and longing until this moment.

"Feeling better?"

"Mm-hmm." You nestled your face close to his neck. All you managed to whisper, your voice tinged with brokenness, was, "Please, don't let go."

Sukuna responded only with silence.

You'd woken up screaming bloody-mary.

The security team and maids hurried into the bedroom, their eyes widening at the sight of blood staining your clothes and darkening the black sheets. In a swift response, the doctor and her team of nurses rushed in while Uraume, Sukuna's trusted aide, calmly called for your husband from a corner of the room.

In the heat of your excruciating screams, five nurses attempted to guide your breathing and encourage you to follow a pattern. Guards carefully lifted you into a sitting position, and Uraume decisively cleared the room of all men. The doctor swiftly removed your sweatpants and panties, covering your lower region with a sheet, and instructing you to push.

Your body felt numb, your eyes rolling to the back of your head, and a black vignette closing in on your vision. Your head swayed left and right, on the verge of dropping if not for Uraume's unwavering support. Despite the intensity of your grip, they held steady, their only reaction being a stream of muttered curses amid the chaotic scene.

"I can't—Uraume—"

"You will, Mrs. Sukuna. You have come this far. Giving up now is not an option."

"I don't want to die," you whispered akin to a prayer.

"You won't," they softly replied. "He won't allow it."

Uraume, a silent figure from the past, now stood by your side, offering support and encouragement. The connection with them had been minimal, limited to the formalities of a marital contract signing. They had simply muttered, “He’s not half as evil as they say,” to you before packing up the papers and leaving you in the room with Sukuna.

The room buzzed with affirmations, reassuring you that they could see the baby's head and urging you to push with each breath.

The sound of the baby's cries stirred you awake.

You snapped to attention at the sweet, reassuring sound, realizing that your baby was close to arrival—alive and ready to face the world. Following two heartbreaking miscarriages and the pain endured as Sukuna's wife, the bearer of his lost children, you were finally on the cusp of welcoming motherhood.

"Two more pushes!" The doctor's voice cut through the air.

"AGH!" A guttural growl escaped your throat as you grappled with the harsh sensations. Your body trembled, and waves of fiery discomfort overflowed through your core as you exerted yourself to bring your baby into the world.

"Come on," Uraume whispered. "You can do this, Mrs. Ryomen."

You let out a powerful cry and strained with effort, bringing forth new life. The baby and you were crying at the exact wavelength, competing against who could be louder. The nurses and attendants, familiar faces from your previous pregnancies, clasped their hands in prayer for a safe delivery. Tears of relief streamed down your face as you pushed for your own well-being.

"Blanket!" the doctor urgently called out, prompting a nurse to rush over with a soft cream blanket. "Push!"

With a final, determined push, the weight lifted suddenly.

The slippery sensation of delivering the child and the immediate release of pressure left you slumping against Uraume's shoulder. As they laid you down, the doctor directed the staff to tend to you while the baby's cries filled the air.

The doctor approached through your hazy sight and gently laid your newborn on your chest. Overwhelmed with emotion, you showered your baby with kisses, tears of joy streaming down your face. Your little one was here. They were finally here.

"Congratulations, Mrs. Ryomen," the doctor announced as the cries of your newborn gradually faded into the background. "It's a girl."

You drifted into unconsciousness.

The soft cadence of Sukuna's voice filtered through the foggy boundaries of sleep, causing you to slowly come back to life.

“Why is this brat refusing to sleep?” you heard your husband grumbling.

With a laborious effort, you rubbed your eyes, summoning the strength to lift your head from the comfort of the pillow. The scene unfolded before you—Sukuna, the most feared criminal, pacing at the foot of his bed, cradling your crying newborn daughter in his arms, unsure of how to handle his little foe.

"What do you want? Food? You don’t have any teeth yet, little miscreant."

"Sukuna . . ." you whispered, a gentle plea for attention.

Your husband's gaze snapped in your direction, relief washing over his features as he realized you were conscious. "Thank fuck." Moving swiftly, he approached and took a seat at the edge of the bed.

His brown-reddish eyes lingered on the delicate scene unfolding before him—the intertwining of your index finger with your daughter's tiny, rattling fist. A calming magic seemed to stem from your touch, instantly soothing the cries to soft sniffles.

"Already playing favorites, I see," he remarked with a teasing tone, a wry smile on his lips.

"I have to feed her." Your voice was hoarse from the relentless screaming during the delivery. A series of deadly wheezes followed when you coughed, frightening your baby once more. Her cries started again, blending with the impatient curses of her father.

He gently placed her in the cradle, his strength used to prop you up against the headboard. The room carried the scent of coconut soap, your body freshly washed, the sheets beneath you brand-new. You were also dressed in a new set of panties and a nursing bra.

"Are you sure you have enough nutrients in your body to feed her?" Sukuna asked, holding your baby girl as you unclipped the front left cup. Rather than wasting your breath on a response, you focused on helping your daughter latch onto your nipple.

You winced once she caught it, then melted back as she started drinking. “I’m fine,” you finally answered. “Body . . . hurts.”

"No shit. You pushed an eight pound baby out of you." Despite the crude sarcasm in his tone, Sukuna tenderly caressed his knuckles over his daughter's cheek.

"Did you want . . . a girl?"

"Why do you ask?"

"I'm sorry," you mumbled, adjusting your baby onto your lap. "I assumed you'd prefer a boy as an heir."

"I'm not my father," he declared, putting an end to the conversation. "She's got your eyes."

Your daughter gazed up at you with a curiosity remarkably similar to yours. You smiled down at her, grateful she had made it. Grateful that Sukuna wasn't throwing a tantrum over the gender of your child but instead cupping the top of his baby girl's head and brushing his thumb across her forehead.

“You got a name for her?” Sukuna asked.

“Yes, but we can brainstorm if you don’t—”

“You carried the child, you birthed her, you will name her. Whatever it is, I agree.”

Something dead stirred inside your chest. Swallowing hard, you shared the chosen name, "Nobara."

He nodded in approval, and as he pronounced her name, Nobara responded with a wailing cry. "Her tantrums will be the fucking death of me." Sukuna took her into his arms again.

"Support the back of her head and rub her back. She needs to be burped," you advised.

He grunted but followed your instructions. Moments later, a tiny burp from Nobara made you chuckle, earning a slight eye roll and a hint of a smile from him.

"I'll take the next few weeks off to help you recover from the aftermath and the stitches," he announced, rising and walking towards his work desk, where he settled into a large leather chair, cradling your newborn.

You nodded appreciatively, easing yourself down.

"Oh, before I forget," Sukuna mentioned as you settled into bed, "I've arranged a new doctor for you."

“Did you fire the last one?”

“I fired at her, yes.”

Your eyes widened. "What? Why would you—? What?"

He shrugged, cradling the back of your newborn's head. "She suggested an additional stitch for you. Said it would make things 'tighter' down there for me."

Your face flushed. “So . . . you killed her?”

"Yes," he confirmed, his gaze fixed on you with those penetrating eyes, "I don't need a mere doctor questioning whether I'd still enjoy having sex with my wife after she gave birth to our child."

“But . . . you have mistresses. Don’t you?”

He lifted a brow. “I had mistresses up until . . . ”

Up until the kidnapping.

Sukuna never spoke of the crime after he’d saved you. Instead, he expressed his commitment through actions: sleeping beside you, teaching you how to handle a handgun, keeping a protective arm around your waist at social gatherings. Occasionally, you swore you felt him run his fingers through your hair as you slept.

"I wouldn't mind if you did," you admitted, a voice inside contradicting your words. "Given what my body has been through, I would find myself repulsive for pleasure, too. I understand if you feel disgusted."

Sukuna halted the gentle strokes on your daughter's back and straightened up. "What the fuck did you just say?"

An icy shiver ran through you, momentarily numbing the pain. "I-I just assumed—"

"You know, you make a lot of assumptions about me, wife. It gets under my fucking skin that you'd ever believe I could raise a hand on you. Day and night, every hour and minute, even now, in your presence, my mind is consumed with ways to kill the fear that's taken root in you.” He was infuriated yet vulnerable, with Nobara sleeping peacefully on his shoulder. “Everyone I’ve ever met has done nothing but fear me like I’m a curse on their soul, and while I’m flattered of the monster they’ve painted me out to be, I refuse to let my wife and daughter see me in that light. Do I make myself clear?"

You . . . nodded. 

“And for your information, I had mistresses up until I married you.”

You took in a sharp breath, processing the confession. "But those women—"

"Spies," he clarified, his voice low and steady. "They operate undercover in my clubs, keeping an eye out for potential threats. I haven't fucked anyone since the day I put that ring on your finger." He offered a small, almost imperceptible apology to your baby for cursing.

"Oh."

All you ever heard were twisted stories about the Sukuna Ryomen, a young man who, against all odds, slaughtered his own father to ascend the throne of the underworld criminal realm. Whispers spoke of a chilling childhood, where a mother's desperate attempt to suffocate her son in his sleep. The scars etched into his skin, concealed beneath a tapestry of dark markings, bore witness to the brutal initiation rites inflicted by vengeful uncles. In his domain, everyone prayed to see him buried six feet under.

Which is why you felt sympathy for your husband. He was lonely. Too lonely. Despite all the riches and influence surrounding him, he was stuck in a fortress where danger lurked around every corner. He had no friends, no one he could truly confide in—except perhaps Uraume. Opening up about his emotions wasn't in his nature. He kept the tough exterior, convinced that being a monster, a curse, was the only path to earning respect and recognition.

But just now, when had cut himself open in front of you and bled a human color, he was Sukuna. Your husband. The one who just became a father. A man wrapped in a comfortable robe with his hair combed down and his skin clean of dirt and blood as he held his daughter, as he gazed at you like you two were the only people meant fighting for in his treacherous world.

Sukuna noticed your silence, tuned in to your steady breaths, and lowered his lashes. "You'll ask me to touch you. Not just for the sake of having another child but for your own pleasure. If I'm not around and you need me, you will call, and I'll rush home. If this little brat gives you any trouble, I'll handle it. Hell, maybe I'll let her in on a bit of the family business for a head start."

"No," you murmured, absorbing everything he'd just said. "Not now. I want her to enjoy a proper childhood."

"Is that a demand?" Sukuna tilted his head slightly, another method of asserting authority. Yet, after all he'd shared about dropping everything for you, about making love to you, the fear in you started to dissolve bit by bit.

"Yes," you affirmed. "It's a demand."

A small smirk played on Sukuna's lips as he rose from his spot, circled the bed, and settled down beside you, with Nobara resting peacefully on his chest. Summoning all your strength, you turned to run your fingers over your baby's soft cheek and tiny, parted lips.

“She sleeps like you, Mr. Ryomen.”

“Sukuna,” he corrected, his arm covering his eyes as he breathed with a slightly open mouth. “My wife will call me Sukuna.”

Teasingly, you asked, “Is that a demand, Sukuna?”

His arm shifted low, and his reddish-brown eyes softened, stealing your breath. “Only from my wife and daughter.”

You smiled, closing your eyes. “Goodnight, Sukuna.”

In response, he wrapped his strong arm around you, pulling you close to his side, his two girls snuggled against his body.

In the beginning, you knew you didn't belong in the hell Sukuna ruled. Your father's mistakes, pilfering drug shipments and peddling them locally, had sealed both his fate and yours. With thoughts of fleeing the disgrace your father brought upon your family, you had started packing, desperate to escape the clutches of your old man.

The following night, Sukuna and his henchmen barged into your cramped apartment, wreaking havoc on every piece of furniture. Rocking in the corner of your room, Sukuna casted his shadow over you like the God of Death, bathed in your father’s blood.

Crouching down to your eye level, he tipped your chin up, leaving a splotch of blood. He used the collar of your sweater to wipe it away. In a hushed confession, you revealed the hidden drugs under the sink and floorboards, along with your father's buyer list folded in the cereal boxes. Sukuna grinned and ordered his underlings to retrieve the concealed items. Then, the chilling question hung in the air: "Are you going to kill me, too?"

"I'm tempted," Sukuna replied, "but not to kill you." His gaze fixated on your left hand, and he raised it, studying your ring finger. "You will pay for your father's crimes with your life." He held your hand in front of your face. "You will take my last name." His smirk widened, revealing perfect teeth. "Isn't that the cruelest form of death, love?"

Unconsciousness claimed you then, but after seven years of marriage, enduring unimaginable hardships, and finally welcoming a baby into the world, your answer was clear. The true torment wasn't caused by the man you once perceived as a monster but rather by his enemies.

"How am I supposed to know if Mr. Munchkin wants more tea? He's a fucking stuffed toy. Can't talk, you know?"

"Sukuna," you warned, perched on the armrest while busy crocheting baby socks for your little one on the way.

Nobara, wielding a rubber, squeaky hammer, stood up from her seat, giving her father a bonk on the head each time he let out a curse. And you often heard the squeak of the hammer around the house.

Nobara's tiara was slightly askew, frustration evident in her curled lips and bared teeth. She was growing increasingly irritated with her father's lack of understanding about the rules of her tea party. "Mr. Munchkin wants tea, Papa. Give him tea! Give him tea! Give him—"

"Fine, I surrender. Here, you little bastard. Take the whole fu—damn pot." He shoved the plastic teapot towards Mr. Munchkin, a well-loved cat stuffed toy you had gifted Nobara on her last birthday. "Happy?"

"Cup," she insisted, pointing at the tea cup in front of Mr. Munchkin.

Sukuna sighed and poured the water from the kettle into the pink plastic cup.

"Me too," Nobara added, settling back in her kiddie chair. Sukuna had barely taken his seat before she had him on the floor. "Hurry!"

"May I pour for the other toys first, Your Highness?"

"Not toys. Friends."

Sukuna shot you a helpless glare, eliciting a chuckle from you. He filled the table with tea, and Nobara, holding her small cup, clinked it with her father's, followed by her collection of stuffed animals. Sukuna reluctantly mimicked the gesture. Instead of sipping the tea, he downed it like a shot.

“Papa!”

“Sukuna, come on.”

There wasn’t any winning with his girls.

Sukuna reluctantly poured himself another cup, sipping it with an air of royalty that mirrored a princess. Despite his resistance to the make-believe tea party, you couldn't ignore the genuine affection he showed toward his daughter. He would nod attentively when one of the stuffed animals "spoke," laughed along with Nobara, and even beautified himself with a glittering tiara, a feathered pink scarf, and deep purple-painted nails.

Sukuna was, without a doubt, a fantastic father. It came as no surprise that Nobara's first word was 'Brat.'

That night, you kissed your daughter goodnight and tucked her into her bed. Sukuna joked that he’d spent every last bit of his wealth decorating the brat’s room, filling it with the latest toys, and stacking her closet with whatever clothes she laid her finger or eyes on. She was truly the princess of her father’s heart.

"She's asleep," you informed him.

"I'll give her a kiss in a minute. Just need to finish this," Sukuna replied, pouring over his documents.

Letting out a sigh, you shuffled over, rolled back his chair, and settled onto his lap. He continued reading as you wrapped your arms around his neck, resting your cheek on his shoulder, peering at him through your lashes.

"I want you," you murmured.

Sukuna paused, lowering his gaze to meet your cheeky smile. "Later."

"It's late."

"I have to finish—" He halted as you began kissing his neck, moving up to his jaw and cheeks, tracing the contours of his face tattoos.

"Please, Sukuna," you whispered near his ear.

How could he refuse you anything when you appeared so stunning, radiating with the joy of expecting another child in your four-month-old belly?

“Take off your robe and get on the bed. Spread your legs for me.” He gave your ass a little smack as you happily skipped away, shedding your clothes and clearing the bed to settle in. With a grin, you opened your legs, propping yourself up on your elbows.

Sukuna stood up from his seat, loosening his robe as he did. He sighed, watching the moisture forming between your legs. Pregnancy seemed to heighten your lusts, and Sukuna was always ready to fulfill your needs.

“What pretty, wet cunt,” he whispered softly, leaning in to kiss your chest, trailing down to your stomach, your hips, your calling clit. 

Over the years, you realized Sukuna enjoyed pleasuring you more than the opposite. He feasted on you like a starved man, whether it happened in the back of the limo, in a guest room during a party, or just minutes before a crucial meeting in his office. He insisted it was his way of relaxing, often pleading with you to spend a full hour on his face as he ate you out and drank every drop of your release. It had turned into a daily routine for him. And for you.

“Oh, Sukuna, yes, yes. Right there—ah!” Your back arched off the mattress when his tongue drove into your hole, flicking and exploring your clamping walls. His mouth was latched to your pussy, sucking it in, his cheeks hollowing rapidly. Your fingers tightened in his hair, hips voluntarily grating against his face, his sharp nose rubbing over your swollen clit. 

Sukuna drew back as you came down with a muted cry behind your hand and lapped at the flow of your juices pouring out of you. His lips shone as he leaned over and gently kissed you, allowing you to taste yourself from his tongue. “If I don’t fuck you now, I will die.” 

“Hurry, then.” 

Sukuna pushed himself inside you, and that first wave of pleasure hit you so strongly that you sank your nails in his back and cried out heavenwards. He groaned and grunted, thrusts growing speed, his plump balls smacking against your ass. You loved that he fucked harder, faster, driving you to the brink of ruination. 

After you'd healed from Nobara's birth, he would always make sure to get at least ten orgasms from you. From midnight to early morning, he'd fuck you in every possible position. But his favorite was always missionary, where he could have his eyes on you, writhing and whimpering beneath him, telling him it’s too much, he's too thick, all while using your heels to draw him in even closer.

Sukuna curled his arm around your waist and sat you up on his lap, thrusting up into you as you coiled yourself around his neck. “Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck. Your cunt was made for me, love. Your cunt was fucking made for me.” His hand threaded to the back of your head, grasping your hair and drawing your face back so you were looking him in the eyes without wavering, without bowing your head. He needed to know you didn’t fear him when he fucked you like this. It was an unspoken check-in, and when you smiled drunkenly, only then did he let you return to embracing him. 

“Are you close?” you whispered. 

“Not yet. I want to come in your ass.” 

You shivered despite how scalding and sweaty your bodies were. “Do it.” 

“Yeah?” 

You nodded. “Please.” 

Sukuna dragged you off his cock so you could get on all-fours, raising your ass up for him. He’s only ever been in your sacred spot a handful of times but never finished himself inside it. It appeared that tonight you were both a little extra spellbound.

Mounting himself behind you, Sukuna unfurled your ass and spit on his fingers, stroking the puckered hole. He gathered the creamy liquid dripping out of your pussy to lubricate the spot. His middle finger stretched you out, followed by his ring fingers, pushing in and out until he knew for sure you were prepared for him. 

Sukuna’s steel-hard cock pushed into your tiny hole. The sight of it expanding to swallow his girthy size almost made him come right there and then. He started to move in sluggish movement, grabbing onto your waist. His hips cruised, brushing against your ass, making you impatient and push yourself back. 

“Understood.” He chuckled and dug his nails into your skin, dragging out to the tip and shoving himself inside. Your face pressed into your pillows, crying and trembling as he abused your asshole non-stop. “You’re taking me so well, my love. Oh, fuck, fuck.” He rutted into you like a beast, claiming your body, rubbing your clit from the front, spanking your ass, brandishing you over and over again. 

You both snapped in unison. 

Sukuna sagged over your spine as he bucked in every last bit of his sloppy seed. His lips kissed your shoulder blades, holding you up by one arm. Gently, he pulled out, his cock growing floppy until you flipped onto your back, hair sticking to your sweaty, flushed face, belly slightly swollen, your tits larger in size, his release mingled with yours seeping out from your holes. 

“Fuck, I love you,” he whispered, cupping your face like he didn’t just fuck your soul out of you. That smirk you’d come to love appeared on his lips. You reciprocated back, stretching out your arms so he could lean down and kiss you sweetly on the lips and cheeks and toss in a praise or two for what a good girl you were as he slid into you again, slower and more intimate with his game. “I fucking love you, Y/N.” 

You smiled against his lips that continuously whispered the three beautiful words and said, “I love you, too, Sukuna,” before sealing it with a long, lasting kiss.

[idkyetxoxo]

Jacaerys Velaryon - Family Legacies

Summary - Amidst the chaos of war, two childbirths unfold. A mother's potential agony and a new mother's fear collide, as life and loss intertwine in a moment that will define their family's legacy forever.

Pairing - Jacaerys Velaryon x reader

Warnings - Childbirth, mentions of a potential stillbirth (doesn't happen)

Word count - 2101

Masterlist for Jacaerys • House of the Dragon General Masterlist.

My hand flew to my mouth, stifling a gasp as short, rapid breaths escaped me. One hand pressed against my trembling lips, while the other instinctively cradled my swollen stomach. Tears blurred my vision as I stood frozen, watching my mother-in-law writhe in excruciating pain.

The air was thick with the coppery scent of blood and the low, desperate cries that echoed through the stone walls. Every sound seemed magnified, each breath a struggle against the weight of the scene unfolding before me.

"Someone, get her out!" Rhaenyra cried, her voice thick with tears and agony. She moaned and groaned, her body drenched in blood—blood that shouldn't have been there.

"My sweet, you shouldn't be here. Not like this," she insisted, her words strained yet filled with concern. 

Elinda, her handmaiden, approached me, gently urging me to move, but I remained rooted to the spot, unable to tear my gaze away from the horrific scene unfolding before me.

My heart ached as I watched Rhaenyra scream and thrash, her strength faltering. 

Even in her torment, she was desperate to shield me from the brutal reality of what she was enduring, knowing how close I was to my own childbirth.

"But you... I—" I stammered, my voice weak and trembling. 

Panic surged through me, immobilizing me as I tried to process the fact that Rhaenyra Targaryen, one of the strongest women I had ever known, was suffering like this while I stood there, on the brink of giving birth myself.

"Jace, get her out!" Rhaenyra commanded sharply. I flinched as I felt strong hands grasp my shoulders, guiding me away with firm insistence.

"Come, my darling," Jace murmured softly, trying to comfort me as we walked, his voice a gentle anchor in the storm of emotions swirling inside me. 

I struggled to steady my breathing, each step feeling like a monumental effort.

Jace's eyes flicked between me and the door, torn between the duty to his mother and the terror of losing me. His hands tightened on my shoulders, a silent plea for strength when his own was crumbling.

"Jace, it hurts," I whispered, the words barely audible. 

He nodded, rubbing my shoulders soothingly, but I suddenly stopped, gasping as a sharp, searing pain shot through my abdomen.

"My love, please," he urged, but I doubled over, a pained expression contorting my face. 

A warm, wet sensation trickled down my legs, and I instinctively stepped back, horrified as I looked down to see a growing puddle of water staining the cold stone floor.

The pain hit like a tidal wave, crashing through me with relentless force. My vision blurred, every nerve aflame, as the corridor spun around me. I was drowning in it, barely able to surface long enough to grasp Jace's hand.

"Jace..." I gasped, my voice quivering with fear. 

His eyes widened in alarm, the gravity of the situation dawning on him as worry etched itself deep into his features.

Jace's expression shifted from concern to sheer panic as the realization hit him like a crashing wave. His mother was suffering through the agony of a violent birth, and now, here I was, on the verge of giving birth right in the midst of it all. 

The horror of the situation was almost too much to bear.

His hands tightened on my shoulders as he tried to usher me away, his voice strained and urgent. 

"We need to go, now," he said, his tone a desperate mixture of fear and determination. 

Yet, I couldn't move. My legs felt like they were made of lead, my mind a whirlwind of terror after witnessing the horrific scene with Rhaenyra. 

I clung to him, my voice breaking as I pleaded, "I don't want to do this, Jace. Not after what I just saw. I'm scared... I'm so scared." 

The panic in my voice was unmistakable, my body trembling violently against his.

"Please, my love, you have to be strong," he urged, though his own voice wavered, betraying the turmoil raging inside him. 

He was trying so hard to be my rock, to guide me away from the chaos, but I could see the fear in his eyes—the fear that he might lose both of us, his mother and me, in the same tragic moment.

I shook my head frantically, tears streaming down my face as I gripped his arms. 

"I can't... I don't want to go through this. Not like this," I sobbed, my mind flashing back to Rhaenyra's agonized screams, the blood, the horror. It was all too much, too overwhelming, and the thought of going through it myself now was paralyzing.

Jace's heart broke at my words, but he knew there was no other choice. 

He pulled me closer, his voice trembling but resolute. "I know you're scared, and I am too, but we have to keep going. For our child. You're strong, stronger than you know."

But his words couldn't reach the depths of my fear. I shook my head again, my body still recoiling from the trauma of what I had just witnessed. 

"No, Jace, I can't... I don't want to lose our babe... I can't do this," I cried out, my voice filled with desperation.

He swallowed hard, tears of his own welling up as he realized the depth of my terror. His mother's agony, my impending labour—it was too much, too cruel. But he knew he couldn't let fear paralyze us both. 

"We'll get through this together," he promised, though his voice was thick with emotion. "I won't let anything happen to you or our child, but we need to move. Please, trust me."

With trembling hands, I finally let him guide me, though every step was weighted with dread. 

The images of Rhaenyra's suffering haunted me, and I could feel my own body betraying me, the labour coming on faster than I could control.

As we moved away from the chaotic scene, I clung to Jace, my heart pounding with terror. I didn't know if I could do this if I could survive what was to come. 

All I knew was that I had no choice but to try.

The pain intensified with every passing moment, waves of agony crashing over me as I was led to a room away from the horrors of what I had just witnessed. 

Jace remained by my side, his hand never leaving mine, his presence the only thing anchoring me to reality as fear threatened to consume me.

Every contraction felt like fire ripping through me, and with each one, my mind flashed back to Rhaenyra's anguished screams, the blood, the sheer brutality of it all. My terror was palpable, a suffocating weight that made it hard to breathe. 

I clutched Jace's hand, my knuckles white, and looked up at him with wide, fearful eyes.

"Jace, I'm so scared," I whispered, my voice trembling as tears streamed down my face. "I can't stop thinking about what happened to Rhaenyra... What if—"

"Shhh, my love," Jace murmured, his voice soft but firm as he gently wiped the tears from my cheeks. "Don't think about that now. Focus on our child. I'm here, I'm not going anywhere."

He knelt beside me, his face inches from mine, his eyes filled with an unwavering resolve. Despite his own fear, he was determined to be my strength. 

"You're doing so well, and I'm so proud of you," he said, his voice cracking slightly. "Just breathe with me, okay? We're going to get through this together."

But the fear was relentless, gnawing at the edges of my mind. 

"Jace, I need to know... What happened to Rhaenyra? Is she... Is she okay?" The question slipped out between laboured breaths, my heart clenching as I awaited his response.

For a moment, Jace hesitated, his jaw tightening as he struggled with the right words. 

Then, his expression softened, and he nodded, his eyes filling with a mixture of relief and sadness. "She gave birth to a girl. Visenya. She's alive and well."

A wave of relief washed over me, momentarily easing the terror gripping my heart. 

"Visenya..." I whispered, closing my eyes as tears of gratitude joined the ones of pain. "Thank the gods..."

Jace squeezed my hand, his own eyes glistening. "Yes, my love. She made it through, and so will you. You're almost there."

The labour grew more intense, the pain almost unbearable, but Jace never left my side. He held my hand through every contraction, whispering words of encouragement and love, his voice the only thing keeping me grounded as I fought to bring our child into the world.

Hours felt like days as the ordeal dragged on, my body exhausted and trembling, but Jace was there every step of the way. 

When I screamed, he held me tighter. When I thought I couldn't go on, he reminded me of the life we were about to welcome.

Finally, with one last, excruciating push, I felt the pressure release, and the sound of a baby's first cry filled the room. 

Relief flooded my body, overwhelming and all-consuming. 

I collapsed back against the pillows, gasping for breath, tears streaming down my face a handmaiden carefully placed a tiny, wailing bundle in my arms.

"It's a boy," she announced softly, and Jace let out a choked sob, his hand trembling as he brushed back a damp strand of hair from my forehead.

"A boy..." I repeated in awe, looking down at our son, his small face scrunched up as he cried. 

He was perfect, his tiny fingers grasping at the air, his cries strong and healthy. My heart swelled with a fierce, protective love that drowned out the lingering fear and pain.

Jace leaned down, pressing his forehead to mine, his voice thick with emotion. 

"You did it, my love. You brought our son into the world." 

He kissed my forehead, his tears mingling with mine as we both gazed down at our newborn child, our hearts overflowing with joy and relief.

In that moment, all the terror and anguish melted away, replaced by the overwhelming happiness of holding our son in our arms. 

Despite everything we had endured, the horrors we had witnessed, we had made it through. 

It was just us, our tiny miracle cradled between us, a beacon of hope that pierced through the darkest night we had ever known.

Our family was safe, and as I looked into Jace's tear-filled eyes, I knew that nothing else mattered. We were together, and our son was here, healthy and alive. It was finally, blissfully, a moment of peace and happiness.

As we basked in the quiet joy of the moment, one of the handmaidens, her voice gentle and filled with reverence, asked softly, "Have you chosen a name for him?"

Jace and I exchanged a glance, the unspoken weight of the question hanging in the air between us. 

We had talked about names before, but now, holding our son in our arms, the decision felt monumental, as if his name would set the course of his life, binding him to his heritage and the legacy of those who had come before him.

I looked into Jace's eyes, searching for the strength we had shared throughout this ordeal, the bond that had carried us through the darkest moments. 

With a trembling voice, I whispered, "Lucerys."

Jace's reaction was immediate. His breath hitched, and his eyes filled with fresh tears as the name resonated within him. It was a name steeped in memory and pain, a name that honoured his lost brother, Lucerys Velaryon, whose life had been tragically cut short. 

The grief he had carried for his brother, the guilt and sorrow that had haunted him, now found a place in the hope and love he held for our son.

He nodded, unable to speak, his throat tight with emotion. 

Instead, he pulled me closer, his tears falling freely as he held our son, cradling him as if he were the most precious thing in the world. 

In naming our child Lucerys, we had not only given him an identity but had also woven him into the fabric of our shared history, a history marked by loss but also by enduring love and resilience.

"Lucerys," Jace finally whispered, his voice cracking with the weight of the name. 

In that moment, the room seemed to hold its breath, the significance of the name settling over us like a benediction. 

Jace's tears fell onto our son's tiny forehead, and he smiled through the pain, through the joy, knowing that our son would carry the name of a beloved brother, a name that would forever link the past and the future, binding our family together in a legacy of love, courage, and hope.

"Our Lucerys."

A/n - Ok I was all set to dive deep into the angst and heartbreak, and I nearly made everyone suffer for it but I couldn't bring myself to go through with it. So yes, both babies live, because I have that power here and maybe I cried at the ending who knows (I did I miss Luke 😔)

[ssahotchnerr]

yes! i do!! you have jj’s role and an unsub is shot dead infront of you and his blood literally soaks you and you’re shaking and speechless and aaron’s focus is to get to you and keep you safe and bring you back to earth 🥲🥲

stay with me

cw; fem liasion!reader, protective!aaron, multiple blood descriptions, panic attack descriptions, no established relationship but aaron and reader are close, there's also one small mention of aaron's shirt being big on reader, fluff <3 wc; 1k

your ears are ringing. whether it's from the gunshot or the blatant shock, you have no idea.

you're frozen in place; everything's fuzzy, your body is buzzing and your lips, hands, everything is numb.

you're not used to this. this isn't what your job usually entails. you look at pictures like this, you don't live or experience it.

in the haze, someone's approached you. someone's talking to you. someone's embraced you. there's a hand on your back, an arm attempting to shield you away. but your feet don't move. internally, you're screaming at them to move.

why won't they move?

"hey," it's aaron. you don't hear him, or process that it's him, until he shakes you ever so gently and again, he says, "hey."

you don't want to be used to this.

"i..." you rigidly stand there, staring at the unsub laid in front of you, the pool of blood around him growing as the seconds pass. you think you're articulating words, but you're not sure.

aaron follows your eyes - he opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. a swirl of emotions fill him - first and foremost, relief you're safe and unscathed, but also horror at what you just encountered - what you shouldn't have encountered.

"it's on me." you manage to choke out, feeling rather lightheaded as you view your shaky hands, and then your blouse, both spattered with red. it's on your neck, your face, and it's like you can feel every singular dot, singeing into your skin like it's bound to be permanent. a new fear fills you - will you ever be able to not feel it?

"don't look, just look at me." your head whips towards aaron, finding his gentle and concerned brown eyes. the sight allows your chest to loosen, finding the smallest bit of normalcy when it comes to breathing. you're remembering how to breathe.

aaron wants to bring the cuff of his sleeve to your skin, to wipe away the residue but he can't. he fears it would make it worse, and remind you again that it's littered on you - the last thing you needed. he wanted to calm you, not further panic you. "or better yet, just close them, sweetheart."

the term of endearment goes right past you, as you grip onto his vest, the sleeves of his shirt, anything your fingers can hold onto as he's guiding you out of the house. he's talking to the rest of the team, relaying instructions, but you only focus on keeping your eyes shut.

"it's okay, you're going to be just fine." aaron assures you, his voice low and even, soothing. "hear the leaves crunching under your feet? there's a cool breeze tonight, too. can you feel it?"

you nod gingerly. the sound is distant, but it's there. and just as he stated, you feel the cool air hit your cheeks, the wind also tousling your hair. it feels colder than cool, though, due to the stream of tears trailing downwards - have you been crying too? "i can hear it in the trees."

"that's good. how about smell, can you smell anything?"

copper.

aaron realizes his mistake the second the sentence leaves his mouth, your face paling as well as his.

"your aftershave." you blurt out, surprising yourself. despite the sheer panic, it was fairly easy to redirect your mind to him. your fingers clutched onto the fabric of his shirt more forcefully. "it smells spicy, sweet too. it smells like you. familiar. safe."

you resist the urge to tuck your face into him, but after a moment's thought, you do. you need it. you need him.

and to further secure you, aaron holds you to him, his large hand spanning the side of your head and keeping your face buried close to his chest.

your eyes open when you reach the suv; when the two of you come to a stop, when aaron's hold is suddenly absent, the sound of the door opening deeming it safe - far away from the scene.

but at the loss of his contact, involuntarily your eyes fall back to your blouse. it's stuck to your skin, soaked by the... blood.

"stay with me." aaron manages to grab your attention before you begin spiraling again, his hands lifting and hesitating. "may i?"

you nod, frantically and this time, you can feel the tears resurfacing. "please get it off me."

first, aaron unvelcros his vest, and then removes his tie, his dress shirt, leaving him in just his white tee. he drapes it over the passenger seat - at the ready.

aaron ushers you closer to the interior of the car so the open door fully covers you, blocking any view that isn't his. he unbuttons your blouse with gentle fingers, acting rather quickly as well. and respectfully, he averts his eyes - either looking strictly at his hands, the buttons on each shirt, or your face, checking in on you.

he helps you into his shirt, holding it open so you can slide your arms in. it envelopes you, and just as fast as he unbuttoned, he fastens it shut.

it feels as if a small weight is lifted off your shoulders, and aaron tosses your soiled shirt onto the ground in the backseat. he leads you to sit sideways in the passenger seat, facing him.

"i don't want to be alone." you don't know why that's the first thing to exit your mouth, but it is. your eyes lift to his, frightened and pleading.

aaron nods as he gets down on a knee, cupping your cheek with his hand. "you're sleeping in my room tonight."

"with you?"

with a stroke of his thumb, overtop those bloodstains he's desperate to wash and rid you from, he nods again. "with me."

[love-toxin]

MEAT - thomas hewitt (leatherface)

a/n: i had to be a little silly ehe <- delusional

(cws: fem!reader, DDDNE, extreme violence, blood, gore, broken bones, a whole array of weaponry, domestic abuse, forced relationship, evolution of victim -> perpetrator, psychological torture, mentions of very dubious consent, breeding, huge size difference, ownership marking, protective tommy, implied cannibalism, unnamed victims of the tcm.)

wc: 10.7k

Lungs burning in your chest with the humid Texas heat, you forced the corn stalks aside as you stumbled through them in a frantic sprint. Each leathery pod whacked against your shoulders, your hands, your chest, and your bruised-up legs, but you wouldn't stop for nothing.

You couldn't stop. The people you'd hitchhiked with were all dead, or at least very well on their way to being so–they had been hunted one by one, by bear traps and shotguns and hay hooks, and you were sure you were the only one the family were left hunting. It'd taken all night to spread you thin and weaken you all with sadistic tortures of every kind. Now your group was down to one. You. Hauling ass was not enough to describe how frantically you were tumbling through the crop field, practically hand-over-foot crawling with how dizzy you'd gotten. Blood loss and a few hits to the head would do that to you.

Finally, the maize parted one last time to spit you out into the dewy grass, the labyrinth of sameness finally coming to an end. But when you tilted your head up to the starry night sky, your heart dropped into your feet at what laid before you. The farmhouse. You'd run in the wrong direction. Warm light glowed from within the drapery behind the windows and you spotted the older woman standing on the porch, a rag tucked between her hands as she called out a name. Terrified and hoping for the blessing of going unseen you army crawled your way right back to the corn–

Thunk. Only halfway there, the grass split with the force of a sledgehammer dropping into it. A boot stepped into view right by your head; attached to it was an enormous calf, and your eyes trailed upwards slowly to reveal the whole of that crazed maniac you'd seen manhandling the others into that house of horrors across the lawn.

Greasy hair hung down in long tresses, wary eyes pierced into your skull, an apron sat snug around his midriff stained with dark blood. Up close, you could listen to the way he breathed heavy through the mask that obscured his lower jaw, only the bridge of his nose and his forehead visible through it. He stunk of sweat, rot, and fresh meat. His weighty hand tightened round the handle of the hammer he'd set down, veins popping out with the sheer size and strength of his enormous, hulking body.

“Tommy!” The woman's voice cracked out in the night, the name finally ringing clear enough for you to hear. His head whipped around to the source and he stared in her direction; you watched her turn a blind eye to your predicament in the grass and step back inside the house. It felt as though your heart might burst in that moment, the fear and tension running through you like a taut wire about to snap in two.

The giant grunted overhead. You looked back at him again and squeezed your fists against the dirt, expecting him to lift that hammer and crush your skull into the ground with it. But upon resting his palm on the blunt end of it, the monster instead used it to lower himself to one knee. With a hand outstretched, he slowly, carefully brushed your damp hair aside, and pressed his fingertips firmly into your cheek. You shuddered as they moved downwards, probing around the soft spot beneath your ear and the curve of your jaw. He tilted your chin back and slid his whole, grubby hand down your neck…and with the most tentative squeeze around your throat, you swallowed and he all but jumped back. Your skin ran cool again as his warm hand ripped away from you, but with just as much hesitation he grazed your lips with his knuckles and trailed them across your forehead, leaving smudges of wet blood behind.

“Tommy!” A harsher voice tore through the quiet night, yanking his attention away from you again. The sheriff–the fake sheriff, that is–came stomping up from around the back of the barn, the shotgun hanging at his side causing you enough panic to scramble to your knees. But you wouldn't get far. Not even a couple feet. Your body hit the earth within moments of you climbing to your feet, and you heaved out a pained moan at the mountain of weight that pinned you down and crushed you underneath him. The giant had thrown himself forward and taken you down without thinking twice; his beefy arm came around your neck and tightened, his muscles flexing under the coarse fabric of his shirt for him to hold you in place.

“Attaboy, Tommy.” The older man came around his side as you struggled, clawing at the bicep that was crushing your windpipe with barely any effort. The sheriff kicked your flailing leg with a holler, cackling at the way you squirmed under his nephew's brute strength. “Stupid bitch. Gonna learn your lesson now, aint'cha?”

Dying squeaks for mercy escaped your throat, your words barely tinged with any discernible syllables. Thomas’ grip only grew tighter. Your arms went slack, then your legs slowed to a trembling halt…and before long your head slumped forward as you passed into unconsciousness, hoping to god this would be the last time you woke up in this sweltering Texas hell.

Clink. Clink. Clink. The chatter of voices melted into the gentle clatter of silverware. It wasn't the sounds that stirred you from your sleep rife with nightmares, though–it was the sliver of a sunbeam cast through the window that shone gently on your face. You blinked blearily as your head lolled in a stuttered circle, slowly and quietly coming to. Clink. Clack. Eyelids cracked half-open, you raised your head up despite the weight of a pounding headache, and watched a pair of wrinkled hands set down a teacup on a saucer in front of you.

Although there was much to see, you instantly turned your gaze to the woman you'd seen on the porch. Your nerves jittered and you flinched as she reached out to touch you, but it passed with her gentle shushing as she tenderly caressed your cheek. The age showed in creases all across her face, her eyes soft but wet with something terribly uneasy behind them.

“Such a pretty girl,” She crooned, a smile like nothing had happened plastered across her face. The eagerness with which she watched you unsettled you to your very core, but it would be second to the nightmare that was waiting to explode on you across the table. “I always wanted a little girl. Never seen one so pretty.” Despite the sweetness of her words, a shift of your hand rattled the chair you'd been tied to; both wrists buckled under the tough ropes used to bind you, indented where you could see dry blood crusted over the fibers. Either you moved a lot in your sleep, or someone really wanted to punish you for trying to get away.

As tenderly as if she was your own mother, the lady brought your teacup up and tilted it for you to drink, which gave you a moment to let your eyes wander. With a glance around you took a mental sweep of the place. Your chair sat at the end of a dining table, and aside from the woman you spotted two other older men; the frightening man with the shotgun, and an elderly man in a wheelchair. Framed photos hung around the room against peeling wallpaper, and aside from a decent amount of clutter and antique decorations of a house long lived in, nothing struck you as out of the ordinary from the cutlery to the frayed rug that cushioned your bare feet.

The aging woman tottered around the table to pick up a plate and slid a few eggs on from a saucepan in the middle. That and a few strips of bacon made their way down to your placemat, still sizzling.

“Why're you givin’ this bitch special treatment, mama?” The fake sheriff glared you down from his seat at the head of the table, spitting off to the side with his hands still clasped in front of him. “Already got enough mouths to feed.”

“Hush.” She finally snapped, and gestured with the spatula still in hand. “This is your fault. You wanna play sheriff so bad, Charlie.”

“It's Hoyt, mama, for god's sake!”

“Don't you cuss at me!” The old woman warned, aiming the spatula right at his chest.

“U-Um,” You whimpered softly, and drew the attention of all three of the frightening strangers, who turned their heads in your direction. The focus on you made you falter, but the problem at hand was far more pressing than fear. “Th-The rope…please..” You managed to squeak out, and only then did they seem to notice your hands were changing colours. They were so tight the blood wasn't circulating, and you feared even a few moments more of the ache would result in something very unpleasant in the near future, especially when you knew there was a chainsaw floating around here somewhere.

Just then, the floorboards creaked at your back. Too afraid to turn your head you only shifted your gaze, and in your peripheral you saw it. Two thick, fat-fingered hands reaching downwards to tug at the binds round your wrist. For someone so huge, he made short work of untying you even without the aid of one of the knives scattered round the table settings. The rope loosened and dropped to the floor in a coil like a dead snake, but as he reached over you to undo the other–and you got a whiff of soap amidst his sweat in the process–the man naming himself Hoyt grumbled and slammed his fist down on the table, rattling the plates and silverware.

“Goddammit, boy–what'd I say? We ain't keepin’ her, for Christ sakes!”

“Watch your mouth!” The woman–mama–shrieked, and her fist shook as she dumped the spatula down on the table with a thunk. The other cuff came loose and you released a sigh of relief as you touched your wrists, wincing at the open cuts that had only half dried over. And while the two continued to bicker about one thing or another, a great shifting of clothes and a thump beside you caught your gaze. Thomas, the giant that you'd watched haul the others off to the slaughter, had knelt down by your chair like a dog and still came up to eye level. God, he was just massive. Somehow it made him less intimidating though, since he looked at you like he was waiting for scraps from your plate. It was somewhat pathetic, but…endearing? Was that a word you could even consider using for a maniac like him, or was it beyond all common logic to even think of him in such pleasant terms?

“A-Are you…hungry?” You whispered, only to be met with a slow shake of his head. Thomas raised a melon-sized arm and pushed the plate closer to you, as if to say ‘eat up, it's getting cold’. Emboldened by his tender gesture, you shakily plucked your fork off the placemat and leaned in to examine the bacon. It looked like…bacon. Hot, crunchy, cut in strips like you would see any day in the supermarket. Still, you tentatively went for the eggs first, and raised the tiniest bit to your mouth as the two older ones finally managed to settle down whatever argument they'd been having.

“Boys, time to say grace.” Suddenly flushed hot with embarrassment, you lowered your fork in an instant and followed their lead. You bowed your head with them, listened to mama say her standard prayers of thanks–and then, when everyone else began to eat, you cautiously lifted the bite to your lips and chewed thoughtfully. It felt like forever for you to discern whether or not it was normal, if it tasted like it should, but after a while of chewing you had to relent to the fact that it didn't taste abnormal, so it was about as fine as you could expect. You ate in silence alongside them, but just when you pondered whether the food might be drugged or other awful possibilities, the sheriff cleared his throat and drew your attention to him once again.

“Now,” Mama scowled at him, but he continued to speak nonetheless. “You got two options here, kid: eat, or be eaten. Them's the laws of life.” He reached up and scratched the back of his neck, readying himself to say more, but an interruption came with a grunt from your side. Hoyt raised a hand and waved the wordless concern off. “Don't you mouth off, boy. Gettin’ to it.”

You shifted your gaze to Thomas, who only nudged your plate closer to you to urge you into eating more. Something gnawed at the back of your mind. Their behavior was so strange, the looks exchanged even stranger–there was something that wasn't being said, like a plan was brewing right under your nose.

“See here, this is how it is. You got choices. Now, my nephew here happens to like you,” His honeyed southern drawl couldn't hope to mask the hopelessness that stirred in you at those words. “Ugly as sin, but he's a good enough boy, ain't that right?” He looked to Thomas, but the ‘boy’ in question stared right at you when he nodded. “So you choose. You wanna eat-”

“I'll eat,” The answer flew from your mouth without hesitation, so much so that even the most uninterested of folks around the table caught your gaze. Your breath hitched in your bruised throat. “I'll eat, I swear. I'll eat.”

“Mm-hm.” Hoyt eyed you and nodded. Something about the way he watched you made you feel overexposed, like your skin had been stripped raw from the bone and he was peering into every inch underneath. “Fine then. Whore's all yours, Tommy-boy.”

At those words, your world shifted with a violent blur of motion. Before you could even gasp there were huge, strong hands under your armpits, and you were lifted out of your seat like a child who weighed less than nothing. You'd be thanking yourself later that you at least polished off most of your plate, because aside from an accidental thump of your foot hitting the table on the way by, you wouldn't be touching the rest of your breakfast again. Thomas slung you over his shoulder and cradled your lower half in the crook of an enormous arm, and with a shriek you felt yourself being carried off by the giant and taken away into another world.

The basement.

It had been a month and a half since you'd been taken in, now. Life had gone on despite you vanishing from the world you knew, and regardless of whether or not you woke up each morning and wondered why you were still kept alive, the earth continued to turn. Time went on and you adjusted, albeit shakily, to the routine of a life in the backcountry of rural Texas. You learned to help on the farm and Luda Mae, or momma as you were taught to call her, passed on her generations-old knowledge of cookery and cleaning and caring for the household. Sometimes you'd get driven out with momma and one of the uncles to tend the store, but that was on the rare side since they didn't trust the locals not to mess with you. Pretty things like you didn't come by often and you had values to uphold, now.

Plus, you had a man at home. Tommy was the reason you survived that awful first night, but now it was expected that he was also the reason you kept on living.

The rest of the family kept out of your business together for the most part, but you'd long been perplexed by the dynamic that had ensued since you'd first arrived. For as hulking and strong of a beast he was, you came to find out that Tommy's appearance was a shell that sheltered a soft-natured, sensitive boy at heart. His penchant for murder was not so, rather it was a duty carried out regardless of will in the service of a family he was lucky to have, despite you certainly thinking otherwise. He liked to work, and eat, and make things. His rage could certainly be a problem, but it was a rare thing that only cropped up once in a great while. He would endure more than ten times a normal person before he finally snapped, and even then he wouldn't ever let you see it. The few times he got mad, he would stomp out to the barn or head to the now-abandoned slaughterhouse, and take out his aggression on the thing he knew best. Meat. And most of the time it was a beating from Hoyt or a few too many bouts of yelling before he felt the need to get away.

After all, it wasn't anger that led his interactions with you. It was odd; he'd pointed you out specifically as the one he wanted to keep, but he seldom showed any entitlement in taking whatever it was he wanted from you. He'd lean in for kisses but most of the time he missed anyways. You weren't exactly sure what you could call your one occasion of intimacy with him that you recalled, because he didn't ask if you wanted it, but you didn't really tell him outright that you didn't. Would it have even mattered? Maybe not. But he barely managed to find the hole he was looking for anyways, and by the time he did it was obvious he had no clue what he was doing. Fumbling hands and a bit of awkward thigh-humping later and he'd finally left you be, albeit soaked and sticky with sweat and the residue he'd clumsily left behind on your bare stomach. Since then, it'd been just a few fingers on your thighs and some tame through-the-mask kisses, nothing more.

Not that you should really be questioning the love of a serial chainsaw butcher, but as the days passed it grew harder to see him in that light alone. You witnessed too much of the deformed, mentally-disturbed man who refused to eat before you did, who wouldn't lay a hand on you like he'd had laid on him all his life. Thomas showed affection in odd ways but they were more endearing than you thought they would be, from picking you flowers off the side of the road to cleaning up the small room you shared so you'd feel more at home. Sometimes his arousal would grow against your back while you laid in his arms, but a bit of shuddered hip-rocking through your pajamas while he thought you were asleep and the moment would pass. He was pretty easy to please.

There came a time when new visitors drove through town, however, and you knew what was going to happen as soon as Hoyt came home and called for Tommy to come upstairs. You stood at the sink washing dishes while you peered through the window; out in front of the same cornfield you'd crawled out of nearly two months ago, a van sat parked next to Hoyt's stolen Dodge. You watched with your breath held tight in your throat as five people hopped out the sliding door one by one, all seemingly chipper for where they were. Three girls, two guys. Their sunbleached hair and fancy beach clothes said all you needed to know about what type of people they were. One of the girls had a pendant hanging round her neck that caught the light just right, and you found yourself staring at it as it jostled against her sweat-soaked collarbone.

Chnk, thuuunk. At the sound of the basement door sliding open you turned your head, and there stood Tommy in the kitchen. Quiet as ever he came walking up and placed his thick hand on your head. The look in his burning eyes said it all. “Everything's okay. Don't fret.” He touched your hair a moment until Hoyt's voice rang out again, and with a silent huff he stepped away and made his way out to the lawn.

The light in each and every one of their eyes left the moment they spotted him approaching. One of the girls even grabbed her friend’s arm, stepping behind him halfway out of fear of the hulking giant that couldn't sleep without cuddling you at night. A dish slipped from your hand into the sink and splashed you, but as you pulled a rag from your apron pocket to dry the counter a bang and a high-pitched scream cut through the peaceful din of your quiet afternoon. You hopped up to see what was happening, but struggled to piece together the aftermath of the last five seconds.

On the ground lay one of the girls with a cavernous opening in the back of her head, collapsed in a steadily-growing pool of her own blood. Her lifeless eyes stared through you from across the lawn, they pierced into your very soul as she choked listlessly on her own blood, and you dropped to your knees behind the counter. Hands clamped over your mouth, you heaved each breath and hoped not to puke all over the freshly-mopped floor. Momma would have a fit if you ruined your own hard work.

Blind to whatever senselessness resided in their screams, you held back the churning of your stomach on your own bruised knees while the two of them took care of the rest. Within a few minutes you'd managed to pull yourself back up on shaky feet and finish washing the dishes. Within the hour, Tommy and Uncle Hoyt had gathered up the remaining survivors and taken them in. Two in the barn, one in the guest bedroom…and one locked up in the basement.

“Momma?” You called out softly into the hallway, wiping your fingers on your apron. Your chores for the day were finished, and the sun was starting to set on the horizon. Now would usually be the time you headed out to the chicken coop to lock it up, but with new visitors around, you didn't know the protocol. The last time this happened was…well, you didn't like to think about it.

“Down here, darlin’.” Luda Mae popped her head out from the living room, and you hurried down the hall with your skirt fluttering around your legs. All your dresses were pretty modest and most of them were out of a trunk stored up in the attic, since momma had a whole collection of clothes she'd worn in her younger days that she figured would suit a young lady just fine. When you stepped in, you weren't expecting to see what you saw lying on the couch near uncle Monty's favourite spot.

It was one of the guys from the hippie van. His long hair had been soaked with blood and he was gagged, his face sporting bruises from an undoubtedly rough encounter with uncle Hoyt, who stood on the opposite side of the living room glaring at him.

“Fucker tried to escape.” He sniffed, nursing a bloody nose with a hanky as he spoke with momma. “Other one's putzin’ around somewhere. You two keep an eye out, you hear me?” He pointed in your direction and you nodded out of instinct. Your eyes flicked towards the bound man on the couch as he made muffled noises of panic, but he was soon silenced by Hoyt whacking him over the head with the butt of his shotgun before he left to continue the search. Meanwhile, uncle Monty sat in his wheelchair unbothered, listening to the radio as it played on the windowsill and reading without a care in the world.

“Momma-” You tried again, but she turned to you with gentle eyes and gripped your shoulders lightly.

“Go clean up the kitchen for me, sweetheart?” She asked in earnest, and the plea you had to beg her not to make you take part died on your lips.

“Yes, momma.”

“That's my good girl.” Your hands fell at your sides, while she petted your hair lovingly and turned you away from the scene, patting you on the back as she ushered you back towards the kitchen. Blowing your hair out of your eyes, you resigned yourself to at least being a bystander to the horrors that were about to come, and made your way down the hall with your arms crossed over your chest in contemplation. Was there nothing you could do? No way to get out of playing a part, or at least ensuring they wouldn't ask? You had no doubts that you didn't have the stomach to do anything to the visitors, but then again, momma didn't have to do much either. Maybe you'd be saved by the tradition that dictated the six generations-deep household, and be regulated to the homely chores you'd tended to since first becoming a part of the family.

As you pushed through the door that led into the kitchen, the sounds of pots and pans clattering already grabbed your attention. It would be too late to do anything, however–because before you could even take a breath, someone's chest hit your back and there was a knife pinned to your throat.

“Don't you fucking move!” An unfamiliar voice whispered harshly in your ear. Your fingers scrabbled for purchase on the hand he had at your neck, but he jolted and the blade sunk deeper into your skin, causing you to cry out–and immediately be hushed by the stranger now holding you hostage. The bruising grip he had on your wrist now moved to clamp over your mouth, his body moving with you as you struggled in a momentary panic. Despite his warning, you brought your elbow backwards and loosened his grip on the knife as he choked in pain, throwing his arms off you as you stumbled forward and tripped over one of the dining chairs. Your skirt ripped as he tried to grab ahold of you again, but in his scramble to pick his weapon back up you kicked it away; and that was when fear truly started to pulse through your limbs like a heartbeat, when he glared daggers into you with a murderous rage, and you cried out the one name through tears that came to mind.

“Tommy!” You sobbed, crawling away and trying to use the table to hoist yourself up, only to be kicked down again with a harsh shoe planted in the middle of your spine. Coughs ripped through your lungs as they seized in desperation, the wind having been knocked clean from your chest, and the sticky wetness of blood started pooling under your chin from hitting the floor face-first. Your nose wept with scarlet-red blood into your trembling palm, but that realization couldn't come close to the terror you felt at being grabbed by your hair and painfully lifted up off the ground.

“You fucking bitch!” He screamed, voice hoarse and frighteningly loud so close to your face. “I'll kill you–I'll kill all you psycho motherfuckers!” He brought the knife so close to your heart you felt it cutting through the air–but before he could bring it anywhere near your skin, a muffled thump from close by yanked him right to attention. He turned his head frantically towards the source, and you took the opportunity afforded to you. You brought your foot up hard into his groin, and released his grip on you for the second time for you to drop to the floor in a heap. Your dress smeared the blood you'd left on the pristine, freshly-mopped floorboards as you shuffled away from him, fearing the worst of retaliation from the panicked, indignant captive.

That is, until the thumping grew so loud you heard it clearly coming up the stairs, and without so much as a hint of ceremony your savior burst through the kitchen door; his eyes wild, his fists clenched with indomitable rage. His gaze swept over the scene to you, so small compared to him, huddled in the corner between the cabinets with a blood and tear-stained face. What could only be described as a growl erupted from his broad chest, and he grabbed the legs of your hunched-over assailant and dragged him closer between his feet.

“No!” He cried, but it was far past too late. Tommy grabbed him by the back of his head, yanked him upwards to the height of his shins, and slammed the guy's head so hard into the floor that you could hear the sickening crack of his skull. Dazed but still semi-conscious, he fumbled for the knife he dropped or for anything that could save him, but it wouldn't be enough even so. With his nose ten times as smashed up as he'd done to you and his eye sockets bruised, Tommy's grip trembled on his head like he was considering whether or not to end him right here, right now. Evidently he figured that would be too easy, and before your very eyes he hauled the man up and carried him screaming down into the basement, where you heard the thwacks of him being cuffed down to the workbench before footsteps came echoing back upstairs. He found you in the same spot, still shaking like a leaf, and pushed the table aside to waste as little time as possible getting to you.

“Tommy..” You winced, touching your own face for your fingers to come back bloody. He knelt down like a mountain sinking into the sea and felt around your neck, his concerns for the shallow slash you'd gotten in the struggle that you hadn't even noticed was bleeding. He grunted in reply; one hand slid up to cradle the back of your head, while two meaty fingers lightly pinched the sore bridge of your nose. Knowing what he was about to do wouldn't make it hurt any less, but you still gave him the go-ahead to do it anyways–he forced the bone back with a gut-churning twist, and you squealed out in pain, but it was momentary and the ache that followed was a dull one, thank god.

But still, you sat with a face full of blood and bruises and cried, half out of pain and half out of pure misery. This wasn't the life you wanted to lead, and you hated that you had no choice in the matter. You wanted to go but you knew it would mean the end, and you hated that whenever you thought of all the things you despised about this life, your mind would always wander to Tommy and you'd feel guilt over hurting him or leaving him behind. You hated it all, but somehow you couldn't really hate him, and it left you trapped in this cycle that you loathed to think would never, ever end.

While the tears continued to streak down your face, Tommy took to patting your cheeks gently. He held them and squeezed them carefully, so tender and cautious when it was you that was the meat between his destructive hands. He moved in close, his breathing hot and stifled beneath the mask he never took off in front of you. His head tilted, tongue wetting his lips in anticipation, and he-

“Boy!” Uncle Hoyt roared as he burst through the kitchen door, alerting you both and tearing Tommy's reverent gaze away from you. He stood fast and took you with him, your elbows cupped in his rough hands as he hauled you singlehandedly to your feet. “You find that fucker yet?!” He swung his shotgun around and you flinched at the way he aimed it so carelessly. The ‘boy’ in question tucked you under his arm out of habit and shielded you almost entirely with the sheer enormity of his titan-esque frame. Wordlessly, he gestured towards the direction of the basement door with your trembling self still pinned tightly to his chest. The pseudo-sherriff narrowed his eyes at the both of you, namely the blood caking your otherwise pretty face, and scoffed. “Hose her down, Jesus almighty..” He muttered that last blasphemy under his breath as he moved past out the back door, leaving the two of you wide-eyed and uncertain; his arm squeezing you tight against him, and your calloused fingers digging into his dirty sleeve as the crickets chirped outside the screen door.

“You..” You swallowed dryly. The words came to you when no others did the same justice. “You're a good boy, Tommy. You did a good job.”

Your praise hit his ears just right, as it always did. Tommy nuzzled his face into yours just so gently, barely grazing your skin with the damp leather as he tended to your wounds. With your broken nose already re-set, he rummaged through the drawers around you without taking his hand off your arm, sparing little time before his hand clasped around a roll of familiar gauze and he nudged the drawer closed. Though it was shallow enough to have stopped bleeding already, he wrapped some around your neck for the cut that would surely leave a scar, and used a clean rag to mop up your face with a bit of water from the tap. As he moved down your body to your waist, clearly concerned by the generous bloodstain marring your pretty, cotton dress, something caught his eye that froze him in place and sent a throbbing anger right into his dense fists. Worried, you set your hand on his shoulder, but it would do no good at comforting him after what he saw.

Your skirt. Torn like it had been yanked apart, desperately, and it had. Was he worried you'd be upset over the damage? You wondered for a passing moment, but as his fists shook with rage and your dresses’ hem balled within them you knew it to be a different reason entirely. He thought–

Oh. So that's what he thought. You sought to comfort his fears but he'd had enough. Your delicate hands tugging at his mammoth arms made barely a dent in his intense march towards the basement, your begging too saccharine to even reach his ears. He walked with purpose into the hallway, wrenched open the sliding door with a force that bent it slightly, and with a palm outstretched to ward you off from following, he slammed it shut with an enormous bang that rattled the whole house. Standing there in shock and horror, you listened to his footsteps pounding the stairs before turning away and heading back towards the kitchen.

You had quite the mess to clean up in there, and there was nothing better to distract yourself from the howling screams of agony that would persist until dinnertime.

Maybe this was exactly how awkward it was when you'd been sat in that familiar chair. You remembered little of your first meal, the very first breakfast of many you would share with the family that had adopted you in to their home.

This was a lot less…friendly, though. Out of the five people who had arrived, two of them were dead. The one that had attacked you in the kitchen had grown silent in the basement. The other two–the hippy with the long hair and a redheaded girl–had their wrists bound to two chairs diagonal from each other. The guy sat at the very end where you'd once been, and the girl to his right with tears streaming down her cheeks, sobbing softly as you filled everyone's bowls. Luckily for you, Monday was chicken soup night, so you had no worries over what kind of meat Hoyt would want to prepare for the special occasion. You'd been the only one to stir the pot, and the only one who made it at all for every Monday that rolled around. It had quickly become Tommy’s favourite, hence why he was only a few minutes late to arrive outside the dining room for dinner. Though you could tell that he'd barely cleaned up, his apron and his pants still soaked liberally with clotted blood.

“Hands?” You questioned, your ladle poised over the pot of hot soup, and waited until the hulking giant tentatively stepped in the doorway to hold out his massive hands for inspection. When it was your turn to cook, you learned that you held the authority over the table for that evening. So you rarely followed the lead of uncle Hoyt or the others, and wouldn't wait until after grace to invite Tommy into the room. You checked over his knuckles–bruised, but scrubbed clean–and only then did you nod towards the seat you saved for him and waited until he settled uncertainly into the chair to pour him a bowl and set it down in front of him.

If not for the whimpering captives at the table, it would be a better-than-average night. You'd improved on your recipe with a bit of creative seasoning, and the night had cooled off considerably to offer a bit of respite from the oppressive heat. You led grace, and smoothing out your fresh dress to fan out under your thighs as you sat, the table commenced with clinking spoons and bread being buttered that you thanked the stars hadn't gotten stale yet. Though of course, the unexpected visitors weren't so keen on your homemade cooking and didn't so much as look down at their bowls.

Tommy was too distracted to be frustrated by it, though. With his head dipped down to the table like a mutt, he slurped up his soup through the mask and chewed noisily on bits of chicken and corn. You'd saved the biggest roll for him and he tore into it like it was nothing, ripping chunks of bread off with his teeth and enthusiastically gulping down broth to wash it down. You hadn't even had time to butter his bread for him first like you usually did, but it pleased you to see him enjoying your cooking even more than usual.

“Please,” A wobbly voice pricked at the tense silence. The redheaded girl pulled at her restraints again, shaking the table in the process. “We didn't do anything…please, please, let us go!” She sobbed, wailing even louder as she thrashed against the stiff arms of the old chair.

“C'mon, man! We won't tell anyone, swear!” The hippie chimed in, only for Hoyt to slam his fist down on the table to silence the whining of his two captives.

“Shut the hell up!” He snarled, whipping out a revolver from his holster to point at each one of them. “Had enough of your shit today. Shut your mouths.” He motioned towards his still-bloodied nose, and endured yet another scolding from momma for cussing at the table as he tucked the gun back into its place. You peered over at the two of them, but regret came immediately when the hippie's green eyes locked on yours like he saw a glimmer of hope within them. You forced your gaze back down to your bowl. You couldn't be their saviour, no matter how much they wanted you to be.

“Lovely soup, sweetheart.” Momma smiled over at you, while uncle Monty nodded quietly in agreement.

“Mm-hm. Momma taught you all her secrets, eh?” Hoyt added with a slurp off his spoon, the irritation from earlier having vanished. You thanked them politely, keeping your pride to yourself at the coveted praise directed your way. In a household where anything could go wrong at any time, you had to hold the good things as tight to your chest as you possibly could.

From beside you, Tommy lifted his head from an empty bowl and sighed softly with satisfaction. The remnants of spilled soup dribbled down his mask and his grimy neck, so with your own cloth napkin you reached over and did the job that was normally momma's; you wiped his face clean with a gentle hand, and he sat still for one of the only people he didn't flinch away from when you touched him.

“Good, Tommy?” He wasn't used to being asked his opinion, much less on something as scarce as food, when you didn't have much choice on what you ate. He nodded slowly, looking at you like you held the world as you finished wiping up the mess he'd left on the table.

Just then, one of the captives–maybe both of them–kicked their legs out in frustration, and shifted the table with a jolt that sent hot soup splashing out of the pot. The redhead's bowl tipped over and dumped her untouched meal all over her lap, but the porcelain shattering as it hit the floor wasn't what had Tommy rising out of his seat.

Wasteful. That's what they were. Insulting your cooking. You saw it in Tommy's eyes as anger overwhelmed him again, and for the second time tonight your reassurances weren't enough to halt him in his tracks. His chair legs scraped the floor loudly as he got up and maneuvered around the table, the tense quiet peppered by the screams of the girl as he grabbed the back of her head and slammed it down into the slick tabletop. Not nearly as hard as he'd done to the other guy, but enough so that he brought her back up with a nose gushing blood and a harsher sob on her lips.

“You teach her a lesson, Tommy!” Hoyt eagerly encouraged the violence, but you reached your hand out over the table and pressed your palm flat against her forehead. At the resistance you gave her, Tommy's grip grew slack and a look of panic came over him at the distress etched clear on your face. He looked conflicted, peering over at Hoyt and then back at you. Was he being bad, or being good? Was what he was doing right, or was it wrong? Hoyt started shouting and cussing at you for stopping him, but Tommy skirted back around the table to your side and put himself between you and his furious uncle. A swat to the back of the head wasn't totally uncommon for you, even if it didn't happen often, but the punishments Tommy received were always far worse. The belt or a two-by-four were considered light work in Hoyt's sadistic mind, but after what you'd been through today you were certain Tommy wouldn't be keen on letting you endure any more pain. He would take punishments and beatings for you whenever he had the chance–sometimes Hoyt had even asked him what he preferred, and not once had he put you up for the chopping block if he could take it for you.

“Enough of this shit!” Hoyt finally roared. He jabbed his thumb in the direction of the basement and shoved both you and Tommy towards it. “Take these sons a’ bitches downstairs, and don't come up until they're meat!”

Both of the captives shrieked and flailed in their chairs at his demand, but you managed to undo their binds despite the struggling and let Tommy haul each one up in his arms; one over his shoulder, and one tucked up under his armpit. Your heartbeat thudded in your throat as you followed Tommy's lead towards the stairs, and when it came time to shut the door, you had to swallow your fear with a gulp as the metal scraped on metal and a heavy thunk pitched you into darkness.

The only times you'd watched Tommy work before was when he'd taken you to the slaughterhouse. It was an aging, now-abandoned building that had seen generations of hard workers come and go, and despite it no longer being in business he still came by to do some work when he wasn't needed for chores at the house. You weren't sure why he didn't usually take you along or why he decided to on those few occasions, but regardless of the stench, the blood, and the intensity of chopping and cleaning meat, it was easy to tell that Tommy was good at it. Real good.

It was a little different today. About a week had passed since the visitors came through town, and by now all five of them were taken care of. You'd barely eaten since you couldn't stomach the fresh meat, and with you excusing yourself to throw up that first dinner after you'd had guests, the rest of the family had been looking down on you. Momma was sad for you, and Monty was mostly indifferent when he wasn't straight up disappointed in you. But Hoyt was vindictive and angry. He thought you were turning your back on the family, judging them, acting “all high and mighty” and worst of all, risking your family's safety. You'd gotten caught leaving the locks loose on the two survivors' shackles, and they'd nearly escaped out the basement before Hoyt caught both of them in the cornfield and finally shot them dead.

You swore it was an accident. Hoyt thought otherwise. He would've killed you right then and there if Tommy hadn't stepped in for you, and even then the air had been strained in the house ever since, as uncle Hoyt demanded you be properly punished for your sins.

That's why you'd been dragged along with Tommy to accompany him to the slaughterhouse. By the end of the day, Hoyt wanted a proper apology–one in the form of a bloody limb, an organ, or maybe just your head on a platter as recompense for betraying your family. And worst of all, he wanted Tommy to be the one to do it, to decide what would be a fitting price for you to pay. To ‘grow some balls and be a man’, as Hoyt put it so delicately.

But since morning, he'd just been chopping meat. Tommy hadn't even looked at you the whole time you'd been here, not even on the walk down the side of the road to get here in the first place. He'd picked you up under your arms and sat you up on the table behind him, and then he'd turned his back to you as he brought down his cleaver on the piles and piles of dripping meat. Sometimes he would turn around and hand you chunks to wrap up in butcher's paper, but for the most part he indicated nothing towards the task he had primarily been sent here to do. Somehow it just made it all worse; you felt on the edge of snapping from the anxious terror that tightened up all your muscles, wondering what on earth Tommy would do to you before the day was done. Was he just procrastinating? Because if he arrived back home with nothing to show for it, it wouldn't save you in the end–it would just make it worse for both of you when he got punished too.

“Tommy.” You gnawed on your bottom lip. He brought the blade down on the chopping block with a thunk. With the bone separated, a squelch hit your ears as he slid the sections apart and dragged over another hunk to slice through. “I'm sorry.”

Thunk. Not even a passing glance over his shoulder. And it was hard to tell if he was mad when he wouldn't even look at you.

“I didn't want to get you in trouble…”

Thunk.

“I was just scared.”

Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.

“Tommy-”

The slow escalation of his measured cuts finally culminated into an uproarious clatter, his cleaver smacking down on the soaked table before he turned himself to face you. Blood marred the clothes you'd taken off the laundry line for him that morning, apron slick and sticky with viscera as it almost always was. Sweat poured down his arms and his hairy chest and beaded at his dense forehead. Every inch of him was dirty, and yet you didn't cringe away from it when he closed the distance between you and came up harrowingly close. The stench of blood and meat wafted off of him from barely an inch away. His hips edged in between your knees as you sat on the lip of the counter, keeping personal space far from his mind when he grabbed your arms and dwarfed them under his massive fingers. Each breath heaved beneath his mask like swallowing a bubble, ready to pop.

This time, Hoyt was nowhere around to interrupt him. Momma wasn't there to scold him. Nobody would hear for miles what he would do to you, and you had no idea what he'd had brewing in his mind since he'd choked you out in the cornfield that first meeting. That intense stare of his was like a bear honing in on a rabbit, and if you had the thought to run, it was already too late.

Thick fingers clamped down around your neck, dug into the scar that had formed from the asshole that had sliced you, and you felt your heart stutter as Tommy pulled you along the length of the table and slammed you down into it by the throat. This way you were laid out like a cow would to be butchered, plenty of room for him to work as he held you down and reached over to pull a leather strap over your midsection. He affixed the buckle tight to the opposite side and tightened it more when you squirmed against the pressure, but not quite enough to be as painful as the ropes that dug into your wrists at your first family meal. With that in place he didn't need to hold you down to keep you pinned against the table, and although you whimpered in fear and fought against the bindings he paid your resistance little mind, instead looking through his tools on the cutting table to find a decently-sized paring knife–drenched liberally in blood–for him to hook under the neckline of your dress and make a cut down the middle. Once he hit the tough leather over your stomach, the tool skittered across the table as he abandoned it in favour of ripping your skirt apart with his bare hands, the thin layer of cotton offering no resistance to his brute strength.

Why did it make you so wet? You couldn't shake the feeling of arousal from how animalistic he was behaving, nor the sheer, overwhelming musk of man and sweat and blood. Tommy was never rough with you but he was certainly making up for it now; you flinched at the firmness of his fingers digging into your skin, leaving trails of thin blood and dirt behind as he tore your cotton bra into loose pieces. His hands trembled at the sight of you exposed like this, too much skin to handle, and such soft flesh that filled out his palms when he cupped your breasts in each eager hand. A hitch of breath was enough to show him that you liked it, whether it was the attention itself or exclusively because it was him touching you. It didn't matter.

Tommy massaged each one with such eager reverence, his handwork clumsy compared to the ease with which he handled so many other forms of meat. He wasn't keen on ripping these off your body and eating them; although he did want to test how they would feel in his mouth, especially those plum, soft nubs of yours that perked when he brushed his thumbs over them. By now you weren't completely certain he wasn't going to butcher you, but you had a pretty good idea that this was his plan B–take out that inner aggression on you that would not make his god-fearing family proud.

A deep, weighty groan slipped out of him at the taste of sweat on your skin. Every bruise he left with his teeth would have to be covered up and powdered, but god, god it was so easy for him to undo every vestige of purity you'd put on for show. Your back arched and your worn shoes squeaked against the steel table as you wiggled, the globes of fat he held in his palms jiggling with a mesmerizing glow every time you moved. As much as you wanted to wrench yourself free in some moments, in most others you couldn't bear the breaks he took to catch his breath, leaving your chest prickling with goosebumps as a draft hit your spit-sticky skin. He squeezed and kneaded to his heart's content and took a twisted glee out of making you squirm, especially when you made those gurgly noises that were so traitorous to the pristine image you painted for momma. She'd made it clear that you weren't to go off messing with boys when they came strolling up to the store's counter, or return any of their flirtations no matter how many times they called you pretty.

Obviously she didn't think her son would be the one you had to keep from tempting, but that train had long left the station now. Thomas’ index finger tore through the thin fabric of your panties with a swipe, and there you laid bare and naked to his wandering eyes while he yanked the shreds of them down the rest of your legs. He probably didn't know what positions were which and how girls had their periods, but he knew enough to slide those thick fingers through your folds and to keep going when you moaned like a dying animal. “Tommy, Tommy, Tommy”, it was a mantra that hit his ears just right and urged him into clambering on top of the table with you with wild eyes. They drank in every inch of your sweltering body, the pulse of your heart through the hole he was jamming his fingers into, and on instinct he was guided to push down his waistband and throw off his apron as he knelt back on his haunches.

You might've thought he was nothing but hair if he wasn't so thick. Clearly he'd never shaved in his life with the erroneous bush he sported, curly hair matting down his thighs and his belly too once his shirt started riding up. But that fat, drooling knob of his swayed to hit his thigh, and you got an eyeful of pure, veiny, gut-smashing terror that you were sure would kill you if you didn't manage to relax. The further he leaned over your body, the more you felt like he was going to crush you as soon as he lined himself up with the hole he'd be stretching out like a little homemade cock sleeve. His hands slid under your knees to prop them up, but rather than sling them over his shoulders he bent them back and pinned them to your chest. An aching burn raced up your thighs but he paid no mind to your trembling; Tommy knelt over you and settled between your legs, and without warning, started sinking slowly into that hot opening he'd been dying to get deeper inside.

“H-Hold–wait, T-Tommy, hold oh-!”

Were you really so convinced he would play nice with you? Maybe you'd become complacent with the gentleness he showed you at his best, because when Tommy finally pressed in past the tip, he was gone. Forcing your knees back even further, he let out a groan and pushed himself up higher over you; all just to settle himself into your deepest pits and trap you in a violating mating press. After doing nothing but enjoying your heat, smushing his hips down against yours in a grinding motion, he soon seemed to realize he could move–and move he did, drawing back just to crush your hips with a deep, stomach-punching stroke.

“Unh,” What most resembled a moan fell from his scarred lips, and he fumbled around the back of his head to unclasp the leather from his face. This was the first and only time he'd ever felt safe enough to take it off since you'd met, and it was when he'd finally listened to his body and acted on his need to force every inch of him inside you. To be one. Now you finally were, and his synthetic face dropped on your chest before slowly sliding off to hit the floor.

If your jaw hadn't already gone slack from his violent thrusting, it would probably fall from the realization of what hid under that mask day after day. The sallow, sunken nose, the scars, the jagged skin and self-inflicted wounds…why wasn't it as scary as you thought? You figured, in the moment, you'd just gotten too used to him in personality, or maybe because you were just too distracted at the moment, but…

“Tommy-!” You squeaked out. The wet smack of his balls on your ass stuck in your ears, the strings of creamy slick linking you flesh-to-flesh as he went to town on your pussy. If he truly was losing his virginity to you, then all that pent-up frustration must be the source of him absolutely ruining any semblance of tightness you might've had. “A-Are you tryin’ to–you wanna gimme a baby? S'that it?” You slurred, slowly losing your good sense the longer he showed you your place.

Though you thought it would be to your horror, his slow nod only sparked something dark and tremulous within your loins. Something more than sweat and slick and the vile squelching of his seldom-washed dick rubbing up to your womb. It hit you then; this was your punishment. Every clap and sticky smack of flesh on flesh was a promise, an urge fulfilled to tear your meat from the bone and thrust a new purpose unto you. A homemaker. Tommy's little bride. A momma. Make his momma a grandmama like she was always praying for.

Shluck. Shluck. Shluck. Shluck. No doubt in your mind that was exactly what he was doing, and exactly why he brought you all the way out to the slaughterhouse to do it. The leather strap over your stomach kept you from wriggling away, but that would only be if you could somehow get him to pull out, and that for sure wasn't happening. He didn't bother with long strokes and leaving the tip in, your cunt was a home for him to bury himself in and he wasn't about to waste a second of this. His thick thighs trembled over yours, and he ground the swollen head of his cock deep against your cervix. So deep it was painful, but why would he care? He was doing a good thing. He was being a good boy, giving you what uncle Hoyt told him all women wanted, even if they didn't say it out loud.

Tommy's moans grew to a higher pitch once he affixed his hand like a necklace round your throat, swelling with the faster, faster, faster pace of his thrusts downward. He pressed his other meaty hand into your knees and shoved each one further apart, which made you whine but gave him easier access to pound you into greedy, delectable mush. Whereas it might've turned off weaker men, your nails digging deep, long scratches up his back made Tommy groan and tilt his head back in delirious pleasure. His knees kept you pinned at your sides and his weight–his stomach squishing into you from above–held you down where you belonged, where you'd be the most beautiful and of best use. Beneath him with a womb spilling over with cum, sown by his seed and his seed alone. His picturesque, pretty little wife. Hewitt property. He wouldn't stop, and you wouldn't beg him to even if you weren't being choked of any air you had left, and the world started to spin as the ecstasy took hold and Thomas was squeezing your moans out of you with trembling fervour. It felt as though your lower half exploded and left you with a warm, full, tingly sensation, marred by pearly-white globs of a load he'd had saved up since birth.

In contrast to the violent lovemaking he'd just shown you he was capable of, you were slowly brought back to life by small, soft little pecks. Kisses like the fuzz of a bumblebee brushing by your cheeks, pressing into your lips with a sweetness you weren't used to. This felt like Tommy again, like the gentle touch he used when nobody was around to laugh at him for being so sweet on you. He shuddered with bliss as his cock pulsed with your heartbeat and milked him of what little he had left, but with his chubby fingers rubbing at your jaw and brushing your sweaty locks aside he managed to drag himself off of you. Slowly, like molasses on a cold day, he brought himself back down off the table and let his feet hit the floor, having to brace himself against the table to keep from stumbling to the ground. Click-shuuunk. The leather belt snapped back into its holder as he released it, which left a sizeable indent across your abdomen that you'd have to hope would be covered enough not to show bruises. All you could do was watch as Tommy did up his pants on his way around the table, only to return to your side with the biggest, sharpest knife you swore you had ever seen. You flinched away and nearly cried out-

Shlip. With a strand pulled taut, Tommy made quick work of separating a lock of your hair from your head. Just a short one, so as not to make much difference–but he held it to his face and sniffed deeply, and it ashamed you to say that the gesture in itself just made your clit throb with need you thought you'd been completely overdosed on. Despite that, you laid still while Tommy reached over and retrieved his mask, tucking the tuft of hair inside it so he could smell it all the time. To calm him down, to cool him off, to just enjoy…all the things that you brought to him when no one else did, or could. From his pocket he produced something small and shiny, and dangled it over your face to show you before he set on fixing it around your neck. The pendant you'd seen that girl wearing a week ago now hung against your collar, the gleam of gold in it polished clean of the blood spilled to take it.

You barely let out a moan as he set on rearranging your limbs, turning you over, letting his cum spill down your thighs and all over the table like the blood from a fresh cut of beef. His calloused digits traced down your spine and up again til he found a sweet spot, and padded down your springy flesh that separated bone from his fingers. The carving knife had tinged when he'd sharpened it but he didn't show it to you–that would be too much for you, given what he was about to commit to.

Every arc, long and curved or short and straight, burned. The tip of the blade dug into your flesh like a red-hot needle, but Tommy's warm palm on the back of your neck kept you from moving out of his reach. He needed to start and to finish and his hand was already unsteady, mostly from the way his breath still hitched and his cock stirred all over again at the sight of your writhing body. Your blood turned him on. He hadn't touched any of the victims before you, not in that way, but you weren't really the same as them–no, you were special. If you weren't, Tommy wouldn't be carving those words into your back, and putting on display his ownership over the one and only thing he would ever see as more than meat.

If you didn't get pregnant this time, then this would surely be enough for the family to forgive. The letters scrawled in bloody ecstasy that would heal over, scar, wounds to be reopened over and over again.

Tommy's girl

forever

[lassieposting]

Been thinking a lot lately about romanced Astarion post-spawn ending.

Because like. The Funnest™ thing about cptsd is how much of it gets delayed. When you're trapped in a lengthy, ongoing traumatic situation, you do not have the ability to process and start healing your mental wounds. Your brain and body go into survival mode, and all that matters in the moment is that you somehow cope with the horrors. He wouldn't have been able to even begin dealing with the physical, mental and emotional toll of two hundred years of torture, brutalization and dehumanization while he was under Cazador's control; he is in constant danger, surrounded by sharks in the water, and survival means not letting them smell blood. He can't afford to fall apart, to show weakness. He is shockingly functional and competent in-game, partly because he has to be to work as a game character, but also partly because...it do be like that, to some degree. When death, for whatever reason, is not an option, you just have to shut down and keep going. People adapt in order to survive, and when we learn that showing an "injury" (physical or psychological) only gets us punished, we learn to hide it.

Early-game Astarion is terrified - of Cazador, of Godey, of being hunted down by his siblings, of being staked or sold off at the first opportunity by Tav and the other companions, of turning into a mindflayer, of another painful transformation, of losing himself when he's only just regained his autonomy after two centuries, of what Cazador will do to him if he ever finds him - the man is overwhelmed by fear. He's on thin ice as a vampire, and he's not going to give them any more reason to want him gone. Survival instinct is still in control, and in this new situation, crafting some fragile safety for himself means not only selling his body for protection, but also being useful. Clear-headed. Good in a fight.

Endgame Astarion finds himself in a completely different situation. The time-sensitive overarching threats - Cazador and impending ceremorphosis - have been dealt with. He has a loving, supportive partner he's really starting to feel safe with - Tav/Durge has proved that they're on his side, that their affection is genuine, that they don't just want him for the one thing he's been told he's good for. They've told him they're going to help him find a workaround for his sun allergy. He's getting fed regularly. He has time to stop, and breathe, and just. Recuperate.

For the first time in 200 years, he is safe.

And it will probably take a while to catch up, during which time he will seem to be coping really well, but at some point, his brain is going to realise that he's safe, and it's going to finally start processing the sheer fucking horror he's been through. Since I haven't seen anyone talking about this particular fun aspect of cptsd, allow me to offer u some thoughts on issues Astarion and Tav might end up dealing with in the months/years postgame, during the

✨ Delayed Trauma Response ✨

Memory Gaps: Astarion realising, as he opens up to Tav, that there are entire years or decades of his life from which he has only a handful of memories. Great big blank stretches where he has no idea where he was, who he was with, what was happening to him. Some of the gaps cover years at a time where he was so dissociated and shut down that he just didn't retain any memories of what was going on around him. Some are shorter periods of particularly horrific torture that his brain has deliberately blocked out to protect him.

Recovered Memories: At some point, years into the future when he's done A Lot of healing, he might find that every now and then, a fragment of those lost memories will unexpectedly come back to him. He'll catch a particular scent on the breeze, or overhear a specific phrase in the street, or cross paths with someone whose face is oddly familiar, and he'll get a glimpse of an acute horror he'd filed neatly away where it couldn't hurt him anymore. He very rarely remembers all the context to those flashes of his past. He might recall that he was punished, but not what he was punished for, or he might remember words spoken by a greedy conquest, but be unable to recall the man's face.

Dissociation: Tav knows going into this relationship that Astarion has basically made an art out of dissociating during sex. They also know, from their shared encounter with the drow twins, that he's not great at enforcing his own boundaries - he'll always say he'll speak up and back out if he stops having fun, but in practice he rarely does; he's not used to having the option of saying no to his partner, and being punished if he tries. So they know there's going to be some practice and experimentation and negotiation necessary there, to figure out the rough limits of his comfort zone. But once he starts really processing, there may be days where he just checks out completely. Tav will touch his shoulder, and he'll startle and apologise - "Terribly sorry, darling, I was miles away for a moment there." And Tav will gently point out that he's been sat in the same spot vacantly staring into the middle distance for hours. They've been checking in on him occasionally and this is the first time he's responded. It's unsettling, to say the least.

Lost Time: Astarion was very young when he was turned, physically mature but emotionally juvenile. He was basically an overgrown teenager, in the phase of life where elves are just starting to learn who they are and what they want, and figure out their place in the world. But he never got to do that, because he spent his formative young adult years in a world where everyone became an abuser, where his only means of surviving was to smile and charm and obey while even his basic human dignity was stripped away. He learned that communication is based on manipulation. He learned that the powerful can do whatever they like to the weak. He learned an incredibly toxic, abusive way of life, and that was his family dynamic, his everyday life, for as long as he can remember. Now that he's free and safe, he's realising that the world doesn't actually work that way and that he's now far behind even shorter-lived races in social/emotional development. He's grieving for the person he could've been. He's grieving for the life he could've lived. He's grieving for all the years he already lost, and the ones he'll lose in the future as he flounders to catch up. A decent chunk of his life was stolen from him, and that's time he will never get back.

Flashbacks & Night Terrors: Specifically the kind where your brain convinces you that an injury you had a long time ago is actually an injury you have (or are receiving) right now. There are nights where he'll wake Tav in a panic, because his back feels like it's on fire, he can feel every freshly-carved wound dripping blood and he's in so much pain he doesn't know what else to do. If Tav looks, they see nothing out of the ordinary - old, long-healed scars, same as always. But the pain and the fear and the distress are all very real to him, and all they can do is try to comfort him, cover his back with cool damp cloths or healing salves, remind him he's safe now and they're not leaving him.

Boundary Shifting: Sometimes, Tav can come up and hug him from behind, and he'll melt into them a little bit and go all soft and happy. Other times, he might flinch away or go rigid at the same gesture. A lot of the time, it really depends on how he's feeling on the day, but at least a little bit of it is deliberate - he's pushing to find the limit of just how much autonomy Tav is willing to give him. He wants to know at what point they'll stop respecting his "no". Will they accept it if he doesn't want a hug? If he wants to sleep in his own room tonight? At what point will understanding turn to anger at being rejected? From the drow twins four/fivesome, we also know he's got a tendency to push his own boundaries, and jump into things he's actually not ready for, and Tav would be the one holding his hand through the fallout as he tries to figure out what his own boundaries even are.

Frustration! So, so much frustration. He wants to be Over It already. He wants to move past everything that ever happened to him and never think about it again. He hates that Cazador still has a grip on him, even in death - he doesn't want to give the bastard the satisfaction of dwelling on all his punishments, his cruelties. Sometimes, that frustration is going to explode outwards at Tav - he'll get angry at them for coddling him, or find something small to start a fight over, or he'll set an unreasonable boundary and try to defend it because he's still learning what healthy boundaries look like. Sometimes, it will implode inwards, and that won't be about Tav at all, but they'll get the brunt of it all the same - it might come out as self-loathing or self-punishment, and he'll react by doing something stupid, like trying to drive them away, because having a secure, relatively healthy relationship is terrifying and the instinct is to destroy it before Tav can. There will be yelling and angry tears and deeply unhealthy coping mechanisms, and they'd have to work through that. Trauma is ugly, and Astarion is right at the beginning of a very long journey towards healing.

Abandonment Issues: Astarion wants the relationship to be one between equals, but he's kind of got Tav on a pedestal all the same. They saved him. They helped him get rid of Cazador for good. They chose him and love him despite a wealth of better (in his eyes) options, and all his baggage. They stayed with him even when he has very little to offer them. We know his vanity and obnoxious self-absorption is a fragile attempt to obscure the fact that his self-esteem is in the dirt and he has virtually no self-worth, and there are a couple of occasions in-game where it becomes clear that he's afraid of losing the one person who somehow considers him lovable. After seeing Sebastian and all the other conquests, he begs Tav not to hate him, saying that he did what he had to. If he has a rival for Tav's affections, and Tav informs him that they broke up with the rival to be with Astarion, he's shocked and the first thing out of his mouth is, "You ended things with them for me? Why?" And if Durge tries to break up with him for his own safety, his facade drops and he immediately asks if he did something wrong. So while he's not afraid to argue with Tav, if something happens - like an angry outburst - that upsets or angers them, and he thinks he's at risk of losing that one steady, stable person in his life, he might well cling and overcompensate to try and repair what he thinks is a fracture in their relationship. He'll fawn or beg or crawl into Tav's bed to "apologise" and "make it up to them" because, well, very occasionally it worked on Cazador. With patience and good communication and lots of repeatedly driving the lesson home to overcome 200 years of education to the contrary, he will eventually start to believe that "I'm really pissed off at you right now," does not equate to, "You are the worst mistake I've ever made and I am leaving you."

Panic Attacks: I feel like honestly he'd get some symptoms of these on a fairly regular basis, but he's never been given any option other than just trying to power through them. He's used to realising he's shaking, he's used to feeling like he's watching himself from outside his body, or like he can't breathe even though he doesn't need to. He's very familiar with the sickening fear in his gut, so intense it makes his head spin. He's not used to being comforted or reassured about them - he thinks they're normal. Tav disagrees.

Anyway, cptsd is messy and complicated and often looks very different from person to person so these will not represent everyone's but these are just some ideas for what the ongoing recovery process might make them work through, based on the aspects I'm most familiar with.

Projecting? Who's projecting? I'm not projecting. Shut up.

[idiotmf]

Moving into a house infested by shadow demons

I may have this recent obsession with my newest creation for random blurbs I write, but... hear me out while I dump random information on you that you didn't ask for... (also NSFW, minors scram)

Shadow demons are beings made of, well, shadows. They can hide in yours or manifest as anything they want, shape-shifters if you will.

Since they are beings made of shadows, they cannot catch light, therefore they are a little hard to make out, often appearing more as a silhouette but they do have very distinctive, glowing eyes.

Very original, I know.

Now... They infest houses, apartments or just general areas. They're typically regarded as low level demons, as they are bound to the area they infest, feeding off of human emotions; specifically strong emotions like fear, hopelessness and, most importantly, lust.

I currently have two shadow demons that I adore writing about and they are... Well, I feel like they would hate each other.

× Aryllus

Aryllus is a sweetheart. He isn't interested in feeding off of emotions. He finds life fascinating, he loves spending his endless time reading, observing the animals and humans outside this old brick cottage that he can't leave.

He's very blunt and emotionally not the most intelligent but he makes up for it with his academic intellect. He's been trapped here for a century, maybe two. He doesn't know. Time is of no concept to demons, after all.

He's also shy at first. He doesn't want to be discovered by humans. He dislikes being treated like a pest or an inconvenience, so he would rather starve for all eternity than be viewed as a monster.

When you do discover him, and you don't seem afraid of him, he rejoices. He's patient and gentle in every interaction, thinking he has no morals as a demon but very clearly being a kind entity.

But... be careful, even if a shadow demon's primary food is emotions, Aryllus will probably steal your sandwich. And then try to eat the plastic it came in. (-_-')

And then there is...

× Oryllion

Oryllion is heartless, manipulative and possessive. His only interest lies in breaking the inhabitants of his infested house, making them his mindless little toys for his insatiable hunger.

His preferred method is keeping you in a constant state of arousal by any means necessary. You're working on something? Too bad, he's eating you out/ sucking you off under the table. You want to leave? No, he's tying you up with his tendrils and attaching little suckers to your nipples until you scream in agony and pleasure.

He's dominant and degrading, never once uttering your name. You're merely his pet or his toy. His eyes, while nothing more than glowing white orbs, show disgust with you. Even while he shapes his body into the most incomprehensible shape, writhing with obscene appendages and a sheer endless amount of limbs just to force you to orgasm for his next feast, he clearly looks down on you. Humiliation is a part of the fun for him.

But... As much as he wishes, even Oryllion can't fuck everyone into submission. Occasionally, families will move into his domain, much to his dismay.

But hey, at least he gets to traumatize children with his SFW Eldritch horror shapes for a quick snack.

[sunsburns]

fallen fruit

pairing: eric (a quiet place: day one) x reader

summary: you and eric go on a supply run to help aid the mother and her child at your safe spot, where dozens of other survivors are hiding. it isn't too far of a journey, and travelling in groups is better than alone, however, when the military starts bombing the bridges in new york city, the two of you are forced to go into hiding after being chased by a death angel.

—or: you're being hunted by a death angel

word count: 1.8k+

contains: angst, horror elements, alien invasion, the-end-of-the-world kind of scenario, blood, graphic gore & violence, injury, tending to wounds, kinda intimate

author’s note: got a lot of requests for eric and i'm bouncing off the walls with excitement yayaya!!! anyways i'm killing two birds with one stone with this one since this is based on this request and this one!

They've started bombing the bridges.

You and Eric had ventured out on a supply run for food, hoping to bring back something for the mother and her baby you were hiding with. Fighter jets roar through the skies, their engines a deafening sound of impending doom.

The ground shakes violently with each explosion.

The monsters below, drawn to the cacophony, scramble chaotically, their massive forms casting monstrous shadows against the darkening, orange-tinged sky.

The city is plunged into chaos once more as the explosions ripple through the air, sending shockwaves down the deserted streets, the military making a desperate bid to contain the aliens. The once-bustling bridges of New York are now targets, their obliteration aimed at preventing the spread of the monsters, trapping them in the islands.

The monsters can't swim, the authorities have been broadcasting that for hours, and patrol helicopters circle periodically. But the creatures' relentless pursuit on land paints a grim picture to the people who are trapped with them.

You and Eric move quickly, ducking into narrow alleyways and through crumbling abandoned buildings, always staying vigilant and out of sight. The sounds of explosions reverberate around you, and your heart hammers in your chest, adrenaline propelling you forward even as fear gnaws at your insides.

Every step is fraught with tension, the city's eerie silence punctuated by distant roars and the relentless thudding of your own heartbeat. The glow from the fires casts an otherworldly hue over the desolate streets, transforming familiar landmarks into sinister silhouettes.

Eric glances back at you, his face a mask of determination and barely concealed fear. Despite the terror coursing through you, you draw strength from his presence, a silent promise that you will protect each other no matter what. The bond between you feels unbreakable, forged in the crucible of shared danger and whispered confidences in the dark.

Suddenly, a deafening explosion tears through the air, the ground beneath you trembling violently. You both stumble, barely keeping your balance as the shockwave reverberates through the streets.

The nearby bridge finally collapses in a plume of fire and debris, the impact sending a massive cloud of dust and smoke billowing into the air. The monsters react instantly, their shrieks piercing the commotion of destruction.

A stampede of the creatures surges through the city, their massive forms silhouetted against the fiery skies. They leap from building to building with alarming agility, their claws tearing through concrete and metal as if it were paper. The sheer speed and ferocity of their movement send waves of panic crashing through you.

Eric grabs your hand, his grip firm and reassuring. "Run!" you whisper over the noise, and he doesn't need to be told twice. The two of you sprint together, weaving through the debris-laden streets as you desperately search for shelter. Your heart pounds in your chest, each beat echoing the chaos around you. The air is thick with smoke and the smell of burning.

One of the monsters, massive and swift, barrels through the alley behind you, knocking over everything in its path. The ground shakes with each of its steps, the noise deafening. You glance over your shoulder, eyes widening in horror as it closes the distance. Panic surges through you, lending speed to your legs.

A fire escape, dislodged by the creature's brute force, comes crashing down with a deafening clang. The metal twists and bends as it falls, and you both duck instinctively. Desperate, You push yourself harder, lungs burning as you sprint toward the faintly glowing orange street lights ahead.

But in the chaos, your footing slips. Eric's hand, slick with sweat, slips from yours as you suddenly drop to the ground. Pain explodes in your leg as one of the rusty staircases from the fire escape crashes heavily on top of it.

A scream of agony tears from your throat before you can stop it, the sound raw and desperate. You bite down hard, trying to stifle the noise, but the agony is excruciating. You look down at your leg, and even in the darkness you can see that something is wrong—the unnatural angle, the blood soaking into the fabric of your pants.

The monster pauses, its head whipping around at the sound.

Eric's eyes widen in terror. He skids to a halt, eyes sweeping with horror as he realizes what's happened. He drops to his knees beside you, his hands shaking as he covers your mouth, his own breathing ragged with fear. "Shhh, please, you have to stay quiet," he whispers, his voice barely audible over the pounding of your heart and the pained groan that slips from you, muffled by his hands.

The creature sniffs the air, its head tilting as it listens.

You can feel its presence, a looming shadow of death inching closer, its low growl reverberating through the narrow alley. The scent of your blood in the air draws it nearer, each step making your heart race faster.

You feel as if your entire body is aflame, the pain in your leg mingling with the terror gripping your heart. Eric holds you closely, his trembling hands gentle but firm, a lifeline amid chaos.

The tears finally break free, rolling down your cheeks and wetting his hands. He holds you tighter, his own fear palpable, but his determination unwavering. "I'm here," he mouths against the shell of your ear, "I'm not leaving you."

Its footsteps grow louder, and you can spot its shadow against the brick wall, inching closer, its low growl coming deep within it.

The seconds stretch into an eternity, each heartbeat echoing like a drum in your ears. The creature's claws scrape against the ground, the sound sending shivers down your spine.

Finally, drawn by the louder sounds of the explosions, it moves on, leaving you both in a shaken silence.

The moment it’s gone, Eric scrambles to help pull you out from under the metal. He shakes with effort, his muscles straining, and you’re scrambling to get out from under it once he lifts it high enough for you to move. You bite your lip hard enough to draw blood as he finally frees your leg. The pain is blinding, but you hold back any sound, tears streaming down your face.

The broken glass beneath you shifts quietly with your movements, and Eric tries his hardest to lower the railing back to the ground without making a sound. His breath comes in short, ragged gasps, and he glances nervously at the shadows, every small noise making him flinch.

Eric helps you to your feet, his arm around your waist supporting your weight. Together, you move as quickly as you can, each step sending fresh waves of pain through your leg. You lean heavily on him, your breaths coming in short, pained bursts as you feel blood rolling down your leg, soaking your sock and shoe.

His grip stays firm, urging you to stay with him a little longer.

You duck into a nearby building that offers some semblance of shelter. The air inside is stale, and the dim light barely illuminates the scattered debris.

Once inside, Eric lowers you gently to the ground, his face pale and drawn. He crouches beside you, his hands brushing your hair from your face.

His breath trembles as he looks at you, then your leg, a silent plea for you to let him help.

You nod, giving him the permission he seeks.

Eric carefully rolls up the bottom of your pants, revealing a long gash on your calf where blood steadily seeps out along with his quiet and panicked mutters of 'okay, okay, okay'.

He examines your leg, his hands gentle but efficient, his fingers trembling slightly as he works. You see the worry in his eyes, the fear that mirrors your own.

Eric looks up at you with sad eyes rimmed with pity. The silence between you speaks volumes, a shared understanding of the dire situation. You want to tell him to leave you there, that you would only slow him down before he could get back to the safe spot where you had been hiding with other survivors, but the words catch in your throat.

He starts to tear a strip from his own pants, creating a makeshift tourniquet to wrap around your injured leg. The pain is fierce, but his touch is soothing.

He then reaches into the small backpack you had been carrying, pulling out some of the supplies you had gathered for the mother and her baby. He uses a small bottle of antiseptic to clean the wound, his movements careful and precise. The sting is sharp and you bite your lip, trying to focus on his face rather than the pain.

Eric’s eyes never leave yours, and in them, you see the depth of his concern, the unspoken promise that he won’t let anything happen to you. He uses a cloth to gently dab at the wound, his touch light but sure. Despite the agony, you trust into his presence, seeking comfort in his closeness.

As he works, you find yourself leaning closer to Eric, your need for comfort outweighing the pain. He lets you rest your head against him, holding you steady as he finishes bandaging your leg. His breath is warm against your hair, his heartbeat a steady rhythm beneath your cheek.

Eric finishes tending to your leg and looks up, his eyes meeting yours with an intensity that makes your heart skip a beat.

Without thinking, he leans in, his lips brushing yours in a tender, desperate kiss. It’s quick, almost hesitant, but it sends a rush of warmth through you, momentarily distracting you from the pain. He pulls back, his eyes searching yours for any sign of rejection, but you smile weakly, the gesture enough to reassure him.

You move closer, cupping his face with your hands. You press your lips to his again, this time with more urgency, pouring all your fear, relief, and gratitude into the kiss. It's deeper, filled with the unspoken words and emotions that have been building between you.

Eric responds in kind, his arms wrapping around you, pulling you closer. The kiss is a promise, a shared understanding that in this world turned upside down, you have each other.

When you finally pull back, breathless, you rest your forehead against his, the connection between you more palpable than ever.

The chaos outside is relentless, but here, in this moment, there is a quiet familiarity between you. Eric's fingers brush against your cheek, and you lean into his touch, finding solace in the warmth of his company.

In the silence that follows, you rest your head against his shoulder, the day's horrors fading into the background. Eric's hand strokes your hair gently, and you find yourself relaxing into his touch.

The world outside may be falling apart, but here there is a flicker of hope, a promise of survival forged in the bond between you. The air is filled with the distant sounds of chaos, but within this small sanctuary, there is a sense of peace, a momentary reprieve from the nightmare outside.

You take a deep breath, feeling the rise and fall of Eric's chest beneath your head. His presence is a grounding force, a reminder that you are not alone in this.

There is a flicker of hope, a promise of survival forged.

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[hurthermore]

»»------► 𝙰 𝙼𝚒𝚜𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚍𝚞𝚌𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝙻𝚘𝚟𝚎 (18+) - 𝙲𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝙴𝚕𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗

Pairing: 𝙷𝚞𝚖𝚊𝚗!𝙰𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚛 𝚡 𝙵!𝚁𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛

Summary: 𝙲𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚘𝚕 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚊𝚕𝚠𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚜𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚢 𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗. 𝚂𝚘 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚊 𝚛𝚊𝚍𝚒𝚘 𝚑𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚕𝚒𝚏𝚎, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚎𝚎𝚖𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚢𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚗 𝚝𝚘 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚘𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞, 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚘 𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚗, 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚞𝚕𝚐𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚊 𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚊𝚏𝚏𝚊𝚒𝚛 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚑𝚞𝚜𝚋𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚘𝚍𝚞𝚌𝚎𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚘.

Word Count: 𝟻.𝟾𝚔

Warnings: 𝚃𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚔 𝚘𝚏 𝚏𝚒𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚒𝚜 𝚎𝚡𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚕𝚢 𝚍𝚊𝚛𝚔 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚒𝚜 𝚘𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚜𝚞𝚒𝚝𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚊𝚐𝚎𝚍 𝟷𝟾+ 𝚊𝚜 𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚗 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚋𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚐𝚛𝚞𝚎𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚙𝚑𝚒𝚌 𝚜𝚎𝚡𝚞𝚊𝚕 𝚜𝚌𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚜, 𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚊𝚍𝚞𝚕𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚢, 𝚘𝚋𝚜𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚜, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚢 𝚝𝚢𝚙𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚊𝚋𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚝. 𝚂𝚙𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚏𝚒𝚌 𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚋𝚎 𝚕𝚊𝚋𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚍𝚞𝚊𝚕 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚜.

𝙳𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚘𝚌𝚒𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗, 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚘𝚋𝚜𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚛, 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚖𝚞𝚛𝚍𝚎𝚛, 𝚜𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚜𝚎𝚡𝚞𝚊𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚜, 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚒𝚗 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚠𝚎𝚒𝚛𝚍 𝚊𝚜𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝙰𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚛.

𝙸𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎 𝚙𝚞𝚝 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚊𝚐𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝, 𝚕𝚎𝚝 𝚖𝚎 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚋𝚢 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎 𝚊𝚍𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚛 𝚖𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚊𝚐𝚎 𝚖𝚎 <𝟹

𝙴𝚍𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚊 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚋𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚊𝚞𝚝𝚒𝚏𝚞𝚕 @safety-pin-angel-wings, 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚔𝚜 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 @the-demon-of-a-thousand-eyes!

Two months. Alastor had found himself stalking you for two months. Months where he had hidden himself from oncoming eyes yet divulged himself under the blistering sun, basking in the warmth it drowned him in as he attempted to sneak but a glance at you. He had a want, a need, a gnawing emotion inside of him to simply be in your vicinity, and that emotion was overbearingly uncomfortable, like a desire akin to no other.

Although, to even revel in your presence was something that was a task he found to be ridiculously difficult to accomplish, and the cravings to be blessed with your existence doused him in a way that forced his skin to itch when his perceiving eyes couldn’t locate you.

What had you done to him?

Forcing him to become a shell of his former self as all he could find himself doing was obsessing over you.

You were an evil woman, clearly. 

One he couldn’t help but fall for.

It had hit him like a ton of bricks, the bow of cupid had pierced him with numerous arrows, he was certain. It had embedded a sense of romanticism in him that he never had the inclination of experiencing before; in a new, scary way. But the pure fluttering it brought him, the sheer excitement it doused him in had overtaken that initial hesitation of insecurity and fear.

He could only conclude that he had fallen infatuatedly in love with you. The way he had accepted and owned such a thought with ridiculous ease was astonishingly something he didn’t find strange, but normal.

But then again, it would be unlike the great Alastor Hartfelt to not be confident in himself; that trait also extended to the emotional attachment he had latched onto you.

It had been conflicting, despite everything. The sense of feelings you had embedded within him, along with the discovery of pure emotion you had brought out of him had him spiralling into a sense of self reflection of who he actually was—what he actually was. He knew he was a man of murder, a man who had slain countless lives based on the mere claim that Alastor desired to snuff out the lives of those who were instilled with evil intent, to clean the world of the natural horrors of what a normal human being was capable of. He was also a man with a cannibalistic tendency, who would, usually, take his victims into the innards of his human butchering kitchen, a kitchen that was hidden within the walls of his cellar, before sawing limb after limb.

An activity he enjoyed a bit too much.

So to have you imbed him with an entirely new emotion—a rather conflicting one—had him reassessing everything he had known; the concept of romantic, even platonic love wasn’t an abstraction that Alastor was familiar with. The only love he had ever been able to truly relish in was the one of familial; the love he held for his tender, warm-hearted mother.

But she had long since passed into the realm of heavenly death.

Regardless of the doubts he may or may not have had, the cravings to see you, to merely witness you was unbearable. So unbearable that his fingernails would twitch to itch towards his hair; begging to pull on the tussles of hair follicles to elevate the stress he felt when his wandering eyes could not perceive you.

So over the course of those two months he had stood outside your house, waiting for you to leave its confines to enact his routine of stalking you, to pretend he was standing next to you, it became abundantly clear rather quickly that you only left the house twice a week; for grocery shopping. Very rarely would you leave the walls of your home outside of those two shopping trips. 

It was strange, alarming in a way that a woman as beautiful, as delightful as you would be a hermit.

But was that the true reason?

Were you just a person who preferred to stay in the comfort of their own company?

Or was there something he was missing?

It would be something he would eventually bring to light, something he demanded to know, to understand. 

Everytime you left the house, his heart would stop; freezing in place as his breath hitched. You were always ethereal, with that blinding angelic aura that always seemed to follow you. He wanted, craved like nothing else to approach you whenever you left the premises of your home, to engage in conversation with you and make you fall in love with him; to forget all about your bad egg of a practice run husband.

But the insecurities of his psyche prevented him from doing as such.

The unstable security of his mind in regards to how you would view him, how it could enforce any negative opinions to seep into your being toward him frightened him dearly, filled him with a dread he had only managed to experience when he had to live through the dreaded loss of his darling mother. 

No. He had to approach you in a more subtle way, in a way that wasn’t so forward, a way that made you believe you had met by mere coincidence.

Your husband, despite how Alastor despised the idea of interacting with the man who had stolen your hand in marriage—your hand that was rightfully Alastor’s—made the most sense to approach in order to get to you. To possess you.

So his plan was simple: find a weakness within your husband, exploit it, pretend to assist him in said weakness, and imbed his existence into your life before making you his wife.

A plan that would prove to be ridiculously easy, especially with the inhabitants of New Orleans being dramatised gossipers.

People spoke like wildfire, like a plague on the earth, so to hear rumours of your husband’s failure in his business, well, it was unsurprising and amusing to say the least. It fuelled Alastor’s sense of superiority over your husband, proved to him that he was the better man in atleast one area so far; keeping his job afloat. 

Alastor could provide for you better than that abhorrent piece of human meat, even if he didn’t make as much money, even if he was a poor man; Alastor would give you the world.

It took him all but a day of stalking your husband, on a day you weren’t predicted to leave the house, following him into a drive as he stalked the older man into his place of business; the business he owned. Vincent was a sloppy man, obviously so. It took Alastor barely a handful of times of ‘people watching’ to realise as such. Your husband was a bit unaware of his surroundings too. Maybe that came with how arrogant he appeared to be though.

Clearly, that extended to his ability to run a business.

With the assistance of gossip from human interaction, the accreditation of Vincent’s failure within his business was apparent, and the man seemed a bit too obliged when Alastor had waltzed into his business under the persona of his radio host title, offering the old, vile man sweet words of inclination. Forcing and manipulating a string of syllables to sway the vile man who had somehow won your heart, in order for Alastor to win it instead.

Vincent had agreed to his offer of advertisement, and rightfully so; Alastor would not be himself if he was incapable of manipulating the norm of the world, would not know who he was or what to do if that lovely quality he had attained through his years had become ineffective. Alastor offered to go in depth with the collaboration over dinner; a homemade dinner of one of his favourite dishes, at Vincent’s place. It was obtrusive, but Alastor had a charm about him, one he was well aware of, so spinning a thread of psychological control over the man he had come to learn was named Vincent, was all too easy.

This would be the catalyst to enable him to see you again, talk to you again. 

But would you remember him?

He doubted it.

Yet hope remained.

Unfortunately, his question was answered for him as he watched you gather ingredients for the meal he was to attend tonight; the meal where he would finally be able to interact with you again. He had stalked you in a slow tow, watching every slight movement you made, every slight wisp the hair on your head would cascade into with the wind. He had, uncannily, been matching every step with yours, envisioning that he was next to you as you made your way into another butcher’s shop; the third one you had visited so far today. 

It made him feel awful, seeing your desperate expression as you attempted to search for a specific product: venison. He recalled specifically asking, telling Vincent that he was favourable to venison.

Alastor just wanted to taste how well you could make his favourite dish.

Even if it were bad, disgusting by design, he would eat anything you fed him.

Paradoxically out of the palm of your hand, if you so pleased it.

As he continued to watch you from afar, his heart ceased to beat as the familiar look of dissociated disdain doused your angelic facial features. Your eyes melted into that murderous expression he vividly remembered you showcasing two months ago; the one you only gave towards your husband.

Were you thinking of that vile piece of existence?

Was he plaguing your mind?

Alastor could only wish it was he that was the one within your mind instead.

Yet as soon as that fascinating expression doused your beautiful features, it disappeared all too quickly as the butcher seemed to refocus your attention, altering the thoughts that swarmed your mind whilst he placed the bag of meat onto the counter before you.

Alastor wished to see that expression again.

To kiss your lips as your body splattered in a raging murderous intent.

As your form exited the shop, Alastor could only tighten his smile as he witnessed the bloodied bag of meat hidden within the bag you held in your delicate hand; at least now you wouldn’t have to continue your search with that distressed expression. Yet despite how calm and collected you seemed, your demeanour changed instantly as the breeze cascaded within your hair; your eyes darting back and forth before they landed onto him.

His heart stopped, painfully so as your glimmering eyes connected with his. The smile etched onto his face couldn’t help but stretch into improper proportions as you witnessed him, finally noticing him after all the days, weeks, months he had followed you. And as you reciprocated it, Alastor was sure you could command the whole world with such a smile. 

And when you added that small, cute wave alongside your gorgeous smile, he was filled with hope that you had remembered him. Remembered him from that night at the speakeasy.

Was everything he just planned out with your husband unnecessary? 

Did you truly recall him?

But the longer he waited for you, waited for you to show any signs of familiarity, the hope that you did remember him dwindled into the pits of oblivion. And as your expression became one of unease, his halted heartbeat restarted into a stretched rip as you awkwardly looked away from him, only to run away from his presence.

He was an imbecile for believing you had remembered him.

He had simply set himself up for emotional heartache by wishing for something he knew not to be true.

As much as he wished to follow you home as you scurried away, to perceive you and protect you, he couldn’t risk the potential of you catching onto his activities. 

He also had to visit your husband at his place of business so he could escort himself into your presence.

Alastor truly couldn’t wait to finally hold you again.

Perhaps he would kiss your hand this time.

“Al? Where the fuck have you been?” A familiar voice rang into his ear canal, tearing him away from any thoughts that involved purely you as he diverted his oculi onto a short blonde woman behind him.

Turning around, the voice invaded his thought process before he pushed his round rimmed cheaters back beyond the bridge of his straightened nose. “Mimzy! It’s been quite some time, my dear.” He responded, straining his smile as the woman intruded not only his thoughts, but his need to visit Vincent.

“Some time my ass. Your lanky ass has been gone for two months! I thought you were dead!” Her rough, smoker voice scratched his ears, forcing him to compose his natural facade of a toothed, charmed smile.

“I have been busy, Mimzy! Don’t you worry your little head about it.” He condescendingly mocked before tapping his index finger against her nose. Although he did enjoy Mimzy's company before the day he first saw you, indulging in activities of prohibition and the fast paced dance of swing with her, she was all but a pet to Alastor; someone he could converse with when bored. And the sensation of boredom was all too familiar to him.

But then you came into his life.

You had, along with every bit of romanticism you embedded him with, gave him such a thrilling sense of entertainment.

“Busy? I didn’t realise stalking some pretty doll classified as busy.” Mimzy huffed as she eyed him wearily, clearly trying to strike some sense of morality into him with her truthful implication. “Ya’ know how wrong that is, right Al?”

He wished to laugh at her statement; if only she knew the horrors of what Alastor was truly capable of, she would never voice such a sentence to him.

Smiling coyly, his visual structure sharpened into daggers. “Stalking? What an awful thing to imply! I was merely admiring a beauty before me!”

“Ha! You? Admiring beauty? You ain’t never been the type to admire beauty.” Mimzy gestured with quotes as she emphasised the last word that left her larynx; her eyes rolling as she comically waved her hands back onto her hips.

“Maybe I just admire the one.” He responded before patting any dust that had collected along his waistcoat. It was a true statement; he had never been the one to admire beauty before, merely perceived it.

You truly were the only woman he had eyes for.

“Now!” Alastor continued, clapping his hands together before the short woman could get a rebuttal in edgewise. “I must be off! I have very important things to attend to!” His fingers tightened the bow around his neck before he began striding his long legs. “I will visit you soon, ol chum!”

A lie.

He would not.

Not when he had to keep an eye on you.

The echoing of the blonde woman's voice diminished within the growing horizon behind him as his long legs stretched him towards the premises of the building that was owned by your husband.

Dread filled him as the thought of mingling, being forced to converse with Vincent was something he rather not partake in, but had to endure such a gruelling task, to get closer to you. 

It was a rather long walk to say the least, hours had passed before he had the displeasure of arriving at the place of work that your husband owned. But Alastor had years of experience in walking, running, and hunting; if he so pleased, he could walk further than the average person simply due to the physical enhancements his hobbies had graced him with, so the effort of walking hours, if it ultimately meant he got to see you was more than worth it.

He would crawl through the dirt of the bayous for you.

Entering the familiar business he had visited barely a couple of days ago, he had forced his facade to stitch into the stretch of his skin naturally before finding himself stood before Vincent, Alastor’s height proportionally higher than his. Narrowing his eyes ever so slightly, Alastor could only inwardly grimace as the man began spouting about how joyful he was, how ecstatic he was that the radio host was going to advertise his failing business for such a small price.

Little did Vincent know, the price far extended the realm of physicalised currency; his wife was what Alastor was truly after, and his wife he would attain.

Alastor wondered, deeply internalising his thoughts as he contemplated on what made you marry such a man. At first, he genuinely believed, for some strange reason, that you loved your husband. But the more time Alastor was forced to inhabit the same vicinity of the said male, and the want for your heart to belong to Alastor instead, the opinion was becoming a dwindling afterthought as more appropriate and convenient thoughts echoed his mind. 

Were you attracted to the money he once had? Alastor could provide you with such royalties with ease.

Were you attracted to older men? Alastor could pretend to be older, if that is what you sought.

Or had the whole marriage been arranged?

Alastor preferred the last thought that swarmed his mind. An arrangement meant attaining the love you harboured within your soul would be just that little bit easier to win and acquire for the rest of his existence. 

He would hold your love close even after he himself ceased to exist.

But the imagery of your marriage being constituted on the basis of an arrangement made sense. The vivid recall of mental images of your murderous expression as your husband called for you two months ago plagued his mind; the way you had contorted your facial structure into such a horrific stretch, it made him certain now that you hated your husband.

He wasn’t sure if that was because he had observed you well enough with his perceptive eyes, or he simply wished it to be true.

How could you love him? You must have hated him, right?

As he engaged in frivolous conversation with your husband, Alastor couldn’t help but notice the slight misogynistic way your husband spoke towards the fairer sex; it was ever so subtle, but being the perceptive man he was, Alastor was able to deduce such a trait all too easily. 

He hated those of misogynistic values.

Alastor couldn’t wait to take you away from this man, to seduce you into murdering him.

Despite his physical form focusing on conversing with the vile man beside him, the realm of his psyche delved into the imagery of imagination; an imagination that evoked the picture-like show of you murdering your husband, stabbing a knife in and out, repeatedly as his blood soaked your body. 

He craved, needed you to enact the murder of your husband so you would be more susceptible to accepting his own murderous inclinations before you had even figured out those horrifying tendencies, despite how deeply he wished to end his life now.

As the car turned into the familiar street that Alastor stalked almost daily, his heart began to race; the moment he would finally be face to face with you again would ensue shortly, and the thought of finally being gifted the ability to converse with you, to touch you, had him flushing within the innards of his flesh. 

Despite the fake tone in his voice as he conversed with the despicable man he knew would die soon, along with the facade of a presented smile, Alastor couldn’t help but feel riddled with anxiety; yet another feeling he struggled to experience.

What was it with you and invoking new emotions to erupt from within the depths of his soul?

As the entryway door creaked open, Alastors pupils darted back and forth as he attempted to search for you within the walls of your home.

Walls that were very familiar.

He, admittedly, although not in public, had once or twice creeped himself within the partitions of your home; whilst you and the thing who called himself your husband were not present. He may, or may not have searched the entirety of your home with the two breaches he had conducted; locating every room and facility your home had to offer.

Your husband was definitely well off previously, a fact that was easy to uncover simply by perceiving the modernisation of your home. 

Although he would never verbally admit it, the mere reasoning for Alastor intruding into your home within those two slots was to encounter the lingering scent of you. It was truly a unique smell, one he could not coherently explain, but one that was divine within itself. 

He couldn’t wait to detect your scent again and forever onward.

As he walked into the home alongside Vincent, the older man had yelled your name, calling you over as if you were some pet. 

It aggravated Alastor, having another man even speak your name. The desire to simply sink his fingers into the man's neck, squeezing it with such force until his eyes burst from its sockets doused Alastor.

Yet before the thoughts of just simply throwing his entire plan out of the window and ending the man's life right at this moment, you had rounded the corner, wearing such a revealing and debauched dress that had him biting back a degenerated groan. 

He wasn’t aware you owned something so seductive, and although you looked alluring with whatever you wore, he couldn’t help but admit seeing you in such things brought out cravings of a sexual sense he wasn’t used to at all.

The depths of his psyche couldn’t help but manifest the imagery of the dress descending around your ankles.

You looked shocked to see him, your facial expression maladjusted, yet Alastor could easily perceive the way your hands trembled ever so slightly, the way your eyebrows tilted skyward by barely a millimetre.

Were you frightened of him? 

He hoped the answer was no.

Alastor hadn’t realised how wide his smile had become as he looked at you, as you came closer to him, almost within an arm's reach before the older man beside him began introducing the two of you to one another. He hadn’t missed how your upper lip snarled ever so slightly when your husband referred to you as a doll.

So you didn’t appreciate such a label.

Alastor would make sure he didn’t make the same mistake.

Closing the distance between the two of you, Alastor extended his open palm for you, waiting on your own hand to embrace his, excitement dowsing his nervous system as he waited patiently. His heart felt erratic, unfathomable, as your fingers glazed over his skin. Your skin felt ridiculously soft, like an exotic silk that was only attainable by the richest of the human species. The glossy look in your eyes seemed to glow as he attempted to calm his blood pressure down, and without thinking, he had brought your dorsal to his rugged lips, deliberately marking you with his kiss as he never broke eye contact with you.

“It’s lovely to finally meet you, darling.” He spoke with pure seduction entwined with his tone, subtly hinting towards the previous encounter and the months worth of stalking which was missed by everyone in the room.

The way you had emotionally drawn back as your eyes darted to your husband whilst his lips left your skin before you had referred to him by his last name had him furious.

Why were you looking at Vincent when he was right in front of you?

Why were you calling him by his last name?

He would have to teach you to know better, in a merciful manner.

Correcting your referral of him, Alastor demanded you cite him by his first name; the name he desired deeply to hear seep from your pretty lips, all the while ignoring the anger-induced man behind him on purpose, enforcing a sense of dominance over the man who would soon be revoked of your love.

Sparks of butterflies fluttered throughout his organic architecture as you uttered his name back to him oh so beautifully; the way your lips moved as you spoke every syllable had his body craving to simply tie you down into his bed and keep you there for the rest of eternity. 

Quickly shaking the thoughts out of his mind, he spoke to your husband with the natural stale and disinterested tone his voice enacted in an attempt to alleviate the corrupting thoughts that he refused to overtake him; engaging in the verbal equivalent of a cock fight as he attempted to show you how he could make your husband submit to him, to show you Alastor was in fact the better man.

But when Vincent had brought up the fact that Alastor had approached him first, he couldn’t help but allow his mask to slip ever so slightly.

He did not wish for you to be knowledgeable of such information; Vincent was unintentionally sabotaging his plan.

Bringing back the conversation in his favour, Alastor, in his peripheral vision, witnessed how your expression brightened as your husband submitted to him. 

The thought of making you happy had encased him with a sense of self pride that not even his mother could embed within him; it was as if he was making his wife happy.

In a sense, you were his wife though, weren't you?

You would be, anyway.

Twitching his eye, Alastor grimaced when Vincent had pushed passed him to press his vile fingers into the crevice of your waist, forcing his touch onto the woman that belonged to Alastor; even if it was a fact that Alastor himself only knew, you still were his. 

Despite how vacant your expression remained as the vile man beside you held you close, the way your figure had twitched in discomfort enabled Alastor’s rage to peak in a way that he couldn’t anecdotally relate to; only half of what he was feeling could barely be related to the emotions that he drowned within when witnessing the events of abuse his mother had endured. Yet before he could devolve himself into the depths of a jealousy-induced wrath, you had spoken up, your voice clearing all negative emotions from his organic shell. 

You had brought up the falsification of why he was in your home to begin with: dinner. Diverting the attention all onto yourself, Alastor tried to agree, to be blessed with tasting the divinity of consumable creation you had concocted, but the pig beside you had beat him to it, suggesting that you alone plate the food whilst the two men toured the home.

Not only had Alastor already toured your home on his own accord, but the subtle hint of misogyny that lingered within his words had Alastor rightfully pissed off.

If Alastor was your husband, he would be the one plating food out for you; beyond that, he would be the one to make it for you.

Alastor would never expect you to do a single thing once you were truly his.

Speaking up, Alastor quickly intruded within the conversation, redirecting your husband to, in kinder words, piss off. Linking your arm within his, Alastor pulled you away from your husband, only to hold you where you rightfully belonged, situated right by his side. The sheer emotions of love and sense of utter pride couldn’t be contained as your smaller frame rested oh so closely into his.

He could smell you.

That beautiful smell that only you had.

Despite your unease and tenseness, it was visually and physically apparent that you much preferred being next to Alastor instead of the seething man who was your current husband. And when you had tilted your head so prettily to initiate eye contact between the both of you, Alastor could only shiver in a flush, his expression love-struck as, for the first time, you had truly looked within his eyes.

He didn't want this moment to end.

But you had spoken up, your beautifully toned vocalisation gracing his ears as you essentially begged him to just allow your perfected self to sort out food. 

Fuck.

The way you spoke directly to him, truly perceiving simply him had his heart racing, the organ threatening to jump out of his suit of flesh as you continued to stare, continued to lean, continued to emit that stupidly perfect smell from your body.

You were a little minx, making him feel such things.

Bringing out such emotions out of him.

He should punish you.

Punish you in such a pleasant way.

Before you could pull away, Alastor relieved you of his touch for barely a second before opting to bring you closer; to rub your form against him so he could stain your smell against his clothes. Charismatically, he had somehow managed to influence the subservient man named Vincent into leaving the two of you alone to find the wine hidden within the cellar of the house; even if it would be barely for a few minutes, Alastor was delighted to have you alone.

He wondered how many different things he could do to you within those minutes; how far he could push his boundaries with you before you became uncomfortable. Yet before he could attempt to try, you had questioned him on how he had known where your cellar even was.

So you were more perceptive than you had led on.

But Alastor had his ways, and despite his intense emotions of romanticism towards you, he was not above manipulating you. If it meant you would finally be his, he would throw you into the pits of mental instability, only to join you; although, that would be a last resort scenario. So he did as such, manipulated the situation to ease your mind, to get you away from opening a can of worms you didn’t want to delve into before asking you to drag him into your kitchen, despite him knowing exactly where it was.

With ease, you seemed to accept his answer, only to obey his command as your hand had pulled his own down the hallway, your soft skin caressing his own roughed epidermis as you opened the door to the kitchen. The smell of a ridiculously well-made mixed meat dish clouded the room, invoking Alastor to compliment you, to praise you before asking you what you had made; an answer he already knew. 

It was so lovely to see you alone again, without that wretched husband in the way.

As you responded, downplaying the dish you had made, Alastor couldn’t stop his fingers from tapping against your softened lips as he shushed you from continuing the sentence, correcting your statement before you had both stepped into a soft and rather domestic conversation that had Alastor believing he was in heaven.

He wished to have you beside him every day.

Soon.

Seeing how far he could finally test those boundaries now your husband was out of the immediate vicinity, Alastor stood directly behind you before whispering in your ear. The way your shoulders had jumped ever so slightly had him inwardly groaning, the need to push himself flush against you, just to simply feel you, was becoming too much to handle. The conversation you both engaged in was a huge distraction for him, evading the thoughts of doing rather ungentlemanly-like acts to you that attempted to thread through the weaves of his brain.

As you proportioned your food, he noticed how little your plate contained, and how it lacked a substance of venison; a strange occurrence considering he knew you had eaten red meat before.

Perhaps you simply had a distaste for venison?

But when he had pointed it out, you had specifically lied straight through your teeth and into his face as you spoke false words of not being partial to red meat.

Why did you feel the need to lie?

Why would you lie about such a detail?

It was unnervingly strange for Alastor, having you lie about such a pathetic detail; there must have been a reason for it. But before he could question you further, your husband had returned to the kitchen, his hand grasped around the neck of a bottle of win before placing it against the table.

With disdain, Alastor sneered subtly at the person who was becoming a rather irritating thorn in his side. A thorn that kept preventing Alastor from simply making you his.

Falling into a strange conversation with Vincent, Alastor had noticed the way you had drawn away, the halo of light around you glimmering ever so softly as you seemed to delve into a realm of dissociation, a realm of conscious unconsciousness.

It was difficult, ridiculously difficult for him to enjoy your beautifully made food as your facial structure seemed so vacant, so removed from the realm of reality as you slowly ate your small portioned food. 

He wished to give you some of his own.

He would, if he could.

The whole dinner felt rushed, especially with how Alastor was trying to mentally switch between talking to Vincent, watching you whilst also being swarmed with thoughts about you; a difficult situation he had found himself in. Trying to break the cycle of repeated switching, he had asked you, oh so kindly to come visit him, along with the pig that was your husband, at the radio station; his way to ensuring of seeing you again.

It was incredibly cute how you had needed him to repeat himself, your face seeming almost dazzled as it awakened from his voice directed solely to you. And although he wished for you to be the one to agree to his proposal, your husband had accepted for you.

Annoyed was what Alastor was as Vincent had agreed on your behalf; but on the bright side, at least you would surely come now.

Before he had realised it, your husband had begun hinting at the time, and to ensure his plan could effectively be enacted, he found himself being forced to leave the company of your sweet being as he bid you farewell.

He wished to hold you, to speak sweet words of reassurement into your hair, especially as your facial expression became distressed at the beginning of his exit. He wanted to stay, to steal you away and throw this painfully stupid plan out of the window and just tie you down in his home.

Instead, he turned around, deciding to walk his way home as he needed time to let off steam, to allow all the emotions he had been swarmed with to be processed thoroughly. 

He needed to stick to his plan, to stop the ridiculous thoughts of simply stealing you away.

His plan was a one way ticket to truly winning your heart, because you wouldn’t be able to love him if you knew, if you were aware of his illegal activities of murder.

Not until you had killed your first victim: Vincent.

← 𝙿𝚛𝚎𝚟𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝙲𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚝𝚎𝚛 ✦ 𝙽𝚎𝚡𝚝 𝙲𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚝𝚎𝚛 →

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𝚂𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚖𝚎 𝚜𝚘 𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚃.𝚃 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚎𝚡𝚝 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚊𝚕𝚜𝚘 𝚋𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝙰𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚛'𝚜 𝙿𝙾𝚅 𝚒𝚖 𝚊𝚏𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚍!! 𝙱𝚞𝚝 𝚊𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝, 𝚠𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚏 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚠𝚎 𝚕𝚎𝚏𝚝 𝚘𝚏𝚏! 𝚃𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚔 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐!<𝟹

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[think-before-you-screenshot]

Hi I have Dead Boy Detectives propoganda.

Do you like queerness? Do you like incredibly unhinged women? Do you like slightly hinged and deeply mean women? Do you like butchers? Do you like cats? Do you like the inherent loneliness of ignoring your authentic self because of fear? Do you like breaking cycles of abuse? Do you like learning to be a better person while handling who you used to be? Do you like generational trauma and generational healing? Do you like walruses?

If you answered yes to any of those questions, then you will enjoy this show. It’s got content that’s normally a hard pass for me (namely the endangerment of children and child/doll-themed horror), BUT Neil Gaiman’s shows always get a pass, because of the sheer humanity with which he depicts humanity. Things that would leave me anxious and rattled in anyone else hands, leave me instead feeling seen, connected, and a tiny bit healed when Neil writes them.

Anyway watch Dead Boy Detectives.

[goldengalore]

Ready

An anxious!reader fic.

Summary: Harry wants kids. Y/N isn’t sure what she wants. Feeling pressured to make up her mind, she agrees to something she’s not ready for.

Word count: 3k

Warnings: angst, smut

A/N: Hello! It’s been a while. This fic is based on this ask I received forever ago. Enjoy :)

***

Y/N has always been on the fence about having kids.

As a young teenager, she assumed she would have them when she grew up, fell in love, and got married. Social norms, along with her own childish naivete, made her believe that this was the only path one could take in life. Having children was the next logical step to marriage, which was the next logical step to falling in love.

And then she matured and realized that life is not nearly as cut-and-dry, that having kids is a choice, not a necessity, and that she can absolutely go her whole life without having any if that’s what she wants. This realization came as a relief but also felt somewhat unnerving because how is she supposed to know what she wants? She is quite possibly the most indecisive person on the planet, so it’s no surprise that she has bounced back and forth between wanting and not wanting children throughout her entire adult life.

On one hand, she thinks of her friends who have kids and how their lives have become utterly consumed by the little humans that require their constant care and attention. There is just so much that Y/N wants to experience and achieve before settling into a life like that.

Not to mention the horrors of pregnancy. It’s not exactly a walk in the park, having to carry a human life inside of you for nine months and then give birth to it. The health complications, the irreversible bodily changes, the sheer, agonizing pain of childbirth.

And yet, on some days, she fantasizes about becoming a mother, of holding a tiny life in her arms and nurturing it into a full-grown adult. An important character in these fantasies has always been the sweet, thoughtful, loving partner by her side who takes equal responsibility for their child. This person was always a faceless individual—an idealistic depiction of the kind of partner Y/N hoped to find someday.

And then Harry came along.

Sweet, thoughtful, loving Harry who, unlike her, was always sure of his desire to have kids. For him, it was never a question of whether he wanted them but a question of when.

That moment finally arrived for him a year ago. But Y/N wasn’t sure if she felt ready yet.

“What are you afraid of?” he asked her one day. “I don’t mean that in a judgemental way. Bringing a child into this world is scary for anyone, including myself. I’m just curious to know what your specific concerns are.”

“Well, there’s the usual stuff, like whether or not I’ll be a good mother—”

“You’ll be a phenomenal mother.”

She smiled at him, then continued, “Or whether my kids will be able to have a good future with so much chaos in the world...” She trailed off hesitantly.

“But there’s something else,” he said, gently urging her to share what was really holding her back.

“I… I’ve always been terrified of the idea of having to raise a child alone, either because something bad happens to the father or he leaves out of the blue or we break up and I’m left to take care of this child by myself. I know it sounds ridiculous, but I… I’ve never been able to shake this fear.”

“Doesn’t sound ridiculous to me. I was raised by a single mother, so I know it’s not an easy job.” He reached for her hand and kissed her knuckle, never breaking eye contact. “But I’m not going anywhere, Y/N. You know that, right? We’re in this together. We’re a team, always.”

She nodded. “I know.”

“Well, I’m alright with waiting until you feel ready. I want us both to feel ready before we jump into this.”

In the six months following that conversation, the topic would crop up several more times, like after Harry saw her interacting with his godchildren at a party or they walked past a cute baby in a stroller at the grocery store. Y/N didn’t mind discussing the topic. It gave her a chance to ponder and become more comfortable with the concept of motherhood.

Yesterday, Harry returned home from a month-long movie shoot in Sweden. Y/N surprised him by showing up at the airport. What he doesn’t know is that she has another surprise in store for him.

While he was in Sweden, she decided to go off her birth control and now wants to try for kids.

She plans on telling him later tonight once they get home from their friend’s birthday party. They’ve been all over each other tonight. That’s what being apart for a month does to them. Hell, even a week apart is enough to turn them into a couple of horny teenagers that can’t keep their hands off each other.

“You look so hot in that dress,” Harry whispers in her ear, half-joking because they both know this is his fifth time saying that tonight.

Emboldened by a couple glasses of wine, a tipsy Y/N whispers back, “I want you to put a baby in me.”

His eyes widen. He chuckles. “That wine bringing out your wild side?”

“I’m serious,” she states, glancing around to double check that no one is within earshot of their conversation. “I went off my birth control a month ago, after you left for Sweden.”

He stares at her blankly, like her words haven’t quite sunk in.

“H, I’m ready to do this.”

“Really?”

She smiles. “Yes.”

“We’re doing this,” he says as it finally sinks in. He kisses her wine-stained lips. “Let’s get out of here, yeah?”

“Yes, please.”

Y/N can hardly keep her composure on the way home. Harry appears to be in the same boat, as he keeps sneaking glances at her while driving, his hand caressing her thigh. While he’s always been a responsible driver, she can sense the impatience in his maneuvers tonight.

Once they’re home, it’s almost a race to the bedroom. Harry gently pushes her onto the bed and climbs on top of her.

“Do you have any idea how hard it’s been to watch you walk around in this dress tonight”—he runs a hand down her front—“and not be able to bend you over and just slip my cock into you?”

She moans as he cups her pussy through her dress with a firm hand. He lets her grind against it for a minute before pulling away to take off his clothes. She follows suit.

Soon, they’re back on the bed, sharing another series of ardent kisses. By the time he goes down on her, she’s already dripping wet and he licks it up as if he hasn’t had a drop of water in days. Her hips grind against his tongue like they did against his hand just a moment ago. It doesn’t take her long to orgasm.

He shifts up the bed to hover over her body. He kisses her again while lining up his cock with her entrance. As he slides into her, she feels a slight discomfort from being stretched open for the first time in a month. He pulls out and pushes in a little deeper each time to let her adjust until he fills her up completely and she’s too immersed in pleasure to have a single coherent thought anymore.

“Fuck, you feel incredible,” he says, starting to pump in and out. “Gonna come inside you, yeah? Gonna come deep inside your tight little cunt and fill you up, put a baby in you. Is that what you want?”

Those words flip a switch in Y/N’s mind. She makes an involuntary noise that makes it seem like she’s agreeing with him, so he picks up his pace. Just as he finishes inside her, the terrible realization dawns: She is not ready to have a baby. Not at all.

“I love you,” Harry whispers in her ear, his body resting flush against hers as he comes down from his high.

Tears spring to Y/N’s eyes as she realizes what she’s done, what they’ve just done. When she doesn’t reciprocate his statement, he lifts his head to look at her. A tear escapes her left eye at that exact moment.

Concern furrows his brow. “Lovie? Hey, what’s wrong?”

She just shakes her head while staring at the ceiling.

“Y/N.” He caresses her cheek, urging her to look at him. “What’s the matter? Are you hurt? Did I go too—”

“We shouldn’t have done this. It was a mistake,” she says in a trembling voice.

“What are you talking about?”

She tries to sit up. Harry moves out of her way.

“I’m not ready, H. I’m not ready to have a baby.”

His face falls. “I— But— Then why did you say you were ready?”

“I don’t know… To make you happy?” She covers her face and hears him sigh heavily.

“Y/N, you can’t— You can’t lie about things like that just to make me happy. It’s not like we were deciding what to have for dinner. We’re talking about having a baby, for Christ’s sake.”

“I know that. Of course I know that. But I just— I see the disappointment in your face every time we talk about this, every time I tell you I’m not ready. You seem so sad, Harry. I hate it.”

“Well, I’m sorry I’m not able to hide my emotions as well as I thought I could. That still doesn’t mean you should lie to please me. I thought we were past foolish antics like this.”

She squints at him. “Foolish antics?”

He sighs again. “I didn’t mean it like—”

She turns away from him and gets off the bed.

“Y/N.”

She shuts herself in the bathroom. For a brief moment, a part of her resents him. Resents him for being ready to have kids before she was. For bringing it up so often. For making her feel as though she needed to lie about being ready just to make him happy.

But now, as she stares at her teary-eyed reflection in the mirror, she knows she has to take responsibility. She is the one who led him to believe that she was ready when deep down, she knew she wasn’t. He never once pressured her to make up her mind or acted like he loved her any less for not wanting kids yet. He never made her feel any type of way about it. He has done nothing but be the supportive, understanding partner he’s always been. It was her who doubted that. She let her own paranoia get to her.

Knock, knock, knock.

“Y/N? Can I come in?”

A few moments later, he knocks again.

“Please, lovie? I’m getting worried.”

Finally, she opens the door. He takes in her red, puffy eyes and tentatively places his arms around her, only pulling her in when she steps into his embrace.

They stand there silently until he says, “Why don’t we head over to the pharmacy and get you a morning after pill?”

She agrees, so they get dressed and head out. The ride to the pharmacy is a quiet one. Every time she glances at Harry, his eyes are focused on the road, both hands gripping the steering wheel, and he appears deep in thought. It’s the complete opposite of their ride home from the party, when he could hardly keep his hands or his eyes off her. She tries to think of ways to break the silence, but nothing feels appropriate. The last time she felt so awkward and unsure about what to say around Harry was when they first started going out and she was terrified of saying the wrong thing.

When they get back from the pharmacy, she swallows down the pill with some water and they head back to bed.

***

Y/N: Hey H, you on your way home? Hope you’re hungry, I made your favourite for dinner 😊

H: I have a business dinner tonight. Mentioned it this morning

Y/N: Oh! Sorry I forgot about that. I’ll save some in the fridge for you for tomorrow

H: Sure, thanks

Y/N stares at the message. She can’t tell if she’s reading into things or if Harry’s replies really are as dry and aloof as they sound. Her propensity to overanalyze everything makes it difficult to know. Ever since the incident in the bedroom a few days ago, it feels as though Harry has been avoiding her. Spending long days at the studio, coming home late at night when he knows she’ll be asleep, giving short replies, taking longer to text back. They haven’t had sex again since then either.

After scrutinizing their text conversation for twenty minutes, she comes to her senses and realizes that she can’t keep going on like this. It’s driving her crazy. What she needs to do is talk to him. But he’ll most likely be tired when he gets home.

At first, she thinks she’ll sit him down tomorrow morning and talk it out. But when he walks through the front door just after eleven o’clock that night, she can’t help herself.

She stands in the kitchen, leaning against the counter with a cup of tea, when he enters. The dark circles under his eyes are noticeable. He has been willing to sacrifice his sleep just to avoid being around her any longer than he has to. Her chest constricts.

“Hey,” he says, placing his phone and keys on the counter. “You’re still up.”

“Can’t sleep.” She stares down into her half-empty mug, the remainder of the tea quickly growing cold.

“How come?”

“I can’t stop thinking.”

“About…?”

She swallows the lump in her throat and looks up at him. “About whether or not you’re upset with me and how I can fix it.”

He frowns. “Why would I be upset with you?”

“Because of what happened a few nights ago.”

His frown dissolves into something different—sympathy? Guilt?

“Y/N, I’m not upset with you about that.”

“Are you sure? Because it seems like it. You’re gone before I’m even awake and you come home when I’m going to bed. We’ve barely talked or kissed or cuddled in the past few days. I know you haven’t been that busy since you got back from Sweden, so… I don’t really see any other explanation.”

He stares at her wordlessly for a long time before speaking. “You’re right. I have been avoiding you. But it’s not because I’m upset with you. It’s because I’m upset with myself. I feel like I pressured you into doing something you obviously weren’t comfortable with. I never saw myself as someone who pressures people into doing things they don’t want to do. So, I suppose I’ve been feeling some shame and guilt about it… and then avoiding you because it’s hard to face these feelings.”

Y/N sets her tea on the counter. She never could’ve guessed that Harry felt this way. She was so convinced that he was mad at her, it didn’t even occur to her that he might just be feeling guilty about it all. After how long she has known him, it should have been obvious that the latter is more consistent with his character, but her anxious brain wouldn’t even let her consider that possibility. She walks over and wraps her arms around him.

“H, I had no idea you felt that way.”

He squeezes her tightly, resting his chin on her head. She turns her head to the side so that her cheek is against his chest.

“To be honest, there were times I felt pressured when the topic of kids came up,” she says. “But a lot of that pressure was created by my own fears and insecurities. I just hated disappointing you over and over. I was scared your feelings about me, about us, would change if I kept saying I wasn’t ready.”

“This hasn’t changed how I feel about you or us. Y/N, I want you more than I want kids. Way more. If you decided one day that you don’t want them at all, that still wouldn’t change how I feel about you.”

She pulls back to look at him. “Are you sure? That’s a dealbreaker for a lot of people.”

“Well, not for me. Not when it comes to you. I love you.”

“I love you too.”

Suddenly, he lifts her up onto the counter and stands between her legs.

“So. What did you get up to today?” he asks, planting a kiss to her collarbone.

She rests her hands on his chest. “Hmm, what did I get up to? I hardly remember anything other than obsessing over this whole situation.” She laughs.

“Aw, lovie, I’m sorry I had you all stressed out.”

“It’s okay.”

“Maybe I can make it up to you. Help you relieve all that stress.” He peppers kisses along the side of her neck and jaw.

She sighs softly and closes her eyes. “I would like that.”

***

Thank you for reading! For more anxious!reader and other fics, check out my MASTERLIST

[confused-wanderer]

I know we all talk about Jason finding out Dick killed the Joker from Tim or one of the other batfam members, but what if:

One day he’s searching for blackmail material on a member just for fun and knows Damian keeps a list of all of them so he backs into the files and realised the folder with the heaviest inscription to unlock is one labelled “Contingencies”.

He opens it to find every single person in their family is on there and starts surfing through them. When he sees Tim’s he freezes, mentally filing away some horrific details for checking up on him later, Jason’s list is impressive but not much he didn’t expect…still concerned how he got the evidence though.

His fingers hesitate over Batman’s, and after thinking screw it what the hell clicks on it just to realise most of them are psychological, and had to do with Jason. One video showed Bruce as Jason remembered him from his robin days. He was pacing furiously in the Manor, tugging on his pocket square which for him was a high level of distress, before he went upstairs - to Jason’s room when he stayed there - and looked in. The change was sudden, Bruce’s shoulders sagged and his face grew into one of fondness, one he’d rarely seen before.

“I cant help it Alfred.. Scarecrow’s toxin.. I KNOW it isn’t real but.. I can’t stop thinking about it. What if -“ and Jason can’t really believe his ears, that was a fucking quiver in his voice- “What if one day it comes true?” “What was your worst fear Master Bruce?”.

“Jason..” and Jason flinches. “I.. I saw him die, and I was powerless. I cant lose him Alfred. I just cant.”

The recording ends, and it takes a while for Jason to realise he can’t breathe. He sends the file to himself and laughs bitterly, remembering what the fear toxin had shown him. Lucifer. It had shown him falling from Bruce’s grace, being his greatest disappointment. “Guess we both failed each other didnt we old man?”

After what feels like forever, when he can feel his fingers stop shaking his eyes drift over to Dicks.

Damian sure does adore him, wonder what the brats got in store for him.

Most of them were things he was sure Dick could handle, until a glitched file appeared which read “for EXTREME situations only.”

When he heard Joker laugh, Jason could’ve sworn he was in the cave. “Hello there old friend! Aww why the long face?”

Dick wasn’t facing the camera, but the sheer aura of destruction radiating off of him was enough for Jason to know Joker was in danger. Judging by his outfit and well- hair- this must’ve been years ago.

“Didn’t you like my..ah.. gift? It was quite the blast I hear!”

Dicks fists clenched. His usual smile was gone, replaced by a hatred so vile it could’ve rivalled batman’s glare. It was so odd.. seeing him so pissed.

“Well that’s what happens.. when birds get hit. They never see what’s right in front of them and then BAM!”

As his laughter rang out Jason heard Dick whisper something. It was so soft, quieter than he’d ever heard him and he found himself leaning forward.

“What’s that? How long he lasted? Well I counted everytime he screamed when I broke his bones so-“

“SHUT. THE. FUCK. UP!”

Jason stumbled back, nearly falling to the floor himself. Dicks voice was thundering, echoing across the cave.

What the hell had happened? Why was Dick so mad? Why wasn’t he smiling?

“You..killed him.”

And that’s when it hit Jason. Oh. This was after he’d died.

The joker was trying to say something, but Jason couldn’t hear him. All he could focus on was how Dick was behaving, how he was walking upto Joker. Jason had seen that before.

The intent to kill.

SLAM

The fight was brutal, and blood flew everywhere, mixed with the laughter and cries of the Joker while Dick yelled, YELLED so loudly he could’ve sworn the cave was shaking before the sound of a wet snap ricocheted and Dick went limp.

No.. no no no no.

He watched in horror as Dick stood up, drenched in blood and heaving. Dick had gone- no BEATEN- the joker for Jason.

But the longer he looked, the more he felt the Lazarus pit burning inside him.

The joker wasn’t moving.

Dick walked away, and in the shadows, with bloody fists and face of hatred could not see him as the Dick he knew.

“Dead.”

He looked up to hear Dick whisper to the thundering sky outside.

“I killed him Jason. The joker is dead. Rest in peace little wing.”

Jason’s feet gave out under him, and he crashed to the ground gasping for breath.

Never in his wildest dreams had he thought he had been avenged.

Never did he even think that Dick had only killed once… and only for him.

Part two of related series where Jason finds out Bruce nearly killed the Joker:

[spicybunni]

GENTLE (Xenomorph x reader)

A/N : It makes me happy a lot people matched my freak with my alien fanart!! i wrote a little Romulus drabble if Y/N was the one who was caught instead of Rain. I hope you enjoy!

⚠️ WARNINGS: ALIEN ROMULUS SPOILERS / SFW / VIOLENCE / FALLING / ALIEN

You were so close. Rain's finger were nearly within reach, the zero gravity almost putting you in the perfect position. Andy was holding onto her with one hand while the other gripped the ladder. You didn't want to think about how many floors up you were, just focusing on your hand reaching as far as you could to your remaining friends.

"Come on Y/N, almost there...reach!!" She pleaded with you, as if you could control the situation any better than she could.

But alas, the sudden alarm of gravity came back to you. You could see Rain's eyes widen in horror as your fingers finally brush hers, only to descend downwards with the rest of your body. Andy grips her shirt tighter as she falls against him, using his strength to hold himself and Rain against wall ladder.

"Y/N!!!" She screams as she watches you fall. The balance of having no gravity to having all the pressures of falling to your death make you scream down the elevator shaft. Of course it was all happening too quickly, but you know at this point you should accept death. At least Rain and Andy would make it. At least someone was going to make it to the sanctuary planet away from Jackson's dangerous mines. You watch as the floor levels pass you by, making you dizzy with thoughts of impact on the final floor.

Unfortunately, you would meet no quick fate.

A sudden blur of black passes your vision, the creature, holding onto the walls. Lacking any breath to gasp or scream at the sight, the remaining is knocked out of you as a slithering tail curves around your back, breaking you fall, and wrapping around your torso. It's sharp end makes a careful move to wrap around and not poke you. The ridges of it's tail feel uncomfortable against your back and stomach, making you arch as it holds you mid air.

You peer up to see the xenomorph looking down at you, as if to see that you're alright. You let out a whimper as it hisses at you. And before you could process anything else, it lifts you. Without any effort it brings you to the opposite side of the wall, gently settling you near an emergency ladder. You grab hold, but it's tail tightens around you, keeping you in place as it adjusts itself to come to you. Quick breaths are all you can produce, knowing it can't speak your language, knowing it just wants to kill you or use your body for some sick incubation. You start to cry and it's head leans down, almost as a horse would. It lets out a few hisses as it regards you. A spider like hand reaches for you, grabbing your jaw as gentle as it could for a space alien. Turning your head from side to side. Your form was shaking uncontrollably, helpless at the creatures mercy and too scared to do anything in fear of angering it.

The xenomorph was more than pissed at this point. It's hosts it's produced so far have not been suitable for the parasites to incubate offspring into. It's failed too many times to let even one of the remaining healthy hosts to just fall to their death. It would have impaled you with it's tail. But it needed you unbroken, alive. The creature inspected you for any injuries it might've caused or that you had done to yourself. Again, it needs you to be healthy. It was going to reserve you for a queen parasite. That way this pack had a hive leader, a queen Xenomorph.

It's tail drops from your waist as it's hands reach out you, grabbing and lifting you over it's shoulder. You passed out from sheer terror and exhaustion. It seemed pleased that your body went limp, you were making it all the more easier to take you to the hive....