#tw allusions to graphic violence

[mayariviolet]

𝐈 𝐃𝐨𝐧’𝐭 𝐒𝐦𝐨𝐤𝐞.

Pilot/ Episode One of ‘First Love/ Late Spring’

summary:

“So if you need to be mean, be mean to me. I can take it and put it inside of me.” // “I’m stronger than you give me credit for.”

-

Some letters addressed to Suguru before and after he defected were written by you, still in their sealed envelopes.

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cw: angst, no use of y/n, allusions to graphic violence, swearing, suggestive themes (but not really), references to blood, afab ‘reader’ x Suguru (I put the reader in quotations because technically they’re the ones writing the letters), fluff (if you squint really really hard), minor f! reader x Satoru.

a/n: I wanted to try something new! I love you, Geto Suguru! My bad for what I’m gonna do! Also on Ao3.

wc: ~4.5k

🏷️: @tacobellfreshavocado, @jeanboyjean (Reply below to let me know if you want to be tagged in the next chapters!).

September 2007

The day before he defected…

Dear Suguru,

I'm slipping this under your door because I'm feeling a little exhausted after our last conversation. Even though it's been a while. I know our last argument has been 'solved' per se.

But consider this insurance if I don't wake up in time to say goodbye like I usually do! I've been feeling a little more drained lately; I'm sure you know why. I'll keep writing like this if this mission takes a long time. Although, I know we will talk soon. Good luck tomorrow!

With love,

Two days after he defected…

Dear Suguru,

It still feels weird doing this since we haven't talked like this since we were kids, but anyway. We haven't spoken in a couple of days. It's kind of like when we were kids, too. I guess. I heard Satoru and Yaga talking the other day, but I couldn't fully understand what they said. Only bits and pieces. It's like they cast a curtain in the hallway… haha… I know I'm eavesdropping again (don't tell my parents), but I can't help it! It's hard to get any honest conversations out of anyone here. Yaga is probably on our ass about that assignment we haven't finished. I mean- I'm just waiting for you to do your part. Suppose that isn't too much to ask.

Also, they should have fixed my door if they didn't want anyone to hear! It's still creaking! Maybe when you get back, you could also look at it. I'll probably slip this into your room again. But you don't have to respond right away. Just take your time. I know you've been busy going on all of these missions alone. I'm sorry about that. You're probably exhausted. I don't blame you.

Just know that my door is always open (unfortunately).

With love,

Five days after he defected…

Dear Suguru,

Satoru fixed my door finally! He truly is good at everything. It feels emptier without you here, even though it hasn't been long. But you'll be back soon to fill the void. If you visit your parents, could you tell them I said hi? Mine too. I miss them greatly, but I know our work will make them proud. Satoru has been hanging around my room more, even after some tough training sessions. It's friendly company, but it's not you. He won't tell me why he's always loitering in our my room.

I forgot to mention that he asked me to heal his hand in my last letter. It's strange since he can do it himself, but I digress. It felt… nice to be wanted. Even Shoko seems gloomy! Uncharacteristic for her… Do you think she and Utahime got in a fight? Anyway, she's been helping me with my technique and some hand-to-hand combat stuff! It's a little hard to follow, probably because we train in my room. I wish I were granted a little more space…

Shoko also helped me finish our assignment- we got an A! I hope Yaga isn't too mad, but he's been getting quiet whenever I ask about you. Rather weird, but not as weird as Kento's haircut, right?

They're calling for heavy rainfall soon (according to that sweaty weatherman we liked to make fun of), but at least it's better than the unbearable heat. However, you felt the sting of summer more than anyone.

If you're home, eat more and say hi to my parents! They always tell me how you'll change the world one day.

With love,

One week since he defected…

Dear Suguru,

Sorry about this letter being so close to my last one, but I feel bad. Kento's been avoiding me lately despite not saying anything about his haircut. Then again, he's been avoiding everyone. Do you think he knows what I wrote? Hopefully not. As I write this, I can hear him shuffling back and forth. Inside and then outside. His heavy shoes hitting the stone walkways reverberate in my room.

Haibara, being gone, has started to settle in even though I wasn't as close to him as Kento or you. Is the work we do… is it worth something? It has to, right? Otherwise, you wouldn't be taking so long. This letter is a bit of a throwaway, so don't worry too much about responding.

With love,

One and a half weeks after he defected…

Dear Suguru,

Kento left. The rain is starting to get worse, but it's still manageable. Thankfully, Yaga gave me that empty patch near our dormitory to start gardening. I'm planning on planting some yellow roses, amongst other things. They remind me of you. The cicadas seem to be chirping a little louder every night. Maybe they're having nightmares about Riko, too.

With love,

Two weeks after he defected…

Dear Suguru,

It's been getting bad again. I wish you were here.

Do away missions usually take this long? I can't remember since Yaga has kept me holed up. I forgot to mention that in my last letters. Something about the higher-ups wanting to 'keep tabs on Satoru and me.' It's weird because Satoru can strut around, but I'm just confined to the campus.

However, he is kind enough to get me sweets whenever he heads into the city (he teases me about my sweet tooth, but he's worse!). I'll have to get used to telling him which ones I like before he spends his money, unlike you, who always got it right. I think Satoru just likes to eat my leftovers…

The days are starting to blur together.

With love,

Two and a half weeks since he defected…

Dear Suguru,

I think my technique is getting worse. You'd say otherwise and that I'm only getting better, and then give me a big hug. Is it creepy to say that I miss the smell of your shampoo? Probably. But it was so strong that it burrowed into my senses, like Satoru's six eyes. Since you've left, I'm unsure what to do with my free time.

I hope the break you are taking from school is refreshing. Heaven knows you need it. Hell, you deserve it. The tree we used to read under together is already yellow and threatening to drop its leaves, and the sun is starting to set earlier. Shoko offered me a smoke, and I felt…relief. Maybe I'll start doing that instead of thinking about how you take your tea. Sorry, I know how much you hated the idea of smoking.

My parents stopped answering my calls (they have been for a while). Even writing this feels like a waste, but I know you'll respond soon. Feel free to do it in person. My door is fixed now, but it is always open for you.

With love,

Your dear friend

Three weeks after he defected…

Dear Suguru,

It's been hushed lately. The cicadas stopped screaming, but I haven't. I walk by your room every day. It's weird. I used to get annoyed whenever you and Satoru were loud, especially when we had early missions. I would storm into your room, ready to be angry, but then you would flash me that beautiful smile, and everything else seemed to matter a little less.

Sometimes, I think you guys liked to make me mad on purpose, but I know it was all love. However, in your absence, I realized silence is worse. Suppose you cared, probably not since you haven't answered my letters. Shoko said my RCT has been getting better than before. People keep saying I'm an "asset" because of it. It's stupid because I don't feel like one. If I were, then you would have asked me to come with you. I wish you asked me to go with you.

Your dear,

With love,

Your dear friend.

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October 2007

Four weeks after he defected…

Dear Suguru,

Sorry about the short letter. Satoru is a little freer these days, so I guess I found something to fill the silence. Digimon is cooler than I thought! It's a little hard to understand sometimes, kind of like you. He's been spending more time in my room. I hope that doesn't bother you, considering our last conversation. Then again, we didn't talk much before you left, so you probably don't remember. Please come back soon.

With love,

Your dear friend.

Four and a half weeks after he defected…

Dear Suguru,

I have been missing the way you make me tea. So, I've been desperately trying to recreate it to no avail. Satoru suggested I add honey, and it made it almost too sweet. Still good, though. I realized on my third cup that what makes it special is you. But enough of that. Today, Satoru has been giving me tips and ideas on what to plant next season. He suggested some lily of the valley or some iris! I'm surprised he hasn't tried to convince me to plant some flowers that are as blue as his eyes. Granted, they are beautiful. Sorry, I should refrain from talking about how nice they are. He's been itching to tell me something, but I told him that we should wait until you come back.

With love,

Your dear friend.

Five weeks after he defected…

Suguru,

Satoru finally told me what you did. I'm getting that shaking rage again. There's a pain so deeply woven into my soul that my technique could never heal. I know writing these letters used to help us solve our problems when we were kids, but honestly? This feels a little ridiculous now.

There's not much I can say other than I hope wherever you are, there's eternal suffering- that whatever vomit-soaked rag curse you consume next swallows you whole. How dare you do this to our my family?

There's no way you could have known this, but after our weekly dinners, my dad used to go on and on about you. How you were 'the child they never had.'

How fucked up is that? I remember thinking, 'I'm here too! I'm here too!' They saw no value in something that couldn't clean up the fucking trash they created. That much was true. You saw that every time my father made ME cry, he made ME apologize.

Imagine a CHILD begging to be loved when that's all they should ever feel. I was just a KID. How burdensome it must be to demand what should come as second nature for parents. Their pure vitriolic energy seeped into my heart one night, and I considered destroying everything.

You knew that, and it was YOU who stopped me. Just like how you stopped Satoru after that day. God, you're a fucking hypocrite! Well, that doesn't matter anymore, does it? I was so close to getting their love back to how it was when I was six and didn't know anything. You stripped that away from me. God, you are such an asshole. Did you think you were doing me a favour? I keep replaying our last conversation in my mind. Each time, it's getting fuzzier, like a broken VCR tape. Rather than trying to remember how you smiled (which I am glad I am forgetting), I see this dingy aura. This whole 'monkey' talk is just the ramblings of a broken man, and I am not your repair shop.

You're a goddamn psychotic and selfish prick. How dare you murder all of those innocent people? What happened to us, making the world a better place? Was it all a lie? Just like another drunken kiss, perhaps? These stupid fucking letters never did anything when we fought as kids, and both of our parents made us you apologize like this.

You've poisoned us, me. There's not much else I can write other than I fucking loathe you. I always did. You were constantly parading around like you cared about me. You were saying that your 'Special Grade' status would never get in the way. How stupid was I to think that wouldn't get in the way because you were supposed to care for me? At least that's what you said to me repeatedly.

You were right about that. It wasn't your status. It was you. It was always you.

Yours,

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January 2008

Three months after he defected… 

Geto,

I don't regret what I said in my last letter. As I write this, the trees which granted us shade now threaten to break underneath the weight of the snowfall. Which we have been fortunate enough to get. There are icicles that hang on my window sill. Clear and cold. It reminds me of how you're soulless and void of any emotion. Ten years of friendship have gone down the drain for a fucking pipe dream.

And what a waste! When I scream at night from the memory of you, Satoru comes into my room now. He holds me until the sun rises and I've calmed down enough or until I pass out from exhaustion. I hope this information wounds the depths of your soul. If you even had one, to begin with.

A friend

Three and a half months after he defected…

Geto,

I've been smoking more.

Almost four months after he defected…

Geto,

Satoru and I have been getting close. I'm unsure why I'm telling you this again or even why I keep writing these letters, but whatever. I've been going on more missions. Digimon, missions, sweets, and then staring at the dust that coats your bedroom door. It's a little repetitive and draining, for sure. But then again, so was loving you.

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February 3rd, 2008

Geto,

Do you remember when we first met? I do. This slimy worm thing smelled awful, and it kept following me! It had just rained, so I thought, 'Oh, maybe it's just the mud that was still on my backpack after that kid pushed me.' Which was a little annoying because I was on my way to that grandmother's house to tend to her garden. No matter how far I walked, the smell kept following me.

You were trudging behind closely, and with one quick gulp, there was an overwhelming relief in my body. It was as if Sisyphus was able to complete his task. Then again, you're more like Sisyphus than I ever will be. I understand that now. Maybe that's why you kept me away after what happened with Tengen. Or, I should say what didn't.

I'm sorry I didn't do enough back then and also that I ran away after you helped me when we were younger. Then again, when I tried apologizing for running away while braiding your beautiful hair like always, you said it was fine.

I don't know why I'm writing this letter, to be honest. Maybe it's because I'm feeling nostalgic.

From your former classmate,

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April 2008

Six months since he defected…

Geto,

I have been thinking a lot about our childhood, our parents' expectations and just things of that sort. In general, I've been thinking about a lot and nothing at the same time. Mostly, I think about how stupid I am to keep writing to a man who would rather burn the whole world than try to nourish it. This is more for me than it is for you at this point.

My garden has been flourishing (well, it's attempting to). But Satoru is very encouraging when things get overwatered, and also a little annoying about the technicalities of it all. Satoru twiddling his thumbs while I tend to my wisteria tree is comforting, to say the least. Even though I know he is just itching to help. Sometimes, I let him.

From your former classmate,

Six and a half months since he defected…

Geto,

I think we're planning to move somewhere else soon, just as roommates, though. It was Satoru's idea. He made a good point of needing a change of scenery. Also, he has been very comforting in general, so I don't mind. I know whatever house or apartment he decides to buy will be way better than the hovel you're living in (hopefully).

From your former classmate,

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May 2008

Seven months since he defected…

Geto,

The house Satoru picked out is very nice indeed. However, I expect nothing less from a clan head. My room is spacious, and it overlooks some lovely green spaces. It is a nice break for my eyes. Thankfully, it's still close enough where I can tend to the garden on campus, but Satoru was also smart enough to find a house where I can expand my green thumb. If need be.

It makes me miss our old town. When we had the warm summer sun kiss our faces, the promise of a better tomorrow. I almost asked Satoru if he wanted to visit whenever he had free time.

Although, he always makes himself free whenever I ask. But then I remembered that our youth, or lack thereof, is simply a ghost that will always haunt me. He's a good friend.

I still hope you're struggling. However, from what I have heard, you were able to take over the Star Plasma Church quickly. Or whatever you call it now. Congratulations. You've become everything you hate.

From your former classmate,

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July 2008

Almost one year since he defected…

Geto,

It's approaching that time again. Sorry. I meant the anniversary of what happened. I think I have been able to process most of the merger that never happened. You were trying your best to stay as righteous as possible. I admire that about you. I've always struggled with that, but I guess I did better at masking it than you.

I know I said this before, but I am genuinely sorry about not doing enough back then. I went ahead and got myself stupidly injured when I should have stayed with you instead of following Satoru. He could protect himself. I'm not saying you aren't able to, but I guess I wanted you to see how strong I am. I want to say that none of it was your fault.

Although the hardship you've created after what happened with Riko is.

From your former classmate,

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September 2008

One year since he defected…

Geto,

It's been more than a year since I last saw you. Summer came and went. Satoru and I were actually able to get our schedules lined up to visit Okinawa. It was a little painful, and I was reluctant. But you know him, it's hard to say no. He even checked the plane for anything that would be amiss.

'Cross my six eyes and hope to die, there's nothing here!' he told me when I was annoyingly asking for reassurance. I couldn't help but feel a swelling in my chest that I thought would never return. Once we actually arrived, it was a very relaxing time (He's finally figured out how to make my tea just how I like it).

It was such a nice gesture, and he was kind about the whole thing, so I bought him some sweets and wrote a note. He asked me if I would ever want to return, and I was about to insist that you come as well.

Luckily, we arrived back in Tokyo before the rain started to pick up. I've been getting assigned more missions, but this is what I've been working towards. Cleaning up your mess, no doubt.

From your former classmate,

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August 2009

Almost two years since he defected…

Geto,

One of the more fucked up things in my life (other than continuing to write letters you'll never read) is how even after all this time, you are the only person I want to talk to. Shoko is going to school to become a doctor soon; from what I heard, Kento is doing well and- Satoru is a good boyfriend and a better dad.

Someone who knew you,

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September 2009

Two years after he defected…

Geto,

I should have clarified in my last letter I am not pregnant. There are parts of my body that will always belong to you, no matter who decides to enter our home. Satoru adopted this boy and his sister. I didn't bother asking how or why we spent weeks tracking two orphans.

I know, even if Satoru won't tell me.

It's a little daunting sometimes being young parents. But I'm trying my best not to repeat any mistakes my parents made. However, there are certain moments when I can feel my father's venom come out to try to sting Megumi or Tsumiki. I would never let that happen.

I'm getting stronger for their sake. Maybe I'll try to cheat my way through medical school like Shoko.

From your former classmate,

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December 22nd 2009

Two years after he defected…

Geto,

It's blistering outside but I will write something quickly as I am preparing for Megumi's birthday. Satoru and I have been making hasty preparations and a crappy cake (he insisted we tried when I said that I always wanted a nice homemade cake when I was younger) that will no doubt be replaced by one from a much better bakery. For a while, I was feeling jaded and jealous about how lavish Megumi's birthday party would be. But then I thought back to all of my birthdays those long forgotten years ago and thought about how I am so glad to have an opportunity to shelter a child from that experience.

In my reflections, I remembered your sleepy eyes and face smeared with an ice cream vanilla cake that your parents bought for me. I was fuming. Especially since my dad forced us to take a picture shortly after. I did a pretty good job of hiding it, though.

While moving to our new house, something fell out of my journal. It was the picture of that day. I'm sure you've thrown away your copy to forget your old life rightfully. Tsumiki came into my room right as I was about to put it away and asked who the dirty kid was in the photo. At first, I thought she was referring to me, but when I asked her to repeat the question nicely, she pointed to you. I told her the truth.

'It's just an old friend.'

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March 2011

Three and a half years after he defected…

Dear Geto,

There are so many letters I have written, but I decided this is the best one for now.

Satoru is kind enough not to notice my fervent writings to a man I've been mourning who isn't even dead. I understand what you did. Sometimes, I'm even jealous that you had the courage to take action. You were trying in your way.

I have always felt like a passive observer, but now that love I carried for you burdens my family instead, with Satoru taking the brunt of it. I don't know if you remember, but you told me you wanted that. A family. Our family. Then again, I was half asleep, and I could have dreamed of you whispering that to me as I was lulled in the safety of your arms.

Wherever you are, I hope someone can give you what you deserve.

From an old friend,

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September 2012

Five years after he defected…

My Dear, Geto,

I apologize for not writing that much. Then again, no designation could ever accurately describe our relationship. There's not much else to say other than I miss you. I finally cut my hair, not by choice. My son decided that gum belonged to my hair rather than a tissue thrown promptly into the garbage. I was annoyed, but then I remembered what a blessing it is to have him in my life. The ability to live in a world free of curses… I hope you're able to give it to him.

Maybe he'll inherit his father's technique one day. Perhaps not six-eyes since it seems a little exhausting. Once he's a little older, we'll find out, and then I will finally be able to return to work (despite Satoru's strong objections) alongside Shoko with less worry. Then again, if he were not to have a technique at all, I think that would be a greater blessing.

I do not wish to pass on the burden of our sins.

I just hope that if the time comes and he has nothing to protect himself from this unforgiving world, you will spare a child who has the wonder in his eyes you once had.

If I'm being honest, I knew you would never come back. I understood that the moment I slipped that note under your door only to find it unlocked and stripped clean. Still, a naive part of me kept writing and hoarding all the love I had for you in the hopes that you would one day return and take it all.

My garden, both on campus and at my home, is sprawling. In the spring, my children like to play in the large backyard pond. They're careful not to disturb the lotus that I've been careful to curate. Sometimes, I blink, and there are flashes of our childhood that I see. Specifically, summers which were spent in that grandmother's yard, tending to her vegetables and running errands. I hoped you would never tire of me dragging you along to this random grandmother's house, but deep down, I know you liked helping her as much as I did. It was a nice escape from the chaos of it all. I really started dreaming in those peaceful moments spent with you in that old house.

I have forgiven my parents, and now it's time that I try to accept what you did, along with the things I cannot change.

There has been an unnerving comfort in speaking to the ghost of who you once were. This will be my last letter for a while. Even though my writing, in general, has been sparse. I have a family, after all. I'm sure you do, too. I may be imagining things, but lately, these twin girls have been popping up wherever I go.

It seems stupid, I know, but they remind me of you despite their brown hair and large eyes. Both of which emit a warmth that I once felt whenever intertwined. In another life, maybe they could have been ours. Satoru listens to my concerns and is quick to calm me down. Ever since he's been checking in on me, I don't have nightmares anymore.

Sure, some nights are more challenging than others, but he whispers such lovely things that I can't help but fall asleep faster than I did with you. Sorry. That was an asshole thing of me to write. But I thought you would like to know I am being cared for.

You were my first love and best friend. My one and only.

With love,

Your dear, friend.

a/n: This is my first time trying this format, and I really like it! I might try it with another series of characters once I finish this. Also, the other chapters are written, but I am very anal about editing, so they're gonna have staggered uploads throughout March and April!

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© Please do not copy or replicate my work. Inspiration is appreciated, but credit properly! ♡

[ghostboneswrites2]

Safer

Summary: After the fall of the prison and a brutal assault, Daryl cares for you.

NOTE (please read): A mutual requested this a while ago. Took a long while to write, and tbh I considered turning the req down given the premise and my firm stance on writing graphic SA which you can find here. However, they explained to me that they are a victim of a violent s*xual assault, and they expressed it would be healing in a way to have a story where they were cared for by their comfort character. After some consideration, I decided to go for it. I'm sure a lot of us have been victimized by people who couldn't control their urges, or those who lacked respect for our boundaries, bodies, and consent. Myself included. So, this story is for us, to those of us that can stomach it. 

DISCLAIMER: There are no scenes of graphic SA, only the aftermath. While I will not be telling any descriptive scenarios of being assaulted, I do want to clearly express that this is a generally heavy story and it may not be suitable for all audiences. Please consume responsibly.

**I will not be tagging anyone on the taglist due to the content of this story**

18+MDNI ||  WARNINGS: non-graphic allusions to SA, violence, mild nudity descriptions, generally heavy content so I can't say it enough: TW!!!

Banners credited on my masterlist!!

        Daryl's vision was blurred as he blinked himself to consciousness. It took him some time to gather his thoughts and recognize his surroundings. His wrists and ankles were bound together, his mouth gagged with a cloth that tasted of sweat and filth. He stared up at the treetops towering over him. It was dark outside, save for the dim light of a dying campfire a few feet away. He lifted his head from the forest floor and looked down past his feet. Lumps of sleeping bodies under raggedy blankets and torn sleeping bags rested around him. His heart raced as his memories crept back in; of you, screaming his name, of him fighting off the group of men who caught him off guard, of twigs snapping and a searing pain over the side of his head. Was that why his face felt so sticky? Was it dried blood?

        His eyes strained in the fading light of ember and ash. Where were you? He noticed a crumpled form at the foot of a tree. Her breathing was shallow and her clothes were torn, pants not even pulled up over her bare behind. That much, he could see. His throat tightened. His eyes watered. What the hell had he let them do to you? How could he have let this happen? He had to get you out of there, and fast. If they hadn't killed him yet, that was surely on their agenda.

        He began to squirm and writhe against his restraints. Whoever tied him up had experience. Just as hopelessness began to set in and cloud his judgement with fear -- real, genuine fear -- he noticed a reflection in the leaves. Just a few feet past his boots, a man was curled up on his side, snoring lightly in the calm breeze. His back was turned to Daryl, and behind him set a grungy backpack with a blade sticking out of the smallest pocket in the front. He glanced back  to you, shivering on the ground, unsure if you were awake or unconscious or simply passed out from the exhaustion of prior events. 

        The sight of you in your disheveled mess was all her needed to kick him into gear. Carefully and hastily, he scooted himself down toward his only chance at redeeming his status as a loyal protector of the weak and vulnerable. Ideally, he'd be able to accomplish this in silence, but he was not in an ideal situation. His circumstances were heavy, laced in sweat and angst. The leaves beneath him rustled as his back slid across the ground, twigs snapping or moving to the side as he made his way closer to the large hunting knife. He'd pause between each scoot, studying the sleeping men around him for any sign of movement or wakefulness. When he'd decide the coast was clear enough, he'd resume. It felt like an eternity, but he made it there. 

        His core muscles strained as he sat himself up. He realized how sore he was. He must have taken a good beating. Seemed fitting, though. He was never one to go down without a fight. He left that sort of weakness in his past.

        He guided his shaky, bound hands over to the bag. He slowly slid the knife out of the front pocket. His heart raged against his ribs. He didn't dare take a single breath until it was secured. 

        Slow. Slowness. Slowly. He repeated every variation of the word in his mind as he positioned the knife between his palms and dragged it back and forth until the rope finally severed. A silent breath of relief escaped him as he ripped the gag from his lips and worked on the rope tied around his ankles. When he was free, he stood and counted the sleeping bodies beneath him. Excluding you, there were four. 

        He considered waking you up and running for the hills, but he couldn't leave any loose ends. No, he thought of it like when your t-shirt has a loose thread. You could leave it to keep unraveling, or you could burn it at  the base and extend the lifetime of your clothes. He decided he needed to burn this string before it could unravel any further.

        Starting with the man closest to him -- the one who so graciously left his knife in plain sight for the archer -- he krept over and crouched down, plunching the blade into the base of his skull. Then, he moved on to the next, and the next one, and the one after that, until they were all a problem of the past. Until that pesky little thread could do no further damage to the rest of the shirt.       

        When the dirty work was behind him, he dropped the knife and rushed over to you. Your wrists were tied like his, but you were tied to the tree so you couldn't run. He eyed you over and gulped. With your pants not fully covering you and your shirt all ripped up, he could see the finger-shaped bruises littering your skin. There was blood on your inner thighs. Your lips were swollen and cut. His blood heated until it hit a boiling point. His hands trembled as they hovered over you. Touching you  felt like a crime, but he had to wake you. He had to get you out of there.

        "(Y/N)." He whispered as he laid a hand on your shoulder. You were shivering in the cool air, but a thin layer of sweat blanketed your exposed flesh. He gave you a gentle shake. "((Y/N), c'mon. We gotta go." He pleaded softly.        

        Your body jerked and you jolted awake. You gave him no chance to explain as you scrambled to your knees and cowered away against the tree. 

        "(Y/N) it's me. It's Daryl." He attempted his most soothing tone of voice. "C'mon, let me get ya cleaned up."        

        He outstretched his arm, offering you his  hand. Without making eye contact you made a move to take it, but you were stopped by the restricting force of the rope that kept you anchored to the tree trunk. He moved quickly for the knife he tossed to the side earlier and returned with it. Without the pressure of remaining silent, he had your hands free in seconds.

        He wasted no time helping you to your feet and averting his gaze as he slid your pants up where they belonged. He found he had a hard time keeping his mind straight and focused as your weeping filled the quiet campsite. 

        "Shh.." He cooed, keeping one hand on your upper back as he ushered you along with him to gather his things and yours. A smart man would have rummaged through the belongings of the ones he killed, too, but he wasn't concerned with making a smart call at that point. He was only worried about you.

        "It's alright. C'mon. Let's get ya somewhere you can rest. It's alright. C'mon." He felt useless as ever, repeating the same generic words of comfort as you limped along beside him. He never urged you to up the pace, he didn't drag you along or have you carry your own bag. He felt like the least he could do was shoulder the weight of survival on behalf of you both. He couldn't get the image out of his mind of ou laying there,caked in blood, sweat, and bruises. A girl like you should have been caked in perfume and makeup. You hair should have been done up nice for a Sunday brunch, not matted with leaves and dirt. Your clothes should have been pristine and well fitting, unlike the filthy torn clothes that were beginning to hang off your frame like tender meat falling from the bone. You didn't deserve this. You didn't deserve any of it.

        Eventually he found an acceptable spot that looked like it could have been a den for a hibernating bear. It was a big shrub by a little stream, perfectly indented to give you both enough room to crouch under its foliage. He gently set you down, dropping his bow and your bags beside him. He crouched down in front of you and scanned you, worry written articulately over his features. 

        Your eyes remained glued to the ground. Your nose was upturned in disgust but your eyes told a different story; one of pain and despair and mourning for the person you were before that night. Your frown was deep enough to leave a scar. 

        "(Y/N)..." He breathed. Your eyes slowly found their way to his and welled with tears all over again. Of all things you had -- meaning, being alive and away from those men -- there was nothing you were more grateful for than his blue eyes staring back at you. You hated the way he looked at you with defeat and pity, though. You hated that he had one more thing to worry about. Still, he was there, and he was welcome. "Let's get ya cleaned up, okay?"

        You nodded once, if absentmindedly. Your thoughts were elsewhere. You couldn't pinpoint their location, though. They were scrambled, swarming all around you, like gnats you couldn't swat away.

        He pulled an old shirt from his bag and leaned over to the stream, getting it nice and wet before wringing it out. He turned back to you and brought it up to your cheek, gently dabbing and swiping away at the dirt, grime, sweat, and blood. He moved on to your neck and hands, then he paused. You both looked down at your jeans. You knew it needed to be taken care of, and he did too, but the question was really about which one of you would be brave enough to work on the gruesome scene between your legs.

        One look at your expression and he knew it couldn't be you. But, how could it be him? He couldn't put you in such a vulnerable position. No, not him.

        That's when the lightbulb went off over his head. The stream, of course.

        "Here." He offered you a hand. You took it slowly and he led you to your feet. "Wanna get in the water?" He asked. You stared down at the serene flowing water, trickling just before your feet. He cleared his throat. "I don't gotta look."

        You almost could have laughed. After everything that had happened, Daryl seeing you bathe wasn't really a concern. Still, you had to maintain some shred of dignity, and washing those men off of you was a much needed stride toward leaving that horrid night in your past. So, you nodded, and he turned away to start a fire where you could warm up after rinsing off.

        The button was busted off of your jeans. You guessed they couldn't waste their time with something as simple as undoing a button. You let out a shaky sigh and gritted your teeth. You moved to bend over and slide your jeans down, but a searing pain shot through your insides. You whimpered. "I can't." You barely managed.

        "Huh?" He asked over his shoulder.

        "I can't." You spoke up with a tremble. "I can't get them off. It hurts."

        His throat tightened up. Had they really been so cruel to you?

        "Ya want me to..." He trailed off.

        "Please." You whispered and shut your eyes. He stood beside you and pulled your pants down to your ankles, kneeling down as he did so.

        "Grab my shoulder." He instructed softly. You did. "Left leg." He said. You pulled it out. "Now the right." 

        With your jeans off, he stood up and looked down at your face, which you his from him, avoiding his gaze. 

        "Your -- Uh.." He glanced down at your underwear. You nodded, not needing to see what he meant. He followed the same process with those and turned away as soon as he was done. You cleared your throat. 

        "Can you help me sit?" You whispered. He sucked in a breath. It wasn't that you were annoying him. Anything but that, actually. He was glad to help you in any way you needed. It was the simple fact that you needed the help that was eating him alive. The thought that those guys could hurt you in this way, to this extent, was infuriating and heartbreaking. 

        He turned back to you and hovered behind you, placing a hand under each arm to support you while you lowered yourself down into the water. Once you were sitting on the creek bed, you adjusted yourself and sighed.

        "Just, uh, watch for snakes, okay?" Was all he could say before turning his attention back to the fire finally.

        Your frown deepened as you stared down at your bloodied thighs. A plop beside you startled you before realizing it was just the old shirt he was using to clean you up.

        "Figured ya might need it." He mumbled.

        You gripped the cloth in your hand and stared at it. Blood and filth stained it. Your lip quivered as you ran it over your inner thighs, scrubbing your own dried blood away and watching it disappear in the gentle current. You hissed and winced as you cleaned yourself where you were really injured. 

        When you were done, you peered over your shoulder, where Daryl stared at the small flame. He felt your eyes on him and he looked up at you. 

        "Need some clothes?" He asked.

        "Please." You replied. He nodded once and rummaged through your bag. He could only find a semi-clean shirt, but no more pants. He pulled his own bag forward and searched for the new two-pack of boxers he'd scavenged awhile back. 

        "I, uh, didn't see no more pants, but... You can have those." He said, holding your shirt and the fresh boxers out to you.

        "Thanks." You pressed your lips into a thin attempt at a friendly smile. 

        He turned away again so you could change your shirt, but you needed his help with the boxers, which he did without you needing to ask, and without a single peek at you.

        He helped you back over to the den where you could warm up by the fire. You kept the blanket in your bag, so he made sure to wrap it around your shoulders while you sat.

        "Ain't got no food." He broke the silence after a little while. You nodded.

        "Not hungry anyways." 

        "Mm." He hummed. "Get some sleep. I'll keep watch."

----

        By midday, you were on the move again, trailing right behind him as he stomped slowly over the underbrush so you could keep his pace. He'd stop every now and then, and though he didn't say it, you knew it was because he didn't want to overwork you. 

        By late afternoon, the sun was on the far end of the sky, casting an orange glow over the woods. 

        Daryl had barely been able to look at you, and you couldn't exactly claim any different. You two had taken a break again, sipping water and scanning around for any game or edible plants.

        "I want ya to know.." He cleared his throat, shattering the thick silence that glazed over you both all day. "I want ya to know I didn't see it. None of it."

        "I know you weren't looking." You deadpanned.

        "Nah, not at the stream. I meant -- I didn't see none of it." He clarified. He had a sneaking suspicion the reason you couldn't bare to look at him might have been the possibility of him seeing what had happened to you. He, however, just hated seeing you look so broken, knowing had he been more vigilant yesterday, none of those guys would have been able to sneak up on him. You looked at him finally.

        "I know. They hit you over the head 'cause you were fighting them."

        "Mm." He nodded. "I just... I need to tell ya I'm sorry." His voice cracked as he looked down at his hands and back up to you. His leg was bouncing anxiously and his gums must have bled from how hard he chewed at them.

        "Why?" You pushed your eyebrows together.

        "I shoulda been lookin' out. Shoulda protected ya. Shoulda--"

        "You were. You have been." You cut him off. "You've looked out for me every day since the prison. You've been protecting me since the quarry. You protect everyone. That wasn't your fault." You insisted. He just looked back down at his hands and sniffled, blinking back tears. He scolded himself for being the one to cry, when you were the one who got hurt. "Hey." You pressed on. "Listen to me. You got us out of there. You took care of them. You saved me. Then, you still took care of me. If we were still back there, they would have killed you and robbed you by now. And, if they hadn't killed me yet, I'd be wishing I was dead. I wouldn't be here without you. I would have never survived even before last night without you, and I wouldn't be sitting here telling you that today if it weren't for you."

        He looked you in the eyes as you spoke every word. It was a great relief to him that you weren't angry with him -- that you didn't blame him. Still, he felt so uneasy.

        "Can we camp here?" You asked suddenly. He shrugged.

        "Yeah. We can." He agreed. His voice was still broken.

        "Can I sit with you?" You asked. He looked confused but he still nodded, even if he was unsure what you meant.

        Ignoring the aches all over your body, you crawled over to him and sat in front of him, between his legs, leaning your back against his torso. He was stiff, unused to being so close to someone, but he didn't resist. As you settled in and got comfortable, he rested his arms by your sides.

        "You didn't fail me, Daryl. Nobody makes me feel safer."

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Yandere! Douma General Profile

Yandere! Douma x fem! reader

Tw: kidnapping, mentions of non/dub-con, stalking, gore, breaking and entering, allusions to cannibalism/unknowing cannibalism, semi-graphic descriptions of an innocent animal being killed so fuck you Douma, mentions of physical and sexual harassment, physical violence towards reader, choking, fem reader, MDNI

I do not condone any of the actions described in this post - this is fiction and should be treated as such. If you or a loved one is in a similar situation to anything contained in this post or my blog in general, please seek help. You're in charge of your internet consumption; please make responsible choices. With that, enjoy!

WC: 11K

DARLING PROFILE:

Stubborn

In general, Douma needs a darling who isn’t a pushover. He’s used to his followers blindly following his orders, nodding eagerly at his words and allowing him to do whatever he pleases with them. He’s used to lesser demons being petrified of his power, either entirely avoiding him or pleading for him to spare them, something that admittedly strokes his ego but grows boring at a certain point.

And so, while Douma is pleased that the people and creatures surrounding him so obviously understand his superiority, he yearns for something different – for something new, exciting, challenging. A darling that’s more stubborn and doesn’t blindly obey him would pique his interest, his mind reeling with all the possible ways he can get them to submit to him.

He’s giddy at the prospect of breaking down his darling, practically bouncing on the balls of his feet because oh, they’re just so very contrary to what he’s used to. He likes the idea of a darling who’s easy to fluster and embarrass, and a darling that will cling onto their beliefs and opinions presents Douma with an irresistible opportunity to slowly mold his darling into the perfect, responsive, sweet little human that he can tease and study, someone he can keep by his side like some sort of loyal pet.

(Though, as Douma’s obsession festers and only grows stronger and harder to control, he finds that he no longer thinks of his darling as some sort of glorified pet – they’re his, a possession, someone he feels strangely connected to, the barest hint of emotions dancing at the edge of his subconscious. The feeling is addictive, and with every denial of his charms and scoffed, irritated roll of their eyes, he only finds himself growing more desperate to be around them, fascination and intrigue and desire in more than a carnal way spurring him to spend every waking moment with them.)

Opinionated

Similarly, Douma enjoys a darling who has strong feelings. He understands the allure of a meeker woman – they’re easy to control and even easier to manipulate, making them the perfect follower and food supply. But for his darling, the woman he thinks he feels some sort of love for, they need to be someone with a little more backbone.

It excites him when his darling stands up to him – the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, his shoulders tensing up and his breathing getting a bit heavy because yes, tell him again why he’s wrong – tell him again, now that he’s merely a foot away from you, close enough that you can feel his breath against the shell of your ear and his body – much stronger than you remember – is mere inches from yours.

He finds his darling to be an endless source of entertainment, and so they need to have strong opinions covering a wide variety of topics.

He likes surprising his darling with random questions: what are their thoughts on the afterlife and death? Should the weak have any sort of rights, and do they believe in nature’s power structure that puts demons unequivocally at the top?

Do they enjoy traditional human romantic customs, like kissing or holding hands?

Or do they prefer more intense displays of passion and devotion – would his darling enjoy it if he returned to them with the severed head of a man who’d spared them a passing glance, just as a show of how much he cares for them?

He wants to know the answers to each and every question, and one of the biggest aspects of him obsessing over his darling is the non-stop talking – always prompting them with a new question that’s almost as insane as the last, his eyes glittering and sparkling as he asks them what they think the most painful way to die is.

(If they were to answer being eaten alive, Douma would merely cock his head, blinking widely at them, before bursting into laughter, his eyes holding a glimmer of something that makes his darling freeze up in fear, a primitive instinct in them screaming to run away from this monster. Ah yes, I’d imagine it would be quite painful indeed, he’ll tell them, curling a sharp fingernail around their chin.)

Paranoid

This trait is less of a necessity and more of a perk – in general, Douma will absolutely destroy his darling. He cares for them in some twisted, strange way, but he’s not afraid to completely break his darling before rebuilding them just as he so desires.

Of course, he still wants the basic bones of their personality to remain intact, but having a darling with a propensity for anxiety and paranoia would make that job much, much simpler. He can instead divert his time and attention towards effectively corrupting them and slowly breaking them down rather than bothering with the initial stages of forcing them to doubt themselves.

The combination of his darling’s kidnapping and being held captive by a man-eating demon would force this character trait to become even more heightened, putting them in a position intensifying Douma’s poking and prodding and overwhelming them. And so, he can spend his time carefully choosing how he wants to approach them – which new insecurity should he prod at today?

He knows they’re a bit sensitive about their weight – something he doesn’t understand, really, because he absolutely loves their figure.

 He’ll lightly comment about their weight, making some remark with sugar-coated words and watching as his darling tenses up, their face twisting into that wonderful expression of hurt and sadness, the mere sight of their face changing because of him making a small, high sigh slip past his lips.

Once he thinks his darling has had enough, he’ll end the conversation with a small compliment, telling them that they’re too sensitive, we’re just having a bit of fun, aren’t we?

And really, watching the way his darling just shakily nods and tries to compose themselves leaves him feeling vindictive, satisfied, seen.

It’s selfish and horrible, but Douma is a selfish and horrible creature – so really, a paranoid darling would be absolutely perfect.

Talkative

However, despite Douma’s hobby of irritating his darling and embarrassing them, he still wants a darling who will actively engage with him. Of course, it’s very easy to force his darling into speaking with him, as just a flash of those nails, fangs, or a dismembered limb will often get them blubbering and frantically rambling and doing absolutely anything Douma requests of them.

But it’s different when his darling actively chooses to speak with him – perhaps it’s still out of fear, but at least this way Douma can indulge himself in the idea that they want to speak with him.

He can pretend that they actually enjoy hearing his voice, that they like the long, drawn-out conversations he frequently holds with them, that they actually like him – a concept that simultaneously displeases him and leaves something warm and scratchy and good settle in his chest.

Because really, while Douma’s feelings for his darling are questionable at best, he really does truly want them to like him – he craves a kind of connection that isn’t superficial and one-sided, and although it’s entirely new territory he wants them to fulfill this desire.

And so, while he annoys his darling and forces them into conversations because he likes to interact with them and study their reactions, there’s a deeper sense of desperation and neediness underlying his words and actions. A darling that is naturally more talkative will give him this desired connection, making it easier for him to feel wanted, needed, liked in a way that’s entirely foreign to him.

It’s just attractive, really, because while shy, quiet humans have their purposes, a life partner (as Douma thinks of his darling) needs to be someone who won’t shy away from his words, who will retain their voice around him. It’s just attractive, really – so please keep talking to him.

GENERAL YANDERE TRAITS:

Clingy

In general, Douma is overwhelming. He’s chatty, touchy, and has absolutely no respect for your boundaries.

You’re his sweet little human – weak and naïve and perfect to play with, and he’ll be damned if he doesn’t enjoy having you around. And enjoying you means teasing you, pushing your buttons, irritating you until your face twists up into that scowl or grimace that he absolutely loves to see.

He’s always doing things just to see your reaction – he’ll place things on shelves you can’t reach just to watch you bite your lip and contemplate whether you want to ask him for help, internally swooning because aw, aren’t you just the cutest when you’re embarrassed?

He’ll make you say ‘please’ in order to eat the food he’s offering you, a smirk sitting on his lips as he tells that he didn’t quite hear that, could you say that again please?

(Of course, the food isn’t the food you think it is – it’s edible, sure, and it’s high quality, but as time passes Douma finds himself toying with the idea of turning you into a demon, knowing he could probably persuade Muzan into doing this because it makes the Upper Rank Two more productive. And so, while he’d fed you mostly animal meat when he’d initially stolen you away, he very slowly begins integrating less common meats, opting to mix the smallest amount of human flesh in with the beef he serves you, just a hair of a finger or a small bit of thigh. Just to get you familiar with the taste – and to watch your face freeze up and hear you gag as he tells that you’d just eaten the man who brought you afternoon tea yesterday. He loves the way you look at him with your eyes wide and your jaw dropped, shock and disgust and fear swimming in those pretty eyes of yours and making shivers erupt over his whole body, the sight absolutely delicious.)

He’ll lay his hand on your shoulder at random times, seeing your whole body jerk and jump as you whip your head back, surprise written all over your face because you hadn’t heard him enter the room.

(Silently, he’ll marvel at the warmth of your skin through your clothing – you feel soft, too, and Douma idly wonders if the rest of you is this warm and soft. If everything is this lovely, or if certain parts of you are warmer, more sensitive, wetter -)

His favorite way to bug you, however, is to fluster you. Douma is aware that by human standards he’s very attractive – perfectly clear skin, wavy and thick hair, a sharp jawline and a smile that makes most human women – and men – crumble instantly. And while you seem to be largely immune to his charms (much to his delight and chagrin), Douma makes it his mission to get you flustered at nearly every opportunity he can. There’s something about the way your face crinkles up, your brows growing taut and your eyes looking everywhere except him that makes him only want to push further, to say more provocative things, to get closer, to hear your sharp intake of breath again and again.

He’ll have you sit near him, your thighs just barely brushing, his inhuman hearing able to pick up your slightly increased heartbeat, his own heart racing in his chest as it does every time you get so close to him. He’ll be telling you something inconsequential, narrating what he’d done that day, and nonchalantly let his hand rest on the expanse of your thigh, not even pausing his words to acknowledge his action.

And hearing your heart begin beating even faster and smell the distinct smell of fear and even just the slightest, smallest twinge of arousal gets his nostrils flaring, excitement bleeding into his voice because oh, you like this, do you?

And he’ll capitalize on your well-hidden attraction – scotting closer to you so that you can smell him better (he’d tried a new cologne that morning – one he’d seen you eyeing in a shop many months before), increasing the pressure of his fingers so that he’s gripping your thigh (and trying not to lose his composure at just how squishy you are, your human flesh so pliable and pretty and the perfect thing to feel under the pads of his fingers), and asking you with the same tease in his voice (though it’s just a tad huskier, not even intentionally) if you’re enjoying yourself, hmm? If you tell me you like this I can give you more, you know.

He’ll lean in closely to your ear, tongue lolling out to lick up the shell while he finishes with a whispered I’m no stranger to the human female body…

He’ll listen for your breath to hitch, feeling your muscles tense underneath his grip, the audible rush of blood through your veins, letting the tension build and build before laughing and leaning back. He’ll take his hand off your thigh and shoot you that same smile that his followers gush over, telling you that you’re so cute when you’re flustered, bunny, you should’ve seen your face! He likes how you try to hide your face, your fists clenched as embarrassment eats you alive because god, he’s infuriating, and god, you hate that you’d almost wanted to take him up on his offer.

And really, that’s the way Douma will slowly break you down – he’s fascinated with you, like you’re some sort of pet project of his that he wants to study and understand, and as a result he needs to spend as much time around you as possible. You’ll hardly ever get a moment to yourself as his darling – he’s always lurking, invading your personal space and inserting himself into situations where he’s not wanted.

He’ll slip under the covers of the futon right beside you, those strangely colored eyes wide and bright as he tells you that you just looked too cute for him to not want to join you – and of course he has to be laying close enough to be sharing breaths. The futon’s not that big, so what did you expect? He’ll trail behind you as you walk into the restroom, smiling brightly at you as you ask him to leave so you can bathe in peace. He has the audacity to tilt his head to the side, that same smile on his face but seeming a little wider now as he asks you why should I do that? You can shower just fine with me right here, can’t you?

(He often joins you on your trips to relieve yourself, too, standing beside you and holding full conversations with you as you hesitantly seat yourself onto the toilet, trying to avoid the eye contact he’s very, very eager to maintain. It’s quality time, he says when you bring up how uncomfortable it makes you, and you’re really just too weak and irresponsible to be trusted alone in the bathroom – what if you slip and fall? What if you accidentally rub your skin raw with your towel? Douma wouldn’t want you to be hurt, now would he? The condescending tone of his voice will often leave you angry enough to not further the conversation, making Douma smug and giddy because oh, aren’t you adorable when you’re angry!)

He’s just needy, really, because the sick, twisted version of love that he feels for you is rooted in fascination, in wanting to see how you react to the things he does to you. He wants to see every emotion you’re capable of, and he wants to be the reason for all of them. Really, he just wants you to be looking at him, paying him attention, reacting to him and the things he does – just keep your eyes on him, and let him bother you every moment of every day.

Eventually you’ll grow to tolerate the sound of his voice, the feel of his hands on your body, the embarrassment that eats you alive nearly every time you interact with him. It’ll get easier, really – or perhaps you’ll just grow more complacent, and Douma will seem less like a thorn in your side and more like the only other person you ever interact with.

Just how he wants it.

Dependent

Douma is a creature that has lived for a very long time and has known only total and utter control – serving Muzan and letting everyone else serve him. He’s used to being the one in control, needing to feel the power and sense of total dominance over others in order to function correctly, to feel good.

And in most ways this applies to his obsession with you, too – he’s very aware that he’s stronger than you. He’s both physically and mentally stronger, smarter, faster, more capable, more powerful, just generally more. And in the beginning of his obsession, noticing this obvious difference in your strength and having you blatantly ignore it was enough to pique his interest.

Too many decades had passed by with humans cowering in fear and kneeling before him (as it should be), but it’s left him bored, aching for more, wanting something new and entertaining. And so once he meets you and sees that you aren’t one to submit quite as easily, Douma is immediately hooked, wanting to push you as far as he can just to see how much you can take before you crack.

And really, this is how the majority of his infatuation is presented to you – he’s an annoying, terrifying creature who metaphorically clings onto your every word and action, those colorful eyes of his always watching and staring and wanting.

You think he wants to kill you, really, and you’ll be left constantly on edge around him, terrified that he’ll hurt you or your loved ones for even a single step out of line. And in the beginning, Douma does nothing to dissolve this perception you have of him simply because it’s true. He doesn’t know if he wants to hurt you or not, if he wants to kill you, what he wants with you. You’re an enigma to him, and he’d kept you around because you intrigued him.

With every passing day, this interest and intrigue only seems to grow deeper, stronger, more difficult to disentangle himself out of. But his pride and staunch view that he’s better than all humans bars him from really realizing this early into his infatuation, firmly telling himself that it’s just curiosity that compels him to not sink his teeth into the fleshy expanse of your thigh. It’s just innocent fun that’s stopping him from ripping you apart limb by limb, feasting on what he’s absolutely sure is soft, supple flesh that would have the sweetest taste.

Though, as time passes, even Douma must admit that his feelings for his darling begin venturing into unknown, dangerous territory – no longer is it simply amusement, entertainment, and mild physical attraction that draws him to you. Instead, there’s something more – he’s desperate to see you at all times, growing addicted to having your attention, his body yearning for you in a way that simply fucking another female follower can’t satisfy.

He needs you – he’s grown too charmed by your stubbornness, your continued resistance to simply appeasing him making him more desperate to crush you and have you under his thumb. No longer is his obsession simply a desire to have you around to mess with and satisfy his boredom – no, now it’s about you and your place at his side. You’re certainly not his equal, but he sees you as a companion, a partner not in equalness but in terms of needing you.

Because really, as soon as Douma realizes that he’s toeing the line between mild interest and honest desperation, he panics a bit. This is totally new – something unknown and scary and something he can’t control, so he tries to pull back, forcing himself to give you distance because he simply can’t be allowing you to have such control over him.

You plague his every thought – when you’re apart, he’s imagining what you’re doing. Are you relaxing, enjoying the serenity that being away from your kidnapper brings you?

Are you lonely, wishing he was there to keep you company, even if the way he touches you makes your skin crawl?

Are you sleeping, hopefully dreaming about people with his face and eyes and hair?

Or perhaps you’re eating, maybe even finding yourself wishing that Douma was there to sit beside you, that sick grin on his face while he lifts the chopsticks, tells you to say ‘ah’ and places the sushi delicately on your tongue, something dark in his expression as he tells you to chew and swallow, don’t let it go to waste.

He’d only fed you once, and you’d fought it the whole time, trying to squirm away from him and being thoroughly difficult. It’d entertained Douma in the moment, the way you were so desperate to get away from him, but now, thinking back on it as he patiently waits for Gyokko to get to the meeting site for the joint mission Muzan had assigned them, he’s starting to wonder if perhaps the experience would be even more enjoyable if you obediently let him feed you, looking at him with those pretty eyes of yours and even thanking him, telling him how delicious the food is, how nice his company is, how you’re so very glad that he’s returned to you…

It’s sappy and stupid and ridiculous, and it makes Douma scowl to know that you’ve managed to snag such a hold on him, but every time he considers killing you, something sharp wedges its way into his heart and he finds himself dismissing the thought.

Because really, as pathetic as being obsessed with a weak human female like you is, the alternative is worse – returning to a life of monotony and apathy, seeking his thrills through the momentary high of a slaughter, desperately chasing after more power and more entertainment, trying to fill in the empty void in his chest where his heart should be.

You fix all of that – and so he decides to embrace these new feelings, deciding that if he feels so strongly for you, then he must keep you by his side. You aren’t allowed to ever leave – he would be a shell of a demon if you did, every ounce of joy and happiness stolen from him, and he’s simply too selfish to allow that to happen.

So you’d better prepare for Douma’s constant attention, the frantic way he looks to you, the way his fingers always grip onto you, his voice ringing in your ears over and over and over. He’s overwhelming you, his presence and the constant demands of your attention draining you and leaving you attached to him in a way that makes him sick, but Douma frankly doesn’t care.

How can he? Every moment he spends with you not only quells the constant ache to be around you and feel your eyes on him, but it also deepens your dependence on him, too. Because really, Douma is the only person you ever see with any real consistency – he’s incredibly strict on allowing his followers to come into contact with you, only allowing a small handful of his most devoted servants to drop off meals or change your bath water when he can’t be there to do it himself.

(Both of these activities he loathes missing, if only because you’re so cute when you’re eating, and bathing you? God, Douma likes to think he has decent self-control, but the way he pounces at you and bares his teeth, his eyes darkening and his voice getting noticeably deeper makes it obvious that his hold on himself is slipping, the sight of your nude body with water only barely covering your nipples and below your torso making him genuinely feral.)

 It’s in moments like these that Douma can only laugh at himself, embarrassed for having allowed himself to fall so strongly for a weak, pathetic thing like you. And yet, as time passes he finds himself not caring – after all, when he forces you to turn into a demon, some of that self-loathing will disappear, and then he can be as rough as he wants with you – an idea that makes him literally tremble with anticipation.

Possessive

Unlike his fellow demons, Douma is actually a bit sneaky with this aspect of his obsession – at least, in the beginning.

He’s not obviously possessive or territorial of you, or at least not more so than you’d expect. Frankly, if it weren’t for the fact that he’s kidnapped you and flirts with you just to fluster you, you’d have no idea that Douma is interested in you romantically. He’s touchy and pushy, sure, but he never showcases any traits of the traditional jealous partner. He doesn’t rant and rave about how you’re his, nor does he leave possessive bites or marks along your body to physically mark you as his.

He’s not that uncivilized – at least, he likes to think so. He’s not that terribly obsessed with you, he likes to believe, and by not being verbally territorial over your time, space, and attention, he feels that he’s maintaining this boundary between you where you can’t see just how truly dependent on you he’s become.

But the issue, really, is that while Douma thinks he isn’t easily jealous or possessive over you, it couldn’t be further from the truth. Really, he absolutely needs you to be looking at him and only him – he’s used to being revered and worshipped, both by his followers and many of his fellow demons, but there’s just something different about your attention.

There’s something warmer, something better, something that makes his fingers twitch and his neck feel hot because god, you look good when you’re looking at him, and when you say his name with that slight tremble of fear in your voice he wants to press you so tightly against him that you can’t breath.

You’re just different, really, and so Douma struggles with this internal dilemma. Particularly in the beginning of his obsession and your captivity, he doesn’t allow any signs of his true feelings to be seen – sure he’s flirting with you and teasing you just to see you squirm and get all embarrassed, but it’s just for fun. It’s all a big game, of course – you’re just so weak and endearing and strangely cute that Douma can’t help but belittle you and see that flustered, embarrassed expression on that pretty face of yours.

But then he notices you smiling and laughing at something else one day – something small, something stupid.

A small squirrel had managed to weasel its through the high window into the room he keeps you locked away in, the little brown animal curiously staring at you. On its hind legs, dark, beady eyes fixed on you while you lightly giggle and marvel at the bushiness of its tail, the liveliness of its presence – suddenly not feeling so horribly, horribly lonely.

And Douma’s immediately seeing red – your pretty face is all twisted up in a smile and your eyes are fucking sparkling – why the hell don’t you look like that when he’s talking to you? You’ve never looked this happy with him even once – you flustered and embarrassed is great, but this?

His hands are shaking, an ugly snarl ripping across his face, blond hair bristling as he sprints to grab the squirrel. Everything happens too fast for you to really comprehend – the squirrel is a few feet away from you one second, squeezed between his pale finger the next, something maniacal and scary and horrifying flicking through those rainbow eyes of his as he stares down at the small creature.

You’re immediately scrambling to your feet, begging him to not hurt the animal, and his head snaps to yours almost robotically, that look morphing into some deranged excuse of a smile as he tells you that you’re not allowed to be making friends, remember? I told you what would happen if you did. Do you remember what I told you?

And as you start sobbing, begging him to not kill the animal, Douma will only sigh wistfully, deciding that although he wants to see you smiling and laughing and loving him like the way you loved this squirrel, this is nice too. You, with tears streaming down your cheeks, snot dribbling from your nose, your eyes all glassy and red – you’re cute like this, really, and it makes him smile gleefully, squeezing at the squirrel just a hair tighter and oh god –

You’re still crying when he has the follower on their hands and knees scrubbing the blood from the pretty white flooring, your body wrapped in Douma’s arms while he coos at you and plays with your hair.

It’s only then that you’ll really begin to see just how truly devoted Douma is to you – his hands are all over you, those eyes staring holes through you, arms tugging you closer and closer to him, not leaving an inch of space between your bodies. He’ll grab your chin and force you to look at him, that same sick smile on his face while he tells you that you’re very pretty, you know, I like when you look like this. Now won’t you smile for me? C’mon, I deserve a smile, don’t I?

If you don’t, his grip tightens, surely leaving bruises against your dainty skin, pressing tighter until you shakily quirk up your lips, the smile pained and strained and absolutely divine in his eyes. It’s then that the possessiveness will start to rear its ugly head – he’s telling you in that same sing-song, fake voice that you’re so much better when you’re smiling… Hey, you know to only smile at me, right? You know what’ll happen to anyone or anything else you smile at and talk to. I’m the only one you need to look at – I’ll slaughter anything that dares to steal your attention from me, do you understand?

Meanwhile, he’s stroking your cheek, unblinking as he stares, his breath ice cold and making you shiver. After that incident, Douma doesn’t hold back on making it absolutely clear that you are not to speak with anyone else in the compound – you’d already been studiously avoided by all his followers, only coming into contact with someone when they were forced to bring you food or attend to your washroom needs. But now, everyone was actively afraid of you – running at the sight of you, one poor girl even shaking and breathing so heavily as she heated your bathwater that it hurt just to look at her.

And you know it’s all Douma’s doing, too – you’ve heard him telling his followers that you’re strictly off-limits, that you’re something that isn’t to be touched or looked at, that you’re a sin, that to interact with you without just cause would be an irrevocable offense worthy of death. And there’s something about his voice when he says it that makes you bite your lip, fear dancing through your chest because you’ve never heard him be so serious before, the rumble of his words and the way you can practically see the dead-eyed, apathetic face making something in your gut twist.

From then on, he’s even more clingy – constantly demanding your attention, touching you seemingly without restraint, his voice constantly ringing in your head as he bothers you day and night, never letting you go more than a few minutes without his presence at your side and rudely commanding your attention and time.

Really, he’s just awfully needy – you’re his. His favorite human, toy, thing, and he'll be damned if he lets anyone – or any thing – take that away from him. He’s a powerful demon, and you’re nothing compared to him. So just accept your place as his personal whore, really – because there’s nothing you can do about it. He’s needy and jealous and will become the only person you’ll see with any sort of remote consistency, and it’s all by design.

You’re not to speak with, look at, or think of anyone else – you really, really wouldn’t to see anyone get hurt over that rule, now would you?

Because as much as he likes your positive attention, seeing you scream and cry and hate him is almost as good – delicious in a way that makes him lick his teeth and giggle because ah, you’re just so adorable.

DEALING WITH RIVALS:

Quite honestly, despite Douma’s more possessive feelings over you, he doesn’t get jealous that often.

This is mostly due to the fact that he severely limits who he allows to interact with you – all your attendants must be female, and ideally rather weak-willed and soft-spoken. He wants you to be interacting with the most mild people he can, just so that you don’t grow too attached to anyone.

He’ll keep the attendants rotating, just so that you don’t develop any sort of comradery with anyone, and so that no one becomes hopelessly enthralled by you or becomes inspired to set you free from your obvious captivity. It’s all selfish and very, very purposefully orchestrated, because while Douma may be occasionally relaxed and not as rigid with his followers, anything involving you is meticulously thought out, planned with such a degree of obsessiveness that it nearly drives him crazy.

And so, you hardly ever get the chance to interact with a man, much less glance at him – which is very, very good news for the people of the compound, because otherwise all of their blood would be spilled and he’d  be touching your sweet body over their corpses.

Douma simply doesn’t get the opportunity to become jealous often – and even before all of his obsession has fully festered and established itself, this stands true. He kidnaps you very early on, and fully with the intention of killing you once his interest in you dries up.

As a result, there’s simply not much time between the formation of his obsession and your eventual relocation to his temple, seriously limiting his opportunities to grow jealous over you. And this pleases Douma – once he decides that he wants to keep you, the thought of you being unable to interact with anyone significant aside from himself is calming, a sense of possessiveness and ownership over you swimming through him that makes his smile almost real.

And so, for the first few weeks of your captivity, you’ll genuinely think that Douma won’t grow jealous over you, simply because the very, very few people you meet are nearly silent, only interacting with you when absolutely necessary and practically running out of the room before you even finish talking.

 But of course, not everything goes to plan – it only takes a single encounter for you to realize that your previous assumptions about him not growing jealous were painfully mistaken.

The new attendant is more talkative than the previous one. The last one had been mousy, a quiet little creature of a girl who couldn’t be older than fourteen, setting down your meal tray and immediately darting out of the room, the lock clicking loudly behind her. You hadn’t gotten much of a chance to speak with her, let alone ask her name or details about your location.

But this newer girl was a little bolder. Her gaze, while still averted, would occasionally dart back to you. And while the pity in her eyes made something ugly simmer in your chest, the acknowledgement of your poor situation by anyone other than him was still welcome.

She was still rather quiet, but you noticed that she stayed just a hair longer, and would even manage to crack the smallest of smiles in your presence.

But during one sunny afternoon, while Douma longues on your bed with an arm propped under his head and those eyes of his stuck on your figure, she comes by to drop off the food.

It’s a familiar knock at your door, and you perk up at the sound, something that Douma notices with a slight twitch of his eyebrow.

Come in, you call, watching as the locks click and the wooden door creaks open. The girl is there, and you watch as her eyes meet yours and she gives you a small nod of recognition. You smile ever so slightly back, on edge with Douma’s hawk eyes monitoring the entire interaction.

The girl sets the tray onto the ground before shuffling away, glancing up one more time only to suddenly notice Douma’s presence on the bed. She gasps, eyes blowing wide, before bowing her head against the ground, stuttering out a M-Master Douma!

He’s quiet, his gaze narrowing ever so slightly, before an easy smile settles onto his lips. Slowly he gets up, steps light and airy as he approaches the doorway. You’re still standing on the other side of the room, watching the interaction with every hair on your body standing at attention. There’s something about the way he feels, the predatory sense of dread hanging in the air that makes your every muscle desperate to run away, to get out before something terrible happens.

He squats down to her kneeling height once he reaches her, his eyes closing as he keeps up that smile. Do you know her?

The girl shakes her head quickly, her voice merely a whisper as she tells him no, I only serve her meals occasionally.

He nods, humming. So why are you looking at her then?

The girl parts her lips slightly, gaze wide as she stares at him. I – um, I don’t what you mean, Master. I’m sorry.

His eyes open, lids closing half-way and pupils fixed on her. Why are you staring at her so familiarly? Did I not explicitly tell you to avoid looking at what’s mine?

She gulps, her hands starting to shake. I – I’m  terribly sorry, I did not mean to –

Douma sighs, but his shoulders stay tight and tensed, the muscles in his arm visibly flexing underneath his shirt as he clenches his fist. Ah-ah-ah, don’t you know? I don’t care what you have to say. No one is to look at or speak to her. You knew this. And yet you went and did it anyways. Do you know what that makes you?

She’s crying now, tears slipping down her cheeks and her lip wobbling. You’re too frozen with fear to move, but you can hardly breath.

Douma smiles, tilting her chin up ever so slightly. He leans in closer, bunch hunched in a way that doesn’t look human.

Dead. He breathes out.

It happens too quickly for you to follow – his fist is plunging into her chest, her scream cut short by him ripping his hand back out, something red and wet and moving clutched in his palm. The sight makes you sick, bile rising up in the back of your throat and making you heave, forcing you to the ground.

Her body goes limp and slumps to the side, blood pouring around her body and leaving the pretty, wooden floors stained red.

Douma’s giggling, you hear, as he squeezes at her dismembered heart, clutching down tighter and tighter and tighter – until it explodes in a spray of red, getting all over his face and chest, staining the floor even more and making a fresh wave of nausea pass through you.

Your entire body is shaking, gaze unable to stop staring at her lifeless body, terror coursing through you and making it impossible to breath, to move, to think.

All too soon Douma’s standing up, wiping the blood staining his hand onto the already ruined white fabric of his pants, gaze settling on you and sighing once more. What a mess, he laments, but your gaze is still stuck on the girl.

He pouts at that, moving forward and physically blocking your view, getting close enough to you that you can smell the blood on him, see the little bits of tissue and muscle decorating the tight fabric of his shirt.

He’s smiling again, and you flinch as he clasps a strand of your hair between two fingers, rubbing it between them and smearing red all over.

Did you like that? His question makes your lips part, your gaze slowly moving to meet his, something in your gut screaming at you to hurt him, to hurt this creature that so cruelly ruins and steals the lives of others.

But as Douma presses in further, his Adam’s Apple bobbing as his eyes get wider, his voice a bit higher, excitement oozing off of him in waves, he only asks again did you like seeing that? Doesn’t it feel good to see her get what she deserves?

You have nothing to say to that, so you only stare, your own tears pooling down your cheeks.

Douma’s eyes sparkle at that, and he leans forward, tongue lolling out and licking a long strike up your cheek, the salty taste making him shiver.

He rests his forehead against yours, licking his lips and pressing wet, bloody hands against your arms. Hey, let’s go to bed. You’ll be good for me, right? You wouldn’t want to anger me, you know.

And really, what other choice do you have but to say yes, to let him drag you to the mattress and hold you, all the while you stare at the girl’s body? There’s blood staining every inch of your skin and smearing across the sheets, but you try to ignore the now cold, viscous feeling.

And does it make you a bad person for being grateful that it’s not you laying lifeless on the cold, hard ground?

TAKING HIS DARLING AWAY:

It’s inevitable, and it happens fast. Douma is simply a stranger to you at first – a friend of yours had been converted into the Paradise Cult, and at Douma’s urging, each follower had been required to drag in a new member.

You weren’t especially receptive to the idea, but your friend had tricked you into visiting the compound by telling you it was simply an alternative living community, leaving you unsure and suspicious but not wanting to doubt the friend who’d suddenly re-emerged into your life.

And after stepping foot into the compound, you immediately had a sense of what was happening – something was very, very wrong, and your friend seemed entirely dismissive and unaware of it. You’d stayed out of politeness (and your friend’s very thinly veiled threats of what would happen if you were to run), promising to meet the Master as your friend had begged, and upon meeting Douma (alongside a large group of people who seemed to be in varying states of fear and confusion, like yourself), you’d immediately wanted to turn-tail and leave.

He’d gone through each individual recruit, shaking their hand and whispering sweet words to them, and when he’d approached you, expecting the same kindness and reverence that all the other recruits were told to exhibit, he was sorely mistaken. After grabbing your hands (his hands were ice cold, freezing, and perfectly smooth), you’d smiled at him, trying to mirror the expression on his face.

Welcome to Paradise, won’t you join us? His voice had been smooth, calming, and layered with a sense of confidence that had your smile turning sour.

No, thank you, I’ll be leaving now. You’d ripped your hands out of his grasp and promptly turned on your heel, not sparing Douma a glance as he gaped at you, genuinely too stunned to make a move and follow you.

He’d meant to follow after you, anger at your disrespect making his eye twitch, but the other recruits had to be brought in before he could bother with a single disgruntled woman. You’d managed to leave the compound, ignoring your friend’s hysteria and desperate pleas to apologize to the Master, instead storming all the way back to your own home and vowing to never set foot on that property again. There was just something unnerving about the place, and that man – he’d made some primal sense of fear edge up into your throat, your body feeling feather light and your reflexes heightened.

But as you tried to adjust back into your life and essentially mourn the loss of your friend, Douma hadn’t forgotten about you. He’d tried to – you were inconsequential, a dirty, lowly human woman, utterly nothing. And yet, the days began to blend together, images of your naively brave face dancing behind his eyelids, thinking of the absolute gall you had to blatantly disrespect what your body could clearly sense was an apex predator.

(He’d been able to smell the fear wafting off of you in waves, hear the rapid pounding of your heart, see the tremor of your hands. You’d been petrified, truly, and yet you’d still been stupid enough to run away. It would be impressive, if it didn’t leave such a sour taste in his mouth.)

The anger prompted him to call in your friend, asking with a sickly sweet smile what your name was, where you lived, and to tell him a bit about you. Your friend was more than happy to oblige his request, apologizing profusely on your behalf and spilling every detail about you that they could. Douma had nodded at the end, flashing them one last smile before slicing their head off, licking a bloody finger afterwards and humming.

Immediately heading off towards the location of your home, Douma ran through all the possible ways he could punish you for your blatant disrespect – perhaps rip your toes and fingers off one by one, then devour you, or maybe even slice open your belly and let you suffer before death?

Deeply pondering, he’d stopped outside your home, staring into the windows and feeling his eyes brighten at the sight of you simply seated in your living area, reading out of a book. You were nothing special, truly – no particularly beautiful features, nothing that would catch his eye out of the hundreds of humans he’s met and devoured. You were utterly unremarkable, and weak, too; unable to fight, unable to defend yourself, just utterly, utterly pathetic.

And as he slips into your home, internally scoffing at how you don’t even notice his presence, Douma suddenly stops. You’re looking at him now, panic eating away at your features as you cling to the wall behind you, your voice shaking and rather thin as you scream at him that you’ll hurt you, don’t – don’t come any closer!

And really, it almost makes him laugh when you grab at the candlestick on the nearby table, pointing the stubby, wax bar at him with eyes wide enough to make him giggle.

It’s quiet for a long moment, before Douma’s lips quirk up into something vaguely resembling a smile, something in his eyes growing brighter as he realizes that oh, you might be a bit of fun.

And as he moves forward and has a hand striking against the pressure point in your neck before you can even blink, Douma finds himself nonchalantly leaning down to smell along the curve of your jaw.

You’re not wholly unappealing, now that he looks at you up close. You smell nice enough – a bit floral, a bit earthy, and he can hear the beating of your heart from this close. That same twisted smile sits on his lips as he brings you back to the compound, rainbow eyes dull as he unceremoniously drops you onto the rackety, spare mattress of a fellow cult member, ignoring their questions as he slices at their throat and hums.

You could be entertaining enough, at least for a day or two – it’s not often that people resist him, and he wants to know how long it’ll take before you break.

Despite Douma’s rather spontaneous kidnapping of you, it doesn’t take him long to fall into a rhythm with you. What he feels for you at first is slow-going and barely even there, but it’s something – and as time passes and he becomes aware that you’re inspiring an unknown emotion – any emotion, aside from a dull pleasure in seeing others suffering - inside of his chest, he becomes more and more attached.

And this is obvious in the way that he treats you – he’s absolutely suffocating, choosing to take up your every moment of the day because absolutely nothing compares to the sight of you scowling at him, or the way you flinch and scramble to get away from him every time he reaches out to touch you. It’s cute, even, the way you ardently try to escape him when you’re both painfully aware that it isn’t possible. It’s endearing, but even with your stubborn nature, you’ll eventually grow complacent in the lifestyle he’s forced upon you.

You’re kept in a set of bedchambers that very clearly belonged to another person before you – the bed is larger than you’d expected, with crisp white sheets and red silks hanging from the frame on all sides. The dark, mahogany wood is engraved with all sorts of geometric and floral patterns, and during the rare stretches of solitude that you’re afforded, you find yourself running your fingers over the shapes and committing them to memory.

The bed had actually not belonged to the room’s previous occupant – instead, the bed had been the one Douma designated as his own, before your arrival. It’d been the bed he’d lounge about in during the day, bedding nearly every woman and man in the compound between those very sheets. He’d had it moved into the room he keeps you in a week or so after your arrival, deciding that if he was to spend so much time in your space, he might as well be comfortable while doing so.

(And though it hadn’t been his intention, there’s something oddly pleasing about seeing the way you visibly sink into the mattress most evenings, your constant fearful expression and scowl slowly melting away at the sheer luxury of the bed. Pleasing, and satisfying, really, because something that almost resembles pride eats away at him when he thinks of how he’s the one providing you with such comforts, and is thus the reason for your joy.)

The room itself is rather small, with four plain white walls and a few decorations and trinkets left behind by the previous occupant. A select few photographs and letters had been left behind, and you’d placed them all in a small corner of the room, taking care to not damage them but unable to look at them without feeling ill.

You hardly ever leave the room – Douma doesn’t allow you to freely roam the compound, and you are strictly forbidden from having any visitors aside from himself and a select few trust cultists that he keeps very, very careful tabs on.

(There’s the small, ever-present sense of worry that you’ll find comradery or friendship among one of the attendees, so he’s careful to keep them uncomfortably aware of their purpose, of how they aren’t to speak to you unless absolutely necessary, how they aren’t to spend any time at all in your space unless ordered by Douma himself, how your life is much, much more precious than theirs.)

But truth be told, you’ll be grateful for any and every attendant that spends even a few seconds with you – because Douma will be an always present, unwavering presence in your life once you’re stolen away. He finds you fascinating, and there’s something addicting about the responses you give to him. It’s addictive enough that he finds himself by your side every moment he can spare, always staring at you with that odd, small smile that never seems to reach his eyes, his voice always chipper and cheery even as he tells you the most gut-wrenching, revolting things.

And as time passes, Douma becomes not only clingy, but touchy. His hands are freezing cold when they touch you, skin like ice as he cups your cheek or grasps your wrist or places his hand on the small of your back.

He has no concept of personal space; his breath (cold just like his fingers) fans against your skin as he stands behind you, your back pressed snugly against his chest as he murmurs in your ear that you’re shaking, are you afraid? Probably a good choice, considering how weak you are.

He’s making you sit in his lap as he forces you to tell him about your old life, listening to the shaky intake and exhale of your breath and tut-tutting at you, telling you to stop lying, pretty thing, I can hear your heartbeat soaring. We wouldn’t want poor Mimiko outside to pay for your deceptions, would we?

And once he begins getting truly needy for your time and attention, Douma is absolutely not afraid to escalate your relationship to something more physical, something more intimate. He absolutely will force himself onto you, that same devoid smile on his lips while his eyes shine with something that you can’t – and won’t – put a finger on.

He views you as his personal play thing, his personal human, and his clinginess and inability to leave you alone for more than an hour at a time is proof of it. And as he grows more and more attached, the desperation to be around you starting to cloud his mind and make him angry, irritable, enraged when something keeps him away from you, he’ll only become more suffocating, more desperate for your every thought, look, and feeling to revolve solely around him him him.

It’s the least you could do, really, considering he’s been kind enough to spare you.

(Though there’s always the lingering question of how sweet your blood tastes, if you’re as soft and tender as he expects, if when he sinks those teeth of his down into the sensitive flesh of your thigh you’d squeal his name like he hopes you would…)

PUNISHMENTS:

If you don’t count his constant, overwhelming presence, Douma doesn’t really punish you. He’s actually fairly lenient – he certainly doesn’t allow you to roam around the compound on your own, nor does he allow you to speak with anyone aside from himself, but you’re allowed to choose what clothing you wear, how you style your hair, when you wake up and when you go to bed.

And really, Douma likes to point out just how much freedom he gives you – when you’ve got an attitude, anger and irritation welling up in your chest and bubbling over, Douma will simply pout at you, telling you that you don’t get to be mean, you got breakfast this morning. And while he doesn’t explicitly say it, the tone of his voice and the way he’s looking at you are reminders that yes, he’s keeping you here against your wall, but he’s oh so generous and feeding you well. He’s giving you food, shelter, and attention from a being much superior to yourself – and frankly, you’re a spoiled little brat for not realizing exactly what a gift he’s giving you.

He’s not the biggest fan of actually saying those words to you though, if only because he likes to keep up the charade of being a happy-go-lucky man, wanting you to feel and acknowledge that yes, he's powerful, but he also treats you with kindness and a level of care and adoration that you should really be beyond grateful to be receiving.

It’s a matter of pride, more than anything else – and your ‘punishments’ are also a matter of pride. It takes quite a bit to anger Douma. This is because he lives for your responses – he’s teasing you and pushing you right to the edge on a constant basis, loving the way you grit your teeth or yell at him or try to ignore him. Though, he admittedly likes that last option significantly less. It’s entertaining for the first few minutes watching you clench your jaw and pretend like he’s not poking your stomach or kissing over the shell of your ear or threatening your family members, but if you hold out and remain silent and unresponsive, he’ll eventually just pout and give up, sighing dramatically and telling you fine, have it your way.

You won’t ever actually get your way, of course, but Douma will manage to finagle some variation of your request with his own touch to it.

You’re asking for your freedom? Absolutely not, but he will get you a pretty pair of binoculars so you can see outside the laughably small, iron-barred window in your room!

You want supplies for your hobbies because you’re going insane with boredom? A bit harsh considering he’s always keeping you company, but he’ll buy you whatever your little heart desires, no matter how expensive or difficult to find. You just have to teach him how to use them, okay? You’ll do your little hobbies with him, or not at all.

And so, Douma doesn’t automatically see you lashing out or being rude as a negative. Instead, it often only endears him more to you, enjoying the way you’re so very human in your inability to control your emotions.

But while he doesn’t respond negatively to your bad behavior, there are two things which truly do upset him.

The first upset is predictable – your attempts at escape. You talking about running away is one thing; lofty plans and ideals you talk about in front of him while he nods along and coos at you, pointing out each and every flaw in your thinking and explaining in detail the many ways he could stop you.

It’s mildly amusing when you’re just putting on a face and acting like you want to leave, but the moment you actually attempt it, that amusement is shifting to irritation, his eye twitching slightly because oh, how stupid could you really be? You obviously don’t realize that you’re stuck square in the center of a rather large compound filled with people who would absolutely kill for Douma, and would do anything he so desired even if it meant ignoring your screams and cries to return you back to their leader.

It’s frustrating to him, if only because it’s a mess he has to clean up, and there’s always the repercussions of having to figure out who helped you orchestrate the whole endeavor, because he knows you can’t escape out of this room on your own. And while killing the sympathizer is fun and leaves him stained in blood and shivering in delight, it’s precious time that he could be spending with you.

But really, the one thing that truly upsets him is when you hurt yourself. He can hurt you – he can drag his nails down your pretty skin and leave beads of blood in their wake. He can pull at your hair until you’re tearing up, the look on your face pained and sending blood directly between his legs, your expression delicious and oh so arousing. He can even bend you over and smack his hand against the smell of your ass over and over and over until your bruised, welts decorating the pretty skin and your eyes barely open.

He can do all that, but why the fuck do you think you can? You’re his toy – his. You aren’t your own person anymore; you’re his plaything, and as a result your body belongs to him. Injuring yourself is equivalent to damaging his personal property, and if there’s one thing Douma can’t stand, it’s others taking what’s his.

And so, to truly see him mad, you must purposefully injure yourself in some capacity – though you have to get creative, considering how little time you have for yourself.

It's late at night when you decide to do it. It’s one of the rare evenings where Douma isn’t caging you in his arms while he commands you to sleep, eyes wide open and staring straight at you as he patiently waits for you to fall into unconsciousness. He’d said he had business to attend to tonight – whatever that meant, though you had a good feeling you’d rather not know.

It’s strange without him, even as loathed as you are to admit it. The room – not your room, never your room – is oddly quiet without him, missing the ominous, overwhelming presence that he brings with him with every visit. Some part of you almost finds it lonely, though you can’t exactly say that you miss him. Just the contact with another person – if you can even call him that.

Shaking your head from the thoughts, you stand up and slowly pad your way over to the window. It’s high, too high for you to reach just on your own. Grabbing the chair sitting at the small, never-used desk in the corner of the room, you’re quick to place it under the window and climb up.

The view isn’t anything particularly special – just looking out onto the courtyard in what you’re guessing is the center of the complex, the array of traditional style houses sitting in even, neat rows along the sides. It’s pretty, in a suburban, monotonous way, and it makes you frown. This place feels like death, and the sight only resolves your desire to escape.

Sitting outside the hole cut into the wall as the window are iron bars, surely placed there to limit anything from coming inside. And, of course, to limit anything from going outside, too. With a small breath, you reached up and carefully clasped your fingers around the bar second from the right.

You’d noticed the last time you’d done this that the metal was incredibly loose – wiggling in its joint easily, and likely unsecure enough to complete pull off of its hinges. Biting your lip, you slowly increased shaking the metal, trying to dislodge it and create a space large enough for you to squeeze through.

You paused every so often, worried that the slight clanging noise would draw attention to your room and alert anyone outside of what you were doing. That wouldn’t do – this escape plan hinged entirely on your ability to get out undetected, as you had no doubts every follower would immediately report to Douma and you could kiss your chances of escape goodbye.

It’s difficult to hold back the small exclamation of relief when you finally feel the iron break free, the weight of it in your hand making you swallow thickly. Okay, now to just push myself through…

The opening looked just big enough, but it would still be a tight fit.

Pushing off with one leg, you manage to get your knee on the sill. Scrunching your brows, you shift your weight to push off the back leg, wobbling slightly as you find your balance on both knees. Now, for the difficult part.

Come on, you murmur as you inch forward, gingerly pushing your head through the opening and glancing around, eyes squinting in the darkness but not seeing anyone outside. With a deep breath, you pushed further, one hand coming up to reach through the railing, managing to get your shoulder outside, pushing yourself forward and letting the smallest smile grace your lips because oh god, you might actually make it-

You barely feel the cold hand wrapping around your ankle until it’s yanking you back. Harshly.

You fly backwards with a small scream, the iron of the next bar over scratching at your arm and warm, wet blood immediately trickling down your forearm. Your back hits the mattress and knocks the air out of you, making your vision dizzy for a moment before you see it. Him.

Normally Douma sports a small, rather nonchalant smile around you. It’s chilling because there’s so little emotion in his eyes, almost looking like two pretty voids in the center of his face. It’s disturbing, but if you don’t look at it it’s not too terrible.

This, though? The way he’s looking at you right now? It’s enough to have you scrambling to the back of the mattress, your lips parting and closing like a fish, fear and adrenaline coursing through your veins so quickly that it hurts.

He’s not smiling. No, instead his lips are completely, utterly flat – a straight line that has tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. He doesn’t even look angry, really – just utterly emotionless, not a shred of anything on his face for you to read.

What are you doing? Even his voice is eerily neutral, completely monotone.

I-I was just – I – um, you can’t even think of a plausible excuse, the situation and Douma’s reaction leaving you too fried and afraid to form a coherent thought.

He’s not having that, though. He walks closer to the bed, each step sounding like a clap of thunder. His expression is still that same flat line, even as he crawls onto the bed, that hand once again wrapping around your ankle.

What are you doing? Say it, or I’ll slit your throat.

And you believe him – enough to start stuttering out apologies and slurred, panicked admissions of trying to escape. Your voice is raising an octave, fear palpable in the air, but it doesn’t slow Douma down as he drags your body closer to him by the ankle, seeming to have absolutely no difficult even as you claw at the sheets and writhe in his grasp.

Please, ‘m sorry, I just want to go home, I can’t – You’re scaring me Douma, please stop – You’re babbling, and apparently he’s decided he’s had enough as his grip moves from your ankle to your neck faster than you can see.

You’re pressed against the wall before you know it, strong, cold fingers pressing against your windpipe as he stares at you. He’s uncomfortably close, his body only an inch or so away from yours, those damn eyes of his the only thing you can see. He’s still expressionless, even as you gasp for air and claw at his fingers. He doesn’t budge though, seeming to not even notice your attempts at escape.

You must think I’m stupid, he starts, those eyes never looking away from yours. They don’t even seem to blink, even as you wheeze out his name.

You must think I’m an imbecile if you think you can escape me. I’m insulted.

His grip tightens.

You will never escape me. There is nowhere that you can go that I cannot follow.

His grip moves higher up, cutting off even more air.

There is nowhere that you can hide that I cannot find you.

Now the left side of his lip quirks up, ever so slightly.

There is no one who can help you that I cannot kill.

Suddenly he’s leaning in, head traveling down to your right arm, his inhale audible even though you can’t see his face.

Something wet and cold pokes at the still fresh scratch on your arm, and it makes you wince. You can’t feel much of anything now, though, as small dark spots in your vision form, desperation truly starting to take over.

Something akin to a groan fills your ears as Douma’s lips latch onto your skin, tongue poking and prodding at the cut, nudging its way inside and making the last bit of your air rush out of your throat as a scream, the pain starting to register even as the dots fill your entire vision, unconsciousness taking a hold of you as you go limp under his hand.

Douma pauses at the feeling of you passing out, eyes slowly looking up to your face, before removing his hand and letting you fall to the hard floor. Your body hits the ground with a deciding slump, and Douma pokes at your shin with the tip of his shoe.

Humming, he licks the remaining blood off of your lips. You’d been stupid, really, to think that he didn’t know about this escape plan of yours. You’re not nearly as good at pretending as you think you are, nor are you as subtle at glancing at the window as you seem to think. All those nights spent with you on his chest or spooned against him, the smell of your hair filling his nostrils again and again as he rutted against your ass, his breath tickling your neck, and you still thought he couldn’t tell that you kept glancing to the window, obviously wishing to crawl out and never return.

His fists clench, and he kicks, hard. Narrowly avoiding your leg and instead decimating the wooden nightstand next to it.

Stupid human, he growls out, swallowing the last bit of your blood.

And the next morning, when you awake with a splitting headache and bruises blossoming along your neck, Douma will be right there waiting for you. That fake, plastered-on smile sits on his lips again, and the hand he rests of your arm grows tighter.

Good morning, he starts, voice the usual chipper, overly saccharine tone. Thank me for not killing you. Go on.

And as you look towards the window – with fresh, gridlocking bars newly placed on both the inside and outside, you can only feel your eyes water, lips parting into the shape of thank you.

Douma’s smile grows for just a moment, something dancing behind his eyes.

Ah, there you go.

OVERALL DANGER:

9/10

As Douma’s darling, your biggest concern is really to keep Douma entertained and appeased. His obsession hinges on his amusement surrounding you, and although something that resembles the closest thing to love he can manage does form for you, there’s something deeply wrong with him.

He views you as an object – something he can possess and own, and the idea of having you all completely to himself is something that makes him giddy, eyes closing and something settling in the base of his gut because god, he wants you.

Your time with him will be characterized by his constant presence, those eyes of his always locked on you and you only. He can’t be away from you for long periods of time – he grows restless, his knee bouncing and his fingers fidgeting as he idly thinks of seeing you, missing the way you always look so sour when he pulls on your hair, how your eyes get all big and wide when he compliments you, the bashfulness obvious on your face even as you try to hide it. You’re endearing, really, a pet project of his that he slowly begins to feel more for, a creature that he finds himself holding in disturbingly high regard, despite your lowly status as a mere human.

But really, what makes Douma so dangerous is the fact that he is so detached from normal love and affection. This leads to him having no qualms about kidnapping you, isolating you, toying with you, and even hurting you when he sees fit.

Your existence becomes solely dictated by his whims – you’ll be what he wants you to be, and if you don’t, he doesn’t mind pushes and molding you into what he wants. Even if it means breaking a few bones, biting off a few chunks of flesh, or even turning you into a blood-thirsty demon, if he so desires.

Your life is no longer yours – it’s his, and the sooner you learn that, the better. After all, Douma can be almost sweet when he’s trying – so really, just let yourself be deluded into believing that this is what’s best for you.

It’ll be better for you that way, and who knows – maybe one day you’ll even find yourself grateful for his company, just as he so ardently reminds you. Just as he so frequently demands you to be.

[huramuna]

even in undeath - chapter 1.

lich king aemond x reader a 'world of warcraft' AU. prev | next

The Lich King is the master and lord of the Scourge. Consisting of thousands of walking corpses, disembodied spirits, beasts of the north, and damned mortal men, the Scourge is a terrifying and insidious enemy.

word count: 2.3k

@huramuna-fics - follow & turn on notifications for just my fic postings! no taglists right now, sorry.

content: DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT, DUBCON, smut, heavy heavy angst, graphic depictions of violence, allusions to cannibalism, imprisonment, kidnapping, murder, suicidal thoughts and ideation, mutilation of corpses, obsessive aemond, dark aemond, a happy ending is not in our future. PLEASE MIND THE TAGS! This story will be pretty dark.

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It was dark and cold. There was a faint dripping of water somewhere off to the side, but you couldn’t quite see where. The echoes of whimpers ricocheted off of the craggy walls, stinging your eardrums. 

This was the descent into madness, wasn’t it?

You weren’t sure how long you’d been chained up for— how long had it been since your village burned to the ground? Since you watched the ghouls rip apart the cow farmer from down the road. Since you watched hellhounds crunching on little Mary Jay’s bones. Since you had watched your mother and stepfather plead and beg for their lives, for forgiveness, for mercy, for absolution of their supposed sins before the death knight’s sword lopped their heads off. 

How long has it been? 

Shifting slightly, the chain tied to your throat clinked against the wall. There was no light, no passage of time to be had in the dank, pitch black cave they stowed you and a few select others in. You only had on a ragged potato sack as a dress, the sensation of dirt and grime caked on your hair and under your nails making you feel less than human. 

But— you were still human. For now. The Scourge had ravaged the Eastern Kingdoms without mercy, swiping through the North and South like a fast traveling plague, curdling and damning everything it touched. Hordes of undead zombies, ghouls and hellhounds were the first to raze the cities, driving out the people like mice from the walls. Then the banshees came, along with the necromancers to raise the dead, adding them to a forever amounting army.

Not even Quel’thalas had been able to resist it, an ancient elven city hewn in magic.

What chance did you have? 

More than most, evidently. Your mind wrought itself over and over as to why— why were you alive? Why were you still human and not merely a risen thrall? 

The clinking of armor scared you as it ascended the hallway. You pressed close to the wall and closed your eyes. 

Please don’t stop here, please don’t stop here. 

Clink, clink, clink… closer… closer… 

Then it passed, descending further away. You let out a breath, your blood still pumping in your ears. 

Clink, clink, clink. They were coming back. Clink… silence. You felt bile rise in your throat as you shook, the chains rattling noisily. You knew they were standing there, you knew they were here for you. 

A harsh tug upon your chain, your head hitting the floor— some words were mumbled, the voice sounding far away and broken. Your eardrums rang with the ferocity of your fall, drowning out any semblance of what your jailer was saying to you. Then, you were tugged upward, the cool metal of the collar biting into your skin as you were dragged like a petulant child away from your cell… 

You didn’t want to open your eyes. You couldn’t face the horror you knew was around you— corpses, living ones and dead, the clatter of bones, the heavy breathing of gargantuan abominations, bodies and faces of countless people stitched together into a new body, hewn with thread and necrotic magic until it gave way to something else entirely. Something unnatural, something made of nightmares. The dermis of those who were used to make the monsters would still twitch, reach out on its own, and if it had a mouth, it would be twisted into a scream. You swore that you heard them whispering as you were dragged by. 

The monstrosities were one of many abhorrent creatures at the Scourge’s disposal. Hellhounds, ghouls, gargoyles, wraiths, crypt lords, geists, banshees, and other things of horrific nature were only some of the power wielded by the Scourge. It felt like it was all pulled out of a child’s fairytale, changed and twisted and defiled into what it was now. 

It all felt like a very bad dream. 

Your eyes opened on their own and you took in the image of death knights, former paladins who served a higher power, the Light— now are nothing but undead heretics, glowing eyes and gaunt stares that bored through you. 

Some of the monsters chittered as you were dragged past them, leering and looking hungry. 

‘Scrawny that one. Perhaps she will suffice for hellhounds to pick their teeth.’

‘Speak for yourself, her skin will do beautifully on a new abomination.’ 

‘She won’t be knighted. Merely a maid’s bastard, I’ve heard.’

You forced your eyes to close once more, the sudden light stinging them. You forced yourself into another time, a better memory than what you were experiencing. 

They were right, you were a maid’s bastard. Your mother had served in the royal keep for years, with you under her feet. You didn’t know who your true father was, nor did you care.

You became attached to the second son of the King— Aemond Targaryen. He was a sprightly boy with near white hair and luminous violet eyes. The two of you were attached at the hip. 

Childhood friendship blossomed into more as you grew into teenagers and young adults— you shared your first kiss together, you held hands and shared sweet nothings. As he trained by day to become a paladin of the Light, he held you close by night, vowing to never let you go. You were both terribly in love and so terribly, terribly naive. He was your first in everything– your first friend, your first kiss, your first lover. You promised yourself that he would stay your first and only.

‘You can never marry a maid’s bastard, Aemond! You’re a prince of the realm-‘

‘I don’t care! I want her, father. I’ve always wanted her!’

Your mother quit her job at the castle— moreso, threatened into quitting by some of the King’s advisors. She was given a considerable amount of coin and told to take you far, far away and to not contact the prince again. 

Heartbroken, you left him your sapphire ring, the only thing of value you ever had, which had been passed down through your mother’s family for generations. 

It was left on his desk with a note of few words but much feeling. 

‘I love you. I’m sorry.’ 

That was over ten years ago. You hadn’t seen him since, but you missed him horribly. Especially now. You wondered if he was still alive, fighting against the Scourge like his knightly vows dictated. 

Maybe he was married and moved across the sea to Kalimdor where it was safer. 

Or maybe he was dead. Dead like almost everyone else you knew. 

You heard a rumor, fleeting and without much more information, that his father had died– no, that his father had been murdered. The fall of the king, Viserys, is what started the Scourge war. Did Aemond know, wherever he was? 

You imagined him holding his arms around you, kissing your neck and fanning his breath over your skin. He liked to encompass you completely with his body when you laid together— you never could emulate the feeling with heavy blankets and pillows, as much as you tried. Putting yourself back into that memory, you wrapped your arms around yourself, willing warmth into your body. 

But you didn’t feel any warmth. All you felt was cold, cold down to your bones. They felt brittle, like ice, splintering into shards as you were thrown on the floor again in a different room. Pain bloomed in your arm as it cracked at an awkward angle. Broken. 

Your ears rang again as your mouth opened into a scream, tears of pure anguish squeezing from your eyes. But you didn’t hear a thing besides the rush of blood dampening your senses— and the sickening crunch of your broken bones. 

‘What have you done to it, Lady Deathwhisper? It looks broken.’ 

‘It’s human bones are so brittle, it was merely a slip of the hand. I cannot help that their living constitution is so weak.’ 

‘His grace will not be pleased if it is broken beyond repair.’ 

‘Worry not, Lady Alys. Most things can be mended— and if not, it can always be raised.’ 

‘Physical defects aren’t the only issue. What of its mind?’

You feel an acute sensation over your skull, reaching into the depths of your cranium. Its cold, but not stinging— like a soft caress upon your brain as your mind is rifled through like a tome. You can feel your memories being perused, all of the most intimate moments of your life flashing in your head like playwright’s prose. The physicality of your mind being invaded wasn’t painful, but the act of your memories being ripped from you was damning. Tears fell down your face on their own, your mouth opened into a silent scream.

‘She is the one— I saw it. You are lucky that you did not break her mind completely, Lady Deathwhisper.’ 

‘As are you. You do not have a deft hand when it comes to memory perusal, Lady Alys. I am surprised that it still has a brain in its skull.’ 

‘Shut up and bring her to him. He will be pleased she is still alive. Barely.’ 

You felt yourself being moved again, still reeling from the invasion of your mind. You tried to put yourself back into the safe haven of memories, but they were… locked. Locked behind an iron door with no keyhole. They were lost to you. 

What were you trying to remember? 

Flashes of white hair and violet eyes flitted behind your eyelids, soft caresses and kisses, heavy breathing and love filled promises, the sensation of skin to skin… 

Your eyes opened, vision bleary. A helmed woman followed behind you, wings outstretched. You could see the glint of green eyes under her helm. Val’kyr. The woman behind you was a Val’kyr, a spirit guide who defected to the side of the Scourge. They could move between the realm of living and dead as simply as taking a breath. 

“The little human is awake,” she mused. “Your mind isn’t broken after all? I do see a glint of intelligence behind those eyes. Keep them on me, you shan’t wish to look upon Lady Deathwhisper.” 

You didn’t want to speak, words caught in your throat like food stuck in your craw. A val’kyr was basically an angel of death and talking to one must mean you are dead. 

You wish you were. 

The chains scraped against the floor, which was no longer stone like before, but rather, hardened ice. You were ascending upward, it seemed. The architecture of the building was nothing like you’d ever seen— dark metal was plated upon the walls, inscribed with glowing runes. The runes looked… familiar to you, somehow. But the memory that contained them was locked away, or mayhaps stolen by the Val’kyr, Alys. 

The temperature was cold, you were being lofted upon ice, of course, but you didn’t wholly feel it. You were partially numb, heat radiating from your broken arm. You knew you should be feeling pain— but you were just… numb. 

Your escorts stopped in front of two large doors, inscribed with the same glowing runes. Against Alys’ advice, you glanced at ‘Lady Deathwhisper’. She was skeletal, floating upon the ground with no legs to speak of. Her robes were purple fabric, molded around an incorporeal body. She spoke in a language you didn’t understand, the scratchy voice of hers coming out of a bone skull, but the mouth wasn’t moving, maw open as the words came out. 

You should have listened to Alys. 

The door opened with a rumble, opened by ancient magic, likely imbued by the runes, as they flickered and flitted above your head as it opened. The room beyond was open and bereft of almost anything, except for a throne. A throne forged of ice and swords. 

Someone was sitting upon it in a lazed position, one plated gloved finger tapping on the arm of the throne.

“We’ve brought her, your grace,” Lady Deathwhisper growled, shoving you forward. You skidded across the floor, which felt slick like grazing atop an ice-capped lake. “Alys confirmed it is her.”

The clinking of armor caught your attention, the sound of metal grazing against ice. It was irritating and made you grind your teeth. As whoever was on the throne got closer, the force was oppressive. Whimpers and tiny cries were ripped from you as they walked towards you, the aura exuding from them causing you to fall flat to the ground, feeling as if someone was sitting atop of your chest and not letting up.

The steel plated boot was in front of you now and your hair was grabbed rather harshly, pulling you up. 

Don’t look, don’t look. You cannot look.

“Look. At. Me.” the voice growled. It was quiet but commanding at the same time, rattling in your bones and making a home amongst the marrow. It felt familiar… so… 

You lifted your bloodshot eyes, not out of your own volition, but from the authority of the voice.

“Hello, little dove.” he mused.

It was him. It was… it… Aemond. You knew him so well, even with ten years gone. His chiseled jawline and chin and the dimple of the tip of his nose… 

But his eye was missing, a jagged scar bisecting it. In its place was a sapphire. The sapphire from your ring, grown into something to make home in the socket.

You felt everything and nothing all at once, your stomach flipped and flopped like a fish hoisted from the sea, sputtering for air. You couldn’t breathe, you couldn’t–

Your best friend, your lover, the one you vowed to never forget, to never forsake.

Aemond Targaryen. 

Aemond Targaryen was the Lich King. A defiler, a mass murderer, an unholy being in his own right.

“Now you won’t be able to leave again, will you?” Aemond murmured, his violet eye roving you. It was glowing slightly– his skin was a pale gray pallor, cheeks sunken slightly. He was undead.

Your eyes rolled back in your head, vision going black.

[call-sign-shark]

Little Lamb part. 1|| Arthur Shelby x Reader x OFC

Summary: They came into your life when you were desperate, convinced no one would ever want you and yet you found yourself not one, but two lovers madly infatuated with you: The infamous Arthur Shelby and his young wife.(Yandere! Arthur Shelby x Reader x Yandere!OFC)

TW: (for the entire short series) Toxic dynamic, polyamory relationship, murders, torture, graphic depiction of violence, heavy allusion to smut, obsessive behavior, possessive!lovers, angst and horror. Inspired by the song The Things I Do For Love by Bludnymph.

Words: 1.4k

Notes:

✞ Since I'm stuck with Tangled Desires' new chapter I thought about taking a break to write a very short three-part story (no more than 1.5k per part). All is already written and it will be posted during the week. It 100% can be read as a stand alone.

✞ Heaven in Reader in the ongoing Arthur x You series Heaven in Your Eyes.

NEXT PART

Love had never been kind to you. The statement might sounded tough but so was the truth. You were either too shy to make the first move, or when you did you undeniably ended up with your heart crushed because you were too nice and, your relatives said, too… understanding. Too soft for this world and painfully too weak for Small Heath.  When you left your hometown to start your new barmaid life at the Garrison pub, desperately looking for a job and a new start in life, all your friends had laughed at you: how could a meek little lamb like you could willingly throw herself in this hell, where hungry and violent wolves lurked in every corner, ready to tear her in millions pieces? Still, you paid no heed to their warning and left everything and everyone behind you, fueled by the firm will to prove them wrong.

Surprisingly enough, working at the Garrison had done some good to you despite spending your first days shaking like a leaf each time a loud man talked to you. This, but also hiding behind Harry when the Shelby brothers flooded the place with their piercing blue eyes and their sharp caps. Unfortunately, you had to learn the entirety of the job and it involved plucking up the courage to pour them their drink. They merely noticed you, far too concerned by whatever shady business they were talking about until scrapped but tender fingers brushed against your skin. Slightly jumping, you raised your gaze towards their owner and was quickly met with steel blue iris overhung by dark lashes. "Leave the bottle, love." The oldest of the brotherhood said, gently taking the whiskey from your hand before offering you a surprisingly charming smile.

"You're welcome, Mr. Shelby." Did you manage to reply without any stuttering? No, you didn't but you were already surprised by your ability to actually produce a sound when faced with certainly the most ruthless of these gangsters. You turned your heels, Arthur's eyes burning your back as you walked to another table.

As weeks passed, you grew up more confident and started to navigate more easily in this cursed city. In Birmingham, working as a barmaid was the same as patching up souls: exhausted working-class men, vile gangsters, drunkards, or sad men all found a bit of happiness in the bottom of their glass and in the waitress’ warm smile. Most of your life your softness has been deemed a weakness but here, in the crowded Garrison, your softness wasn’t one. It was a gift that mended the hearts of your clients, and the more you soothed these troubled souls, the more the weight of your own broken heart was alleviated.

You never exchanged more than a few words with Arthur Shelby, but the fact he always asked you to serve him his drinks and thanked you with a pet name was enough for you to feel like a schoolgirl noticed by one of the popular boys around. Yeah, it sounded stupid even in your head but you couldn't help.

Tonight had started the same as ever: you put the whiskey glass on the table and proceeded to walk away when, suddenly, his hand kept you from doing so. With his long fingers wrapped around your wrist, blood still stuck under his nails, the gangster's baritone voice purred “A sweet little lamb you are, ay.” He punctuated his sentence with a seductive wink that made your heart beat faster than usual. “And a fucking pretty one too... How's the night going?"

"Terrible, Harry's in such a bad mood! I haven't found the time to sit and rest for five minutes -- My feet hurt so much I feel like I've walked miles." You said, you joked, hating the idea of whining.

"Why don't ya sit now, little Lamb?" Arthur raised a brow, his thin lips hid behind the whiskey glass.

"Because I'll get scolded, silly!"

Arthur didn't think twice -- he never did actually. His grip strengthened a little bit more around your wrist and, without the slightest warning, he pulled you until you tripped on your own feet and fell right on him. As nimble and quick as a cat, the lanky gangster caught you in his arms and made you comfortably sit on his lap.

"Ar-Arthur?!" You hiccuped, eyes wide open and cheeks flushing red.

"Hell, no one's gonna scold ya as long as ya stay in me arms, ay!"

Quickly swept away, your surprise turned into the most irresistible chuckle he had heard for a while. "Only five minutes alright?"

"Nah." Arthur snapped his fingers to get Harry's attention and raised his hoarse voice, "She's taking her night off to drink with me, mate." He shot you a quick glance and, with his smile growing wider, put on a show "By order of the Peaky Blinders!"

No matter how violent people said he was, you couldn’t help but find yourself enthralled by his dangerous aura and carnivorous smile. Moreover, it was needless to say that he never exhibited any of these brutal behaviors with you -- Quite the contrary, you found a loyal guardian in him, who would walk you home each night to ensure you were safe.

"Y/N, you better forget about him right now... You're really going to be in trouble" Harry stated after he noticed that you were dolling you up before the gangster came, rearranging your hair and putting on some awfully expensive lipstick you had brought earlier.

"Is my taste in men that bad for you to worry?" Your light reply didn't make him laugh, quite the contrary.

"I'm not joking! I don't want you to get fucking killed!"

"Killed? Someone's very pessimistic. Everything will be fine, Arthur would never hurt me okay?" You reassured him with the softest voice you could before your attention shifted to the gangster, who had just arrived.

Arthur noticed the lipstick and did seem to like it considering how his steel-blue eyes lingered far longer on your mouth when you talked to him, wondering how beautiful your red lips would look tightly wrapped around his cock but he didn't let his intrusive thoughts show, "Hey little lamb. I've got someth' to ask you."

"Anything?" You early replied, your smile beaming and your eyes shining.

"Apart from my usual whiskey, I'd like something else. There's a bottle of red wine hidden under the bar, I'd like ya to pour one glass of it, I'll be right back."

A glass of wine? Your heart missed a beat at the realization that he had remembered the day you told him you liked red wine. Butterflies flapped their wings in your stomach, convinced that maybe he was finally going to ask you out, you did as he said and, when done, carefully placed the two glasses on the wooden counter. When his booming voice echoed in the pub again, you raised your eyes and smiled, ready to call him but your voice got stuck in your throat.

No.

As you stood there, frozen in shock, your heart seemed to fracture into a thousand tiny pieces at the sight before you. The man you had secretly longed for, the one who had occupied your every thought and fueled your every feverish dream, was accompanied by a young and stunning lass with her arm tightly wrapped around his. Each caress exchanged between Arthur and her, each whispered word, felt like a betrayal. In that moment suspended in time, tears threatened to spill from your eyes. Of course, you already took notice of the wedding ring on his finger, its shining gold shining brighter than the other silver ones he was always wearing but you had tricked yourself into thinking it was only a jewel. After all, he wouldn't have flirted with you if he was married right? That was what you kept telling yourself, and even not entirely convinced you hoped it would eventually turn out to be true if you believed in it strong enough. He was married, here was what was true. Not only he was married, but the woman by his side was so resplendent with her angel face, her long snow-white hair, and her revealing red dress that your heart felt cold.

"So, you are the little lamb, aren't you?" Her mermaid-like voice emphasized the pet name Arthur had given you, snatching you from your numbness. All the confidence you had gained these past months vanished with the sole power of the eerie frost of her eyes, silently telling you that she knew everything. Impatiently waiting for your reply, her dagger-shaped and perfectly polished nails tapped against the wood, their menacing clicking song making another awful realization blossom in your mind.

Harry didn't think about Arthur when he said you would end up killed. He thought about her.

Taglist: @adaydreamaway08 @jomarch-wannabe @esposadomd @zablife @woofgocows @anathemasworld @anastasia0000 @kate654 @kxnnxy @babayaga67 @meowtastick @shelbyssins @sarai-ibn-la-ahad @bluevenus19 @justrainandcoffee @kishie8 @alexandra-001 @dearshelby @alexizodd @helen06dreamer @kmc1989 @emotionalcadaver @peakyswritings @peakyltd @chaosinkest1996 @vanhelsingsbigtoe @cherubswhispers @he6rtshaker @bemyqueenofdarkness @cljordan-imperium @cjarbo @rysko @red-riding-wood

[sweatervest-obsessed]

In Your Dreams, Whatever They Be - Part 1

Pairing: Steve Harrington x Reader (uses she/her pronouns)

WC: 11,223

TW: Alcohol, violence, stabbing, boats, spiders, sarcasm, jealousy, trauma, trauma bonding, blood (and lots of it), nightmares, Vecna, mentions of death, smoochy kisses, mentions and flashes of past traumas, Billy Hargrove gets mentioned, brief allusion to second base, graphic descriptions of violence, graphic descriptions in general. If I'm missing any please please please tell me and I will happily add them!

A/N: So this was supposed to be a quick and easy 4k one shot, and now I'm in a two parter, rewatching the series to try and make it as accurate as I can be. I forgot how himbo Steve really is. It takes place starting with s4 e5, and it goes to s4 e7 or 8, I don't remember. This is based off of my favorite song of all time, and the fact that they used it in this show makes me so unbelievable happy. I hope y'all enjoy this one! any and all constructive criticism is welcomed and wanted!!!

Part 2

“What’s going on in there?” Steve gently rapped on your head with his knuckles, “hello? Anyone home?” 

He watched as your eyes shifted back into focus, looking at him. 

“It’s nothing Steve.” 

“Yea and I’m the queen of England.” 

“No need for the attitude,” You grumbled, sitting up, attempting to get off the boys bed before 

this turned into a full blown thing with interrogations and prodding in places you didn’t want Steve to see at the moment.

He softly said your name, grabbing your wrist and rubbing his thumb over it. “Will you please talk to me?” 

Your eyes fluttered closed at the contact. A soft inhale and exhale to remind yourself to calm the tears before giving Steve a smile. 

“I’m seriously okay Steve. If it was something that was actually worth anything, you’d be the first person I told.” 

He contemplated your answer, studying the way you wouldn’t look at him. “Pinky promise?” 

You looked over at the clock on his night stand before jumping up and dusting off the proverbial dirt from your thighs. 

“Actually, I, um, I have to go—Steve. Um. I’ll see you later!” You quickly grabbed your bag off the ground of his bedroom floor and quickly made your escape down the stairs and out the front door. 

Steve flinched as it slammed shut and sat there, pinky still outstretched wondering what the actual fuck just happened. You never ever ditched him like that, let alone ignored a pinky promise. 

You, on the other hand, were suffocating. The room had suddenly become too suffocating and Steve—sweet, lovely, kind, perfect Steve immediately noticed, and you just couldn’t let him go poking where he didn't need to be. 

Your headaches had started to come back, but it was nothing new considering your period was about to start anyways. And the last thing you wanted to do was make Steve all worried about some stupid little headache—

“Oh for fucks sake.” You grumbled again before turning right back around on the porch and storming back into his house again. 

Steve had just made it down the stairs when he collided with you in the hall, the door slamming shut a second time. 

“What are you doing—-“ 

“We made that stupid Fucking New Year’s resolution for a year of no poor communication. So. I’ve been having headaches.” 

“…..headaches?” 

You nodded and ran a hand through your hair. 

“Yeah.” You whisper, now suddenly feeling a lot less confident about the situation. 

Steve was silent, his mind racing a million miles an hour. Out of all the people in the world, he absolutely downright refused to let you become the next mangled body. He had seen Eddie’s face when he relieved what Chrissy had gone through, and he had seen Nancy after they had discovered Fred; for fucks sake he was there when Max was levitating in the cemetery. He couldn’t lose you. He seriously couldn’t lose you. Because he didn’t know what he’d do with himself if you weren’t with him. He’d loose his fucking mind—that’s what he would do. He’s become some crazy old man like Murray or—-

“Steve.” You took his hand in yours and narrowed your eyes. “Are you listening to me?” 

Steve shook his head and squeezed your hand. “I said, I usually get them the week before my period, and they’re right on time. But with the whole….” 

Steve nodded and looked at your hands together, eyeing the ring you wore on your pinky finger—a pinky promise to him that you always wear.  

“But.” You yanked his hand a little bit to make him focus back up on your face. “Because of everything going on I just didn’t want you to freak the fuck out. But that’s what’s been on my mind.” 

Steve let out a shaky breath. “Yeah…yeah okay I just…” 

“I know.” Even when you could potentially be in true, real danger, you managed to stay level headed, or at least put up a really good front; it’s what Steve admired most about you, and simultaneously loathed about you. 

“I know everyone is at the Wheeler's house but do you want to make them come over here?” 

Steve squeezed your hand in response to your question, his voice still gone. Somehow snatched away with the rest of his mind from the moment he realized you could be taken from him. 

“Okay, do you want me to call them?” 

Steve was a very physical person. He showed his love through actions—getting an eyelash off your nose, buying your favorite flowers, and so forth. But he truly showed his appreciation for someone through small touches; a hand on a shoulder, the squeeze of a hand. But when Steve pulled you into a hug, you were a little surprised. He may love small actions of touch, he rarely was one to give hugs or full body contact, even to someone he has loved for a long time. The boy was getting more and more self conscious ever since the Fall of King Steve and the Bullshit of Nancy Wheeler. 

“Steve I promise I’m okay I promise.” 

“But what if it’s not just any headaches…” he whispered into your hair, tightly holding onto you, terrified to let you go. 

“The second I start getting psycho visions or freaky nightmares, you’ll know okay?”

“Y-yeah.” He sighed, just holding onto you for a bit longer. You rested your head on his shoulder, forehead against his neck, and slowly started to sway with him, trying to drag his mind away from the pit he was dragging himself into. 

He complied, still drowning in ‘what-if’s’. He listened as you started to softly mumble a song to yourself as the two of you stood in the foyer of the Harrington Household, sunset peaking through the windows. 

“Stars shining bright above you, Night breezes seem to whisper I love you, birds singing in the sycamore tree, dream a little dream of me.”

Steve focused on the sound of your breathing, the beating of your heart, the low hum of your voice. 

“Say nighty-night and kiss me, just hold me right and tell me, you’ll miss me”

“I should be comforting you.” He grumbled, as you continued to sing and sway. 

“While I’m alone and blue as can be, dream a little dream of me.”

“What’s the name of the artist again?” He whispered 

You stopped short and looked up at him, taking only half a step back knowing Steve might lose his shit if you stopped being in direct contact with him. 

“Steven Harrington this is only my favorite song of all time, and you don’t know which version I like the most?! Jesus, you’d think my person would know that.” 

“Okay but that doesn’t answer my question.”  His heart fluttered a little bit when you called him your person. 

“You’re a pain in the ass.” 

Just as Steve went to sass you back, the phone rang, making him jump. Steve stared at it while you were looking at him, watching him flinch every time it rang. “You gonna answer it, or just stare at it.” 

“Well….”

“Steve.”

“I’d really rather not.” 

“It could be important, Stevie.” 

His insides started melting as you called him that. “I really don’t want to.” 

The phone stopped ringing and he smiled cheekily at you before taking your hand and bringing you out towards the patio, sliding the doors open with ease. 

“What are you…” 

“I want to keep dancing with you without any distractions.” 

You blush a bit and shake your head. 

“Okay hot shot. Show me your moves then.” 

“Only if you promise to keep singing.” 

The both of you stepped out onto the patio and closed the sliding doors behind you. He brought you around the pool to the small yard behind it, offering his hand once more. 

“You, Steve Harrington, are something else.” 

He slid his arm around your waist and took your hand in his. “Is that a good thing or a bad thing?” He whispered, kissing your head.  

“Depends.” 

“On what.” 

“Stars fading but I linger on dear.” 

You shrugged. And started swaying again, resting your head on his collarbone. 

“Still craving your kiss.” 

“Oh you crave my kiss huh?” 

You rolled your eyes and continued singing, smiling up at him. 

“I’m longing to linger till dawn dear, just craving this.” 

Steve cheekily kissed your jaw, causing you to smile and squeeze his hand. 

What the two of you missed was the consistent ringing of the Harrington Household phone, that stopped ringing after the fourth or fifth attempt. 

“Sweet dreams, till sunbeams find you. Sweet dreams that leave all worries behind you. But in your dreams, whatever they be, dream a little dream of me.” 

Steve took the opportunity to spin you around, interrupting your singing. Your laugh was music to his ears, besides the actual singing you were blessing him with. 

“Stars fading, but I linger on dear, still craving your kiss.” 

Steve leaned down and kissed you softly, interrupting your song. You smiled and kissed him back, tasting your cherry chapstick on his lips. 

“You stole my chapstick, I knew it.” You mumbled before swiping your tongue against his bottom lip. 

“Nuh, uh.” He whispered back, moving his hand to your jaw, pulling you a little closer to him. 

You were interrupted by the screaming of Steve’s name and the pounding on the front door. 

The both of you jumped apart, hearts pounding. You looked at Steve while he turned and looked towards the inside of his house. 

The both of you heard the strings of curses from a small army when nobody answered the door, followed by yells about where he kept the spare key, and why was it locked because it was never locked Steve let go of you, much to both of your dismays, before moving towards the slider, only to be interrupted by a “are you SERIOUS Hanginton?” 

Dustin’s head had popped over the fence near the edge of the woods, scaring the shit out of both of you. 

“What the hell Henderson!” You yelled, stumbling back into a chair. Your heel caught on the side, and the metal left a little gash on the top of your foot as you fell into the lounger, the definition of ungraceful. You let out a yelp as you collapsed 

“Shit, Shit, are you okay??” Henderson yelled, attempting to jump over the fence, and only failing slightly. 

Steve rushed over to your side, panicking since the last time there was blood near his pool, well….

You were examining the gash, taping it lightly and flinching at the sting. But then you saw Steve and immediately switched gears into calming Steve down, completely ignoring the blood dripping down your foot. 

“Steve. Hey.” You put your hand on his shoulder but Steve was freaking out. His eyes were wide, and his breathing was erratic. “Handsome, look at me.” You whispered to him, taking his jaw, aware of your audience.��

You loved touching Steve, and he loved touching you, in every way each other's minds could think of, but the two of you tried really hard to not be super all over each other in front of the others. It wasn’t that you were hiding your relationship per se, you both were just private people when it came to your relationship. You were both taking it slow, wanting to make sure everything was just right, earning trust and figuring out one another without the influence and nosiness of your beloved friends. They knew you had at least kissed a couple of times, and were official enough to hold hands in public, but what they didn’t know was that you had been dating each other for over a year now. In fact, you were sure this was it for you—your endgame. You felt such an all consuming love for him, and he knew it too. He was terrified of the ways you would go to bat for him, which is why the sight of your blood near his pool sent him into a slight panic attack. But your touch sent a little shock through his system and he looked up at you, eyes wide and a little manic, lips parted. 

“I’m okay. We’ll just get a bandaid or tw—“ 

The next minute unfolded to be one of the most overwhelming both you and Steve had experienced. First, Henderson had finally scaled the fence and fell over it with a thud and a loud yell. Then, Nancy shoved open the sliding doors, which meant the rest of the kids, and Robin were probably in tow. Dusting had managed to run over to you and started to freak out about your foot, panicking outwardly like Steve was panicking inwardly. 

Nancy finally made it over to the both of you, but only looked at Steve.

“Steve? What the fuck! Where the hell have you been? Y/n wasn’t answering her phone and so Max and Lucas went over to her house—“

“Nance…” 

“and her mom said she was at work but she hasn’t been at work because I was just there and she didn’t take over for me and——“

“Nancy.”

You squeezed his hand. 

“And then you weren’t answering your phone and we called so many ti—“

“Holy shit what the fuck happened to your foot!?” And there was Robin, kindly interrupting Nancy’s ramble. 

Nancy whipped around and looked down at your now slightly blood soaked foot. It was seriously nowhere near as bad as it looked, but because you had been free bleeding trying to help Steve and then everyone burst into the backyard, your foot looked worse than it was. 

“Oh my god!” She squeaked out, thinking back to Barb, and looked at Steve. She noticed his panic and decided it was her responsibility to fix it. 

“Hey Steve?” Nancy knelt down next to him, which made you inhale sharply. Nancy had been….well. Ever since Jonathan had moved to California, she was a bit all over the place, and everyone knew it, including Nancy. Her emotions were running wild, and she had been eyeing Steve again. You were far from jealous, knowing how much Steve loved you since he reminded you over and over and over again. But there was something about the way she was eyeing him, the way she reached out to him, that made your trust waiver—not in Steve, Never in Steve, but maybe in Nancy. 

Steve caught the tail end of your inhale, and looked up at you, his eyes still not focusing a hundred percent but he was trying for you. 

“Can you go get some bandages for my foot Nance?” You asked, squeezing Steve’s hand again, trying to ground him while also trying to politely tell Nancy to back the fuck up. You looked over at her and gave her a smile, as if to say that you got the whole Steve situation under control. 

She eyed your hands before nodding, and heading off into the house. As she had walked into the house and up the stairs, Robin corralled all of the kids mumbling that the show was over. Dustin put up a little bit of a fight but Max and Lucas had dragged him inside and closed the sliding doors. All of the teens did their best to pretend to not look out at the couple on the patio, whereas Robin was casually trying to not stare at the two of you through the kitchen window. Everyone was extremely curious about the secretive couple. 

You squeezed his hand again. “Steve. I need  you to listen to me. I’m okay. It’s just a cut on my foot.” Your other hand came up and slowly took his other hand, hinting that he should be next to you on the lounger. 

Steve obliged, mind still far away, panicking to no end, conjuring up the worst endings he could possibly imagine. 

You gently took one of his hands and placed it on one of the pulse points on your neck. 

Robin had snatched Nancy from exiting the house, shushing her as she tried to justify going back onto the patio. And even if she managed to get through Robin, Dustin and the others would not have let her through anyways. 

Robin had shared a look with Dustin, examining the scene before them. Almost no one had ever seen Steve this vulnerable, and actually no one had witnessed the two of you have such an intimate moment together, collectively making everyone in the house question whether or not they knew either of you at all. 

You were taking slow breaths, letting Steve not only feel your pulse beneath his fingers, but also your breath. It caused him to slowly start to match your pace, chest moving slower and hands stopped shaking. His eyes started to focus in on you again, the hint of a grateful smile ghosted across his lips before it fell under a frown of complete self deprecation. 

“Shit, baby I’m so sorry.” He whispered, not moving his hand from your neck quite yet. “I-I just…it reminded me of…”

“I know, I know.” You whispered. “But it’s just a small cut, and I’ll let you give Henderson the talking to of a lifetime, once I know you’re back with me, yeah?” 

Your eyes had been monitoring his, watching for when he was fully back in the present. Steve nodded and placed a quick kiss on your forehead. “Thank you.”

“Anytime, I’m here all week.” You teased, before sighing and looking down at your foot. “It’s definitely not that bad but I do want to clean off my bloody foot.” 

Just then, Nancy made her way back onto the patio, with very upset Dustin trailing behind her. Dustin looked so guilty, and so apologetic, and Nancy looked….upset? Mad? Jealous? Whatever it was, Nancy was doing a good job of making it not as important as fixing up your foot.

“Oh thank you so much Nance.” You smiled at her, only faltering slightly when she only responded by giving you a tight lipped smile,  dropping the first aid kid on the chair, and walking Back inside. 

You and Steve looked at Dustin who just shrugged. Whatever it was would have to wait. 

“So why were you people hunting me down?” 

“There’s been another….” Dustin looked down at his feet, and Steve took one of his hands and put it on the kids shoulder. 

“Okay.” You breathed out, taking the medical kit in your hands and digging through it to find all the necessary things to clean up your little wound. 

“ Y/N, I’m really sorry. I-I didn’t mean to—you know. It was a total accident.” Dustin gushed at you and you just smiled in response to him. 

“It’s all good Dusty Bun.” You joked at him, while the kid tore himself into pieces, feeling fucking awful. 

“Shit happens. It’s okay. It’s not like you snuck back here with the intent to injure me….unless.” You smirked at him, letting Dustin’s cheek turn bright red and he shook his head vigorously. 

“No. No. I would never do that to you—“

“She’s joking Dustin. It’s okay.” Steve tried not to laugh at the poor boy, watching as his face fell into a slightly more comfortable expression. 

“Dustin, can you go and round everyone up in the Living Room, so we can talk about everything?” 

Dustin nodded and started to run off before he stopped and turned towards you again. “Promise you’re okay?” 

“Cross my heart and hope to die, kid. I’m all good.” You took your finger, crossed your heart with it and lifted it in the air. “Steven Harrington as my witness.” 

Dustin cracked a smile before going back inside and trying to round up everyone into the Harrington's living room. 

Once you had properly bandaged your cut, you sighed and cast a quick glance at the patio doors, noticing only Max and Lucas lingering, but still giving you all the privacy they could with a glass door. But Lucas was solely focused on Max, making sure her headphones for her Walkman were sitting just right on her head. 

You turned and kissed Steve, soft lips on his. “Are you okay?” You whispered to him, letting him lead the kiss, giving him the control he needed to regain in that moment before facing the troops. 

Steve gently swept his tongue across your lip, allowing him to deepen the kiss a bit more. He sighed so prettily into your mouth and you couldn’t help but smile. 

“I will be, yea. I just….” You nodded and pulled away from him. Steve glanced over at Max, noticing the headphones and his face fell flat. He had been the one to hold her close when she collapsed outside of Billy’s Grave after floating in the air. And suddenly it was you he was cradling, unconscious. 

“What’s the artist?” 

“What?” You gave him an incredulous look, turned and looking where his gaze was set on Max. “Oh Steve, I don’t think—-“

“Please.” It was so soft, and pleading. Your heart broke as he looked back at you. 

“The Mamas and The Papas.” You said softly, tucking a loose strand of his hair behind his ear.

“Dream a Little Dream of Me, right?” He squeezed your hand once more as you nodded. 

“Alright.” He sighed and kissed your head before getting up. The two of you could rest when you’re dead, you figured. You stood up with him and brought the first aid kit back in with you. 

Once everyone was back in the living room, the rest of the day was a whirlwind. Lucas was telling you about the fact that Carver and his teammates were hunting down Eddie and anyone who tried to help him. 

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

At some point you found yourself stuck in the back of Nancy’s car. Then, you found yourself stuck in between an argument between a mother and his son about Skull Rock. 

“Yeah well it wasn’t popular until I made it popular, alright?” 

You snorted at that one, while Steve turned towards you, slightly horrified about admitting that in front of you. But you knew King Steve, and it wasn’t like you were unpopular. You were one of those people that managed to fly under the radar by being on everyone’s radar. Nice to everyone simply worked best, especially when it meant you got to kiss and tell without it ruining your life. You smirked at Steve before turning to Dustin. 

“But he’s right though Dustin. It’s over that little hill, on the right, past the two trees.” You slowed down to break the news to Dustin, Max moving to catch up with you, both of you snickering to one another while the rest of the gang looked at you, seriously doubting their knowledge of you at all. 

“Stop gawking Harrington, and move those legs. Let’s roll.” Steve fixed his pace and trudged ahead, eager to prove his best friend wrong. 

You and Max just observed the two. You had been Max’s babysitter since she moved to Hawkins. She was definitely too old for one, but her mother insisted, and she would have much rather spent time with you than with Billy. She was your little sister, your everything, the Dustin to your Steve. You were the one who got her so addicted to Kate Bush in the first place. So when Steve had told you about Max floating into the air, you almost caused several accidents driving from your house to the Wheeler’s, where Max was being kept safe.

 The two of you were giggling about the bickering between the two idiots when you heard Steve and Dustin ahead of you. 

“Bada Bing, Bada Boom, There she is Henderson. Skull Rock, in your face man.” Steve pushed past the both of you, a shit-eating grin on his face. “In your stupid, cocky little face.” 

“It doesn’t make sense.”

“Yeah, Yeah, even when it’s staring you right in the face, you can’t admit it. You just can’t admit that you’re wrong, you little butthead.” Steve smugly stared up at the rock. 

Two boots landed on the ground, right next to Dustin. “I concur. You, Dustin Henderson, are a total butthead.” 

Dustin started jumping up and down before rushing Eddie into a hug. “Jesus, we thought you were a goner.” 

“Yeah, me too man.” Eddie mumbled, looking over at the rest of you wearily. You watched as Steve and Eddie interacted like some sort of divorced parents in the parking lot of a McDonald’s before deciding to ease whatever tension the two of them had going on. 

You smiled and waved at him, “Oh my god, is that the serial killer Edward Eddie “The Freak” Munson, leader of the Hellfire Satanic Club,” 

Max let out a snort, before trying to cover the giggle seeping out of her mouth. 

 “You’re funny there princess, you know that?” 

“Oh I do, Edward. How are you.” You mumbled, patting his back, while you eyed Dustin, who was losing his fucking mind over his compass.

Steve was not the jealous type, or he liked to pretend that he wasn’t. You were a kind person to every single person you met; somehow every single person in the world knew you, and yet nobody had a vendetta against you (to his knowledge) or anything awful to say about you. But it was moments like these, when Eddie called you Princess, or got a little too close, where he would start to tense up. 

“Better now that you’ve brought yourself, and also some food.” He hastily grabbed one of the paper bags from Nancy and grabbed one of the flasks filled with water, drinking almost all of it. 

“When I got to shore, I tried calling you guys but uh, my walkie was busted, man. Drenched. So uh, I did the thing that I do now, apparently. I ran.” A sardonic smile spread across his face, and he shook his head, looking down at his hands. 

“Do you know what time this was, the attack?” 

“No i -i- I know exactly what time it was.” Eddie takes the watch off his wrist and tosses it to Nancy. “My walkie wasn’t the only thing to get soaked.”

“9:27.” 

Robin’s eyes lit up. “Same time our flashlights went kablooey. 

“Which means what exactly?” Steve chimed in.

Nancy sighed, looking down at the watch in her hands before tossing it back to Eddie. “That surge of energy was Vecna attacking Patrick.” 

“Well, we’re one step closer–we know how Vecna attacks.” You mention, watching Dustin pace back and forth. 

“And where he attacks from.” Lucas added on. 

“So now we just need to sneak into his layer in the Upside Down and drive a stake through his heart.” Max sighed, crossing her arms. 

Robin mumbled quickly, “If he even has a heart.”

“A stake is he like a vamp–is he a vampire?” Steve’s eyes widened.

“Oh Steve, babe.” You sighed, pinching your eyes.

“Itt was a metaphor.” Max scoffed in reply to him. 

Eddie looked up from the ground and towards Max. “Uh bullets work on him right?”

“I say we chop his head off.”

“That’s great Lucas.” You muttered, not fully believing this conversation was happening. Steve on the other hand looked at Lucas with a “What the fuck” type of look. 

“Yeah I’d say all of the above, but we can't do any of that until we find a way into the Upside Down.” Nancy sighed. 

“We need El to get her power back.” You nodded in agreement with Max.

“Everything was wayyyy easier. We had this girl, she had super powers–”

“Superpowers, yea, you mentioned her.” Eddie cut off Steve with a nod before peering over at Henderson.  

“Hey uh, Henderson’s not cursed is he?” 

Steve shook his head. “Cursed, no no, he’s fine. Mental? Absolutely.” 

Just then Dustin raised his arms to the sky, turned to Steve and Screamed the word Boom, at the top of his lungs. Everyone flinched at the loud sound, but your head had started to bug you the second you had found SKull Rock, and you weren't one to say anything, but Dustin screaming at the top of his lungs definitely wasn’t helping. 

“Bada. Bada. Boom.”

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

And just like that, the day sped up again. Your head continued to bug you all the way to the lake. He had noticed that your head started bugging you halfway through the walk to the shore, holding you hand and quietly whispering the lyrics he remembered from the song earlier, just to you. It made your heart melt a little, just how much he cared for you. It was a bonus that it calmed him down in the process. 

“What is Mordor?” He whispered to you, watching as the shore grew closer. 

You laughed softly and shrugged. “There's this book series called Lord of the Rings.” You answered back to him. “And the heroes leave The Shire to go to Mordor to stop the big bad.”

Steve let out a little “huh”, and nodded. The little green monster known as jealousy came back full force. Of course you would know what Eddie was talking about. Of course that was something else Eddie had over him. “And you’ve uh, read this series.” 

“Yes Steve. All four books.”

“Did you like them?”

The questions surprised you. It’s not that Steve didn’t like the things you liked, or didn’t care about what you liked, but this was an interest that you simply hadn’t mentioned because it didn’t seem in his wheelhouse. “Ye-Yeah…why do you ask?” 

You looked at him with a curious smile on your face, and Steve shrugged. “I don’t know. If both you and Butthead up there like it then…”

You stopped and kissed Steve on the cheek. “You’re adorable Steve.”

Just then, Dustin sprinted forward, yelling about the fact that something was happening. Eddie managed to save him from stepping into the lake, when Steve ran up ahead. 

“You gotta be shittin’ me.” He huffed and turned and looked back at you, exasperated. 

“Yea. I thought these woods were familiar.” Eddie’s tone was flat, and disparaging. 

“Lover’s Lake.” Robin sighed, staring out at the water. 

“This is confounding.” Dustin muttered, looking back and forth from the water to his compass and back again. 

“There’s a gate in Lover’s Lake?” Max looked over at you. 

Nancy spoke next, “Whenever the Demogorgan attacked, it always left an opening. Maybe Vecna’s the same way.” 

“Yea, only one way to find out.” You grumbled, also not exactly happy to see the lake. 

Eddie pulled back a tarp to reveal a little boat, definitely not big enough to fit all of you. Once Eddie and Steve had gotten the boat in the water, Robin climbed over the two of them. Eddie went next and helped Nancy get into the boat as well as you. All four of you looked at Dustin, who tried to get onto the boat. 

“Hey, Hey, you trying to sink us?” Eddie shoved Dustin's head back a little and shook his own. “The boat holds four people, tops. okay?”

“It’s better this way, okay?” Nancy walked over to try and comfort Dustin.

And you agreed. “You guys stay here with Max.You keep an eye out for trouble.” 

Dustin was flabbergasted. “You keep an eye out for trouble.” 

You gave him a look considering he just snapped at you, but he only continued. 

“It’s my goddamn theory.” 

Robin leaned over. “You heard Nance and Y/N.” 

Dustin just rolled his eyes. “Who put them in charge?” 

“I did.” Robin sassed back, watching as Dustin tried to process everything that was going on. 

“Compass.” Nancy held her hand out as a very, very upset Dustin reluctantly placed the compass in her hand. 

“Hey. There ya go.” Steve threw the backpack at Dustin before pushing off of the shore with the boat, jumping in at the last second. 

“You said Four!” 

Steve whispered a “sorry” to him as the group began to paddle out towards where Patrick died. 

Robin smiled at them, “Bedtime at nine Kiddos.” in which Dustin just flipped her off. Robin just stood up and waved, “Miss you already.” 

You had to bite the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing. 

As you all sat on the boat,slowly paddling through the darkness of Lover’s Lake, when suddenly Nancy yelled out. “Woah Woah Woah, slow down guys, slow down.” 

All of you leaned in and looked at the compass, it was spinning in circles, no actual direction. 

All of the sudden the walkie lit up and spoke: Guys what’s going on. Come on guys, talk to me, what’s going on.

Robin picked up the call, still staring at the spinning dial. 

“Uh Dustin your compass has gone from wonky to Wonky with a capital ‘aah!” 

“Steve, what are you doing?” Nancy’s voice reached your ears, and everyone immediately snapped their heads towards the boy who was starting to undress. 

“Somebody’s gotta go down there and check this thing out.” He pulled off his other shoe and sock. “Unless one of you three can top being a Hawkins High swim co-captain and a certified lifeguard for three years then…It’s gotta be me, no complaints. Alright.” That last section ws slightly more aimed towards you than anyone else, but you just stayed silent. 

“Hey, I’m not complaining. I do not wanna go down there.” Eddie looked around at the water uneasily before taking one of the flashlights wrapping it in one of the plastic bags they had brought. It was better than nothing. 

Steve pulled his shirt off, and that’s when you caught Nancy staring. This time, you were a little more upset at her openly staring at Steve’s half-naked body. Robin looked between you and Nancy and made a little face, deciding to wait to ask any and all questions to you once Steve was gone. 

“Hey.” Eddie handed him the flashlight. “Good luck.” 

Steve nodded. “Thanks.” Before looking at you and giving you a small smile, meant to be an apology. 

Robin pulled a cigarette from out of Eddie's mouth, mumbled a “gross”, and chucked it into Lover’s Lake. 

Steve stared straight ahead psyching himself up. 

“Steve?” You couldn’t help yourself. 

He looked back at you. You had a horrible feeling about this. Yet you held your tongue because there was no way that Steve “The Hero” Harrington was going to risk anyone else’s life, and trying to talk him out of it was like trying to convince the sky to turn purple—it wasn’t going to happen. All you could offer him was something to maybe calm his nerves. 

“Be careful.” 

You all sat there, each of you doing your own thing to not think about the fact that Steve was under the water. 

“Where are we at Wheeler?” Robin asked, bouncing her leg up and down, glancing from Nancy to the water and back again. 

“We’re closing in on a minute.” Nancy responded with a slight air of worry. 

“Come on Steve.” You mumbled, still watching the water. Robin placed a hand on top of yours and gave you a small smile, just trying to provide at least a sense of comfort even though her best friend was down in the depths of Lover’s Lake. 

When Steve popped up, you all jumped. Eddie yelled slightly with an “Oh Christ!” But you immediately reached your hand out to him, which he was more than willing to reach for. 

“I found it.” 

“You found it?” Nancy piped up before Steve smiled, trying to regain his breath. 

“I found it. Yeah I found it.” He smiled, and unlike the rest of this day, the next thirty seconds seemed to go by in slow motion. 

Steve was hanging off the edge of the boat, still trying to regain his breath before he would climb into the boat, still holding onto your hand with his own. 

“Dustin, you’re a goddamn Einstein. Steve found the Gate. It was right where you said it was.” 

Steve was panting. “It was pretty wild. It’s more of a snack-sized gate than a mama gate.” Reference Robin from earlier. “But still, it’s pretty damn big.”

Steve’s head was pulled under the water. All of you moved towards him, trying to get him onto the boat. He resurfaced, a concerned look on his face.

Just as he reached for you, Steve’s face dropped, and he was pulled under. Nance, Robs, and Eddie all yelled out his name, screaming for him to come back. You immediately pulled off the jacket you had been wearing and dove straight into the water, no hesitation. Nancy, Robin, and Eddie then started screaming your name. Your new white converse had been covered in mud and now they were soaked in murky water as you swam for your life to get to Steve. You watched as he was pulled into the gaping portal beneath you. You watched as he was dragged through the water with ease. You swam faster, pushing through the gate not even ten seconds after Steve. 

Your lungs were burning. You fell to the ground with a hard thud, groaning as you tried to ignore the large bruise that would be all along your thigh and shoulder. All of this while trying so desperately to breathe but the air was suffocating. You managed to stand up, and looked around for Steve. Red lightning struck above you both, maybe five hundred feet apart. 

That’s when you heard it, the screeching. Your eyes managed to locate Steve before they were moved to the sky as the creatures started to surround the both of you. You watched as he ran towards something on the ground and picked up an oar, hitting one of the bats that swooped down on him. You ran towards him, picking up a second oar, and started batting, fighting your way to each other. 

Then, you saw Steve get swiped off his feet. A bat around his neck, and two others circling, ready to go in for the kill. Steve kept trying to swipe them off but was starting to fail. He let out a blood curdling scream as his body convulsed on the ground beneath your feet. 

Your blood ran colder than Lovers Lake. You ran towards him, listening as he screamed your name, crying out helplessly for you as they tried to feast on his abdomen and while one was slowly strangling him. 

Anger and panic filled your body up to the brim as you came closer to him. You hit two home runs before you slammed the oar down on one of the bats, eating away at Steve’s stomach, and blood splattered up and across your entire body. You’d be pissed about your clothes if you weren’t already so enraged at the thought of the pain Steve was in. There was blood scattered across your face, and you could taste it on your lips. Dustin might have called you badass if you weren’t so fucking terrifying.

You didn’t notice as Nancy, Robin, and Eddie barged through the portal, and immediately started beating the shit out of all of the remaining bats that tried swooping down on the group of you. 

Instead, you continued bashing in the body of the bat next to Steve. Robin had started watching you, slightly scared of the force you used to bring the oar down onto the bat. But all you could see was Steve. His mouth was open but no sound was coming out as he struggled to breathe, trying to pull the bat's tail away from his neck. You gave it one final blow to the head and watched its body give out beneath you. 

Just as you went to thwack the head of the bat suffocating Steve, something wrapped around your ankle. You dropped to the ground as the bat swiftly pulled you down, bloody oar out of your grasp. 

Robin and Nancy were to take care of the bat that was strangling Steve, Eddie continuing to swing at any bats in the air he could. 

“Nancy behind you!” She turned around and thwacked the bat that came at her before she delivered one final blow, releasing Steve’s throat as it went limp. 

A blood curdling scream left your lips as one of the bat’s bit down into your thigh. All you could see was white and red and all you could feel was white hot pain. The teeth tore through your flesh like butter, and it might have had some sort of venom dripping from its teeth because the exposed flesh felt as if it was melting off your body. 

Steve had managed to rip the bat off of him, and tore it in half with his mouth, willing to tear the bat limb from limb, but then he heard you scream. Steve always assumed he would freeze because in his nightmares he would watch as the dogs tore you limb from limb, or as a demogorgon dragged you into the depths of the upside down, and he would freeze watching as he let you die. 

But not this time. 

His body raced towards you, ignoring the sharp rocks and fuck else that would stick into his bare feet. The adrenaline in his body caused him to pick up the oar you were dragged away from and bash the head in on the bat digging its teeth into your thigh. You were screaming, you were screaming for Steve. His mind clouded with rage as he broke the oar in half and stabbed down, impaling the bat and leaving it stuck to the ground of lovers lake. 

There were tears streaming down your face, as Eddie and Robin helped pull you up and away from the dead animal laying next to you. A sob escaped your lips as you put some weight on your right leg. 

“Jesus Christ, Jesus H. Christ!” Eddie screamed at the sky, still trying to hold you up. 

Steve’s breathing was labored as he stood above the bat’s bloody carcass. He heard another sob escape your lips and immediately snapped his head towards you, but just as he took a second step towards you, the screeching of bats over head caused all of you to look up at the sky. 

“Shit shit shit.” Eddie muttered, looking around trying to find a spot for cover. 

“There’s not that many, we can take them.” Steve huffed, still running purely on adrenaline and spite. 

Another bellow of screeches came from the sky across the barren lake. 

Nancy ran over to you and gently squeezed your shoulder, luckily the one that wasn’t bruised. “We need to find cover. Now. Can you make it if Eddie and Robin help you?” Her eyes search yours, simultaneously checking for your inevitable concussion based off of the way you dropped to the ground earlier. 

You just whispered out Steve’s name, eyes starting to close. 

“Hey. Y/N. Look at me. He’s okay. He’s alive okay? I need you to stay with me for just five more minutes, okay?” Nancy was starting to freak out the more you drifted in and out of consciousness. She turned to look at Steve, who was shutting down on his own, his own adrenaline starting to wear off. 

“Eddie, Do you have Y/N?“ Nancy practically shoved Robin towards him while wrapping your arm around his neck while he supported you. “The more people that help her the better.” 

Steve had reached out to help but Nancy shook her head, “ I need you to focus on finding us Skull Rock, and not collapse while holding her. Got it?” 

Steve stared at Eddie, his frame supporting you, and huffed before nodding. 

Once everyone had secured their position, you all quickly made their way towards Skull Rock, well as quickly as you could possibly be. Eddie spent the whole time whispering how proud he was of you and how badass you looked and how good you were doing while walking, all of the encouragement and little jokes you needed to stay awake and push through the pain to get to get under the rock. While Robin was freaking out about Rabies, which was so extremely helpful of her, thank you robin!

Once you had all taken cover from the bats, you leaned against the wall, just trying to breathe again. That’s when Steve started to lean on the wall, and eventually collapsed to the ground. 

“Steve?” Nancy immediately stood up and made it to him in record time. 

You would have turned bright green if you weren’t starting to pass out on your own. 

“I’m fine. I’m fine.” He grumbled, slowly sliding down to the ground. 

“No no no, you’re losing blood. Shit.” Nancy had ripped her skirt to provide some bandages for Steve. 

“Steve?” You mumbled before, your legs gave out, Eddie managing to catch you. 

“Shit Shit shit.” He started panicking and looking at Robin, who in turn started panicking again. 

“Nancy!” Robin yelped, kneeling down next to you trying to keep you awake. 

Nancy took one look at you and turned back around to Steve who was trying to get up and reach for you. “Steve, I need you to stay still.” She turned back to Eddie and Robin. “You need to rip her jeans!”

 “No no no, hey. Stay with me. I need you to stay awake Y/N.” Robin whispered, squeezing your hand. All she could think about was dying by animal bite, which was so not comforting for any one involved. 

Steve gasped as Nance tightened the bandage. Once it was secured he scrambled over to you. 

“This is going to hurt baby, I’ m so sorry.” He mumbled to you, before gently taking the places where the Bats had broken through and ripped the jeans, creating one short leg. He pulled the bloodied pant leg down, trying to avoid the gushing wound on your leg. As quickly as he could, he tore up your jeans and started using it to wrap up your thigh, causing you to moan in pain anytime he would come near it, which resulted in a string of sorry’s coming from him.

You managed to take a look at Steve, covered in makeshift bandages and Eddie’s vest. If this were any other time, you’d make a quip to only him about how hot he looked but instead all you could do was slur his name and keep your head tilted back against the rock, doing your best not to pass out from the pain. 

“Shhhhh baby it’s okay.” He whispered, as you whined again when he tightened the bandages. 

All you could do was whimper and lean your forehead against the rock. At least it was cool to the touch, providing some relief for you. Your breathing was becoming more and more labored as the minute passed, and all Steve could do was whisper to you as it happened. 

“I cant…” you mumbled to him, the first coherent words besides his name that you uttered since the boat. “I’m so tired.” 

Steve shook his head. He finished tying the bandage before placing one of your hands on his pulse point, and his hand on your own, refusing to let this happen. 

“Fuck. No no no. Y/N hey. I need you to stay awake, pretty girl. Come on.” His voice quickened and his eyes quickly flitted to Eddie and Nancy and Robin. 

“We have to.  We have to go. Now. She can’t.” Steve was trying so hard not to cry, and was barely making it through a full thought before the next one came. “Fuck. How are we.”

“Steve, I don’t know if she–”

Nancy had never been scared of Steve before, but the look he sent her made it clear that whatever thought she had should not be said out loud. 

“We need. To find. A way out.” He said through gritted teeth, listening to your breathing get slower than he’d like. 

You hear him call your name once, and then twice, and then the next four hours of your life are all a blur. 

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

You awake on Nancy Wheeler's couch in the Upside Down, while Steve is screaming into the abyss at Dustin. 

Your head is pounding and you groggily go to sit up, but immediately get hit with a wave of nausea. As soon as you do make it up you keel over and start coughing, dry heaving really. 

All four heads snapped in your direction, and Steve dropped the Lite Brite on the table, rushing over just as you start to feel the bile in your throat. 

Steve quickly dragged over one of the stupid little trash bins that Mrs Wheeler kept around the house that the Upside Down had magically decided was necessary, and placed it in front of your face before grabbing most of your hair. 

His efficiency was appreciated since you started to vomit into the trash, your head pounding and your throat burning. 

Once you had thrown up everything in your stomach, plus what felt like your actual stomach, you gagged a bit on the air in your throat.  

Steve was rubbing your back and mumbling soft words while you were still hunched over. 

“Morning Princess.” Eddie called from the dining room, and while you didn’t have the energy to give him some choice words, you did have enough energy to flip him off quickly. 

Steve shot him a look but Eddie only let out a chuckle at your antics. Clearly the brink of death suited you well since your sense of humor and your attitude were still intact. 

“Why were you yelling at a lamp?” You eventually managed out, voice hoarse and almost completely gone. Robin had come over with a water bottle they had found in the fridge of the neighbors house. 

“I thought you were gonna die.” She whispered to you, in which Steve turned his glare towards her instead. 

You gratefully took a sip of the water, swallowing it before it immediately was rejected by your stomach, which causes you to vomit it back up into the trash bin. 

You winced at the sting on your throat, and Steve winced because that wasn’t a good sign. 

“Thanks Rob.” You send her a quick, but soft smile. She quickly took your hand and squeezed it, knowing that was all she was going to be able to say without starting to cry. “If you….well. I think I would’ve had to kill Steve because he would've been so unbearable.” 

Which causes you to giggle slightly and nod. “I can see that happening.” 

“Guys!” Nancy yelled over, giving you a very relieved smile, “we’re heading to Eddie’s Van in ten. There's still the kids' bikes at the house still so we can take those.” 

Steve stood up and had a lot to protest but you just pulled his hand, causing him to look at you. “Steve. Really, I’ll be okay. We just need to get out of here.” 

The others dispersed, getting ready to leave, letting you and Steve have a moment to yourselves. 

Steve sat back down next to you and kissed your hand. “I—, you looked so hot beating the shit out of that bat.” He joked, causing you to muse a smile at him. “I know right. Sexiest murderer around.” You jested back.

“You….” Steve swallowed down the lump in his throat and let you see the tears building up in his eyes. “I—“ 

“But I’m all good. I promise. My head still kind of hurts though. Guess we’ll have to play period, concussion, or Vecna.” You tried to joke, but Steve just sent you a glare. 

You sighed, and what you did next was for mostly your benefit, partially for Steve’s benefit, and slightly to piss off Nancy who was pretending like she wasn't watching you both from her kitchen alongside the other two. 

You kissed Steve. It was simple, and quick, but mostly it was reassuring. 

He hummed slightly before letting you pull away. “Even after you ripped a bat to shreds with your mouth, you still taste like my fucking chapstick.” You laughed softly before looking down at your legs. You were no longer in your jeans, but in a pair of Nancy’s shorts. Your leg had been bandaged a lot better, but you knew the second you got back into the real world, you would need to get the disinfection of a lifetime. 

“Does Nance have any alcohol?” 

Steve gave you a look. “I don’t think now is the time to start drinkin–”

Much to Steve’s chagrin, you stood up. A groan left your lips as you put weight on your bed leg. “Hey Nance? Where does your dad keep the good stuff.” 

She looked up at you before running off to go get exactly what you needed. 

“It’s going to numb the pain Steve, and I love you, but right now, I need to not feel my thigh so I can ride a stupid bike over to Eddie’s stupid van.” 

Steve shook his head and stood up. “Look, Y/n,” he sighed. “I really don’t want to fight but–”

“Then don’t, Steve. This is not your call to make right now. Just. I need you to trust me okay?” 

Steve huffed. “Fine.” before he walked off into a different room. 

Nancy slowly came in with a bottle of scotch from her father’s liquor cabinet. “Hey…”

“Shit, Nance. I’m sorry you had to hear that.” you mumbled, sitting back down on the couch. 

She shook her head and sat down next to you, uncorking the bottle and handing it over. “How…How long have you guys been together?” 

You took the bottle, and took a swig, letting the liquid burn your throat. “God this is awful.” You coughed and laughed a bit with Nancy as she cracked a smile. You offered her the bottle and she gladly took a swig. 

“I would also like to know.” Robin piped up, moving and sitting on the floor in front of the both of you. Once Nancy took a swig, she handed it to Robin. 

“Oh, fuck. It’s uh…What is it, March?” The girls nodded and you sighed. “A year, give your take.” 

Both of their jaws dropped. “I’m sorry what!” Robin’s eyes were wide open. “Since when!”

“Since like February of 85 Rob, get it together.” You took the bottle from her and took another swig. 

“Holy shit.” Nancy mumbled, realizing she needed to reevaluate her entire life at this point. “Why didn’t you tell anybody?” 

“Well, we had just started dating, right, and we wanted to take it slow really try not to fuck it up, ya know?” You took another swig before handing it back to Robin. “And we were gonna tell everyone but then Starcourt happened and uh. Getting the shit beat out of you by Russian thugs, and being forced into taking a truth telling serum really makes for complicated relationship updates to your friends. And Steve had just graduated and was really trying to figure his shit out—I don't know. Honestly, it never came up, nobody asked.”

Robin took a swig and shoved the bottle into Nancy’s hands. “Well I thought he was just pining after his best friend, who is waayyyyyy out of his league if I’m being so honest right now.” 

“Thanks Rob.” Steve mused from the doorway, leaning against the side of it while Eddie just stood there, arms crossed. 

“You guys started partying without us I see.” Munson interjected, with a smile on his face. 

Robin turned bright red before shaking her head. “Steve I—”

“Don’t apologize. I mean she is quite literally so out of my league, it’s a miracle she even likes me, let alone loves me.” 

You sent him a wink, while Eddie and Robin passed a look between the two of them. Nancy just took a slightly longer swig of the alcohol. 

“We need to get going.” Nancy mumbled, standing up and walking into the kitchen. 

“Is she okay….” Steve whispered to you, coming and offering you his hand to help you stand up. 

You shook your head. “She’s been going through a lot lately, and I think she’s trying to figure out all of her feelings. She’ll be okay.” 

He kissed your head before looking at the others in the room. "Let's get going then, shall we?" 

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

Your head was throbbing. It felt like it was split open. One moment you're standing with Steve, watching Nancy climb up the rope, the next you're falling through the air. With a sudden thud, you land on the ground, and scream out in pain. Your leg was so fucking sore, and your whole body ached as you stood up.

You look around and realize you're back in the parking lot where the mall was. You see something laying on the ground further away, watching as the vines around you pulsed. Slowly you took step forward and then another before you left out a gasp. There was Billy, lying just how you remembered him, on the ground. His body was covered in vines and a slug slowly started to crawl out of his mouth. You stumbled away from him, trying not to sob, looking around for anything.

Do you remember what you did, y/n?

You look up towards the sky, trying to find where the voice was coming from. Flashes of your last moments next to Billy as he died in your arms while Max watched. 

Or have you already forgotten.

Flashes of Steve’s lips on yours, Max floating in the cemetery. 

When I kill someone...

Another of Max sobbing into your chest, Billy's screams in your ear, Steve’s hands on your body. 

I never forget.

The Mind Flayer stabbed through Billy’s chest. Blood poured out of his mouth as he looked at you.

Suddenly vines started to over take the parking lot, from all sides. You spun around, panicking, trying to find a way out. You ran past a few cars, ignoring the shocks of pain through your system. Once you had run far enough away, you realized that it was no longer the parking lot of Starcourt.

You were suddenly standing on the staircase of the dilapidated old Creel House. A clock ticks, floating by you, as you slowly start to descend, eyes frantically moving back and forth. Your chest was starting to close up.

I see you've been looking for me Y/N. You were so close. So close to the truth. How was old, blind, dumb Victor.

You reached the bottom of the stairs, and spun around slowly, still trying to locate wherever he was.

Did he miss me? I've been meaning to check back in, but I've been busy.

You look to your right, and there's Chrissy's mangled body, vines clutching it. Her jaw was wide open, her eyes were gone, and you could see the snapped bones.

So very busy.

You watched as a door formed in front of you, the Creel House, except it was brand new. You watched as the little girl walked by you, claiming the house was a fairytale.

You stared at the gaunt little boy in the corner of the foyer, eyes dark.

He watched you back, and your whole body shivered. You slowly followed him through the house, watching as he made his way to the bathroom, and took off the grate. You turned away once you realized what he had been holding in his hand, unable to face something you so grotesquely hate. 

Suddenly a boy went past you, and you followed him into the attic. He had created this sort of altar, filled with candles and little jars filled with Black Widows. He was just a child. 

You wandered down the stairs, and watched the boy watch the clock in his foyer. The ticking of the clock rang in your ears, and all you could do was stare at this boy. The anger festered and festered and festered.

A shrill scream caught your attention as you turned around, suddenly in the yard, watching as the young boy caught and tortured a bunny. Its screams rang out as he reached out, not touching the animal, and slowly started to destroy it. Your chest was heaving as you ran back into the house, slamming the door closed, not wanting to see another moment. 

You watched as a crib, covered in fire, rocked itself in the fireplace, infants screaming all round you. The fire lit uo Henry’s face, eyes closed, moving back and forth underneath his lids. 

Suddenly, as you turned around, you heard music. Ella Fitzgerald’s voice rang through the halls. 

Stars shining bright above you. 

You let out a strangled sob. This was your favorite song. The family sitting at the table was formally dressed up. It must have been a special occasion for all of them to have looked so cleaned up for a family dinner. The Radio started moving between stations even though no one was touching it, but Henry was looking at it. 

The lights started to flicker. The radio couldn’t hold down a station. Everyone was suddenly on high alert, trying to figure out what was happening. Your voice was stuck in your throat as you watched the mother float up into the sky, her bones shattering and splintering as her eyes bled. She landed on the table with a thud, causing you to jump back. Vecna has a sliver of blood draining from his nose. You watched as he murdered his sister, and then moved onto his father. Lights flickering. Radio shattering. But then he collapsed on the ground. His father was quickly arrested and blamed for the murders of his wife and daughter. 

You watched as this boy was subjected to the tortures of Dr. Martin Brenner. You watched as he was tattooed, branded, with the mark of 001. 

“See? Not so bad. There’s nothing to be afraid of.” Doctor Brenner said, looking at 001. “Is there Y/N.” His head turned towards you and you took a step back. 

Why Don’t you take a seat.

And you ran, You sprinted as quickly as you could to get away fromBrenner, from Vecna. The hallways were filled with the dead bodies of guards, the screams of the children held hostage, the lights flickering. It was carnage. The blood smeared against the walls caused you to just freeze. You tried to run the other way. You tried to run as far as you could. 

Steve was screaming in your face. He had both of his hands cupping your cheeks begging you to come back to him, to stay with him. His heart was racing. All he could see were your eyes, rolled back into your head, your body just unresponsive. It was his worst nightmare come true. He screamed at the others to hurry up, just shaking you and begging you to come back to him. 

“Please Y/N, fuck. Please, stay with me. Come back to me. I can’t–you need to come back.” 

Erica had run into the other room trying to help the rest of the team speed through all of Eddie’s tapes. “Steve says you need to hurry!” 

“Yeah no shit!” Yelled back Dustin, while Max screamed that they couldn't find anything useful. 

“Seriously what is all this shit.” Robin was just throwing tapes, trying to find the right one. 

“What are you even looking for!?” Eddie yelled back. 

“Madonna, Blondie, Bowie, Beatles. Music We need MUSIC.” She yelled at him. 

“This IS MUSIC!” Eddie screeched back. 

You were running as fast as you could through the damp hallways. The walls were never ending and they were painted in blood, so much blood. You had to maneuver around bodies, all the while looking behind you, trying to out run Vacna. Your eyes were stinging from the air of the Upside Down, and your lungs couldn’t keep up. The exit had been nailed shut, covered in boards. Your panic was setting in as you looked around, trying to find any answer. You kicked and pulled at the boards until one came loose. As you got your hands around the second one, a voice came from behind you. 

Y/N. 

You slowly turned around, shaking. There he was. Vecna was slowly stalking towards you, like a predator watching its prey. 

What are you doing? It’s not time for you to leave. 

You clutched the door handle, praying to whoever out there that would listen to help you. You keep yanking on the wooden plank. Another one came off as you started to yell. The third one was looser but refused to budge. He kept coming closer to you. 

Now that you’ve seen where I’ve been. 

And closer. 

I would like very much to show you where I am going. 

And closer. 

You managed to get the final one off before you shoved through the doors, using all of the will power you had left. But suddenly you were no longer in the hallway, it was the same room you had just been looking into. 

Dr. Brenner stared at you, eyeless. “Take a seat y/n.” 

The lights flickered out, and all you could hear was your breath, terrified to even move.  

When the light’s came on, you realized you were strapped to the table. The straps were pulled so tightly, you were starting to lose feelings in your fingers. You struggled against them, unable to be freed. Vines had wrapped around your legs, chittering away as you started to cry, thrashing around, trying to get out of the chair. They were slowly coming up your arms, getting tighter and tighter. You couldn’t move. Vecna was across from you, stalking towards you once more. You couldn’t get out, you couldn’t move. You couldn’t–You couldn’t even think straight. He kept coming closer, and closer and closer. You tensed up, letting out a whimper as he slowly leaned in. 

I want you to tell Eleven. I want you to tell her everything you see.

His claw came up over your face and flashes of lights filled your minds. Steve dead in your arms. The town cracking and being swallowed whole. The clock tolled. Your friends screaming your name as Vacna took them one by one. Splits in the earth throughout everything you knew and loved. You screamed out, struggling against him. Another clock chime. More death. More Destruction. 

Tell Her. 

“No!” You screamed back at him, tears streaming down your face as you continued to struggle. Max dead in your arms. Lucas laying on the floor in front of you. Robin tore to pieces. Cracks in the earth. The clock tolls again. Vines covering your home. 

Tell Her Everything.

You scream at the top of your lungs as his claw presses against your face. 

You inhale and suddenly stumble back away from Steve’s grasp, tears start to stream down your face, as you collapse to the ground. Steve immediately catches you. 

“Woah woah woah. It’s okay. It’s okay.” He cradles you against his chest, as you struggle to breathe, panting and sobbing. “I’ve got you. It’s okay. I’m here. I’m right here.” 

You stare up into Steve’s eyes, paralyzed, and for the first time, Steve doesn’t know what to do. 

[xaharadesert]

Vampire MC Caught by Vampire Hunter - Headcanon

Julian Devorak x MC

A/N: Time for my yearly post, as requested by a very lovely anon! Also, this almost turned into a fic, so apologies for the weird format my dears! Please let me know if there are any spelling or grammar mistakes :) requests are (technically) open!

TW: major character death (it’s you, you die in this one, sorry), disrespecting a corpse/graphic description of a corpse (it’s also your corpse, sorry), vague allusion to vomit (this one is not you!)

❤️Julian❤️

As a doctor, Julian had been fascinated by your vampirism and altered traits

As a human man, he had been a little bit scared (although, given that the two of you had been together for a while before you told him, he felt reassured that you hadn’t eaten him yet)

But as a significant other? He was terrified. And not for himself

Julian liked to think of himself as one of the more open minded citizens of Vesuvia, and even he had some trouble coming to terms with your vampirism and its implications

Your relationship had been a tad rocky following the announcement, as Julian was preoccupied with debating the ethics of loving a vampire

But never let it be said that Julian believes all life is precious; he’s a well-traveled man, and he’s met some of the worst humanity has to offer

So if you’re careful with your targets, he’s completely fine looking the other way

In fact, having a bit of knowledge on the subject, he helps you find more efficient methods of storing blood in order to give you more time to research potential meal sources

All that being said, he adapted to the situation and loved you just as well as he would have if you hadn’t had a proclivity for drinking blood

No, it wasn’t the dietary restrictions that worried him: it was the hunters

Vampire hunters weren’t exactly common, since, well, vampires weren’t either

But they were known for their dedication and cunning

Julian, ever the proactive protector, always kept an ear out at the Rowdy Raven for any rumours of a vampire hunter entering Vesuvia, ready to whisk you away at a moment’s notice

He kept bags packed for that exact occasion, and felt confident that he was as prepared as could be

But what he couldn’t prepare for was a hunter who knew about his connection to you, and who therefore knew to keep his presence a secret from everyone

That was maybe the worst part: that Julian didn’t know who had done it

Whoever they were, they were quick and brutal

Julian couldn’t have predicted that anything would go wrong that night; you had gone out with a target in mind, and Julian, having witnessed your supernatural strength in person, wasn’t worried in the slightest that you would return home unharmed when you were done

It wasn’t even unusual to wake up with you still missing, since you were occasionally caught picking your way through the shadows of town when the sun crept up too early for a mad dash home

What was unusual was the banging at the door at the crack of dawn and several of his friends’ panicked voices overlapping as they all tried to explain

They dragged him into town, down to an open square with an old but grandiose statue of a certain disgraced ruler standing in the middle, and they pointed up at it

Not at the statue, though, but of a corpse with a stake driven through its heart hanging by a rope from the statue’s extended hand

No one could fault Julian for the violent illness that overtook him in that moment— he was one of many who couldn’t stomach the sight

He shoved his friends away and returned home immediately to have his breakdown in private

This was more than some freak accident resulting in a loved one’s death; this was a murder committed with intent, and he had no way of finding closure

He couldn’t turn to his friends for help, since none of them had known your secret: this act of violence toward you provided no proof of your true nature, and Julian didn’t want to tarnish the reputation of the person he loved

Perhaps the only other person who could have helped was Asra, and after the incident he was nowhere to be found either

This was a burden Julian would have to bear alone

For although his friends made every effort to comfort and aid him, none of them truly understood the nature of his love or his loss

[gemmahale]

WIP Wednesday (5/29/2024)

Best day of the week? You bet your butt. A new WIP? No comment. 😬 (Tbh, this one might build into a universe, but for now it'll probably be a one-shot.)

Fandom: Call of Duty: Modern Warfare Reboot

Working Title: Squeamish Stitches

Pairing: Kyle 'Gaz' Garrick x OFC Jen 'Glitz' O'Dolan

Rating: M TW: Blood, Canon expected violence, squeamishness Snippet: Allusion to sex

Synopsis: When Gaz is injuried on a recon mission, it’s up to Jen 'Glitz’ O'Dolan to get him patched up. One catch: her last visit to med bay resulted in her fainting at the sight of blood. Squeamish or not, his life rests in her hands while Ghost secures the safehouse.

Divider by @saradika-graphics

With a clap on your shoulder, Gaz laces his fingers together to give you a boost in. You grip his shoulders, tucking your right boot into his hand. You give a little half-hop, getting your left foot under you.

The grease on his face, strategically painted to camouflage into the shadows, fails to hide the eager grin on his face. “You ready, Glitz?” 

You nod, trying to stop the fond eye roll before it happens. “On three.” 

“One, two, three -” You push off the ground and he lifts you up into the window. With your knees balanced on his shoulders, you’re able to get a good look into the warehouse office. 

“God, I’d die here a happy man,” he grumbles into your thigh as you adjust your balance. 

You snort, shifting your balance to stand fully upright on his shoulders. “What, in the middle of a recon mission?”

His hands wrap around your calves, grunting as the treads dig into his shoulders. “No, between your legs.”

You glance down at him from your perch, unhooking your torch from its holster. You open your mouth to answer - 

Ghost interrupts. “Keep it tactical, Sergeants.”

Gaz chuckles quietly, shifting under your weight. You shake your head, leaning against the window frame fully and sweeping the beam into the shadowed room. “Stop getting us in trouble, Garrick.”

“Stop being trouble then, O’Dolan.”

[becauseplot]

Nightmare of Nightmares

a tiny Roommates/Cellmates AU fic to take a break from writing Prime Meridian and bc im thinking abt them. takes place mmmm definitely within a few months of the events of Shared Living Space. Cell is just starting to become a more-or-less 'common' fixture in Felps' apartment, staying for as long as two days at a time before heading out again. he spends a majority of his time out doing...whatever it is he does when he's not at Felps' apartment. it's not uncommon for Felps to see Cell show up at odd hours with a new bruise or bandage wrapped somewhere, and sometimes Cell walks in with a grin that's just a bit too wide, even for him. Felps tries not to think about it too much.

(TWs: nothing really? there's some vague descriptions of violence that aren't that graphic save for like one well-detailed threat. it's brief tho. and references/allusions to cannibalism because obviously.)

It's the middle of the day on a lazy Sunday, and Cell has been tossing and turning on the couch for the past several minutes. He’s not typically a restless sleeper—quite the opposite, actually—so it’s strange for Felps to see him shifting around, restlessly tilting his head side to side.

Felps figures he must be dreaming, or something like it. What does someone like Cell dream about, anyway? Probably eating Felps, or putting Felps' head on a pike. Or eating Felps and putting his head on a pike. Or just murdering people in general. He must get a real kick out of that. Felps shrugs it off and continues working, reclined in the armchair and sorting through his email. Whatever Cell is dreaming about will pass eventually.

And then he whines.

Felps pauses and blinks for several seconds, processing that yes, there was a noise, yes, it was a whine, and yes it most certainly came from Cell. Felps glances up from his laptop again to look at the known murderer sleeping his couch. He's still shifting around, perhaps a little more animatedly than before. He settles for a moment, and Felps can see his eyelids twitching. Another half-whine, half-groan wheedles out of his throat. His lips move, barely parted, but whatever Cell might've said is much too soft for Felps to hear, if he said anything at all.

A few seconds pass. Then, Cell's face briefly twists, his lips moving again; and though it's still hard to decipher, Felps isn't certain that it's actual words that he's speaking. His chest heaves a few times, he makes another small noise, and he murmurs something again—no. Those...sound like they could be words. Garbled, but words nonetheless. Not Portuguese, though. It might be another language. (Cell speaks some English, doesn't he?) Or maybe it is just gibberish, Felps really can't tell; but whatever it is, it sounds urgent. Very urgent. And Cell is starting to breathe harder.

Huh. Felps starts to consider trying to wake him up before he shoots that thought down immediately. Why even bother? And he knows for a fact that Cell sleeps with a weapon under his arm—Felps can see it now, a small blade revealed in all of his tossing—and Felps doesn't want to wind up on the wrong end of it if Cell wakes up swinging.

Still, Felps' email has become an afterthought at this point. Felps watches, almost amazed, as Cell continues to toss more violently than before, breathing harder to the point of gasping, voice high and reaching and cracking and begging—

A shout. Cell's eyes fly open as he shoots up and yep there goes the knife arcing through open air. He's got a hand braced on the side of the couch as he bares his teeth at some middle distance, panting like he's just sprinted several miles. There's a thin sheen of sweat clinging to his face. Cell is sporting a furious expression so tense and wild that Felps—if he didn't know any better—would say pitches over to the other end of the curve and lands somewhere in the realm of terrified.

Cell, the murderer, the cannibal, the nightmare of so many people's dreams, just woke up screaming from a nightmare. It's almost novel, but Felps supposes that Cell is still just a human. And humans, people, get nightmares. Basic psychology. Though, it's hard to imagine Cell to be really, truly afraid of anything in particular aside from, possibly, getting caught by the police and being hauled back to Alcatraz. (Once in Alcatraz, he would end up spending quite the stint in solitary—one of the only things they found that could actually get Cell to behave, if only for a little while.)

A beat passes. Cell's eyes dart frantically, but it doesn't look like he's really seeing anything. He's still gasping. His legs have kicked away the towel Felps makes him put his feet on when he's sleeping, instead digging the heels of his boots into the cushions and pushing himself back against the arm of the couch, knife still in hand.

Felps hasn't exactly woken up fighting before, but he's had his fair share of nightmares. He knows how disorienting they can be. Best not to have the guy with the weapon and the horribly violent impulses forget where he is. Felps clears his throat. "Hey Cell."

Cell snaps his head towards Felps. He blinks several times. He stars at Felps, and he looks around the room...

...And his breathing starts to slow. And his shoulders start to slump. And the fury-terror starts to melt away. And the hand brandishing his knife drops into his lap.

And Cell is quiet. No threats, no growl. He just stares at the floor and drags a hand down his sweat-soaked face and breathes—something like relief. It's eerie, coming from Cell, and Felps, frankly, doesn't know what to make of it.

"So," Felps says. "The Monster of Alcatraz gets nightmares, huh?"

A beat. Then, Cell scoffs at him. "Inspiration," he snarls, voice dripping with venom despite his breathlessness and sleepy croak. "For when I carve out your guts and drag your entrails across the floor, Felps."

Felps raises an eyebrow. "You know, you could just tell me you want to be left alone."

"Fuck off."

"See, there we go." Felps closes his laptop and glances at the clock on the wall: just past twelve. "Eh, actually, before I do that—are you planning on staying for lunch?"

Cell makes a vague noise. He runs his free hand through his messy hair and scrubs one of his eyes with the heel of his palm. He sighs heavily, like a half-aborted yawn.

"...Yeah," he eventually decides.

"Did you bring me anything?"

Felps knows he did. Felps won't make him anything if he doesn't pitch in somehow—one of their new 'rules'—and Cell's backpack is looking a little more full than usual. In lieu of an answer, Cell picks up his bag from where it's slumped against the foot of couch and drags it into his lap, rummaging through it. Felps, meanwhile, stands, dumps his laptop on the armchair, stretches, and grabs the TV remote. A moment later, Cell produces a small paper bag and holds it out to Felps.

Felps crosses the living room and peeks inside: tomatoes and lettuce, in decent enough condition. Felps has certainly used worse. He could add in some of his carrots, chop them up, put some dressing over it and make it a salad. Rice and some seasoned meat (chicken—no red meat allowed when Cell is present) to go with it could be nice.

"This works." Felps grabs the bag. Cell lets him have it, and Felps tosses him the remote. "Your pick. And either fix the towel or boots off the couch."

Cell huffs, but he swings his legs around without protest, boots on the floor. As he flicks through channels, Felps brings the produce into the kitchen and opens up the fridge. He pushes aside his own tomatoes and lettuce to get to the carrots.

Sometime later, Felps finishes putting together lunch and brings a couple plates into the living room. There, he finds Cell curled up on his side, fast asleep yet again—no tossing or turning this time, though. Just sleeping.

Felps rolls his eyes with a sigh. He puts the extra portion down on the coffee table, lowers the volume on the TV just a bit, heads back into the kitchen, and returns with a cover for the plate.

(A nightmare having a nightmare. What could Cell be so scared of?)

(Well, whatever it is, Felps hopes he never has to meet it.)

[yourchemicallyimbalancedromance]

Checkmate

Ship: Anxceit (Whumpee!Virgil, Whumper!Janus)

CW/TW: (be aware that what I am about to describe is not censored.) graphic themes and descriptions of violence, this includes: forcing someone to relapse with self injury, allusion to past self harm, cutting someone with a knife, mind games/emotional abuse, malnourishment/starvation, talk of weight in numbers, themes of suicide and suicidal ideation (this is pretty detailed, you have been warned.)

Summary: After Virgil joins the light sides, Janus slowly reaches a psychotic break due to abandonment and feelings of betrayal and takes it upon himself to take Virgil back to where he belongs, via kidnapping him and holding him in the dark side of the mind palaces basement, AKA the subconscious.

A/N: this is my first time writing Whump, so If anything feels rushed or misplaced please understand that I am a beginner to writing these kinds of things. I am personally not open to (constructive) criticism—I am really sensitive when it comes to things I’m passionate about 😭—so please, let me learn at my own pace if things do need to be changed around a bit, thank you!<3

(I’m editing this at 12:44 AM because I can’t sleep so, uh, surprise oneshot release I guess? Idk 😭🙏🏻)

———————————————————————

Janus’ eyes glimmered as he stared at the rusty chains that were around Virgil’s wrists, the ones keeping him shackled against the wall of the basement, leaving his arms raised up in the air and his legs crisscrossed beneath him. Virgil’s head had fallen against his chest in defeat after trying to scream into the dark abyss for help again, quickly realizing that his pleas wouldn’t be heard with the muffling of a rag in his mouth.

His lower jaw poked at his collarbones with horrendous uncomfortability from the consequences of malnourishment. He was already relatively small—around 115 pounds or so—and the past few days without food were weighing on him. His bones protruded like knives against his skin. You could see the outline of his collarbones to his shoulder blades through his torn up band tee. His bangs—or what was left of them—had fallen over his eyes, keeping him from seeing Janus whose gaze had shifted to Virgils face, eerily delighted.

Virgil thrashed his head around—though in reality more like hazily bobbed it in circles—trying his hardest to spit out the aforementioned rag that Janus had put there after his lazy attempt at being noticed by the others on the second day of his kidnapping. On the first, Janus had knocked him out hard enough to where he drifted in and out of consciousness, leaving Janus enough time to chain him up without a struggle. Despite the chains, he actually thought he could trust Virgil to not scream for help. He was wrong, hence, the rag.

It had now been five and a half days since his initial kidnapping, and the light sides seemed to have gone off of the deep end…almost. Patton had shut down, preventing himself from feeling any kind of emotion due to the fact that if he even shed one tear, it would lead to a messy and disgusting breakdown. Logan wouldn’t come out of his room for anything at all, as he was drowning himself in as much work as possible, writing and re-writing scripts even if he thought they were already pristine and perfect as was, he needed something to keep himself from flying off the hinges. And Roman was…quiet, withdrawn. He wasn’t his usual ego-centric self anymore, he was timid, almost like a ghost or a shell of who he once was. You could practically call him a people-pleaser. All of them had their own ways of grasping for the tiniest bit of control they had left, and it was shocking to see what came out of it.

But Virgil couldn’t comprehend any of this as Janus updated him on it day by day, Janus’ way of slowly ripping Virgils freshly acquired healthy emotional state apart by using his new “found family” as a means of revenge for the gaping would of abandonment Virgil had left him with. Hell, between Virgils drug induced haze and all the sheer sharp pain searing throughout his body, he could barely comprehend where he was. But one thing stopped him from forgetting his new surroundings completely, and that was Janus.

Janus leaned down and took Virgil’s face in his hands roughly, forcing Virgil to look him in the eyes. Virgil’s eyes were dim and worn out, as if he wasn’t all there, like he was somewhere else in his head. He looked so, so very tired. It was almost thrilling for Janus. Virgil had always been one to get lost in his head as a way of coping with things that were out of his control.

“I think,” Janus hissed, the sound full of no-longer suppressed anger and a slight tinge of fear over the fact that Virgil could have been found had he not noticed his pitiful cries when he did a few days ago, “we should play a game.”

The small lightbulb that hung from a loose wire (seemingly appearing from thin air, there was no way to tell where the lightbulbs origin came from) between them illuminated the human side of Janus’ face harshly, putting the crazed look in his eyes on display for only Virgil to see. It felt like Janus could see into his soul, read his thoughts, know every gritty detail of everything that he had ever done down to the way he breathed whilst doing it, just by staring at him.

Virgil’s eyes narrowed as Janus’ thumb ran over his busted lip. If it weren’t for the rag stuffed in his mouth to muffle his cries for help, he would have bit it clean off. Instead, he let the small amount of fury left in him ignite behind his eyes as he stared into Janus’, not moving any longer. He was confused and scared, and when those things were combined, it usually turned into anger. Rage, even. But It was as if the moment Janus touched him, he froze on impact.

“What do you think?” Janus prompted, hand still firmly on Virgil’s jaw. His voice may have been smooth, but his grasp stayed there to show control.

Janus smiled at the incoherent sounds coming from behind the bloodied rag. He laughed to himself, amused by the struggle. “Ah, I forgot about your little…predicament.” He ribbed, pulling out the soaking rag with ease.

Virgil inhaled harder than he’d ever before, taking in as much oxygen as possible. It had been days since that rag had been placed there; a precaution so that were the search for Thomas’ anxiety to continue and a meeting be pursued once more, they wouldn’t hear much from upstairs. Virgil winced a bit at the memory of Janus’ footsteps quickly echoing throughout the basement and walking up to him. (“tsk, I thought you would’ve been smart enough to know not to scream. Here, let me help you with that.” He had said, hastily shoving a clean rag forcefully into his mouth, rendering Virgil silent; mostly because of fear but also because of shock. He had absolutely no clue why Janus was doing any of this.) It also didn’t help that the dark mind palaces basement was usually hot and stuffy already, which made the struggle to breathe worse; especially if you had to rely on only breathing through your nose, which was broken, meaning the little oxygen he could muster wasn’t enough, leading him to pass out only a few minutes after regaining consciousness, over and over and over again over the past 84 hours.

“Let…go of…me.” Virgil demanded, panting. He struggled against his chains, trying to wriggle his way out of them. His wrists ached as they strained against the cuffs around them.

Janus grabbed Virgils arms firmly, chains rattling, rag dripping blood and saliva down Virgil’s right arm. “No need for that, sweetheart. I’m not going to hurt you again. Not yet.”

His lips curled upwards slightly at the fear that shocked through Virgil at such simple words. He watched as the hair on Virgil’s arms began to stick up, his arms covered in goosebumps. It was absolutely hilarious to Janus that Virgil had no clue what was coming at any given moment.

Virgil could put on a defiant act all he wanted, but his body would always show how he truly felt: Afraid, Horrified, Helpless.

It was a beautiful sight to see someone at the mercy of his actions considering he had always felt helpless against the others, it was nice to feel in control for once. …And also quite pathetic how hard Virgil tried to stop him from achieving that feeling of powerfulness.

“How about a game of chess?” Janus suggested, throwing the rag to the ground, sounding more demanding than anything else. His nails dug deep into Virgil’s wrists, letting him know that if he didn’t answer correctly, there would be consequences. Though, from all of the times he’d seen Virgils eyes light up from winning against Logan in a Chess match, he knew he would probably say yes anyway. Not that Virgil knew that he knew that.

That sparkle in his eyes. It was almost as if Virgil felt like he could finally do something right.

In Virgils drug addled mind, something…clicked. Chess? Since when did Janus know that he had gotten good at Chess? Unless he was…

his eyes almost brimmed with tears at the thought of such an invasive act,

Watching him.

Despite such a heart dropping realization, Virgil nodded, slowly. Even though it had only been a few days, he was numb to any minor pain Janus inflicted upon him anymore. If it wasn’t worth bleeding, it wasn’t worth focusing on, or atleast that’s the mindset he was set on adapting to get through this. Who knew how long Janus would keep him here? how long this would last? But the pressure against his wrists served as a warning, so he gave Janus the answer he wanted. Or so he thought.

The pressure increased as Janus dug his nails deeper, pricking the pale skin a bit. “You speak when you’re spoken to, Virgil.” he ordered, “Or do I need to remind you?” he asked, nodding towards the blood stained knife on the floor; A reminder of Virgils previous mistakes.

Virgil shook his head frantically, “No, no, you don’t” he begged, mouth still tasting of metal from where he was forced to lick up his own blood from the cuts up and down his arm. “A chess game sounds nice, really.”

Janus hummed, satisfied with Virgils response. “Perfect. Well then, I suppose I should explain the rules.” He dropped Virgil’s arms and let them fall into place with the chains, then summoned a chess set and sat it on the ground next to the knife, eyeing the way Virgil tried to breathe in a rhythmic pattern. He really didn’t think he was getting out of this. How glorious.

“If I win, we pick up where we left off last night,” Janus recited, hinting back to only ten hours ago when he was burying a knife deep into Virgils arm. “If you win, I may dress your wounds properly this time.” he watched Virgil as his eyes closed and snapped back open time and time again, barely taking in anything Janus was saying. He was sleep deprived, Janus was sure of it. He had already planned this out ahead of time, so the results were finally setting in. Janus had dissolved a few…”unknown sleeping pills” into Virgils drink the night before after Janus had his fun with the sharpest knife blade he could find, making sure Virgil was extremely drowsy and paranoid, but not too drowsy and paranoid, because otherwise, what’s the fun in that?

Oh, and the “sleeping pills” were actually Janus’ antipsychotics, but Virgil didn’t need to know that.

He kept Virgil awake for two and a half days straight, slicing open the old wounds on his arms. Turning the faded self inflicted cuts into newer, deeper, non-self inflicted ones. Sometimes he forced Virgil to do it himself as he watched, making him restart if there wasn’t enough blood for his liking. Virgil deserved this for leaving him, so the least he could do was cause a bloody mess.

Janus hoisted Virgil up and carefully unlocked the cuffs on his wrists with a small key from his pocket, holding him as his body gave out against Janus’.

Even through the fog of Virgils mental state, and the amount of adrenaline pumping through his veins, and the exhaustion that crept up on him so suddenly over the past few days, he was cognizant enough to understand that not being able to stand up on his own two feet was humiliating. The weakness and feebleness of his body and state of mind were meant to make him feel humiliated. And unfortunately for him, it was working. Janus was succeeding.

Janus, using this as a moment to exert power over his captive, whispered in his ear. “Bring your all, Virgil.”

Virgil vaguely acknowledged the phrase as something Patton would say to him before every match. Eyes glistening, like a proud father-figure. (“You did great last time Virge! Logan was so mad that you won against him that when you left to go back to your room to listen to that PG-13 music, he used one of those slang words the kids use these days. I can’t remember exactly what it was...I think it started with a C? I don’t know, but I’m so proud of you!” Patton had said, so joyous and amazed. Virgil had given him a half-smile and shrugged it off as Patton just being Patton.)

Virgil almost started sobbing then and there; finally feeling a wave of emotion crash over him other than rage and terror for the first time in what felt like forever, but in actuality had only been a few days. A few tears slipped past him, leaving behind a trembling lip in their wake. He clung to Janus for some sort of sick comfort, Janus being the only thing he had right now, even if he was the one causing all of this.

Janus tensed and snickered, pulling away from Virgil and yanking him to the ground, looking down at him through fiery eyes. “Don’t be so emotional already, we’ve barely even started” he rubbed his arms with his hands as if Virgils mere touch had deemed his upper arms distasteful, “and don’t cling to me like that again, it’s disgusting.”

Virgil wiped at his tears obediently, trying to put on a blank face for his captor. He just wanted to go back home. To sit with Patton and Roman and make homemade hot chocolate while bickering over the appeal of the newest Disney shows. His chest hurt, likely from the drugs and blood loss, but also likely because of his longing for his actual family, not whatever this was. Whatever it used to be.

Janus sat down on the opposite side of the board, and slowly removed his gloves, placing them next to him on top of each other and started setting up the pieces.

“Let the game begin.” He stated after a few moments had passed and the board had been properly set up, prompting Virgil to move his first piece.

Virgil reached out reluctantly, placing one of the pieces further on the checkered board. Almost knocking it over as he pulled his hand away as fast as he could, not wanting to be close to Janus.

Janus smirked, noticing this, as he placed one of his pieces further on the board aswell. Deep down, he was hurt by Virgils need to stay as a far as possible, however. Not that it mattered, he could always punish Virgil for that little stunt of emotion later down the line.

This back and forth continued for at least twenty-five minutes, before Virgil could feel the walls closing in around him. He looked at the board in desperation, praying to God that maybe, just maybe if he stared long enough the pieces would maneuver themselves to where he could win.

It didn’t happen.

Janus had him stuck, unable to move without getting defeated. In this sick game, and in real life. It was as if Janus was making a mockery of his own doings.

Virgil moved the piece on the board with a shakey hand, trembling from the dread of what he knew was to come, and looked up at Janus; fear evident in his eyes.

Janus took a breath and moved his piece in front of Virgils quickly, as if he had been waiting for this moment his whole life.

“Checkmate, Virge.”

Virgil stared at the board, filled with shame and regret. He used to be a pro at Chess, and now he was watered down to this. He couldn’t meet Janus’ burning gaze as he stared at him from across the board. Any glint of hope for his future here that he had behind his eyes had been crushed and faded away completely. He was certain that he was going to die here before Patton or any of the others found him. And if he didn’t die, it would become so bad that he would beg Janus to make him do it to get it over with.

Janus got up and pulled Virgil to his feet, clasping the cuffs around his wrists again, not willing to waste any time, taking notice of the newfound compliance.

Janus laughed a little as he picked up the knife, running a finger over the blade. “You know, I really thought you would have been good at that,” he placed the base of the blade on Virgil’s arm and began to drag it agonizingly slow. “I guess it just goes to show that you really are incompetent.”

He watched the blood drip down Virgils forearm, “what a shame, really. You probably would have gone on to be a real good player,” he teased, “probably even better than Logan. I mean I saw the way that blood vessel in his head almost popped from stress and frustration during your match a week or so ago.”

Janus watched as Virgil grit his teeth so hard he thought he would break them from trying not to scream. The confession and the pain were almost too much emotional and psychical trauma for Virgil to bear.

Janus ran a finger over the fresh cuts, looking up at Virgil with nothing but malice in his eyes. “Too bad you’re stuck here now, you really could have been something.”

“Please…please, I’ll do anything, please just make it stop!!” Virgil whimpered, actually thrashing now, a drastic difference from what he had meant to do earlier. He couldn’t handle it anymore, it was all starting to dawn on him. He wasn’t getting out of here. He wasn’t getting out.

“Keep begging, it’s not like I’m going to stop. You’re selfish, that’s all you are. You think you can leave me to pick up the pieces of your abandonment and expect not to face the consequences? I don’t think so.” Janus threatened, slapping Virgil’s arm, causing stinging pain to shoot its way through him. He took the knife back to Virgils skin, digging deeper into the wounds he already created, using his rage as a source to block out the cries of his former best friend. Virgil used to be like a brother to him, but none of that mattered now. This was Virgils fault, he chose this.

Virgil’s hands curled into loose fists with the little energy he had left within himself, desperately trying to wrap his head around Janus’ reasoning but ultimately failing to be able to think of anything due to the hot and awful pain that washed upon him every few seconds. That was why Janus was doing this? His acceptance? He let out animalistic sobs every time the blade met his flesh. None of it made sense. His head hurt and all he wanted was to drop to his knees and bleed out, leaving himself a cold shell of a person. Anything but this. Anything but this. As much as he loved the others, he wanted anything but this.

Eventually, Janus dropped the knife on the floor, blood splattering in every direction. He was tired, and Virgil was beginning to pass out which meant that the fun wouldn’t be able to last any longer. After all, it’s no fun torturing someone when you can’t see the outcome of your work.

He flicked his wrist and summoned a small baggie of crushed up antipsychotic medication and a glass of water, carefully pouring it into the glass in front of his captive. It didn’t matter if Virgil saw what he was doing, what could he do about it? Absolutely nothing.

“Open your mouth.” He instructed sternly. Virgil listened and he tilted the glass back with precision, making sure no droplets of water fell down Virgils face and on to the ground.

Janus set the glass down beside him, “don’t say I never did anything for you” he mumbled, turning on his heel and heading back upstairs to the commons as if nothing had happened.

Janus’ footsteps slowly faded and a door opened. Virgil could hear Remus cackling in the distance, and even though he didn’t exactly know what was so funny, it was presumable that it was about the state of his family. The others were falling apart with the lack of him being around, or that was at least as far as he knew with the “help” of Janus.

Virgil let his legs give out from underneath him and curled in on himself as best he could, searching for the warmth of his own body heat, not necessarily because he was cold, but because he was desperate to feel the warmth of a comforting presence, even if that meant it had to be himself.

He tried to ignore the throbbing pain in his arms by thinking of Patton. Sweet, tender and kind, Patton. Patton who was always there when he had night terrors and was screaming for help, crawling into Virgils bed and cradling him gently until he was conscious enough to know what had happened, and then staying until he fell back asleep. Patton who always let him hold on to his shoulders when the panic attacks got so bad he couldn’t stand upright because he was so dizzy. Patton who always had a cheesy dad joke no matter the severity of the situation. Patton.

It hurt more than any of the psychical pain combined to miss him. He would rather die right now than miss such a sweet soul. If Patton were here, he would have bandaged him up so gently he would have barely even felt it, while humming softly to distract Virgil from the fear and uncertainty burrowing deep in his stomach.

Tears fell down his face as his eyelids finally fluttered close, not being disturbed by a jarring malicious voice ready for revenge. He could finally sleep.

Though, how do you sleep peacefully knowing you’ll probably never get out of a nightmare?

[clanofjones]

Ghosts of Our Days (GoOD) Masterpost

Warning: Spoilers for TMNT 2012 are afoot!

What is GoOD?

Ghosts of Our Days is a TMNT 2012 fanfiction written in tandem by myself and @theosb0rnway. It centers on Casey and Raph, features Rasey, and takes place during and after the Season 4 episode 'Requiem'.

It features several character deaths (it's TMNT so some aren't exactly static) and extreme violence. Characters swear, and allusions to child abuse are present, as well as homophobia and transphobia, both internalized and not. It also features the deterioration of mental health and sanity, in-depth murder plans, lack of self-care, and gender dysphoria. (This section is subject to additions and changes.)

Summary:

When the battle against Super Shredder goes fatally wrong and Raphael pays the price, Casey is forced to go into hiding while plotting revenge against his newest foe. Despite abandoning the turtles, April, and his old life for secrecy, he's not as alone as he thinks he is... or is that just his newfound insanity?

Where can I find it?

I publish all chapters on Tumblr and Ao3.

Ao3 (slower updates)

Chapter One: Shredded Heart

Chapter Two: Iced Iced Baby

Chapter Three: Best Laid Murder Plans

Chapter Four: A Lover's Desperation

Chapter Five: The Ugly and Casey Jones

Chapter Six: So You're a Ghost Now - A Tutorial by Hamato Raphael

Chapter Seven: Death, Like Truth, Is Entirely Relative

Chapter Eight: Meanwhile in Tokyo

Chapter Nine: A Better Life is a Boring Life (TW: References/implications of child abuse)

Chapter Ten: Sleep is not Listed in the Plan of Casey Jones

Chapter Eleven: Two's a Company, Three's a Crime (TW: Homophobic language, semi graphic descriptions of the murder of a cop.)

Chapter Twelve: Assault and Amaze (Sex scene, warnings are placed, so dw)

Chapter Thirteen: Fire in a Denny's Parking Lot at Three AM (Referenced sex, nothing happens)

Chapter Fourteen: Murder Masquerade

Chapter Fifteen: I Have A Foot But No a Head: What Am I?

Asks?

Asks for Oz and I are open! No spoilers or info on future chapters, so don't ask or we are legally and morally obligated to give you a response that is hilarious to us and infuriating to you.

Art asks are also open! Just adhere to the rules of common decency, we reserve the right to refuse a request. Scene redraws are encouraged and probably taking up a good chunk of our own WIPs. Don't be afraid to ask!

Anything Else?

Assuming you read/enjoy the fic, any sort of support would be greatly appreciated!

All chapters, art (by myself, Oz, and others), and additional content will be tagged under the tags ' Ghosts of Our Days ' or ' GoOD '

If anyone would like a tag list to be tagged in all chapters, let me know and I will make one!

I hope you enjoy our brain child! :)

[passion-hunter]

So has your quirk ever like, you know, backfired? With them going after you as their target? Because being doted on and obsessed over sounds GREAT on paper, but exponentially increasing obsession just sounds dangerous. We're talking yandere levels of bad, here! No thank you. I want that kind of love in my life, gimmie!

“Oh yeah, for sure. Why else d’y’think someone would try to rip a kid’s eye out? Since they get obsessed with whatever they’re thinking about at the time, if I’m already their focus that doesn’t change. But I can use that to my advantage, if I have to.”

He paused for a moment. “Hey, weird question, what do you think would happen if I used it on you? I mean, it kinda forces people into a bit of a one-track mindset, while you, uh... no offense, seem to usually have at least two going at once.”

[nanasparadise]

“Homo homini lupus est” Yan!Toji x fem reader

Summary: Toji loves a good stack of cash, but turns out he might have found a sweeter prize this time when he sees you again. 

TW: toxic relationship, talk about money and loans, kidnapping, violence and blood (not graphic), predator and prey imagery, slight allusions to NSFW, swearing, mentions of alcohol (no intoxication), MATURE AUDIENCE ONLY/MINORS DNI

Word count: 1424

I do not condone any yandere behaviour in real life. 

“Where the fuck is the money, Fushiguro?”

Toji shot a disinterested look at you, not really recognising your face. Were you one of his past flings? He quickly dismissed that hypothesis. Probably not, he never had to spend a single coin for a night with a woman. He simply shrugged, choosing not to give a damn about you, as he turned around to leave the bar again. 

A hand wrapped around his bicep stopped him from going further. To his surprise, you were quite strong. 

‘A feisty one’, he thought, a smug smile appearing on his face, making the scar on the corner of his mouth stretch. 

“Don’t know what ya talking about, doll, but if yer looking for money, ya sure as hell got the wrong man,” he replied, voice dripping in amusement. The scowl on your face deepened, your hand gripping tighter on his arm. 

“Quit bullshitting around. I lent you 1,300,000 yen six months ago, where’s the back payment? I should’ve got something already a month ago!” You were seething with anger. And even though you were taking this situation very seriously, Toji couldn’t help but find it anything other than entertaining at best and annoying at worst. 

“Seems like that’s yer problem. I ain’t got anything on me after that glass of whiskey.” With a precise movement, he ripped his arm away from your iron-clad grasp and made his way towards the exit. He had already enough stress with unpaid debts, he didn’t need more. With unexpected speed, you managed to get in front of him. Not even a second later, a fist landed square on his nose, the impact leaving nearly crushed bones and crimson blood behind. Toji gasped, not necessarily out of pain (he had endured injuries far more detrimental than a possibly broken nose)- no, he gasped because he couldn’t believe you had the guts to punch him in front of everyone. The other guests of the bar didn’t seem to care too much, though, as they probably were already used to fights. The only one who completely misjudged your strength was Toji himself.

Quickly, he recovered from the initial shock. Instead, a wicked grin resurfaced on his face.

‘This should be fun.’

“Listen here, you piece of shit,” you all but spat, your hand still clenched in a fist. Toji could see both his blood and yours on your scraped knuckles. For some reason, he liked this image. “I don’t give a fuck they call you Sorcerer Killer, you don’t scare me one bit. I only care about my money. So if I don’t have it back in a week, you’ll be dead meat, understand?” 

“Big words for a girl like ya, considering I could bend ya in half with just my pinky.” 

“Next week, this bar, same time,” was all you replied as you gripped the door handle and left the establishment. 

Toji lifted a finger towards his nose, inspecting the blood that coated it now. You surely were a brave one, he had to admit that. It had been a while since anyone dared oppose him and he couldn’t help but feel a rush, a thrill flowing through his veins, reminding him of all the times he was preying on his target. 

This time, the reward for his chase wouldn’t be money, but the prospect of a different prize excited him nonetheless. 

***

You’d told him to see him again in a week, but, unbeknownst to your awareness, Toji had been following you the last couple of days. For being such a strong fighter, you sure did lack in premonition. The assassin couldn’t help himself but being intrigued by your being. Through his stalking, he started to remember who you actually were and how you two were connected. A loan shark, working for a shady business Toji went to when there wasn’t a yen left in his pockets. Of course he knew he wouldn’t pay you anything back when he met you, though he didn’t reckon you’d be this persistent. Most people were too scared of his reputation to mess with him. 

But not you. 

His fingers went to his nose, excitement blossoming inside him. 

No, not you. You had guts made of steel, it seemed. Too bad you had to be such an interesting pretty little thing. Under different circumstances, he might have enjoyed crushing your skull. However, he had another plan for you. 

Didn’t mean he wouldn’t break you, though. 

***

“Can’t believe you actually came, Fushiguro.” 

Leisurely, Toji sat on the stool next to you at the bar. “What can I say, can’t turn a pretty lady like yerself down, now, can I?” he smirked. 

You scoffed at his words. “We both know that’s not true.” He shot you a wink to which you reacted with an eye roll.

Gesturing for a whiskey, the bartender placed the amber beverage in front of Toji. A single brow shot up on your face, giving the man next to you a disapproving look. “I thought you didn’t have any money left after your last drink.”

“Need somethin’ to strengthen my nerves when ya scold me, dontcha agree?” 

“You’re goddamn right,” you muttered, taking a sip of your drink. Putting the glass back on the counter, you let out a sigh. “Now let’s cut to the chase. I hope you came with the money?

“Ya bet, sweetcheeks.”

You grimaced at the nickname, which only widened his shit-eating grin.

‘I’m gonna get ya to like them, just ya wait. Can’t wait to see ya under me, moaning-’

“And I’m guessing you also remembered the interests?”

“Of course.” 

“Well,” you gave him a weird look, “where is it?”

Toji leaned into you, his arm brushing against yours. In return, you backed away from his touch, uneasiness being visible on your face for a slight moment. 

‘Turns out yer not as tough as ya look, little girl.’ 

“Left it in the trunk. Thought it wasn’t a smart idea to come in here with a buncha cash.” 

You gave him an incredulous look. Clearly, you didn’t fully believe him. 

“You don’t seem like the type to own a car,” you interjected, a frown coating your face. 

“Who said anythin’ about owning it, doll?”

“Of course,” you sighed, “anyway, it doesn’t matter. Let’s just go to the car and get the money, I’m sick of this bullshit.” You stood up from the stool and signed him with your right hand to do the same. An all too familiar anticipation spread through Toji as he witnessed how you took the bait. In the end, you really were just a helpless small rabbit who thought she could really stand a chance against the big bad wolf. 

He couldn’t wait to devour you. 

Toji followed your lead as he stood up from his seat as well. The two of you walked out of the bar to the parking lot. The black-haired man went to a grey car, which obviously had seen better days. With a fluid motion, he grabbed the keys out of his trouser pockets and opened the vehicle. 

“I know ya don’t trust me a bit, Y/N,” Toji said, “so why dontcha open the trunk? Just so ya know I ain’t planning somethin’ funny.” 

You furrowed your brows at his explanation, but didn’t comment any further. Instead, you walked past him closer to the car. “You’ll be dead as a doornail if the money isn’t in here,” you hissed at him, the threat hanging in the air like a noose, ready for the execution. Your hand hovered above the trunk, wanting to reveal its insides. 

Unfortunately for you, Toji didn’t take you too seriously. 

“Of course, sweetheart,” he countered patronisingly. 

As you eventually opened the trunk, a strong force hit the back of your neck. Instantly, you went out like a light. Toji’s arms gripped your form as your unconscious body fell, hindering you from hitting your head on the floor. He placed you in the trunk and took out his utensils (you might have truly killed him if you had known there wasn’t any money in the first place). Swiftly, he bound your limbs together with rope and put some duct tape over your mouth. With an uncharacteristic soft gesture, he glided his hand over your cheek before closing the trunk and walking to the driver’s seat. 

It really was a shame for you that your intuition wasn’t as great as your physical power and prowess. Otherwise, you would have realised that you’d never given him your real name. 

[call-sign-shark]

Little Lamb part. 2 || Arthur Shelby x Reader x OFC

Summary: You discover that Arthur is already married when you are faced with his wife. Worst, she seems to already know about you. Did she see you flirting with her husband? (Yandere! Arthur Shelby x Reader x Yandere!OFC)

TW: (for the entire short series) Toxic dynamic, polyamory relationship, murders, torture, graphic depiction of violence, heavy allusion to smut, obsessive behavior, possessive!lovers, angst and horror. Inspired by the song The Things I Do For Love by Bludnymph.

Words: 1.3 K

Notes:

✞ 0 proofreading, it's also prolly bad written but it's just a little something I write for fun.

✞ Heaven in Reader in the ongoing Arthur x You series Heaven in Your Eyes.

PREVIOUS PART

Six months ago.

She hasn't stopped crying since they came back from the doctor's office. With his long and bony fingers lost in her wild silver mane, Arthur gently massages his wife's scalp in a desperate attempt to chase her troubles away.

"It's goin' to be okay, love." His usually loud baritone voice had turned into a tender hush. Gathering all his protective nature to remain the reassuring one, he presses a kiss on top of her head,

"No, it's not! What's wrong with me?!" She roars through her sobs, her fists weakly hitting Arthur's chest in frustration as her pain blends with a self-targeted rage. Usually, Heaven Shelby is not the emotive kind — quite the opposite, the young French girl's tears were as scarce as the most precious stones, only falling from her aquamarine eyes when the situation was truly catastrophic. Arthur himself could hold count of the few times she cried on a single hand. Yet, she seems unable to stop, her face hidden in the crook of her husband's neck and her salty tears dampening the fabric of his shirt.

"Don't fucking say there's someth' wrong with ya." Trying his best to remain gentle, Arthur shifts a little before cupping her doll face and then forces her to face his stern steel-blue eyes. The look she gave him, filled with inconsolable sorrow, broke his heart into pieces.

How he hates watching her in pain — it makes him feel powerless and boiling from the inside because, this time, there is literally nothing he can do to fix it. Nothing his fists can destroy, nothing his kisses can heal. All he has is words, and God knew how bad he is with them. "I don't care if ya can't have a baby, what matters is you. Only you." Still, he tried, wiping her tears and the remnant of her mascara with a soft caress from his thumbs. “Please stop crying…”

"But you've always wanted to be a father." She said through gritted teeth, her fleshy lower lip trembling and her eyes overflowing once again as she fought against another wave of uncontrollable sadness, "The night of our wedding I promised I'll give you a family and look at me! Look at me Arthur! I can't even be pregnant! This is... This is fucking unfair..." Her voice cracked. Unfair that John could spawn a whole football team. Unfair that Tommy got Grace's pregnant after fucking her only once when she came back from America while she couldn’t for the life of hers. Arthur let out a long exhale through his nostrils before wrapping his arms around her waist again, forehead pressed against forehead and eyes locked together in a tender embrace.

"Listen, little one. I don't care about babies. Don't care about anything in all this fucking world as long as you're by my side. If you can't have children and wanna grieve about it well it’s fine with me, but if you do want one we'll find a way. I promise we’ll find a way.”

"Arthur told me about you." No matter how patient and calmly she expresses herself, you can't help but feel each of her words like painful razor blades.

Discreetly behind the bar, your grip clenches around the wooden counter for you are convinced your legs wouldn't handle your weight if you let go of it. "Made me curious about this new pretty barmaid, even though the last one ended up dead and cold. Gun wounds in the chest area are pretty deadly. I truly hope you'll last longer."

As you stand there, eyes wide open and face dropping a few shades paler, an overwhelming wave of terror crashes through your body and leaves you petrified. Every muscle tenses, locking you in place as your heart pounds furiously in your chest. You don't know what it is about her — the frozen beauty, the frightening discourse, or the faulty contact in her eyes when she smiles — but it made cold sweat trickle down your spine. . "Oh, eeerr... I—" You try to speak but your brain just doesn't cooperate and your breath remains stuck in your throat. All the confidence you've built these past few weeks is destroyed in one batting of her doe lashes.

She notices it.

Hell, you're so obvious that everybody does.

"Hey," She says, her creepy smile withering and the ice of her iris melting, "I was just messing with you, little Lamb." Nimble, she leans over the bar and reaches for your face, her sly fingers offering you the most gentle caress you've ever felt grazing your skin. Her flesh is cold, smooth like marble, but despite everything the physical contact sends warmth into your soul, and in consequences your body quickly retrieves its ability to move, "I'm sorry, I knew I was terrible at making friends but not that much." The white-haired doll winks before stepping back to give you more space to breath, concluding her sentence with a little candid chuckle.

"Oh no, it's my bad!" You quickly replied, a sense of utter guilt washing over you for having thought she was being a bitch by trying to scare you, "I haven't got much sleep lately and it makes me quite sensitive. You've done nothing wrong." With a grateful exhale, you close your eyes briefly, savoring the sensation of safety as well as the fragrances of her refined perfume that envelop you. A shy smile finally enlightens your face.

"I wish I'd look as pretty as you when I'm sleep-deprived but unfortunately, I turn into a goblin when I don't have my beauty sleep." Her joke sweeps away the remaining tension and snatches genuine amused laughter from you. Heaven finally offers you one last smile before making her way to Arthur, who was sitting further, far too busy talking with John and Finn.

"Hey! Your glass of wine!" You call her.

"It's yours! Cheers, babe." She replies cheerfully, almost singing as she leaves your side.

You've tried to hate her, you’ve really tried, but you couldn't.

She didn’t make it easy either.

During the same evening, each time you came to the Shelby table to refill their glasses, you ended up quickly distracted from the pain of seeing her all snuggled up against Arthur's chest by how kind and bubbly she was when you were around. Always complimenting you and eager to chat with you — little insignificant and transparent you. So much that a part of you felt horrible at the thought that you have been flirting and planning to get involved with her husband. When they left the pub late at night -or rather early in the morning-, you found a ridiculous amount of money on the table, and under those banknotes was a little bracelet made of daisies, their stems carefully intertwined together by skilled fingers.

Did you wear it? Of course, it was made with love.

In the days that followed this unexpected meeting, Arthur's wife came to the Garrison and always left a homemade something for you to eat since you had told her that you struggled with eating more than one meal a day due to your financial problems. The food wasn't just good, it was certainly the most delicious dishes you had ever tasted. France, they say, has one of the finest gastronomy in the world and you learned the veracity of this statement the best way. It didn't take long for both of you to become friends first, then inseparable after some time.

Alongside this very unexpected friendship, Arthur's demeanor toward you hadn't changed the slightest — which didn't help forgetting about him. Every slight touch, every smile, and every word exchanged made your heart race in your chest the same as before, if not faster.

Lost and torn by the conflicting feelings of a friendship you genuinely cherished and your growing affection for your best friend's husband, you felt like your own reflection in the mirror was judging you. But if there was something you weren’t it was wicked.

Maybe that was why this battle between desire and loyalty had led you to stutter the following statement to the white-haired and crystal-eyed angel:

"Heaven, I'm so sorry. I think I am in love with Arthur."

Taglist: @adaydreamaway08 @jomarch-wannabe @esposadomd @zablife @woofgocows @anathemasworld @anastasia0000 @kate654 @kxnnxy @babayaga67 @meowtastick @shelbyssins @sarai-ibn-la-ahad @bluevenus19 @justrainandcoffee @kishie8 @alexandra-001 @dearshelby @alexizodd @helen06dreamer @kmc1989 @emotionalcadaver @peakyswritings @peakyltd @chaosinkest1996 @vanhelsingsbigtoe @cherubswhispers @he6rtshaker @bemyqueenofdarkness @cljordan-imperium @cjarbo @rysko @red-riding-wood

[paganminiskirt]

Jazzy Belle pls :3

Went straight for the "Grace Armstrong titties" option, eh? (I get it. I'm wild for them too.)

Jazzy Belle is the first piece of writing I’ve done for my deputy, Nora Kingston. In some parallel universe where I’m capable of completing multiple projects, would be the beginning of a series of similar fics. I started it in late January, and shockingly, it’s close to being finished.

It’s a one shot in essence, even if events in it will contribute to a broader narrative later on, centering around the early days of Nora’s relationship with Grace and how it (and Nora herself) are developing in a war zone. There are romantic and sexual undertones, but this is an introductory piece, so they’re pretty downplayed throughout most of it. There’s also an attempt at examination of the generic, cannon fodder peggies being made, and of the experience of a regular person being thrust into a situation like that with little to no warning. In that sense, Grace is as important to Nora as a mentor as she is as a friend. (“Friend😏.”)

The title is taken from “Jazzy Belle” by Outkast, an early 90s rap ballad which comes up in the text itself. I chose to make an allusion to that song in particular because it could serve as a reference to both the role Grace plays as a romantic, experienced figure who inducts Nora into a world of militant, depersonalized violence (like the biblical Jezebel, who convinced her lover to worship a false god) and to the rose colored glasses through which the two women view a past which, in reality, was much less fair and warm than they remember it being. As the presence of those rose colored glasses suggests, the song itself’s lyrics are distinctly offensive, so be aware of that before going to actually listen to it.

Here are some snippets! (Tw for graphic violence in one paragraph.)

[lizzyverydizzyyo]

D.E.A.N | Oneshot VI - Renewal

Masterlist and overall summary of the whole novel is here. | Prompt on trope-appreciation-tuesdays that inspired this is here. | @whumptober-archive

Fandom : Original Work

AO3

Wordcount : ± 1715

TW: Graphic Depiction of Violence (hitting, punching, strangling), Blood, Allusion to Past Sexual Assaults and the Aftermath (noncon, mention of STDs), Graphic Depiction of Torture Aftermath, Captivity, Starvation    

Summary:

Nick never thought there is another entity that can surpass his old captors’ cruelty spanning in years, while doing it only in a few days. Maybe he has always been simply doomed to face violence until whenever his short life ends.

Whumpee : Nikolai / Nick (from D.E.A.N) | Whumper(s) : D.E.A.N team, particularly Marcus

A/N Hi. I know at some point I said that I would try to update the main fic once a week, but life happened yknow. Got a new job (good), religious observance holiday after ramadhan/fasting month (very busy), new cat adoption (v nice), and I'm kinda running out of prewritten chapters (even though, fair enough, that's my fault because I've been too busy trying to write the sequel and the side stories instead lol), but I will try to get a new chapter up this week. In the meantime, please enjoy this one-shot and tell me what you think. k bye thank.

—— 

7th of August 2016

He felt something heavy poking him in his back quite hard and repeatedly, rousing him from his shallow sleep. It felt like those steel boots usually worn by military people.

Huh.

He had no option but to open his eyes blearily despite the task feeling like lifting 400-pound heavy-weight gear in a gym. Pretty ironic, considering he had never been to a gym in the last few years. How would he know how it felt, really?

He blinked his eyes open slowly, still feeling the bruises around them, both due to lack of sleep and new wave of violence he experienced lately.

What day was it? He forgot.

“Get up.”

He heard again one of the familiar firm voices he’d been hearing lately. This one sounded quite masculine.

He squeezed his eyes and painstakingly pulled his right hand into the curl of his fetal position, then laid his right palm to the concrete ground to try to push himself up. Yet, he couldn’t, even after dozens of tries as his sweat rained from his skin.

He had only eaten five times in the last ten days, give or take. Maybe less. It was no surprise that getting up was such a hassle to him. There was no way he had enough fuel inside him to succeed in that kind of exertion.

He might had been used to the starving in Helga, but he hadn’t been tortured for quite a while on top of the hunger, except in the last day he was with them. This new SWAT guys weren’t exactly soft with him, never leaving a day where their hands didn’t connect with his skin in a violent manner.

He was tired. He was so, very tired.

He still attempted again to rise, trying to push himself up with his right arm while trembling vigorously. His face was pinched in exhaustion and pain.

Maybe the guy was impatient, or he thought that Nick was faking his physical frailty to stall it, but he immediately felt one strong arm pulling the collar of his black shirt roughly and quickly. Consequently, his legs kept frantically buckling and slipping that he almost fell down on his ass, while his vision blacked out slightly with the speed of his head rising up to standing position.

He couldn’t help swaying despite the guy’s arm holding his shirt collar and his body up, while his own non-handcuffed right arm absently held the muscular forearm as an additional support for his torso above his jelly legs. The back of his head automatically leaned back against the wall behind him to lessen the weight that his emaciated body needed to prop up.

He blinked rapidly again to situate his vision, which still swam and tilted to the side continuously. He was then greeted by the sight of that young-looking man with blond hair and blue eyes who stood just as tall as him.

(In normal situation, of course, not now when Nick could barely open his eyes like this.)

“Ready to talk?”

He stared at the blue eyes of the furious man in front of him with his own half-lidded ones, gulping audibly and painfully with how dry his throat was on this inside and how bruised it was on the outside.

“I don’t know… what you… want me—” he coughed and winced, “—to say.”

“Where are they?”

He squeezed his eyes again.

What was it about him that made these people so convinced that he was in cahoots with Helga? He looked like a fucking skeleton already, he didn’t have shoes when they found him, and he was left in a fucking hidden hole in a wall that was covered by thick and almost completely unnoticeable concrete covering.

Did any of that look like the sign of someone working together with an international criminal syndicate? Or its fucking victim instead?

He tried to push at his legs still, hoping his body agreed to stay up anyway.

“I said,” the guy glared at him, “Where. Are. They?”

He sighed shakily as he closed his eyes.

“My answer… isn’t gonna—” he coughed repeatedly again, “—change.” He then continued rasping to the other man, “I don-don’t… know.”

The man clenched his jaw and his blue eyes hardened.

Somewhere in the back of his head, Nikolai laughed at himself inwardly when a thought shortly passed through his mind that the eyes actually looked quite attractive. They were clear, deep blue eyes that weren’t too light or too dark. Nick felt that they looked more suitable on an alluring model’s face than on a cruel, angry face of a heartless torturer.

Jesus fucking christ, Nick, he wants to kill you, he berated himself.

God, he truly was broken. He had clearly gone insane now.

He immediately felt painful tightness on his chest, almost like a strangling sensation. The muscular young man before him had pushed the back of his palm against Nick’s lower neck and the space between his bony clavicles, causing him to cough again with white spots materializing on the corners of his vision. He audibly tried to suck in some oxygen with scrunched up face, hoping that the guy would soften the chokehold a little bit.

“What the fuck did they give you that you’re so fucking loyal to them?”

This time, he couldn’t help laughing loudly and outwardly.

A fucking PTSD and broken body, and maybe some remnant STDs that weren’t medicated or tested yet; that was what Helga gave to him. He wasn’t loyal to them though.

The guy didn’t appreciate that, it seemed, so a fist swung across his already colorfully bruised face until his head was painfully thrown to his right, while his body almost fell down if not for the guy’s angry grip on his shirt. He winced again while coughing and spluttering blood onto the wall next to him.

He didn’t have enough strength to raise his head back up and face the blond again, so he just looked to the side with tilting vision and breathing that produced funny whistling noise. He was sure several of his ribs were badly broken. Maybe one poked into his lungs already.

The guy didn’t let him look away for too long, and instead, his much more powerful palm painfully squeezed Nikolai’s jaw and wrung his head to face the man again.

He fucking hated it so much, but lately he couldn’t control the fact that his tears just randomly flowed to his cheeks without his command. It happened almost all the time, but especially when one of these task force people was rouging him up in his cell. He really wasn’t trying to emotionally manipulate anyone, nor did he want to appear pathetic in front of these SWAT-like pieces of shit.

“That’s not gonna work on me,” the man said with a cruel smirk.

He clenched his own jaw now.

“No shit,” he rasped again venomously as he gave his own glare with the scant energy left in his body. “Nothing… will work—” he paused painfully, “—on your… your fucking stone hearts and—” he winced, “—idiot brains.”

Before he knew it, his head swung roughly to the side again, followed by slowly spreading pain on his jaw after a second punch from the muscular and tall man. He then squeezed his eyes once more to avoid his worsening rotating vision. He felt more tears flowing from his eyes after that.

He was just so tired.

Predictably, his face was wrung up to look at the man again, so he gritted his teeth to endure the pain.

Some part of him wished he was still in Helga; at least he knew what they wanted, he knew he had what they wanted, and thus, he could give them what they wanted so that they stopped beating the shit out of him.

There was no winning with these new people.

Out of desperation, he tried again to beg as he rarely did before—both to his Helga handlers and these new people—hoping this time the man would grant his wish.

“Please just take me out… I’m tired,” he choked out, his squeezed eyes producing more moisture that flowed down his bruised face. He barely felt the liquid on his skin with all the pulsing agony all over his body.

The man chuckled insultingly.

“You would like that, wouldn’t you? Getting off scot-free and escaping like a fucking coward.”

He didn’t respond nor did he open his eyes, knowing that it would make him cry more and looked so much fucking weaker, even if he did feel incredibly weak.

“Look. At. Me,” the man growled again unfortunately, so he forced himself to peel his eyelids open and gaze at the man’s face.

As he predicted (and often noticed happening to him after an extended beating), the feel of something catching in his throat thickened, while his tears flowed even more. He tried to continuously grit his teeth, as painful as it was, to stop a little bit of the wetness in his eyes, but it didn’t work at all.

He was just in too much pain to control his silent cry now.

“Tell me where the fuck they are,” the other man hissed at him with his face close to Nick’s own, “…or we’ll keep you like this for as long as possible.”

When was the last time anyone looked at him with gentleness and affection? With sympathy? Three years ago? Four years?

His eyes darted down slightly to the hip of the man holding him, then back up to the hateful blue eyes.

“One bullet…between my eyes is—agrh—enough, you know?” he shakily told the stronger man.

Immediately, his body swung roughly to the side and down on the floor after another hit to the side of his head. His vision darkened and became unstable, so he winced again deeply. He did that a lot these past few years, but especially these past few days.

Thankfully, the man just growled and turned around angrily to leave, instead of dealing a parting kick to his ribs like usual.

A moment before he passed out again, he prayed to whatever deity out there that he wouldn’t have to wake up after this. He didn’t have any more strength. He needed it to be over, Helga or not. He really couldn’t do more of this.

He was so tired.