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kvnstwerk · 4 months ago

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Uninvited Pt. 2

Part 1

Pairing: Dark!Rick Grimes x !Neighbour! Reader

Summary: After confronting your stalker backfired, you decided to avoid him completely. Of course, that never works—he always finds a way to be near you. After all, you're his greatest obsession.

Warnings: Age Gap, Humiliation, Mind Games, Stalking, Swearing, Non Con, Somnophilia, Smut, Oral Recieving (F.), Fingering, Manipulation, Obsessive Behaviour, Corruption, Rick being creepy again

You had confronted him, hadn’t you? Told him to back off, demanded answers, and tried to make it clear that his constant presence was unwelcome.

But Rick simply didn’t care. In fact, he almost seemed relieved that his obsession with you was no longer a secret. He started to enjoy it—the way you’d flinch when his gaze locked onto yours, the way your angelic eyes widened in fear when you made eye contact. The way your breathing grew shallow when you noticed him standing just behind you.

It was unsettling, the way he took pleasure in your discomfort. He wasn’t even trying to hide it anymore, and that made it all the more chilling. He didn’t care if you were uncomfortable. In fact, it seemed like it was exactly what he wanted—to watch you squirm.

Of course, you had thought about going to someone—anyone—but who? Daryl? He’d never question Rick’s intentions, not after everything they’d been through. Aaron? Maybe, but you weren’t sure he’d understand either. Besides, they all trusted Rick, and once they knew you were accusing him of something, they might not look at you the same way again.

And even if you did speak up, who would believe you? Rick was Rick Grimes, the man who had led them through hell and back. You were just another survivor, a small part of the larger picture. If you told anyone about the way he’d been watching you, you’d be seen as paranoid. The leader wouldn’t be the one scrutinized; you would be.

So, you did what seemed the most logical thing to you—you avoided him.

But the world doesn’t always cooperate with plans to avoid trouble, especially when life in Alexandria has a way of pushing people together.

That evening, you received the invitation with the rest of the group—a community tradition, a monthly grill fest where everyone gathered to unwind, share food, and pretend for a few hours that the world outside didn’t exist. You had attended these events before, but now the idea of being in the same space as Rick made your stomach twist into knots.

You weren’t going to attend. You wanted nothing more than to back out. But you’d just been on a supply run that morning, and you couldn’t come up with another excuse without raising suspicions. People had already noticed the way you’d been avoiding Rick, pulling away at every opportunity. If you skipped out on the grill fest now, someone might ask why, and you couldn’t risk drawing more attention to yourself.

So, you went to the celebration. This time, it was being held at Martha and Ben’s house. The couple were good friends of yours, and you’d arrived in Alexandria together. They had welcomed you both with open arms when you first joined the community, and their friendship had been one of the few things that made the transition easier. There had been nights spent at their house, swapping stories about the old world and laughing like things would never change. Martha and Ben were a steady presence in a world that felt anything but, and right now, you needed that steadiness more than ever.

As you stepped into their home, the familiar warmth washed over you—the smell of grilled food and the sound of light chatter in the background. The atmosphere was relaxed, people scattered around the room, laughing, enjoying the rare peace that had become more precious than ever. But as you walked further in, your eyes immediately found him. Rick. He stood near the kitchen, talking with a few others, but as soon as he noticed you, his eyes locked onto yours. The intensity of his gaze made your stomach drop.

You swallowed hard, trying to ignore the unsettling pull in your chest. It was impossible not to notice how his expression shifted, that familiar look of satisfaction settling on his face. He didn’t even try to hide it. You knew he wasn’t just watching you out of casual curiosity—he was watching you like a hunter watches its prey.

“Hey, there you are,” Martha said, her voice bringing you back to the present. She smiled warmly, pulling you into a hug. “Glad you could make it. Everything’s been great so far. The food’s almost ready, but come on, have a seat.”

You gave her a tight smile and nodded, feeling the tightness in your chest grow with every step you took. You tried to breathe deeply to calm yourself, but you couldn't shake the feeling that Rick's eyes were glued to you, following your every move.

Just as you were about to take a seat, Rick walked over, his heavy footsteps cutting through the room. Before you could react, he was standing right in front of you. His gaze flickered briefly to Martha and Ben before locking back onto you. The smile he wore was almost too calm, too controlled.

“Mind if I talk to you for a minute, Y/n?” he asked, his voice low, but loud enough to be heard by everyone. It wasn’t a question, not really.

Martha and Ben exchanged a quick glance, but neither of them seemed to notice the tension between you and Rick. They smiled politely, unaware of the storm brewing between you two.

“Oh, sure,” Martha said with a casual wave. “We’ll grab drinks. You two catch up.”

You barely heard them as they moved away, leaving you alone with Rick. The last thing you wanted was to be alone with him, to have him corner you in front of everyone. You could feel the heat of his stare, that unsettling satisfaction in his eyes as if he was savoring every moment of discomfort he was putting you through.

“Rick, I—” You started, trying to find the words to shut him down before this went any further.

But he didn’t let you finish. “I know you’re scared of me,” he said, his voice softer now, almost like a confession. “But I want you to understand, I’m not going anywhere. You can’t avoid me forever.”

Your heart began to race, a mix of fear and frustration bubbling up inside you. “This is not the time, Rick,” you said through clenched teeth, trying to keep your voice steady. “Not here, not now.”

He smiled, almost too knowingly, and for a moment, you wondered if anyone could see through his mask. “Oh angel, I think it’s exactly the right time,” he said. “But don’t worry, we’ll get to that later.”

His words sent a chill through you, the way he spoke them—so confident, so certain—like he already knew what would happen next. You could feel his presence pressing against you, daring you to react, daring you to show just how much you wanted to escape.

Before you could respond, Ben called from across the room, pulling Rick’s attention away for just a second. “Hey, Rick! You want a drink?”

Rick looked over, nodding briefly, but his eyes never left you. “I’ll be right back,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper, the last part just for you.

You managed to keep yourself together for the rest of the night, focusing on the conversations around you and the warmth of the community. There were moments when you genuinely found yourself laughing, talking with people you hadn’t seen in a while, and for a brief moment, you almost felt normal again. When the evening finally came to a close, Spencer walked you home, offering light conversation to ease the quiet of the night. His company, as always, was comforting.

As you reached your house, you thanked him for walking you back and exchanged a few final words before heading inside. The quiet of your home wrapped around you like a soft blanket, providing a sense of peace, though it didn't quite erase the tension you carried.

It took longer than usual to settle down. Your mind raced through the events of the evening, the faces, the conversations, and everything in between. It felt like your body wanted to keep moving, but the weight of the day gradually began to take over. Eventually, exhaustion won, and sleep found you.

Now, the moment had finally come. Rick was already lurking in the shadows of your house when you arrived with Spencer, but Spencer had long since disappeared, leaving you deeply asleep. Rick’s hatred for Spencer was evident—he loathed him, every fiber of his being burning with contempt. But beneath that anger, there was something else. It was clear how much he wanted you, his eyes practically igniting with desire. Spencer, in Rick’s eyes, was like a dog—desperate and fucking pathetic, constantly chasing after you for a scrap of attention. He was like a little boy, fumbling, eager, but completely incapable of giving you what you needed. His pursuit was clumsy and unrefined, a never-ending attempt to win affection in a way that was meaningless. That bastard was the dog begging for scraps, while Rick was the predator, knowing exactly what you wanted, and biding his time to claim what he felt was rightfully his.

The tension in the room hung heavy and for a moment, he just stood above you, watching his angel peacefully rest. He found you so gorgeous, it was almost maddening. The way you slept so innocently, unaware of the chaos simmering just a breath away from you, only fueled his obsession. His heart raced as his gaze lingered on you.

He thought back to the previous evening at the celebration.

You had looked so incredibly ravishing in that sundress, with it’s little slit on the side that revealed your long, tanned legs. He wanted nothing more than to get on his knees in front of you and kiss his way up them to lap at your fucking cunt.

You were his goddess, and he was the desperate man, praying to you every day and night, completely at your mercy. How could you be so oblivious, so unaware of the hold you had on him? Every part of him ached for you, yet it seemed like you remained untouched by the intensity of his feelings.

Your sleeping form stirred slightly, and the blanket that had been draped over you slid down. Rick noticed it then, and he couldn’t believe his eyes.

His naughty angel wasn’t wearing any panties. From his spot in front of your bed, the older man had a perfect view of your, now exposed, lush cunt. "Oh Y/n, what a perfect little slut you are...practically begging to wake up with my dick stuffed inside of that pretty pussy.“, he darkly chuckled, even though you wouldn’t hear him.

You had only worn a oversized shirt to bed. And in this instant the man wanted to rip it from your body to leave you completely bare for him.

He just had to have you now, it couldn’t wait for another time. His cock was already rock hard and straining against his jeans. It was beginning to get uncomfortable and he had to do something about it.

Slowly, to not risk waking you, Rick removed the blanket completely.

Gently, he slid his index finger against the curve of your leg and observed as a layer of goosebumps formed there.

You were utterly captivating, and even in your slumber, he couldn’t stop himself from fixating on every detail of you, consumed by a craving he knew he couldn’t shake.

Then Rick spread your legs further apart, so that he could settle in between them.

He was amazed at the softness of your skin and it made him want to bite into the creamy texture and mark it.

Now he was face-to-face with your already glistening lips. My god, where you always this wet?

The man pushed your shirt up and looked down at your sleeping form. That soft, flat, beautiful belly…he wanted to pump you full with his seed and watch it grow as you had no choice but to give him babies. The thought of you, knocked up and unable to think of anything but him, made him even harder. Never in his life had Rick ever been this desperate for a woman.

He started trailing hot, wet kisses from your lower abdomen, to your left hipbone and then over to your right one.

The man took his time, knowing that you weren’t going anywhere. Slowly, he started getting closer and closer to your center. He took in your smell, it was captivating. Musky-sweet, just completely mouth watering. Rick felt like a starved man now, you were the oasis in the middle of the desert and only you could save him from dying. He pulled apart your pussy lips, hungrily eyed your swollen clit and gave it a kiss. He started licking up and down along your slit, trying to collect all the juice that was suddenly gushing out of your needy hole. You tasted exquisite, even better than he had expected in his wettest dreams. Rick moved to your pearl now, taking it between his teeth, lightly pulling on it. You stirred and a small noise escaped your now open mouth. It was almost like a moan. Rick stilled and waited for the right moment to continue his feast. Slowly he started lapping at you again, entering you with his tongue. He became more aggressive with it, not being able to hold back anymore, when he heard another moan coming from you.

Now it was clear, you were a fucking horny slut and very clearly enjoying this. Rick didn’t care anymore, he wanted you to see who was responsible for making you feel this good. He continued to tongue at your sensitive cunt and almost buried his face in it, the little whimpers coming out of the woman beneath him only encouraging him more and more.

Then he heard it, your angelic, soft voice,"R-Rick?“, you sounded sleepy, not entirely comprehending what was going on. "What are you…ughhh..doing?“

He chuckled huskily, "Shh Baby, just relax and let it happen. Be still for me now.“

You tried to scoot away, but the man gave your cunt a sharp stinging slap and immediately gripped your thighs, making you unable to move. His touch was hard now and his hands would surely leave marks, that would last for the entire week. You were scared, but that was always how you felt whenever Rick Grimes was close.

You felt another sensation that you couldn’t quite place, almost like you were actually enjoying this here. But no…that couldn’t be right. This man was clearly deranged and sick in the head. You despised him. You shouldn’t and couldn’t like what he was doing to you right now. "P-Please, let me go.“, you pleaded with him, almost whimpering. A tear escaped from your eye and he stopped licking your pussy, instead using his fingers to rub you. He got closer to your face while still using his hand on you as he slowly licked the tears from your cheeks. He got even closer, his hot breath on your neck now, "Crying won’t help you, little Angel. S’only turns me on more.“, he whispered.

Then, Rick started pushing two of his long, thick digits inside of your pussy. "Fuuuck Y/n, you are dripping for me.“, he gushed. You couldn’t deny it, it felt so good and so different from the sensation of your much smaller fingers. A part of you felt disgusted by the way you were enjoying this but you felt so close now. "I-I hate you, Rick!“, you spat, not willing to admit out loud, that you did not want him to stop pleasing you. "You sure do, Baby. But what if I love, how much you hate me.“, he said with a laugh,"Tell me to stop and I will.“

But you didn’t. It was too late already.

You let him abuse your tight hole, now using three fingers on you while rubbing your clit with his other hand. He thrusted in and out of you, relentlessly. And then you came, hard.

It felt like nothing you’ve ever felt before and your whole body was shaking uncontrollably. For a second you just lay there, feeling like someone had just pulled the plug.

Before you had a chance to completely calm down from the high, Rick instructed,“Open your mouth.“ He stuck his thick fingers, still covered in your release, inside your awaiting mouth. He pushed them in so deep, that you started to gag on them, almost choking. Then you started sucking eagerly, making obscene, lewd slurping noises. "Oh, you are going to be the death of me, my sweet little baby.“, Rick groaned huskily.

Slowly, the man took your jaw into his hand and turned your face back to his. He just stared into your eyes for a moment, gradually your lips moved towards another and then they met. His were still a bit wet from what had happened just minutes ago. You expected the kiss to be messy and wild, fuelled by hatred or you both trying to fight for dominance. But it was surprisingly soft. Rick kissed you with such care, handling you like you were made of glass, a stark contrast to his usual roughness.

It left you wondering if he felt guilty about what had just unfolded between the two of you. You were much younger than him and still so inexperienced.

What you didn’t know is that those traits were what had pulled Rick into a trance, you were a small doll, easy to break.

And he was not done until he had shattered you completely.

I just finished reading Haunting Adeline, and with the series focusing on Zade Meadows, I couldn't help but notice the lack of dark Rick fanfics out there. So, I decided to share mine! I hope you all enjoy it. Have a great weekend!

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lynnie-s3all · 3 months ago

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If your requests are still open, could I request some Survivor!reader x John Doe headcanons(angst).

Reader used to know John before he became heavily corrupted. Now reader just feels disgusted about what happend to John.

i was bawling my eyes out over one song by conan gray, i had to make a small drabble out of this shit.

Ofc the one i wrote might be a lil bit of you having a crush on John, probably.

The cut that always bleeds.

I made the doodle... ITS UGLY OKAY-

You we're one of his friend, the closest one of all. Even though had a crush on him, but you never confessed it, you just kept it a secret. You've been through his days talking, hanging out, and even joining in to celebrate his wedding with his new wife.

It was fun while it lasted. But the sudden feeling that you had to do something about that feeling had left you and you weren't sure what to do. You still talked and hung around, but now when he'd look over and smile at you your heart would race. You wanted more, and not just from him, but also for him to return some of the feelings. You knew that you couldn't tell him how you felt, but it might be the best to leave that feeling alone.

Now, the feeling of it is just gone. You were stuck inside a world, with several survivors trying to defend themselves from the killer. You don't know who it was, then it started to scratch you. It hurts. You can feel your blood flowing into your veins. The pain is too much for you, and yet you try to keep going. You ran away from that certain killer, unable to look who it was, because your vision was blurry. Thankfully, there was a medkit. You got it, and bandaged up your arm. It felt numb after you put them on, but it wasn't bleeding anymore.

You went up to Elliot, who was dead worried about the others, but he was relieved to found you and you stayed by his side. You glanced at the killer, realizing that it was not what you think it is. It's your friend, John Doe. But why was he doing this? Why did he have to kill so many people? Your thoughts are running wild, and it takes everything inside of you to just keep breathing. You don't want to die by the hands of his.

Elliot was looking at you and saw your state. He grabbed your hand and led you somewhere safe, but you stayed there. Just looking at your only friend who's trying to murder your other friends. "Why?" You ask with tears streaming down your face.

You felt disgusted. You don't think he even remembers you anymore, the fact that he hit you with his claws and made you bleed. He looks at you with blank eyes and said nothing. You thought he was going to kill you, but he didn't. He knew that inside of his mind, you looked similar to someone he knows. Then, he turned away from you to kill the others.

You were devastated. You knew he wouldn't remember you, and you thought maybe, maybe if you were there to help him, but now he's corrupted. You felt helpless. It was like your friend was trying to kill himself and the only person who could stop him was gone. You wanted to help him, but you had no idea what you could do. You wanted to help him, but he wouldn't even allow you to approach him.

Elliot was still beside you, and you kneel down on the patch of grass, just hugging him out for some comfort. He wrapped his arms around you and you both just sat there holding each other. He doesn't say anything else. It was enough for you. Both of you waited until the timer runs out.

Legit the whole round Elliot was comforting you.

#forsaken x reader #roblox #forsaken #007n7 forsaken #forsaken c00lkidd #c00lkidd #1x1x1x1 #art #sketch #chance forsaken #forsaken john doe #john doe forsaken #john doe x reader #forsaken chance

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1x1x1x1x1x1x1x1 · 17 days ago

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HII, could you do reader x killers where reader is the oldest killers? like when they got teleported into the cabin by the spectre everybody already knew them lol

((edit: this is an older post so the characters are defo OOC since i didnt know how to write for them that well,,,,,just putting this out there))

AHH THIS IS SUCH A NICE REQUEST TO START OFF!!

REQUESTS ARE OPEN!!

ty anon and i hope you enjoy!! reader is gender neutral

possibly OOC!!

Forsaken Killers x Older!Killer!Reader

1x1x1x1

oooh they know YOU alright

you were kind of a idol to them (before his corruption) for a while actually,

now that you were here?? it was certaintly something!

She tries more doing rounds, trying to impress you in a way. (even though you arent always watching) Just trying to make a good image of himself

Once when a round ended, and they were teleported back to the cabin, she saw you watching the tv with others!! Cheering him on. That made him feel the hatred that she always feels burn down just a bit. Not for long tho.

John Doe

yeesh, tough one

His corruption is basically making him a wild animal, yet you treat him like a normal human (compared to the others, at least)

He definetly feels the fondness, yet his mind twists it out to be something comepletly unrelated

When he DOES figure out what hes feeling, its not really for long.

He will forget about it tomorrow, anyways.

Jason

He does enjoy your presence around him, (even if he doesnt show it)

Definetly looks up to you in a way

and his mother speaks good about you! you must be worth his time then right?

Youre also one of the only folks that sits down and tries talking to him AND understands him, it just makes it way more easier

Noli

this guy DOES NOT shut up does he?

probably a lot of contrast, since hes one of the most immature killers while youre the opposite

he will definetly go out of his way to annoy you, play random sound effects, quote random shit when hes around (that he KNOWS you wont understand)

once when he got particularlly annoying and you had enough, you grabbed him by the neck and told him something along the lines of 'shut the fuck up.'

THAT made him lose it over you

Even though he got a bit of less annoying day after day, he still messed with you. Now trying to get closer to you each time.

C00lkidd (PLANTONIC!!)

he sees you kind of as a grandparent actually

he probably spends the most time with you in the cabin, either bothering you or begging you to play some game with him (this will either be tic tac toe or tag, no inbetween)

he definetly shows you all of his drawings! you manage to be in almost every one of them, along with some burger guy.

loves watching you on the TV as you chase the survivors, he hopes he can be as c00l as you one day!

extra!!

Mafioso

He enjoys your presence.

When you first showed up, he was quite skeptical about you, doing some glares, making sure you wont pull anything stupid. But after a while, he realized youre the only other -kind of- sane person here, it does get quite lonely.

He did ask Eunoia if you were in any debt, but you seemed pretty clear of it all

He enjoys spectating you on the TV, cant help but be impressed by your abillities.

He will realize his feelings for you quicker, and not be an absolute idiot about it, courting and other stuff DOES come into the picture, just later on.

hope you enjoyed!!

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clanwarrior-tumbly · 22 days ago

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I see forsaken...here's one!! Characters of your choosing (survivor and killers are fine) with a reader who has an "identity switch"? Idk if they're in other asym horror games but identity switches are from identity v and basically mean that the character is both a killer and survivor...as far as I know there's not a whole lot if lore on identity switches :p I just thibk it'd be juicy drama when one of your allies just starts hunting you down one day and the next they're doing machines like nothing ever happened

Ohh yeah I can just imagine the angst/drama that would come with it! I'll just do 3 survivors

..........

Noob

Before being forsaken, your identity varied between a normal-looking survivor and a monstrous hunter/killer, the latter of which you vowed to never use again unless it was a matter of life or death.

The Spectre found you to be particularly intriguing, deciding to let you keep that role with merely a small change:

You'd forget your previous identity whenever you switched between survivor/killer....which was just about every other round.

Unfortunately you wouldn't realize this until much later, after meeting Noob and befriending them and the others.

Their spirits seemed down lately, but within your first few conversations with them, you got them to smile and even laugh a little--and for a moment, everything seemed okay...

Until you're warped into damnation and have to fix the generators whilst a killer runs amok, reminding you that this was ultimately your new life now.

Usually Noob is fine on their own, with bloxy cola and ghostburgers to keep them "out of sight, out of mind", although you still try your best to protect them.

But one night, you enter the fray looking awfully different, and at first they think nothing of it, assuming you're using your powers to protect them....until they made the mistake of turning their back, as you struck them once and sent them running away from the generator. Yet you followed their every move, knowing how much they prioritized the machines.

And despite their pleas for you to recognize them, you murdered them as though you didn't know them at all.

Back in the cabin, Noob was rightfully scared of you. They didn't think it was possible for someone to be both survivor and killer.

And that begs the question....who's side were you really on? Why did they trust you?

You didn't understand why they were starting to avoid you over the next few days, and why they yelled at you to "go away" when you try helping them with a generator.

Eventually, you confronted them and they broke down, explaining how you killed them so brutally, not even recognizing them, and you look utterly confused.

That made no sense. You were the monster? Like the corrupted John Doe? Like the hate-filled 1x4??? You don't even remember ever switching to that form...

You could never fathom hurting Noob, and you apologize and try to comfort them, unable to believe that was you....and they become confused, too.

It takes a few more rounds for them to realize you genuinely couldn't remember switching to your killer identity and you'd even forget the conversations you both had about this subject.

You'd keep asking why Noob was scared of you, and they'd explain it again and again. It made you feel guilty, knowing that some higher being was messing with your memories and powers, forcing you to hurt your friends. You assured them that if you targeted them next time, it wasn't anything personal.

Sometimes, they found that hard to believe.

Eventually, they learned how to anticipate your attacks so they didn't die to you as much, although your appearance still scares them.

Guest 1337

Despite his gruff and intimidating appearance, Guest could see how anxious you were about spawning into this new place. He was was actually one of the first survivors to talk to you and help you feel welcomed among the group.

When you're getting chased by the killer, he takes the blow and sends them flying a few feet away....and while you're grateful on the outside, on the inside you're sweating, feeling lucky that he doesn't know about your identity switch just yet. You planned to tell him before being abruptly thrown into damnation, but now you were afraid getting knocked into next weekend.

Unfortunately for you, him, and every other survivor...you appear as the next round's killer and begin hunting him down specifically, taunting him and calling him a "pathetic meatshield", destined to fail his comrades, threatening to break every bone in his hands so he'd be useless and helpless.

Insults typically didn't bother him, but the fact that it's coming from you, someone he thought to be a friend and ally, cut deep.

With perfect timing, one of your abilities is strong enough to counter his punch, even if he blocked your attack successfully. And if he didn't get out of the way....he was dead in the blink of an eye.

Back at the cabin, Guest looks shocked when you're back to normal, sitting by the fireplace. Then he gets annoyed when you asked why he looked so grim.

"Do the words "pathetic meatshield" ring a bell?" He grunts, his eyebrow raised as your confusion grows. "Now's not the time to play dumb. Why didn't you tell us you could be both killer and survivor?"

"....what?" Your eyes widen. "How...did you know?"

".....seriously? This isn't funny. It was clearly you who murdered me last round." He removes his gloves to show you the scars on his hands, inflicted by you. "You threatened to break every bone I had. And now you're acting like nothing happened?"

"I did that...? That's..no. That's insane! I-It's true I have an identity switch power, but I swore off on being a killer! Why....Why would I do that to you? Why would I say those awful things?"

In that moment, Guest sees you clutching your head, genuinely looking upset about what your killer-self did, as though they were a separate person.

As more matches continued, he began to understand that you'd become amnesic every round. You'd counter his punches as killer one moment, and the next you're repairing the generators as survivor, asking for his protection like you didn't just insult his entire bloodline yesterday.

Like Noob, Guest learns how to counter your attacks better, and he informs the others so they knew that you weren't trying to hurt them on purpose. He knows you don't truly mean those terrible words.

But he hesitates to open up anymore to you, uncertain whether he has to perceive you as an ally or enemy in the next damnation.

Taph

The mute demolitionist was someone who you originally thought was a killer, but you learned very quickly that you shouldn't judge appearances...as he was actually very sweet to you.

With him sticking by your side during your first round, you learned how this "death game" worked and how his contraptions ensured your safety, making you feel better about fixing generators.

He lays down nearby tripwires while you're working, and threw a subspace tripmine at Jason (who's been targeting you for a while, able to sense that you were "new"), buying you lots of time to escape and heal.

You were grateful for Taph's protection and repaid him by following up with an attack if he managed to stun Jason.

However, when he doesn't find you anywhere next round, he assumes you were killed off already and feels sad....until he sees you in the distance, coming towards him.

But you look...different.

He gets the tripwire ready--only for you to slash through it like paper, and he stares at you in shock, realizing you're the killer.

Before he can grab a subspace tripmine, you strike him, snarling as you chase him through several areas before finally dealing the killing blow, but not before taunting him.

"How weak. You're nothing without your little toys, huh?" Are the last words he hears before dying, laying in the grass with his robes soaked in blood.

But the physical pain is nothing compared to the emotional...

Your words echo in his mind as everyone respawns in the cabin, including you...who's back to looking like a survivor, confused as to why everyone seemed to be avoiding you.

But the second you look at Taph, he flinches...before running out into the woods alone. You follow him out to the pier in worry, unsure why he reacted that way.

He's sitting by the water, shoulders trembling with silent sobs, keeping a tripwire behind him.

You just step over it, and he looks at you, his whole body tensing up. You didn't have to see his expression to understand how scared and sad he was...the dark tear marks staining his cloth mask were enough.

His hand is on a subspace tripmine, ready to activate it, but luckily you convince him not to as you cautiously sit beside him, wondering what was wrong.

"Taph...did I do something to hurt you?"

"🫵🤜💥☠️" ("You killed me")

"..I...I did what?""

He's so upset that he could barely sign properly and coherently, but you eventually understand that you cruelly insulted him while killing him, and the guilt crushes you--especially as you explain that don't even remember doing any of that.

He has a hard time believing you, but the remorse on your face and the apologies spilling from your mouth seemed genuine enough.

You're only truly forgiven once you share a brownie with him (it was just a snack you had in your pocket somehow, or maybe you got it from Elliot's shop before being forsaken), and after that, he promises to remind you of what you told him should you forget again.

Even when you're the killer giving chase to somebody, Taph hesitates to throw a subspace tripmine at you despite their pleas for help....but he forces himself to anyways, especially if Builderman demands it.

You don't remember getting struck by it, although he feels the need to apologize back at the cabin.

#clanask #roblox x reader #roblox forsaken x reader #forsaken x reader #forsaken noob #forsaken noob x reader #forsaken guest 1337 #forsaken guest 1337 x reader #guest 1337 x reader #forsaken taph #forsaken taph x reader #headcanons #angst

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sir-subpar · 2 years ago

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Corrupt bf, what do you think is the meaning of life.

You may not know the difference between fruits or vegetables, but he has the right spirit

Prev.

Master post.

#fnf #sketch #fnf bf #fnf lemon demon #acs #cs story #corruption survivors #friday night funkin #corruption au #corrupted bf #ask corruption survivors #ask cs

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sebmindbreak · 1 month ago

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Hihihi can i ask for demon king John Doe with angel survivor? or any type of survivor just as long as its John Doe (i love him sm but i can't find any post featuring him other than urs 💔)

YEAHHHHHH LETS GO!

i did headcanons by default since you didnt precise if you wanted a oneshot or hcs

BUT I HOPE YOU ENJOU!

DEMON KING!JOHN DOE X ANGEL! YOU

TITLE : light and darkness

Platonic Headcanons

You fell into Forsaken like a shooting star, crashing hard enough to shake the map. He watched it all from the other side of the map, his spider legs twitching in interest.

At first, he thought you were a trick. “No one from the skies comes here willingly,” he said, eyeing you like prey.

But you were dazed, glowing, and confused your halo flickering slightly and you didn’t draw your weapon.

He didn’t kill you. Not immediately. He hovered, sneered, and said, “You don’t belong here, featherhead.”

And yet, when other killers tried to lunge at you… he stepped in front. Casually. “This one’s mine. Don’t touch.”

First Meeting Headcanons

You hit the ground in a crash of feathers and dust, light pulsing from your back. Your wings were scorched from the fall. You could barely move.

John stood over you, amused. Crown glinting. Cape flowing. Spider legs coiled in curiosity.

“What’s this? A gift from the heavens?” he mocked, lifting your chin with a clawed finger. “Wrong place to fall, angel.”

But when you weakly asked, “Are you going to kill me?” he didn’t reply. He just tilted his head and grinned.

He walked away. But not before dropping a chain-link near your feet. “Keep up, if you want to survive.”

Getting Along Headcanons

He started keeping you close not as a pet, not as a prisoner, but something in between.

You scolded him often. “That survivor was unarmed.” “Why do you torment them?” He found it hilarious.

“And yet you still follow me, little light. You fell, remember? Maybe you’re not so holy after all.”

His spider legs curled protectively around you when others drew near. “Mine,” he’d growl, possessive.

You tried to show him mercy. He tried to show you cruelty.

Realizing He Has Feelings

He caught himself watching you pray one day. Whispering to something above. Asking for strength. For patience.

“They abandoned you,” he said coldly. “No god saves what’s already fallen.”

And yet… he stopped chasing survivors for a whole round just to sit near you. Watching. Listening.

When you defended him to others“He’s not evil, just… broken”he froze. Genuinely stunned.

His chains rattled violently that night. His corrupted power tried to snuff the feeling out. It didn’t work.

How He Confesses

He didn’t confess with words. He’s not soft like that. He’s prideful, arrogant, and full of fire.

But one day, as another killer lunged at you, he went feral. All six spider legs pierced the ground, chains snapping around you like a fortress.

After the fight, you asked softly, “Why?”

His voice was low. “Because if anyone lays a hand on you, I’ll tear them into ash and wear their bones like a trophy.”

You touched his face, and for once he leaned in gently. No smirk. No malice.

“You crashed into my world,” he murmured. “Now you belong to me.”

Romantic Headcanons

He teases you relentlessly. Calls you “Feather,” “Cherub,” or “Glowstick.”

But when you're alone, he pulls you onto his throne, wrapping his spider legs around you like a cage.

“You shine too bright,” he whispers, nuzzling into your neck. “But I want it all for myself.”

He makes you a crown of broken halos. Says it suits you better than the one Heaven gave.

His kisses are slow, controlling, like he’s claiming you piece by piece.

When you cry, he cradles you against his chest like a dragon hoarding gold. “Let them call me a demon. I’ll still protect you with everything I am.”

Sometimes, he hums old demonic hymns under his breath just to hear you shiver.

HEHHE I HOPE YOU ENJOYED <33

#forsaken x you #requests #forsaken roblox #forsaken #forsaken x reader #john doe x you #john doe x reader #demon king john doe

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flower-virus-utmv · 1 year ago

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Corruption and Lotus are temporarily closed for asks while it tries to cure Lotus... Other arcs we have going on:

-Start of Sci being infected

-Search for Emotional

-Search for Blue

-Choco Duo's yuri adventure

-Killer mistreating Horror

-Dream refusing to acknowledge truth

-Is Crescent infected?

< | >

#ask blog #infection au #utmv #utmv infection au #flower virus #flower virus survivors #rurik liderc #corrupted rurik #lotus monarch #sci moth #emotional vibe #blueberry #choco duo #killer #horror axe #dream willow #crescent willow

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forsaken-headcanons · 2 months ago

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How good i think all the forsaken people's would be at cooking!(not including upcoming characters)

Survivors:

Elliot- His pizza is GODLY. Like the pizza in cartoons, all melty and real and oml that pizza is PEAK!! However, it's all he can cook.

Chance- They try, but.. little rich boy who likely had chefs cook for them, so.. safe to say he can't cook. (That, or option B, either chances food is GODLY or shit, it'd be a gamble!)

Twotime- They are GREAT at cooking, the only downside is how they get when given a knife. So, usually whenever they cook someone else handles the cutting aspect! But they are amazing at cooking besides that.

Guest1337- He used to survive off the bare minimum during war, he can cook but it's not exactly.. flavorful... he's trying but it tastes like nothing.

007n7- Hes a good cook! Has a wide variety of things he can cook, too! Think about the amount of food jobs hes probably had- also, fast food costs alot, and he can't let c00lkid starve! His experience as a dad makes him a terrific chef, even if the survivors tend to forget.

Shedletsky- He can't cook.

Dusekkar- OK, so i feel like he'd be a decent cook? Just in his freetime, hes never actually needed to cook and just doesn't it for fun, so it's not like. GODLY or anything, it's just average.

Taph- Pls dont let them cook. They can season food, but do NOT let taph cook for the love of spawn, PLEASE...

Noob- Cant cook, but great at baking! She liked baking things for g666 back before being forsaken, so he's a really good baker and tends to make dessert for the survivors.

Builderman- Average, but rarely adds seasoning- more flavor then guest1337, but not by much.

Killers:

1x- ONE EGGS ONE EGGS ONE EG- ok but in all seriousness, they'd be a good cook. She wanted to be better then his creator at SOMETHING, so.. top teir food.

C00lkidd- He can make pancakes! That.. that's it. Dude he's 10. Also, the only reason he can make pancakes is because when he was around 6, 007n7 was making breakfast and c00lkidd wanted to help- they ended up making pancakes alllll day, breakfast lunch and dinner. C00lkidd was so proud of himself, and it's a core memory.

Jason- Doesnt cook often, but hes average at it. The one cooking whenever 1x is too lazy or just did a round, he enjoys cooking and is trying to get better at it.

John doe- Before being corrupted, he was a decent cook. But. He's a feral animal now, literally has a spike as an arm.. don't let him anywhere near the kitchen. </3

(First time sending an ask here, if this list has already been done or I forgot someone pls don't throw tomatoes at me/hj also off topic but I'm SO FUCKING MAD that I didn't get a refund on elliot after he became free, pmo[ill get over it in like a week but still])

Shedletsky not being able to cook is amazing to me, same with Taph not being allowed into the kitchen. Those two would somehow find a way to blow up water./silly Welcome to the blog! We're glad you're here. :)

#forsaken headcanons #forsaken #forsaken roblox #roblox forsaken #elliot forsaken #chance forsaken #shedletsky forsaken #007n7 forsaken #two time forsaken #guest 1337 forsaken #dusekkar forsaken #taph forsaken #builderman forsaken #noob forsaken #1x1x1x1 forsaken #john doe forsaken #jason forsaken #c00lkidd forsaken #mod missletsky🍗⚔️

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brain4stew · 4 months ago

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I’ve got an idea about friendly killer reader… And I’m serving y’all it on a silver platter. (Based on my experience as friendly killer ofc🙂‍↕️)

(Again, I don’t know the characters exact personalities and so on, so they might, if not most likely will be OOC!!)

That being said, headcanons/something is under the cut!! ;

• You are the only killer giving the survivors a break… Even if you are corrupted… (John Doe “yourself” skin)

• Noob likes you, due to you being friendly and not killing anyone.

• Two Time is neutral about you being a friendly killer. (They kind of enjoy a chase once in a while…)

• Chance likes you for being friendly. He even asks to shoot you a couple of times. (If you say no, then he won’t shoot you, but he will shoot a wall. His fucking gun exploded on him like three times.)

• Builderman asks you to destroy his sentry and dispenser whenever you’re the killer. (Which you happily do, after everyone’s healed up.)

• Guest 1337 is still a bit skeptical about you, but likes you for being friendly. A friendly killer once in a while gives him a break he desperately wants…

• 007n7 is grateful for you being a friendly killer for once. He gets a break from having to survive his own son.

• Elliot is even more grateful! You are giving him a break from going insane, with how stressful other killers can be, towards him and the other survivors.

• Shedletsky… Strangely enough, he asks you if you can fling him with your spikes. (You do, and… You flung him across the map, and into the poisonous river, which shocked everyone and even you… You all laughed about it though, as Shedletsky sometimes couldn’t stand up afterwards, or he was stuck somewhere.)

• Dusekkar is quiet, but he’s grateful that you are friendly. He can conserve his energy for the time being, and doesn’t have to panic as much…

• Every survivor likes you for being friendly, and they REALLY want you to be in every round they’re in. But, as we know… Not everyone is happy about this.

• The other killers… Are not happy at all.

• You’re supposed to kill them! Not let them live!

• You always lie, and say; “It’s to give them a false sense of hope.”

• 1x1x1x1 is obviously the most pissed off out of the killers. You. A friendly killer? Does he need to teach you how to kill survivors again?? Or does he just let you?? It’s infuriating.

• John Doe is the 2nd pissed off killer. Sure, he kind of bites to your lie like a fish biting bait. But, he’s disappointed and angry at you. He gave you some of his corruption to kill those survivors. Not to let them live! …But then again… Giving them a false sense of hope does sound good…

• Mafioso (dude’s getting a redesign and new name soon…) is the 3rd pissed off killer. Why did you let those survivors live for?! For what purpose?!… Maybe you want him to go kill them, for the debts they may have… Fair enough… He also understands your lie, so he’s not that pissed off about it. More like upset.

• Jason isn’t as pissed off as the other killers. He understands why the others are pissed off, but also doesn’t. Back in the camp he was in, before being taken to area 51… He also gave teenagers a false sense of hope. So it doesn’t really matter to him. It means that he can possibly kill the survivors more easily.

• C00lkidd… He… Doesn’t understand at all. He’s upset, yeah, sure… But he’s also glad. You let the survivors go, even his dad! That means that you want him to have as much fun as he can!!

#roblox forsaken x reader #forsaken roblox x reader #forsaken x reader #1x1x1x1 x reader #two time x reader #builderman x reader #chance x reader #007n7 x reader #elliot x reader #dusekkar x reader #john doe x reader #C00lkidd x reader platonic #jason x reader #mafioso x reader #dreamgame x reader #noob x reader #shedletsky x reader #guest 1337 x reader #brain4stew/l i n’s work‼️

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colouredbyd · 2 months ago

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The Nightingale: The Volunteer

Regulus Black x fem!reader Hunger Games AU

summary: She was thirteen when her name was called. He was fourteen when he took her place. Now, years later, she’s standing there again as tribute of the 70th Hunger Games.

warnings: emotional vulnerability, mentions of injuries, physical exhaustion, corrupted goverment, talks of death, mentions of weapons, typical hunger games violence. hurt/comfort childhood friends to strangers to lovers trope

word count: 5.3k

authors note: okay so here is part 1 of my new series The Nightingale. I have mostly all the parts written and drafted and i cant wait to post them!! this ones probably my favourite work and i hope you all love it 🌷💖

next part series masterlist main masterlist

The 65th Hunger Games

“May the odds be ever in your favor!”

They say it like a promise. Like a prayer. As if luck can shield you from the way a name sounds when it’s yours. As if odds have hearts to sway or hands to hold. But the odds have never favored girls with music in their bones or boys with shadows stitched to their heels. Not in District 7. Not in a world where survival is currency and love is a liability.

My name was still ringing through the square when he said it.

“I volunteer.”

Two words. A blade through the silence. He said it like it hurt. Like it was the only thing he’d ever meant. I turned, too slow, too stunned, just in time to see the peacekeepers pull him away—too young, too slight, too sure. Fourteen and already breaking for me. He didn’t look back. Not once. That was the worst part. Like if he looked, he’d stay. Like if he stayed, he’d shatter.

They asked him for his name. And when he gave it, the crowd swallowed it whole.

Regulus Black, District 7. Volunteer.

He gave them his body. He gave them his future. And all I could do was stand there with my name still echoing through the cold. All I could do was live.

And I’ve been paying for that mercy ever since.

District 7 was not made for softness. It bore no patience for delicate things, no mercy for children with bright eyes or steady dreams. The forest ruled us long before the Capitol did. Trees older than our blood whispered warnings in the wind, and if you didn’t learn how to listen, you disappeared. Splinters and silence shaped us more than schooling ever could.

Our homes were wooden, creaking things. Roofs that leaked in the spring, floors that sang in the winter, walls thin enough to hear your neighbor crying through. We were born with sawdust in our lungs and calluses on our hands. Most children learned how to swing an axe before they could write their names. Hunger made us practical. So did grief.

But even here, where beauty withered quickly, I learned to sing.

Not loudly, not for attention. Never in the open air, where the wrong ears could turn anything tender into a weapon. I sang in the moments in between — under my breath while stacking bark, or alone beneath the hanging branches of the sycamores. My voice belonged to no one but the trees and the boy who found me.

Regulus Black.

He wasn’t from my part of the district. He didn’t have the look of the lumber families. His hands weren’t made for chopping, but for stringing arrows. He was quick-footed, sharp-eyed. Quiet in the way that felt like a storm waiting to happen. The first time I saw him, he was crouched by a stream, soaking a cut on his palm, face turned to the sky as if listening for something.

I sang that day without meaning to. Just a soft hum carried on the wind.

He didn’t move, didn’t look at me. But when I paused, he said, “Don’t stop.”

That was how it began.

We weren’t quite friends at first. We were survivors in the same stretch of woods, careful not to scare each other off. He taught me which berries not to eat. I showed him how to twist pine needles into thread. He hunted. I sang. He used silence like a blade, and I used music like a balm. Somehow, between stolen hours and shared shelters, we made something sacred.

I learned he had a brother, though he rarely spoke of him. I learned that he hated the sound of axes. I learned that no one taught him to shoot — he taught himself, because no one else would.

He learned that my mother once sang lullabies before her voice gave out. He learned that I dreamed of light, of being heard. He learned that my hands shook when I was afraid, and I was afraid often.

We made a hideout deep in the woods, past the northern logging zone where few dared to go. It was barely a lean-to of branches and tattered cloth, but to us it was untouchable. Safe. He carved my name into the bark of the tree beside it, tiny and crooked. I braided wildflowers into his sleeve when spring came.

He never asked me to stop singing.

He said once that my voice made the forest feel alive again. That it reminded him of the world before it became cruel. I told him his arrows did the same. We didn’t say it aloud, but we were everything to each other. When the world took and took, we found ways to give.

Regulus was the only boy I knew who looked at the stars like they owed him something. He wasn’t reckless. He was angry in a quiet, careful way. The Capitol hadn’t taken everything from him yet, and so he fought in the only ways he knew how. He hunted for food he’d pretend he hadn’t found. He watched Peacekeepers with a stillness that bordered on dangerous. He protected me without saying the word protect.

I remember one night, cold enough that my breath came out in clouds, I asked him if he thought we’d ever get out. He didn’t answer right away. He just handed me a sliver of wood he had carved into the shape of a bird.

“When you fly,” he said, “take me with you.”

I wanted to believe we would stay like that forever. Two ghosts beneath the trees, untouched by the Capitol’s reach. But District 7 does not allow dreams to grow roots. The Games come for all of us eventually.

And when they did, he didn’t let me go.

He volunteered for me before I could even open my mouth.

Year Of The 64th Hunger Games: Memories Of a Nightingale.

It was a quiet afternoon beneath the hawthorn tree where we spent most of our stolen moments together. The world seemed to slow down there, away from the ever-watchful eyes of the Capitol and the bitter weight of the district. I hummed a song, soft and low, as the breeze played with my hair, the familiar melody slipping between the branches. Regulus sat beside me, his hands moving over the wood in his lap, carving another weapon—sharp, pointed, and useful for a world that demanded its people to be sharp, pointed, and useful.

“You’re always making those.” I said, trying to keep my voice light, teasing him as I watched him work.

He didn’t look up, his brow furrowing as he pressed the knife into the wood. “The Capitol won’t care if you’re singing or carving stars, Starling,” he muttered. “They just care if you’re useful.”

I watched him in silence for a moment, the weight of his words sinking in deeper than I wanted to admit. Regulus wasn’t wrong, but that didn’t mean I liked it. “ Well yeah, but you will always protect me right, shadow?” i teased

“Always, (Y/N).” he whispered.

Picking up the smaller, discarded pieces of wood, I shaped them carefully with my own knife, trying not to let the sharp edges of the world touch me too much. I carved stars, tiny pieces of hope I could hold in my hand. It wasn’t much, but it was something. I handed him one, a rough star with jagged edges, as I had done countless times before.

“Here,” I said quietly, my voice almost a whisper. “For you.”

He paused, looking at it for the briefest of moments before taking it from my hand. “It’s perfect, Starling,” he said, his voice soft in a way it rarely was. “Thank you.”

I smiled, even though my heart ached with the weight of it. These stars were the only things I could give him—things he didn’t ask for, things that might not mean much, but still, they were mine to give. And he accepted them.

Regulus had a way of making me feel seen when the world seemed to be looking the other way. He was hard on everyone, but with me, he softened. He wasn’t perfect, far from it, but when he called me “Starling” in his quiet way, it made me feel like I was something precious, like I mattered in a world that told us every day we didn’t.

He’d come to the Lovegood’s house often, though we never said why. His family was falling apart—his brother Sirius, gone, lost to the Capitol after a run-in with the Peacekeepers. His mother, too far gone in her own grief to care for him. He didn’t say much about it, but I could see it in his eyes whenever he stood at the edge of the field, looking out at the horizon. That same distant look when I spoke of my father, when the Capitol had taken him for no reason other than the injustice of trying to survive.

I’d been taken in by the Lovegoods family after that, a kindness I didn’t deserve, and Regulus would come by to check on me. He never said it, but I knew. His visits, though brief, were the only comfort I had. He wouldn’t stay long, always had something else to do, something else to prepare for, but his presence was enough.

“You’re not going anywhere, are you?” I asked him once, my voice barely more than a breath, as he walked away from the small house after one of his visits.

He turned back to me, the faintest hint of a smile on his lips. “Wouldn’t dream of it, Starling,” he said. “Where would I go without you?”

“It’s too quiet,” I whisper, even though I know he hates it when I say things like that.

Regulus doesn’t look up from the sliver of wood in his hands. He’s crouched in the dirt beneath our tree—our tree—carving a blade out of pine like it’s the only thing keeping him sane. “The forest’s always quiet,” he says. “You just hear more when you’re scared.”

“I’m not scared.”

“You are.” He says it softly, almost like it’s a compliment. “You always are, little bird.”

I pretend the nickname doesn’t twist something warm in my chest. He’s the only one who calls me that. The only one who makes it sound like something alive. I never asked him why, but I think it’s because I sing. Because even in this broken place, I keep letting music fall out of me like it might matter.

I reach down and pick up a smooth, flat twig from the dirt, running my fingers over it. I used to make little stars from the scraps Regulus left behind. Carve them with bits of broken glass and shape them with my thumbs until they looked just right. I give him one almost every week. He never throws them away.

“Do you think they’ll ever find Sirius?”

He pauses. I watch his jaw tense before he answers. “No.”

Just that. No. No hope, no softness. Like he already buried his brother the second he disappeared. Like he’s preparing to bury me, too.

I look away, up at the branches of the tree we always come back to. It’s bent at the middle and knotted at the roots, but it still stands. That feels important somehow. Like a promise.

When the silence thickens too much, I do the only thing that makes it bearable—I sing.

A soft lullaby, the kind I hum when my nightmares wake me. It sounds hollow in the open air, but Regulus doesn’t tell me to stop. He never does. Not since that night after Sirius vanished, when he found me crying under this tree and asked me, in the smallest voice, to sing until it stopped hurting.

When my voice trails off, I hold out the little star I’d been shaping. It’s not perfect—none of them are—but it’s mine.

“For you.”

He takes it carefully, like it might break. “What’s it for?”

“Protection,” I say, even though I don’t really believe in it anymore.

“You already gave me that.” He glances up, and his eyes look too old for thirteen. “Every time you sing.”

I watch him tie the star to the worn leather cord around his neck. It disappears beneath his shirt, close to his heart. I think if I asked him, he’d say he keeps them all. Every single one.

“You’d better not lose it,” I say, trying to tease.

“If I did,” he says, voice low, “you’d haunt me.”

“You already do,” I shoot back, smirking a little.

We fall into that quiet again. But it’s different this time. Not empty. Just full of things we don’t say. Things like: I miss my dad. I hate the Capitol. I’m scared they’ll take you next.

I live with Pandora’s family now. My father was shot in the square last winter—for stealing a sack of flour to feed us. And Regulus—he flinches every time a Peacekeeper passes, like he knows the way grief lingers after someone’s ripped away.

We’re only twelve and thirteen. But under this tree, we get to be something else. I sing. He carves. I make stars. He wears them. He calls me Starling, and I call him Shadow, because he’s always there—quiet, sharp, watching. Like something the world tried to break but failed to kill.

I think we’re still learning how to survive. But here, for now, we’re still learning together.

My dress is old. I’ve worn it every Reaping Day since I turned twelve. The hem is frayed, the collar softened by too many washes. It smells like cedar and time, like the chest we keep it in and the quiet ache of years I’ve outlived. It holds the dust of survival. It remembers the names of the girls who didn’t.

The square is a silent wound—rows of children dressed in borrowed hope and trembling silence. Somewhere, a baby cries. Somewhere, a mother prays. We all stand still, pretending not to see the peacekeepers, the cameras, the Capitol flag snapping like a threat above us.

Regulus finds me in the crowd. He always does. Even now, with a hundred heads between us and a hundred fears stronger than steel, his eyes find mine. Like the first crack of sunlight through winter branches—sharp, warm, and far too much.

He doesn’t smile. He never smiles on Reaping Day. But he gives me a nod. Barely there. A flicker of something constant in a world that won’t stop changing. It means: I’m here, I’m watching.

And sometimes I think it means: I’ll burn this whole world down if it tries to take you.

He’s fourteen now—taller this year, stronger too. His knuckles are bruised, as always. His mouth looks carved from stone. There’s always something dangerous behind it. Cold to everyone. Except me.

Always, always me.

I think of the tree on the hill—the one with the crooked branch we used to climb when we still believed in things like forever. When the Games were something that happened to other districts. Before Sirius disappeared into the woods and never came back. Before my father was dragged out in the night for saying one wrong sentence too loudly. Before we started sleeping with our shoes on, just in case we had to run.

That was when Regulus began making weapons from bones and bark. And I began shaping stars out of splinters. I gave him one once—a crooked little thing carved from pine and etched with a trembling promise: come back to me. He wore it like a secret. Still does.

I see it now, just peeking out from under his shirt. Pressed against his heart.

The name is called, but I don’t hear it. Static. Or silence. Or maybe just the world stopping all at once.

I blink. A breeze moves past. A bird overhead breaks the sky with its wings. I think someone gasps, or maybe that’s just me trying to breathe.Then I hear it.

A sob. Sharp and sudden. And it comes from beside me.

Regulus.

His eyes aren’t on the stage, they’re on me. Not with confusion. Not surprise. Just pain. Like he’s already grieving something. Like he knew this would happen. And I understand.

The name.

My name.

He doesn’t say it. Doesn’t need to. It’s there—in the way his jaw clenches. The way his fingers curl. The way he looks at me like he’s memorizing something he knows he’s about to lose. My knees don’t buckle, not yet atleast. I just stand there. Cold. Hollow. A girl-shaped shell in an old cedar-scented dress.

Then someone whispers my name, and the moment shatters.

I hear my own voice—screaming, cracking, raw. It rips through my throat like broken glass. No one moves to help.

Except him. Regulus takes one step forward. Then another.

“No,” I choke out, already knowing it’s useless.

“I volunteer!” His voice cuts the air cleanly, like a blade through silk. “I volunteer as tribute!”

And everything goes quiet.

No applause. No cheers. Just silence. Like the whole district just watched something sacred snap in half. The Peacekeepers hesitate. They’re not used to this. Boys don’t volunteer. Not for someone else. Not for love. But the one in charge—he knows who Regulus is. Of course he does. Everyone does. So he nods once, grimly, and lets him pass.

I try to run to him. I do. But arms hold me back—too many hands, too many strangers. I scream and fight and sob, but it doesn’t matter.

He’s already walking. Already stepping into the fire.

And when our paths cross—when the tide of the crowd forces him forward and drags me back—his hand finds mine.

Somehow, in all the chaos, he reaches for me.

And I reach back.

His forehead presses to mine. Just for a second, one heartbeat. All they allow.

“You’ll be okay, star” he whispers. “You always are. I love you so so much”

But I shake my head, crying so hard I can barely speak. “Don’t do this. Please. Regulus, please.”

His lips brush my temple like a goodbye. Like a secret.

“Please don’t watch the game.”

Then he’s gone.

They drag him onto the stage. Announce him as District Seven’s male tribute. The speakers blare with artificial applause. His name echoes off the stone buildings like it belongs to someone else.

Come back to me.

But deep down, I know, he won’t.

The Games didn’t end the day Regulus was taken. They only began.

For me, they never stopped. They just changed shape.

When the hovercraft disappeared into the clouds, it felt like he had been erased from the earth. One second he was beside me, breathing the same air, the next he was a name on a list and a face in a Capitol broadcast. I stayed in the square long after the crowds faded. Long after the Peacekeepers stopped watching. Until my legs gave out and the dust soaked through the knees of my dress. Until I could no longer feel the place where his forehead had pressed against mine.

The first night was the hardest. The silence roared. I kept hearing his voice in the creak of the door, in the wind against the windows. I pressed the pine star against my chest so hard it bruised. I didn’t sleep. I didn’t eat. I just waited. Like he might walk back through the door and say it had all been a mistake.

And then the Games began.

They dress him in silk and shadow, like a prince carved from storm clouds. They oil his curls and line his eyes with gold. They ask him to smile, and he does—not like he used to, not the secret, crooked one he saved for me. This one is sharp. Public. Practiced.

They made a spectacle of him. The youngest tribute in history. Fourteen ears old with coal under his fingernails and defiance in every bone. The Capitol ate it up. They loved his sharp mouth and quiet rage. They played it on every screen. They slowed down the footage when he killed. They called him a prodigy. A miracle. A monster.

I watched every second.

He was brutal. Smart. Unforgiving. He used a branch sharpened to a point to slit someone’s throat and didn’t flinch. He snapped a boy’s arm in half to take his knife and then turned it on a girl who had been hiding in a hollow tree. He moved like he had already died and was trying to take the rest of the world with him.

But every night when the anthem played, I saw him reach for his neck. Just for a second. Just a flicker of his hand to make sure the pine star was still there.

And then he won.

He stood on the pedestal, soaked in blood and silence, while they crowned him. I thought he’d cry. Or scream. Or refuse to smile. But he did smile. Not the one I knew. Not the soft one, not the kind one he saved just for me. This one was razor sharp and hollow and made of teeth. I knew in that moment I had lost him.

He never came back.

Not once.

They said he was too important now. Too dangerous. Too fragile. They said the Capitol had plans for him. They dressed him in silk and poured him into interviews like he was made to be adored. He became a myth in a gold suit. The boy from District Seven who never looked back.

I wrote letters. Dozens of them. Hundreds. I carved them into bark and stone and silence. I whispered them to the wind. I buried one beneath the tree on the hill where we used to play. I lit another on fire and watched the smoke rise like a prayer.

He never answered.

The years passed like ghosts. They didn’t walk. They floated. They haunted.

The first one is the hardest. I scream into my pillow every night until my throat bleeds. I run through the woods until my legs collapse. I break every wooden carving I ever made.

I stop singing.

The second year, I start collecting scraps of Capitol broadcasts. Trying to spot him in the background. Some days I do. Always perfect. Always polished. They paint him like a storybook villain—fierce, loyal, unreadable. The Capitol’s golden boy. The Capitol’s ghost.

He mentors the new tributes. Sends them to their deaths with silent eyes. He wins sponsors with a tilt of his head. He never speaks of home. Never speaks of me.

By year three, I begin to hate him for it.

Every Reaping Day I wore the same dress. Every year it smelled more like death and dust. Every year I stood in the crowd and waited for a miracle that never came. I would search the Peacekeepers’ faces, hoping to see his. I would beg the stars to send him back to me.

I waited so long I forgot how his voice sounded when he said my name.

The Capitol paraded him on Victory Tours. His eyes stopped looking like eyes. They looked like glass. Like mirrors that only showed what the Capitol wanted them to reflect. And he looked right into the cameras and told the next batch of tributes to fight hard. To be brave. To survive.

Not once did he mention the tree on the hill. Not once did he say my name.

He belonged to them now.

And I hated him for it.

I hated him for surviving when my father hadn’t. I hated him for smiling while I screamed into my pillow every night. I hated him for choosing silence. For letting me rot in a house full of ghosts. For becoming everything we promised we’d never be.

But I never took off the star.

Not even when it cracked down the middle and the edges splintered into my skin. I wore it like a scar. Like a wound I wanted the world to see.

Because no matter how much I hated him, I loved him more.

And that was the cruelest part. Loving someone who no longer existed. Loving someone who never came home.

I am no longer twelve, or thirteen or even fourteen. I am now seventeen. Five years since the boy with storm-gray eyes and a wooden star around his neck walked into the Hunger Games and didn’t die.

Five years since he stopped being mine.

Five years since I was anything other than the girl he saved.

Time moved differently after that. Like honey left in the cold. Slow, thick, impossible to swallow. The days passed but left no mark. Just the dull echo of what used to be.

I still live in District Seven. Not the quiet outer woods where we used to hide, but in the Victor’s Village. A house built for him, empty and too large. It stares down at me from the hill like a monument to something I didn’t ask for. We were allowed to move in once he won, though he never came back to see it. He never came back at all.

Sometimes I imagine the moment he won—when he killed the final tribute. They say he didn’t hesitate. That it was quick, clean, merciless. The Capitol loved him for that. Crowned him with gold and blood. They gave him a nickname. The Porcelain Wolf. Beautiful. Fragile. Deadly.

I stopped watching the Games after that.

They say Victors get a choice. To return. To mentor. To disappear. Regulus chose to stay. Chose the Capitol. Chose them.

He didn’t write. He didn’t visit. He didn’t send a single word. But I saw him.

On screens. In newspapers. Draped in velvet and black silk. Face sharper, eyes colder. His hair always perfectly combed. A Capitol woman on his arm, sometimes two. He smiled with his mouth, not his eyes.

I kept the wooden star in a box beneath my bed. I didn’t touch it. I couldn’t.

They made him a symbol. A weapon wrapped in silk and sorrow. President Barty Crouch Sr. personally invited him to every gala, every celebration. Said Regulus Black embodied the strength of the districts and the civility of the Capitol. Said he was an example for all future tributes.

His son, Barty Crouch Jr., a golden boy of fire and cruelty, followed Regulus like a shadow. I saw them together once on screen. Laughing. Drinking something deep red. Their eyes matched.

That night I vomited until I saw stars.

But I wasn’t alone in the dark. Not always.

Pandora came to me that winter. She was odd in the way trees are odd—twisting, reaching, growing toward something no one else could see. She moved like a whisper and spoke like a song, full of strange dreams and endless wonder. Her family had fled the Capitol years ago and settled here, quiet and kind.

We became unlikely friends. She never asked me about Regulus. She just let me sit beside her in silence until I was ready to speak again.

She once told me I had a voice made of stitched-up stars. That when I sang, it made the woods pause to listen.

I laughed for the first time in years.

Together, we made a sort of life. I worked in the lumber fields part-time. Helped her sell pressed flowers and herbal remedies in the market. We made plans, silly and impossible—like running away to District Thirteen if it even existed. Or crafting a new kind of life where no one could own us.

I almost believed it. Almost.

But Reaping Day doesn’t care about dreams.

It came with smoke in the sky and the scent of metal in the wind. Everything felt too sharp that morning. The way my braid pulled at my scalp. The way my dress clung to my ribs. Five years later, im here, standing again in the same square for the 70th Hunger Games.

I stood beside Pandora in the square. Her hand found mine. It was warm and shaking. The stage was the same as always. Wood splintered and stained. A microphone that crackled like bones. The stage was the same as always—warped wood, splintered and stained with a thousand yesterdays. The microphone still crackled like dry bone snapping under a boot. And the Capitol escort stood painted and powdered, her lashes dusted in silver. A wax doll in velvet gloves. Her smile was too red.

“Ladies first! Now, now, for the female tribute of District Seven!” she sang, voice too bright, too clean for this place.

Her hand dipped into the glass bowl. Time stretched, the world felt like it was holding its breath.

She pulled out a slip of paper and unfolded it with a painted smile. She read the name.

Silence.

Then Pandora screamed. A raw, animal sound, tearing itself out of her throat. Mary shouted something from the row behind us. Somewhere near me, someone sobbed. I heard it all like it was underwater—muffled, distant. My own breath barely reached me. Everything narrowed to a point of pain. The world didn’t spin. It stopped. Froze just long enough to crack.

Pandora’s nails were digging into my arm now. “No. No. No,” she whispered, over and over again, as if saying it could change the name on that slip of paper. As if it could undo the horror stitched into the silence. But I couldn’t move. I couldn’t cry. I couldn’t even speak. My voice was gone, swallowed by the shock.I couldn’t move.

I was twelve again.

I was thirteen.

I was fourteen, fifteen, sixteen.

Now I was the girl they would kill.

My name echoed through the square, again and again, like the beat of a funeral drum.

No one volunteered. Not this time.

Of all the names. Of all the girls. Of all the slips of paper folded and dropped into that glass bowl like prayers no one answers. It had to be mine. Again.

As if fate had been holding its breath all these years, biding time like a vulture waiting for the heart to slow. I had already been chosen once—called by death and spared by a boy with stars in his eyes and fire in his voice.

I was supposed to die at thirteen. And maybe I should have. Because at least then, he would have been there. Regulus. My Regulus. His hand in mine, his voice the last sound I’d hear. At least then, I would have gone knowing I was loved.

Back then, he wasn’t yet a Capitol trophy, draped in velvet lies and stitched smiles. He hadn’t learned to hide behind applause or kiss the rings of monsters. Back then, he was still real. Still mine.

If I had gone then, it would have been with someone waiting for me on the other side.

Now—now there’s nothing but ghosts behind me and a spotlight ahead. Maybe this is what fate wanted all along. It wasn’t mercy four years ago. It was a delay. A cruel postponement. A way to drag me through grief, through loneliness, through the slow death of remembering.

Because no one escapes the Games. Some of us just take longer to get there.

authors note again: why tf are the first chapters the hardest to write??

#regulus black #regulus black x reader #regulus black angst #regulust black fluff #regulus black x reader angst #regulus black x you #regulus black x reader fluff #hunger games au #marauders era #marauders x reader #marauders fluff #marauders angst #marauders x reader angst #marauders x reader fluff #regulus arcturus black

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penvisions · 6 months ago

Text

black hole sun {series teaser}

Pairing: Pre-Outbreak! Joel Miller x Waitress! Reader ; Jackson! Joel Miller x Survivor! Reader

Summary: You carry memories of Joel Miller in your heart in the wake of the end of the world, someone who had once been a bright spot in the dull monotony of life.

When you unexpectedly cross paths with him again, he’s no longer the young man you used to share moments with but an unforgiving dark spot that had been corrupted by the new world order.

He’s gone in the blink of an eye once again, showing up months later to settle in Jackson as he’s turned into some convoluted mixture of each. Maybe time and circumstance will allow for you finally tell each other how you feel?

Word Count: undetermined

Warnings: canon typical violence, canon typical language, canon typical gore, past lives, dual pov (both reader and joel), outbreak day events, passage of time, heartbreak, angst, missed oppurtunities, miscommunication, second chances, sexual content, adult content, piv, unprotected piv, smut, moodboard photos do not depict reader completely just conceptually, it more tags to come as the story develops!

A/N: a little teaser that was promised a few days ago (a week ago? two weeks ago??) oh well, here it is!! i'm excited to start filling out scenes for this one c:

ao3 link || series masterlist || navigation

The sunlight streams in through the bay of windows that sit over the deep green booths. The velvet backings of them are soft though the color has yet to fade with age. It’s the afternoon, your favorite time of the day, thankful for the lull in customers and the chance to catch your breath between the lunch and dinner crowds. The mornings are nonstop coffee refills, eggs cooked every which way, toast piled up high and far too many condiments for each dish offered from hollandaise to ketchup to steak sauce.

And besides, breakfast only seldom brings in the trio you most look forward to seeing in your section. It’s the later hours of the day that they tend to visit, the youngest right after school on the days she’s not set to hang out with her neighbors. Though she’s admitted to you both alone and in the presence of her father that she prefers spending her time with you in the diner than over at the Adler’s house riddled with crosses and portraits of Jesus.

You don’t blame the young girl, she doesn’t need to be sheltered and treated like a child as enters her first teenage year. She deserves the choice of where to go after school and if it’s where you can keep an eye on her, then so be it. She’s spunky, quick witted and unabashed in her comments. Though she makes sure that it’s a safe space to act as such before she does so.

The first two weeks she had begun to spend time in the diner, a completely random choice by her uncle while he picked up something from the hardware store further down the block, she had been shy. Though you also chocked that up to her being a fresh thirteen and unused to the foreign setting. It was on the cusp of downtown, but still settled on the outskirts of a neighborhood as it shares the parking lot with a hardware store, a seasonal snow cone stand, and a plant nursery.

Ever since that first day she walked in with her wide, sparkling eyes she had flocked to you. You had been worried why she was alone the moment you realized no one was coming in behind her and asked her if she was lost. She had smiled so shyly at you, her face so pretty and her curls so bouncy as she explained her ‘Uncle Tommy’ was next door doing something for the business.

An hour later she had been joined by not one but two rather handsome men, both of whom had thanked you for watching after the girl.

With a warm smile and a hand propped on your hip, you told them you hadn’t minded in the slightest and that she was welcome there anytime. And the year since then proved that it had been one of the best things you could’ve said.

She’s sitting there now, in the corner booth with her textbooks and notebooks sprawled out across the brown speckled formica. A plate of half-eaten chicken tenders and fries pushed across the entire thing, a reusable water that was half full beside it. She had asked for a milkshake, and you had caved even as Joel’s strict words in a deep baritone had told you “only one a week”. But you heeded his words- mostly.

Sometimes, the girl would bat her beautiful, wide eyes at you and you would cave. Today was one of those days. And you’ve been caught as Joel’s eyes go right to the remnants of whip cream and chocolate that swirl at the bottom of the empty glass the second he enters with a jingle of the bell over the door.

But all he does is shake his head with a lopsided smile and proceeds to walk up to the counter where you’re refilling the sugar caddies with multicolored packets. Your heart flutters as his brown eyes meet yours, set in such a handsome face. Thick scruff adorning his strong jaw and chocolate tresses that are beginning to curl on the ends tousled from a day spent underneath a hardhat. He always looks so damn good and your stomach flips as he shoves his keys into a front pocket of jeans that hug him in all the right places. He’s covered in paint today, or glue- something that’s stained his clothing in a way that screams dedicated worker and competent.

“Hey there, sweetheart. Y’all okay today?”

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#dev writes #fic: black hole sun #series teaser #fic teaser #tlou #tlou fanfiction #the last of us #the last of us fanfiction #new series #joel miller #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #pre-outbreak joel miller #joel miller fic #ppcu #ppcu fandom #ppcu fanfiction

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