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xo2dee · 11 hours

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ᴊᴜᴊᴜᴛꜱᴜ ᴋᴀɪꜱᴇɴ ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ

ᴏɴᴇɪʀᴏᴅʏɴɪᴀ

𓆩♡𓆪 ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ: Nanami Kento x (Fem)Reader

𓆩♡𓆪 ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: angst, hurt/comfort, spoilers for the shibuya incident arc, mentions of violence, descriptions of nanamis body injury, descriptions of gore, body insecurity, depictions of dealing with PTSD, mentions of pregnancy

𓆩♡𓆪 ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ: 8200

𓆩♡𓆪 ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: He tried to hide it, but the haunting behind his closed eye spoke the most for him.

𓆩♡𓆪 ᴀ/ɴ: originally i wrote this for the guide (shameless plug go read) but this could be read as a stand-alone easily. just wanted to imagine if kento had actually been married and what could've happened if he survived shibuya. but mind the warnings!

He could feel his world shrinking in on him, his throat closing in as claustrophobia suddenly overwhelmed him and confined him to a world of fear he never knew he could’ve felt. He tried to struggle, get himself free from its coiled vines, tried to open his eyes out of the darkness that was drowning him, heavy like the tons of water from the ocean washing over him, but he found he could not.

Something was wrong, and when he finally opened his eyes, he understood what it was.

It was completely dark; vision wrapped up in a coat of noir that he couldn’t break free from. On the right everything was still horribly vivid; however, the landscape of that day was forever compacted into his brain as he could trace out every line behind a closed eye to draw it up once more for a retelling, or perhaps in a way to continue to haunt himself. On the left there was nothing; a space free from sense, nothing but a hole filled with darkness reminiscent of nothingness and loneliness, something dire to his being and for his view on the world alone.

He couldn’t see out of his left eye.

Because he no longer had a left eye.

It was jarring at first, not even noticing for a moment that his eye had been plucked out by the fish from that Domain Expansion and he had remained still for the moment as he realized he couldn’t see out of it any longer, frozen in time wondering what happened to bring him to that point before the throbbing pain hit him all at once. He had gritted his teeth and bared it, completely throwing it to the side as he had to keep his attention focused on Megumi and Maki, as their lives mattered more in that moment despite all his injuries then. He had to stay focused, and perhaps he could do it right that time.

His body was burning with adrenaline, muscles bunched forward with tension and nerves lit up alive inside of his veins. He had never been in pain like he had been as of that moment, and he had never felt the need to fight much like he did then, and yet he had continued to stand, refusing to feel that uselessness that he had felt when he found Kiyotaka prone on the floor bleeding out from an injury. It brought back an old memory he thought back to every time he fought; a young boy laid out onto the ground missing the entire lower half of his body, the entire ground coated with blood as it dripped out onto the pavement while he carried him back to the school on his back.

It made him furious.

(It had stained his uniform, his shoes, his hands, pieces of his hair were caked in Yu’s blood, but he couldn’t find himself to even care. The dollops smacking onto the pavement were louder than his own thoughts; vacant and speaking so much for everything in spite of him remaining deathly silent and calm as he slowly walked back to the school heading for the Morgue.)

He refused to let anything like that happen again.

(He could feel the blood seeping out the vacant socket where his left eye had been, the same way it dribbled along out of Yu’s body and stained his clothes, much like how his blue button-up meshed into a violet color the more it was ruined.)

Despite his vision, he knew Megumi wasn’t anywhere in his presence, taken away from that mirrored image of his father and there was that underlining need to run after him, but his concern was lying elsewhere at the arrival of another curse that was more of a horrible threat than the one from before. Its head was bulbous and white, possessing only one eye like a cyclops, and he knew who it was as he shifted all concern to Maki for the moment.

He could see his hand, palm out and short, stubby fingers spread, and he realized his momentum was too fast for him to stop before he touched him. He remembered flexing his abdomen out of habit from the unwanted and foreign touch, and he remembered the way he had smiled up at him (cruel, wicked, evil, inhumane, murderous) before his world was suddenly brighter than it had ever been and bursting into a world of white-hot and orange damnation and he barely felt the burning sensation of Jogo’s cursed energy engulfing him.

It was hothothothothothothot – it was too fucking hot. He couldn’t breathe for a moment (his throat was closing up again; airways constricted and lungs twisting and diminishing, he couldn’t breathe and everything fucking hurt), and he truly believed that he was going to die from suffocation in that moment if it wasn’t over as fast as it came.

He was numb for a few moments while it happened and after it happened, ears ringing from white noise and feeling like he wasn’t even in his body any longer and he was but a shell – a husk of what he used to be. Everything was stinging like needles pricking into every nerve and his body was still buzzing with adrenaline, but he felt numb. He knew what was happening, and despite it all he still stood back up; his legs still worked, he could swing his weapon, and that was all that mattered for the time being.

If he didn’t do anything he would feel useless as he did back then, he couldn’t stand to be a victim of his own incompetence any longer.

Yet, his right eye caught a glance of his left side when he lifted his left arm, and he paused as he looked down at what remained of the left side of his body.

Like the sun opposed to his moon from losing his left eye, the fire spread quickly over his body and melted away parts of his flesh on the left side of his body, leaving nothing but the exposed layer underneath his skin peeling away to blood already beginning to ooze out from the catastrophic wounds. He had lifted his left hand, staring at the remnants of what remained of his skin long gone before raising it higher to touch the empty socket where his left eye had sat.

He wasn’t sure if he was supposed to be feeling anything with his burnt flesh (it felt fake, yet smooth free of any blemishes, but also rough like it didn’t belong), but it was cold in spite of the scorching heat that had engulfed him. But more importantly, it was a dead fact that he wasn’t dreaming and everything that was happening in Shibuya was the reality he was living in.

Satoru was sealed.

Suguru had sealed him – No, not Suguru, he was dead. But someone was wearing his face.

So many people had already died… Civilians…

Regardless of his wounds stinging and stretching like he was peeling off various scabs making him hold back the hisses of pain, he continued onwards to fulfill what he made himself promise to do that moment he returned back to Jujutsu Sorcery and to never feel that worthlessness any longer. He was severely wounded, and he knew that he was on the brink of death, but it couldn’t matter at that moment.

He had to do something.

So, he walked forward, despite everything burning and aching, and despite feeling so tired and hollow inside in that moment, he continued on to do what he sought out.

If you don’t fight for something, you’ll fall for nothing.

He didn’t know how long it was before he came across the hoard of all the mutated humans, but the feeling of enervation was beginning to consume him. He had to take them on, however, it was what he was brought up to do, but even then with his need to carry on he had to stop but for a brief moment and think about what he truly wanted most in the world.

There was nothing more he wanted at that moment than the serenity of sitting along a beach shore with his feet covered in the sand that it brought, listening to the waves crash forward and feel the wind sing through his ears and breeze by his skin as he read all those books he had bought stashed along the bookcase in his bedroom on the beach. He could retire and rest there, he had enough money to do so and he could always just grow his own little vegetables and fruit if he had to. He could have a simple life there, quiet and in the grace of Mother Nature at her finest, and the more he envisioned it, the more it became a clear vision.

Build a small house on the beach, it didn’t have to be much, just enough to feel cozy and at home – domestic. He could see the figure in front of him walking along the shore barefoot, a short, white sundress coating their form as they dipped their toes in the water and seemingly danced along with the wind. It made him exceedingly happy to watch them, seeing them happy and at peace, safe and healthy, and he didn’t know why it did perhaps at that moment, but it was enough for him to sigh in contentment for the world he could envision.

Malaysia.

Kuantan, Malaysia.

(He was in so much pain.)

He almost nearly wanted to put his weapon down, just to lay down and finally rest as he was so tired, but his mind was fighting his body all at once, telling him there was more that he needed to do before so. That there was something holding him back from doing so, and he sighed as he fought through every memory he had for that pull.

Though he thought of Maki, Megumi, Naobito, hoping for their safety then, that wasn’t what was buzzing in the back of his mind. He thought of Yuji, wondering where he was for a brief second before he realized he must have been going after Megumi, and then understanding that it wasn’t him. He was flitting over each face in his mind that might’ve been in Shibuya and needed him (Nobara, Ino, Toge, Akari, Kiyotaka, Yaga, anyone that may have been in Shibuya), but coming up short, yet he ended up pausing before taking a swing at the mutated humans beginning to crowd him in.

(That figure on the beach with him in Malaysia, he knew that figure. He had etched every single inch of that figure’s skin into his mind, being able to trace lines like constellations in the sky every time he closed his eyes so that could map out everything about them and perfectly envision them in his dreams and memories. It was all black and white at first, then an upsurge of all the hues in the color spectrum that rushed over until you were brought to life like a page in a coloring book and standing in front of him on the shore of a beach in Malaysia living the rest of your lives together like he had dreamt of so many times unbeknownst to you.

That figure… it was you, his family.

His most beloved.)

Where… were you? Here? God, no, you couldn’t be.

No… you were at home.

He remembered it clearly; your eyes shining up at him and making that face he never wanted to see regardless, nearly looking like you wanted cry again when you had not cried in so long and he had sworn to himself he’d never be the reason you cried ever again. He got the call about Shibuya, but you did not; bedridden over an illness you seemed to have picked up and had just gotten home from the doctor over it. You weren’t supposed to be going out anywhere, and he didn’t want you going anywhere if you were sick as was, your health was more important than anything and he would’ve been damned if you were out trying to work sick.

Yet still… something had been off about you.

You had fisted your hands into his shirt, a small smile on your face that didn’t quite reach your eyes as he had curled his arms around your shoulders with his fingers digging into the sweater you wore that was his, however he didn’t mind it since he loved it when you wore his clothes around the house. He had asked you what was wrong, and you had pressed yourself closer to him, with a sheen in your eyes that was the tall-tale sign of your eyes watering. He was nearly ready to drop everything for you just to see what was wrong with you, but you finally answered him, and it startled him just as much.

“When you come home, I have to tell you something.”

“Why can’t you tell me now?”

“They need you… But please come back to me, this is… Promise me you’ll come home, Kento.”

He did; he promised you that he would.

You had sent him off after that, his stomach in knots as he thought back to your worried face and tear-filled eyes the longer he sat on that train to Shibuya. He didn’t know why you had been pushed to the back of his mind, though perhaps it was because he knew you were safe at home, away from everything that was happening and safe at home. Though when you returned back to the forefronts of his brain, he remembered that promise.

He was never one to make promises, but you were adorably cute every time you’d make him do pinky promise over something so trivial that it made him want to laugh and he couldn’t help but to play along. However, those promises from before were nothing compared to the gravity of the oath he swore to you before he left for Shibuya.

He couldn’t break it to you and raising his left hand again to spy the ring (it was miracle it was still there) marring his ring finger, he knew he had to come home to you. And yet… (he let his eye wander over the flesh that was no longer there, red hue startling him more than the sign of blood pouring out of a wound on his body, and knowing that it would never heal over to skin or be the same again; that left side of him was completely tarnished from how it used to be) he wondered how you would perceive seeing him…

He couldn’t think about it too much longer, for the mutated flesh and blood that were the remnants of the humans were closing in on him, and he realized then if he wanted to complete his own promise to live a life free of regrets and free of any uselessness he had to keep fighting for the sake of you.

(He was in so much pain.)

If he ended up leaving you alone, that would be his ultimate sin... His biggest regret.

He took on the mutated humans (every swing was pain; stinging in each limb as blood spattered onto him and the floor), swinging (the burnt flesh along his arm screamed from each quick, rapid movement of his shoulder, the tendons in his muscles stretching and snapping; bleeding) and slicing (his vision was getting hazy, the loss of his left eye beginning to finally take its toll on him as it became too much for one eye to handle everything that was coming at him), until all of them fell away to his feet (the way they diminished and were put to rest made him sigh in longing; it looked so comforting to be put out their misery) and he was left standing.

(He was tired, and his breathing beginning to leave him.)

He wasn’t sure where he came from, but it was a beat and there was another hand touching him; a light tap that made him pause and look up to who was touching him. Mahito was there, palm upon his skin and fingers spread much like Jogo, and the humming of a nauseating cursed energy of his that settled heavy in a squeeze along his esophagus and a coil within his gut. He knew what it meant.

He knew then he had failed in altering the course of what was the happen; the Butterfly Effect already set in motion for what was to happen from the moment he stepped foot onto that train for Shibuya; the moment you told him he had to go because you were prioritizing his work over you (he wanted to laugh; why would you ever think he cared more about work over you?) and he listened to you despite the worry something was wrong with you.

It was all falling into motion, and he couldn’t change a damn thing.

He had felt the same way whenever he had been trapped inside of Mahito’s Domain Expansion, yet that time Yuji wasn’t busting through the veil that had covered them to save him. He wasn’t going to be able to watch you nearly break Yuji’s ribs with the hug you had given him when he had told you what had happened. He wouldn’t be able to hear you tease him over the soft spot he had developed for the boy; Itadori Yuji reminding him so much of Haibara Yu –

It was brief, but he remembered Mahito and he speaking, though the conversations words were lost on him the moment he stopped seeing Mahito and in his place was a face he had not forgotten and wouldn’t forget for as long as he lived.

Yu stood in front of him once again, youth frozen in time while he kept moving forward with age despite that hollow feeling in his heart the moment he realized Yu was dead. He only stared at Yu for a long moment, the toll of his injuries rushing forward all at once and the adrenaline beginning to fade away as all the pain crashed over him like a tsunami’s wave and he just grew so tired. Yet he did not fall there, he let himself fade to a time before, when he had decided to come back to the school after four years and resume what he had been doing for years, but he still wondered as he stood covered in burns and missing an eye what he truly returned for and if anything he had done really ever amounted to anything in the end.

He looked at the boy smiling at him still, despite it all, and wondered if he could find his guidance there.

Haibara, what the Hell was I trying to do anyway? I ran… Even though I ran away, I came back with the vague reason of the finding the work worthwhile…

What was the reason?

He was startled when Yu seemed to hear him, the thought he had kept deep within the recesses of his mind unknown to everyone for the façade he put on, and watched slowly as Yu’s arm raised, pointing an index finger to the left and he heard the name before he saw him.

“Nanamin!”

Yuji…

He could hear Mahito greet him as well, but could not see him, as he told Yu that he could not tell him that and it only be a burden and a curse placed upon the boy’s shoulders in the end. He already had enough on his plate as was, he could not do that to Yuji. He would settle for something not as heavy for boy… and perhaps… maybe tell him something to say to you.

I’m sorry.

(He was getting sleepy.)

However, before he could get the words out to reassure Yuji, Yu moved again, head turning slightly with a gleaming grin painted on his lip to look slightly behind him. He felt confused, but when he heard the oncoming footsteps from Yuji and from the second unidentified person as the harsh crackle in the atmosphere shifted from the arrival of a strong source of cursed energy, he supposed he knew then.

It nearly happened to fast for him to comprehend as Yu’s visage faded away in a cloud of dark colors and he was suddenly looking back at Mahito, whose eyes had widened and had removed his hand from his chest to turn and try to stop the oncoming assailant before the side of their foot slammed into the side of his head in a devastating crack and he heard the flesh tear away and bone crack within the arm that he had placed upon him. He watched the blood fall along the arm, realizing the kick had sent Mahito several yards away crashing through the wall and his arm had been completely torn off.

He knew he wasn’t dead however, his arm would regrow and he’d be back up, but he was more worried at the heartbreaking expression on your face whenever you stood in front of him taking in what he looked like after everything that had happened.

He wanted to ask you what the Hell you thought you were doing, why you were there, why were you crying, until he realized it was all because of him.

Don’t look at me like this, please.

How were you ever going to look at him the same again?

He didn’t say anything, realizing his breath was beginning to leave him the same moment he spotted Mahito again. He couldn’t speak though, legs finally failing him as he collapsed and started to spit up blood in hacks, his body beginning to shut down as he heard you and Yuji scream at the same time.

Mahito would hurt you both, and he couldn’t do a damn thing.

You wouldn’t be able to take on Mahito, he was far too strong for you and could kill you.

He had to do something, but the image of yours and Yuji’s faces hovering over him was blurry; hazy as the one eye he still had begun to close. He realized then the breaths he was taking were panicked, and he couldn’t move his legs or his body as his heart in spite of withering away was pulsing at ridiculous pace.

He was dying.

He couldn’t move, he couldn’t see, he couldn’t feel –

He had to save you and Yuji, but he couldn’t move, he couldn’t see, he couldn’t feel –

He could hear you both though, calling out to him as he fell down, his world shrinking in on him in the pitch darkness that he slowly begun to fear when he remembered the people within the light he had to care for. He didn’t want to leave you alone, but his lungs were closing; burning like his body when he had been set on fire, and his vision closing into a pit of nothingness like the socket of where his left eye had been.

He had to do something, or else he really was worthless in the end, but –

He couldn’t breathe… and he was dyingdyingdyingdying –

He couldn’t breathe –!

When Nanami Kento awoke, he took a long inhale, eye opening to the familiar ceiling of his bedroom, but not able to hear anything other than the own ringing in his ears and his heart resounding inside of his chest. He was aware he was panting, and everything felt too hot and constricted around him despite the cool breeze wisping through an open window in front of the bed. His throat felt raw and sore, like he had been hacking and choking on his own breaths and saliva in his sleep, and there was an anxiety-stricken situation gripping his heart as he realized he couldn’t move for the moment and suddenly he was thrown back into his dream – no, his memory of that Halloween night five years beforehand.

The world squeezing him tight, his body failing him and everything just fucking hurting again. It was so much pain, and it was too much, everything in him screaming at him as his tendons pulled and snapped, his body stung and bled, and his mind told him to lay down and rest.

He fought it off, he couldn’t fall that time.

Not again, he couldn’t do it again, he had to get up and fight that time…

He could do something – he had to do something.

He had to get up and fightfightfightfight and keep Yuji and you safe –

“Breathe, Kento.”

The voice nearly startled him, but it was spoken so gently and cautiously that he couldn’t find himself to be afraid of it for the moment. It nearly sounded underwater, distorted even as he had to repeat it back into his mind a few times to fully understand what they meant, and when he let the vibrations of it ooze into his skin and let the words spoken twirl around his brain like a ribbon, he understood he knew that voice and it wasn’t there to harm him.

It was your voice.

“You’re okay.”

It made him calm down a little, and you kept your distance for the moment until you knew that he was okay and repeated a mantra that had been told to him many times by the doctor and you whenever he had the horrifying tidbits late at night.

“Count and breathe. Take as long as you need.”

Yes, that was right. He could breathe, his lungs weren’t failing him and his heart was okay.

Kento just needed to count and breathe until he was sure he was able to go on and he was okay.

One; inhale.

Two; exhale.

Three (his fingers twitched, and he realized he was gripping the sheets so hard it was a wonder they didn’t rip); inhale.

Four; exhale.

Five; inhale.

Six (he let go of the sheets, the softness of the comforter returning to his sense of feeling as he realized he was not lying on the cold ground bleeding and instead in a warm bed that molded into his body and let him rest well); exhale.

Seven (the white noise in his ears retreated for the crash of the waves from the ocean along Malaysia outside the house, and the blurred vision of the ceiling fan spinning became clear and allowed him to see the moonbeams from the night glare in and bathing the bedroom in its heavenly shine); inhale.

Eight (he could move again, stretching his legs and wiggling his toes as he blinked rapidly and could move his tongue once more, and there was the soft smell of you wisping up his nostrils as he realized you were there and he was there); exhale.

Nine (he wasn’t in Shibuya anymore, he was at home with you and you were both alive and safe); inhale.

Ten (he wasn’t in Shibuya anymore, he was at home with you and you were both alive and safe); exhale.

Kento blinked the moment he let out that lasting and deep exhale, his mind and body returning to him as he came fully to his senses and finally calmed down. He had that mantra on his mind as he felt himself fall into ease and swallowed down the nausea brimming in his stomach, the burn in his throat subsiding for good as his heart settled down along with his breathing. His lungs no longer screamed for air and his body was his own again.

He was home.

He was alive.

It was just a dream (how many times was he going to be plagued with the images of it?).

And more importantly, you were right next to him, alive and safe still.

“You’re sweating and burning up; I thought you were coming down with another fever again until I heard you.”

Kento nearly sighed when he felt the cool touch of your hand wipe across the back of his forehead to swipe the sweat away, keeping his eye on the ceiling fan spinning for a grounding sense of reality that he was no longer staring up the shrinking, claustrophobic darkness that had threatened to swallow him whole. Your touch would forever soothe him, a solace you offered him along with just your mere presence that he greedily drunk in like the glass of water you were pressing to his lips then.

He felt your other hand slide underneath his neck, fingers tickling the overgrown undercut he had long since abandoned in favor of letting just all be one length, and you lifted his head off the pillow to coax him into drinking some of the liquid. He of course was more than welcome to allow you to do all of it, as it had become a routine of sorts from the various nights the event would happen.

(And as much as he loved it receiving that sweet attention from you knowing you truly loved and care, Kento hated it. He felt like burden each time it happened and you were there to take care of him. You had reassured him so many times, and so many times he liked to pretend that his nightmares didn’t bother him, but it was futile in the end with you. You two were married, you knew everything down to each other’s favorite scent candles, all the way to what made each of you tick.

He hated how pitiful he felt over the trauma of everything, and you were the one lifting him up and comforting him when that’s all he wanted to do for you, and he felt he no longer could.)

“Drink,” you told him, thumb rubbing his nape in comforting circles, “It’ll help your throat.”

He did as you said, parting his lips and letting you tilt the glass forward so that the refreshing and cold water swished along the inside of his mouth and he swallowed it with gluttonous intentions. His throat immediately felt soothed from the refreshing drink, the burning that had been reaching all the way to his ears subsiding as he took a good four gulps before signaling he was done. His tongue slid out to lick along his dry lips (and the one side that’d forever remain that way), and he finally spoke since waking.

“Thank you…”

Kento heard you set the glass back down onto your nightstand, returning to him as your fingers traced along the contours of his face and push away his hair laying over his forehead. “Mm, you don’t have to thank me…” you paused for moment, letting a hand slide down to rest in the middle of his chest, cautious present in your movement and from the way he heard your breath intake and lips part, “…Another nightmare?”

He learned a long time ago that not talking about it made it worse. “Yeah.”

You leaned closer, voice slightly wavering as your sweet smell made him slightly dizzy, yet grounded him, “Was it Shibuya again?”

Against his wishes, his throat closed up and his stomach balled into nausea, a foreign feeling manifesting itself into his eye as he blinked rapidly to try and get rid of it. It wasn’t the mention of Shibuya so much that tore him apart, it was the memories that accompanied him from it and how much he never could escape it despite it being five years since it had happened. He was nowhere near Shibuya, or Jujutsu Sorcery as a whole since he had retired from it after recovering from his injuries, and the society as a whole falling apart on itself after the incident and the many lives that had been taken in the end from the devastating event.

All the lives they had lost… the people he knew that were gone…

He swallowed as that sensation crawled up back into his eye and answering you as he hated the way his voice sounded when he did.

“When isn’t it?”

He felt you shift and then your smell was completely submerging him; shielding him away from all the terrors that threatened to tear his sanity apart and leave him in ragged strips, and his heart threatened to burst through his ribcage for when you came to him for his vulnerability and showcasing your love.

Kento could feel the tear that wanted to fall from the eye he no longer had when you pressed such a tender and loving kiss to the charred skin below the desolate socket free of the eyepatch he wore to kept it hidden from the world, feeling your touch on the same left side of his body completely scarred with the flesh burnt away when you ran your hand along his chest and caressed the area over his heart. It still would beat healthily underneath his ribcage and your touch, a full reminder he was still alive despite everything that had happened. He was still alive with you, and everything was safe.

He was safe.

You were safe.

(You’d be so disappointed in him over his constant worry over you, but he couldn’t help it, not after what had happened that Halloween five years before and the circumstances that pertained to you that day.)

“I’m sorry.”

Your eyelashes fluttered against the wounded skin of his cheek, lips still sweet on him as your hand slid away from his chest and you cupped the smooth side of his face. You turned him to face you, and he was suddenly awestruck like always looking at your figure bathing in the moonshine coming from the various windows of your shared bedroom, every contour on you seemingly shining in the light the moon graced the Earth with as he wanted to find the words to tell you that you were beautiful in spite of telling you so many times before.

One strap of your negligee had slid down your arm, and the soft sigh that left you matched the tenderness in your eyes, “What’re you apologizing for?”

Kento swallowed, wondering how you were still able to look upon him like that when he looked the way he did, “I woke you.”

You sighed and leaned down to press a quick kiss to the area over his heart, pulling your hand away from his face to instead curl your fingers around his own (they were so soft compared to the grooved flesh of his own, and he wondered what it felt like to you each time you touched the left side of him and when you would place a kiss on his mismatched lips). “You know I don’t sleep so much at night as of lately.”

How could he forget? You were twenty-three weeks pregnant. Again.

He paused and lifted his hand, settling it over your belly that was protruding outwards as he remembered his son liked to stay awake at night and kick as opposed to sleeping during the day with you most of the time. He wasn’t sure when you picked up that messed up sleeping schedule (and he didn’t necessarily like it either, often reprimanding you for staying awake into the deep hours of the night and only falling asleep when the clocks began to turn for the morning and sun was rising over the horizon of the ocean), but it made him feel all more bad when you would be awake while he slept soundly half the time.

Holding your stomach brought him more comfort; relaxing him as he remembered the pregnancy along with your daughter’s was an accident all the same. Regardless of it, he was more than happy for a second child (he wanted to laugh when he remembered you told him two was the limit since your daughter was already a handful as was), as deep down he always dreamed of being a father, but being the father of your children only made him all the more ecstatic for what was to come.

“He kicking bad tonight?” he eventually asked, taking to rubbing your belly to see if he could coax any movement out of your son. He loved it when he would kick his hands, his entire body warming with an emotion he couldn’t quite describe as it reminded him of the life inside of you was his family and the very first time you grabbed his hand and let him feel your daughter move.

You stretched and moved to lie back onto your back, Kento subconsciously following you as he rolled onto his side and pressed his lips to your shoulder, and a short yawn left you, “Yeah, though I think he’s starting to take after you and your night owl behaviors.”

“I didn’t stay up late last night.”

“I know, you went to bed at eight. You haven’t done that in so long, thought you might’ve been reverting back to your old man habits.”

He was not old. He was only thirty-three, and you were a year behind him. Kento slid his arm underneath your chest and pinched your side, relishing the small laugh you gave before he sighed and remembered just why he had went to bed so early. “Miho wore me out. I never knew the energy five-year old’s can have.”

“Mmm, I know, she was still wired when I put her to bed. But it doesn’t help you give in and spoil her too.”

“You don’t complain when I spoil you.”

“It’s different.”

He let a hum be his answer, closing his eye and basking in the relaxation he was beginning to feel with you. Yet there was still that lingering darkness haunting him behind his closed eye, and every time he looked into the mirror and saw himself. Kento had never been one for vanity or caring particularly how he looked, however he would admit back when you two had first gotten into a relationship he may have spent a little more time sprucing himself up in the mirror because he wanted to impress you. He had told you many of times he looked like some random guy in comparison to you parading around by his side.

You had told him it was surely the opposite however, reprimanding him for not ever seeing truly how handsome he was.

Nevertheless, he was not a vain man nor took any pride in over his looks, but the moment he looked in the mirror at himself in hospital restroom and saw what he would look like for the remainder of his life, all he could think about was how you would perceive him. Would you look at him in disgust each time he removed his patch and saw the empty place where his eye had sat? Would you shy away from his touch when he would reach a hand out to touch you? Would you never kiss him, hold him, or even touch him again?

Kento knew it was pathetic on his behalf to even think about it, but he wasn’t going to blame you if you were scared of him.

In the end all of it proved to be just his overthinking, you still kissed him the same, still hugged him the same, still held his hand the same, and you still even let him touch you the way he had done so many times before and even waited on him to become comfortable enough again to have sex with him again. It was folly he thought like that, remembering the many times you had kissed every inch of his skin and told him how beautiful he was, but he couldn’t help it at times to think about it.

Especially when it came to his daughter and upcoming son.

Pressing a kiss to your bare shoulder and not yet ready to fall back asleep, he started up another conversation, trying to get any dampening thoughts out of his head, “Thought of a name?”

The sigh that left you made your shoulders droop, your hand moving to thread your fingers into his own as they rested on your ribcage, “No, I even looked at websites… God, don't laugh. You’re a better thinker than I am, have you?”

He hummed and rubbed his cheek along your shoulder, “I have some, but I want you to name him.”

“Kento…”

“It’s only fair. I named Miho, and I thought back then if we were to have another that I’d want you to name them.”

“…You were already thinking about another back then?”

He snorted into your skin, “I told you that having a family with you was something I wanted, even back when we got married it was on my mind… Just didn’t think both times would be unplanned either…”

Sadly, it was true, Miho had been the world’s biggest surprise for him (actually you as well) and the circumstances behind your pregnancy had nearly given him a heart attack when he awoke in that hospital bed, and it was one of the first things that he was told… He could laugh then remembering how pissed you were that you weren’t the one that got to tell him, but the overwhelming emotion of happiness that drowned him knowing you were okay and that he was going to have a child with you won out. His surprise had vanished for an oozing of love and adoration that he was going to have a family.

(You often teased him on how long he held you and how much of a Mother Hen he became over you when he finally got to come home, but he didn’t care, he prioritized you and Miho’s life and health over everything.)

Your upcoming son, however?

He wasn’t sure when that happened, and it wasn’t talked about either as for a long while Kento had thought he’d become infertile from the incident, but fuck, was he wrong. Yet he was not unwelcomed, he was more than happy with you to expand your family by at least one more.

You giggled and he let a small smile press into your shoulder, cherishing in the sound before he felt himself grow sleepier from your voice alone. “I know, but we’ve known longer with him than her, and you got her name out so fast.”

“Give it time, beloved, we still have some months to go.”

You didn’t answer him that time and shifted, turning your head so that your cheek rested atop his hair, the breaths from you tickling his scalp as he realized you were restless. However, you not picking up another conversation was letting those thoughts run their course again, and he was moving his mouth saying and pouring more words out before he could stop them and reprimand himself for bothering you.

“I hope he looks like you…”

“I highly doubt that,” you gave an amused huff and traced a pattern onto the back of his hand with a nail, “he’s more than likely going to look like you.”

He wasn’t sure he wanted that. “Miho looks like you.”

“She has your eyes though, I think my genes only came through because she’s a girl… Though I don’t think that’s how it works…”

Honestly he wasn’t too sure either, he himself knew absolutely nothing about pregnancy and had to read up on it as much as he could to cater to you and tend to your needs. Kento’s eye reopened and he sighed, voice coming out more quieter than he wanted, “…You don’t think he won’t wonder why I look like this?”

He hated that those words passed his lips, but it was fleeting thought he had to let free the moment it passed his mind. He couldn’t hide anything from you any longer, you vouched out every single insecurity to him and he was more than glad you did so that he was able to comfort you, and you had told him many times to let you know if anything ever bothered him; regardless of if it was an insecurity or something you did.

“Kento,” you turned to face him, hand already finding its way to his face as you stroked your thumb along his cheek, “I know he won’t care or wonder, and Miho is proof enough for that too. She’s never once asked you, and she thinks you’re a cool, super, secret hero,” you poked his nose, leaning forward into his face and pressing another kiss onto him while lightly laughing, “She thinks her daddy is a pirate too, she told me today if she thinks if she asked, ‘really nice and with a pretty please’ if you’d take her out on the ocean one day.”

He couldn’t help the rush of heat that flooded up into his cheeks, the flusterment and blush from your sweet words and his daughter’s thoughts about him nearly too much for him to bear. No doubt from the patch he wore over his lost eye she thought that was so, and the few cartoons she had watched that depicted a pirate she associated it with him. It was the most satisfying reassurance he could’ve had knowing Miho never once doubted why her father looked like that and accepted it as was, her childlike fear she may have possessed nonexistent from how much she clung to him.

He had been worried about what his daughter would think of him when she grew old enough to register faces, and even holding her after you gave birth he had been nervous that he was just tainting her alone with the touch of his burnt hand along her soft skin. You had reassured him as quickly as you saw the anxiety present in his expression, something he didn’t think would be possible after everything, and told him that would never be the case. You had told him he wasn’t a monster, that he was still the same Nanami Kento from before and still the same man you had fallen in love with when you were a teenager and would continue to love no matter what.

Kento felt your finger trace down the slope of his nose, breath mingling with his and sweet against his lips as you whispered so softly with a chaste kiss to his top lip, “You really are beautiful, and I wouldn’t trade you or how you are now for anything in the world y’know… You can’t get rid of me so easily either, dork,” you lifted your hand and wiggled your ring finger in his face, the diamond on it glinting and luminous in the moonbeams, “I meant it when I said it that day.”

Eye lidded and sleep beginning to truly befall on him courtesy of your soothing voice and presence, he let a small, lazy smile grace his lips, the hand he had trapped under him and the one forever rough sliding forward to caress your cheek with a thumb stroking your skin as he leaned into you to press a firm kiss to your awaiting lips. You slid your hand down to his heart, fingers splaying as you felt his heartbeat and let him know once more that he was still alive, he was still healthy and you were there with him.

He knew he was more a man of actions at times rather than words, but marriage had made him more sentimental – you had made him more sentimental and he never felt the slightest bit of embarrassment or self-consciousness in ever telling you.

Kento mouthed them against your bottom lip; a lethargic kiss he had placed on you as he let you know from his heart and soul alone like he always did.

“I love you.”

You sighed against his mouth before he pulled away, his eye heavy with exhaustion as you threw a leg over his hip and ran your fingers through his hair, “I love you too, handsome.”

Every time you told him, he stored it away into his heart, keeping it as close as he could as he knew you meant it just much as he meant it every time he told you. Each time you told him was as special as the first time you ever told him, and each time he knew he wouldn’t ever love someone like the way he loved you.

He knew he was able to fall asleep then, the harrowing thoughts and memories gone as you and your touch brought forward new ones he liked to look back into that helped to have the sweet dreams he so longed for that he knew your warmth in the bed with him alone could bring. Yet his sleepiness brought forward more of his eccentric behavior, words flying free of his vocal chords before he could stop them in a rouse to keep the content mood going as he didn’t want to leave you awake without parting you with perhaps something unlike what he would say and knew would make you laugh and lift your spirits.

(And probably tease him over as well in the morning.)

“I’m gonna tell Pumpkin since Imma pirate then you’re the mermaid who captivated me with one look, and now we’re married, and you live on land, and she’s secretly part mermaid.”

“If that wasn’t so cute about Miho, I’d call you corny, Kento. God, you’re such a dad.”

#{🩸} nee fics #nanami kento #nanami kento x reader #nanami kento x y/n #nanami kento x you #jujutsu kasien #jujutsu kaisen nanami #jjk #nanami x reader

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xzaddyzanakinx · 2 days

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Stalker!Ani’s Love Playlist

Ghost’s list is at the end❤️

Songs that remind him of you and your beautiful love story 🖤

Tame [non-metal girly starter kit]

A Little Piece of Heaven - when you have abandonment issues so you kill ur love and keep her in a freezer (but it’s catchy/upbeat & cute)

Unholy Confessions - sin is okay as long as it’s for love

Dig Up Her Bones - I miss you so I need your bones

Lonely Day - you think you’re dying without me? Ha!

Love Bites - pretends to chomp your neck when this plays

Girl I Know - not a love song, but it’s about lovin’ to fuck

Vampire Girl

Hand of Blood - I killed someone pls don’t leave me

Dead As Fuck - sometimes I’m horny so I dig up your body

Die, Die My Darling - sometimes he’s annoyed but he doesn’t mean it

[For the girls who can stand to listen to harsh vocals]

Love Me To Death

How Can I Love With These Hands? - these hands kill people oops

Pain Remains: one two three

Walk With Me In Hell

Sing To The Grave - dead? Not for long!

👀 Sex Playlist

Fuck Like You’re in Hell

Evil Thing

She Rides

Tear You Apart

Even When I’m Not With You

Closer

Discipline

ADIDAS

Killpop

A Girl Like You

Freak On A Leash

Ruptured Heart Theory - wants it on the playlist but it has harsh vocals so he begrudgingly took it out

🎵Power Ballads

Love Me Forever

Love Zone

The Deeper The Love - plays this and My Heart I Surrender on guitar for you

LOVE Machine and Fuck Like A Beast - def air humps you if given the opportunity

Gore [Ghost’s Love Songs]

Listen at your own risk, trigger warning for all. If you can’t understand the vocals, read the lyrics!

In Love

Sputter Supper

Games Of Humiliation

Fucked With A Knife

Slave To The Casket

Dead Body Love

Die My Bride

Romantic Tales

Entrails Of You

Together As One

Zombie Love

Slowly We Rot

Sometimes Dead Is Better

Sometimes Dead Is Better (two diff songs I swear)

Errant Harlot: A Deathgrinding Love Tragedy

Nailed Through Her Cunts

Breeding Death

Eaten

Tag List:

@wickedtactics @tsugumiholic @kingdomhate @burnthecheshirewitch @exquisitcorpse @arzua10 @bby-imasociopath @depressed-kay @aliciaasky @naty-1001 @mrsmikaelsxn @bunnylovesani @ausskywalker @angelsadmired @chocolatepalacecloudhoagie @starkiller419 @hearts4mitski4 @lethargi c @allhailbuckybarnes-blog @shadowhuntyi @mortalheartache @fallinlovewithevil @sythethecarrot @chaoticantihero @vadersslut @luvvfromme @anakinsbaee @sweetcheesecakesblog @luvskywxlker @angelsadmired @kaminokatie @anakin-pilled @graveyard-stray @chiaraanatra @jediavengers @zapernz @lunalitva @salted-snailz @queenofchaos99 @ellie-luvsfics @dazednstars141 @hopesworlld @lonaah @guiltycherries @syralix @doblasftcisco @demieyesore @hemmoxloser @ahano

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penvisions · 15 hours

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gone to the dogs {chapter one}

Pairing: Boston QZ! Joel Miller x F! Reader

Summary: Bared teeth and instincts are all you have to defend yourself while out beyond the walls of the zone. And sometimes, you have Joel Miller, though he's just as apt to turn on you as anyone else.

Word Count: 2.5k

Warnings: canon typical violence, canon typical language, canon typical gore, outbreak fic, age gap (only by about ten years), dark fic, dark joel miller, mean joel miller, joel miller is uptight, degrading language, sexual language, sexual proposition, violence, heated interactions, adult language, fighting, references to injuries, blood, one (1) instance of joel miller bashing someone's head in, gun use, gun violence, reader chokes someone out, reader is snarky, reader meets joel toe-to-toe with insults and it's amazing both reader and joel pov, lemme know if there are any i missed!

A/N: this is different by far than anything else i've written and shared. dark joel miller content tends to be so controversial sometimes but i've been wanting to explore this part of his character for quite a while. the reader insert is also far more...robust than any i've written but it's all so exciting! please lemme know what y'all think?

ao3 link || series masterlist || navigation || ko-fi

The tracks are faint, you’re barely able to make them out yourself as you crouch low to the ground and move your hand in the direction they look like they’re headed in.

“Hey, you missed somethin’.”

“The hell you talking about, there ain’t nothin’ to miss.” He’s suddenly hovering over you, his own footfalls silent despite the pain you know he carries in his back and the swagger he has to adapt to not irritate it. He’s shining his flashlight on the imprint you had managed to find among all the dirt and rubble, a barely there scrape in the dirt that could be mistaken for anything. His voice is harsh, degrading in tone as he scoffs at your find. “You didn’t find shit, stop trying to make somethin’ outta nothin’.”

“Yeah and I suppose the marks that look about the same depth and span out in an even trail heading north ain’t shit either, huh?” You ignore the heat of his legs clad in faded and dirt smeared denim far too close for comfort. It would be easy to brush against them if you turned just slightly. Straitening back up to your full height, you don’t step back as you aim your own light over the similar marks that lead down a narrow path between the scattered and broken bricks. “It’s someone’s staggered gait, would bet they twisted their ankle or knee and it’s dragging enough to leave ‘em behind for us. Need to trust the younger pair of eyes we’ve got out here.”

“Don’t mean it’s our guy.” Joel doesn’t budge, ignoring the double whammy insult, head turning back at the hush of wind sweeping between the crumbling buildings. He turns his light off, securing it between his belt and waistband on the back of his hip. You know he knows there’s some truth to your words with how he ignores them. A habit of his you picked up, silence in the wake of begrudging agreement. Never voiced lest someone overhear that he had his moments of amenable tendencies, even if they were very rare and far between.

“Could be.” You insist, you knew what you were doing. You knew how to get the damn job done and if he heeded your words even once, he would realize it could make the situation go a whole lot smoother than it had been. But of course he doesn’t, he’s as stubborn as you are. Something you loathe about the man who had become one of your partners. It was hard to trust him when he didn’t trust you, constantly at odds with the gruff way he insisted he knew better. It was beginning to get on your nerves, the days harder when you had to interact with him in such close proximity.

“Could be isn’t good enough.”

“Do you need a blowjob or something?” You turn slightly to face him, his strong profile highlighted by the dark golden hues of the setting sun.

“Excuse me?" He pinned you with a dark glare, not taking kindly to your question. He’s chest to chest with you now, hard expression aimed down at you as you don’t move an inch. You wouldn’t back down, never had before and wouldn’t now. He may be intimidating, but you were too in your own ways. Hell, the first encounter you had with the man ended up with your knife at his throat and your knee over his crotch.

Him and Tess had been in your apartment, staking out the smuggling ‘competition’ once they had arrived in the Boston zone. Coming home from a rather painful migraine after shoveling ashes of deceased people had been one of the highlights of the day, if such a thing could even be considered that, only to find two strange people rummaging around through your things. Joel hadn’t been prepared for you to turn on him first, thinking he had hidden himself well in the shadow of your door and following it as you slowly closed it behind you.

A warning shot fired off at Tess had her scrambling behind the beat-up couch in the middle of the room while you turned on him. Only after demanding answers from them and getting them from the woman as she crouched behind the furniture, had you backed down from a stoic Joel.

“You heard me. You're pent up and snapping at everyone, need some relief?" Tilting your chin up, you meet his dark gaze head on, smirk pulling your lips up on one side. His eyes dilate just the slightest bit before narrowing, but you caught it and he knows you did. His voice is the deepest you’ve ever heard as he slowly responds with only one syllable.

“No."

"I think you do. Don't think I haven't seen the way your eyes drag down my body when you're walking behind me.” A bold statement, but a true one nonetheless. His eyes were a heavy and heady weight whenever they did exactly what you taunted. The thrill of the older man merely looking at you when he thought you wouldn’t see it perked up your self-esteem in a way you weren’t completely immune to, even in the shambles of what the world had turned into.

"Delusional. you're a delusional little-“

"I’m not a little girl, and you damn well know that." You punch the tip of your pointer finger into his chest, the dirty denim warm from his body heat. He’s a big man with a big reputation and it’s hard not to feel powerful as you obviously found one of the weak spots of his soft underbelly. An attack dog, a guard dog, a rabid dog, they all had one thing in common. They were only as strongest as their weakest point.

And you think you just found his.

The mischief of the unexpected discovery must glint in your eyes because his brows furrow impossibly deeper. The frown lines around his mouth pulling his thick mustache down, though it does nothing to shield the pale pink of his full lips.

He scoffs again, a harsh sound from the depths of his chest. Smacking your hand away from him, he takes off to follow the trail he can see a little better now that you’ve pointed it out.

“Coulda fooled me.”

“Act like you’re hot shit around the zone, only reason people don’t mess with you is cause of me.”

“I was doin’ just fine on my own. Remind me again, who staked out who to scope out the competition?”

“Wouldn't let you touch me if I was at the end of a barrel, and it was my saving grace."

“Fuck off, Miller.” You spit back, unable to rise to his taunt even as you fall in line beside him. That one stung, you had to admit. It was your own stupid fault, for finding him so attractive. From his silver hair to the way he carried a lifetime on his shoulders.

But his attitude muddied it, he was no better than a lot of the men you had run into before reuniting with your brother. The end of the world bringing out the worst in people, just like you had never one to sling insults so harshly or tease people easily a decade older than yourself who could snap your neck with a well-placed grip. Just like you assumed the man Joel had been before all this wouldn’t have even dared to think of talking to a woman with such spite and malice, if his faded accent told you more than he ever would.

The trail ends just at the shattered glass of what was once a revolving door entrance to a skyscraper looms ahead. There’s fresh blood splatter and the bag of supplies stolen from where they had been hidden for you and Joel to pick up. Two shells from a gun lay on the ground beside it, and you quickly grip your handgun to survey the area for the culprit who fired the shots.

Joel holds up two fingers, your attention going to him almost instinctively as he motions for you to crouch and round the left side of what remains of the door and into the building after the drops of blood. His eyes are focused, his full lips a hard line as he nods once to make sure you understand him.

Only looking away once you return the gesture. He turns so his back is to yours and makes sure there’s enough coverage for you both with his own gun at the ready. As quietly as you can manage with what’s still hopefully inside the pack, you pick it up with your free hand and avoid as much glass as possible.

No shots ring out, no bullets lodge themselves into your shoulder or Joel’s, everything is eerily still as you both move in tandem to seek the protection of the building. It seems to be blocked off inside, large pieces of plywood secured over the doors that had once been for elevators. The emergency exit off the right barricaded with all the furniture that once filled the ground floor waiting area.

“Fuckin’ told you it was a trail.” You mumble as the conflict seems to be over, the body of the man who had taken off with your hidden pack behind the front desk. Fresh blood seeping from a gunshot wound to his neck and the bandage wrapped thick around his ankle. You don’t flinch when Joel brushes past you harshly to stomp the bottom of his worn boots into the man’s head or the sick crunch that echoes slightly in the open space. Ensuring he doesn’t turn if he had been infected.

He rounds on you quickly enough to stir your instincts, the fleeting fear of him doing the same to you flaring up and making you take a half step back at the fierce look in his eye. The words he practically growls at you making your heart stutter painfully in your chest, suddenly breathless at the combination.

“Would you shut your fuckin’ mouth before I shut it for you? Tired of hearing that shrill voice all the god damn time.”

You huff, trying to play off the fear as indifference, shoving the bag of supplies at him. He doesn’t move to catch it, allowing it to hit him square in the chest, the pills and bullets contained inside rattling as the entire thing fell to the ground with a thunk.

Joel could only watch as you stalked off without another word, shoulders tense and hands shoved deep in the pockets of your jacket. He had seen the dilation of your eyes, the way your chest had risen with a quick inhale at his intensity. He had scared you.

That was new and he wasn’t sure if he liked it any better than you teasing him about being uptight and needing a little bit of pleasure in his life. An unpleasant lump rises in his throat and he tries to swallow it down.

Frowning, he bends to pick up the fallen pack, shoving it into his own nearly empty one before following after you. The silence that had fallen allows him to pick up the faint sound of labored breathing. But it isn’t coming from you up ahead.

It must’ve registered as a third person in the same instant for you because you’re turning to him with a finger pressed to your lips as you crouch behind a chunk of blasted concrete, gun already in hand. He mirrors you, reflections of each other as you each move around the barrier and take an assessing peak around respective corners.

Another man is laid out a few yards away, upper body slumped heavily on against the tire of a rusted car.

He’s barely alive, his breath rattling in his chest at a timbre that could only signal his impending death. A stark sound he recalls from a time long ago, both painfully fresh and numbed by years of oppression. He blinks the sound away, eyes closed for barely a second before you’re closing the distance with quick and quiet movements. A lunging dog at the sight of a threat. Constantly poised to take out anything that challenged the life you clung to.

It’s a reminder of why he willingly works with you, the way your smaller hands close around the man’s neck and clench. Shoulders displaying the strength you possess even with rationed food and improper amenities for life. If he wasn’t on your side, you would turn those same hands on him without a second thought. You had the first time you had met, when he had willingly gone into the den you had created for yourself in search of answers. In search of the name people gave when asked about who had the most knowledge on how to sneak out of the zone he now resides in.

He watches as you pick the man’s corpse clean, ration cards going in your pocket that he doesn’t think to demand a fair share of. Of the gun you hold out to him in silent offer.

No words are exchanged as you lead him back to the perimeter of the zone as the sun dips completely below the horizon. Moonlight illuminating your body effortlessly slinking and squeezing into places you had picked out that would allow for him to do the same with little trouble. You knew the operations of the zone, hell you probably were the reason some of them were orchestrated the way they were. The fear he had seen in you may have been fleeting, a response that allowed you to recognize the threat he could pose to you as well, but the way he admired your will to survive was not.

You only stay at his side long enough to relay the run to Tess, who had stayed behind and worked to ensure an alibi for you both. Signing your names and hers with one of the soldiers who traded with you on the roster in a perfect imitation of keeping up appearances for the demanded duties of all that reside in the zone. The ration cards slid into your back pocket are handed off to the older woman, no words or sounds coming from you before you slink out the door to their shared excuse of an apartment and down the hall to yours.

But he knew better than to think it was with wounded pride and your tail tucked between your legs, because he could hear the way you moved about your own space through the thin walls as if it had just been another day. Tess is watching him as his head tilts where he slumps on the couch, ears following the shuffle of your steps and the sound of clinking as you go about your own business. When he turns to meet her gaze, it’s unreadable but she doesn’t ask the reason for his short run down of what happened or the silence you had fallen into.

next chapter

taglist: @sawymredfox @tuquoquebrute @orcasoul @itsokbbygrl @keylimebeag

@n7cje @hiddenbabynyc @ameagrice @everythingiwanttoread @furiousmushroom

@vivian-pascal @76bookworm76 @dugiioh @jellybeanxc @littlemisspascal

@undercoverpena @janaispunk @jessthebaker @persephone-girl

@corazondebeskar @harryscum @morgaussy @burntheedges @pascalpvnk

(let know if you wanna be tagged!)

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gigabyte-flare · 20 hours

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The Devil is Real (Part 3)

Part 1 Part 2

Summary: Having been infected with god knows what, you quickly discover the cult's plans for you.

Word Count: 2.7k

Pairing: plagas!Leon Kennedy x fem!reader (afab)

Disclaimer: This story is a work of fiction. Actions depicted in this story are not condoned in real life. You are responsible for your own content consumption. If any of the following warnings trigger you, please read at your own risk. Minors do not interact, this story is 18+ only.

Warnings: drug abuse mention, abusive household mention, religious cult, religious trauma, body horror, noncon, dubcon, unprotected p in v, creampie, oral (m and f receiving), masturbation, kidnapping, yandere tendencies, somno, extreme violence and gore, human sacrifice, murder, blood play/kink, breeding kink, pregnancy, pet names, stockholm syndrome, exhibition, DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT [More warnings may be added in future parts]

A/N: Did I listen to Take me Back to Eden on loop while writing this? Yes. Yes I did.

You feel like you’re floating; floating in complete darkness. You open your mouth to scream, expecting water to rush in, but that doesn’t happen. However, when you do try to scream, nothing comes out. Your head is pounding, like hands are holding your head and squeezing. Your eyes start to sting as you look up, seeing fractures of blue light break through the darkness, reminiscent of light passing through water.

Through the dark, you could hear muffled sounds. It takes a few moments to realize that the sounds were a voice and with each passing moment, the voice became clearer. Looking ahead of you now, you can see a shape approaching you, a strange sense of calm washing over you as it gets closer.

“That’s it, little bird. You’re doing so well.”

Leon…?

Now standing inches from you, Leon brings a hand to cup the side of your neck before gliding it upwards to caress your cheek. You note the black veins sprawling across his skin, staining the whites of his blue eyes. His hand snakes to the back of your head, gently coaxing you closer to kiss you tenderly on your forehead.

Leon whispers, his lips caressing your skin, “wake up, little bird.”

You jolt yourself awake, your whole body sweating profusely as you sit up from the ground, the sounds of footsteps reverberating from above. The next thing you hear is the trap door being flung open, followed by someone climbing down the ladder, led by a torch. You watch as the unmistakable looming figure of Father Méndez coming out from around the corner. You press yourself up against the wall as Méndez stands above you.

Without warning, he bends down, grabbing you by the throat and lifts you up off the ground. You weakly swing your legs in a pathetic attempt to kick at him as you bring your hands up to his large hand wrapped around your neck. As you gag and continue to struggle, Méndez brings the torch close to your face and you watch as a smirk crosses his lips.

“Excelente… your blood has accepted the gift.” he says before abruptly dropping you, “Lord Saddler estará muy contento.”

As you lay there on the ground, coughing, Méndez once again bends down, this time grabbing you by your arm and pulling you up onto your feet. He practically drags you to the ladder, motioning for you to climb it. You obey, hoisting yourself up the ladder. The moments between getting pulled out of that basement and when you’re brought to the church are a blur. You suddenly find yourself in the upper levels of the church, face to face with a very plain looking wooden door.

Méndez opens the door, shoving you inside the room. You stumble inside, your shoulder crashing into the brick wall. You watch Méndez step inside, pulling another hypodermic needle out from his coat.

“No!” you scream, pressing your back up against the wall, “please don��t!”

“Don’t struggle,” Méndez says as he approaches you, grabbing you by your shoulder before jabbing the needle into the side of your neck, pushing the mysterious liquid inside you, “this will make you nice and fertile for our lord.”

Fertile?!

Once again you feel the burning warmth of whatever it is Méndez just injected into you spread across your neck. He puts the needle back into his coat pocket before turning to leave, slamming the wooden door shut. You hear the lock engage, the sounds of his boot steps quickly following. It’s now eerily silent, with only your own thoughts as your company. At least what you first thought was your own thoughts. You can’t shake the constant whispering of something; almost like something was inside your brain. You grasp the sides of your head, desperately trying to will it to stop. However, your efforts are futile; the whispers only get worse and clearer by the minute.

That’s nothing compared to the sudden onset of the most intense horniness you have ever experienced. No doubt fueled by whatever Méndez had injected you with. No matter what you did, you couldn’t escape the feeling of your arousal building in your core, the slick gathering between your legs, the dull ache of your breasts and a single word being repeated over and over in your head.

Breed.

BREED.

Tears sting the corners of your eyes as you curl yourself in the corner of the small room, your arms hugging your legs as your body violently trembles in need. Eventually you start sobbing, your violent cries echoing in the small room and in the church beyond, you reckon. Your fingers dig into the floor, digging so hard that your fingernails break and your nail beds bleed; you can’t help but notice the inky veins that are pulsating under your skin, only getting darker with each passing moment.

You just want it to stop. Even death would be kinder than this torture your own body is putting you through. The door abruptly opens, startling you. You gasp, sitting up and pressing yourself against the wall as Méndez steps back into the room.

“El tiempo ha llegado.”

Two women step into view from behind Méndez wearing dirty white dresses with white hoods pulled over their heads, covering their faces completely. They approach you, grasping you gently by both of your arms and forcing you to stand. To your horror they begin to undress you. You try to fight them off, but Méndez’s booming command stops you, your body shaking in terror as the women continue to strip your clothes until you’re completely nude.

Looking down, you see your entire body is covered in those black veins, feeling like a thousand insects are crawling beneath your skin. Méndez turns to leave the room again, motioning to you and the servants to follow. You suck in a breath when you see the entire congregation seated in the church, candles burning everywhere, the large stained glass covering the gathering in blues, greens and reds.

Méndez leads you and the servants between the pews to the altar. One of his large fingers points to the altar before he addresses the servants, “Asegúrala al altar, entonces el ritual puede comenzar.”

The servants nod before they lead you to the altar, forcing you to lay upon it. They then shackle your wrists, then position your legs so that they are propped up with your knees bent, your legs spread before shackling your ankles, too. You turn your head, seeing your brother seated in the closest pew to the altar. His skin has the black veins, too. You can’t help but weep, tears streaming down the sides of your face.

“Vince… please help me…” you say softly, hoping he’ll hear you.

Your brother doesn’t acknowledge you, doesn’t even make eye contact with you, which only breaks your heart even further. The sound of the church doors opening causes you to shift your gaze. A man wearing a dark purple robe has entered, carrying a large staff which you come to realize has tentacle-like things squirming all over it. He begins to approach the altar, to which you notice another robed figure walking behind him; you assume it’s Leon. The purple robed man walks around to stand behind the altar, Leon, following close behind before stopping to stand slightly behind him.

The purple robed man outstretched his arms, “my brothers and sisters! How long have we waited for this day to come?”

“Too long, Lord Saddler,” you hear the congregation say softly in response, their voices echoing through the church.

So this is their elusive leader…

Saddler then looks down at you, allowing you to get a better look at his face under his hood; his skin decrepit and the irises of his eyes a pale white. A devilish smirk crosses his lips as he gazes down at your nude form.

“I am Lord Saddler, the leader of this lovely religious community. I must thank your brother for bringing you to us, for ensuring the next generation of our group.”

“What are you talking about?” you ask, pulling on your restraints.

“I need an heir,” Saddler explains, “and you are going to carry that seed now that your blood has accepted our gift.”

Immediately knowing the implications of his words, you struggle violently against your restraints, screaming and crying, the thought of Saddler even touching you filling you with absolute dread. Saddler watches your futile struggles for a moment before letting out a booming laugh.

“Oh my sweet little lamb, there’s no need to worry. Performing the act of coitus is beneath me.”

You stop struggling, breathing heavily as relief washes over you. That is short lived, however, once Saddler continues.

“The honor of planting the seed of my heir will go to Leon,” Saddler says, his free hand gesturing to Leon, who steps towards the altar.

The two servants from earlier step to either side of Leon, gently removing his robe, revealing his shirtless form; his skin also covered in the same black veins everyone else has and a loose fitting piece of black fabric wrapped around his waist. One of the servants picks up a large bowl filled with a red liquid, most likely blood. She dips her fingers into it, stepping up to Leon and painting the strange cross symbol onto his bare chest before stepping away, the bowl still in her hands.

Leon steps towards the altar, his fingers quickly removing the fabric covering his loins. You watch as his hardened member springs up, slapping his stomach. The tip is red and angry, leaking pre-cum and also covered in black veins. The servant carrying the bowl, steps towards Leon again, and you watch as he then dips his fingers into the liquid, then reaching down to your lower stomach, painting that cross symbol onto it. His blue eyes look into yours, a smirk crossing his lips.

Just keep your eyes on me. Pretend no one else is even here with us.

You could have swore he spoke, however his lips definitely didn’t move. He brings his fingers to your throbbing cunt, his fingers running through your soaked folds, causing you to flinch and whimper. You watch his smirk evolve into a devilish smile, his hand wrapping around his rock hard member, lining it up to your entrance. Once pushing the head in, he rests his hands on your folded knees, then thrusting himself inside you, causing you to cry out.

You twist your wrists in your restraints as he moves his hips, the angle of his cock hitting your g-spot perfectly. Your eyes widen, an animalistic moan escaping your lips as you ball your fists, your breasts bouncing rhythmically as Leon pounds into you. He reaches both hands to grasp your breasts, kneading them in his hands and stroking his thumbs over the hardening buds of your nipples.

The congregation then begins to chant, “Gloria a Las Plagas.”

“Oh my god, your cunt is so perfect,” Leon softly moans as he leans his head back, closing his eyes as he picks up the pace on his thrusts.

Your walls flutter around his cock, your legs starting to tremble as your release quickly approaches. As if sensing this, Leon turns his head and snaps at one of the servants.

“¡Quítate esos malditos grilletes de tobillos!” he growls, still aggressively fucking into you as he digs his fingers into your thighs for support.

The servants obey, each going on either side of the altar and unlocking the restraints on your ankles. Once those are removed, Leon wastes no time folding you into a mating press, his face now hovering within inches of yours.

“You’re doing so good,” he whispers, his lips brushing yours as he speaks, “taking me so well, my little bird.”

That nickname causes your walls to squeeze around his length as it bullies your cervix, powerful moans pouring from your lips before Leon kisses you, his hungry lips devouring yours. As he begins to thrust into you harder and faster, the chanting of the congregation becomes louder until it is booming through the whole church.

Leon’s thrusts start to become erratic, and with one final thrust, he pushes himself into you as hard and as deep as he can go, his cock throbbing in you as he fills you to the brim with his seed. This triggers your own orgasm, you scream as your body violently convulses. Your eyes roll into the back of your head just as the chanting of the congregation reaches its crescendo.

“¡GLORIA A LAS PLAGAS!”

Coming down from your release, your head begins to spin, tumbling towards unconsciousness. The last thing you see is the twisted grin on Saddler’s face.

Caging you with his body, Leon gazes down at your unconscious form, watching your chest gently rise and fall with each breath you take. His own breaths are heavy, his hips still flush against yours as his cock begins to soften inside you. He gently strokes your face with his fingers. He then presses his forehead with yours, closing his eyes as he tries to reach your mind with his plaga’s abilities.

My precious little bird…

“Well done, Leon,” Saddler’s voice breaks Leon from his concentration, severing the connection from his mind to yours, “a truly passionate display. There’s no doubt that the seed will quicken.”

A low growl emanates from the back of Leon’s throat. He then crawls off you, slowly unsheathing himself from your warm heat. A slight smirk appears across his lips as he watches his cum leak from your abused hole. One of the servants drapes his robe back over his body while the other ties the piece of black fabric around his waist that he had removed himself earlier.

He watches as Saddler steps around the altar to stand in front of it, glaring at him once he’s out of Saddler’s line of sight. Saddler outstretches his arms once more and begins to address the congregation.

“My brothers and sisters! The seed of my heir has been planted. My future Queen will be brought to Castle Salazar, where she will be trained in our ways…”

Saddler continues to speak, however Leon has stopped listening, his gaze shifting back to you. The servants are now undoing the restraints on your wrists as a couple of the Ganados, including your brother, approach with a crudely made stretcher, lifting your limp body from the altar to carry you away on it. Leon’s eyes remain locked on you until you are whisked out of the church.

Castle Salazar is an imposing structure nestled in the cliffs just outside of Valdelobos, it’s castellano the ever so infuriating Ramón Salazar. Once Saddler relieved Leon of his post, he made his way over to the castle where you are being kept to monitor your pregnancy and to mold you into the perfect “queen” for Saddler. Having allowed himself to transform, Leon begins to scale the castle walls as he follows the sense of your presence, his four back claws making easy work of scaling the wall while his long, scorpion-like tail helps to balance him as he climbs. His clawed fingers dig into the stone until he reaches an open window, vaulting himself onto the window sill, bent on his haunches.

His heart races as he gazes upon you; your nude form under the safety of plush blankets. You are sleeping soundly, no doubt spent from being bred by Leon. Saddler had said coitus was beneath him, however, Leon knows the truth. The countless years of Saddler experimenting on himself rendered him infertile, hence why Leon was tasked with impregnating you.

Leon silently climbs into the window, approaching the side of your bed before he gingerly sits down next to you, careful to not wake you. His ocean eyes gaze at you longingly as his clawed fingers gently comb your disheveled hair away from your face. Even though you’re sleeping, he can feel the connection the two of you have and as the plaga inside you grows, that connection will only become stronger.

Saddler may have plans for you, but Leon has his own.

#leon kennedy #leon s kennedy #leon kennedy x reader #plagas!leon kennedy #leon kennedy smut #dead dove do not eat #dead dove #gigabyte writes

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labyrinthofsphinx · 2 days

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Couldn’t get out of my head, so here you go! Warning for blood, some gore, and Al’s messed up diet!

The meat is RAW, Al!

See this is what happens when your partner in crime has a cook show.

Also a bonus:

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porcelainseashore · 3 days

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Into the Ether (9)

Series Masterlist

Pairing: Vampire! Toreador! Leon Kennedy x Fem! Reader

Summary: At the all-night events cafe you run, you’ve become acquainted with an elusive patron, Leon, though you can never remember the last moments of your interactions together. After a harrowing encounter, a love-hate relationship develops between the two of you as you grapple with your newfound status in a world of darkness and investigate the reasons behind the untimely attacks.

Content & Warnings: 18+ Resident Evil x Vampire: The Masquerade crossover, horror, mystery, romance, slow burn, strangers to enemies to lovers, angst, fluff, eventual smut, swearing, smoking, non consensual blood drinking, blood bond, vampire turning, violence, injury, mild gore, torture, religious themes, minor character death, RE ensemble, VtM concepts.

Authors' Note: Implied child kidnapping ahead.

Taglist: @admirxation @angelstargel @miss-oranje-disco-dancer ❤��‍🔥

AO3 Link

Chapter 9: Blood Is Thicker Than Water

Another night, another part of the mystery to solve. But first, you had agreed to go into work. Nothing was going to stop you, not even the ‘Prince’s orders’. Something about having a nightly routine kept you sane and grounded you in reality. Not that what you were experiencing wasn’t real, but you didn’t want to lose touch with the living. You didn’t want to become like… Leon?

You heaved a disheartened sigh thinking about it. You’d been giving the man the silent treatment ever since returning from the Spencer Mansion, and you didn’t like it one bit. Hurting people wasn’t something you enjoyed — be it ignoring them out of spite or acting in a way that would lead to someone’s unfair demise. It didn’t help that you were constantly being reminded of how powerless and insignificant you were. Was this the best you could do when taking a stand? Or was there something more?

Working felt like walking. You went through the motions: socializing with your colleagues, pandering to customers, planning out the next month’s events program, making a couple of calls along the way, and your personal favorite — sorting out the cafe’s finances. Even the Redfields showed up, informing you and by extension, Leon, that they were still on the suitor’s case and would have something juicy for you soon.

“Do you ever miss the sun?” you wondered out loud.

It had barely been a week since you turned, but you were already bemoaning the fact that you wouldn’t be able to live to see it. Although the nights were longer now that the year had entered into its colder period, you had thought ahead, speculating how it would be like when summer returned again. That was depressing.

“Always,” Claire responded, patting your shoulder empathetically.

“Best not to think about it,” Chris chimed in, taking a swig from his beer bottle. “You’ll get used to it at some point, and besides, there’s always YouTube.”

“Very helpful, Chris,” his sister huffed in disdain, forcefully backhanding her brother so that he choked on a bit of his beer.

“What the fuck, sis?” he groaned, wiping the beer stains off his clothes with his bare hands in annoyance. “On my nice shirt as well.”

For some reason the constant bickering between the siblings caused you to double over in laughter and they looked at you in amusement. After you recovered from your giggling fit, you pointed to Chris' bottle, asking, “So you can do that thing of actually enjoying what you eat and drink?”

“Uh huh.”

“Maybe you can teach me?” you tested the waters. “Leon was supposed to, but—” You stopped yourself in your tracks, realizing that you’d have to share a lot more than you would be comfortable with.

Unfortunately, Claire was perceptive enough. “Trouble in Paradise?” she suggested, only to continue on her train of thought when you didn’t answer, “Whatever it is, you don’t have to tell me. He may be a prick who needs a nudge in the right direction, but he’ll come around.”

She pressed her arm against the wall and leaned forward with a mischievous grin. “And I hate to say this, but he’s actually a good guy.”

The expression on your face must’ve given away how you felt when Claire had uttered those last words. She quickly peppered it with, “He must’ve screwed up pretty bad, huh?”

“Let’s just say it’s one screw up after the other,” you finally replied.

Chris gave a low chuckle, “Sounds like him alright.” He shrugged. “Can’t blame the guy for trying though.”

“Alright, I’ll let you in on something,” Claire began, only to be interrupted by her brother.

“Oh man, not again! Can’t ever keep your goddamn mouth shut, can you?” he scolded.

“Shut up, Chris! She’s cool with us, you know that,” she retorted and he conceded, though you could still hear him grumbling in the background.

Turning towards you triumphantly, she continued, “I’ll keep it short. He saved my brother's skin; I owed him a life boon, and Chris probably did too, but he turned it down in the end.”

“Yeah, said something about not wanting to take advantage,” Chris piped up, shaking his head in disbelief. “To this night, it still floors me.”

What they had said gave you some pause. It seemed as though Leon had a bunch of demons to confront, and there was always an internal battle waging. You just hadn’t been able to break through. But did you want to in the end? Or would you just leave him to rot in his own misdoings? You weren’t anyone’s savior and you didn’t want to be. You simply wanted to do what felt right to you.

“Guess there’s a lot more to him that I don’t know about,” you mused.

Chris’ wide palm met your back with a loud thump that reverberated across your chest. “Hey, chin up, kid. It’ll take a while, but you’ll get there. Us Brujahs don’t give up without a fight.” His brown eyes lit up and crinkled, fine lines of crow’s feet fanning out from the corners. “And no matter what anyone says, I still think you’re one at heart.”

“Brujah, huh? I like the sound of that.” A crooked smile played across your lips as you laid your cards out on the table. “I’ve heard you’re fierce fighters. Mind showing me a few tricks? Just so I know how to fend for myself.”

Chris stood taller, eyeing you with curiosity as a sense of pride visibly swelled in his chest.

“I could throw in a supply of beers on the house to sweeten the deal,” you added, pointing at the empty bottle he was clutching at his side.

He barked out a laugh before responding, “Well, now that you put it that way, you’ve got my hands tied.” Placing his bottle down on a table beside him, he agreed, “Sure, I’ll give you some tips, but a word of warning: I don’t go easy.”

The rest of your shift went by without event, until Leon dropped by to pick you up for the next meeting planned that night. Since neither of you had gotten any real leads on the case yet, he thought it best to visit the Bakers first before heading back to NEST, where the Primogens' offices were and where Jill would be waiting impatiently for answers.

In the jeep, the atmosphere was thick with tension, though along the way, he tried to cut through it with some advice. “I know you’re still upset and don’t want to talk, but I need to prepare you for this.”

He tapped on the steering wheel nervously. “As Malkavians, the Bakers all suffer from some form of affliction following their Embrace. In this case, they believe a little girl called Eveline is part of the family, except no one else can see her.”

“You mean she’s invisible?”

The car swerved off-center as Leon glanced over at you, startled by your response. It was the first time you had spoken to him in a while. You clung onto the grab handle and yelled, “Keep your fucking eyes on the road!”

“Shit, um, sorry!” He focused his attention back to his driving, quickly stabilizing the vehicle before he spoke up again. “And, uh, no. I mean, we don’t think she actually exists.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Okay, and is that going to be a problem?”

“Not if you pretend she does,” he stated plainly. “Otherwise, they’ll get really provoked if you don’t interact with Eveline.”

“Right, thanks for the heads up.” You nodded curtly. “Anything else I should know?”

“Yeah, well, uh, just be—”

“Careful. Got it,” you finished the sentence for him.

“I don’t want you to get hurt,” he emphasized. “These folks have always been rather isolated from the Camarilla. Last I heard, they don’t take kindly to strangers sticking their noses where they don’t belong. So, if all hell breaks loose in there, I want you to book it and run, alright?”

You frowned, shifting your gaze in his direction. If his intention was to allay your fears, he had done nothing but heighten them. “What about you?”

“Don’t worry about me.” He flashed you a reassuring smile, but you could make out the hint of unease in the curl of his lips. “Take the car keys when we reach the place, so you have your escape route if needed.”

You let his words linger in the air as you kept quiet throughout the rest of the ride.

━━━━━━━━━━━

Reaching the outskirts of Raccoon City, you were traveling along Stone-Ville Road, where there was nothing but open land. The trees had been cleared from the forest, and multiple estuaries flowed from the Raccoon Dam. The area was sparsely populated, with only a smattering of houses spread out from each other in the distance. At some point, Leon made a left turn into a side road, heading towards a decrepit-looking estate that was slightly off the beaten track. It appeared to bear some similarities to the Spencer Mansion back in Arklay Forest, causing a spine-tingling shiver to sweep through your body.

“Designed by the same architect from the Trevor & Chamberlain fame,” Leon pointed out, seemingly able to read your mind.

“That guy from New York?” You remembered reading about him in magazine articles and the mystery of his disappearance as people mourned the loss of a genius.

“Yeah, so expect surrealist stuff, including puzzles and secret passageways,” he cautioned.

You balked at the thought of having to enter yet another labyrinth like the one at the Tremere Chantry.

“It’s just for a friendly chat,” he asserted, his calming blue gaze meeting yours. “I doubt there’s any need for us to explore the house, unless they make things difficult.”

“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,” you muttered, tucking the car keys into your pocket as you stepped in front of a formidable, rusty gate.

It was unlocked, and as Leon pushed it open, it screeched on its hinges like a dead woman's wail, beckoning you towards the crumbling building before you, which was long past its heyday. The refurbished plantation house, where you assumed the Baker family lived, was part of a larger ranch estate, and it looked like something straight out of a slasher flick.

Leon pressed the doorbell, waiting to see if there was any sign of life. A light switched on, its mellow rays filtered through the window shades, and you heard hurried footsteps on the wooden floorboards until the door swung open. An older lady with her dark hair tied back in a loose ponytail peered at both of you in confusion. She wore a tattered, sweat-stained button-up blouse and a brown skirt. Her coarse and wrinkled skin still carried an unfaded tan, suggesting a life of manual labor, where she had tended to the animals and fields under the sweltering sun.

“Can I help you, miss, mister?” she asked in a heavy Southern drawl. “We weren’t expecting anyone at this time.”

“Ma’am,” he dipped his head politely in acknowledgement. “Sorry for intruding on you like this, but there wasn’t any other way to contact you.”

“Well, we don’t want no trouble, young man. Just mindin’ our own business, that’s all.” Shifting nervously from foot to foot, she fiddled with the hem of her cotton blouse, glancing over her shoulder every now and then at a blank space behind her.

Your attention was drawn to the area she kept looking at, and as you concentrated on it, the hairs on the back of your neck stood on end. You had the strangest sense that someone was there, but you couldn’t make out any shape or figure, just an energy. An icy chill gripped your head, as if cold hands were feeling along the grooves of your brain. You shuddered, realizing that whoever it was knew that you were aware of its presence.

“We don’t want any trouble either,” Leon assured, raising his palms slightly to indicate a truce. “We just have some questions we could use your help on, regarding an attack a couple of nights ago.”

The woman still clutched onto the door apprehensively. “Why? Who sent you?”

“The Prince put us on the investigation,” he disclosed warily.

At that moment, a shadowy figure materialized behind the woman, taking a few seconds before you could make out his features in the dim light. He was an older man, around the same age as her, balding and wearing spectacles. Likewise, his yellow striped shirt and beige pants were worn and filthy, as though he hadn’t changed out of it for decades.

“Prince?” he questioned defensively, placing his hand on the small of the woman’s back. “What does the Prince want? We didn’t do nothing wrong, son.”

“No, you didn’t,” Leon agreed, quickly following up with an explanation to assuage the man. “We have the assailants in custody, but it appears they’ve been brainwashed and manipulated through Dementation — a skill that you’re well-versed in.”

The man eyed him like a hawk as Leon continued, treading on thin ice. “We thought we could use your expertise, and if you might’ve picked up on anything out of the ordinary in the vicinity.”

There was a pregnant pause before the man relented, “Fine, you got 5 minutes to ask us anything you wanna know, son.” Pushing the door wide open, he gestured for you to enter. “Come on in.”

As you stepped into the gloomy premises, he pointed at you, flashing a warning glance in your direction. “And no more snoopin’ around, young lady.”

Oh, right. You must’ve unwittingly activated one of your powers earlier to sense his presence, when he had relied on his Obfuscate Discipline to remain hidden. “Sorry, my bad,” you mumbled. “It was an accident.”

He nodded, turning around to make his way into the living room where a dining table was situated. “You girls can come out now,” he hollered.

You saw a younger woman with jagged, short hair emerge in a similar fashion to how the man did before, sitting at one of the chairs at the table. Despite that, you greeted two people as Leon had instructed, and he followed suit. A round of introductions followed, where you learnt that the older couple were Jack and Marguerite and their two daughters, Zoe and Eveline, with the latter being the youngest at 10 years old.

Marguerite disappeared into the kitchen for a bit, only to return with a tray of crockery. She handed out cups to everyone and poured a red, viscous liquid from a teapot. Jack grumbled in the corner that it was meant to be a short meeting, but at the same time, couldn’t help but appreciate his wife’s hospitality. Bringing the cup to your nose, the liquid smelled musky, like earth, and you wondered where it came from.

“It’s the best I can offer at such last minute notice,” she apologized, wiping her hands on her blouse as she sat herself down. Twisting her head in the direction of the empty seat next to Zoe, she cooed, “But Evie likes it, don’t ya, sweetheart? That’s it, drink up now. Little piggy’s blood is good for you.”

You watched as the cup on the table remained motionless, while Marguerite bombarded the invisible entity with sweet words of encouragement. Trying to ease the awkwardness in such a situation, you took a mouthful of the liquid from your cup. It was the first time you tasted animal blood and as much as you hated to admit it, it was incredibly bland compared to human blood. Like a simple gruel versus a gourmet meal. Then again, neither could bagged blood beat the real thing, though you tried not to dwell on it. You smiled politely over at Zoe, who threw you a sympathetic look.

“You’re new, huh?” she asked shyly, cocking her head as she gazed at you.

“Mm hm, about a week.” You took another sip and pursed your lips, swallowing the liquid like a chore that had to be done.

“Ooh, a baby!” Marguerite interjected, suddenly interested in the conversation between you and Zoe. You imagined she was the social butterfly of the group. “Maybe Evie can show you a few tricks.”

At this, Leon rested his hand over your arm protectively, forcing a strained smile. “Perhaps another time? We really should get down to business.”

“Ah, city boys and their ‘business’,” Jack remarked, stretching his legs out and crossing them at the ankles. “Well, what can we do for ya?”

You heard Leon speak, but his voice seemed to drone on with the others, and out of nowhere you started to enter a tunnel vision. In your line of sight, you spotted a framed photo of the Baker family, though something was amiss. There was a young man in the picture you hadn’t met yet. He was thin and lanky, and had a hoodie on that obscured part of his face. Leaning back on the couch, he stared directly back at you with a bored look in his hollowed eyes.

It took you a while, but you managed to snap out of it, uttering the first thought that came to your mind, “Is that your son, mister?”

All at once, the mood in the room shifted, taking a dramatic turn for the worse. Everyone’s eyes were fixed on you as Jack ordered ominously, “Get the hell out.”

You opened your mouth in protest, but Leon beat you to it, rising up from his seat as he contended, “Look, she didn’t mean anything by it. We’re sorry, alright? Could we just—”

“Shut your goddamn mouth, boy!” Jack bellowed, his command resonating across the room.

Leon’s body grew rigid and he remained mute. Dread seeped into your bones as you observed the previous scene of peace and tranquility descend into an utter nightmare.

“Mama, Evie’s getting upset,” Zoe announced in a tiny voice.

“Argh! See what you’ve done now?” Marguerite shrieked as she stomped around the room in a temper tantrum. “This is your fault!” she accused, glaring at you and Leon.

“You barge into our house and threaten my family? This won’t do!” Jack shook his head menacingly as his eyes glowered. “I’m just gonna have to teach you a lesson.”

His eyes changed into an otherworldly shade and Marguerite joined him, speaking in tongues. They gazed at Leon as if engaged in a séance. However, Zoe remained separate from their antics, looking on in fright. You stood rooted to where you were, bracing for the worst, but nothing happened. It was only when you saw Leon sink to the ground on his knees, his face pale as a sheet, that you realized he was bearing the brunt of your transgression.

He was taken back to years ago, at the height of his blood bond, where he would do anything to win Ada’s affection. Her interest in him had begun to wane and he was sure she was seeing another lover. But this time, he would bring her the vessel that would change her mind about him and guarantee her everlasting love.

There he was, at that godforsaken group home, the one linked to the Catholic church he had frequented when he was still alive, and where he would sell his damned soul for a second time to the Devil. All it took was a flash of his police credentials and a charm or two from his arsenal of skills he had honed to entrance the nuns keeping watch over the children.

“Sherry, are you ready to go?” He extended a hand towards her.

This wasn’t his first rodeo. Ada and him had been noticing the little girl for a while, testing to see if she would be a worthy vessel for the Prince himself. After all, Ventrues were extremely fussy drinkers and Wesker expected a Michelin star meal every single time. The only thing stopping him from delivering the girl over was a vague sense of morality he still had within him. But he was desperate enough now to dash it to the ground for a chance at his sire’s approval again.

The girl had dressed into her school uniform, a hairband holding her blond tresses out of her face as she peered up excitedly at him. “Yes, let’s go!”

She would have done anything to get away from the home where she never slept well and felt alone despite being in a room full of kids around her age. Where Leon was taking her sounded like a glorious fairytale. A palace with a prince, she imagined, a place where she would be treated to all the luxuries her current life could never afford her.

“Oh god, no!” he cried out, doubling over on the grimy floor of the Baker House.

Sherry was haunting him again. Everywhere he looked, he saw multiple copies of her like a cracked mirror reflecting her ghost on its uneven surface. He heard layer upon layer of her laughter, jumbled and out of sync, mocking and taunting him. Paranoia sank in and he curled himself into a fetal position, pleading for no one in particular to forgive him.

“Sherry, please, we have to go!” he urged.

This was years later, when he had some sense knocked into him from the time he hung out with the Anarchs. He wanted to right his wrongs, and free the girl who was never meant to be trapped in the underworld in the first place.

But she had changed. She was older and wiser, and knew exactly what she wanted — it was definitely not to leave.

Yanking her hand back, she kicked her feet, stamping on the ground as she yelled, “No! I want to stay!”

He was shocked by her absolute conviction in remaining within the prison where she was held, like a pretty songbird for the rest of the Kindred to gawk at. “But…”

“You can’t make me!” she screamed, red in the face.

Rendered speechless, he didn’t know what else to do than stare at the crying child before him with his jaw hanging open. He thought he was saving her, like a knight in shining armor, but she didn’t need any saving. She was perfectly happy where she was.

“One day, I’ll get you out of there. I promise,” he babbled on repeatedly, reduced to nothing but a trembling mess before the Malkavians.

During the entire period when Leon appeared to be suffering from a mental breakdown, you were torn about what to do. He had told you to bolt the minute something like this took place, but you couldn’t leave him to fend for himself in this state. You didn’t understand what he was blabbering on about. Was Sherry his sister? Where was she? What happened to her?

A million thoughts raced through your mind, but you shut them down. You needed to pry Leon away from the family’s cold clutches and keep him safe. Mustering your courage, you approached the one who seemed to be the most reasonable of the lot. She still sat in her chair, gazing upon the scene with a vacant yet troubled expression.

“Zoe?” you called out softly, hoping it wouldn’t escalate the situation. “Please, we don’t mean any harm.”

Her eyes darted towards you.

“I know you’re just trying to protect your family,” you deduced, especially from the way they had been on edge the moment you stepped onto their property and inadvertently brought up one of their own.

“We need the information, but I swear to you we will keep whoever it is you’re trying to protect safe,” you promised.

Her breath hitched, and she looked at you with glassy eyes. In the background, you could hear Leon’s gut-wrenching whines of pain.

“Zoe, please!” you begged, your brows furrowing and tears on the verge of spilling from your eyes. You couldn’t bear to witness him in such agony any longer. It felt like your heart was shattering into pieces, though you couldn’t explain why.

“Eveline, stop,” her calm voice sliced through the air and the buzzing energy died down.

Her parents came out of their hypnotic state and Leon stopped shaking uncontrollably, though he backed himself into a corner in fear. You rushed to his side, holding him in your arms as you checked his eyes to see if he had fully returned to the present.

“You stayed…” he whispered, reaching out to touch your face, as though he was trying to ascertain if you were real.

In an instant, you pulled him into an embrace, rocking him gently as you stroked his hair. “You’re okay, Leon. You’re safe.”

After a while, he relaxed into your arms and his breathing returned to its normal tempo. The Bakers exchanged worried looks but said nothing as they gave him time to recover. Finally, Jack broke the silence. “I-I’m sorry about what happened there, son. Just been a lot going on these days.”

You turned around, deciding to take the reins as you spoke for the two of you, “I understand, and as I promised your daughter, we’ll make sure that, um—”

“Lucas,” Marguerite offered.

“—Lucas won’t get hurt.”

Jack nodded, taking off his glasses as he wiped the sweat off his brow. “You see, how we work is through what others call premonitions or clairvoyance, and all that mumbo-jumbo.”

Clearing his throat, he continued, “Well, lately we’ve been sensing a bunch of Sabbat activity in the city. Their symbols are everywhere, like little red hotspots across the center. They’re planning more of these attacks for sure, just heading down along the river.”

“Circular River?” you probed.

“Uh huh, the one closest to town,” he concurred. “And, uh, I’m guessing you were also here about the Cobweb?”

“Yeah.”

He swallowed anxiously as Marguerite took over. “It don’t always speak to us, and sometimes it’s hard to make out what it says. But we heard somethin’ the other night.”

She paused, adjusting her hair restlessly before she divulged, “It was Lucas’ voice, carried like a wave by a thousand voices, saying his name is nobody. That stood out, but we don’t know why.”

Nobody said they were nobody…

You caught a flicker of recognition in Leon’s eyes as you recalled what the man had said during Jill’s interrogation. Was Lucas responsible for all of this?

“Where’s Lucas now?” Leon asked, his voice still a little unsteady.

“He don’t want to be found.” Jack shrugged dejectedly. “My boy’s always been a real firecracker. Left home one day and never came back. We think he’s with them — the Sabbat.”

“But he’s a good boy,” his wife insisted. “Please don’t hurt him.”

“We just want him to come home,” Zoe added. “Evie wants her big brother back.”

The joy and curse of familial bonds. You could get behind that.

“We won’t breathe a word about Lucas,” you pledged, overriding your sire’s authority as you answered on behalf of him as well. “Right, Leon?”

You could see the discomfort in his expression, though he grunted an affirmative reply.

As Jack showed you out of the house, you thanked him and his family for their assistance, though a final question came to your mind. “Can Dementation have long-lasting effects?”

“With the right choice of words, it can.”

━━━━━━━━━━━

To play it safe, you took over the driving on the way back as you and Leon discussed the information you had gleaned from the Bakers.

“You think Lucas is the one?” you asked as you stopped at a red light.

“No, I don’t think he worked alone,” he opined. “It took two of the Bakers to bring me to my knees.”

There was a momentary pause as he clenched his fist at the memory, exhaling another deep breath of air. “I know we are talking about manipulating a group of lesser vampires, but unless he’s a prodigy we’ve never discovered, there were most likely others involved at the same time.”

“Makes sense,” you agreed, easing off on the brake pedal to switch over to the accelerator as the lights went green again.

“You still want to protect the guy, even after what he did?”

Your grip tightened on the steering wheel, causing your knuckles to turn white. A promise was a promise, and there was more than enough bloodshed these nights.

“Yes,” you forced the answer out through gritted teeth. “Got a problem with that?”

“I admire you,” he murmured, dispelling your misgivings. “Your compassion.”

You felt your anger dissolve as you followed up with a suggestion. “It’s never too late, you know?”

He gave you a weak smile but remained silent for the ride home.

Back at his apartment, you noticed that he still seemed shaken by the night's events as he kicked off his shoes and sat on the couch, gazing blankly into space. Was he going to doze off in that position? You had already changed into a loose muslin nightdress and gone through the usual bedtime preparations.

Strolling over, you sat down beside him, trying to strike up a conversation. “They spooked you real bad, huh?”

He didn’t laugh at your joke, though he acknowledged it. “You can say that again.”

This wasn’t like him at all. You grabbed his shoulder in concern. “Hey, you don't seem okay.”

“I’ll be fine,” he sighed, looking away from you to his lap. “And… thank you for back there.”

“I would never abandon you like that,” you stressed, even if you hadn’t forgiven him for turning you… yet.

He glanced at you with his watery blue eyes in appreciation, but you could tell that his mind was in a distant place elsewhere. Even though he tried to hide it, you saw his hands quivering, and you hoped that what the Bakers had done wasn’t permanent. You knew he was trying to put on a brave front, but a part of you felt uneasy about leaving him on his own.

“Um, why don’t you sleep next to me today?” you offered hesitantly.

He peered at you quizzically. “You sure?”

“Yeah, just get dressed, alright?” You made your way up the stairs and waited for him by the bed before he could argue any further.

He joined you later, clad in a plain t-shirt and sweatpants, keeping a respectable distance as he lay beside you. There was a nervous energy to him.

You drew nearer, caressing his arm tenderly. “We don’t have to talk about whatever you saw in there,” you affirmed. “I’m here if you need me.”

He tucked your hair behind your ear as a stray tear fell onto his face. Wrapping your arms around him, you closed the gap, breathing in his scent as you felt his hands along your waist. It seemed as if an eternity had passed before you released each other. His nose nudged against yours as his warm breath grazed your cheek. When his gaze lowered to your lips, you didn’t have to think or doubt what would come next.

Leaning in, he placed his soft lips over your own, kissing you intimately as he savored your taste in his mouth. Instinctively, you kissed back, running your fingers through his messy locks as your tongue licked across the seam of his lips. A low moan escaped his throat as he pressed up against you, claiming your lips again and again. It was the last thing you remembered as daysleep enveloped you like a cocoon, lulling you into a temporary hibernation.

#leon kennedy x reader #leon kennedy x you #leon kennedy #leon kennedy smut #leon kennedy angst #leon kennedy fluff #resident evil #vampire au #vampire the masquerade #vtm #crossover #porcelainscribbles

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sadisticsongbird · 3 days

Text

playing god's game ~ coriolanus snow

six

warnings: TEN-SHUN, blood, gore, swearing, mcs being idiots

word count: 4.5k

a/n: sorry i disappeared for a while. i had some personal things to take care of but im back in writing mode for the summer...well most of it. i already have chapters and billy fics lined up for the next three weeks so you guys are in for a treat!

series masterlist

People began to run away from the enclosure as peacekeepers ran forward. Lucy Gray stepped back from the bars as Coriolanus ran to Arachne. He laid her down gently on the ground, placing his hands tightly on the wound to try and stop the bleeding.

“No, no, no!”

She was gasping, trying to take a breath through her torn skin and blood, but there wasn’t any use. Coriolanus tried to keep her awake, telling her to keep her eyes open, he could feel her start to flicker out.

“Coriolanus!” you screamed, running over to the scene in front of you. You crouched down over his shoulder, placing your hand there as he whispered to her.

“Hey, look at me. Hey, hold on. It's okay. I'll get help,” you heard him assure Arachne, whipping his head around to try and find someone to help.

Both of you looked around at the scarce group of people that were still watching, staying as far back from the cage now as they could. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw a group of peacekeepers walking towards you, guns up. They were pushing through the crowd, practically throwing them back to avoid them getting in the way.

“Somebody help us, please!” Coriolanus screamed.

“Coriolanus, we have to go! We have to get out of here!” You tried to get him to move, but he seemed frozen, hands attached to Arachne’s neck. The peacekeepers were closing in on the group of you, getting too close for comfort. “Coryo, duck!” you said, pushing him down against the ground just in time to avoid the spray of bullets.

Tributes moved behind trees, rocks, and anything else they could as Brandy had a bullet go straight through her. She fell to her knees, falling down in the center of the enclosure. Everything seemed to go silent, your ears ringing, registering nothing besides the fact that you just got shot at. Maybe Sejanus was right. Maybe you were safer not mentoring these kids. This ‘assignment’ has brought you closer to death than anything in your life. And you basically starved everyday. It was scary to you, to be so close to death. This was the kind of thing that the Capitol preached couldn’t happen here, that it was different in the districts. But here you were, staring down two dead bodies in front of you.

Both you and Coriolanus were looking to the side, the unmoving body of your friend just lying there. In the chaos, you hadn’t even realized that you had fallen on top of him. But his rough grip on your arms brought you out of your haze. His eyes were filled with concern, what you thought to be tears threatening to spill. You knew that he was friends with Arachne, but you had no idea that they were that close. Or maybe it was just the idea of someone close to him dying that scared him as much as it scared you.

Peacekeepers gripped both of you, hauling you off of Coriolanus. He continued to stare at you as the two of you were dragged apart. He could barely keep his footing, legs threatening to give out in the adrenaline of the moment. You had pulled him away, kept him from getting shot and all he could stare at was the blood on your Academy uniform. It was in the form of handprints, his, from Arachne on the arms of your coat. The thought pulled his gaze away from you to his hands. It was so dark, staining his skin every passing moment he couldn’t wash it off.

You were being dragged shortly behind him, glancing back at the zoo where Sejanus now was, standing over the dead body of his friend. He struggled in the peacekeepers arms, trying to loosen their grip on his arms, run back to Arachne and shake her awake. While the girl wasn’t close to him, she was an integral part of his life that he didn’t know if he could get used to the absence of. He didn’t want to believe that she was really gone, trying to convince himself that this was a nightmare.

When both of you were far enough away from the zoo, the peacekeepers let you go, ordering you both to go back to your homes. There would be no one visiting the enclosure for the rest of the day. Your eyes met his hands, seeing how much blood was actually on them. The realization made you move the arms of your uniform to see identical prints on your sleeves, stains that would never wash out.

“I’m sorry about the blood,” Coriolanus said, making you look up at him. His face was near white, whether in shock or in sickness you didn’t know. You couldn’t find the words to say as he turned around, running off toward home.

It was nearing the evening when you heard a knock on your door. The afternoon went by slowly. Classes were canceled, so you cleaned yourself up for what felt like forever. It took some time for you to get out of your bed and finally shed your blood-stained jacket. You tried everything to avoid touching where Coriolanus’s hands had been, not wanting to make contact with the marks. You had just laid your mother down to sleep, hopefully for the night so you could have some time to yourself. The events of today were almost too much for you to process surrounded by the tributes, your classmates, and even your own mother. The tributes had been in the Capitol less than 24 hours and there were already deaths on both sides. But as it seemed, you wouldn’t be getting much time to dwell on that. You opened the door to Sejanus, a plate of goodies in his hand, no doubt made by his mother. You hadn’t seen him since the zoo this afternoon, watching him look at Arachne’s still position in front of the cage.

“Hey,” he said, giving you a shy smile.

“Hey,” you replied dryly. “Come in.”

He walked past you, setting the plate down on the table. Closing the door behind him, you turned around, crossing your arms, waiting for an explanation. Yet, you didn’t even get a chance to ask him what he wanted before he began to spew his thoughts.

“Listen, Y/N. I’m sorry for the way that I reacted this morning. You were just trying to help. I know that I’ve shared my reservations about these Games, maybe a little too much these past few days,” he joked, letting out a slight laugh, but you weren’t amused. While you knew you would eventually forgive him, you were still mad about his behavior, more specifically towards you. “You don’t have the power to stop the Games and you're doing what you can do to help, even if it’s not ideal.” He paused before thinking of something else to say. “And, thank you for Marcus today.”

You waited to see if he had more to say, but when he didn’t you moved from your spot against the door to give him a hug. At first, he didn’t reciprocate, but he eventually wrapped his arms around you. You both stood there for a short moment before you spoke up, breaking the hug.

“I didn’t…” You stopped, trying to think of the words. “I’m sorry. I just wanted to at least try to help. The tributes need someone here rooting for them, even if it means placing a little money on them. I can’t imagine being ripped from my home and-”

He cut you off. “I know. It’s just, this whole thing, mentoring, has me angry. We can’t, but I wish we could do something to stop the Games.” He clenched his fists at his sides.

“Write about that in your proposal. Show Gaul that these tributes are more than a pawn in this.”

Sejanus just laughed coldly at the suggestion. “I can’t write that proposal. Even if I did, I’m not sure what I had to say would appeal to Gaul. I’d probably be arrested for treason if I said what I truly feel.”

“So I’m supposed to write it alone?”

“You’re still going to write one?” he scoffed.

“Yes,” you said, like it was obvious. “I barely made the cut, Sejanus. I can’t not do the work, regardless if I disagree with it. I can’t afford a misstep in this process or I might as well kiss the prize goodbye. I need this. Why can’t you see that?” You suddenly wondered how sincere his apology was when he still seemed so angry.

It was silent again for a few moments. Sejanus didn’t respond, clearly blinded by his emotions. He only picked up the plate on the table and shoved it in your hands. “Ma made them for you,” he said softly, his shoulder bumping yours as he walked away from you and aggressively opening the door and slamming it shut.

You didn’t turn around, not wanting your emotions to get the best of you in that moment. You knew you would begin crying if you thought more about Sejanus. Every moment of these Games seemed to be crumbling your friendship with him, and without him, who was left? Your mother, you supposed, but she wasn’t much company. Ma would never turn you away, but you were sure Sejanus would hate you even more if you spoke to his mother and not him. Besides, you didn’t want her getting caught in the middle of your fight.

Coriolanus was the next person to come to mind. Today was the first day you had ever truly interacted with him, but the amount of things that you had been through together today made it seem like a lifetime. You didn’t know if you could ever be friends with him, though. After all he had put you through at the Academy, you didn’t know if you could ever trust him enough with your friendship. He was sort of friends with Sejanus and yet your paths almost never crossed. You were an outlier to that equation, but maybe now that Sejanus was icing you out, it left room for you to get to know Coriolanus a little more.

You thought back to the proposal that you were supposed to be writing tonight. There was almost no doubt in your mind that Coriolanus would have a perfect assignment written and turned in to Gaul in the morning. You were scared to do the assignment all on your own, sharing the fear with Sejanus that you would say something that would offend the Head Gamemaker. But you wondered if Coriolanus could help you iron out the details and filter out your thoughts. You were sure that Clemensia would still do the assignment with him, but it wouldn’t hurt to have some help.

Setting the plate of goodies down on the table, you grabbed your bag and own sweatshirt hanging near the door, not quite sure where your feet were taking you. Not bothering to change out of your uniform, you made your way out of your own home. You knew that Coriolanus lived on the Corso. Whether it was the outer, inner, or on the border you had no idea, but you figured you could ask around. While there weren’t many people that conversed with strangers, there were still some.

After the Dark Days, it was an adjustment for people to begin trusting one another again. The Capitol wasn’t immune to the pain the war had caused. Those in the Presidential courts were just as affected as those in the Districts. You had personally seen your old teacher’s arm blown off by an explosive placed by rebels on your old schoolyard. At first, people just locked themselves in their homes, or at least what was left of them. When someone was coming towards you, you would walk to the other side of the street or plain turn around. If you had children, you held them with a firm grip. No one trusted anyone. When President Ravinstill was signed into office, that slowly faded. Citizens began to trust again, at least in their leaders. Then it was family, friends, neighbors. But the fear that rebels could come crashing down on their doorsteps still loomed. The only time people got out to interact were for the Hunger Games celebrations. The past few years, it had started to get better, but after today at the zoo, you feared it wouldn’t continue.

“It's starting again. This is how it begins. The war,” Grandma’am cried into her hands. She was sitting at the table with her grandchildren, conversing about the events of today.

“It was my fault,” Coriolanus admitted. “I suggested we get closer to the tributes.”

His grandmother scoffed. “You're just lucky that your songbird didn't peck out your eyes too,” she reprimanded. His grandmother wasn’t too happy about this new ‘assignment’ that he came home with yesterday. She had lost her children to the districts and she was not fond of the idea of losing her grandchildren too.

“She's not a rebel, Grandma'am. She's just a girl,” Tigris tried to explain, tightening her grip on Coriolanus’s arm.

Grandma’am laughed. “Trust me, that one hasn't been a girl in a long time.’ She paused, taking a deep breath. It upset her to talk about this, and both Coriolanus and Tigris knew this. They kept talk of rebellion and the Games quiet around the house, but the past few days had made that nearly impossible. “Outside this Capitol, they're savages, one and all. However, they may smile, she will use you. You must use her or you'll end up dead in the trees. Like your father,” she emphasized.

The gloomy conversation was paused when they heard a knock on their front door. It was starting to get late and the Snows rarely had visitors. Nonetheless, Tigris let go of Coriolanus and made her way towards the door. She peered through the peephole as Coriolanus and Grandama’am continued to look toward the door.

“Coryo, did you invite someone over?”

“What?” he asked, puzzled as to who might be at the door. Standing up he made his way over to Tigris, pushing her out of the way to get a glance. The last person he expected to see was you.

“What is she doing here?” he asked, looking to his cousin.

“Don’t look at me. She’s your classmate.”

“Get rid of her!” Grandma’am said, getting up to go hide in her decaying room. The Snow’s rarely invited people over, practically ever. Coriolanus was ashamed of the state of his apartment. Although they were still able to keep their house on the Corso, it was falling apart to the point that they had to put sheets up to stop the cold air from pouring in. Wallpaper was coming off of the walls and windows were coming off of their hinges. Hell, he had to use the maid’s bathroom because of the damage in his old room. While Tigris had worked to cross off the dangerous parts to make it at least livable, she offered to take the half-room and to give Coriolanus the maid’s room. Grandma’am occupied what was supposed to be the dining room, leaving the Snows cramped in their supposed rich penthouse.

“At least open the door, Coryo. Don’t make her stand out there,” Tigris said, pushing Coriolanus away from the door handle and opening it herself.

You were looking down at your shoes when she opened the door, standing there in most of your school uniform, the undershirt and skirt put together with your own jacket. You felt embarrassed as you were met with a young woman with blonde hair, bearing a similar resemblance to Coriolanus. He was standing back a few strides, clad in a blue silk robe, a great contrast to the decaying, old slippers on his feet.

“Hi,” you whispered.

“Y/N? What are you doing here? How did you even find-”

“The assignment,” you interrupted, unable to let him finish his sentence.

Coriolanus just stared at you, flicking his gaze between you and the back of Tigris’s head. He hoped his cousin wouldn’t let you in. He could manage to keep up a false life at school, but if it got out how well off he wasn’t, he didn’t know if he could ever go back.

“Sorry,” you apologized. “I know this probably isn’t the best time, but Sejanus won’t do the assignment with me. More like refused, but I figured that Clemensia probably would use Arachne-” you inhaled, pausing to see if Coriolanus seemed hurt by the mention of his dead friend, “as an excuse to not do the assignment. But I can’t afford to not do it and you seem to have good ideas and I just thought that maybe we could…I don’t know…do it together,” you finished ranting.

Coriolanus stood there, silent as if waiting to see if you were finished. But in reality, he was just plain puzzled. It was only this morning that you were yelling at him, fighting even. And now you were asking for his help on an assignment he had all but forgotten about in the chaos of the afternoon. Tigris, who had previously stood with her arms crossed beside Coriolanus, watching the ordeal, unfolded her pristine posture to smack him across the chest, taking him out of his daze.

“Ugh,” he grunted, glaring at his cousin beside him. He wished you couldn’t see him like this. “S-sure. I can clear a little space in my o-office area,” he said, turning around to point to the only room still in half-way decent condition, holding a singular desk, chair, and a lamp sitting on the corner. You could barely even call it an office, he thought. But you didn’t make a comment on it. You only smiled at him as Tigris practically dragged you into his home.

This was actually happening. Coriolanus felt his entire chest tighten. It was one thing to be outside, looking in. His Grandma’am had insisted that the front room look the best, decorated with the most expensive they could still afford so it looked true from the outside. But you were actually in his home, slowly invading his space like a virus. Though it was a short walk over to his desk, your head still moved around, in awe of the big space. Although it wasn’t much, it was a lot more than you had. You pretended not to notice the tearing wallpaper and damaged floors that were identical to your homes. Instead, you kept your interest on the China cabinet that was clearly kept by Grandma’am and the roses that seemed to be placed intricately throughout their home.

He couldn’t let his nerves get the best of him, so Coriolanus walked quickly past you to occupy himself with something other than his thoughts. He stood at his desk holding the paper he had already begun with only the title The Hunger Games written neatly across the top.

“What ideas were you thinking of?” Coriolanus asked you, pulling your attention away from the portrait you had been staring at on the wall that bore a resemblance to the boy. When you met his eyes, he looked like something out of a portrait. Even with his night robe on and the bare, hardly illuminated office, he stood, paper in hand, holding it as if he were a politician looking over important contracts.

You struggled to answer. “I-I thought th-that we could maybe have more to help the tributes inside,” you said walking over to the chairs that sat opposite to his side of the desk. “They get the weapons in the middle, but nothing else they need to survive. It’s just so…inhumane watching the ones who don’t die in the bloodbath starve for days on end before the games are actually over.”

Inhumane, Coriolanus thought. The whole concept was inhumane. It’s why it worked as punishment. But you were right. If Lucy Gray had no food, water, or really anything besides a weapon he didn’t know if she could wield, he wasn’t sure he could manage pulling out a win.

“You’re right,” he agreed. “And if we want the people to stay connected, entertained to the Games like Gaul wants, these tributes are going to have to last longer than two seconds after the timer goes off.”

He sat down, putting the paper down on his desk and pulling his chair underneath him. There was a jar of ink and a quill sitting on the corner of the desk that he leaned over to grab and set down before taking a seat. You continued to stand, unsure if you even could. It felt awkward to be in Coriolanus’s home. You barely let anyone into your own home and, from the looks of it, Coriolanus did the same for the same reasons. You weren’t sure if you could call it ashamed, or maybe just embarrassed.

The quill Coriolanus picked up ticked on the side of the glass jar of ink. His hand hovered over the paper before looking up at you. “Are you going to sit down?”

Your cheeks warmed up at the notion. Would he realistically have made you stand for the entirety of the assignment? Honestly, you didn’t know. And that was the second reason it felt off to be in his home. It only was a few days ago that you were still going at one another’s throats. You, in jealousy, but his side was harder to point out. At first, you thought it might have been anger or jealousy over your friendship with Sejanus, but when that didn’t seem to be it, you thought it may be anxiety over being the best of the class, which apparently you fell behind on, so that couldn’t be what possibly inspired his hatred for you. The only other possible reasons were that he just hated you that much or - ugh - that he liked you. Your mother always told you that when a boy would tease you, it would mean he just wanted to get your attention. But with Coriolanus that didn’t seem to be the case. You would never admit this to anyone, but at first you gave into the taunting. You thought precisely what your mother had told you. Yet, the teasing didn’t stop once you gave in. It only got worse, making you do the complete opposite of what he supposedly wanted. You ignored him, stayed as far away from him as possible. He had found a new girl to derive attention from in Clemensia. Then, as a little girl, you were disappointed, if not heartbroken, when he moved onto another girl. But when the ridicule towards you didn’t stop, you realized that maybe it was best. Maybe your mother wasn’t right.

“Y/N?”

You stopped looking at your twiddling thumbs in your lap to refocus on the task at hand.

“Sorry, what was your question?”

He seemed to let out a small laugh at your ignorance, but you told yourself you were just being paranoid. “I said, what if we could use drones to bring supplies to the tributes? Like ones from the war. I’m sure the technicians can modify them to use facial recognition for our tributes like they did the rebels in the war.”

“Gaul wouldn’t make it that easy. If we just handed them food to survive, it wouldn’t even be a game. The tributes would have to earn it.” You paused for a moment. “You said that the tributes and the people need a chance to get close, to get to know one another…”

Coriolanus nodded. “If we let them talk and interact in the zoo, we can do that.”

“No, I mean what if we gave them a chance to give money to us, the mentors. It would give a little bit more edge to our competition and let the citizens see what our tributes can actually do.”

“Flickerman could host a ‘talent’ night of sorts the evening before the games. Almost like a last goodbye, last chance to support them.” He stopped talking, leaning back in his chair to look at you.

“What?” you asked.

“Nothing,” he smirked. “I just didn’t think your below average intelligence could come up with something that big.”

You knew he was joking. Or at least hoping. Regardless, you responded with a laugh. “Well, don’t give me all the credit. Your weak ideas just needed a little assistance.”

“Weak?” he scoffed. “If I recall, you’re the one that came to me.” You laughed at the premise of the whole conversation, throwing your head back. You were only used to this banter with Sejanus, but the smoothness of it all made you relax. “You know, you’re pretty funny when you want to be Y/N/N…”

Your smile dropped at that. Only Sejanus called you by that nickname. Well and your mother before she grew ill. Coriolanus seemed to know something was off, unsure what it was.

“Did I say something wrong?” he asked, straightening up in his chair.

“N-no,” you stuttered. “It’s…I mean…nevermind.” Not a thing came to mind how to explain to him how you hated him calling you that, yet loved it at the same time. It felt so wrong coming out of his mouth. It didn’t fit, no matter how much you wanted it to.

Had you hit your head? You felt like a lovesick teenager over someone that anyone would be able to say you loathed. Coriolanus was the same way. He seemed disgusted only moments ago at the notion of you being in his home and now his heart was racing a thousand beats too fast, scared he had hurt your feelings. How, he didn’t know, but it was driving him crazy at the fact that he couldn’t read your mind. More than usual.

“Can we just get to work?” you asked, a crack in your tone that made Coriolanus nearly break his facade.

“Y-yeah, sure,” he said, redirecting his attention to note down the idea that you had talked about.

You tried to solely focus on his hand, scribbling words in ink, to avoid your scrambling thoughts. What if this was really what you thought of him? What if this was why you despised him so much with an unclear sense of why? You decided that it was maybe best to just ignore it.

You were here to do the assignment, not dwell over what is and what could have been.

Coriolanus dotted the ‘i’ on his last word, looking back up at you with the same look, just missing the humor in his eyes. “Alright, anything else?”

#coriolanus snow #coriolanus snow x reader #coriolanus snow x you #coriolanus snow fluff #coriolanus snow angst #coriolanus snow smut #tom blyth #tom blyth x reader #tom blyth x you #tom blyth fluff #tom blyth angst #tom blyth smut

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ievieofspring · 2 days

Text

𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍 𝐌𝐈𝐃𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐈𝐊𝐄𝐒. 최연준

sypnosis: you and yeonjun are secret agents doing your last mission of the year. yeonjun is planning to propose to you after but his plans become.. partially wrecked.

genre(s): angst, fluff (if you squint), secret agent au

pairing: nonidol!secret agent!choi yeonjun x afab!secret agent!reader

trigger warnings: profanity, blood/gore, gun(shots), (mentions of) d3ath, mentions of gunshot wounds, (mentions of) murd3r

a/n: lmk how this is because i was super lazy and this is probably really bad TT

anyway tho, i'm a sucker for angst and wanted to write one for a while so.. enjoy-?

January 1st. A New Year. A day to celebrate.

And the day that--unbeknownst to you--Yeonjun was planning to propose to you.

Right at 12:00 AM today, December 31st. Right when the fireworks shoot into the midnight sky, speckled with twinkling stars. Right before the fireworks crackle and bloom above them in different colors.

Right after their long, tiring assignment that went completely wrong.

"I'm guessing you heard that we're having our last mission this year together, darling?" You look up to see your boyfriend leaning against the doorframe of your office.

You let out a sigh, closing the folder containing your mission that you had just scanned through. You stood up from your chair, pushing it to your desk. "Though I wish they would've let us have the day off seeing that it's New Year's Eve."

"You know they'll never let us off." Yeonjun smiled, stepping towards you. His arms slide around your waist before he leans closer to your face, pecking your lips.

You pull away and lay your forehead onto Yeonjun’s shoulder. “Still, a break would be nice.”

“After the mission, I have a surprise for you.” Yeonjun strokes a hand through your hair and plays with the ends as you hum in amusement.

“Really? And what’s that?”

“It wouldn’t be a surprise if I told you, baby.” Yeonjun chuckled. “Let’s just get ready for the mission now, hm?”

You grumble into his chest but let go of him to oblige.

♡

You and Yeonjun stand in front of a large building, guns strapped to both of your waists. The sun had just set, leaving a navy sky above them and the street lamps being their only source of light.

Cicadas chirp in the night as a chilly breeze drifts past them. Your hair dances in the wind, along with the trees and bushes nearby.

“Ready?” Yeonjun grins at you reassuringly.

“Ready as I’ll ever be.” You let out a small breath, turning into a puff of smoke in the winter weather, and smile back. Yeonjun nods and looks up at the building towering over them. It was the headquarters of your secret agent organization’s enemy.

The mission was simple. Sneak into the building, destroy any information that they have on your agent organization, and get out.

Simple, but not easy.

Being the head building of the organization, there was bound to be a lot of bodyguards. Plus, it was New Year’s Eve, which likely meant double the security. It wasn’t a surprise that you and Yeonjun were chosen, being the aces of your organization.

“Let’s go.” Yeonjun suggests. You follow him as he opens the window at the back of the building and slips inside. He signals you to come in as well after making sure the coast was clear.

The whole way to the floor of information on your organization was too easy. There were barely guards in sight, just a few here and there, but nothing you and Yeonjun couldn’t take care of or sneak past.

You decided to shake the weird feeling off, guessing that even the agents were celebrating with their families and friends.

Yeonjun led the way up, and back down after you had destroyed all the information and evidence of your presence. The two of you easily snuck out of the building without being seen and quickly let your boss know about your success.

Yeonjun takes your hand as the two of you slowly walk away from the building, “That was easier than expected, huh?”

“Guess everyone’s out for the holidays.” You lean your head against his shoulder. Yeonjun chuckles and plants a soft kiss on your forehead.

Unexpectedly, you hear a muffled shouting from behind you. The two of you whip your heads around. It’s a man, specifically one of the bodyguards.

One hand presses onto the wound the two of you gave him earlier, assuming he was dead, and the other holds a gun. A explosive, chilling noise rings in your ears, the undeniable screech of a bullet shooting towards you.

“Shit- Y/n, get back!” Yeonjun’s eyes widen as he shoves you out of the way.

The rest unfolds in a blink of an eye and you can’t even process what happened until after it did.

Yeonjun rips out his gun, firing bullets back at the bodyguard. The bullet the guard had fired sinks into Yeonjun’s abdomen and pierces his skin, making him stumble to the ground and wince.

“YEONJUN!” You cry, sprinting to your boyfriend after checking to see if the security guard threat was clear.

Yeonjun coughs out blood as he holds the wound. Red stains his shirt and trickles to the ground. You curse under your breath, squeezing your eyes shut to force incoming tears back in, and apply pressure onto his wound.

“Why the fuck did you do that?!” You scold, avoiding Yeonjun’s gaze. That gaze filled with sadness and warmth and pain and so many more feelings that all mix together, yet he felt more concern for you than anything else.

“Y/n..” Yeonjun smiled, placing a hand on yours, “love you.”

“What..?” You whisper and look into his eyes, and his smile makes your voice start to break. “Don’t- don’t say that.. you’re not going to die. You are not leaving me.”

“He shot my abdominal aorta. You know I’m not going to make it.” His blood doesn’t stop flowing and it dirties your hands as you press harder onto his wound.

“Yeonjun, shit- don’t-“

Yeonjun slowly reaches his free hand into his pocket, “Remember that surprise I had? I want to tell you before going.”

You follow his gaze as he pulls out a small case. It opens and you let out a small gasp.

“Love, I’m sorry to do this to you.. but I wanted to let you know. You make me happiest when I’m with you. I’m glad you came into my life.. I couldn’t have found anyone better. Thank you for being with me all this time.” Yeonjun looks up at you. “So I have to ask.. will you marry me?”

“Yeonjun, I-“ Your breath catches in your throat, staring at Yeonjun’s injured state and the diamond ring he holds in front of you. Tears spill from your eyes, turning your eyes blurry so you can’t even see clearly anymore when you nod furiously.

You hear Yeonjun let out a small chuckle and he slips the ring onto your finger. He wipes a tear away from your eyes and places it back onto your hand.

“You better not die on me now.” You say sternly with a sniffle. You know you can’t stop the god-forsaken bleeding, you know that you’re just being selfish, and you curse yourself for it. For not having the ability to save Yeonjun, and for having to rely on him to hold on.

“I love you..” He whispers with his eyes closed so that only you can hear.

In the far distance, you can hear the crackle of fireworks as they bloom above you in multiple colors. Into the midnight sky, speckled with twinkling stars.

But as the clock strikes 12 AM, your fiancée’s hand goes cold and you are left alone.

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fortunatetragedy · 3 days

Text

I hope you sumbitches are ready for this.

The first 50 pages of Doom Metal Love Story are live on AO3.

You're looking at 17,934 words of daring rescues, prairie horror, and a meet cute that ends in a saloon shootout. And you'll meet our three main characters (Cole Sullivan, Erik Hofer, and Arthur Royston) so you'll see who all I've been hollering about for the last three months.

Rather than a list of content warnings, general trigger warnings include gun violence, blood and gore, death, war, depictions of post-traumatic stress, and foul language. Later on there will be spirit possession, sex (not at the same time sorry) and the author trying to make you feel a relentless sense of dread. The author is aware the romantic relationship looks problematic. I'm doing something here.

The rest of the chapters will start dropping on Monday.

P.S. Shout out to @words-after-midnight who is beta reading and making sure the parts that are supposed to be confusing are and the parts that aren't supposed to be confusing aren't <3 I owe you so much coffee.

#doom metal love story #writeblr #ao3 #original fiction #weird western #that gay shit

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unearthly-doting · 1 day

Note

Can I request a yandere Alphabet for Jeff the killer?

a/n: yes you can !! here you go <3 i've never actually done this b4 so fingers crossed i'm doing it right but!! it was really fun to do tbh!!

warnings: not proofread, yandere content, typical jeff behavior, kidnapping, forced relationships, forced affection, murder, mentions of forced murder, blood, gore, threats of violence, i tried really hard to keep it light but also it's... jeff the killer.... so....

yandere alphabet: jeff the killer

Affection: How do they show their love and affection? How intense would it get?

— he's not the most affectionate person in the world, but on the very rare occasions that he decides to show you his love, it's intense, maybe even suffocating. you'll be glued to his side for however long it takes until he gets bored, his fingers digging into your skin to the point where it might bruise, his head buried in your shoulder as he keeps you pressed tightly against him. lucky for you, most of these sudden bursts of affection last for only thirty minutes to an hour, but on his bad days, they can last well over a handful of hours.

Blood: How messy are they willing to get when it comes to their darling?

— he's willing to get as messy as he needs to be. blood and gore are nothing new to him, and he actively thrives under those sorts of situations. if we're being completely honest, he wants it to be messy. he wants there to be blood and murder. he'd take his time murdering whoever he had to if it meant getting you.

Cruelty: How would they treat their darling once abducted? Would they mock them?

— oh, he'll 100% be mocking you if you're a screaming, crying mess. really, if you expect him to be nice to you after uprooting your life and forcing himself into it, you're sorely mistaken. he thinks your fear is amusing, even if he thinks the screaming and crying is annoying. besides, he finds it entertaining, watching how you get torn between cowering in fear and cursing him out whenever he does mock you. that aside, he actually does his best to take care of you. he keeps you fed and supplies you with whatever you need.

Darling: Aside from abduction, would they do anything against their darling’s will?

— he'd force affection on you if it's something he wants at the moment, which mostly just consists of him hugging you tightly and sitting in silence, but other than that he sorta just... lurks around and leaves you alone more often than not.

Exposed: How much of their heart do they bare to their darling? How vulnerable are they when it comes to their darling?

— he'd never be vulnerable around you. or at least, he'll try. though he tends to forget about this from time to time, jeff is nothing but a human. he has so many walls up, a gruesome reputation he loves to uphold, but there are days. everyone has bad days. he doesn't have them often, but he has them. and as much as he hates it, he can't hide that from you. he can't hide the stupid fucking longing he feels for you, or the damn near suffocating desperation that claws at his insides whenever he looks at you. he hates that he loves you, and loves that he can't hate you.

Fight: How would they feel if their darling fought back?

— he fuckin' hates it, honestly. he thinks your resistance is annoying, and he'd just wish you'd give up already. no matter how hard you fight back, he's never letting you go. you belong to him, can't you see that? how many times is he going to have to restrain you for you to understand that you are his? surely you know that each time you fight back, he'll only make things worse for you, right?

Game: Is this a game to them? How much would they enjoy watching their darling try to escape?

— i think in the beginning, it sort of felt like a game. he found your fear entertaining, and he still does, so he thought your escape attempts were cute and couldn't help but mock you when he'd catch you trying to escape when you thought he had gone out. after a while, it feels less like a game. he's serious about you, even if it doesn't seem like it. your escape attempts were becoming more annoying than amusing. so much so that he doesn't even mock you when he catches you anymore, his mockery has turned into barely concealed anger.

Hell: What would be their darling’s worst experience with them?

— the murder. you can handle the captivity, you're not going to let him break you. but the murder. the murder, that's what gets to you. he views it as an act of romance, mercilessly and brutally slaughtering anyone who ever dared to talk to you. you've had one too many 'gifts' of his be pieces of the people he's murdered for you. ears, fingers, you name it. the worst one has to be the decapitated head someone you had been romantically interested in.

Ideals: What kind of future do they have in mind for/with their darling?

— seeing as he's more than likely on the fbi's most wanted list at this point, he's never really had any dreams for the future. he lives in the now, and the only thing he wants (and, let's be honest, expects) from you is your love and loyalty. sure, the thought of having a normal life with you is appealing, but it'll never happen. he'll take whatever future with you he can get.

Jealousy: Do they get jealous? Do they lash out or find a way to cope?

— even though he keeps you confined, unable to interact with anyone other than him, he certainly gets jealous. but only before he took you for himself. he hated seeing people near you, and he especially hated when you'd go out on dates with people. sure, you didn't know you were being stalked by a feared serial killer at the time of those dates, but still. it made him so unbearably angry and the only thing that helped him cope was by, obviously, brutally murdering the people you went out with. a very healthy coping mechanism, if you ask him. better he kill someone else than you, right?

Kisses: How do they act around or with their darling?

— generally the way he acts around everyone else, pretty much, with the exception of his older brother. he's an asshole, and not an easy guy to like. he's morbid, cruel, and overall a total displeasure to be around. especially if he doesn't care about you. but he does! he cares about you a lot, so he's like... vaguely nice. he does have a soft spot for you, even if it's not something you might be immediately aware of.

Love letters: How would they go about courting or approaching their darling?

— his idea of courting is just... not killing you. and murdering for you, i suppose. there's nothing more romantic than being willing to spill blood for the person you love. stalking probably counts too, right? because he did a lot of that. he probably also considers the 'gifts' he's given you to classify as courting, though you'd beg to differ.

Mask: Are their true colors drastically different from the way they act around everyone else?

— not at all.

Naughty: How would they punish their darling?

— it honestly depends on how upset he is. like... 95% of the time, he just locks you in your room and deprives you of any form of social contact. he'll feed you, but you're never awake when he drops off the food. you'll never be able to catch a glimpse of him when he's punishing you like this. this could go on for months, because he doesn't stop until you're begging him to, desperate for some form of interaction even if it has to be from him. that small 5% is what you have to be worried about. if you really anger him with an escape attempt or whatever, he'll force you to murder someone, and he'll make sure it's someone you know. he's only forced this punishment on you maybe two times, and you don't think you'll ever be able to recover from it. the isolation is awful, but it's easier to bear. murdering your best friend, or someone from your family? you can't. you can't handle that. and that's why he's made it a punishment.

Oppression: How many rights would they take away from their darling?

— anything you have, he'll take. your freedom is no longer your own. you're not even allowed out of the room he keeps you in without his permission because of how often you try to escape. he simply just doesn't trust you enough to let you be your own person. though if you're behaving well, he'll probably reward you with some very minute freedoms.

Patience: How patient are they with their darling?

— he's actually surprisingly very patient when it comes to you. it's not something you'd expect, considering his short temper and whatnot. he has nothing but time when it comes to you, though he would prefer if you'd love him back sooner rather than later. but he's willing to wait, if he must. he thinks you should be flattered because if you were anyone else, he would've run out of patience a long time ago.

Quit: If their darling dies, leaves, or successfully escapes, would they ever be able to move on?

— the only way he'd ever let you go is if you died, genuinely. if you somehow manage to escape, he's hunting you down and dragging you back. but if you died, i think he'd be able to move on. it'll take time, and you'll always linger in the back of his mind, but he'll return to the way his life was before you were in it with relative ease.

Regret: Would they ever feel guilty about abducting their darling? Would they ever let their darling go?

— not at all. jeff doesn't regret anything he's done in his life leading up to this point. there might be a small, very miniscule part of him that feels a little guilty whenever you flinch when he touches you, but he doesn't really pay attention to that guilt. and he would certainly never let you go, not after he went through all the trouble of getting you here. your rightful place is by his side, even if that's something you've yet to realize.

Stigma: What brought about this side of them (childhood, curiosity, etc)?

— he's not too sure himself, though he assumes it was curiosity. maybe you did something, or maybe the way you behaved caught his interest and made him curious about you. whatever it was, it spiraled rather quickly.

Tears: How do they feel about seeing their darling scream, cry, and/or isolate themselves?

— he's used to seeing people scream and cry, so it doesn't get that big of a reaction out of him, though it does feel strange when you do it. he's gonna mock you for it though, so. as for isolation... if you want him to leave you alone so badly, then he'll gladly do it. it's essentially going to become a game of chicken if you do that. one of you will break eventually, and you better hope that it’s you.

Unique: Would they do anything different from the classic yandere?

— that really depends on how you define the classic yandere lol.

Vice: What weakness can their darling exploit in order to escape?

— jeff prides himself for not having any weaknesses, though it's because he simply isn't aware of the ones that he does have. he's extremely touch-starved, first and foremost. if you're willing to do so, you can easily exploit that so long as you're careful and patient. another thing is his fear of fire. just a lighter flicking is enough to have the man freezing up, though this fear will be harder to exploit seeing as he'd probably make sure you have no access to anything that could start one.

Wit’s end: Would they ever hurt their darling?

— he would threaten to, for sure. he's pretty good at threatening people, he thinks, but he won't actually hurt you. you're the one person he can't hurt. the very thought of hurting you makes him cringe, though you won't catch him verbally admitting that.

Xoanon: How much would they revere or worship their darling? To what length would they go to win their darling over?

— jeff is very much not a religious man, so he can't say he necessarily worships you. he does respect you, however, even if it doesn't seem like he does. he respects you more than he respects most people, and while he may not worship you and the very ground you walk on, he does put you on a pedestal. just a bit. but he would go to great lengths to win you over. he doesn't appear desperate, but just know that he craves your love and attention.

Yearn: How long do they pine after their darling before they snap?

— jeff is a selfish bastard, so the moment he decides he wants something, he takes it. maybe he'll be nice enough to let you live with your freedom a little longer, but he'll use the smallest issue to kidnap you. it doesn't matter what it was. you injured yourself? you can't be trusted to take care of yourself, so he takes you. you get a little too friendly with someone? oopsie, they're dead now. anyways, you're his; you can't be flirting with other people, so he takes you. someone is mean to you? rip to them, but clearly people don't deserve you, so he takes you.

Zenith: Would they ever break their darling?

— this is his ultimate end goal, i think. jeff hates how you fight back. he finds it annoying, and he's starting to run out of people he can force you to kill. he knows you'll break sooner or later, so long as he keeps up the pressure. maybe isolating you for a few months will finally tip you over...

#yandere jeff the killer x reader #yandere creepypasta x reader #yandere x reader #yandere x you #yandere x gn reader #yandere alphabet #yandere #yandere creepypasta #yandere jeff the killer #jeff the killer x reader #creepypasta x reader #jeff the killer x you #creepypasta x you

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themusingsofacurlyhairednerd · 1 day

Text

Datura Pt 14

Author's Note: If your read ACOSF and got to that part where Cassian is mind controlled and thought, hmm how could this hurt me more, look no further. Had to make it angsty before we get fluffy, right?

Warnings: Allusions to Assault, Character Death, Canon Typical Violence/Blood and Gore. A lot of angst; like a lot.

Masterlist/ Previous Chapter

There's a callback to Chapter 1 in here, but since it's been so long since I wrote it, here's the chapter again, just for a refresher ;)

---------------------------------

Revenge had kept you warm all those nights in the dungeon, had kept your chin up during every humiliating thing that red headed bitch had put you through. You’d spent hours and hours dreaming up all the ways you would make her pay for turning your life upside down, for tearing the Courts apart, for laying a hand on your mate. In your dreams it was a swift, clean death that wiped away any chance of survival. But standing in the dark tunnels of the Mountain’s lowest levels, the blood of her men dripping from your claws, this is the last thing you want.

This is not swift justice, this is not satisfying revenge, it’s a bloodbath. Males reach for their swords and you tear them apart with your hands, claws cleaving through armor and flesh with little resistance, the splatter of it chilling against your changed skin. Every sense is heightened, every smell and sight changed and distorted, the splatter of blood stings like pin pricks, and yet the beast that has lived caged within your chest all these years delights in it. Your head screams at you to stop, yet your body moves as if it enjoys the hunt.

Hybern said all of them, and your collared body responds accordingly, leaving nothing left of the sentries that patrol the lower levels of the Mountain. There are beasts and monsters here too, hiding in the dark corners, huddling around fires to stay warm as autumn creeps in, all dispatched with a ruthless efficiency that makes your stomach churn, and yet you still can’t force yourself to stop.

The darkness of this place that had once felt so soul crushing and disorienting now makes the muscles in your shoulders relax. The beast within you chuckles as it slips into the dark shadows as if they’re a caress of a lover.

A sentry walks your direction, unawares. He’s dead before his next breath.

With no physical control of your body, you try desperately to call for your mate, to find whatever shred of a bond is left, if there even is one, but you feel it go nowhere. Before, it was like dropping a bit of water into a pond, the echo of your call disturbing the ether of the physic plane until something out there felt the ripple. But there is no ripple here. It is as if your calls bounce off a wall of steel. If there is a bond left, it is as much a prisoner to Hybern’s will as you are, no matter how much you mentally bash yourself against it.

Your body moves without your consent, deeper and deeper into the Mountain. Your hands move on their own volition, yanking previously locked doors off the hinges to allow you to tear apart whatever prisoner, guard, or beast lays within. Some of them are still sleeping when you come, completely unaware they’re being hunted until it’s too late. Some try to fight. None get far. These newly awakened powers leave little room for fighting, all you have to do is direct some of that ether between your fingers in their direction and they turn to a bloody mist. You are a far greater monster than anything in this Mountain has ever been, and there’s no chance that anyone will be warned you’re there until it’s too late.

Time is a concept that exists outside of you, however long it takes to clear the lower levels, the winding, endless tunnels filled with bodies, feels like both a blink and an eternity. It had been sunrise when you’d entered, it very well could have been evening already and you’d have no idea. All this body knows is the hunt, and it moves tirelessly through floors you’ve never seen, with soldiers and war bands and monsters you’d never known existed, until the halls start to look familiar. The prison first, your old cell still damaged. The training room, with its dust stained weapons and crumbling pillars. Every floor up is a new terror, a possibility to come across a face you know.

“Please,” you beg whatever entity will dare listen to you. “Please, let him be out. Let him be anywhere but here.” Everything you touch dies, if anything happens to Rhys…

Blood drips off your aching skin. Moving like this makes your muscles feel like they could pull away from your bones, this form too much for your mortal body to keep contained. It should be tiring, yet, your legs still move you forward as if you haven’t been tearing through an army for hours, unhindered by your discomfort.

“Please stop,” you whisper when you find sleeping quarters for Amarantha’s servants, fangs bared and claws swinging. “Please!”

A blue skinned fae with crooked wings drops to their knees before you, tears streaming down their cheeks. “Have mercy! Please!”

Stop this. Stop this. Stop this!

The collar hums at your hesitation, metal burning, it’s dark power pulsing through your veins like living flames. A growl of pain slips out of you as you extend your hand and mist the begging fae.

Others sprint from the room, screaming. None of them make it farther than the outside hallway.

You can feel blood and gore beneath your feet as you walk past, looking for anyone else on this floor. There’s a couple hiding in a closet, hands pressed over their mouths to keep quiet. A soldier drunk and stumbling with his pants around his ankles. A courtier slipping from a secret lover’s room. All gone.

You’d cry if you could, but nothing slows you, your body moving ever forward until it comes to a hall you recognize, your own claw marks dragged across the walls.

The more you try and fight it, the more the collar burns.

Most of the rooms around your old cell are empty, your own included. In all your revenge plans you’d always pictured yourself destroying it before leaving, but the collar doesn’t care what you want. It shuts the door and leaves the bed and the book written about you for the dust to once again claim as it begins its ascent to the Throne Room.

There are plenty of obstacles getting there, their faces all a blur of sudden terror and agony. No amount of bathing will ever cleanse the feeling of all this gore from your skin, from your soul.

The Throne Room doors finally come into view, the noise you’ve been making in the lower levels attracting the attention of the guards, who stand at the closed doors with their spears drawn. They’d been so imposing, that day the Attor had dragged you into Amarantha’s chambers, but now, they’re as dangerous as flies. You turn them to mist with the same blast of power that shatters the doors, the ancient rock around you screaming in protest. This draws some attention from the dancing crowd, but it’s not until you’ve misted a large chunk of them that the music finally stops playing.

No. No. No.

The crowd parts with a scream, pressing against the walls, scrambling for the exits as you step into that all too familiar room, dripping blood behind you.

“What is the meaning of-” Amarantha’s shrill voice echoes off the chamber walls, rattling the decaying bodies still pinned to the ruined stones of this once sacred hall. There had always been a strange energy to the Mountain, the magic that kept it alive, old and strange, always hidden beneath the surface, but with your new found powers, you feel the echo of it beneath your feet. This place is twisted, the once holy magic from the Cauldron itself rotten and decaying, you crinkle your nose at the smell of it.

The Queen still sits on her throne, the sheer fabric of her blood red dress clinging to her meager curves, as she takes you in. It takes her a minute to understand what she’s seeing, to process the magnitude of what you were and what you now are. Her gaze flicks to her side… where she keeps your mate chained to her throne.

The screaming of the crowd, the pounding of your heart, it’s all a dull, distant echo in your ears. Rhys is wearing a collar, his dark hair messy, knotted atop his head, violet eyes glassy, red streaked; he’s not wearing a shirt, or pants, stripped down to his boxers, his tattooed chest bruised and littered with claw marks.

Oh gods.

What had she done to him?

Mentally, you bash against the wall between the two of you, screaming for him, begging anybody who will listen to let you out, to let you save him.

If he can hear you, he gives no acknowledgment. Even if he could break through that wall between you, there’s no way he could do it in this state. It takes him a long time to process what he sees when his gaze finally drags to you, as if it’s an effort to move his head. His glassy eyes blinking too many times like he’s trying to clear the haze from them to ensure that what he’s seeing is real. He’s as much himself as you are, both of you locked behind a wall of someone else’s making. You’re sure your heart is breaking, if it works at all it’s a ragged, bleeding thing that sits uselessly in your chest.

Amarantha stands and Rhys sways on his knees, trying to get out of her way. You can’t tear your eyes away from the way he flinches away from her hand, the way he dips his chin to his chest.

“What is this?” She snarls. “Guards!”

If there are soldiers coming for you, or just the crowd scattering to let them pass, it doesn’t matter. You raise a hand and mist all of them, the rock above your head shuddering as your power obliterates everything from flesh to rock.

Amarantha’s red painted lips part in shock, a small gasp of surprise slipping out of her.

There are a dozen different things you want to say to her, a thousand different things you mean to make her pay for, but you can’t open your mouth to say anything. There are no words able to pass beyond the burning thrum of the collar fused to your throat.

“This is a new look for you, Little Mouse,” she croons as a ring of fire emerges to wreathe her hands. “Who’d you have to fuck to make that happen? Certainly not Rhysand.”

She’ll pay for every cut, every bruise, every damn hair out of place on his head. The carnage behind you, around you, the blood that drips from your body, it’ll stain your very soul for the rest of your life if you manage to escape this, you know that for certain, but her death? You and the monster that lives inside, will relish every last one of her agonizing breaths. You’ll make her beg for mercy, as you had begged on your knees before her in this room, and you’ll take your time doing it.

Amarantha assesses you with the surety of a seasoned warlord, every step closer intentional, getting in range to take a shot at you. You wait, letting her get close enough, and just when she’s sure of her place on this new battlefield, you lunge for her with a speed that shouldn’t be possible, even for a fae. She barely has time to blink before you slash your claws across her face. You go right for her eye, aiming to maim, to make it hurt. She screams as your claws tear through flesh and bone, body spinning to get away from you and your free hand comes up to grab her by the hair and hurl her back towards the dias. She stumbles, barely managing to catch herself on the steps leading to her throne.

Rhys scatters as far back as the chain will allow him to avoid her, but his gaze remains fully fixed on you. A familiar brush of night chilled power brushes over your mind, asking for entry and you try your best to throw a door open, to let him in, but that wall remains between the two of you. You can feel him there, on the other side, trying to reach you, but the wall won’t come down.

There’s no time to try another way to reach him either, not when Amarantha starts throwing fire balls at your head. “You stupid, little bitch!” She screams. “I take you in, I offer to train you, to befriend you and you thank me like this?”

The eye on her ring swivels to look at the damage you’ve made in its master’s face in a move that looks strangely… impressed.

You dodge the first couple of throws she makes, letting them hit old cushions and tables. The next throw, you reach out a hand and catch the ball of flame. The fire would have blistered your skin, should make you scream in agony, but in this form, like this? You draw that power inside you as easy as you draw a breath, the crackle of flames like a drug in your veins. It’s intoxicating. When she throws more, her anger becoming more and more tangible and her shots more wild then the last, you take those in too, savoring it until it bubbles up in the pit of your stomach and you have no other choice but to hurl it back at her in a blast she just barely manages to shield herself from.

Distracted with keeping the shield up, you rush her again, drawing in the power she expels from her shield with ease so that there is nothing stopping you from getting a hand around her throat, lifting her up into the air and slamming her down against the marble floors so hard they crack beneath her. Amarantha screams around the hand clamped down around her windpipe as you pick her up and slam her down two more times.

She is still a formidable opponent, she manages to summon an ice pick and jam it into your wrist to free herself as you reel away with a howl of pain.

Rhys is still trying to reach you, throwing all his mental energy into breaking through, even as you watch his body slump a little more and more next to Amarantha’s throne. You want to scream for him, tell him to stop before he hurts himself anymore, but the words get lost as the collar’s power burns through you in retaliation for not immediately killing Amarantha. The pain of her ice pick in your wrist is nothing to the heat that emanates from the collar, the pain the only thing in all this time to make your legs shake. The pain doesn’t dissipate until you land a punch in Amarantha’s face, her nose breaking under your knuckles. The collar demands blood and it will have it.

No one in the crowd moves to help her, those that remain stay pressed against the walls, watching in horror as the two of you fight it out. There’s a strange sort of glee in the air, as the oppressed relish in their oppressor’s certain demise. If there are any guards left, they don’t come to save her.

You swing for her head again, but she dodges at the last second, your fist cracking the marble beneath you a second time.

Spitting blood, she manages to get off the floor, fists raised to protect her ruined face.

You snarl at her, one of the few sounds the collar will allow, and she throws as much ice and snow at you as she can, mingling it with bits of fire. She lets her claws sharpen at her fingertips, trying to make herself into a beast as formidable as you, but it won’t save her. Her blows do little and you can take satisfaction in the fact that she can no longer hurt you in this form, at least. You absorb what you can and let the rest bounce off you as you stalk closer, pushing her further back until she stumbles on the steps leading to her throne. Fitting, that she die here at the base.

She throws a blast of darkness at you, a blast of your mate’s power, twisted and wrong in her hands and it’s the only thing she’s thrown thus far that makes your body tremble. The collar rattles at your throat, shaken but not loosened. You growl out a shuddering breath as you push through the waves of energy and push your hand right into her chest. Bones break and split beneath your hands, her blood warm as your hand sinks into her chest cavity.

Amarantha gasps in surprise, in pain, as your fingers wrap around her still beating heart. Her dark eyes widen with fear, mouth hanging open as blood pools in the corners of her lips.

“Please,” she gurgles. She knows she’s going to die either way, but now, for the first time, she’s powerless. As powerless as all the people she has harmed over the years.

Your fingers tighten, her body as resistant as her shields beneath your hands. All those powers she’s stolen lash against you: A bit of light and darkness, ice and fire and water in a last ditch effort to save herself. Yet, your body pulls it in greedily as you get a solid grip on her beating heart.

None of this feels real, possible. This is something out of your books back home.

“Please,” she rasps. As if she had ever shown any of you mercy, as if she had not demanded that you beg at her feet and then laughed in your face. “Please.”

And there, at the foot of her oh so precious throne, in front of her dark court, you rip the Queen’s heart right out of her chest, silencing that grating voice for eternity.

You don’t even get to relish in the victory, to appreciate for even a second that you are all finally free of her, not when all that power she’d stolen swirls around you. The void that makes up your skin draws it in, waves of ice and water and flame swirling like a tornado around your body. The collar hums gleefully in your ears, as if this was its plan all along. It’s too much at once, bringing you to your knees as the influx of power in your veins has your head pounding mercilessly in your skull. Spots dance around your vision, the world spinning and flipping. There is not enough air in Prythian to help you breath against the influx of power. This was why she was always smoking the mirthroot. No one person could hold this much power at once. It will tear up your insides, ruin your mind, your soul.

“Y/N?” Rhys reaches for you, despite his shackles, his voice slurred. Just like in the Pit, you think it will be horror you see on his face, but it is only concern for you, not of you.

Your mate, wearing a collar just as you are. Your mate who was punished for not keeping you beneath the Mountain. Your mate who’s powers now swirl around beneath your skin like the dark whisper of a shadow. Your mate now splattered with Amarantha’s blood as he reaches a hand out to you, as if he could somehow save you from this wild thing tearing up your insides. The Cauldron had been merciless, cold, and empty, but this is like being roasted alive, the fire too hot, making the water churning around you boil and steam. Ice pricks against your sensitive skin like a thousand tiny needles. It’s too much. It has to be released somewhere.

Rhys calls for you again, crawling towards you, body so much slower than it should be. Distantly, in that small part of you still aware of yourself, you know you need to give his powers back to him. His powers will speed his healing; his powers might just save him from you, but that wall is still there between you and your body. When you try to reach for him the collar pulses so intensely with heat you jerk back away from him, sliding down the steps with a whimper.

Rhys manages to get on his feet, swaying under all that mirthroot. “Y/N!”

His voice is so loud in your ears. Everything is too much. The brush of the throne’s steps against your feet, the swirl of water around your body, even the air in the room feels like it’s pressing against your skin. You throw out a hand, trying to make it stop, sending spikes of ice in all directions.

It must have hit the chain around Rhys’s neck because a moment later he’s stumbling down the steps to take your face in hand, the powers swirling around you be damned. “Focus on me,” he orders.

Your head is going to explode.

His strong hands grip your face, “Right here. Breathe. You’re ok. Just breathe.”

Why is he screaming? Your hands move despite yourself to shove him off you, to try and make the world quiet for five seconds. This is too much. You can’t bear it. You know you’re screaming because the collar retaliates against it, using the powers you’ve stolen to wound you further for the rebellion, but you can’t stop. The Mountain begins to shake and rumble, loose rock and debris falling in waves overhead.

Light and darkness pour out of you in blinding waves, the swaying movement in sync to your heartbeat. It’s a pulse that slams into the Mountain’s own magic, beating relentlessly until more chunks of the rock get hurled away, letting more light in. More people scatter, their screams mingling with your own.

“You can do this,” Rhys encourages, and when you finally manage to get your gaze to where he still kneels beside you. “Just breathe.”

“This is a new side of you Rhysand.” The world tilts. The pounding in your head makes the echo of approaching boots feel like every step has been made atop your skull. “I never would have thought you’d be offering up your services as a teacher, I thought you’d prefer to be on your back.”

Hybern walks into view, armor glinting, sword in hand.

No!

“Stop this,” Rhys begs and the sight of him like that, on his knees, makes you want to rip your father to shreds. “Let go of her! That collar will kill her.”

“Only if she fights it,” Hybern says with a shrug.

Blood trickles out your nose in inky black droplets, splattering the floor. When you lean forward and heave, more black goo comes out your mouth.

“I will give you anything,” Rhys pleads.

“Is this love?” Hybern sneers.

He does not wait for an answer as he turns to you and says, “Kill him, Y/N, I’ve waited long enough.”

No amount of mentally bashing yourself against the walls that cage you stop you from reaching out a hand and using a bit of Rhys’s own power to throw him across the room, his body bouncing off the marble.

It feels as if you’re lifting the Mountain just to get back on your feet, body swaying. Blood still drips from your nose. There might never be enough release of all this power to make the pain in your temples fade.

Rhys struggles to get to his feet, arms shaking beneath him. You’ve split open his cheek and temple. He’s barely managed to get up before you hurl more shadows at him, the dark mist lashing like a whip, cutting open his shoulder, his side.

Stop! Stop! Stop! By the Cauldron, he’s your mate! You can’t do this to him!

“Y/N,” Rhys slurs, voice breaking and you’re sure it’s the cracking of your own heart in your chest.

“Stop playing around,” Hybern orders.

Your body moves despite your efforts, lunging forward, fists flying. Rhys does his best to dodge, but he puts up no real effort, letting blow after blow land when he gets too tired to keep up.

Fight back. Please, by the Cauldron, fight back!

You manage to get a hand around his throat and you slam him so hard into the wall it cracks, his body nearly limp in your grip.

Stop. Stop. Stop!

“It’s ok,” he rasps. He’s not even trying to pry you off. “It’s not your fault.”

You’re going to die. If he dies, at your hand, you will not recover from this. Hybern might as well have killed you back at the Temple, there will be no saving you.

Violet eyes meet yours. There is no fear there, only understanding, only compassion.

You mentally throw yourself at the wall stopping you from regaining control over your body, bashing against it with everything you have. The collar’s power burns through you like boiling water in your veins. For your mate, your selfless, self-sacrificing mate, you’ll take whatever agony it can throw at you. It can’t end like this!

“I love you,” Rhys says, hands brushing over your claws. “I’m sorry I couldn’t save you.”

No. No. No!

Your claws tighten around his throat, drawing blood, as he gasps for air.

The collar rattles against your skin from how hard you’re fighting it, the metal hissing and screaming in your ears. You’re not going to let this happen. After everything you’ve been through, you can’t let Hybern win. He’s just a man. You’re a goddess, you will not be shackled to some mortal’s will. He will not take your mate from you, even if you have to fight Death yourself for him.

Darkness leaks from you. Your other fist slams into the wall next the Rhys’s head as your body spasms under the collar’s control.

“It’s ok,” Rhys whispers.

Spots swim across your vision, so damn fast they start to look like shadows. The world spins. The fire in your veins is unbearable. So much so that your body’s self-preservation finally kicks in and the hand around Rhys’s throat finally unlatches to let you grasp at the collar.

Rhys collapses, coughing at your feet as you tug at the metal fused to your skin, trying to pull it off. It’s not full control, but if you can keep pushing…

The room keeps spinning, end over end, the blood red marble at your feet now at the ceiling. Your stomach’s in your throat as your knees give out beneath you. You think you might be screaming again but the collar hums so loud you can’t hear anything over it. Still, you claw and yank at it with everything you’ve got.

“Stop fighting, Y/N,” Hybern orders.

Every breath feels like a battle. “Fuck…” the metal peels away from your skin like you’re ripping off a bandaid, skin coming with it. “You!” You snarl, voice ragged and gone.

He’s not going to beat you.

You get a claw beneath the metal, tearing through your own skin, it’s the only thing sharp enough to reach through the void.

“That’s enough!” Hybern screams.

The High Lord’s powers are yours, not Hybern’s, not the collar’s, not a product of the Cauldron. Yours. You push as much of Rhys’s darkness into your palms as you can, let that dark, glittering power slither its way beneath the collar.

Rhys manages to get up again, face bruised and bloodied. “Y/N!”

After everything, you’re not going to let him die, no matter what it costs you.

You get both hands around the collar, push whatever power you have into your palms until the heat of Autumn’s flames make the metal soft in your grip. Hybern is still yelling orders, but the don’t matter. If this kills you in the end, at least you’ll go knowing he didn’t get his precious Death Goddess. If you go, he looses.

With one last, rattling scream, you rip the collar off and the darkness pulsing from your body swallows you whole.

---

It’s all darkness. Not the Cauldron’s darkness. Not the Void that makes up your being. Not the darkness of your mate. It’s empty. Cold. Quiet. It has no beginning or ending, no borders or boundaries. It flows and ebbs like a tide, carrying your broken body along.

Broken. It’s a strange feeling, teetering along the edge of death itself, the pain a reminder that you’ve not fully topped over into nothingness yet, but it is there, pulling you closer and closer with no tether to the living on the other side of this dark veil.

And yet…

There, above your aching head, spins a single, glowing flower.

In this haze, it’s hard to remember where you’ve seen it before, yet you know, somehow that it’s meant for you.

“Come. Come and see.” It’s that phantom voice from your dreams again, always beckoning, tugging that tiny, little thread you feel blooming in your chest.

You reach for the flower, every muscle feeling like it might tear apart the more you move. It spins just out of reach, drawing you along, against the ebbing tide. Perhaps your eyes are playing tricks on you, but the darkness feels as if it’s getting lighter somehow.

The flower continues to beckon, further and further into the light until you have to shield your eyes against it…

---

Gaining consciousness feels suspiciously like being dropped from nothingness against the icy bite of the marble floors. Even being remade inside the Cauldron didn’t feel entirely as jarring as whatever that was.

Strong hands stroke your cheeks, moving your hair aside from your aching forehead. “Please, please, come back.” Rhys whispers, voice cracking.

His tears drip along your cheeks and it takes all your effort to drag an eye open to look at him. “I’m not…” it feels like you’re talking around a throatful of gravel. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Your mate lets out a sob as he drags your aching body into his arms, chest heaving as he cries into your hair. Over his shoulder, you can see the destruction behind him, the Mountain in shambles, what’s left of Amarantha near her throne. But Hybern is nowhere to be found.

Rhys pulls away just enough to kiss your forehead, your cheeks, “I thought you were dead.”

“I am a goddess after all,” you grumble. You certainly don’t feel divine by any means. “Kinda hard to kill me.”

He laughs through his tears, as he holds you tighter.

You let yourself lean into his touch, eyes closing. The worst of it is over, and yet, it all hits you at once. “I’m sorry,” you rasp into his skin. “I’m so sorry.”

“You’re safe,” he says, kissing the top of your head. “That’s all that matters.”

“Hybern-”

His arms tighten around you, “Don’t worry, Darling. We’re going to make sure he pays for everything he’s done.”

------------

*Thank you all for sticking with this story, I know my posting times have been sporadic lately, rest assured I will see this through. =)*

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#Rhys x reader #rhysand x reader #Rhys x reader angst #rhys x reader smut #UTM!Rhys x reader #acotar rhys #rhysand fic #acotar fic #acotar fanfic #my writing #my fic #datura series

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perfectlittleking · 20 hours

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A Motive For Escaping Hell

Fandom: Dead Boy Detectives (Netflix TV Series) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: Graphic depictions of violence, gore, horror, do not read if you have yet not seen s01ep07 since this contains spoilers Character(s): Edwin Payne, Charles Rowland, Doll Spider Demon Relationship(s): Edwin Payne/Charles Rowland Read on AO3 Word Count: 3,211 Summary: In Hell, hope does not exist only despair and pain and everything that can tear down a soul. Edwin knows that, but he has hope. He has a reason to fight, a reason to escape again. The problem is, can he keep it alight long enough to find the door?

The eyes of a young bloke shudder away from the creature in front of him. Avoiding any vision of the sight in front of him doesn't help. He huddles tightly against the wall. Calling himself a coward for sulking away from the beast, but it's safer. Still, he can see it in his head from the echoes in the chamber.

On the other side of the room was his captor, a towering spider covered in baby doll parts. All the pieces were sentient, as if the whole beast were a hive of individuals protecting the truth within. It hunches over, letting its numerous mouths munch on its snack. The two front doll arms hold onto the meal, cradling it. With closer evaluation, one would notice the meal was human.

Plastic heads gnaw and tear at the flesh, pulling apart pieces. Bones crunching under a few of the jaws. Shattering and being spit out on the floor. It mirrors the sound of marbles hitting pavement. Some pieces bounce; others crash and crack as they hit the grimy floor under the spider. The whole chamber was a half eaten buffet of human anatomy.

Other sounds fill the air. Plops of blood carry an arrhythmic tone. Twos, fours, and sevens. It’s chaotic and jarring against the rest of the appalling music. Every so often, a dull thud breaks all when a large chunk of the spider’s meal is dropped. Nothing about the sound in the chamber brings comfort, nor should anything down here.

Little giggles and soft whispered child tones slip from the mouths of those who don't eat. The same sound a baby doll makes. It has the childlike giggle, the babbling of nonsensical words, and the sweet hum of happiness. It only factors in a creepier tone when observing the demon.

Everything together paints the horrid image in the mind of Edwin Payne, haunting him since the day he entered. Nothing has ever truly blocked out the Spider Doll Demon from his mind.

It has been a while since he ran the corridors of the Doll House for the first time, but he's gotten out before, so he has faith in himself. He couldn't remember the full path that he had written down in his notebook since he dumped that knowledge in the ink, hoping he would never have to use it again. Eyes close as he tries to remember the pattern he had written down in the notebook all those years ago.

This was his labyrinth, not as intricate as the one in the myths he has read, but it was similar. Leave a trail, and one would escape, but he was not Theseus, and he didn’t have a ball of yarn. No. He was just a kid. All he knew was a way to escape. He’s done it before, but pulling that stunt again had a low probability.

There are a few paths he can recall. None of them seemed to be in order, but he will take what he can. Take a left to the open gate hall. Avoid the south wing; it held misery wraiths. It wasn't much, but it was better than starting over completely. He can do this.

Confidence floods the bloke as he pulls himself off the floor. Attempt eight. He will make it this time. On his knees, he places one hand on the wall for support. His back straightens before he can pull one leg out from under him. Slowly and quietly. That’s the rule for escaping from the room with the demon. His legs straighten, and he finds himself ready to leave. One last look at his captor.

Bare feet move in silence. He’s learned the hard way to sneak out of the room. Carefully, he takes each step. Not too slow since he knew how long a body enthralled the demon, but not too fast or he could make a sound. It’s a tedious process, but he finds himself out of the room and in the corridors of the endless halls. He’s run them numerous times, but remembering the path? That’s something he’s been finding difficult. This was attempt eight. This will be the attempt that becomes a success. The endless halls become his track.

Once clear, he runs. Legs pumping and arms swinging. With all his energy and all his strength, he tries his best to carry himself down the halls. Left. Left. Straight. He takes the same path as before on the sixth and seventh attempts. Straight. Keep running, he tells himself. He can make it. He runs down the hall that accommodates various rooms where agonizing and excruciating screams hide behind. This is a new feat for him this time down here. There’s hope. Hope fuels him to keep going.

A child’s giggle rings down the hall from behind him. The sweet sound of innocence that the demon hides behind. It causes Edwin to look back. He knows that doing so will slow him down, but he has to check if the demon draws near.

Bare feet smack the concrete. The space between the two is shorter as the boy picks up speed. He picks up speed, even when his calves burn and ache. He cannot stop. His eyes stay in front of him, looking for his next turn. As he crosses the hall, one foot crunches down on a porcelain fragment of a doll.

It digs into the skin, cutting deeply into the ball of his foot. Biting down on his tongue, he tries his best to muffle the agony he wants to let out. Any sound would alert the creature to his whereabouts. The muffled groan causes his eyes to close and pause in the hall.

The floor’s littered with discarded doll pieces. Some plastic, some porcelain. All came from the spider demon. He’s not sure if the creature molts or was harmed, and he would rather not know. It wasn’t the first time he’d snagged a piece.

He leans against the wall and lifts his leg up enough to check the damage. He can’t stop for long, or the creature will find him. The porcelain digs into his foot, but he can see it in the entry wound. Fingers pinch the side that didn’t sink in the first step. A tear slips down as he pulls it out. The piece gets dropped on a pile next to him. He endures the pain as he lowers his foot back to the floor. He lost time, but he doesn’t see the beast in any direction.

A blood trail follows him now. He still tries to run. A small limp comes with him with each step on the injured food, but he bears the pain. He runs. He turns the corner, putting much of his weight on the hurt foot. Eyes close for a second as if he’s praying, but no one will answer when he’s down here. No brave soul would venture to save him. It’s a risk he didn’t want anyone to take.

Feet are still in motion. He soon hits something hard. Not a wall. Not a misery wraith. Hard plastic and rough porcelain cut against his clothing. Eyes don’t dare open, as he knows what he hits. The leg that Edwin ran into wraps around his body, squeezing it.

Flecks of black flicker in his vision before everything starts to unfocus. A few blinks help clear the scattered dots, but only for a few seconds. A loud crack rings in his ears. Pain explodes in his back, soon vanishing. A piercing scream races from within and flees down the halls of the Doll House. Half his body goes limp. Everything below his ribs doesn’t exist to any of his nerves. It throws him into a panic. Breathing becomes sharp with quick breaths. Each one brings a sharp pain. All of this tells him the worst: the eighth attempt is the eighth failure. The leg squeezes tighter, piercing the snapped spinal cord. The surge of pain causes Edwin to black out.

As he regains consciousness, Edwin finds himself somewhere else. No. Where he is is where he started: the demon’s main chamber. He’s back on the floor across the room from his predator, who’s devouring the eighth version of him. It’s where he always wakes up after a failed attempt. Life. Reincarnated once again. It’s a torturous cycle he never wanted to experience again, but here he is. Trapped in Hell in the Doll House. The endless halls always bring him back to the demon, back to the pile of failed attempts. It hasn’t changed. Nothing has. The demon is enthralled by the body, and when it grows tired, it will turn to him for another game of cat and mouse. Nothing could stop this cycle except escape.

He’s done it before. He’s ventured into several rooms of the deadly sins. He’s ran up the endless stairway before. The path from the Doll House to freedom is sketched in his notebook. He is proof that he’s escaped Hell before. Edwin Payne: one of the known cases of a spirit escaping. The problem is, why can’t he do it now? What was different?

The cowering bloke sits with his legs curled to his chest. He leans against the wall, avoiding seeing the demon. He has the same clothes on his back as last time. His motive is different. Last time, he believed he was there because of a miscalculation, but that was the opposite of what the Night Nurse said before the door opened. He was there because he was supposed to be. The thought hurts and digs deep into him, causing him to ball up tighter.

He shakes the thought away. He cannot slip away so soon. He can make it. He will prove to Asa that her records were incorrect and he isn’t supposed to be down here. Attempt eight wasn't the last attempt. He has enough fight to run the halls a few more times. Edwin wasn't going to quit. It was too soon to call that. He's Edwin Payne, and the only thing stopping him from escaping is himself.

━━━━━━━━━━━

He’s lost count of all the times he’s tried. All the times he’s been ripped apart, eaten alive, thrown across the hall, and the other unspeakable ways he’s been killed. All he knows is that he’s failed. Failed so many times that he cannot make out the number of bodies that build a hill of discarded versions of him. Was it twenty, thirty, or fifty of them laying on top of each other? None were whole. Severed limbs and loose organs have fallen off the hill and rolled down around it.

He knows he’s tried and tried again. All he does is find himself back in the chamber with the demon. Each time he loses, and each time the demon wins. Always finding the creature with its most recent prize withering in its plastic arms. The same sound rings out. Even if he tries to muffle them, they have burned into his eardrums.

Hours have passed. . . or was it days? It’s difficult to figure out how long he’s been here with the dim lighting in the Doll House. The windows just peer out to other locations in Hell. Sunlight doesn’t touch here and never plans to. There’s no ticking clock in any of the rooms that latch to the halls. He isn’t sure how long he swims in the darkness between death and rebirth. There’s nothing that can help Edwin figure out how long he’s been down here.

A giggle that sounds like it belongs to a child came from the demon. Was it mocking Edwin? It must have known the reason why Edwin kept running away. He always assumed that this was a game for the demon. A game it wanted to play for centuries since it did trade something for him.

He curls up against the wall. The light of hope that has been glowing since he arrived has started to flicker. It’s slowly going out, like a candle that’s just a wick. There’s no wax or oil to keep it burning. It might have been the only source of hope in Hell. The damned lose hope when they find themselves here. It’s a miracle to Edwin that he still has a speck of it.

With each passing moment, Edwin slips away. He is close to being gone, but something keeps him sane. There is something that keeps him going and holding on. The thought keeps him from slipping too far.

He closes his eyes. He finds strength in a way that he could never explain to anyone. His mind draws out the one thing that Edwin has been holding on to since he was dragged back down. The fact he’s always sure of–

Brown eyes.

Brown curls.

The fact that Charles Rowland is the bravest person he knew. That nothing could stop him, not even Edwin.

And he’s hopelessly in love with him.

Was hopeless the right word? Love was a topic that always made him feel like a dilettante. It wasn’t something he was ever interested in when he was alive, but after meeting Charles, things twisted in his mind. It was slow, but after realizing that, if he did have one, his heart would beat for him. He wanted to know what it felt like to kiss Charles.

It’s tormenting to be in love with Charles Rowland. He’s reckless, also he was always around Edwin. He never went a full day without seeing him or without talking to him.

Just thinking of him gives breath to the burning light of hope in his chest. He lets his mind wander more about his crush. He focuses on the golden cross earring, the one that reflects the sun when hit just right. He can see his bright smile before he bursts into laughter.

It gives him enough strength to pull himself up. He runs this time. Another attempt.

It doesn’t end as he wants it to, but when he finds himself back in the chamber, he tries again. He thinks of Charles. He pretends he’s cheering him on in the living plane. He can almost hear his voice.

“C’mon mate! You can escape. You’ve done it before,” says the hallucination of Charles.

It gets him to push himself. It causes Edwin to run faster down the hall that tripped him up on the eighth time. He doesn’t miss the right turn like he did the twelfth and twenty-first time. He’s getting better. He can–

The gasp of life brings him back. A few attempts have passed, and everyone ends like the one before. He takes a breath of courage before pulling himself back to his feet. It’s weaker than the last. He tries to hold on to the thought of seeing Charles again. It helps. But it distracts his mind.

He takes a left. No. it was supposed to be right. He circles the hall. It was a new hall, one he hadn’t explored. It couldn’t be the exit. Did the labyrinth change? Could it have changed? Hell could grow smarter and learn from its victims. He wouldn’t rule that out. Just thinking about that makes him sink down. It makes him hit the floor and pull his knees to his chest. His head rests on top of his knees.

Hell wanted him, and Hell finally got him. Even with the faint thought of Charles that lingers in his mind, Edwin cannot find the strength in him. Not anymore.

“I’m sorry, Charles,” he whispers weakly.

A tear slips down his cheek and down to his knee. A few more follow on the same path. He wasn’t strong enough. He couldn’t escape. After all, when he escaped last time, things felt strange. He couldn’t explain it, but he felt like Hell allowed him to escape.

By keeping his silence, the creature can’t find him. Being still allows him to hide in plain sight. If he keeps this up, he could stay in this hall for a few days at most.

“Edwin?” Charles’s voice breaks the silence in the hall.

For a moment, Edwin believes it's in his head. Charles wasn’t that reckless or idiotic to come down to Hell for a rescue mission. No one in their right mind would do that. It only makes his arms tighten around his legs.

But what if he’s wrong? Slowly, Edwin picks up his head. The yellowish glow of a lantern glows down the hall. The same one he once used for Charles back in the attic of St. Hilarion’s. He couldn’t imagine that, right?

Behind the light stands him. Stands Charles. The real Charles. The one his ghost heart would beat for.

“Edwin, mate.”

His voice is soft, calming. There’s hope in his voice. There’s hope glowing in the hall, all because of Charles Rowland.

“Charles?” He whispers as he slowly pulls himself up.

He needed to know if it was him– if it truly was the bloke he’s been in love with. He takes a step toward him once he’s standing.

That one step alerts it. It causes the horrors he’s dealt with for almost a century to be witnessed by Charles. The creature speeds down the hall, down the corridor, and scoops Edwin up like a rag doll in the plastic arms. Slamming his body against the wall, then against one of the legs. The wound on his head, which he thought had finally healed, opened up again. It leaves a trail to the room where Edwin will wake up in.

If Charles was real, he should run. If Charles was truly Charles, he wouldn’t, thought Edwin. If Charles felt the same tug in his chest as he did, then he would follow the demon, even if it was dangerous.

When he does wake up in a new version of himself, he’s cowering. Charles wasn’t in the room where the demon rests. The Charles he saw was another figment of delusion. Charles was smarter than that. Edwin curls up, trying not to make a sound. No one would come for him. Charles deserved better anyway.

How long has it been since he saw Charles? If it was Charles, would he have made it by now? Minutes pass by, and he still finds himself alone with the demon. The Charles he saw wasn’t real.

What catches his attention is the slight reflection of light on the wall in front of him. The light catches a splatter of crimson, causing the deep wine to brighten. Light like that doesn’t show down here. So what was. . .

Before he can turn around, he hears his voice. He hears Charles’s voice.

“Edw–”

The sound causes Edwin to twist himself quickly, and he finds himself with Charles in front of him. His hand is now covering his mouth to avoid the demon hearing them. For the first time, he can feel him. Soft lips against his palm. Hell made things feel real and alive. For the first time, he’s feeling Charles. He’s real. Charles Rowland was here with him in Hell.

He came to Hell for him. Came to rescue him. He was the bravest person he knew, and bloody hell, he was in love with him.

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